Snow Bound Yet Again

This is what it looked like last week.

Stay tuned.

It will be here again on Wednesday night.

In all likelihood I will have to cancel yet another doctor's appointment.

Might not seem insurmountable; but with one barely functioning leg, one leg almost useless and agonizing, two aluminum canes, no boots, ice covered parking lot, and little physical confidence even this level of snow is able to cripple me.

Just kill me now.

What Do You See?

Well?

What do you see?

If you are a regular person you probably see several DVD cases scattered on the floor.

Wrong!

Wrong-Oh!

What it really pictures is a torture device.

My own personal trail of tears and one of many.

Allow me to explain:

Yes, I dropped them and thank heaven nothing else broke.

But then I had to figure out how to pick them all up.

Minutes spent imagining the proper positioning of naked feet and shivering legs.

More minutes sliding canes and chair in optimum support area.

Locating phone in case of fall to ensure 911 reachability.

Raising the bulk.

Suppressing scream of pain.

Hobble, hobble, hobble, grab.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Live to fight another day,

Lost

Even if Kubler- Ross had it right, this knowledge about the grief cycle is not helping me.

Physical and emotional losses have hit me like a ton of bricks in the last several years.  I never denied them. I realized clearly what was going on; no denial was involved.  Intractable pain is not something I could ignore or pretend that it wasn't happening.  Banishment by former dear ones was also made undeniable.   SMASHO!

And maybe that was the problem right from the start.  Maybe if I had pondered the impossibility of these events I would have been better prepared for what came next.  In any case I've been stuck at anger for far too long. Every morning the pain wakes me up, then literally brings me to what is left of my knees during the day, and crushes me into bed at night.  Does this make me furious?  You betcha! The emotional wounds by people I thought I knew better cause  me to fantasize serious science fiction type torture for them all.  Anger is what I've got these days.  But, whoa, if I ever got hold of real weapons on an especially bad day; and there's no telling how much or how many I would annihilate.

Still, perhaps I've been lagging at this stage longer than is helpful.

I don't think bargaining is for me.  No one I know is willing to change much less listen to what I'd need to say.  Not much talking goes on in my sibling circle.  Drama, yes.  Photo opportunities, yes.  Serious conversation, NEVER.  Not with me anyway.  Who knows what they are scared of.  And there is no bargaining regarding medical care.  I am poor, old, and over weight.  Limitations prohibit any optional discussion.  YIKES.  Working around all this stuff is exhausting.

So what's left is acceptance.  And, 'dear holy god and matrimony' I am trying.  But, I am seriously considering the chain saw aisle at the big box.

Must Calm Down

Phone calls. Done.  Done.  Sort of done.  One appointment made but I know the directions she gave me are impossible.  That street ends at a barber shop.  It's easy she said.  You won't get lost she said.  Obviously she does not know me.  I stayed polite but she actually said she had to answer another line.  Wait.  Please put on someone who speaks with a lesser accent.  Please help me.

How to ask to please speak to a speech therapist when you cannot speak well enough to make yourself understood?  What do I do?  Breathe, breathe.  I'm sick of breathing.  I'm sick of this being so difficult.  I'm sick of feeling so damn stupid.  I used to be able to do all these things.  Stop.  Stop.  Please do not sob.  Not again.

What if the referrals don't get here?  I didn't get the fax numbers and now they are all out for lunch.  After then the meds will slam me down to sleep.  No fair.  I'm trying so hard.  I know this crap is so boring to hear about.  Believe me, it's even more boring and scary to be the one at this end.  And now the charge is gone on the phone.  And so I will miss any return call and then get yelled at for not answering the line.  This, any of this, is complicated for a normal regular person.

I'm trying so hard.

Sad Rolls In

Made literally thirty plus phone calls attempting to complete doctor homework.

 Yes, I'd be happy to see you, sir, in another month if I could ever get through to your office to make another appointment.  That's a joke, right?  The earliest opening is the week before Christmas?

Hello?  Please.  To whom do I speak to request referral to specialists?  No, I don't have the name because the insurance has not located anyone nearer than 100 miles.  Well, she told me to get the referral first?  But, you say I should get the names first?  Tell you what, why don't you just sign the damn thing and send me a bunch of copies?

