There is a number that appears near the title line of this blog. It's over 5,000 now. I don't know what that means. Other than, over 5,000 times someone has accidentally or intentionally clicked and landed on this blog. OR, some computer glitch is running up that number. I still can't fathom that anyone is reading this, other than a handful of loyal friends, and there's a fine line between love and pity.
I have no idea what I'm doing here. I just purge onto a keyboard and I was lucky enough to figure out how to POST, because someone told me I should. Oila I have a blog.
I wish I knew what I'm doing because I think it would be really cool to be able to add music, because there is always an appropriate tune playing in my head, and a slide show, or just some neat sound effects. In honor of Rich there would be a lot of Three Stooges sound effects. He'd like that.
I thought it was a major accomplishment that I could figure out how to look at the stats of this blog. Most hits over periods of time, sources of hits, etc. Then I keyed into which entries got the most hits. Whoa. That was disturbing.
Clearly Scrapper is the far and away favorite. Sex may sell, but spewing anger is the entertainer of choice. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Of all the entries on Rich and how we're dealing and coping, none come close to the entries when Scrapper takes over and fucking unloads. Wow.
The entry titled Con-Fun-Med leaves all other entries combined in the dust. I have to assume that much of that weighted number is the result of Con-Fun-Med itself. Several little birds let me know how staff was going ballistic over that post, clamoring to get the entire blog shut down. I fear thou doth protest too much.
In order after that one is every other blog that Scrapper cut loose on, and thank heaven we don't get charged for punctuation marks!
So why are you all reading this? I'm just curious. People close to us let me know and I treasure that, but the number of people who are close and giving feedback is far below 5,000. Is it the overflow of addiction to “reality TV” ? And how does Scrapper's anger boost interest? Or is it just the drama of “watching” someone die without getting sullied in the struggle?
I don't mean to sound harsh or judgmental. This blog has over 5,000 hits and I don't know what that means. Worse—why do I care?!
Rich is upstairs, curled up in an antique double bed, on a two inch feather mattress cover, sleeping peacefully and undisturbed with nine staples in his belly, between 800 count cotton sheets. Powder blue. Misted with lavender. The sheets still bear the two “X” stains from the marks that bled off his body from the radiation treatments.
And I sit here trying to figure out what the blog means and why I care. I guess I'm just tired. And once again I find myself in the backward flow of forward effort.
For me, this journal is the only thing that keeps me from falling down. So how could I not wonder what it means to complete strangers. Most days, this journal is all I've got. I have to live every day with cancer, but I live on the other side of the door looking in.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
As for your concern....
This circus of cancer has been on the road for two years, three months and two weeks now. What generates emails and phone calls of concern?!?!?! When one of the Voices in the Van speaks.
Like what.... this is entertaining reality reading until it gets scary for YOU?!?! Really?
Number One... if you've been reading the blog from entry #1, you're up to speed and you “get it”.
Otherwise, you're taking one entry out of context, in which case you really need to keep that endeavor to the Bible. I'm not worthy of your efforts or interest.
Number Two... Stop reading this blog, because at some point in the near future the rest of the voices are going to come forward because they're pissed at not even being recognized in the last one.
Number Three.... Don't worry about it. Get on with your own damn life. I assure you that nothing happening in my life will in any way impact YOUR life anymore than the fluttering of a butterfly's wings. Please reference back and read the entry titled “Disclaimer”.
Number Four.... I have a plan
Yes, I have a plan, and I'm laughing in your general direction. “Do You Have A Plan?” is a key question that health providers are supposed to ask people in stress, on the edge, etc. Apparently someone thought it was a safe way of assessing someone's proximity to suicide. Give me a fucking break.
All God's Children got a damn Plan. If you have EVER said or thought, “Gee, I'd rather die in my sleep than end up in a nursing home...” That's step one of a plan. If you've ever thought or said “I'd rather die than.....” I don't care how lightly or flippantly you meant it, on some level your brain is processing an alternative route and by virtue of the fact that none of us are getting out of here alive, then YOU, my friend, have a PLAN. It may be a shitty damn plan, but it's a plan. And if you THINK that you don't have a plan, then you are just too young or too stupid or too busy to contemplate the inevitable. We are all leaving here eventually. How could you NOT have a plan for something that BIG?
Anyone who seriously “has a plan”.... revealing the plan is not a part of the plan. If you're revealing the plan, then your plan is to be rescued. Seriously. Am I the only one who thinks this way?
So now I just love softly announcing that “I have a plan”. Those close to me chuckle with me. Why? Because those who know me know that suicide—as a physical act—goes against everything I believe in. It is not possible for me on levels I cannot begin to explain. Anyone who is disturbed by my “having a plan”.... well that's just good, clean fun for me.
I have a plan. Always remembering that Life (and Death) is what happens while you're making other plans.
