Sometimes Write

The End

2012-01-23T14:15:00.000-08:00

Well, folks...I've enjoyed writing this blog for the last three and a half years. I've used it to hold discussions about technology, philosophy, politics...but have mostly relied on it to vent my personal woes, and hope that there would be some kind of feedback on what's troubling me.

But yesterday brought about various conversations, and it turns out that freedom of speech can be threatened by those close to you. The idea that I might say something hurtful to those not meant to even know this blog exists will, apparently, be cause for me to experience a world of emotional pain in the future.

I made apologies. I also made promises. And for me, a promise made is a promise kept. That almost no one reads this blog anymore is of no matter. I can't speak my mind for fear of slipping, as that would bring me more trouble than this it's worth.

I gave this quite a bit of thought since I made my calls yesterday. The result was a full-blown reaction from my depression. I slept for many, many hours today, refusing to get out of bed for fear that I might have to think further. This blog has been a rather important journal, in that I can get feedback from those whom I know around the world. You see, many think I'm a wise man. But I thoroughly believe in the philosophy of Socrates, "the Wisdom of Ignorance."

Socrates heard about many a wise man, and would seek these men out and debate them. He would eventually tear their supposed wisdom apart, destroying whatever argument they might have. Eventually, Socrates came away with this though: The only thing that makes me a wise man is that I don't honestly believe I'm all that wise. Since the wisest of us seek wisdom from others, that's what I've tried to use this blog for...with moderate success, I might add.

I've also used this blog to vent my frustrations, and crow to the world about the love I've found.

Those days are over. If I keep this blog, I might slip. If I slip, then "the traitor amongst my readers," (not actually listed amongst my readers, for cowards don't actually like to be known well), might well go running to others, and then I get punished for having spoken my mind.

On a bigger issue, this means that writing The Suicide Note: Memoirs of an Insulin Dependent Diabetic is postponed indefinitely. I can't risk permanent damage to my future because one "man" refuses to grow up and face reality.

So this is it. The end. No more blogging. I'm sorry if this upsets anyone. I assure you that you're not nearly as upset as I am. For those who wish to discuss this further, I suggest you contact me on Facebook, where I know people not under my friends list cannot read my wall, write to me, or complain like overgrown infants (with poor spelling and grammar, too boot). I will not take this down, as there are bits and pieces of my adventures in the world that might be of help to someone out there. That said, with an explanation in place...

BE WELL AND DFTBA!

+Rob

It's been some time...and stuff

2012-01-22T04:51:00.000-08:00

From time to time, when talking to my friend Julie, she would mention that she and the kids have a stomach bug, and I would think, It's been ages since I've had anything of the sort. Oh, I've had me some exciting bowel issues, like the fact that all of my medications are binding. Then there was that parasite I picked up some time ago when I made the mistake of eating airport food on the way to my Dad's in FL. This past week, however, I came down with...something...and I still have no idea what it was.

It took hold of me late morning, after I'd had myself a couple of cups of coffee. My stomach, located closer toward mid-torso, and not lower, where the bowels are. (Many a time have stomach issues been confused between the two.) It was an ongoing ache, neither sharp nor dull, hurting all the time. I immediately when into "stomach virus mode," restricting myself to unsalted crackers and diet ginger ale. Alas, even this simple diet was causing my pain to increase, and so I was ingesting incredibly sparingly.

And I waited. I waited for some other symptom to strike. Vomiting. Or an unexpected run to the bathroom to "vomit out the other end." But there was nothing. It was just my stomach, and I was surprised at how much it hurt. It was the kind of pain that would wake me up, keep me up, and allow me to sleep only when exhaustion hit. It also made me quite the grump, with me occasionally unloading my misery on my beloved Becky. (Sorry, my love!) There was even talk of taking me to the hospital if the pain persisted.

Thankfully, it didn't. I got a little better each day, with the pain receding just a bit more as the time passed. I suffered completely on the 18th. On the 19th, I didn't suffer as much, but was still in just enough pain to remain miserable. I thought I was over it by the 20th, but played it safe most of the day, sticking to my restricted diet until late that night, when increasing hunger made me crave something else. While I took that as a good sign, my stomach wasn't 100% happy with anything else. So it was that I was still taking it fairly easy on foodstuffs on the 21st; I tried having my morning coffee, but digestive complaints made me go back to being cautious until dinner rolled around. (Becky tried her hand at a kind of "stir fried" ("stir boiled?") food, and I didn't want to pass up the chance to eat something more substantial.) Then it was back to crackers and ginger ale for most of the evening.

In the end, I still have no idea of what it was. I know the pain was bad enough for me to prepare in my head the answer to what a hospital staff would ask. "On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the worst pain imaginable, where's your pain?" I was at an 8 on that first day. I was down to a six on the second. By day three, I vacillated between 1 and 2. On day four, I was still getting hints at a one, but nothing major. And there was still no other symptoms; just pain.

I can't even remember the last time I had such a thing. Diabetic ketoacidosis doesn't really cause stomach pain, despite all the vomiting. If my stomach hurts, it tends to be from pulling muscles as I heave uncontrollably. And when I had that lovely parasite, it was my bowels that cried out in discomfort, and even that wasn't that bad...just uncomfortable. Becky feared it was an ulcer, but such pain, according to a quick search online, isn't as persistent, lasting three hours or less. We also tried to make a joke that it was cancer, because, as we all know, when you research a pain on the internet, it can always lead to a self-diagnosis of cancer.

So now I'm on the lookout for a repeat experience. If it happens again relatively soon, (with "soon" being within the next six months), I'll have Becky cart me off to the hospital to have myself checked out. This morning, however, the morning coffee is going down without a single twitch from my gut. All I am is tired, and that's a symtpom of a different color.

* * *

And now some news of our new idiot. I mean, our new neighbor.

We're in an apartment at the back of a house that's been renovated into a number of apartments. We're actually lucky, as some of these places are about as big as a sardine can. The apartment directly opposite us, in the front, has had some real idiots lately. Last year, it was a guy named Matt, who couldn't care less about those who lived around him. He blasted his music whenever he pleased. There was also a point where he was either watching porn or was getting lucky with a VERY loud girl. Whatever it was, we heard Matt's activities entirely too much through the walls. And these walls aren't all that thin. Not that thick, but not so thin as to hear everything a person is doing next door or above us.

Thankfully, Matt is gone. He moved out at the end of December, probably back to mommy and daddy, who were responsible for his bills. (We knew this from all the phone calls made to the landlord.)

He was replaced about a week and a half to two weeks ago by Katie, an older woman who seemed nice enough. I mean, she came by to use Becky's phone while she waited for a land line to be set up. (Like I several years ago, she doesn't believe in cell phones.) She informed us that the landlord had told her all about Matt, and she passed herself off as someone completely unlike him. She also told us then that she rarely has guests, is essentially quiet, and tends to listen to jazz peacefully in her home. She also added that if we have any problems, just come by and tell her.

And we bought it.

Early last week, she had an incredible blowout with...someone. It must have been a "male friend," as Becky pressed her ear against the wall to find out what the hell all the screaming was about. Eventually, I could hear the screaming quite clearly without needing an ear to the wall. In addition to this nonsense, they were shaking the entire house with some kind of violent activity. The was no "knock on the door and tell them to keep it down" kind of situation. No...we called the cops.

End of drama...or so we hoped.

Last night, starting at somewhere between 9:00 PM and 10:00 PM, the raised voices started again. This time, they lacked the house-shaking violence. It was after midnight when Becky and I looked at one another and said, "Enough is enough." We traipsed out into the snow, (we've had a few inches fall), and got an earful of country music as we passed her windows. (So much for peacefully listening to jazz, eh?) I pounded on her door, and when she answered, I said loudly, "If you don't keep it down in here, my next calls are to the cops and the landlords!"