Morning and how sick am I of medical topics?!  Jillions!  There must be other subjects.  And fighting with the post office does not count.  And realizing all the sexy locations I am never going to be able to see don't count either.  I'd love to discuss the neighbor lady who abscond with one of my best lines to flirt with the UPS guy.  Damn her.  A conversation with someone interested in ephemera (Isn't that the coolest word?) projects and the crazy houseplants would be sweet.  First in line would be also.

And DO not tell me to stop whining and just get going.  This IS me not whining.  You ain't just NEVER seen the whining me.  As far as getting going is concerned?  Bite me.

Miscalculated Yet Again

My  first error was that I thought today was Library Guy's Day. I am only mildly disappointed.  Nice clean shower, extra time to attempt some simple crochet, very welcome phone conversation with doctor receptionist who actually spoke and understood the same language I was using, and the last of the blackberry jam.

My non-errors included one item that I know one does not have to write an entire blog to enter a comment.   Others are apparently unaware. There is a block provided for comments at the bottom of the post.  Maybe those were big words. 

Another non-error is my being very sure who I write about. The reason bloggers use pseudonyms or AKA's is to be polite or courteous.  Believe me, when I want to highlight a specific idiot I will use names.  Till then you usual folks can  continue to assume every single blog I post  is about you. (Because the essential part of my life is whatever involves you.) Look up "ego."

Final non-error for today, and please read very closely:  Three of my siblings, females, have block or deleted me from their facebomb pages.  I cannot see ANYTHING they write or communicate on their public pages.  Get it?  They can say anything they want about me and I am not able to respond.  I considers this incredibly gutless on their parts because they apparently present themselves as innocent, understanding, kind, sweet hearted humans and I am ...What?  A robot? 

Anyway I don't consider facebomb the appropriate medium.  Any of you three can telephone, email, or (if you can figure it out...) leave a comment on the blog. If you wanted anything other than drama, which I doubt, anyone of you would have the human dignity to contact me by one of these methods.

If you all dislike this content, please stay away.  This is my blog.  Using other siblings  or off spring to jazz up your own agendas isn't fair to them and will NEVER accomplish any REAL communication.  More of the same from you will simply prove that the drama is what you desire.  Too bad for all of us.

Oh I forgot...I don't text.  Don't know how.   And I am extending kudos to one of the sisters for visiting me while I was hospitalized.  Still not sure I understand why, but I'm amazed by her effort.  Trying to be fair.

Cheer Me Up!

Today is Blood Test Day and, of course I am sinking fast.  Usual terror.  Usual cigarette desire.  Usual imagining car catastrophes and traffic conflagrations.

Usual forgetting that these things usually work out and I make it home in one piece.  Usual forgetting that I promised myself to think of it as an interesting adventure and not another torturous phenomenon.  Try to at least think of it as a learning experience.

At least  eight vials of blood.  The coolest one is to test for some kind of genetic defect.

Then I'll really know who to blame.

Goodbye September

Lately I've been thinking of great names for blog titles.

 Not having much success developing the blog posts themselves.

I've changed many routines around my home.  For the better I hope.

Fighting years of bad habits is more than just difficult.

Especially now that so many words and speech abilities are apparently lost to me.

Frightening and threatening.

Ah, yes.

Carry on after all.

Another month to attempt.

This late bloomer thing is killing me.

Too late to be a Renaissance Woman without any special learning?

Then I found the above.

Perhaps in the nick of time.

And so, I am creating memorabilia (until I think of a better name for them) for the important special folk in my life.

Meaning to me, and hopefully to them.

Letting go of ridiculous rules and using the time available.

If this is my adulthood I will continue to do the best I have.

Truly grateful for what I have.

Challenged by what comes with each day.

Victory has a new definition.

Welcome October.

Fashion Nincompoop

Along with everything else, I envision myself as one of the great undiscovered fashion stylists of our time.  Being the relic that I am, and the self-proclaimed arbiter of good taste, and that I have frequently been labelled "all talk and no action" I can pretty much say whatever I want.  Slowly but surely I am closing my ears when that nagging childhood voice leaps in criticising every choice I make.

Gaining self confidence is tricky when most of one's developmental stages have already been achieved.  Still, it is a battle I choose to fight.  And I can hear the snide chuckling in the background.  Hopefully there will be enough "big words" in this post so that those saboteurs will be completely confused.  Anyway, I like to tell myself that I am gaining ground.  At least I know my choices are mine.