So if you're concerned about my mental health based on my blogs then you are hopelessly missing the point. More exact—you don't know me at all. I'm journaling to heal, and I just happen to be posting it to a blog in pathetic hopes of helping someone else, just one other person, who might be going through something similar. Up until the voices started to speak, only six people were giving feedback so I figured only my very small support group was even paying attention.
I'm fine. I'm fine because I use this blog to VENT. As a result I have what it takes to do what I have to do. I manage to adequately take care of Rich, hopefully without over-burdening friends and family, and I truly love my job and being able to help the people that I'm not ranting about in the blog because I need to purge them from my system so I can be a good nurse to the 90% of patients who appreciate what I do even though I can't prescribe narcotics. Just when some narcissitic hypochondriac is about to make my head explode, Radar reminds me I can blog that later, and then I can move on and be professional.
Oh, yeah, you haven't met Radar (one of the voices). You'll like him. Radar McGinnis, great nephew of Radar O'Reilly. More on him later.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Bite me.
Like what.... this is entertaining reality reading until it gets scary for YOU?!?! Really?
Number One... if you've been reading the blog from entry #1, you're up to speed and you “get it”.
Otherwise, you're taking one entry out of context, in which case you really need to keep that endeavor to the Bible. I'm not worthy of your efforts or interest.
Number Two... Stop reading this blog, because at some point in the near future the rest of the voices are going to come forward because they're pissed at not even being recognized in the last one.
Number Three.... Don't worry about it. Get on with your own damn life. I assure you that nothing happening in my life will in any way impact YOUR life anymore than the fluttering of a butterfly's wings. Please reference back and read the entry titled “Disclaimer”.
Number Four.... I have a plan
Yes, I have a plan, and I'm laughing in your general direction. “Do You Have A Plan?” is a key question that health providers are supposed to ask people in stress, on the edge, etc. Apparently someone thought it was a safe way of assessing someone's proximity to suicide. Give me a fucking break.
All God's Children got a damn Plan. If you have EVER said or thought, “Gee, I'd rather die in my sleep than end up in a nursing home...” That's step one of a plan. If you've ever thought or said “I'd rather die than.....” I don't care how lightly or flippantly you meant it, on some level your brain is processing an alternative route and by virtue of the fact that none of us are getting out of here alive, then YOU, my friend, have a PLAN. It may be a shitty damn plan, but it's a plan. And if you THINK that you don't have a plan, then you are just too young or too stupid or too busy to contemplate the inevitable. We are all leaving here eventually. How could you NOT have a plan for something that BIG?
Anyone who seriously “has a plan”.... revealing the plan is not a part of the plan. If you're revealing the plan, then your plan is to be rescued. Seriously. Am I the only one who thinks this way?
So now I just love softly announcing that “I have a plan”. Those close to me chuckle with me. Why? Because those who know me know that suicide—as a physical act—goes against everything I believe in. It is not possible for me on levels I cannot begin to explain. Anyone who is disturbed by my “having a plan”.... well that's just good, clean fun for me.
I have a plan. Always remembering that Life (and Death) is what happens while you're making other plans.
So if you're concerned about my mental health based on my blogs then you are hopelessly missing the point. More exact—you don't know me at all. I'm journaling to heal, and I just happen to be posting it to a blog in pathetic hopes of helping someone else, just one other person, who might be going through something similar. Up until the voices started to speak, only six people were giving feedback so I figured only my very small support group was even paying attention.
I'm fine. I'm fine because I use this blog to VENT. As a result I have what it takes to do what I have to do. I manage to adequately take care of Rich, hopefully without over-burdening friends and family, and I truly love my job and being able to help the people that I'm not ranting about in the blog because I need to purge them from my system so I can be a good nurse to the 90% of patients who appreciate what I do even though I can't prescribe narcotics. Just when some narcissitic hypochondriac is about to make my head explode, Radar reminds me I can blog that later, and then I can move on and be professional.
Oh, yeah, you haven't met Radar (one of the voices). You'll like him. Radar McGinnis, great nephew of Radar O'Reilly. More on him later.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Bite me.
I HATE the snakes...
I called him as I was leaving work, because as I said before I like to be prepared and once again I proved the wisdom of that safeguard. He didn't sound right. He was distant and his speech was just a bit too slow. Before I could figure out what was going on I reached the Black Hole of Cell Phone stretch of my commute.
I reach his bedside an hour and fifteen minutes later and to sum it up he looked drunk. He's been getting dilaudid for the past five days and up until now, you could wake him up and he could tell you the last time he got pain medication and when it was due next. He could relate everything that had happened since I'd seen him last and who he'd talked to and what they'd said.
Now he's telling me he doesn't remember when he got his last dose. He's paying way too much attention to the ceiling and scanning like butterflies are floating above his head.
