Letters to the Universe

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I just spent an hour on the phone with my health insurance provider, straightening out my complex maze of doctor bills.  For many years, I've tried to do at least one good deed every day.  I recently upped that ante to 3.  My second good deed of the day was to be patient and cordial with the insurance guy who helped me get it all cleared up.  He was obviously surprised when I thanked him and wished him a good day, even though we came up with another $900 in bills I have to pay.  I'm certain he talks with a lot of angry people every day and I hope our conversation makes his day a little better.  My previous good deed today was traffic-related.  One more to go.

I happened to see Elizabeth Edwards on television over the weekend and was once again impressed with her positive energy and commitment to getting on with life, even though she battles Stage 4 breast cancer.  "She's my hero," I thought.  Lance Armstrong is also my hero.  Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I had absolutely no heroes.  Now I do.  I have three.

I discovered that I am my own hero.

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Thanks, everyone, for checking in on me while I tried to wrap up the end of year OSHA reports and deal with my hurt employees. I haven't had time to be online much at all. All of our clients want their information in a slightly different form.  Small differences eat up a lot of time when I'm dependent on co-workers for some of the numbers.

I have a check-up appointment with my psychiatrist this morning.  She offices on the other side of town.  The traffic takes such a toll on me that by the time I get there, I need at least an extra tranquilizer or two. 

I know we'll talk about my weight and the amount of time I've been sleeping, but I don't think those are symptoms of depression.  I think I sleep a lot because of the ordeal of breast cancer treatment.  Fatigue can last a long time.  I don't know about the weight thing.  I eat.  I don't work out excessively. 

I have to leave now to have any hope of arriving on time.  Psychiatrist gets very testy with me when I'm late. 

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I may not be officially back, but I'm back for right now. There are so many things to catch up on.

Last night, Hubby started his new seasonal job with the IRS. He's working 6:00 p.m. to 2:30 a.m. He called me around 10:00 last night to tell me that the job (data transcription) is hard. Here's a man who's got a degree from an excellent university, who's written 3 books and edited another, written articles and manuals, types 90 words per minute, but he can not do IRS data transcription. I assured him that it will become easier over time. God forbid that something should have a learning curve.

I talked with Stepson a couple of nights ago. He's afflicted with the same "can't do" attitude as his dad. Ever since he first started working, he's quit job after job because they were too hard. They both make me want to get a tattoo on my forehead that reads, "If it's fun, you pay them. You do not get paid to have fun." I'm not sure my head's big enough to fit that on it, though. I know. I'll use my neck like that guy on Project Runway. I could probably fit in lots of edifying slogans if I used my forehead and my neck.

When Stepson called the other night, I told him I was watching Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel. I love Anthony because he goes places tourists never go...and eats things I would never, ever, ever eat. In the meantime, he drinks like a fish and smokes a lot. I'm amazed he's lived this long--high fat food, alcohol and nicotine should have killed him long ago. When I told Stepson about Anthony's zest for alcohol, it was the single most interesting thing I've said to him in probably twenty years. He turned his television on and started excitedly searching for the program. Great.

Hubby had told me that on Monday Stepson had worked a 17 hour day. Of course, I immediately started wondering once again why Stepson won't take out a student loan and learn about whatever it is that he wants to do. It's some medical technology thing. He doesn't talk about it enough for me to remember. That's saying something. I pay close attention to what people say to me, especially when it's my stepson. When I commented about the long day, he told me they didn't do much; there was a lot of standing around. However, he wanted to try to force this company to pay him more than the agreed-upon wage until his friend talked him out of it.

Let's see. We have a 39 year old high school graduate who hasn't had a long-term (more than two weeks) job in about a decade and is now doing manual labor for a living. He has no special skills whatsoever. None. Attitude, yes, in abundance. Skills, no. Somehow I don't think that places him in a favorable position for negotiation. If I were his supervisor, I'd tell him to go find somebody who'll pay him that much and hire a young person to take his place. No, I didn't say that to him. Maybe I should have. He's 39, though. Now you see why I need all the tattoo space. It would be like a silent reminder.

