Non-binding Limited Peace Accord Reached
I've been completely useless this week. The only thing remotely productive I've done at work was yesterday's conversation with Loathsome. That pretty much speaks for itself.
On the non-productive Crazy Land front, I've had several early morning chats with the Shunner. We've signed a non-binding peace accord and relations have been almost completely normalized. I should be dispatched to solve the Middle East problem; I'd have them talking amiably in two weeks or less. They still might not like each other, but they'd be discussing critical things like home grown tomatoes and soldering tools almost immediately.
Those are the kinds of warm, bonding experiences the Shunner and I have been sharing. He grows organic vegetables for his personal consumption and was kind enough to bring some to Crazy Land. He suggested I partake and I took him up on that offer without hesitation. Therein lay the seeds of the new relationship.
Then the Shunner shared with me his frustration with a soldering tool he used this week in an attempt to repair his beloved riding lawnmower. He has three acres of land on the verge of town and nothing pleases him more than loading up with a beverage, putting on the mp3 player headphones and mowing the hell out of the place.
A couple of belts broke on the mower on Tuesday and, stranded in the middle of the three verdant acres, he "was devastated," he told me. Humor never fails to soften my heart.
The Shunner, being an enterprising guy, got his handy 15 year old soldering tool to replace some wires that got thrown about the lawn when the Kevlar belts broke. (We're talking high-end mower here.) From what I can tell, it's like a self-adjusting heating iron. It heats up to a certain temperature, shuts itself down to cool, then heats up again. I guess one of the advantages here is that sparks don't fly up and cause unsightly burn marks on the user. There's probably some other highly technical reason, but I have no idea what it might be.
Not a patient man, the Shunner, after about 30 minutes of trying fruitlessly to solder the wires together, threw the entire thing into one of his pecan trees. His wife came out to find out if she could help and arrived at just the moment the ancient tool hit a branch. Without a word, she turned around, went back to their backyard deck and resumed reading a book. When the Shunner has reached his emotional limit, you don't want to give him an opportunity to vent. Not that the Shunner has any control over Brenda at all; she will kick his butt without a moment's hesitation. Sometimes it's just too much trouble.
Finally, we dissected the sad state of affairs the weather has wreaked on this area. It's been raining for weeks now with no reprieve in sight. May is the beginning of our usual drought season, so we're all delighted to have an abundance of water, but folks are having to be rescued on a daily basis from the roofs of their houses.
We've had so much rapid development in the past several years that the historical problem of run-off in this area has gotten much worse. Even though we regularly experience long-term drought conditions, we have our own brief spring rainy season. Every year, people are warned not to drive through moving water if it's more than an inch high. If you can't judge how high it is, you should just turn around and go back the way you came. Every year, during heavy rain periods, foolhardy souls fail to heed these warnings and are swept down torrents of fast-moving water. Many of them die.
You can see that the Shunner and I have our conversational hands full with all of this weather-related activity going on.
I'd love to share more with you, but I've managed to kill another day without accomplishing a damn thing. Must be time to go home and regale the family with Crazy Land tales. You'll just have to wait for what promises to be another unproductive day tomorrow.
The Beginning Of A Long Twelve Weeks
I was on my way to Owner's office when I saw him standing in the Information Superhighway's office, forcing Money Man to look for something. (Information Superhighway is out for a couple of weeks.) I took some pleasure in noting Loathsome was already infuriating Money Man. I could see him clenching his teeth, presumably in an effort to keep his head from exploding.
I weighed the odds of being able to make it to Owner's office and back without Loathsome noticing. They weren't good, as always, it was too late to retreat. Sure enough, Loathsome turned around before I could escape into Owner's inner sanctum. I flashed him a smile and said, "Loathsome! How's life?" I gave him the thumbs-up sign as I kept walking. That should have made it abundantly clear that I don't give a rat's ass how he is, but we're talking about Loathsome here.
After I was back in my office for a couple of minutes, I thought I heard a faint voice coming from Crazy Employee's office saying, "Ggirl. Ggirl." For a second I thought I had lost my mind. I'm relentlessly optimistic. Of course it was Loathsome. Who else would believe it better to mumble my name from the other side of a closed door than to actually knock?
I girded my mental loins and told him to come in.
He asked, "Are you in the loop for paper receipts?"
Now he knows damn well I'm not in that "loop." I'm so far out of it that I had to pause for a minute to figure out what the hell he was talking about. At least he's consistent. I'm immediately baffled every time he opens his mouth. That's just part of his charm.
"No. That would be Crazy Employee. She's not here today," I told him.
He stood in my doorway and explained to me in excruciating detail why he needed some specific receipts immediately.
"She's not here today." Just in case I hadn't made it clear the first time and he hadn't noticed Crazy wasn't wandering around the office, whining. If she's here, that's what she's doing. Well, unless she's futilely attempting to create problems between Owner and me. Either way, Loathsome should have noted we're missing that special something Crazy Employee brings to the office.
Loathsome explained his customer really wanted those receipts and they'd been requesting them for a couple of days. Tough shit, Bud, I guess you should have gotten them a couple of days ago. Besides, I believe we addressed that, possibly more than once.
"Well, can't help you. Crazy will be back tomorrow, though." Maybe if I just wrote it down with a Sharpie on a piece of paper, climbed up on my desk and held it up over my head like that famous scene in "Norma Rae," I could get him the hell out of my doorway.
Three times is never enough with Loathsome. Yes, we went through it again. He seemed to finally comprehend, but didn't budge an inch. I know I always have to stroke his ego one way or another. Call me stubborn. I just don't wish to do it. Ever. So I hold out and, eventually, give in because I know he'll still be standing there at 5:00 o'clock if I don't just get it over with. Oh fuck.
"How's the back? And the wrists? And the ankles?" I hoped to get him to sum everything up for me so I wouldn't be nodding and smiling for the next 45 minutes. Dream on. He told me. It's all bad. Loathsome is a trooper, though, and hangs tough for our collective benefit.
"Yeah. I'm in pain every day, too. You know, I've had so many surgeries." I just said that because I know it irritates him to think about anyone other than Loathsome. I have to get something out of this, you know. That seemed to register briefly on his slack-jawed face.
"I really need those receipts." Back to me, bitch.