"What am I doing?" she asked stupidly.

"The blasting music and your voices through the wall...?" I replied incredulously.

"That's not blasting," she tried to say.

"The cops and the landlord," I repeated. "Another peep and I make those calls."

There was blessed silence after that...for the most part. Becky and I think she might be a bit of a drinker, and it's obvious that she's a flake from some of what she's said.

The thing is, I have zero tolerance for liars. I used to be quite the "tale-teller" in the past, and I now understand why people would occasionally be so ticked off at me. Over the years, I've developed a "one strike and you're out" kind of attitude. Katie has had her one strike. She advertised herself as one kind of person, and it turns out she's another. I thought we had a human being for a neighbor, and not some spoiled college brat who thinks he/she owns the world. Instead, I'm praying she earns a Darwin Award.

Is that bad of me? >=)

* * *

In much, much lighter news, I am thoroughly enjoying my "pity present." Becky bought me "Skyrim" at my behest, along with the game guide. I delved into the game before the guide arrived, and was absolutely astounded at the amount of detail that went into the monstrous game. I'm also something of a "bad player," because once I learn there are cheats to be enabled in a game, I tend to enable them. But I didn't go insane. I mean, I didn't activate "god mode," but I DID pay a visit to the secret room where all of the items in the game are hidden. I grabbed some of the best armor I could find, as well as quite a bit of items I could use to increase my various skills...

...and then the guide arrived in the mail. (All stores we visited were sold out.) The book is well over 600 pages long! SIX HUNDRED PAGES LONG! Dear G-d, but that's A LOT of game content. I was going to keep going, rushing back to cover a few things that I missed, but...

Well, my computer has been having issues since a new graphics card was put in. Every now and again, in the middle of one game or another, my computer freezes for a split-second, and then I get the BSOD. It happens to fast for me to read everything it's saying, but I did see something about a "data dump." This happened right after I saved a game, and somehow the save file became corrupted. Because none of my older saves were kept, I ended up starting from scratch.

Which, as it turns out, isn't all that bad. I now have a better idea of what I'm doing, thanks to the guide, and so I was able to get myself back to level 11 within a day. (With cheats and two days of playing, I'd gotten to level 16 before.) I still have the best armor, as well as some rather nasty weapons, but that hasn't stopped me from being close to death on occasion. (I'm not a video game player like Cody, who can master just about any game he comes across. (Hmmm...I wonder if he's mastered "QWOP"?)

* * *

And that's the update for the week. I've been distracted from anything pertaining to my mother's death. Good or bad, I'm glad to not be dwelling on such a miserable past.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Can we PLEASE give the man an award?

2012-01-15T11:28:00.000-08:00

There's a severe problem with Andy Serkis. The man is a phenomenal character actor. Unfortunately, you never see him so much as you do the digital makeup that's applied to him after his amazing performances.

I believe it started for him in the Lord of the Rings trilogy...the last two films, that is. Andy was hired because he interpreted Gollum's voice as that being similar to that of a cat coughing up a hairball. So his ability to talk like he needs to perpetually clear his throat is what landed him the job. Go go "Gollum Juice!")But then those around him saw how much he was putting into the voice recordings for the role, and Peter Jackson became determined to find a way to seize those performances to get them on film. It was the true birth of "motion capture," with emphasis placed on virtually grabbing the man's face and translating it into a digital representation on film.

His presence on location was essential for other actors. They no longer had to find ways of giving a performance against a tennis ball or a cardboard mockup of a digitally rendered character. As James Franco said, it gave him something that he didn't act with, but SOMEONE TO REACT TO! Especially the eyes. Andy and his thoroughly emotive eyes gave other actors something to which they could respond. It made the job of creating the "human performances" that much easier.

But The Two Towers and Return of the King were just the beginning for Andy. Peter Jackson then employed the athletic Mr. Serkis in the title role for King Kong. Say what you want about the remake, Andy gave TWO performances in that movie that I felt were enjoyable. There was, of course, the very pretty effects of the big beastie...and there was also the amusing role of the cook, Lumpy, who experienced what I felt was the worst of all deaths in the movie. (Who puts teeth on giant slugs, anyway?!?)

Now, to be perfectly honest, I haven't seen much of Andy anywhere else. I mean, I saw 13 Going on 30 at some point, but didn't really enjoy the movie all that much. Andy is the kind of actor who needs heavily emotional and physical roles to stand out...but once he has such a role, he does...and then some digital artist paints over him. That's a shame, because he really does kick some major butt in the acting department. (Look at some of the behind the scenes work for Lord of the Rings and you'll get to see Andy leap around like an animal, wail like a baby not being fed, and...ummm...drool. (Yes, he drools during some of his performances.))

Along comes Rise of the Planet of the Apes, in which Andy Serkis takes on the role of Caesar. I honestly doubt he had to leap around the house as the chimp does while living with the character of Dr. Will Rodman, (James Franco). But there were plenty of scenes in which Andy was, indeed, present. Like this one. (Linked for the video, not so much the article...although that's nice, too.) Watch it. The whole thing. You can see how Andy's performance was translated into what eventually appeared on screen.

He could have approached the entire job in another way. He could have gone in with the thought, It doesn't matter what I do with my face because someone artist at a computer is going to do whatever he or she wants with my expressions. So I'll just go through the motions, and let others do what they will do. No...Andy truly invests himself in the role, submersing himself in it. You can see the pain of abandonment in his eyes. And for his opposing talents, James Franco and Freida Pinto, it made a world of difference. Being left behind...his emotive eyes...made it easier for them to be caught in the moment and also experience the pain of leaving Caesar behind. (Really, if you haven't seen the movie, you should. It was MUCH better than the other "Apes" remake.)

Now, I'm not in control of anything pertaining to the Golden Globes or the Academy Awards, and I doubt Andy Serkis or James Franco will see this plea and thank me for joining their voices in this argument, (specifically the latter actor, as Andy made no such plea, but would certainly appreciate the acknowledgement). But if Andy isn't granted so much as a nomination in the field, he should be given a special award to which only he fits. "Best Performance Under a Heap of 'Digital Makeup'" or "Actor to Take His Role Most Seriously." Something! Anything! Give the man some recognition, other than a paycheck and a pat on the back. (And if they DO see this post, I hope they'll be willing to help me at least get some dental work done.)

We've entered a new age in cinema, in which outstanding computer effects make films from days of old look amateurish. Bring in the makers of the 1981 version of Clash of the Titans and they'd probably want to know what deals with the devil were made to gain such realistic looks on fantastic monsters. (I've always wondered how someone from the 1800s would react if they saw some of the films made today. "And where do these 'Transformers' live, for I would very much like to meet one of them?") Not only to we have some of the most astounding effects in our movies, but some of them throw these effects at us in 3D. Some films, most regrettably, rely on their effects to carry the film. ("Why have a plot when the audience is sure to be in awe of the pretty effects?") Rise of the Planet of the Apes isn't like that. It not only has the amazing visuals, but also some great acting. (Ummm...To Mr. Tom Felton: stop taking villainous roles; you're going to end up typecast for the rest of your career! I was waiting for you the whole time to pull out a wand and shout, "Excrucio!") It told a genuine story, and covered its details nicely, even subtly in some cases. (Did anyone see how mankind was about to become an endangered species?)

And while there seems to be a campaign for Andy Serkis to land a "Best Supporting Actor" award, I would argue that he should be in the "Lead Actor" category, as the story was mostly HIS story.

Ah, but who am I kidding? Fantasy and science fiction rarely meet the standards of the Academy or the Hollywood Foreign Press Association. That Lord of the Rings was nominated so many times, and eventually won, was a miracle unto itself. It's really a shame, because Andy is oh so deserving of some solidified acknowledgement of his outstanding work.