I decide to convince myself that he's just sleep deprived because they wake him up every two hours round the clock. I find the NCIS channel and curl into bed beside him. I realize he's crying and I decide it's because it's a particularly sentimental episode. So I change the channel and find The Family Guy. He's crying again and it's a hysterically irreverant cartoon, but one of the characters is getting teased.
I refuse, I refuse, I refuse to panic. I try talking to him and refuse to acknowledge that he is not responding appropriately. His responses are time-delayed, his words are slurred and his visual focus is on the empty spaces in the room. It's fine, he's fine, we're fine. I put my hand on his incision and close my eyes.
It's fine. He's fine. We're fine.
I think I dozed off for a few minutes. I woke with a start as Tanya came in the room. I aksed her when his last dilaudid was and it had been hours. In fact he'd only asked for pain meds once all day. And she told me he had been mostly sleeping all day, and very drowsy.
Suddenly I was wide awake as I realized that any minute now the snakes were going to come through the wall and swarm across the floor, followed by the dancers, and the children who should go home, and the parade of invisible people that Rich would rather talk to than talk to me.
“Tanya, is Rich getting Reglan?” The words spill out of my mouth from an unknown source. If I hadn't recognized my own voice I would have wondered who was speaking.
“Yes.”
“When did they start that?”
“Two days ago.”
Going from major panic to huge relief in 6 seconds gives you a major nausea rush.
Thank god for the wonderful nurses he's had every single day. I asked her to get the Reglan stopped and explained why and within twenty minutes it was taken care of. AND! She made me stop beating myself up for failing to make sure that Reglan had been added to his allergy list.
It was a year ago, and no one knew what was causing his hallucinations, and mostly they were guessing brain damage from the sepsis. It was Dr Kelli, who wasn't even our doctor yet, suggested I stop giving him the Reglan. I thought I told his doctors, and then I didn't think about it again. On admission they asked if there were any new allergies and I said no, because the Reglan was old news and I had forgotten all about it. Who thinks of a medicine to stop nausea and calm the stomach while encouraging digestion to be a threat in the face of major surgery.
Horrible doesn't begin to describe how I felt before I could even enjoy feeling relieved.
Med allergies are a basic responsibility of the patient and/or caregiver. I want to claim the fact that none of us were certain the Reglan was to blame, but that is beyond lame. I dropped the ball. I figure I'll beat myself up until he's 100% himself again and then I'll toss it on my guilt pile.
I felt horrible into nausea and Rich was disconnected so I figured I'd head home. I was craving privacy. There is a big distance between three weeks of Reglan and two days of Reglan. I explained the situation to Rich and why he was feeling “not right” and he seemed to grasp it.
He squeezed my hand and said, “see, pupshun, you saved me again.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “I'm glad you fixed it....because I HATE the snakes.”
I reach his bedside an hour and fifteen minutes later and to sum it up he looked drunk. He's been getting dilaudid for the past five days and up until now, you could wake him up and he could tell you the last time he got pain medication and when it was due next. He could relate everything that had happened since I'd seen him last and who he'd talked to and what they'd said.
Now he's telling me he doesn't remember when he got his last dose. He's paying way too much attention to the ceiling and scanning like butterflies are floating above his head.
I decide to convince myself that he's just sleep deprived because they wake him up every two hours round the clock. I find the NCIS channel and curl into bed beside him. I realize he's crying and I decide it's because it's a particularly sentimental episode. So I change the channel and find The Family Guy. He's crying again and it's a hysterically irreverant cartoon, but one of the characters is getting teased.
I refuse, I refuse, I refuse to panic. I try talking to him and refuse to acknowledge that he is not responding appropriately. His responses are time-delayed, his words are slurred and his visual focus is on the empty spaces in the room. It's fine, he's fine, we're fine. I put my hand on his incision and close my eyes.
It's fine. He's fine. We're fine.
I think I dozed off for a few minutes. I woke with a start as Tanya came in the room. I aksed her when his last dilaudid was and it had been hours. In fact he'd only asked for pain meds once all day. And she told me he had been mostly sleeping all day, and very drowsy.
Suddenly I was wide awake as I realized that any minute now the snakes were going to come through the wall and swarm across the floor, followed by the dancers, and the children who should go home, and the parade of invisible people that Rich would rather talk to than talk to me.
“Tanya, is Rich getting Reglan?” The words spill out of my mouth from an unknown source. If I hadn't recognized my own voice I would have wondered who was speaking.
“Yes.”
“When did they start that?”
“Two days ago.”
Going from major panic to huge relief in 6 seconds gives you a major nausea rush.
Thank god for the wonderful nurses he's had every single day. I asked her to get the Reglan stopped and explained why and within twenty minutes it was taken care of. AND! She made me stop beating myself up for failing to make sure that Reglan had been added to his allergy list.