I spent about an hour with Owner this morning, listening to him complain about his life. Even he knows how absurd and, frankly, insulting that is to me. He's wasted his life. He has medical issues he hasn't addressed...a lump on one of his feet, his cholesterol hasn't been checked, he hasn't had a colonoscopy. I told him to make an appointment with a doctor. Owner doesn't like being fat and weak. I told him to get up and start moving. Life has beaten Owner down. There's only so much of that I can take.

Here again, this is where the tattoo would be useful. I might need to take a little bit of neck space for one that says, "You have a privileged life. Get over yourself." I could just incline my head a little bit so that he could see it and roll my eyes suggestively to that area. I wouldn't ever have to say anything.

There's plenty more to say, but I have to get back to my really hard job and my wasted life that's beaten me down so much I can't manage to get my cholesterol checked.

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Having some suicidal ideation today.  Very unusual.  I haven't had that happen in years.  Trying to survive breast cancer doesn't allow time for thoughts of intentionally dying.  Friends please note:  I will not check out.  Thinking does not equal doing.

Still all quiet on the home front.  I pointed out that Hubby lacks initiative.  I won't apologize for saying it and I won't retract it.  He sees the world from his own limited point of view and believes that failing to seek employment every day, not doing any housework, not doing any yard work, not doing laundry, not cooking does not constitute lack of initiative.  Hence, he feels quite justified in the silent treatment.  He clearly doesn't remember who he's married to.

I'm still drowning in paperwork.  It turns out that the client for whom much of the paperwork is being done may be going belly up.  Crazy Land employment would then be in jeopardy.

Hmmm....can't imagine why I'm down.

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In Crazy Land, there is a mandatory 48 hour waiting period whenever you need information from Mr. Moneybags.  Sometimes the waiting period is longer, but it's never shorter.  I have two tasks to complete which require data from him.  So I'm waiting. 

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I was told not to wear jewelry, but I didn't think that meant rings because I don't need any nipples on my fingers. Brenda, the nurse, made me take off my rings and jeans, then attached a pad to my back to ground me. I wasn't sure I heard her correctly, so I asked her again why I needed the pad. I still have no idea why I had to be grounded, but removing all metal from my body prevented me from being burned in those places.

Jennifer, his PA, came in and asked me if they'd given me any nipples to try. I know. Go ahead and laugh. She handed me a plastic nipple and told me to put it where I wanted the new one located. Well heck, I didn't know. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to find the right place. I turned around and asked everyone (Brenda, Jennifer and one of Dr. Kronowitz's fellows) what they thought. They reached a consensus opinion and helped me to move it to a better site. When Dr. Kronowitz came in, he didn't think much of the placement and moved it to where he thought it should be. Couldn't we have just waited for him?

The room had a chair much like a dentist's chair, but much more comfy. After they reclined the chair, Brenda put a cool, damp cloth over my eyes and turned on some "new age" music. It was all very calming. Then Dr. K. went to work. He double checked to make sure I couldn't feel anything.

He was in high spirits and we all had a fabulous time. He made me laugh almost the entire hour and a half that it took to create the new nipple. There were a couple of places that hurt, but Dr. Kronowitz gave me some local anesthesia immediately. The fact that it hurt is great news. That means the nerves are forming new connections. Someday I may actually have sensation in the new girl.

It's a little like breast origami; Dr. Kronowitz cut some of the existing skin and twisted and turned it until it looked like a nipple. They asked me, after he left to report to my mom, if I wanted to see it. Of course I did. They asked if I was sure. I have to say it wasn't pretty.

Jennifer put a piece of foam over the new nipple. It's 2 inches in diameter and about 1.5 inches tall, with a hole cut in the middle like a donut. That will prevent the new nipple from being compressed and potentially dying.

I'll wear my dressings for the next two weeks, then in 3 months, I'll go back for the tattoo. Maybe no more nerves will have reconnected by then. Three months after that, I'll have my final surgery. The end is in sight.

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I broke down and bought some new (on sale) pants for work this weekend. It's official. I'm now down to a size 2. I see women on t.v. diet commercials, enthused about reaching that size. I'm not thrilled.