As a young lady I kind of missed out on fashion.  I was (and am to this day) the quintessential Fat Girl.  I cannot remember buying clothes off the rack; I sped past the available sizes in area department stores quite rapidly.   Luckily for me, Mommy Dearest was an accomplished seamstress and so I did have something of a wardrobe.

Skirts were required at church, of course, and at school too for most of my adolescence.  The dress code was relaxed for my final two years of high school.  These years were the transition from hosiery to panty hose.  Both were nightmares for fat girls.  Hosiery required girdles and garters and twisting stockings over bulging knees.  Panty hose could be sliced in two: one side of one pair yanked up on the right.  The other side from the other pair yanked up on the left.  A tight squeeze  but at least the crotch landed in the right place.  When a run or snag appeared, the damaged leg, so to speak, could be changed out for a leg from one of the remaining cut up pairs.

Runs were the death knell for stockings and panty hose.  Clear nail polish or hair spray could sometimes halt the progression of the run.  Or the ruined leg could be twisted even further so the (runned? ran?) area with the run was positioned on the inside of one's leg and would be further camouflaged by taking very small steps.  In any case a good girl, a nice girl, a stylish girl did NOT let herself be caught with runs in her stockings.  Which is why I've been so surprised to see photos like this:

This one is from the Sartorialist but Zana Bayne favors this look also.  And, I amaze myself sometimes, I don't hate it.  It makes me wish I could do my teens and twenties over again.  Im-poss-ee-blay!  I know.  I also can't help but wonder (thanks, Carrie) what their mothers must think.

Karmic Screwjob Or Just Plain Clumsiness? You Make The Call.

Very bad week finally ended with an entirely too brief but incredibly welcome visit from two of my Darling Daughters and the Winsome Granddaughter.  I must say that little girl is becoming even more of a delight.  Dug her chubby baby toes into my tummy as she jounced around.  Blew innumerable spit bubbles as we spoke fart noise/zerbit language to one another.  My shirt was soaked and I loved every minute of it.

Next day long awaited visit from my Downstate Best Buddy.  Tears, reminiscence, good Asian take-out, more tears, and solving most of the world's problems.   (If only the guys in charge would listen to the elder women things would go much more smoothly.  Alas, it is not to be.) Lots of hugs.

That night, in terror, I began the new drug regime.  Blah, blah, blah.  I woke up and was still alive.  Okey dokey.  I'll give this thing a shot.  Gritted what's left of my teeth and swung both legs over the side of the mattress.

Yikes! The same  pain in the same place with the same intensity.  AND I knocked a pile of folded shirts onto the floor.  Damn.  Gimps will understand how a little goof up like that can spin a morning almost out of control.  Let's just skip it.  I soldiered on.

Kitchen to cobble together the usual breakfast.  The margarine tub winds up on the floor.  Who did THAT?  It fell opened but right side up; so that really was a comparatively minor set back.

Hobble hobble hobble to the chair with coffee and toast. Sit-um-down gingerly adjusting for leg position.  Place canes at the ready near the bookcase.  KEE-RASH!!  Glass container with rooting pothos smashes to the floor.  Damn, damn, double damn,

I wasn't crazy about the vase and the plant was pilfered from the lobby anyway.  But cleaning up this mess may take me the better part of the day.  Reaching, bending, sweeping, carrying.  All are chores that are on my "Almost Impossible To Accomplish" list.  To say nothing of the microscopic glass shards I know are lurking.

Almost forgot!  Sloshed half a cup of luke warm coffee all over my phone.

Never the less.  It shall be done.  Tune in next week.

Jumbled

Is this what it means to be at sixes and sevens?
 
My brain keeps flitting from one topic to another.  All are terrifying.  All hinge on the great "what if."

This I know for sure:  Today is the last day of this.  Either it improves or it ends.

Decisions used to exhilarate me.  Some still do.  But this.....this is too much for me.  It makes me so sad and so grief stricken.  I know it hasn't happened yet and I always feel as if I am drawing the bad, dark, twisty stuff to myself.  But I don't know if I really believe that.

I think I've just finally gotten the lesson.

Oh god!

What if this really is the lesson? I'm so damn scared.

Well......goodbye maybe.

Losses

I've blogged about the ambulance sitch before.

Most of the time the people who go are folks I either don't know at all

or are simply acquaintances.

Most of the time they never come back.