It was a year ago, and no one knew what was causing his hallucinations, and mostly they were guessing brain damage from the sepsis. It was Dr Kelli, who wasn't even our doctor yet, suggested I stop giving him the Reglan. I thought I told his doctors, and then I didn't think about it again. On admission they asked if there were any new allergies and I said no, because the Reglan was old news and I had forgotten all about it. Who thinks of a medicine to stop nausea and calm the stomach while encouraging digestion to be a threat in the face of major surgery.
Horrible doesn't begin to describe how I felt before I could even enjoy feeling relieved.
Med allergies are a basic responsibility of the patient and/or caregiver. I want to claim the fact that none of us were certain the Reglan was to blame, but that is beyond lame. I dropped the ball. I figure I'll beat myself up until he's 100% himself again and then I'll toss it on my guilt pile.
I felt horrible into nausea and Rich was disconnected so I figured I'd head home. I was craving privacy. There is a big distance between three weeks of Reglan and two days of Reglan. I explained the situation to Rich and why he was feeling “not right” and he seemed to grasp it.
He squeezed my hand and said, “see, pupshun, you saved me again.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “I'm glad you fixed it....because I HATE the snakes.”
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
If I give you a quarter, can you buy a clue?
I don't mean to be mean. Shit that's a damn stupid thing to say. Let's put it this way:
How do I politely slap you upside the head in hopes of jarring some sense into you and by the way I really resent having to do this.....
Unless you are family, a medically necessary participant, or more importantly, a NURSE.... if you have to gown up to enter the room..... if you then knock on the door AS you're opening it to discover I am curled up on the edge of the hospital bed trying to cuddle my husband and then you have to KNOCK AGAIN to wake us up...
… then you're just damn lucky I'm half asleep because when I then discover that you are an unsolicited clergy who feels the need to spread the damn gospel, I assure you it is only the Buddha that is keeping the Scrapper from tossing you out of the room as the Comic is offending you beyond your best imagination.
Let me explain this for you.
I get up at 4 am so I can get some chores done before I do my 40 hour commute so I can spend 8 plus hours listening to people whine and complain because they've had a cold for two days and the antibiotics aren't helping (SHIT,that makes my head explode), and they can't afford the $4 co-pay on their Viagra prescription....blah, blah, blah. So that I can then drive an hour plus to hike another fifteen minutes to get to his bedside.... so that I can try to cheer him up because I cannot even imagine how horrible this is for him. FINALLY, from sheer exhaustion I ease onto the edge of the bed so that we'd be spoons if he could move at all. For a few moments we reach a comfort that is so overwhelming we both fall instantly asleep holding onto each other.
Then YOU. A complete stranger, by virtue of having been “anointed” by some governing body of someone's religion, deems it rightful and righteous to enter our room, then with full knowledge and intention, wake us up so that you can tell us that you are willing, able and desirous of bestowing comfort upon us. HELLO. Nurses, angels and family—in no particular order—have the right and are welcome to invade our space.
I'm sure you're a wonderful person, and Jesus loves you, yes He does. But seriously. What part of coming all the way into the room and waking us blessed us more than the comfort of each other's arms, blessed sleep and the angels around us? And then. You stood there and grilled us on how we're doing and how we're dealing until Rich was close to tears and then asked more than once what we need, like you have a rat's ass chance in hell of granting … anything.
Really? Really? REALLY?!?!?!?
Here's a thought. You tap on the door, and when no one answers, you GO AWAY. You leave your Clergy Card on the chart box and you leave. Second chance, you tap on the door, poke your head in, see two broken bodies lying in a hospital bed clinging to each other, obviously asleep and you GO AWAY.
OR, you stand silently and say a prayer for them and THEN go away. Which begs the question—were you there for us, or were you there for YOU?
Is it me? Am I being too critical? Too sensitive? Too British?
Next time, I'd prefer a fruit basket.
How do I politely slap you upside the head in hopes of jarring some sense into you and by the way I really resent having to do this.....
Unless you are family, a medically necessary participant, or more importantly, a NURSE.... if you have to gown up to enter the room..... if you then knock on the door AS you're opening it to discover I am curled up on the edge of the hospital bed trying to cuddle my husband and then you have to KNOCK AGAIN to wake us up...
… then you're just damn lucky I'm half asleep because when I then discover that you are an unsolicited clergy who feels the need to spread the damn gospel, I assure you it is only the Buddha that is keeping the Scrapper from tossing you out of the room as the Comic is offending you beyond your best imagination.
Let me explain this for you.
I get up at 4 am so I can get some chores done before I do my 40 hour commute so I can spend 8 plus hours listening to people whine and complain because they've had a cold for two days and the antibiotics aren't helping (SHIT,that makes my head explode), and they can't afford the $4 co-pay on their Viagra prescription....blah, blah, blah. So that I can then drive an hour plus to hike another fifteen minutes to get to his bedside.... so that I can try to cheer him up because I cannot even imagine how horrible this is for him. FINALLY, from sheer exhaustion I ease onto the edge of the bed so that we'd be spoons if he could move at all. For a few moments we reach a comfort that is so overwhelming we both fall instantly asleep holding onto each other.