It was about as gracious an exit line as you're ever going to get from Loathsome. He had accomplished his objectives--bother the hell out of me, impress upon me the importance of his job, astound me with his capacity for endurance and, finally, to feign interest in someone else.
"I guess you're just going to have to call Crazy Employee on her cellphone."
I'd also accomplished my objective. I smiled at him as I got up and closed my door.
It's going to be a long 12 weeks.
What Book Are You?
You're Love in the Time of Cholera!
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by
sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give
consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the
one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions
barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff
could get you killed.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Live Until You Die
Today I planned to get around to checking in with all of my online blogging friends. I always miss sharing in their daily lives when I have to be gone--usually because of a trip to deal with cancer in one way or another. I may not get around to that, after all.
I'm crying now. In my office. At the mercy of anyone in Crazy Land who happens to knock on my door. I do not wish for them to see me cry. It's too personal to explain and there is no consolation to be found. Certainly not here, anyway. Actually, I'd love to explain it to myself, but crying is only crying. No explanation necessary.
It feels so silly to be afraid. Is there something wrong in the new girl? Probably not. My mom thinks everything is okay. I should just banish the fear and rest in the thought that most likely all is well. Right? I'm almost certain everything is fine. Why would I choose to believe otherwise?
On the other hand, having once been overly optimistic, it's well nigh impossible to exorcise that anxiety gnawing around the edges of my consciousness. Two summers ago, I thought we were just going to have a look around, maybe remove a benign tumor and get on with things. Then I believed Dr. Ross would perform a little lumpectomy or a big lumpectomy and I'd go on my merry way. Obviously, that didn't happen.
Money Man's daughter poked her head in my office a while ago and, though I tried to pull myself together, I'm a messy crier. My eyes get puffy immediately and my nose turns red. Very, very attractive, I assure you. That's when I decided to take a little trip next door and get over myself. At least there I could cry noisily if it came to that. It did. But I'm back now.
A few seconds ago, Crazy Employee, who engaged in some egregious back-stabbing behavior last week, knocked on my door and made some ridiculous excuse for entering my office. If I wanted chocolate donuts, bitch, I would go to the receptionist's desk to get them. I do not wish to share anything with her. I'm insulted that she would think otherwise.
In what's come to be the Official GGirl Crying Building, there is an abandoned plant. I've been trying to get someone to take care of it for a long time and now it's dying. That touched off another round of crying and, as I sit here, tears are welling up again. Goddamn it. I'm going to try to find a way to get some water to the poor thing and, in the meantime, I slanted the blinds so it could get more light. I just need to find a big enough container to take some water to it; it's a very large plant and needs more than a cupful or so.
Back to the matter at hand, be afraid or not? Maybe I don't have any choice and I should just go with whatever the moment brings. Oh yeah. That was supposed to be one of those lessons I learned from having breast cancer. Being in the moment is being completely alive.
I tell everyone that I wish to live until I die. When I'm sitting on the floor next door, crying about a dying plant, that is exactly living until I die. Yesterday I was reminded of a quote from a Medieval mystic named Julian of Norwich. "All things shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well." They shall.
In the meantime, I may be vying for the office nickname, "Crazy Employee." I'll have to think of a new name for her, though. The possibilities are endless. I'm officially taking suggestions, but I have dibs on "Back-stabbing Bitch." I'll get back to debating fear later. I've got my priorities straight, you know, because all things most certainly shall be well.Awesome, Dude
On Saturday, when I went to my local Walgreens to pick up a prescription, I was waited on by a young Pharmacy Technician. I've never quite understood what specific skills are necessary for that job other than the ability to talk (to pharmacists and customers), the ability to alphabetize (the prescription bags) and the ability to run the computer/cash register. On the face of it, that seems easy enough.
I've engaged in transactions with this tech before and all has always gone well. That's saying a lot because I've been "helped" by a number of true numbskulls who needed a lot more Pharmacy Tech education. Mainly in the area of "finding stuff." I hope there's a separate class on that subject, because it's sorely needed. Or, for instance, "Diabetes Drugs--Where To find them in the Pharmacy Refrigerator." That should also be a required class in the Pharmacy Tech curriculum.
This Pharmacy Tech must have had absolutely stellar grades in "finding stuff", because he located my prescription in short order.
"Have you taken this before?" he asked me.
"Yes."
"Have you had any problems with it?"
"No," I said.
His response? "Awesome."
Yet another suggestion for Pharmacy Technician required training: "Reasons Why 'Awesome' is a Completely Inappropriate Response. To Anything."
While I'm at it, I may as well cover my other pet peeve, one which must certainly define me as a crank. I always thank all waiters, cashiers and sales people. They've provided me with a service, they are fellow human beings and that is my way of acknowledging both of those things. I know the vast majority of people are too busy or too irritated to be thankful. Some people probably don't even see the need to say thanks because, after all, the service provider is compensated either by the customer or the store owner or both. I get all of that and I'm not proselytizing for my way of doing things. Nothing wrong with those people.
It's not impossible for me to see that maybe people who work in customer service positions are completely unaccustomed to being thanked. Maybe they don't know how to respond. Entirely possible.
However, once I've said my "thank you" and smiled at the cashier/waitperson/sales person, they should respond with something along the lines of, "My pleasure." Instead, the majority of service people say, "No problem." Well, I should certainly hope it would not be a problem, since it's your job, after all.
I know, I know. I have had sales jobs, but not waiting tables and not acting solely as a cashier. I have worked many seasons in malls at Christmas. I'm a war-hardened veteran of harried, bad-tempered customers. I've had many friends who've worked in restaurants. It's a tough way to make a living wage and maintain your sanity. I'm entirely sympathetic to their plight or I would never say thank you.
I work in a service industry, though. (I will not bore you with my lecture about how we all are customer service providers of one type or another. It's long and could be a bit tedious.) I not only answer to our clients, but to the other denizens of Crazy Land. Crazy Land notwithstanding, I still want to give my internal customers what they need. I will do whatever it takes to make the company's clients happy. I will tell them it's my pleasure to help them and they should let me know immediately if there's a problem or they need more assistance. And I mean it.
Same Song, Different Verse
I got back from M.D. Anderson several hours ago. The good news: hotel was fine, water was hot, no one suggested that I might be feeble minded. The other up side: I saw my beloved Dr. Ross. One of my online friends asks what's special about my surgeon. Excellent question, which I'll answer later.