I might find out from an overheard laundry room conversation

or I might see one of the office workers showing a newly vacant apartment.

Last week somebody I consider to be a friend left.

I saw them take her away.

She was awake and as feisty as ever.

I had spoken to her the day before.

Like most of us here, she talked about her fear of falling.

Sweet Carol.

She didn't fall.

She had a stroke.

A BAD stroke and is not expected to recover sufficiently to ever live by herself again.

Today I saw my friend Trish loaded up and driven away.

She saw me in my window and waved.

We had last talked two days ago

One of the topics was falling.

Now I'm going to call  her.

I hope it was just a fall.

Sweet Trish.

Drain

Another week of beautiful weather.
Outside.
Where I rarely go.
Pain is such an inhibitor.
Fear also.
The breeze is incredibly enticing and windows are open wide.
I share what I can.
I am grateful.
Yes.
I am grateful.
A week on the blasted cell phone.
Trying to make contact.
Trying to understand.
Trying for answers.
Trying.
Trying is exhausting.
Especially when there is nothing to show for it.
This state of affairs masquerades as laziness or lassitude.
The fight begins before I am out of bed.
That doesn't count.
No space on the score card.
Get over it.
Go on.
Go.

Dark And Twisty

Meredith Grey has nothing on me.

Forms arrived in the mail yesterday.  Blood pressure rises.  Heartbeat increases.  Urge to vomit makes itself known.  This is NOT going to be good news. 

Still.....

The envelope is thick.  In college application lore this is a positive indication.  Do I dare open it in the hallway?  Deep breath.

Reading.  Reading.  Continued reading.  And every page is incomprehensible.  Each paragraph seems to contradict the paragraph preceding it.  Half of the pages are in Spanish and I cannot locate the equivalent pages in English.  The letterheads do not match up.  I am totally lost; at least I am not dissolved in panic driven tears yet.

Back inside apartment.  Rest.  Eat.  Fold laundry.  Pee.  Sleep.  Pee again and again.  Crochet.  Pee yet again.  Oh, yeah, breathe.  Peruse forms and discover the desperation contact number.  Decide to wait til morning.  Procrastination is king around here.  And I must say, I believe it keeps me alive most days.

Morning.  Assemble forms, a working pen, charged phone, plenty of paper.  Navigate to the website in case it is referenced during the call.  Dial.  Listen to endless phone prompts and menu selections.  Wait.  Wait.  Continue waiting til the final recorded message:  "Regular office hours are Monday through Thursday, 8:00 am to..."  I stop listening and look at the clock.

7:59.

It figures.

What do you bet when I call back the final message will go something like this:  "All our mindless drones are speaking with other more important clients."

I wish I had learned to speak "Government Red Tape."

Government Math

LINK benefits have been recalculated for the poor here at Elder House.  For you lucky 1%, LINK is the current incarnation of the Food Stamp Program.  Most  benefits were reduced; however one lady told me hers was raised to $106.58 per month.  Her medical expenses went way up and so her food benefit was readjusted.  That's not going to help her cancer get any better, but at least she might not starve.

Anyway, that sounded like a lot of money.  So I tried to calculate just what she could purchase with that amount.  For a breakfast of two slices of toast with cream cheese and jam, one container of yoghurt, and a home brewed coffee: $2.73.  Lunch of a homemade tuna sandwich (no lettuce, pickles, or cheese) and a glass of water (from the tap, not purchased): $1.73.  A dinner meal consisting of one sixth of a pasta, canned salmon, and mayo casserole: $.79.  Total expense: $5.21 for the day.

That sounds really economical.  No fruit or fresh vegetables.  No milk.  Not a whole lot of protein.  No variety.  No treats of any kind. And no leftovers. 

If my friend absolutely, positively sticks to this menu she will spend about $145.88 for the month.  See the problem?  She cannot afford even this austere menu AND she will be malnourished in the bargain.

LINK benefits do not allow an individual any wiggle room.  There is no way to stock up on a bargain; soup at fifty cents a can is a great deal.  What other item could she sacrifice?  She can switch from cream cheese to food pantry peanut butter and hope that she's here the day the guy shows up with free bread.  No brand name products ever.  A one pound bag of rice or pasta can stretch quite a way.  Imagine it with no butter, no sauce, no spices, and nothing 'on the side'.  Food boredom is not allowed for the poor.