*raises can of diet root beer* Here's to you, Mr. Serkis. May your work be truly recognized...eventually.

I had to accomplish SOMETHING!

2012-01-12T11:27:00.000-08:00

This useless feeling? This "being stuck in the past?" Yeah, I had to do something to overcome it. And so I chose to work on gaining every achievement in a video game...and busted my butt to do so.

The game is "Darksiders," AKA "Darksiders: The Wrath of War." I think I may have mentioned it before. It's one of those post-apocalyptic tales, but this one is based somewhat on the Bible and Biblical characters. Here there be spoilers, so go look at pictures of kittens, (I'm sure you can find a FEW out there), or something if you ever plan on playing this, what I consider, amazing game. (That means you, my beloved, unless you want everything spoiled for you. =P )

Heaven and Hell have been embattled for eons. A group known as the Charred Council had been maintaining the balance, using their enforcers, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, to keep things even. Then the race of man appeared, and the Charred Council claimed that "this fragile but cunning race" would play an important role in the End War. Thus, a peace was brokered, with Seven Seals created to represent that peace. At the appointed time, the seals would be broken, and the End War would commence, with the Horsemen riding forth to pass judgment on the good, the bad, and the in-between.

Skip ahead to modern times...The world seems to be under a bombardment from space. Meteors rain down, destroying everything in their path. What is revealed in short order is that these projectiles from the heavens are actually demons and angels locked in battle.

Amongst the chaos that ensues, only one horseman arrives: War. As he engages the combatants, he mysteriously starts growing weaker and weaker. He is close to being completely powerless when he finally encounters the Archangel Abaddon. (He almost gets caught unaware by one of the demons around him, when Uriel arrives to save him.) Abaddon is dismayed at the appearance of the Horseman, proclaiming that the Seventh Seal was NOT broken. War, in turn, asks, "Where are my brothers?"

Well, there's no time to discuss matters, as the gargantuan hand of Straga rises from a pool of magma to crush the archangel, and then, after a brief fight, obliterate War.

Things don't look good. Brought before the Charred Council, War is accused of starting the Apocalypse prematurely. With demons all over the place at the scene of the crime, and the Hellguard (angels) taking a beating, it certainly looked like War had sided with Hell and helped to distract Abaddon so that the archangel might meet his doom. (Uriel certainly thought so.)

But War insists that he answered "the Call," and was there under the good faith that ALL of the Seven Seals had been broken. This is not so, as the Council has evidence that the Seals are intact; there was no call. War's presence at the battle must mean that he brought about the End War on his own...out of boredom? Defiance? You, the player, don't know. But War is determined to clear his name, and demands he be sent back to Earth to find the truth. The Council thinks the idea foolish, and says so...but War argues that if it's truly foolish, and there's no hope of gaining justice, then he'll lose out to the demonic/angelic hordes and they'll still get their judgment against the Horseman. It's a win/win for the Council either way.

Thus, they agree and attach "The Watcher" to War. (The Watcher is voiced by Mark Hamill, and sounds suspiciously like The Joker from the animated Batman series.) The two are sent back to Earth, arriving to find the place in utter ruin.

It turns out that War's been absent for 100 years. Humanity has been wiped out, and the world is now populated by demons and angels that are now trapped there while the war rages on. The Destroyer now reigns supreme for the time being, and there's been quite a shakeup in the hierarchy of demonic leadership. One demon, Vulgrim, has gone neutral. (Vulgrim is voiced by the talented Phil LaMarr.) Using the only currency around, souls, a player can make purchases of all sorts from him. There's also Samael, who seems to have had a falling out with the Dark Prince. Samael is willing to help War get to the bottom of things, but insists that there are four guardians War must defeat first. War must bring each guardian's heart to Samael...upon which he wants to feast.

And so the game begins, with War taking on Hell's Chosen. It starts with Tiamat, represented not as a dragon of any sort, but "the Bat Queen." Next comes the Griever, an insect like monster with a belly covered by a protective crystalline carapace. After her comes the Stygian, a massive demonic worm that was feeding on death and decay in "the Ashlands," but is now held captive by the hellish host in the barren wastes. Finally, there's Silitha, "the Spider Queen," with plenty of creepy-crawlies to keep an arachnophobe steadily unnerved.

Along the way, War runs into a few other characters. Ulthane, one of "the Old Ones," who is also known as "the Black Hammer." He's a giant blacksmith who seems to have played a role in events, as he's seemingly exiled himself to the ruined planet, but said role remains a mystery for some time. Uriel also makes an appearance several times, looking to pass judgment on War and carry out the sentence of death.

It turns out that Samael lied. The guardians weren't actually guarding anything. No...Samael had issues with the company his boss kept, and the two had a falling out. The Dark Prince took Samael's power and divided it up among the four Chosen, and the only way to regain it was by devouring their hearts. Back at full power, Samael threatens War...but also holds up his end of the bargain, transporting a far more powerful Horseman to the Black Throne. There, the last and most powerful of the Chosen, Straga, awaits.

But Straga isn't the final boss to fight in the game. The real bad guy is the Destroyer. Straga just happens to be guarding the Well of Souls, which is feeding power to the Destroyer and his demonic armies. How did the Destroyer gain access to the Well of Souls? Because Azrael, the Archangel of Death, was forced to do so. In fact, Azrael is being held captive in the Black Throne. The player has to free him, solving some of the biggest pain-in-the-butt puzzles in the game, so he can open the path to Straga. Once Straga is defeated, War can move forward to confront the Destroyer.

Here's where the story REALLY unfolds. Abaddon was aware that the universe was sick, what with all the evil seemingly permitted to continue under the rule of balance by the Charred Council. So he got together with Azrael and they arranged to break all but the last of the Seven Seals. This would bring the leadership of Hell into one place - Earth - where Abaddon, Uriel, and the rest of the Hellguard could destroy them in one fell swoop. When the Charred Council sent someone to investigate, they would discover the Seals intact, (with duplicates having been made by Ulthane). And who would the Council believe once they found the Seals whole? Those who reigned in Heaven, or the Prince of Lies? It was the perfect set-up.

Once it's revealed that the agents of Heaven were behind the End War, War tries to walk away from the whole mess, only to have the Watcher yank hard on his harness. War WILL see that justice is done, and the proper parties punished, or he would face his own judgment.

The player finishes rescuing Azrael, faces off against Straga, and is then brought, to all places, Eden. Though Eden was abandoned and faced destruction from lack of caretakers, (what with Adam and Eve getting the boot so early in the game), Azrael decided that the first Gift of Heaven should be salvaged. Thus, he hid it away. How and where is of no consequence, apparently. Just being there, with the Tree of Knowledge still available, is enough. To face the Destroyer, War must go to the Tree to receive its gift...the Gift of Truth...and perhaps information on how to stop the Destroyer. (And he does so alone, without the Watcher on hand, as the Watcher wouldn't be able to enter Eden as such a nasty little creature of darkness that he is.)

Once there, War learns of what transpired with Abaddon's plans to start a false war. He sees Uriel told that she would be needed soon, but not given details. And as a woman in love with her liege lord, as well as a faithful servant, she proclaims that she would follow Abaddon into Hell itself. The Archangel then vows to guard the Seventh Seal himself, ensuring that the Horsemen wouldn't become involved...

...but the Charred Council is essentially all-knowing. They knew what Abaddon was up to, but all they had was the knowledge of it without proof. If they had proof, they could have sent the Horsemen to carry out justice. Instead, such an order would seem like a baseless assassination...

...so they sent out a false call for War, who arrived just in time to take the blame for starting Armageddon. The Council knew that six Seals had been broken, but used the false Seals as "evidence" that there had been no call, and accused War of acting on his own.