The mammogram process was terrifying. We did the usual four x-rays, they sent me to wait in a little room to make sure they hadn't missed an area. I was the only person there. After a period of time, they came to get me again. No big deal, I thought. We just missed something; that's not unusual at all.
Oh no. We had to do a different kind of mammogram because they needed to take a closer look (they being the radiologist and person who did the mammogram) at something. Hand crank makes a comeback. I was sent to sit in the little room again. Alone. Time passed and passed and passed.
Finally, after about 15-20 minutes of waiting, the mammogram person came to get me to take even more x-rays. Now I'm really afraid. That's how it started the last time. Picture, pictures, wait, wait, then bad, bad news. "This must be making you really afraid," the mammogram person said. "Yes," I answered. No response. She put the x-rays on a light board, told me to come over and pointed out several areas they were concerned about. Great. That also happened the last time.
More hand crank action and some highly unusual poses that I had to hold, without breathing of course. Back to the tiny room. As I waited, I became more and more afraid. I was almost ready to cry when she came back and said they looked okay. Too late. That's what the radiologist told me two years ago. Then I showed up at my local surgeon's office where I found out that things weren't fine, after all.
I was still terrified while I waited for Dr. Ross. He came in and asked about any problems, then reassured me about the right breast. I could relax enough to tell him they took my oncologist away from me. I asked him if he was going away, too. "I'll do anything you want me to do." Okay. I was feeling better enough to think, "Oh, really? How about I move in with you and we spend the rest of our lives together?" Instead, I said, "Please don't go away. You're my guy. I trust you. I know you're going to take care of me."
Dr. Ross then started examining the new girl and found a hard place where I had a lot of radiation last summer. He was concerned about it and wants to have a better look. A mammogram? Ultra sound? I don't know. "See?" I said, "You're my guy. I know you'll take care of me."
We scheduled another visit in a month, I think. Or in August. When your oncology surgeon registers concern, there's a part of your brain that shuts down. Or at least that's my experience. Off he went to fetch his appointment schedule. He wrote me down for whatever date it is and gave me a hug He's a very, very compassionate man.
Now, on to why he's so special. He saved my life. I had an unusual form of breast cancer that manifested itself in unusual ways. He found it. He told me. Then Dr. Ross took care of me. He's the best surgeon in one of the best cancer hospitals in the world. He's very gentle and cares about all of his patients as individual human beings who deserve kindness and support. He gave me hugs. Dr. Ross knows how terrifying any kind of cancer diagnosis is (he also specializes in skin cancer surgery).
Here's the final and saddest reason why I have such a huge crush. He's the first man I've ever known who's taken care of me. I can count on him. That's remarkably special.
Thanks for all of the prayers and good wishes. They help, you know, both emotionally and physically. That helps to take care of me, too. I have to rest now. See you on Monday.
Even the Hand Crank Is Better Than This
Okay, here's the deal. Tomorrow morning, I will take my little Andy to be boarded, then I'm going to drive four hours to get to Houston. Thursday, I have a bone scan and a mammogram. The bone scan is no big deal. There's no pain involved in that.
As for the mammogram, my insurance company should be pleased that I am receiving the best screening possible. They manage to scrunch all of the skin and muscle from my neck to my bellybutton in between what I think of as the jaws of death. We spend a good twenty or thirty minutes getting me all lined up and making the plates capture the skin and muscle. Then, my friends, the hand crank comes into play. All of that bodily mass will eventually be compressed into a quarter of an inch. I swear.
After all of that, I'll be sitting around waiting for my beloved oncology surgeon. At least 45 minutes at best will be spent sitting in a hospital gown three times my size in a tiny, freezing little room. Given the size issue, I don't even know why they give me the gown thing. It's fastened in front and, having only two ties, I'm virtually naked from the waist up. I used to expend a considerable amount of energy trying to keep myself covered up in case one of the many nurses or Fellows or assistants show up. Going down the hall to the bathroom was always interesting. I'm shameless at this point. So many absolute strangers have not only looked, but touched extremely private parts of my body that I don't bother with modesty.
On mammogram days, I usually get back to my hotel room around 9:00 p.m., exhausted and starving. They make it impossible to actually eat anything substantial in a day always positively action-packed with waiting. In spite of all of this, it seems infinitely preferable to another day in Crazy Land. I know it will still be there waiting for me on Monday. But for the following three days, I can occupy my thoughts with more important things than back-stabbing attempts by co-workers, random rage attacks by others and my own weariness with it all. Bring on the hand crank. What a relief it will be. See you on Monday.
The "D" Word and the "C" Word
I have now spent my entire day going from office to office, talking to people individually about rats, fleas and cats. Jesus fucking christ. I have to admit that I take a certain amount of pleasure from forcing people to deal with me face to face, though. You know how we hate that in Crazy Land.
Just so we're clear. They're excavating the old airport across the street. They are digging up sewers. Guess what? The rats have to go somewhere. They not only come here; they no doubt go to all of the available buildings on these four street corners. Fleas--it's been a rainy year this year. We office next door to Flea City where the alleged Crack Ho lives who never does anything about fleas. The cats? They are not standing around, beckoning to the rats to come on over and chow down on the small remainder of the cat food they haven't consumed.
Is this not pathetic? I'm sick of talking about it, so each and every one of the people whom I know are bitching about it had to talk with me. I love creating discomfort when it arises from a dysfunctional need to inappropriately displace anger and then refuse to address the issue directly. It's so much more productive to do it behind people's backs. No, no, my friends. We will most assuredly not be doing that. I'm going to sit in your fucking office and force you to talk to me.
This approach not only causes discomfort, but it's also disarming. When I take responsibility for something, I assure you that I mean it. It's just such a rare event (at least in Crazy Land) for someone to actually do that, that people really aren't able to resist my honesty and personal warmth. That's how I am. Sometimes it serves a strategic purpose, but that's just a bonus.
I'm a reasonable person. I'm sure you can all see that about me. As I said before, I sometimes have to take a little break to find the reasonable response lurking somewhere up there in the prefrontal cortex. Sometimes I simply have to get back with people to allow that part of my brain to assert itself. As opposed, say, to verbally ripping their entrails out and beating them over the head with them. And then arriving at a sane conclusion.