This woman worked all her life and now is literally starving most days.  Multiply that by a majority of the other tenants and that's a lot of hungry people.  LINK and food pantries and sharing with each other are the strategies they use to stay marginally nourished.  I know this to be true, even though I am not starving.  What this knowledge has done is made me far less critical.

If I see a woman with a LINK card purchasing sugar sweetened Kool Aid and beef jerky, my bet is that those are the few goodies she and her kids will  taste that month.  I do not begrudge her that small amount splurged on junk food.  And I am ashamed of anyone who would.  Not unless they have also protested the bank bailouts and defense department overspending that is.

Do The Hokey Pokey

How do you know if a place is haunted?

I go to bed early.  I doze.  I read.  I get up to pee.  I look out the window.  I rearrange blankets.  I plan the next day's meals.  I think about calls I have to make and emails I want to send.  I cry.  I pray. "Lather rinse, repeat" like the old instructions on a shampoo bottle.

And last night I listened to a brand new sound.

From the kitchen I am almost sure.  Dripping?  Crinkling?  Munching?  Oh God!  Please NOT munching!  If there are mice or rats I am going to get medieval in a particularly hideous old lady manner! 

All the trash is double bagged.  The only "food" not contained in fridge or cabinet are some new, red potatoes, two oranges and two kiwis.  Counters are wiped and floors are as crumb free as possible.  Yikes!  Please not critters!  There have been no signs and the noises go on for far too long.  Wouldn't rodents chow down and move along?

It's not anything clinking in a breeze.  The window is only open an inch or two and the night is still.  All is calm.  All is bright.  Even the noisy plastic bags from the Big Box are stowed away.  No other possible sources of a crinkle.

That leaves dripping as the only option I can imagine.  But it's 3:15.  If I limp out there to discover a huge puddle there is nothing I can do about it.  And of course, I'd have to navigate a potential flood without slipping and crashing myself.  How badly do I want the paramedics to see my massive self splayed on the soggy floor?  Nope, nope, nope.  Exploration can wait til daylight.

I listen more.  Eventually I sleep.  Cloudy morning.  Since procrastination is my current favorite sport, I treat myself to another LUSH shower.  Thank you, Eldest Daughter.  I medicate.  I dress.  I  hobble to the kitchen and find:

NOTHING!!!  No puddles.  No debris.  Nothing moved or out of place.  No nibble marks on the counter foodstuff.  Nothing is even damp!

So, do I call maintenance and report a ghostly noisemaker?  Or do I wait til the ceiling crashes in?  Or do I do the Hokey Pokey?

Happy Anniversary To Me!

I made it!  I really freakin' made it!  One whole entire year here at Elder House!  I'm not dead!

I was so incredibly scared then. 

But I took the plunge despite much uncertainty and fear.

My dear daughters pitched in with moral support and hours of heavy physical labor.

My precious down state friends came through with tools and trucks and the kindest words.

The weather even cooperated.

My heart was full.

This place has been a respite for me.  It has allowed me the uninterrupted time to battle government red tape.  It has afforded me much easier access to bathroom facilities.  It has been so much quieter; and that is counting in Loud Mouth Lady, assorted yappy dogs, and psychotic birds.

Physical pain has become much, much worse.  More intense and more pervasive.  Here I can hobble from spot to spot and not worry that I am in someones way.

I can bury my face in pillows and sob to my heart's content without disturbing anyone else's sleep.

Sorry, Spencer.

And when I lose the bladder battle I can perform necessary ablutions without ridicule and criticism.

I hope Mommy Dearest has enjoyed having her house free of my intrusive presence.  I wish the Flying Monkeys would, at long last, leave me alone.  The only gift I could give these folks was my absence and that I have done.

It has come at a cost.

My struggles continue here.

I'm hanging on.

My fingers are crossed.

Plunge.....

I Think I Was Fooled

Clinic day and I looked out the window for my weather report.  Sunny.  Bright.  Lovely. The trees are especially enticing.  Lacey and shivery in the very early breezes.

Showered and shiny.  Wearing the newest of my new pantie stash and an ever so comfy shirt.
Hobbled down the hall and once outdoors was nearly blown over by the wind.

This is not meant as idyllic imagery.
Rather, my canes were planted on the pavement and I was fighting to remain upright.
Waited it out.  What choice did I have?  Hurrying up is oom-possible.
Made it to the car.