Amidst the visions War receives at the Tree, there is also another mysterious player...one with a feminine voice, and obviously permitted to give extraordinary power. War sees Abaddon after his defeat, and his discussion with the mystery woman. She points out to the fallen Archangel that no matter how events played out, he would be brought before the Council and face final judgment. She then uses the famous line, "Would you serve in Heaven, or Rule in Hell?" Abaddon takes the latter choice, and is transformed into the Destroyer! War also sees the only weapon that can stop the Destroyer - the same weapon used to break the Seals: the Armageddon Blade.

After leaving the Tree, War reveals all he's learned with the exception of what he knows about the Council's part in all of this. It's then a bit of running around to find the pieces of the shattered weapon so Ulthane can reassemble it. And along the way, war faces off against Uriel one last time. But for this fight, she declares a death oath. Only one is walking out of there alive.

Played well, you can kick her feathery, haloed butt. Just as you're about to utterly crush her, a cut-scene interrupts and War spares her. He knows just enough of the future to understand that she needs to face off against Abaddon/the Destroyer. He knows she'll be defeated there, too, and that he'll show up to save the day...hopefully.

Right! On with the tale. War gets the pieces, brings them to Ulthane, gathers up any last minute equipment from Vulgrim, and then returns to Azrael to be sent on his final journey to face down Abaddon/the Destroyer.

It ends with the most awesome cutscene I've seen in any video game in a long time. It's the kind of scene that makes a player sit up straight, get goosebumps, and scream, "Dangit! When is the next game coming out?!?" Here...Watch...and try not to scream in frustration for me...or with me.

So...that's Darksiders. And as I said at the very start, I earned every achievement there was in the game. Some, as far as I'm concerned, aren't achievements at all. I mean, if it's part of the story, then receiving "the Cross Blade" really wasn't much of an achievement. The only work I did was to get that far into the story. I didn't have to beat a boss or defeat so many characters to get it.

But when it comes to truly earning an achievement, there was this one - JUST ONE - that was a royal pain to get. There's a point where War jumps on a flying "angelic beast," and you are able to shoot things down as the beast flies along a preset path. In order to earn the "Aerial Predator" achievement, you have to kill 160 critters before you reach your final destination. What was making me nuts was the game telling me I was close to earning it, but never said HOW close. I finally went through that portion of the game over and over again, making notes as to where certain baddies would appear, and then frequently pausing so that I could kill all I needed to get my precious achievement. I also made a note of how many kills I had before the flight started, and compared the end results to the original figure.

Not only did I get it today, but according to the count, I got 161 kills along the way. Ultimately, I'm glad I didn't earn this in the middle of the night, as my , "YES!" would have woken my beloved Becky up.

There...a story told, even if it's not original, with my focus on something other than mortality and a horrific past. I highly recommend Darksiders, as it's a beautifully rendered game, and fun overall. I mean, it had BETTER be fun, having played it three times to earn the achievements for finishing it on easy, normal, and apocalyptic modes.

Be well, all, and DFTBA! =)

Exhausted, and then some

2012-01-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

I haven't been sleeping very well the last few days, for what I believe are obvious reasons. As I lie in bed at night, I tend to think while Becky easily drifts off to sleep. I've essentially become obsessed with the whole "woulda, coulda, shoulda" thing. There's nothing I could have done with her alive, but now that she's dead, I continuously dwell on a relationship that...I don't know...could have been fixed?

No...That's not true at all. There's nothing that could have fixed the relationship between my mother and I...my mother and the rest of the world. Not without her as a cooperative party to said changes. And so I dwell on the impossible. I feel like I'm stuck in this place - this emotional space where I want something so badly, but know there's no way to undo the past.

Had an hour-long chat with my buddy Bryan last night. We talked of the past...of change...of acceptance. Even while in such a bad place emotionally, dark humor was able to rear its head. We spoke of being compared to "the neighbor's kid." My mother did this constantly. "Why can't you be more like (insert specific neighbor's kid who seemed oh so perfect)?" Bryan experienced the same thing, but with a different kid being named, of course. It was at this point that I mentioned how it wasn't made any easier in the 70s with The Brady Bunch airing so often. The perfect family...rich, happy, well-adjusted, successful, and always getting caught in fairly innocent hijinks, complete with "canned laughter" at their essentially innocent jokes. ("Good morning Carol...Mike." Oh, Greg...You goofy rebel, you!) So all kids were consciously or unconsciously compared to the Brady kids, while all parents were compared to Mike and Carol Brady. (And, dangit! Why couldn't we ALL have an Alice Nelson in our lives?)

It seemed to get worse for kids in the mid-80s to early 90s with The Cosby Show. Then kids faced a family that was not only rich, happy, well-adjusted, successful, and always getting caught in fairly innocent hijinks, but they were black. Being in a predominantly white neighborhood, with about 50% of them being Jewish, "Why can't you be more like the verdammt shvatsas?" (This is not MY perspective, but that of the area I grew up, known to many a teenager as "Bagel Bend.")

We live our lives in a realm of comparison. Once upon a time, a man found a good catch when he found a corpulent woman, as being heavy was a sign that she was eating well, which meant she could afford to do so, and that meant a rich wife. Now we want skinny little things with tight bodies and well-rounded breasts, all because this is what magazine covers and most Hollywood productions dictate to us what the perfect woman looks like. And all men should have six-pack abs, a barrel chest, and virtually no hair on their bodies. Anything else on either side of the line is "settling."

I don't know anyone who grew up with a family like the Bradys or the Huxtables. Some came close, but none were oh so perfect. The problem for me are those families that came close. I had living examples of a better life all around me, yet was forced to endure life "in that house with those people."

While Bryan and I were talking, I asked him if he understood why I was disabled now. Did he understand the cause of my not taking care of my diabetes when I was younger? His guess was that I wasn't reared to understand and respect the illness I have, and that's partially true. In fact, I resented being a diabetic most of my life, having been taught to see it as a burden instead of something I could easily live with. (Diabetes is sometimes called "the healthiest disease," as it enforces a good diet and exercise on those afflicted.) But that wasn't the reason for being hospitalized for diabetic ketoacidosis so many times that I lost count. No, the REAL reason was that the hospital was a better place than where I was living. In the hospital, the nurses and doctors actually cared about me, regardless of who or what I was. I was only judged when I truly misbehaved. (And there were more than a few incidents where I deserved what I had coming to me.) But on a regular basis, nurses and doctors didn't yell at me. They treated me with caring and a degree of respect due to a basic human being. I can't say I was loved, but it was as close to being loved as I could possibly get, aside from the occasional teen infatuation.

Part of that blame falls on my mother. Dad wasn't around often enough to be considered a bad influence. It was my mother who drove me into that emotional corner where I felt my best option was to make myself deathly ill. (Did you actually read that Wiki article I linked?) Only later in life did I realize that making myself so ill was MY CHOICE. Now, as I suffer through the complications of diabetes, I often also suffer through tremendous guilt at what I've done to myself.

But what did I know? I was a teenager, and teenagers are invulnerable, right? Lose a leg? Go blind? No, those complications were for lesser beings. And while I might take responsibility for my actions NOW, back then I believe that a fair portion of the blame must be placed on my mother. Because I lived in fear at home. Because I was always driven into a deep depression and a desire to be dead instead of alive. Because I was pushed into an emotional place at least once a month where I thought severe dehydration, labored breathing, and almost constantly vomiting was BETTER than staying in that house. The hospital was like a country club to my youthful perspective, with nurses waiting on me, meals being brought to me, and plenty of other kids (read: girls) with which to hang out.