No one. Let me repeat: no one was willing to actually say what they think or feel. I have no idea whether they remember how direct and forceful I can be when provoked or it's just that generalized dysfunctional thing. I hate that "d' word and try never to use it, but when it fits, I will not only put on the shoe, I will stomp around the office in it.
Veering off to another topic (though my time here is limited), I can't stand the "closure" word either. What the hell does it mean at this point? People talk a lot about getting closure when people die. Here's the deal: there is no closure. It's just an empty place in your life forever. You learn to live with it because you have to, but there is never any letting go. I may forgive someone, but that doesn't imply "closure."
That's my news for the day. I'm going to Houston tomorrow, so no word from me until Monday. Or over the weekend if I'm not exhausted.
This is the Last For the Day. I Promise.
One of my online friends recently asked me (in a perfectly humorous and non-offensive way) how my co-workers might describe me. I've given that a lot of thought. I've noted in previous posts that they might well describe me as "Crazy Cat Lady" or "Useless Too." Oh yeah, there's always "Psychobitch. That's one of my favorites.
Another that came to mind is "Who The Hell Is This Woman Anyway." Better yet, "Mysterious Co-worker." I wonder if it ever occurs to them how little they know about me. Some of them know me better than others, of course. I've known Owner for over 3 decades now. I'm not such a mystery to him. Superhighway knows me better than anyone else other than Owner.
For everyone else, I'm pretty much all surface charm, in an impersonal way. I'm known for making people feel important and listened to. I laugh at their jokes, but only when they're funny. No fake laughing. That's an ego boosting thing, too. I listen (if only vaguely) to their difficulties. I'm not so responsive when they're whining about working at Crazy Land. Get with the (crazy) program, folks, or move on. I'm helpful when called upon. What do they know about me? As much as I wish for them to know. That would be not much.
There are a lot of my own qualities of which I'm not so fond. I'm not sure people know what they are, but then, all the better. It's hard to see myself outside the framework of my own perceptions. Yes, I have qualities I think are funny. Unfortunately, because of the way the day started out, I can't remember what they are. I'm more often deadly serious about the ways I fall short. I'll have to get back to you on that.
The things that aren't funny? I have that list I've mentioned before of people who've mistreated me (on a grand scale, not the stuff that's merely irritating). Once you're on it, it's hard to get off. I'm not sure that could be called vengeful, because I have no interest in doing these people harm. I'm simply keeping track. Nonetheless, probably not one of my better characteristics.
I can be highly critical. Oh, you'd already noticed? How about sardonic? (Well, the sardonic thing may actually be something I like. Again, I'll have to get back to you on that.) Another quality I'm certain you've become intimately acquainted with is my staunch belief that everyone should buck up and stop whining about little things. Note to self: develop more compassion.
Even when I've been friends with someone a long time, I have a limit. When the annoying qualities outweigh the good qualities, I can be ruthless in cutting people out of my life. No looking back. I guess that means I'm not overly loyal.
I can be an intellectual snob. Oh how I hate that about myself, so I'd be less than honest if I didn't own up to it. As a matter of fact, I'm embarrassed by it. I'm working on it, though. Of course, I've been working on it for about two decades now. For a really long time there, it didn't strike me as something I should get over. I'm now a lot clearer about the value of intelligence--it's good for entertaining yourself, but not much else. I like people who are clear thinkers, not necessarily people who are highly educated. There is a difference. Feeling is just as valid as thinking, though. It simply depends on the circumstances.
I don't respond well to less than constructive criticism. Better come armed with some objective reasons, in which case I'll take it under advisement. Otherwise, I will cut you off at the knees. Do not fuck with me. Especially if you're a man. Here again, probably not one of my better qualities.
I'm generally disengaged emotionally. That's a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but other people probably find it troubling. See above.
I have issues with men. I can be unfair and capricious about those issues. There's a vast spectrum of behavior I will not tolerate. Never, ever, ever under any circumstances should men betray the slightest inclination to believe themselves better (in any way) than me or any other woman. I should probably lighten up. Been working on that for a long, long time, too. I'm not optimistic about making it go away.
I'm stubborn. I'm not impressed with authority generally. You're a Senator? Big deal. You might want to give me some other reason why I should treat you differently than anyone else.
More? Of course there's more. I'm far more critical of myself than others. How much time do you have?
Never Let It Be Said There's Not An Up Side
Okay, well maybe not an up side. More like random thoughts that aren't quite so glum.
I'm back to some semblance of my old workout schedule. The good news: there really is muscle memory! The butt is making a comeback. The triceps--not so much. They need lots and lots of work. The rest of me is getting more muscular and my stamina improves every day. It was vitally important to get the muscle tone back to some extent so I can resume flirting with my oncology surgeon. That's such an odd concept--trying to flirt with a guy who regularly makes me lie down and then touches my breast (and now the new girl, I suppose). I have hair now, though. That's got to be an advantage. Yes, I will leave my husband. In a heart beat. Or a breast check, whichever.
I had a compliment from one of our contract employees last week. I always call him "The Ladies Man," although he's known by his peers as Killer, a tribute to his lady killer days. I've known him for years now, but he's still a looker. Killer told the Superhighway that I'm looking very sexy. I naturally thought she was making this up as a tonic to my poor physical self-esteem. Now I'm not sure. She looked pretty sincere. That used to be a thing that irritated the hell out of me--I always wished men would pay less attention to how I looked than how the brain worked. Now? It made my week.
I passed the compliment on to Hubby. Interesting how that made him actually see me again. After 30 years, in at least a couple of which I looked like absolute hell, we tend to take each other's positive attributes for granted. I don't care. I'd still leave him for surgeon noted above.
Should there be another post? Yes, I think there should. I write these long, verbose posts and I'm always afraid they're too long. They may become tedious. So next topic. I'm making up for my absence later this week. I can always tell myself that, anyway.The Medical Schedule Revealed
I've got a trip to M.D. Anderson this week...it's never-ending. Bone scan and a visit with the ever lovely Dr. Ross. Even my great affection for him isn't quite a panacea for the stress extravaganza. I woke up four times last night. It never fails. Even when I'm not thinking about, my brain is working overtime with anxiety.
I think I get the month of July off, except for a visit to check on the progress of my macular degeneration. I fear the news will not be good because the eyesight in my left eye (the one most affected by the disease) has deteriorated. I can still see the grid I use to check md's progress, so that's good news. I'm tired of doctors and I'm tired of bad news.
