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 Week

More and more than usual physical blockades.  Migration to new body parts.  These lessons are beyond me.

Could not write.  Could barely read.

Peeked in on the Cory Booker show.  Give the man a bounty of credit.  Until the $30 SNAP week experience is mandatory for anyone in government I fear this effort will be quickly forgotten.

Peeked in on the Sandusky show.  Poor thing.  He's chafing at the limitations of prison life.  Can anyone see that sentence and not burst into tears of laughter?  He wants to be placed in regular population.  Do It!  DO IT!

One of those will undoubtedly have a better week coming.  One deserves to rot in hell.  One is gritting teeth and begging for hope.

I Wish I Had An Orange

This time of year and this particular season are incredibly difficult for me.

Learning lessons from the bleak outside changes and shivering through the dropping temperatures are unwelcome experiences.  Skies filled with potential of snow and other frozen problem makers fill me with dread.  And self-pity, of course.  These days I take almost everything personally.

And as my body interior systems continue to fail I desperately have to come up with new strategies to keep myself from jumping off a bridge.  I don't have an orange today.  I wonder if I can trick myself into accepting the canned peaches as a substitute.  This is what I am learning.  On Monday I will go to the grocery and hope that I remember to purchase an orange to be prepared for the next fruit crisis.  Sometime those substitutes just don't work.

Chores are different, too.  For me the ability to stand while doing a sink load of dirty dishes is a major accomplishment.  Who would ever thought I, of all people, would be proud of such a task?  And is it truly considered standing if I am leaning half of me against the counter while scrubbing?  And literally counting the seconds before I collapse in pain before I finish cleaning the silverware?  These are realities for me not whining.

Entertainment is parcelled between bathroom squabbles and repositioning the dead or dying body parts.  I don't know how else to describe it.  I wonder why it is organs that are broken or diseased or not longer functioning properly can be removed; but the leg which causes such agony and hinders so many life qualities cannot be sliced off and tossed in the rubbish heap.  Luckily I do not own a power saw.  This form of imagining is free amusement for the ill.

Anyway, I am getting through the days.  I wish I was more like the saints I read about years ago in catechism class.  They offered their suffering  quietly up to god.  My big secret even back then was that I thought they were all fools.  They endured their individual  excrutiations and didn't even allowed themselves to yell out loud.  Still, I imagine there is a sort of dignity in it.  I ain't got that skill.  And I do so wish I had an orange.

Stickin' To Your Word, Man

The blood doctor had told me that this particular drug vitamin combo would reduce the dangerous level of this other crap in my blood.  Six weeks later I had another test, and low and be hold!  The level of the crap really, truly went down!!  Yahoo!

Still in the "Incredible You're Still Alive" department, but my point is that for once taking the jazz religiously did what he promised it would.  First time I personally noticed that a physician was sure about what he was telling me to do.  And yes, I'm going to keep taking it as long as the insurance holds out.  One brain bleed was enough for me thank you.

He also told me I'd have to keep taking this "Not Quite Miracle" pill for the rest of my life to keep the killer levels from returning.  And when I asked him about some homeopathic info I've been reading about he instantly responded, "I know what I told you about not this other." That surprised me.  He didn't belittle my question or my desire to gain  more knowledge outside his office.

Okay.  I guess the news was good for yesterday.  My personal deal with the almighty isn't going quite as well.  So far what my spiritual journey in that area has taught me to be very specific.  As far as god goes, the deck is always stacked in an other's favor, and the rules will be changed at a moments notice.  Keeping my end of the deal doesn't seem to matter and a sense of humor is not available.

Still, thus far I am too chicken to quit the game completely.  I scream and curse and cry more than I ever have or more than I thought I ever would.  Play on.

Time Is Different

10:47am.  Drowned down one painkiller tablet.
10:57am.  No change.
11:07am.  No change.
11:27am.  No change.  Screaming becomes ineffective.
11:37am.  Pain actually seems to be increasing.  Cannot move leg or toes on right side.
11:47am.  Pain continues.
12:07pm.  Pain continues.  Pillows are soaked in snot, tears, and sweat.
12:27pm.  Pain continues.  Attempt to apply some CBT.  Consider painting.
12:37pm.  Pain continues.  Now aware of additional back spasms.
12:47pm.  Painting is looking better than expected.  Cannot determine if pain has subsided to any extent.
1:07pm,   Painting completed. 
1:27pm.   Wash face and hands.  Stand.  Legs hurt equally.
2:07pm.   More than three hours of agony and I am able to hobble to my desk.