How influential were my hospitalizations back then? Enough for my very first romantic kiss from a girl to occur there. As was the very first time I fell in love, (although I confessed that feeling rather clumsily AFTER I met the girl in the hospital).

And so...I am tired. My mind is stuck in the past, when I should be here in the present, looking forward to the future. This post...It was going to be a letter to my deceased mother, but then I realized that it would simply be a rehashing of that which I've already said these last few days. My mother was a genetic donor to the children she birthed, then went about turning each into a different kind of monster. The difference between my brothers and I is that I'm fully aware of that which she did, and am making an effort to ensure that the cycle of abuse is broken with me. It's what makes me a little bit better, and less of a monster than I was apparently meant to be.

I'm off to attempt getting some rest of some sort. Be well, my friends, and DFTBA.

And now for the tears

2012-01-09T06:35:00.000-08:00

Tears of sadness. Tears of rage. Tears for a relationship that never was, and now can never be. Tears for a woman so filled with anger that there was the possibility that only Stu would be at her funeral, and that I think our cousins took pity on him and are attending as well, just so he won't be standing alone at the graveside.

I believe I failed to mention my father's efforts to have my mother buried elsewhere. Seeing as how she was living in TN, my father believed it would be easier to have her buried there. But Stu argued that the pending payout of our mother's life insurance wouldn't cover the purchase of a burial plot. In fact, her policy is so small that Stu will eventually have to shell out money for a headstone. Said policy is only worth $10,000, and the transportation of her body, the service, the casket, and burial service will all cost $9,000. The headstone will cost around $1,100...or more.

Talking with Becky last night, I commented how our biological mother, (and I'm getting a bit tired of typing that one, so "mother" will suffice for now), had really stuck it to him. He took her in when she had no one else willing to tolerate her, and she made herself unwelcome almost immediately. She was, for all intents and purposes, kicked out of their home and forced to live in an apartment. Then, as she grew older and increasingly ill, she was permitted to move back in with Stu and family. She was given a "Life Alert" necklace, and after one of her falls, lay there for over an hour, rather than use it to call for help. He did all in his power to care for her when no one else was even vaguely interested.

Now she's left him with this tiny life insurance policy to cover all of her final arrangements. He has to endure the stressful ordeal alone, physically, emotionally, and financially. No one that I know of is in any position to be of any kind of help. Even if he and I were closer - truly brothers - I couldn't be emotionally supportive, as we're mourning two different things. He's mourning the loss of who she was, and I'm mourning what she should have been.

Odds are pretty good that that's what I'll be mourning every time someone I'm related to passes. I'll end up grieving what could have been. Because I'm the one who made all the efforts in the past. I'm the one who made phone calls to my relations, only to have them reject me as I became ill. "Snap out of it." "Grow up." And then to be treated as though my disabilities were actually some exotic form of laziness. There isn't a drop of tolerance and understanding in my bloodline, save for me.

And so, in about three hours, my mother will be laid to rest. I dunno...Perhaps she will finally have peace. Perhaps Hades isn't keeping a seat warm, and that G-d will be awaiting her to have a long talk about all she did wrong, and then welcome her into Heaven anyway.

But there are no true answers. I'll never know for sure what could truly have been. All I can do is rely upon my imagination, when what I'd rather do is be able to recall a happy childhood...a happy family...happiness in general.

Processing...processing...processing...

2012-01-08T10:46:00.000-08:00

There was once a time when I was the wise man of my group of friends. When it came to down-to-Earth advice, I was the go-to guy. There's just one topic I've never been very good with: death. The closest I ever came was when my buddy Bryan proposed the idea that he'd been responsible for his mother's demise; that he, years before, at the age of 13, should have done something to alter her self-destructive habits. (He wasn't exactly sober when he made this declaration, but I took it seriously nonetheless.) Really, what was a kid who'd only recently officially became a teenager supposed to do?

Now, oh so many years later, it's Bryan turning around and helping me to come to grips with my biological mother's death. He said, and this is a direct quote, "I'm sorry, Rob, not specifically for the loss of your bio mom, but rather what it represents. Her death is a reminder of what her presence should have been." I was swift to correct him on the use of the word "mom." There is a vast difference between a mother and a mom, and the woman who gave birth to me was merely a donor of genetic material. I simply cannot have "mom" associated with the woman who reared me in any way.

But I am mourning, and it's for the exact reason Bryan said. I'm grieving the loss of what SHOULD have been, but never was. And as last night wore on, I dwelled in a dark place where "would've, could've, and should've" played heavily. I've made quite a few radical changes in myself from decades ago, and was always trying. I was still trying when it came to my biological mother, right up until that phone call between her and I when I was going to see Stu in the hospital. I offered her the chance to sit down for a cup of coffee and perhaps talk. Boy, was I stupid, for my offering of the olive branch was met with, "You and I have nothing to discuss."

(To be clear, it had been approximately eight years since I'd last had any contact with her. It's an old story at this point, but my last contact with her was a visit to me in the psych ward, a month after she'd tried to kick me out after I'd overdosed on numerous medications and sliced up my left arm. When she attempted to make her visit to me in the hospital about HER problems, I blew a gasket.)

Just a couple of years before that "fateless" call, I learned from my Uncle Jimmy that my biological mother wondered why her children didn't call. After all we did - all we endured under her tyrannical rule - what was stopping her from making the calls herself? What was stopping her from using Stu to get addresses and phone numbers, to reach out and open up with an apology, and perhaps an explanation? What made her WANT to be as lonely as she was? (And it had to be some kind of desire, because she made no efforts to fix what had been oh so broken for so long.)

Actually, I can answer those questions. You see, she was never wrong. It was everyone else who were the offenders in one way or another, while she was innocence incarnate. And until EVERYONE mustered an apology to HER, she would hang on to her anger for as long as possible. In her eyes, she had nothing to apologize for.

In the wee hours of the morning, I was trying to tire myself out - to make my brain stop focusing on her death - by playing Just Cause 2. When the soldiers in the game were after me, some of them would shout, "You bastard!" So much for finding a distraction, as there had been countless times when my biological mother said those exact words to me. She was also fond of calling me a son-of-a-bitch. (Only later in life, when I was older and smart enough to come up with a response to such name-calling would I reply to being called a bastard, "So you DON'T really know who my father is?" To "son-of-a-bitch" was the reply, "You realize you're the bitch in that equation, right?") When living under the same roof, she never called for her children; she shrieked her summons, and we were always in trouble for one thing or another. We were never good enough. Not ever.

And there was Stu, on the phone with me, making the statement that he was her favorite. Personally, I don't think that that's something to boast about. I mean, who in their right mind would proudly announce, "During the Nazi occupation of so many European countries, I was Hitler's best friend!"

Yes, I am comparing my biological mother to Adolf Hitler. While they weren't exactly on the same level of atrocities, there certainly were a few similarities. Hitler came into power with influential, charismatic speeches that drove Germany to believe he would bring their nation back on the map, so to speak. Well, after so much griping from me, friends would meet my mother and come away saying, "She's not THAT bad," to which I'd reply, "Live with her." She wasn't completely friendless, and was certainly able to con a few people into believing she was a good person. And that's just the thing...She COULD be a human being...or at least pretend to be one.

But acts can only be maintained for so long, and the fact that my biological mother was an unmitigated bitch could not be hidden for decades at a time. People started seeing her for what she really was, and her friends started wandering off to spend time with higher quality company. The reaction Stu seemed to be getting when he called old "friends" of our biological mother was, "Oh, that's too bad." As far as I know, no one asked for funeral information; no one wanted to attend. In fact, Stu said that there will likely be only seven people at the funeral...and it's one of the saddest things in the world to realize that this woman knew so many people, yet only one son, his family, and a couple of her nieces (and their spouses) will see her corporeal remains into the ground. No one else is interested, and I...Well, I gave my reasons for not going in my last couple of posts.