In August, I have a follow-up with my radiation oncologist. He's here in town, so that's something, I suppose. August 29 is my next (and, I hope, final) surgery.
In September, it starts all over again. I'll have to schedule a visit with my medical oncologist. I'll never forget the last visit after chemo ended. I told my doctor that I really like him, but I'd be thrilled to not see him again. Oh no, he told me, you'll be seeing me for the next five years, at least. Four times a year. My heart sank.
There will never be an end to this, unless they find a cure. I have my very own M.D. Anderson page on the web. A dubious distinction. It could be worse, though. As far as we know, there's no cause for concern. The Watcher notes the one-cell rule.
Tagged by the Rat Crips
I've gone back to editing old entries so I can post them on another weblog and, if I'm going to be funny, I'll have to do it now. Any reflection on my early life can only end badly. Some days I can be funny about that, too, but mostly not. And even when I am, you have to wade through all of the horror to find it. I'll spare you.
Besides, I'm really furious. I got this lovely pair of impeccably creased black pants back from the dry cleaner yesterday and, when I glanced down a little while ago, I saw a couple of white marks running across the front of the left leg. Mind you, I have no idea at this point who's responsible for the affront to my tidiness. It could just as likely be me as anyone else.
Wait a minute. It just occurred to me that it could be the work of one of those nefarious rats that seem to hang around in gangs downstairs in the kitchen. One of them probably tagged me and I'm the official property of the Rat Crips now. I'm going to have to get right over to the other side of the building and warn Money Man and his family to avoid the downstairs altogether. My kitties have once again attracted all of the rats fleeing sewer repairs and property development. That damn kitty cabal!
Having noticed the imperfection of my pants, I started searching for my recently acquired Tide pen. It was nowhere to be found, so I tried a damp paper towel. Whatever it is, it's not coming off. This is Kelly Ripa's fault. She convinced me on her wildly annoying commercials to buy one and now look what's happened. I've relied on it and it's missing in action.
I'll just have to remember to keep my right leg crossed over my left for the rest of the day. Maybe I could try to only let people see me from the side. I might be able to sidle in through doorways and then casually drape my left hand over the offending marks on the front of my left thigh. Or right hand. Whichever seems more jaunty at the time.
Of course, that's not to say that I have much interest in how I look at work these days. Lately I don't even use any makeup. I wash my hair and arrive at the office while it's still wet. (Thank you breast cancer that made all my hair fall out and then grow back curly!) Sometimes I put on a little blush and mascara after I get here, but I don't see any point in even doing that. My genial co-workers have gotten accustomed to seeing me in much worse condition than this.
For several months, I had an incredibly white, moon face with dark shadows under my eyes. I was bald and had sores on my hands. My fingernails were black and deeply ridged. I weighed 20 pounds more than I'd ever weighed in my life. I only had one breast. Compared to that, I look positively fabulous now. I carry makeup around with me in my cancer tote bag, just in case I feel inspired. I rarely do.
My Meyers-Briggs personality profile notes that I'm strategic thinker. Comes in handy when you've been rat-tagged. I'll let you know what I come up with, you know, in addition to the walking sideways thing.
I Live for the Comfort and Happiness of my Co-Workers
I've somehow managed to thoroughly confuse myself. That in itself isn't uncommon, but this was a huge medication error. I take Ambien every night so I can sleep. (It's difficult to sleep through the night when one has post traumatic stress disorder because of hypervigilance.) I've recently begun taking another medication during the day to address chronic depression and anxiety (ptsd, again). Cutting to the chase: I mixed up the two drugs, took the Ambien during the day and the other drug at night. I have no idea how long I've been taking the antidepressant twice a day.
I only slept about two hours last night and I'm pretty revved up now, but my doctor says things should stabilize soon. I suppose that means I'll stabilize soon. I'm a joy to be around right now, being very high on the Perky Scale. I suspect it's a little like being around someone who's had too much to drink; it's great if you're high, too, but annoying if you're not. Being ever so considerate as usual, I have not tested my fellow employees by interacting with them. That's so me.
On the Crazy Land front, Money Man is working his way up to either a massive stroke or coronary event. Since his return from vacation, he's been happily enraged every day. You know how he loves that. It's like mother's milk to him. I can only hope that I've played some part in it because it's important to me to contribute to the happiness of my co-workers, especially Money Man.
If I had to speculate (and you know I do), I'd say he's lumped me in with all the other "idiots" and "morons" (his favorite words) who work here. I think he's been harboring at least a little bit of hatred towards me for years, believing that I'm virtually useless here in Crazy Land. The Kitty Wars have raised my status in that regard. Now I'm totally useless. Of course, as far as Money Man is concerned, it appears the only people he believes aren't useless are him, his daughter and his son. Go figure.
Loathsome will be making a 12-week return engagement soon. The project he's been working on (and I use that term loosely) has been postponed. You know, he offices in my wing of the building. It can only be good news for me, because everything and everyone looks better when they're in close proximity to Loathsome. A little bit of his astoundingly good looks are bound to rub off on me as we pass each other in the hallway.
He's been here from time to time, but Owner has chosen to meet with him downstairs. I don't think there's any way we can make Loathsome stay downstairs for 12 weeks. My solution to the problem? Move Loathsome over to Money Man's wing and, just as a bonus, move Useless One and Shoe Lady over there, too. Or they could all move downstairs. It will be an all-day love fest, five days a week. As an added attraction, I'd be happy to drop by and make Money Man chat with me for an hour or so from time to time.
Much like our President, I'm a uniter, not a divider. And I'm a hell of a problem solver. I've fixed the entire office situation in one fell swoop. Let the love fest begin.
Brilliant Decision
Here's a good decision: This morning as I was putting breakfast and lunch items in my tote bag (extra large bagel and 8 prunes for breakfast, apple and yogurt for lunch), it occurred to me that maybe I'm not eating enough. I'm sure that's a correct assumption. (No! Stop throwing stuff at me, people! I admitted I'm wrong!) What's missing here? I know. I'll take some dry-roasted nuts with me in case I need a protein infusion. Do I really want to do that? Once you start eating them, it can be difficult to stop. I was sane enough and awake enough to remember I've compulsively eaten stuff at the office as a means of coping with stress.