Then YOU. A complete stranger, by virtue of having been “anointed” by some governing body of someone's religion, deems it rightful and righteous to enter our room, then with full knowledge and intention, wake us up so that you can tell us that you are willing, able and desirous of bestowing comfort upon us. HELLO. Nurses, angels and family—in no particular order—have the right and are welcome to invade our space.
I'm sure you're a wonderful person, and Jesus loves you, yes He does. But seriously. What part of coming all the way into the room and waking us blessed us more than the comfort of each other's arms, blessed sleep and the angels around us? And then. You stood there and grilled us on how we're doing and how we're dealing until Rich was close to tears and then asked more than once what we need, like you have a rat's ass chance in hell of granting … anything.
Really? Really? REALLY?!?!?!?
Here's a thought. You tap on the door, and when no one answers, you GO AWAY. You leave your Clergy Card on the chart box and you leave. Second chance, you tap on the door, poke your head in, see two broken bodies lying in a hospital bed clinging to each other, obviously asleep and you GO AWAY.
OR, you stand silently and say a prayer for them and THEN go away. Which begs the question—were you there for us, or were you there for YOU?
Is it me? Am I being too critical? Too sensitive? Too British?
Next time, I'd prefer a fruit basket.
"Please allow me to introduce myself....."
I'm one of the voices in the van. Seriously.
What?! You thought she was kidding about the Voices in the Van? You thought we were a metaphor for emotions?! And no shit, she just ran upstairs to reference Strunk and White to make sure I had used the word metaphor correctly. Do you people see what I'm dealing with here?!?!?!
Some would call me the Angry One. Personally, I prefer the name “Scrapper”. In fact, we've already met. Every time you see the word “fuck” in her blog.... that would be me. The blog titled “Con Fun Med”? Yep. That one's mine. Beating the steering wheel into submission I claim without shame. I'm the one ready to jump ugly when the rest of the Voices can't “git 'er done”. Hell I'm ready to jump ugly just because Stupid is not only dangerous, it's annoying.
The only reason I don't exhibit the great power I possess and am entitled to is because I'm outnumbered.
I do have a buddy among the voices—the Comic. As long as he can keep me laughing I can keep it mellow. It's hard to describe the Comic, but if Lewis Black and Ron White spliced their sperm and turkey -basted it into Jeff Dunham’s “Peanut”.... you'd have the Comic—great potential, annoying in large doses, has to grow on you. But we have a great partnership. I'm the keg of dynamite and the Comic is the incredibly long fuse. Mostly we just entertain each other.
More accurately, we distract each other from the truly annoying Voices in the Van.
We've got Otis. If you want to know Otis, think “Forest Gump”. No shit. I think they're related somehow. Thank GOD he doesn't say “life is like a box of chocolates”. Mainly because I would hold him and Comic would hit him. But too often he grins and tucks his chin like Gomer Pyle and says “Well, it just is what it is.” Really?! Just about when that gets on my last nerve, we have to leave the van, encounter People and Otis seems like a “Goddamn Genius.” THAT is the only reason I have not cast him adrift on a shrimp boat in search of Bubba.
And what will make you long for an Otis soliloquy? Sniffles. Oh, she's just damn grand. (Did I mention that sarcasm is my second language?) Sniffles can take crying to a freakin' art form. IF you like cat puke on a plaid carpet. She wrote an entire blog entry on crying. WHO DOES THAT?!?!?! Are you kidding me?!?!?! I'm good. And the worst part? No warning whatsoever. You never know when she's going to dissolve, which means the rest of us, mainly me and the Comic have to be always on the ready to prop her up and gag her into submission. She is wearing me OUT. Seriously. If mucous were a viable energy form, we'd be millionaires.
Then there's “the Buddha”. The Comic gave him that name. I wanted to call him ShitHead. Holy crap he gives me the creeps. He just sits there and watches all of us like we're a play he's already seen, but worth watching again. How creepy is THAT?!??! And he almost never speaks. Out Loud. Even when Sniffles cuddles up next to him and lets the damn flood gates open, he sits calmly and oozes some kind of something that makes the rest of us get real quiet. And wait. I swear to god, I blame him for that blog about Green after the Rain. He does nothing, he says nothing, and just when we're all spiraling into chaos and even Otis is ready to “run, Otis, run!” and I'm reaching for my can opener for the No 10 can of Whoop-Ass, Sniffles is hysterically dehydrating before our eyes, and the Comic is trying to channel Robin Williams.....
The Buddha spreads his arms, the heavens open, Jonathan Livingston circles in the sky above, Daniel Shimoda stands in a grassy field, holding the hand of Whinnie the Pooh who recites a line from the Tao, and I have no idea what to do next. That shit just makes my ass tired.