Spy School

Before I get started I just want to point out that the Sartorialist has a post up already for today's date that allegedly has been "up" for one minute.  ONE!  And it already has six comments!  Not to be believed!  I love that blog; but come on!  Do these commenters set their watches so as to be the first to write how much they adore the fact that madras is making a fashion comeback?  Or maybe all his college roommates signed a posting pact.  Could he have that many relatives?  Beats me.  I'm going to keep peeking in because I adore seeing what the rich and sometimes famous are up to in picturesque places around the globe.  But don't expect me to believe six comments in one minute.

Now...

During my first months here at Elder House I spent many hours flat out in bed peering at the parking lot and the houses across the street.  Not the ivy covered walks or beachy, pebbly shores I prefer; but lots of trees and surprisingly quite a bit of human motion.  Lots of automobile traffic.  (This is where I learned about spoke wheels for cars which are so ridiculous I refuse to discuss them any further.)  The everyday parade of children during the school year and the skateboard competitors this summer.  Families out for post dinner strolls and kids (lots of kids) on bikes make me happier than I ever imagined.

The physical pain and emotional upheaval I was enduring at the time made getting up a terrifying prospect and so I imagined myself working as an undercover agent observing my neighborhood so that I could singlehandedly save my country from reprehensible Bad Guys.  Instead I got Industrious Guy and his wife.  HHHhhhhhhmmm.  A year later I have a bit less pain: and so am up and around a bit more.  (God bless drugs!)  I haven't watched with much enthusiasm for several months.  And, I furtively glance from side to side, I think he might be UP TO SOMETHING!

YYYyyyyyyeeeeeesssss.

He waits until the wifey leaves at around four. Walks in and out of the house five or six times and ultimately squats down in his driveway with a sheet of paper about the size of the maps you used to get at gas stations and talks on his cell phone.  Once he walked all the way through my building's parking lot, up the steep hill street, and ended up leaning on some kid's basketball stand while still on the phone.  He makes wild gestures with his other hand, too.  Isn't that a sure sign of evil doing?

He never lets anybody come in his front door.  He doesn't clean his gutters, which is going to be a huge issue this fall.  He idles his work truck for almost twenty minutes every morning.  And he swats dust off his pants before going into the house.  Then he comes back out in different clothes and makes another mysterious walking phone call.

Total Bad Guy behavior, right?

Anyway I'm glad my drugs are working.  But I was a good observer of human shenanigans before.  I'm also a very good listener.  So in case anybody wondered:  Yes, I heard what you said.

Song For The Day

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.

Kill All The Incompetent

This has been another frustrating week; and so in order to preserve what little is left of my sanity and to save the economy I am putting my foot down once again.

Filling a prescription should not require an act of Congress.  It should also not require a translator or the use of nuclear weapons.  There is no excuse for illegible prescriptions in 2012.  There is no reasonable reason why it should take more than a week to remedy the situation. Medical offices should be quick to admit their error, rectify it, and apologize.  Not returning phone calls does not make for good PR, nor does it aid the ailing and desperate patient.

Delivering a package is another task that should be painless for all involved.  Bringing the item to the receiver as promised and WHEN promised are not complicated tasks. Delivery companies should make their policies clear and when those policies fail the very least they should offer is a live human who can answer questions.  They do not offer that as an option.  "Our menu has changed" is not an excuse for the endless looping and avoidance of responsibility that a call to an 800 number has become.

So...

Office managers.  ESL telephone receptionists.  Doctors with attitude.  Lying delivery people.  Anyone not doing their job to the best of their ability.  All of you lazy, worthless fucks who contribute to making my life the living hell that it has been this week.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

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.

Numbers

34   Trees outside my bedroom
35   Months without a cigarette
3     Precious Jewels
2,345  Messages deleted from my old aol account
7     Phone calls completed
2     Calls returned
This is where the video for "Dance 10 Looks 3" from A Chorus Line The Movie is supposed to go.  Anyone who knows how to find it, copy it, and actually figure out how to insert the damn thing, please let me know.  Thanks!
88   Steps to the exit
17   Cars usually in the parking lot
8,450.00  Price of a motorized wheelchair
19   Trips to the bathroom
6    Nightmares last night
47  Pain on a scale of one to ten
11  Days til the card reloads
96   Sad

62  Minutes wasted waiting for program to boot up
5  Snarky emails sent to said program's network
4.09  Dollars in my account
1  Hideous runaway dog
8  Daily meds
11/2 Remaining time

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.....