Okey Dokey.
Drove to the clinic and parked in my usual "crips" spot.  The wind is rocking Ancient Vehicle.

Usual wait time.  Paperwork jumbles as they "update" their files and get most everything wrong.
No husband.
Knee and hip NOT back pain.
No income from work.  And this is where the "I am obviously not worthy of medical care" panic/doldrums begin to rush in.  Everyone is kind,as usual, I still feel like the freak in the carnival sideshow.  Please don't let me start sobbing in the waiting room.

Doctor's visit and I tell her about some decisions I have made.  I don't think she agreed.  Tough.  Prescriptions renewed.  Tomorrow I am officially on the wait list for the pain clinic.
Could be six months if I am lucky.  What do I do til then?  Put my forms in my book bag and hobble to the car.

It's still really cold.  I get inside.  I shut the door.  I am overwhelmed by self-pity and how goddam brave I am to keep doing what I did today.  I sob with a modicum of privacy.  I drive home

April had such a gentle, peaceful start.  I guess the shit is about to hit the fan.

Just For Today

This is probably a result of watching too many doctor shows online.

But why couldn't it be a giant, honkin' tumor?  Rip me open and scoop the damn thing out and chuck it in the trash.  Huh?

Or why can't I just get the damn leg chopped off at the hip?  Let somebody experiment on it.  Bonus weight loss for me,eh?

Maybe the bloodwork will show a new disease that necessitates massive painkillers or injections of some kind.  And then the doctor will get me into a fancy, schmancy clinical study somewhere.  Or an up and coming medical reasearcher will want to glom onto my case to advance knowledge and save people.

But the truth is...

The actuality is that none of those options will occur.

This pain will go on forever and I will keep missing the good parts of life outside these walls.  I used to be afraid of becoming one of those huge, bed bound freaks who can't leave their house because of their weight.  I didn't ever suspect that I'd be locked in by the inability to walk.  Well, I am not quite the hugest of freaks; but I am certainly bound.  This leg.  This pain.  I am a prisoner.

And I doubt I can tolerate it much longer.

Lulled

The battle I fight with pain is never ending.  Some days and nights are better than others; but it never goes completely away.  I have little money and no health insurance. and so the weapons available to me in this battle are few.  Last  night was especially bad.

I was stretched out on my bed, thinking grateful thoughts, when I felt the beginning slams of muscular spasms in my right leg.  Twisty, surging cramps that originate behind my knee and seem to contract every fiber.  The pressure is unrelenting.  Unlike labor pains it does not taper off.  It kills and kills and kills and then stops.  The respite, sometimes a minute or two, sometimes an hour; is the time I spend while it gathers itself for the next round.

While it zooms thru me I wrap my head in a sheet and scream, cry, and drip snot.  Not pretty I'm sure.  I try not to disturb anybody and I try to shut up as quickly as possible.  It's hard to relax afterward; difficult to identify what "normal" feels like.  I have no idea what my resting heart rate should be.  I can't imagine what this is doing to my blood pressure.

During these moments my reptile brain takes over.  I would gnaw off my face if I could.  I would sacrifice virgins and puppies if it would help.  I would sell my soul or make spiritual promises I know I could never keep if THIS PAIN WOULD GO AWAY!!!  Instead I call upon the higher functioning part of my brain I can access during these unbearable moments.  I logic my way.

I know if I get some serotonin and norepinephrine (those "good guy, happy hormones") moving around I will survive.  They are weapons I possess.  I focus on the image of my granddaughter's face.  But she is very little and I haven't seen her very often.  I need something now and I need something sure fire,  something to distract me while the pain takes totally over.

Help?

Please?

Anybody?

Somebody?

MUSIC!!  It's Thursday night and I know there's a radio program.  I snap it on and there they are.  Talking, laughing, The topic is the Beatles!  I  am saved!  I listen and smile as the tears stream down.  After a few minutes I know the hormones must be kicking in because the pain is actually subsiding.  The bad guy receptors are being blocked and I'm going to live thru the night.  I drowse for a bit.

 Each time I awaken the DJ's voice is still there.  The conversation has shifted but it doesn't matter.  I mop the tears and drool off my face, turn the pillow over and thank all the forces of light for Professor Cullen and his crew.  He taught me that CBT absolutely works.

This is his show.  Tune in and thank him for me.  I already have.