Even I can see how tiny I am now. All of my doctors have commented, as did my physical therapist. I only note that my jeans are baggy and all of my old clothes (sizes 6 and 8) hang off of me.

My mom thinks I'm not eating enough. She's started bringing food over and checking my menu items. I'm eating enough. As a matter of fact, I just consumed 3 Shrimp en Brochette, fries and a very large piece of cheesecake.

As you can see, I'm working on it.

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Why did I not see this coming? Today is Monday. Guess who isn't here. Crazy Employee. Guess why she isn't here. That's right, the puppy.

Crazy's old dog (a Lab) and the new puppy "hate each other." She has to figure out a way to keep them "permanently separated" before she can come to work. I guess that means we'll see her sometime in May.

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(From Friday, February 1)

One of our office neighbors is a woman named Lillian. Lillian does not understand the concept of birth control. She's had several children in the past ten years. All were immediately rescued by Child Protective Services. She's also , by one means or another, come into possession of three or four litters of puppies. Lillian is no more capable of taking care of little dogs than she is of little humans. I've personally rescued (sometimes with Owner's help) three litters. Around nine weeks ago, the latest litter showed up.

They're rowdy puppies and they all weigh around twenty pounds. I listened to them while they played or cried for mom and, every once in a while, I'd stand up and look out my window to watch. I tried not to get emotionally involved while I waited for the inevitable moment when they'd crawl under our privacy fence in search of food. A couple of weeks ago, I heard one crying. I was annoyed that Lillian wasn't checking on the puppy; it was a cold, rainy day. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I looked out my window but couldn't see anything. Then I crawled up on my desk and, when I looked down, there was a chubby little dog caught under the privacy fence. She was too fat to get under.

She and another of her litter mates managed to crawl into our patio area. I grabbed them and Owner called the vet. I delivered them to the vet where they had some food and water, then lay down to take a nap. Unfortunately, not all of the dogs made it over; there was one left. I knew how lonely it must be without her sisters, but my attempts to entice her to my side of the fence were failures.

Crazy Employee wanted one of the rescued puppies. Kind of. She vacillates about everything, including the dogs. She made an appointment to pick up one of them last Saturday, but she didn't show up. These puppies are incredibly cute. They didn't make it past Monday. Loving humans saw them at the vet's office and took them home. Crazy Employee was out of luck and a little miffed.

Yesterday, my first day back from Houston, Crazy came to my office the minute she arrived. She complained about not getting the puppy and noted, at length, how abused she felt.

"Let's go get the other puppy," I said.

"It's too scary," she said.

People at my office believe Lillian is a crack dealer or a prostitute or both. They're ridiculously nervous about interacting with her. I rolled my eyes. Crazy said she'd get some cash at lunch and we'd attempt a buy when she got back.

While Crazy was still at lunch, Mr. Moneybags' daughter banged on my door and yelled that the remaining puppy and mom were out in our parking lot. Moneybags told her to let me know. I didn't pause to put on a coat. I raced down the stair and out the door. I saw the puppy headed towards Lillian's house. I kept running. Just as I got to her driveway, the puppy sat down on the porch in front of the door. I was almost certain I'd be able to grab the little wiggly thing.

Just at that moment, though, a red PT Cruiser backed into the driveway. It was Lillian. We have no idea where the car came from; she's never had one and we didn't even know she could drive. There was nothing to do but face the music.

"Hi Lillian!" I smiled. I waved and smiled some more. "I saw the puppy out in the street and I was afraid it was going to get run over so I was trying to make sure it got back in the fence." I smiled some more.

She got out of the car and I walked over, hoping to be disarming.

"You know, I'm so glad you're here. I have a co-worker whose daughter just had a birthday and we saw how cute your puppies are and she was hoping maybe you'd sell one of them to her." Yes, I was talking fast, barely taking a breath.

"Aren't you the person who climbed over my fence?" Sometime before breast cancer, I'd noticed that the adult male dog was tied up and unable to get to water, so I climbed over the fence and, just as I got the dog untangled, Lillian came out the back door.

"Only once," I said apologetically. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

She told me it was okay and we resumed negotiations. She wanted to know how much money my coworker would be prepared to offer.