As I mourn the loss of a mother I never had, I'm slowly coming to realize exactly how foolish I truly am. You see, a part of me has been waiting...waiting and hoping that she would become a member of the human race, and that one day I would receive a lengthy letter, stained with tears, explaining and apologizing for the decades of psychological torture she dished out. That she would acknowledge her countless, monumental mistakes, and say SOMETHING in an effort to make things right. That perhaps, as she came to realize her years were waning swiftly, she would realize that she didn't truly want to be so alone as her life dwindled. And that it wouldn't be an act; it wouldn't simply be her seeking solace, but a genuine effort to make amends. I can't begin to imagine how I might have responded to such a letter, but I'd like to think that I'd give her that one last chance - the 1,000th last chance - to see if she had truly changed, praying all the while that it wasn't some kind of act.

Alas, a leopard doesn't change its spots. My biological mother having an emotional epiphany like that would be against astronomical odds. She'd had countless opportunities to realize that maybe - just maybe - she was the offending party, and she never showed any interest in exploring such an emotional avenue. Way back in this post, I spoke of our family therapy. (Ninth paragraph down.) Right then, with four of us seemingly ganging up on her, (my father not quite sure if he should be defending his kids of defending his wife), you would think she'd have one of those aforementioned epiphanies. No such luck. Even after she divorced my father, she went into therapy, but not until she found a therapist who agreed with her that she was right and everyone else was wrong.

I'm a fool, alright. Even now, with my brain still clinging to some kind of hope that she found humanity toward the end, I imagine that a piece of mail might yet arrive - something Stu might find while going through her possessions...that tear-stained letter, begging for forgiveness as she knew the end was closing in on her. And that's as probable as me confessing that I'm currently working on earning my second million dollars, as the first million is too hard to make.

Be well, my friends...at least better than me, and DFTBA.

A followup...

2012-01-07T16:47:00.000-08:00

...on my biological mother's demise.

I spoke to Stu, as was suggested by my father, and found out that she hasn't been living with him for the last two months. She fell five times in three weeks, and had been moved to a nursing home. Last Friday, she became unresponsive - a nearly complete catatonic state. So she was hospitalized, and she began to show improvement.

The problem? Her liver. She had hepatitis C, and her liver had been going for some time. According to Stu, her liver had already been mostly nonfunctional. And it's almost common knowledge that the elderly don't receive transplants; not when those parts could be going to someone younger and in better health.

Anyway, she started improving, and there was a tremendous buildup of fluid that the doctor's wanted to drain. There was also a possible blood clot that they wanted to investigate, and had planned for surgery today. Instead, at midnight last night, they ended up calling Stu to say that she had died.

And Stu...is determined to see her properly buried. Her ongoing wish while she was alive was to be buried next to my older brother, Michael. This was, I believe, common knowledge. But when she divorced my father, he saw no need to honor her wish. In fact, as I understand it, my father would rather not have my biological mother buried at the family plot at all. The problem now is that the spot my biological mother wanted may no longer be available.

Personally...? Well, since I use this blog to primarily vent my feelings to a small audience, my thought for some time now is that she not be buried at our family plot. She fostered bad relationships with so many people, most of all those whom she had the most contact. While Barry hates everyone, I believe he hates my biological mother most of all. (I almost said "our," but Barry isn't her biological son.) His hatred of the masses holds its roots with her, and it was essentially the way she wanted it. Barry, all those years ago, flat-out asked her why she adopted a child if she was going to hate it? So you see, she spread the hatred around pretty thick, and made sure all her children knew how to carry a grudge.

Me...? I wouldn't call what I feel toward my mother "hatred." It's more akin to apathy. I just don't care. I can't care. To care would be to put myself in an extremely vulnerable spot. Should I get emotionally beaten, I'm going to end up reacting physically, and that kind of illness is only going to make things worse for me. As it is, after taking some time to absorb the information of my biological mother's demise, I suffered through one of my typical symptoms of depression and slept. It wasn't a very restful sleep, either. If it wasn't some external noise jarring me awake with a scream, it was something in my dreams that would have me waking with a start.

As I said in my last post, I cannot attend the funeral. I couldn't endure a last-minute trip by bus to attend, when with my Charcot arthropathy collapsing more of my foot as time goes by. (Stu asked why I didn't just have the foot removed, to which I explained that doctors don't like removing things that can still be treated.) We might be able to swing something financially, but then the big problem is that Becky's classes start on Monday. Even the best of excuses wouldn't go over well with demanding professors. I can almost hear them now..."Your fiance's mother - not your husband's mother - died, so you took time off? If you'd been married, we'd be more understanding. As it is, we are not." So I told Stu that I wouldn't be attending, and that I'd eventually make my way to the family plot to pay my final respects.

Now some of you out there might be wondering why I'd do such a thing. I haven't had anything nice to say about the woman. When my friend Igor suggested that there must be some good memories of her, I admitted that there weren't any. In almost four and a half decades, I don't have a single good memory of my biological mother. Even when I thought she and I were getting along, and she took me in when I had nowhere else to go, I learned that I was under all of the wrong impressions. But I will go when I'm able, for I am a dutiful son. And it's what a dutiful son would, and should, do.

I'm off to do something other than spewing my emotions on my blog. Be well, all, and DFTBA.

Not sure how to feel

2012-01-07T09:19:00.000-08:00

It's been decades in the making, but my biological mother is dead. Should I laugh? Should I cry? Should I be angry? Should I feel nothing? I don't know. I didn't even know she was seriously ill. For all I knew, she was suffering from her ongoing list of complaints that she's had for the last decade, and none of that seemed major. Not when the complaints came from her, anyway. People hear about my woes and they tend to worry, but only because I worry about others. I care about others. My biological mother...cared about one person: herself. So even her major complaints were overlooked as being trivial.

This, of course, does not apply to Stu, with whom she was living. Stu had to take everything as a serious complaint and deal with it as best as possible. From what little information I have, my biological mother was in the hospital for some reason, and they were going to do some kind of procedure on her today. But the hospital called Stu last night to say that she had died. And that's just about all I know.

As part of trying to process this information, I called Julie. Yes, I have my beloved Becky here, but Julie has known me longer and has actually lived through some of the crap I've had to endure via my biological mother's callus attitude. In a bizarre, Twilight Zone kind of moment, Julie said that she dreamt of me last night, and spent the dream hugging me almost continuously for some mysterious reason. But even Julie isn't sure how I should feel. I have plenty of reasons to blow this off as worthless news...but I also have plenty of unresolved anger and hurt feelings as to how my relationship with that woman went. I wrote not long ago about how I'll never have any kind of closure with my biological mother, and now that's been assured. As I told Becky, "Going to the funeral won't resolve anything for me, because yelling at a corpse isn't productive." (Or something like that.)

My father gave me funeral information on the off chance I'd want to go. It's not a complete lack of desire. Some part of me would at least want to see her off to the great beyond, whatever that may hold for her. (It wouldn't surprise me to see Satan attending, saying, "Oh, I've waited a long time for this one!") But I have a renewed cold this morning, a possible further collapse of the arch in my foot, (also on this very morning), Becky starts school again on Monday, the day of the funeral, and we haven't the spare money for an impromptu trip to NY. And in this case, time is too short for us to rely on the donations of others to get me there in time.

Which is rather different from when my grandmother, my biological mother's mother, died so many years ago. When my biological mother received word, she simply refused to go. Her stupid reasoning for not going? "I don't want to seem like a hypocrite." My biological mother could hang on to her anger for a long, long time. In fact, she never let go of it. Thus, her children paid the price for the continued cycle of abuse.