So there it is. The five of us hangin' with the Bitch. That's B.I.T.C.H. Which stands for Boys, I'm Taking Charge Here. And that's Miss Bitch to you. And thank god I don't get charged for punctuation marks!!!!!!
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know that Her family and/or doctors, and/or the Health Department read this and... well, you can probably imagine. Whatever happens, you may be assured she will never be alone.
Crabbily Yours,
Scrapper
P.S. Thanks, Christy.
What?! You thought she was kidding about the Voices in the Van? You thought we were a metaphor for emotions?! And no shit, she just ran upstairs to reference Strunk and White to make sure I had used the word metaphor correctly. Do you people see what I'm dealing with here?!?!?!
Some would call me the Angry One. Personally, I prefer the name “Scrapper”. In fact, we've already met. Every time you see the word “fuck” in her blog.... that would be me. The blog titled “Con Fun Med”? Yep. That one's mine. Beating the steering wheel into submission I claim without shame. I'm the one ready to jump ugly when the rest of the Voices can't “git 'er done”. Hell I'm ready to jump ugly just because Stupid is not only dangerous, it's annoying.
The only reason I don't exhibit the great power I possess and am entitled to is because I'm outnumbered.
I do have a buddy among the voices—the Comic. As long as he can keep me laughing I can keep it mellow. It's hard to describe the Comic, but if Lewis Black and Ron White spliced their sperm and turkey -basted it into Jeff Dunham’s “Peanut”.... you'd have the Comic—great potential, annoying in large doses, has to grow on you. But we have a great partnership. I'm the keg of dynamite and the Comic is the incredibly long fuse. Mostly we just entertain each other.
More accurately, we distract each other from the truly annoying Voices in the Van.
We've got Otis. If you want to know Otis, think “Forest Gump”. No shit. I think they're related somehow. Thank GOD he doesn't say “life is like a box of chocolates”. Mainly because I would hold him and Comic would hit him. But too often he grins and tucks his chin like Gomer Pyle and says “Well, it just is what it is.” Really?! Just about when that gets on my last nerve, we have to leave the van, encounter People and Otis seems like a “Goddamn Genius.” THAT is the only reason I have not cast him adrift on a shrimp boat in search of Bubba.
And what will make you long for an Otis soliloquy? Sniffles. Oh, she's just damn grand. (Did I mention that sarcasm is my second language?) Sniffles can take crying to a freakin' art form. IF you like cat puke on a plaid carpet. She wrote an entire blog entry on crying. WHO DOES THAT?!?!?! Are you kidding me?!?!?! I'm good. And the worst part? No warning whatsoever. You never know when she's going to dissolve, which means the rest of us, mainly me and the Comic have to be always on the ready to prop her up and gag her into submission. She is wearing me OUT. Seriously. If mucous were a viable energy form, we'd be millionaires.
Then there's “the Buddha”. The Comic gave him that name. I wanted to call him ShitHead. Holy crap he gives me the creeps. He just sits there and watches all of us like we're a play he's already seen, but worth watching again. How creepy is THAT?!??! And he almost never speaks. Out Loud. Even when Sniffles cuddles up next to him and lets the damn flood gates open, he sits calmly and oozes some kind of something that makes the rest of us get real quiet. And wait. I swear to god, I blame him for that blog about Green after the Rain. He does nothing, he says nothing, and just when we're all spiraling into chaos and even Otis is ready to “run, Otis, run!” and I'm reaching for my can opener for the No 10 can of Whoop-Ass, Sniffles is hysterically dehydrating before our eyes, and the Comic is trying to channel Robin Williams.....
The Buddha spreads his arms, the heavens open, Jonathan Livingston circles in the sky above, Daniel Shimoda stands in a grassy field, holding the hand of Whinnie the Pooh who recites a line from the Tao, and I have no idea what to do next. That shit just makes my ass tired.
So there it is. The five of us hangin' with the Bitch. That's B.I.T.C.H. Which stands for Boys, I'm Taking Charge Here. And that's Miss Bitch to you. And thank god I don't get charged for punctuation marks!!!!!!
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know that Her family and/or doctors, and/or the Health Department read this and... well, you can probably imagine. Whatever happens, you may be assured she will never be alone.
Crabbily Yours,
Scrapper
P.S. Thanks, Christy.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Taming of the Shrew
This sucks, this bites, this blows.
I “enjoyed” three to five two hour naps throughout the night. I ached for him and agonized for him and dreamed of rescuing him over and over and over again.
I woke with a splitting headache and the desperate need to cry that wound through arid ruts of pain, agony and just plain pissed off. I dozed and cried and dozed and melted into surrender and cried some more. Fuck.
At one forty five this afternoon, the phone rings and it's Rich. Swear to gawd he sounds like he's calling from a cruise ship—having a wonderful time, wish you were here... just wants to know when I'm coming in and he wants me to bring the newspaper. Tah.