I should just measure out an acceptable quantity and take that amount. The thought crossed my mind, but ultimately time was not on my side. I had about 8 minutes to get to work. I live close to my office, so 8 minutes is no big deal. However, there was no way in hell I was going to figure out how to measure the stupid nuts, find a suitable container and stash them in said tote bag in time to make my 7:00 a.m. curtain call. So I just left. I did not bring any extra food with me.
Right about now, as I near the end of the day, the body is feeling terribly misused and has taken the brain hostage. The brain can not work until some sort of acceptable fuel is provided. Crazy Employee next door has M&M's. As a matter of fact, I think virtually everyone here has a chocolate stash. I don't think the body will consider that an adequate ransom to give the functional brain back.
Living the Life I've Been Given
It's a little conservative for my tastes (my church of choice is Paulist), but I've been tuning in for Mass every afternoon. I haven't attended Mass in many years, but participating (as much as I can) in the televised version makes me long for that connection.
I have a very broad spiritual philosophy--many paths lead to the same destination. God speaks to us in the multitude of ways we're individually able to hear. Some of us hear the word a little better via Episcopalian doctrine, some Baptist, etc. Some of our paths are not Christian. They're Buddhist, Sufi, etc.
Please don't send me comments about the True Word of God. I'm not interested in debating or converting.
The homily yesterday reminded us that, when "bad" things happen to us, maybe it's God's way of reaching out and getting our attention. God has lessons for us all and sometimes those lessons come through hardship. I'd forgotten that's a valid Christian viewpoint.
I hear a lot more about what God wishes to give to us materially. Or how we can talk God into giving us whatever it is we long for or think we deserve. Did I deserve the life I've gotten? I've been given the life I need, for reasons I don't necessarily understand. It's up to me to keep mind and heart open, to "accept hardships as the pathway to peace...trusting that God will make all things right if I surrender to God's will." (Reinhold Niebuhr) In Buddhist terms, every person I meet is a Buddha sent to help me learn a lesson which will hasten my steps along the path.
The homily warmed my heart. It helped me remember my own spiritual reasons for embracing the life I've been given. May I learn the lessons I've been sent to master; may I complete the tasks I've been sent to accomplish. I may not know what they are; all I have to do is to let go every day. I'm not in charge here. It's been a hard lesson, but at least I've gotten that far.
Introducing the Information Superhighway
I knew the Information Superhighway several years before she came to work in Crazy Land. She worked for another firm that provided services to my company. When Money Man was hired, Owner decided we needed a trustworthy assistant and she seemed to be the perfect candidate. (The acquisition of Money Man was yet another complex story I'll get around to at some point.) She was (and still is) hardworking, dedicated, thorough and intelligent.
Several years ago, I started calling her the Information Superhighway whenever I discussed her with my family. You know the importance I place on entertainment value when it comes to Crazy Land--even with my own family.
Anyone who's ever worked in an office knows (or has known) at least one person like her. Superhighway takes great pride and pleasure in maintaining a rather intense personal relationship with all of the people she meets in a professional capacity. She's friends with our contract employees and friends with employees of service providers. I mean as in coming over to her house friends. This quality is deeply perplexing to me. There are certain benefits, though, like knowing about the personal lives of all of these people.
Superhighway doesn't like all of her coworkers, but she has the lowdown on all of us. If you tell the Superhighway something, you can bank on the fact that everyone else in the office will know about it within 48 hours. I have sometimes floated information through the Crazy Land pipeline via the Superhighway. It's s almost always a tactical decision, but during my cancer treatment, she was very helpful to me in keeping everyone up to date on the progress. She's so much more effective than a group email. She may be faster in disseminating the skinny than any electronic means. I've tested the method over a period of years and it's always been reliable.
Obviously, it's critical to edit out any negative comments about anyone here in Crazy Land. Don't think for a minute that negative comments are excluded from dissemination. As we all know, I believe in direct discussion with co-workers. I do not engage in unfriendly chatter about them and I don't respond to office gossip. Engaging in that self-indulgence is unprofessional and overstepping that boundary can also have unpleasant ramifications. In virtually every job I've ever had, I made it a priority to identify the Information Superhighway in the company. The Superhighway can be an important strategic tool.
This all sounds very cold-hearted, but that's not the case. She's a personal friend and has been for years. I have actually been to her house not once, but twice. This is virtually unheard of in my professional history. After I've spent at least 40 hours a week with people whom I've not chosen to be a part of my life, I do not wish to see them socially. I made a mistake in breaking that rule early on in my career and the co-worker practically took over my personal life. She was an alcoholic and the director of the company. Another story, another time. Superhighway has been granted special dispensation, but I've done about all I'm going to do in that regard.
Well, time has slipped away once again. Rat Man called to ask for help with MS Word, so I spent some time with him. People here believe I know everything about software. (They seem to believe I have a more than passing familiarity with many things. Beats me.) That assumption is gravely incorrect and I have no idea what makes them believe it. Generally I have to keep trying things until I get it figured out. Sometimes I have to override built-in capabilities and do it the old-fashioned way. Luckily for Rat Man, I had encountered this problem before and resolved it relatively quickly.
Then my mom called because she was having trouble logging in to one of her newly created online bill payment services with one of her fave companies. Oh my god, what a poorly designed site. I had to click "Pay Bill" on literally five separate pages to actually get to the place to pay the bill. Mom has dial-up, so that complicated everything. She couldn't see the screen as I walked through it because, of course, she was talking to me via the land line. We decided that we'll revisit the process this evening. That will probably be far more effective. She also had some questions about spam and anti-virus programs. I suggested that we proceed one baby step at a time, because it can all be overwhelming at first. We're going to conquer the payment issue first.
I'm not sure I had any more information to impart about the Information Supherhighway, but I speak of her relatively frequently and I thought you'd enjoy a more well-rounded picture of her and the role she plays in Crazy Lane.
We still haven't covered Useless One or the Question Lady at all. And there's more to say about Money Man, Lying Boy, Daddy's Girl, Rat Man and maybe Owner. Owner is iffy. He not only pays my salary, but has been friends with my husband and me for over 35 years. Not that he doesn't have quirks. But then don't we all. I may even have to cover some of my more negative (but entertaining) personality traits as they manifest themselves in the Crazy Land environment. I certainly bring some nuttiness to bear in my work life. Hell, let's cover it all.