And so...my phone is charging. (It was starting to show signs of death during my call to Julie.) I've taken anti-anxiety meds. Now all that remains is a call to Stu, which is sure to be eventful.

Be well, all, and DFTBA.

A girl, a book, and a game...

2012-01-06T16:09:00.000-08:00

...walk into a bar? Nah. It's just a less-than-creative title for my nonsense today.

First off...Sara has cancer. It's an extremely rare form of cancer. When I spoke to her mom a couple of days ago, she said that Sara's doctor reported, "We only see this one about once every 25 years." That's the bad news. The good news, if there can be any in this situation, is that there's an 80% survival rate.

I find myself obsessing over her situation. I mean, I have plenty to gripe about and think it's thoroughly unfair that life should travel the roads that it does for me, but then this kid, who is already having enough problems with life, comes along and has to run into a rare form of cancer? It's enough to further shake my faith in G-d. Because I *DID* pray. I don't do it often because most of what's come along in my life is my doing. Asking for a miracle to undo my woes seems...I dunno...stupid. I see it as though my diabetes was a gun and I've shot myself in the foot. Well, whose fault was it for playing with a loaded weapon? G-d? No, I did that one on my own.

But I had Sara on my mind throughout the day, and prayed like never before, hoping that the tumor would be benign and that this would "just go away." Stu had a tumor when he was about five or six. It was a big sucker, and the doctor's had to take off some of his femur to remove the whole thing. He ended up with a cast that went from his ankle, all the way up to and around his waist. While terrifying to have a cancer scare, it turned out to be more of an irritation than anything else. And that's what I hoped for in Sara's case. "Let it be 'just a scare.' Don't let it be anything serious."

Well, if there is a G-d, He wasn't listening. And now this poor kid will have to endure things no child should ever have to endure. Not many people realize that chemotherapy is a poisoning of the body in the hopes of killing just the cancer. Somehow, it equates to "just a bunch of chemicals," hence the "chemo" part of its name. Those chemicals are deadly, and they'll soon be coursing through poor Sara's body.

And she DOESN'T understand it. I tried to convey this on Facebook, and received a kind of pep talk from my friend Lynn. "Don't underestimate what Sara understands." I would listen to that bit of advice, except that her mother has already confirmed that Sara doesn't understand what's happening. She only knows that something's wrong; she doesn't understand "tumor" and "cancer." (In fact, I just interrupted this post to call them, and her mom confirmed that Sara comprehends NOTHING about this, except that something isn't right.)

So G-d...? Yeah...Not a big fan of G-d right now.

Speaking of G-d, Becky and I received about $160 during X-mas. We split that money, then found ourselves at a book store...and we ATTACKED! With the exception of Anne Rice's "vampire Chronicles," (and some may say they're classics unto themselves), we bought a whole bunch of classics. One such purchase for me was Milton's Paradise Lost & Paradise Regained. It's the tale of the war in Heaven that landed Lucifer as the ruler of Hell, and how he went about seeking revenge on G-d.

MY temptation is to sit with this epic poem and rewrite it into modern English. Thus, after a quick prayer for G-d to guide me hand to pen the tale, it would open with Lucifer saying, "Dude...This sucks. Not only have we been kicked out of Heaven, but being immortal, we've been IMMORTALLY kicked out of heaven. And all because of a little rebellion. Yeesh. G-d's got no sense of humor. But y'know what? We're gonna get revenge. We're gonna screw with everything G-d tries to make good. So, Beelzebub, gather up the rest of the fallen angels and meet me over by that comfortable...rock. Let's relax and have some coffee, and then we can get to work." Really, that basically takes us up to line 192, and it's not the Olde English that throws me off, making this a slow read. It's the pausing to read every footnote, then go back to reread the line that was footnoted to see WHY there was a footnote at all. Honestly, I feel like there needs to be explanatory footnotes to explain the explanatory footnotes that explained very little.

Line 178: "Let us not slip th'occasion,..." Footnote: slip let slip. Look, only someone with a goodly amount of brain power is going to pick this up and read it recreationally. Anyone else is probably being forced to read it, and there'll be some sort of educator on hand to explain those little bits of English "forced readers" may not understand. When I showed the line and it's footnote to Becky, she asked, "That needed to be explained?" I dunno...Maybe the footnotes are there for our future alien overlords.

So my reasoning for the slow pace of my reading isn't just my usual, leisurely reading style, but the reading, rereading, and then trying to understand why I had to reread anything at all was necessary!

And speaking of necessity, I have to start playing my X-mas gift. HAVE TO! Why? Because it comes from my adopted brother, Ray, and the game looks like a lot of fun...*adopts a whining voice* but it has so many controls!

The game is called "Magicka," and it has to be some of the funniest writing ever crammed into a game. I've given it a bit of a test run, and was amused by two items I've already discovered. The first was "the Staff of the White Mage." According to the weapon's description, it belonged to a mage of another color, but he died and later came back to do stuff. The next item I found was a sword stuck through a stone. The game states that I found Excalibur, but when I lift it...well, not being the "rightwise king born of all England," I was unable to pull it from the stone...so my character wields a sword with a huge piece of stone stuck on the end of it. =)

But, here...Have some of the ads for the game. They're pretty amusing unto themselves. This one. This one. And this one. Oh...and let's not forget the PvP trailer. See? Lots of funny stuff, and I need that humor of late.

And that's everything from me at the moment. I'm off to try and rest up a bit, as we're going to try and visit Sara tomorrow. Be well, and DFTBA!

An update on Sara

2012-01-03T19:24:00.000-08:00

I didn't want to share ALL of this on Facebook; it seems far more public than this blog, for some reason.

Yesterday, I reported how this poor 12-year-old had a tumor on her interior girl parts. I was partially correct. You see, I was missing a few details. The tumor is attached to those parts, but was - I still have a hard time envisioning this one - HANGING OUT OF HER! Half-way down to her knees, according to her mom, who also added that it looked like a bunch of grapes. (Quote the mom and Becky, "I won't be able to look at grapes the same way again for a while.")

Today, they were able to remove MOST of the tumor, but at one point it pulled back inside, away from the doctors, and they didn't want to attack this thing too aggressively. The poor kid needed two transfusions already, and more aggressive work could have been dangerous.

The hope now is that meds and radiation will be able to kill the remainder of the tumor. Mind you, this is the thinking BEFORE the biopsy results. When those come in, the game plan could change for the more difficult at the drop of a dime.

In my mind, the worst of this whole thing is that Sara doesn't understand what's going on. She knows something is wrong; that there were things out of place on her and that she needed the help of doctors. But telling an autistic child she can't eat because of surgery...that she can't eat what she wants after surgery...that this isn't going to be as simple as having a cold...Yeah, that's not going to connect in her head, and she's about to go through a trial that none of us could possibly understand.

While talking with the mother this evening, Becky and I asked if there was anything they needed. They're trapped about an hour from where we live, so we made sure they didn't need us to pick up anything and bring it up to them, or come get the elder daughter so she could return to school. (The school, said the mom, suggests the elder daughter take the week off, as she'd probably get nothing done with her sister stuck as she is in a kind of medical Limbo.) We'd go and visit, but she's in the PICU, so the amount of visitors and the time permitted to spend with her is limited. Better to stay out from underfoot than make the hour-long trip to be in the way.

I have my doubts about a Supreme Being. I've been slowly going from agnostic Jew to atheist Jew. (Culturally Jewish, but not religiously.) Still, if there is a higher power, they I hope He/She/It can hear my pleas that this girl pull through without too much damage.

Be well, and DFTBA.

A great wrong in the universe

2012-01-02T21:13:00.001-08:00

Kids should not get sick. Not SERIOUSLY sick. Coughs, sore throats, rashes every now and again...those are fine. Even the occasional broken bone is okay, as it usually teaches kids things like, "Leaping an entire flight of stairs because you want to see if you can just isn't smart."