Ambiance

I am not lazy.  I like it clean.  Picking stuff up is hard when I use both hands simply for balance.  Sweeping?  Which leg do I risk?  If I let go the crutchy support, how long do I have before the knee gives way?  So I do the best I can.  I pace myself.  I cry.

Today I did laundry.  Today I folded laundry AND put it all away.  I carried dishes back and forth from the counter to the table and back to the sink.  I watered plants.  I managed to get the empty body wash container into the trash basket with a minimum of hysteria. I figured out how to change out the stained glass.

This might not sound like much.  Not for the normies out there.  It was a lot for me.  I'm not tired.  Not even I get exhausted from such minimal physical exertion.  It's the fear and the frustration and the shame that stress me out.  My time is SO limited and there is always more to get done.  Sundowning and drug interactions hobble me also.

Today I  gave myself a reward.  I burned some incense.  I cobbled together a mini crab salad sandwich.  And I made my first ever smoothie.  Just for me.  Just for being a good girl.

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.

Frustration

Sunday morning and doing some laptop tidying.  Came across a once in a life time item:  A photo of myself from 1964. I must have scanned it way back in the day when I had a working scanner.  I really wanted to post it.  For no other reason than to prove to myself that I was once cute.

I fiddled with it off and on for the past three days and I cannot get it to work.  Downloads, uploads, jpegs, bitmaps, forwards.  NADA!  So I guess you will not be seeing that version of me here.

Just as well, I suppose.

My hair is about the same length; that's the only resemblance I can see.  My moles were removed years ago.  My hair is much darker.  The face is fatter and more heavily scarred.  My present glasses are less flattering and a dastardly unfortunate color choice.  I no longer smile.  Not like in that picture anyway.

In that picture I remember feeling cute.  Nobody (NOBODY!) ever told me I was cute.  Never!  Fat girls don't get told they are cute. EVER!  Not then.  Not on my wedding day.  Not when my kids were born.  Nope.  The most I ever got was a sort of pitying stare from an older female relative who would murmur, "And what a shame.  You could have such a pretty face."  Was that supposed to be kind?

It wasn't.

Please...

makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting

just enough to sit on the love seat and crochet for one hour
just enough to sit on the love seat and read a magazine
just enough to sit on the love seat and call one of my daughters

please

Screamsickle

Almost unrecognizable as human flesh.  Exfoliating bark perhaps?  Grey, prickly sandpapered.  Taut over toes and creased around ankles.

Beneath are gravel chunks, peppered with diamond chips which are buried in remaining muscle tissue.  Scraping nerves with every heartbeat.  Twisting sinew and tendons snapping.  Pus.

Razor wire herringboned up and down calf and shin.   Pressing in and slicing through the festering wounds remaining from yesterday.  Sledgehammer blows accompany each pulse.  Cinder block bricks striking, striking.  Blood flows in to veins ironed shut.

Now.

Rise.  Rise up.

Uh Oh

Trip to the Big Box on hold til this disgracefully small amount of snow melts.  Gimpdom  membership necessitates the use of solar power to clear windshields.  I don't think this means I'm lazy.  I did the math.  Broken hip + humiliating shrieks of pain while attempting to stretch over Ancient Vehicle and wield a snow brush = Ooompossible.
Time killing and I came across more interesting bloggy spots courtesy of Yvestown.  And Darling Eldest Daughter posted more photos of her trip to the Great White North.  And I've been playing with this Pinterest thing online.  (Not what I expected and, hopefully, loyal readers will take it with the usual grain of salt.)  AND last night I finally watched Plan 9 From Outer Space.  Busy, busy and it's not even nine yet.

During all this I am consumed (yes, con-freaking-sumed!) by guilt.  Those ridiculous rules jammed down my throat taught to me by you know who and years of parochial education have fucked me up unto my 60th year.  Yea Verily!  I don't actually blame anything or
 anybody, let's get that straight.  (I can just picture the Monkeys rubbing their paws getting ready to pass that last little bit along while it's hot...)  But I do know where it got started.  Yup.

Someday I will convince myself that it is OK to wait til after the sun comes all the way up to shower.  And that God is NOT going to strike me down for  daring to shop after lunch.  And that waiting a bit does NOT make me a bad person.  This is not as easy as it sounds, people.  Those guilt roots go so very deep.

Til then I will gird my ample loins; play another round of mindjolt three tower solitaire; and think about what Stephen Hawking would do.