Driving Me Crazy in Crazy Land
I'm feeling inexplicably better today. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that it's Friday and I get to go home early (to therapy), then I don't have to see any other Crazy Land denizens for a full two days. It's so easy to make me happy these days.
I had an impromptu meeting with my internal customer, Rat Man, for whom I'm creating the database. The design changes--that have nothing whatsoever to do with the actual functioning of the db--are driving me absolutely insane. Move this line down half an inch, the left margin is too wide. He is driving me fucking crazy. I'm always a lot more focused on function rather than form. At first, anyway. Just let me get the damn thing to work and we'll spend as long as you wish dicking around with how it looks. Jeez.
I've had several encounters with Money Man, but I've avoided any real conversation with him. We sometimes share the same air space, but that's about it. He hates me in a big way. I passed Lying Boy and his sister, Daddy's Girl*, coming down the stairs yesterday. It surprises me how quickly they rose up through the ranks of people I dislike. The family now fills the top three spots. These are definitely tough competitors; it's hard to capture all three in one fell swoop. As for their specific rankings, Money Man has to be first (only because he's the oldest, really), then Lying Boy, then Daddy's Girl.
No one has spoken to me about cats at all. Wise decision.
I'm going to write a separate post now regarding the Information Superhighway--who she is, why she's earned that name, etc. That way you won't have to plow through my usual excessively long posts. Isn't that just like me? Always thinking of your comfort. You're worth it.
* I told you I'd find a name for her.
Just in case someone would like to do a little political fact-checking
I don't generally do political posts for a number of reasons.
*Politics raises my blood pressure.
*I don't particularly like or trust any politicians.
*There are a lot of people who write about these things. They're a lot more qualified and a lot more interesting. It's good to know your limitations.
*On most issues, I don't really care what other people think. Unless they've done some mighty good research.
*People love to have feelings about these things. I hate feelings. See other posts for verification of that fact.
Nonetheless, I'm motivated to bring you this link because I believe none of them are telling the whole truth and (unfortunately) I've been reading other people's blogs, many of which are short on facts.
http://www.factcheck.org/" title="http://www.factcheck.org/" target="_blank"http://www.factcheck.org/
They don't care who the hell you vote for and they report on both parties. Surprise! Lots of spin and lying on all sides. You can even read the resumes of the people who fact-check for you. They've reported on both sides of the fence, so here again people, no partisanship. Obviously, some of us will be reluctant to believe that, but that's just how it goes, I guess.
Check it out. Just in case you'd like to know the facts.
Our Mission
We are a nonpartisan, nonprofit, "consumer advocate" for voters that aims to reduce the level of deception and confusion in U.S. politics. We monitor the factual accuracy of what is said by major U.S. political players in the form of TV ads, debates, speeches, interviews, and news releases. Our goal is to apply the best practices of both journalism and scholarship, and to increase public knowledge and understanding.
The Annenberg Political Fact Check is a project of the Annenberg Public Policy Center of the University of Pennsylvania. The APPC was established by publisher and philanthropist Walter Annenberg in 1994 to create a community of scholars within the University of Pennsylvania that would address public policy issues at the local, state, and federal levels.
The APPC accepts NO funding from business corporations, labor unions, political parties, lobbying organizations or individuals. It is funded primarily by the Annenberg Foundation.
Crying in Crazy Land
I'm having a bad day today, sitting in my office crying. Why? Well who the hell knows. I actually had to leave a minute ago and spend some time in the other building, sobbing. Then I walked around the block to make sure I wasn't carrying the Dreaded Fleas into the main building.
Today I guess I'm thinking of everything I've lost. It wasn't just a breast, it wasn't just a childhood, it wasn't even innocence. It wasn't any of those individual things. I'm not sure I can even enumerate them. And, after all, what would be the point of that? Sometimes hope seems so far away I have no idea of how I'll reach it, or if I ever will. Hope for what? If I knew, I'd be working hard to get it.
It's a bad day. That's all. One of the great things that breast cancer taught me is that it's just fine to cry. Furthermore, I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to. And I really, really want to. I'm a person who just gets up every day, hoping to learn whatever lessons the universe has to teach me, and I get on with things. Buck up. Get a grip. Move on.
I'm more composed now. Thanks for listening. I am now officially bucking up. I might even have a macadamia nut or two.
But I Want My Real Oncologist
The seriously bad thing is that I won't be seeing my oncologist anymore. Ever. Unless I have some recurrence of the breast cancer. I get to see an "Advanced Nurse Practitioner." She seems like a very nice person and probably knows her business. My other meetings with nurse practitioners is that they don't necessarily have the level of information that doctors have. I have had wrong information imparted from my plastic surgeon's nurse practitioner, among others. Furthermore, I do not go to M.D. Anderson to see a nurse practitioner. It's expensive, it's grueling and I could see a real oncologist here.
The Department of Oncology needed to cut the budget and it was either we all see nurse practitioners or people were going to be laid off. The standard procedure was that patients saw the nurse, then the oncologist. All of that is gone now. The woman I saw said the oncologists were taking credit for their work. Hmm...maybe the oncologists were merely taking credit for their own work.
Obviously, I'm extremely unhappy with this turn of events. I'll have to make a decision about what to do now. Damn it.
Back Story On The Kitty Catastrophe
My brain is a bit fried from showing up at work at 7:00 a.m. I know that's not so early in the grand scheme of things, but I am so not a morning person. It is a huge deal to my brain. I've been working on the relational database all morning, so my thought processes are in a completely different mode than verbal. Relational or something like that. Anyway, that's a brief explanation of why exactly I may not be my usual sardonic self. Apparently it takes some energy to be sardonic. I'm going to plow ahead anyway.
One more thing before I get started. Oncology surgeon visit coming up on June 21. I don't wish to go there again so soon, but you know I'm in love with Dr. Ross so it could definitely be worse.
I've been meaning to get around to the complete Kitty Catastrophe story because I was so happy about how it turned out that I didn't even feel like sharing the gory details. The fun stuff is always hidden in those details. (See "Big Trouble in Crazy Land http://ggirl.tblog.com/post/1...)
I'm guessing that, in the email Money Man sent to the Owner, regarding the source of the fleas on his beloved boy, he mentioned the high cost of flea and rat extermination. Money Man should have known better. Owner does not like to be told what to do. It's not like it isn't his company or anything. Money Man tends to forget that, at his own peril.