Well, yee, fucking, hah. So I am all about THAT! For reasons I cannot explain, I'm having a hard damn time dealing with that. On the one hand, I'm totally happy that he sounds that damn good after surgery. On the other damn hand, I'm trying to process the flip order for the newspaper and the total lack of inquiry as to how I'm doing. I am such a bitch.
I called seven people in a desperate attempt to reconnect with sanity. Every damn call went to voice mail. By the third one I stopped leaving messages. Apparently, the universe decided I was not supposed to talk to anyone.
I drove to the hospital and at every red light I beat the steering wheel within an inch of it's life. I was vaguely aware of the effect this was having on fellow motorists. At least I keep my road rage to myself. By the time the steering wheel was unconscious I realized I wasn't mad at Rich, I was just mad. I was exhausted and scared, and mad that I can't get a really good cry going so I can purge.
I walked into his room and he lit up like a Christmas tree, reached for me and pulled me as close as his incision and tubing would allow. I was with him less than a full minute when a horrifying look came over him, time stopped and I realized he wasn't breathing, he was silently choking and paralyzed with fear. Without thinking I pulled the pillow out from under him, held it against his incision, rolled him to his side and whacked him so hard on the back I'm amazed I didn't break a bone.
GROSS ALERT.... skip over the next paragraph if you've got a weak stomach.....
A huge plug of mucous went flying followed by a considerable amount of green/brown stomach fluid, drenching the bed, overflowing and landing in a big puddle on the floor. Suddenly the NG tube that had been accomplishing nothing dumped 500 cc more into the vacuum container on the wall. Tanya answered the call light, started doing all the amazing nurse stuff, called the doctors, and respiratory and we got to work cleaning him up. Between more gagging and heaving he kept telling me I'd saved his life, “If you hadn't been here, pupshun, I would have choked to death.”
I doubt it. I think our Angel threw me a bone. Just a little something to let me feel I'm not totally useless.
Respiratory brought a pickle. Seriously. That's what it's called, probably because that's what it looks like, and it's even green. It's the size of a luscious, large kosher dill with a mouse piece at one end. It has chambers and ball bearings inside. It was developed for children with cystic fibrosis because they have mucous problems. You blow into it ten times and it breaks up the mucous so it's easier to expel. No shit, it works. Out of curiosity I blew into it to see what it feels like. Amazing. Rich now uses it diligently. Every hour just like they said he blows into it thirteen times. (They said ten but I told him thirteen is a lucky number.)
Today I went in to see him. All the tubing is still in place except for the catheter. He's still on mouth swabs only, but he no longer yearns for food. I can tell the NG tube is annoying and it makes it much harder to expel the mucous, but he has not uttered a word of complaint to me or his nurses. He eased over and I curled into bed next to him and we were both instantly asleep.
I'm trying not to think. I'm pretending that it's a normal Sunday evening and I'm going to get up and go to work tomorrow like it's a normal Monday morning. I'm trying to pretend that he's away on a golf vacation with his buddies. I'm trying so hard not to think that this is what my life will be... sitting alone on the couch on a Sunday evening watching Robin Hood for the 937th time just because where else can you get a dose of Alan Rickman, Morgan Freeman and Kevin Costner in one sitting? I'm trying to ignore the weeds that are consuming his garden and taunting me in the process.
Mostly I'm trying not to believe that the day will come when Dr A can't fix it.
I “enjoyed” three to five two hour naps throughout the night. I ached for him and agonized for him and dreamed of rescuing him over and over and over again.
I woke with a splitting headache and the desperate need to cry that wound through arid ruts of pain, agony and just plain pissed off. I dozed and cried and dozed and melted into surrender and cried some more. Fuck.
At one forty five this afternoon, the phone rings and it's Rich. Swear to gawd he sounds like he's calling from a cruise ship—having a wonderful time, wish you were here... just wants to know when I'm coming in and he wants me to bring the newspaper. Tah.
Well, yee, fucking, hah. So I am all about THAT! For reasons I cannot explain, I'm having a hard damn time dealing with that. On the one hand, I'm totally happy that he sounds that damn good after surgery. On the other damn hand, I'm trying to process the flip order for the newspaper and the total lack of inquiry as to how I'm doing. I am such a bitch.
I called seven people in a desperate attempt to reconnect with sanity. Every damn call went to voice mail. By the third one I stopped leaving messages. Apparently, the universe decided I was not supposed to talk to anyone.
I drove to the hospital and at every red light I beat the steering wheel within an inch of it's life. I was vaguely aware of the effect this was having on fellow motorists. At least I keep my road rage to myself. By the time the steering wheel was unconscious I realized I wasn't mad at Rich, I was just mad. I was exhausted and scared, and mad that I can't get a really good cry going so I can purge.