"I don't know. She's at lunch right now, but if you're going to be here for a little while, I'll bring her over when she gets back."

"Have her call me." She gave me her phone number and I went back to the office.

As I was recounting my adventure to my mom on the phone, Crazy Employee arrived. I got off the phone and caught Crazy up on what happened and suggested she give Lillian a call. Crazy was scared.

"Oh Jesus. Come on, Crazy. What's she going to do? Say no? Just call her." It's at moments like this that I start to wonder if maybe I'm being a little pushy. Crazy was too ashamed not to call. No one answered. The entire office was involved in this escapade by now. The Information Superhighway suggested we go back over there. Everyone else agreed. I allowed public opinion to influence me and we went back over. Of course, Crazy didn't want to go, but there was no way I was going to do all the heavy lifting (in a manner of speaking) alone.

I told Crazy I thought she should start the negotiations low and work our way up to $20, which was her limit. She had ten ones and a twenty, so I told her to give me the $20. I put it in my back pocket. No need to let Lillian know we had thirty dollars. I figured that, if need be, I could offer up my part of the cash as a "loan."

We walked over and I knocked on the door. I waited. Meanwhile, Crazy Employee wandered around the side of the house to where I had previously scaled the fence several years ago. I didn't see any puppy, but I didn't want Crazy over there.

"Don't you dare get that puppy, Crazy. Get away from the fence. We can't take the puppy after I've had this conversation with Lillian...."

"May I help you?"

I turned around to see a pale, emaciated white woman in a jogging suit. She had sores on her face. Meth Head. Great. Caught in another difficult situation. Crazy stood there, speechless.

"Oh hi! I was just talking to Lillian about maybe buying one of her puppies. Crazy here has a daughter and I was going to show them to her." I smiled and tried to look nonthreatening. Meth Head told me Lillian had gone to the store and would be right back. I thanked her and we walked back to the office.

As we walked in the door, Superhighway told me the PT Cruiser was back. Lillian was home, so we headed back over. Once again, I knocked on the door. This time, a man looking suspiciously like a pimp answered the door.

"Oh hi! I was just talking to Lillian about her puppies...." I smiled a big, stupid middle aged white woman smile. I wondered whether I might have to play the breast cancer card. This guy actually did look a little scary. He turned and went back inside. Crazy and I looked at each other. Then, the door opened and he started to come back out, but instead, he turned around and shut the door again. Another couple of seconds passed, then Lillian and Pimp came back out with the dog.

"Hi Lillian. This is Crazy, the lady I work with that I was telling you about."

Lillian held the puppy and told us she had named her Pitiful because she cries so much. She went on a bit about how much she loves Pitiful. I told her that she didn't have to worry; Pitiful would be going to a home where she would be loved and she'd have kids to play with....

"Do you think I don't love my dogs?" Uh oh. I backpedalled furiously.

"Oh no! Of course I know you love your dogs! I just meant..." I'd lost her. She got back to negotiations. Crazy asked her how much she might want and Lillian countered by asking how much she was prepared to offer.

"Ten dollars?"

"Ten dollars?! No. That dog chewed up my going to church shoes last week and those cost me $23. If I could get my $23, I'd be willing to let go of her." Lillian abruptly turned around and walked inside the house, leaving Crazy holding the dog and me trying to think of some friendly banter to make with Pimp. She came back a minute later, holding up some shoes.

"Oh no! Bad puppy," I said. "You know, I think I have some extra money." I felt around in my jeans pockets and came up with the $20. Finally, Crazy did the right thing.

"Are you sure you don't mind," she asked. I assured her it would be my pleasure. Money and puppy changed hands. I thanked Lillian several times and, just for good measure, thanked Pimp, too.

Crazy and I took the dog to the office where everyone immediately fell in love. I needed to leave soon because I was exhausted, but I had some trouble getting Crazy into her van and on the road to the vet's office. Puppy needed de-worming, flea treatment, vaccinations. Finally I got her into the van and we delivered the dog. Crazy's picking her up at 4:00 today.

I am so tired. And I haven't even told you about the nipple. I guess that will have to wait until Monday.

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