Owner merely referred to the Money Man email in our conversation. He did not share the actual contents. Nonetheless, the finger of blame was, of course, pointed at me. As I said before, Lying Boy entered my office and hordes of fleas immediately saw him as their big chance to take a taxi over to a new, tastier venue. I've decided to be bad-tempered and angry about the accusation. As a matter of fact, the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get.
Money Man and family were in Hawaii last week. Of course, even if they weren't, none of them would be brave enough to come to the Flea and Rat Taxi Stand (my office) to say something directly to me. They're mean spirited and untrustworthy in personal relationships, but they're not that foolhardy. Nor that mature.
I was in the Information Superhighway's office when Money Man showed up on Monday. Being highly intuitive, I could see the flicker of rage behind the mask. Money Man is supremely pissed off at me. Why wouldn't he be? It's all my fault, you know.
He came bearing gifts for the office. Superhighway got a couple of cans of Macadamia nuts for her personal consumption. Well, I was sitting right there. What could he do? There was a moment or two of silence and then he knew there was no alternative to offering me one. You could see how much he really didn't wish to do it, but to not offer was a clear sign of his true feelings. God forbid. Did I take one? Absolutely. It could only piss him off more, right? Excellent.
I haven't seen Lying Boy at the office since their return. Frankly, I was a little surprised about that turn of events. It temporarily delays the necessity of deciding how to deal with him. Daughter is here, so I've got my hands full trying to find the proper tone with her. I'm thinking distant, but superficially friendly.
This whole episode is the biggest reason why I've decided to get my sorry ass up and to the office at 7:00. Less time to see any of them. I'm tired of dealing with Money Man, jollying him up and indulging his narcissism. My ass is in my chair, developing the database for 8 straight hours a day. No lunch period. The only pay-off for me in this is being home at 3:00. This week is a trial run, though. If I can't do the schedule, I won't. I am, after all, not a wuss. He is.
I hesitate to say I won (once again). I think all of this transcends me. It's part of a larger battle between Money Man and Owner. I did get what I wanted, though. Good triumphs over evil once again. I'm giving you that sardonic smile again. I bet you can see it all the way from there.Weekend Update
I'm taking a tiny break from the database project. Unfortunately, my internal client is picky, picky about turning things into pdf format. I know nothing about Acrobat. Big learning curve here and I'm not sure I'm going to learn easily. Wish me luck.
Hubby had an emergency stress test on Friday. It irritated the hell out of me because I knew from the symptoms that he was fine. Yes, right again. Tingling toes? I'm not familiar with that being a sign of an imminent heart attack. Poor circulation, maybe. I am so cutting to the chase here.
We had a huge storm last night. It left this morning very green and cool for the Southwest at this time of year.
I watched the Democratic debates last night. It was yet another opportunity for me to talk back to the television. I do that all the time. In answer to any questions related to what we can look for in terms of federal assistance (like universal health care of one type or another), I have one thing to say: Iraq.
I won't go on about how irritating I find political posturing to be. Maybe they believe the shit they were dishing out, but it was primarily crap. I was impressed that they all felt okay to weigh in on the questions of "no ask, no tell" policy and the "English as the official language" questions. See? I can, too, be reasonable.
Holiday Inn
I've been busy with several unpleasant activities since my return. I may not be able to address all of them in one post.
First unpleasant item: Holiday Inn.
I've been staying, for about a year now, at the same Holiday Inn near M.D. Anderson when I go for treatment. Prior to that, I stayed at hotels, like the Crowne Plaza, owned by the Holiday Inn chain. Everything has always been acceptable.
First Problem. During an overnight visit in April for my plastic surgery follow-up, there was no hot water. I only stayed one day and I know that sometimes things happen. I was very gracious about it.
Second Problem. During my last stay, no hot water. Again. We called the front desk, they sent a maintenance person to our room just to make sure that we weren't moronic enough to not be able to accurately determine whether we had hot water. Sure enough, maintenance guy sees we're not idiots and says we'll have hot water in the morning. Yes, we believed.
The next morning, when I had a lab appointment at 8:45, we arose at 6:00 a.m. to find we had no hot water. We decided to go downstairs, get something to eat and speak to the front desk people. I was a little testy.
I told the front desk person that this was the second time I'd stayed without benefit of hot water and I didn't think we should pay this time. She said not a word and walked into the office (I suppose) to the side of the desk. A manager appeared. I explained once again and suggested that a fair way to resolve the situation would be for them to comp the room. He told us to wait a minute and he'd be right back. I pointed out that I had a medical appointment I couldn't miss.
He disappeared behind another door, was gone for about five minutes and returned to tell us that we did, indeed, have hot water. We just were too stupid to use it. Of course he wasn't quite that blunt. He said we "must have done something wrong." He'd be willing, though (since we'd done something wrong) to cut the bill in half. I was amenable simply because I couldn't waste any more time arguing. I could have come back after my late afternoon oncology appointment to argue with him some more, but that would have meant I'd have to stay another night. Probably with no hot water. You know, we're too stupid to figure out how to turn it on, so I for damn sure wasn't going to stay another night in a hotel room that complex.
I made a note to never stay in that hotel again.
Third problem. When we checked into the complex water facility hotel, the first credit card we offered up was declined. That was odd. They ran it again. Still declined. Very, very puzzling. They requested that we provide them with another credit card and we did. It was accepted.
Yesterday, in checking on why exactly the original card had been declined, we found out that, in fact, it had not been declined. It had been charged $260.00 for what was (after the discount) a $70 room. Having found that minor miscalculation, we decided we'd better check the card that had been accepted. That card had a charge of $235. I guess they were a little irritable about the complaint.
I was enraged. I called the Holiday Inn, I contacted Holiday Inn Corporate Headquarters. They refused to address the charges on the second card because, according to Holiday Inn's records, they had only charged us $70. I had visions of purchasing a rapid fire assault weapon and taking a little drive back to Houston.
The upshot is that, after spending almost a full day dealing with it, I believe I've gotten the charges corrected. However, I will never ever stay in another Holiday Inn. I'm vengeful and I work in a customer service industry. Not once did I hear an apology. Not once did I hear someone say they'd try to clear it up immediately.
No more Holiday Inn.
In the meantime, though, Go LeBron!