I walked into his room and he lit up like a Christmas tree, reached for me and pulled me as close as his incision and tubing would allow. I was with him less than a full minute when a horrifying look came over him, time stopped and I realized he wasn't breathing, he was silently choking and paralyzed with fear. Without thinking I pulled the pillow out from under him, held it against his incision, rolled him to his side and whacked him so hard on the back I'm amazed I didn't break a bone.
GROSS ALERT.... skip over the next paragraph if you've got a weak stomach.....
A huge plug of mucous went flying followed by a considerable amount of green/brown stomach fluid, drenching the bed, overflowing and landing in a big puddle on the floor. Suddenly the NG tube that had been accomplishing nothing dumped 500 cc more into the vacuum container on the wall. Tanya answered the call light, started doing all the amazing nurse stuff, called the doctors, and respiratory and we got to work cleaning him up. Between more gagging and heaving he kept telling me I'd saved his life, “If you hadn't been here, pupshun, I would have choked to death.”
I doubt it. I think our Angel threw me a bone. Just a little something to let me feel I'm not totally useless.
Respiratory brought a pickle. Seriously. That's what it's called, probably because that's what it looks like, and it's even green. It's the size of a luscious, large kosher dill with a mouse piece at one end. It has chambers and ball bearings inside. It was developed for children with cystic fibrosis because they have mucous problems. You blow into it ten times and it breaks up the mucous so it's easier to expel. No shit, it works. Out of curiosity I blew into it to see what it feels like. Amazing. Rich now uses it diligently. Every hour just like they said he blows into it thirteen times. (They said ten but I told him thirteen is a lucky number.)
Today I went in to see him. All the tubing is still in place except for the catheter. He's still on mouth swabs only, but he no longer yearns for food. I can tell the NG tube is annoying and it makes it much harder to expel the mucous, but he has not uttered a word of complaint to me or his nurses. He eased over and I curled into bed next to him and we were both instantly asleep.
I'm trying not to think. I'm pretending that it's a normal Sunday evening and I'm going to get up and go to work tomorrow like it's a normal Monday morning. I'm trying to pretend that he's away on a golf vacation with his buddies. I'm trying so hard not to think that this is what my life will be... sitting alone on the couch on a Sunday evening watching Robin Hood for the 937th time just because where else can you get a dose of Alan Rickman, Morgan Freeman and Kevin Costner in one sitting? I'm trying to ignore the weeds that are consuming his garden and taunting me in the process.
Mostly I'm trying not to believe that the day will come when Dr A can't fix it.
Proof of Positive
Because there IS a positive side to everything.
The positive side of the last few days, three years is that I have made an amazing discovery and rather than patent or copyright it and earn the millions that would enable me to create heaven on earth for Rich... I will share with you for free.
I have developed the first, totally free, non-invasive, fool-proof, at home hormone test.
If you watch four consecutive hours of Lifetime Movine Network, aka LMN, aka, Puss TV and you want to puke = your testosterone level is that of a normal 25 year old heterosexual male with great muscle tone, a healthy libido and minimal mommy issues.
If you watch those same four hours consuming two or more boxes of tissues, you're licking the bottom of the Hagen Das carton and you are eagerly waiting for the next four hours = your estrogen level is at the high range of total perfect female and you're probably ovulating.
If, however, you complete those four hours sans puking/crying, you are staring blindly wondering “what the fuck?!”, you have random thoughts of all the things you could have accomplished in the last four hours, you realize that washing windows would have been more fulfilling, and your only emotion is the faint taste of pity you're feeling for the actors who prostituted their craft for the paycheck, then.... you might want to consult a physician because you probably need medication.
On that last clue, I'll take Medications for $500 Alex. . . . How do you know when to go back on the Happy Pills?
Yaaaaayyyyyyy!! I win.
The positive side of the last few days, three years is that I have made an amazing discovery and rather than patent or copyright it and earn the millions that would enable me to create heaven on earth for Rich... I will share with you for free.
I have developed the first, totally free, non-invasive, fool-proof, at home hormone test.
If you watch four consecutive hours of Lifetime Movine Network, aka LMN, aka, Puss TV and you want to puke = your testosterone level is that of a normal 25 year old heterosexual male with great muscle tone, a healthy libido and minimal mommy issues.
If you watch those same four hours consuming two or more boxes of tissues, you're licking the bottom of the Hagen Das carton and you are eagerly waiting for the next four hours = your estrogen level is at the high range of total perfect female and you're probably ovulating.
If, however, you complete those four hours sans puking/crying, you are staring blindly wondering “what the fuck?!”, you have random thoughts of all the things you could have accomplished in the last four hours, you realize that washing windows would have been more fulfilling, and your only emotion is the faint taste of pity you're feeling for the actors who prostituted their craft for the paycheck, then.... you might want to consult a physician because you probably need medication.
On that last clue, I'll take Medications for $500 Alex. . . . How do you know when to go back on the Happy Pills?
Yaaaaayyyyyyy!! I win.
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