But diabetes, cancer, cystic fibrosis...? No. We should definitely do away with those for good. Instead, we're too busy fighting over politics and money...sometimes both. And while we're wasting our time on these regrettably important things, a child is sick out there. Seriously sick.

I'm venting about this because our old neighbors...Well, the youngest daughter has a tumor located in her interior lady-parts. It's not just any tumor. It's one that has an entirely too well-established blood supply. This means that surgery to remove it carries more than the usual risks, such as infection and painful scarring; it also has a chance to do lots and lots of interior bleeding once it's been cut. The family will be facing this adventure tomorrow.

There's an aspect of this child's life that makes this whole tumor escapade even worse. You see, this girl is mildly autistic. Not "Asperger's mildly autistic, which still leaves the patient mostly functional. This girl...you can tell that a part of her mind simply isn't connected to reality. When she speaks, she does so really fast and really softly, so that it comes out as a speedy mumble. She's not so bad that she's completely lacking in function, but she can't be unsupervised for very long.

Kids...they can be a cruel lot. As I understand it, she's a target for peers who choose not to understand and are intolerant of anyone who is so different. This leaves her 15-year-old sister with the task of defending her younger sibling. Note, the older sister is a petite girl who actually looks younger than the 12-year-old, and is about four to six inches shorter than the younger of the two.

The kids' father...? He's a schmuck who has said some seriously damaging things to these girls. The younger doesn't actually know he's more of a villain, but also knows he doesn't care about either of them. Their mother miscarried a boy when she was six months pregnant back in 2010. And last year...? The man who would have been a real father to the girls...He suffered from severe depression and combat PTSD. He couldn't hold on to employment, from what I understand. And his psych issues finally got the better of him. Not only did he put a bullet through his own head, but set fire to their apartment just before he did so. As the crisis unfolded, with the family watching from a neighbor's house, including the news coverage, they learned of his death from irresponsible journalism, as reporters didn't wait for his loved ones to be notified; they just reported it.

There are also issues the girls have had to deal with that I'm not at liberty to discuss, but it was traumatic. Without giving details, I think you can guess what happened.

But it gets better. In an act of kindness, our landlords allowed them to move into the apartment next to ours. (They were there before I moved in.) They could pay the rent once they recovered from the fire disaster, and they did...only to fall behind on rent when the mother was sick and out of work for a few weeks. The mother had State assistance all lined up, but the lines of communication broke down. Eventually, they faced eviction, and hod few alternatives after that. From benevolence to apathy, the landlords evicted the family in a very short time.

THIS FAMILY HAS BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH!

Now the baby of the family has a sizable growth that needs to be biopsied to see if it's also cancerous. With the way things have gone for them...*sigh* I don't want to say more; I feel like I'd be placing a curse on them. But it's not right. Kids shouldn't get this sick.

You're in our thoughts, Sara. Get better soon.

Happy New Year!

2011-12-31T18:46:00.000-08:00

A New year's Eve post? Shouldn't I be out partying or something?

Nah. My partying days are far behind me. If we had a greater circle of friends, we might be celebrating with them, but the most Becky and I have encountered at this point are good acquaintances. We came close to making true friends of our neighbors...until they were evicted. So, yeah...not doing so great socially.

Still, Becky and I have one another. We've been officially together for over a year and a half, which is quite the accomplishment. I say this because I don't believe myself to be the best choice when it comes to potential mates. Still, Becky seems happy with me...until we have the occasional falling out. No, life isn't all non-stop bliss here. We have our problems. But we keep working on them, and I think that's why we haven't killed one another...yet.

Looking back over the year, it's been quite a trial for me. Charcot arthropathy has really done a number on me, and the loss of a toe is starting to cost. The remaining toes are realigning themselves to compensate for the loss, and those toes aren't taking the extra workload very well. Thus, it looks like 2012 will have more trials for me.

My current state of being...? Well, it would seem that a recent trip to the market had me also buying a virus. (Actually, I think I got this one for free.) It's depressing to be sick on New year's Eve, and yet, once again, I look forward to my time with my beloved. We really don't have to do anything special. Just having her here is enough. Of course, with me currently being under the weather, I'll likely be declaring that I'm dying, with her scoffing the idea each time. (One day, my love, I'm going to be right! =P )

My one major regret for this past year...? That I seemed to have curled myself into an existential ball and hidden from the world. I stopped working so hard to actually face my issues, and simply let many of them wash over me, allowing me to wallow in self-pity. I guess exerting myself emotionally all of the time has paid a price, and this year was the year for me to settle part of the bill. My emotional crisis helped me to run from GitP. It helped me to shut the door on the last of my family with which I communicated. It's turned me into more of a hermit than ever before, and that's not a good thing in any way.

So...Changes? Perhaps a New Year's resolution? No...It doesn't take one night to see that changes need to be made, and it's not wise to use only one night to make a commitment to make said changes. I'll work on my problems as they come, addressing each as I am up to tackling them.

And so, with the midnight hour approaching, I want to wish all of my friends a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year. The short form, as I often say it...? "Be well, and DFTBA!" =)

Shadows in the Rain

2011-12-29T04:19:00.000-08:00

Woke up in my clothes again this morning
I don't know exactly where I am
I should heed my doctor's warning
He does the best with me he can

Ah, but I wonder what he'd tell me to do with my right foot this morning. Gods above and below, but this HURTS! I awoke to a rather common call of nature, but immediately discovered the most uncommon pains - plural! - coming from the sole of my foot. It felt like it was being burned, broken, and stabbed all at once. I'm still feeling these terrible sensations. As a kind of bizarre bonus, it also feels wet, yet is completely dry.

The call of nature could wait a minute or two. I needed to get painkillers on board, and I took EVERYTHING! That is, I took a 60 mg. MS contin., 30 mg. of oxycodone, and 100 mg. of Ultram. (Took my antibiotics, too. I figured, "What the heck. I'm taking plenty of pills. Why not one more?") Then I headed for the restroom and found that applying pressure help to an extent.

He claims I suffer from delusions
I'm so confident I'm sane
Can't be no optical illusion
How can you explain
Shadows in the rain

I never quite understood that bit of human behavior. When a part of us hurts, we grab the spot as though our hands have some magical power over the unwanted feeling. It really doesn't do anything to make the painful site feel any better, yet I find myself grabbing spots of pain all the time. The best is trying to hang on to my hip when it aches. The pain is so deep that the Lidoderm patches I have can't penetrate it. But there I am, placing a hand on my upper thigh as though I were a paladin with "lay on hands." I've also noticed that "gripping the site" is part of the description on the pain scale. You've probably seen it at the doctor's office or in hospitals. It depicts a face going from a smile, (a rate of 1 on the 1 to 10 scale of pain) to a distressed face that's in tears, (that would be the 10 rating). With each face is a descriptive line, and somewhere along the way, "gripping the site" is included. It's instinct...but it seems to be a silly one.

I mean, I can understand why we might OCCASIONALLY hold a hurt area. When my cousin helped to break my wrist when I was five, I cradled the arm as a way of protecting it from further harm. Placing a firm hand over an open wound might also help to slow or stop excessive bleeding. But a heart attack victim isn't protecting or helping by putting a hand over his/her chest or left upper arm.

If you see us on the corner
We're just dancing in the rain
I tell my friends there when I see them
Outside my window pane
Shadows in the rain

About as equally distressing as the amount of pain I'm experiencing this morning is the fact that sleep has been an issue for Becky and I. We've been going to bed between 1:00 and 2:00 AM. I've tried making a case for going to sleep earlier, and pleaded with my beloved to take some Benadryl earlier in the evening, as it helps to knock her out. She argues back that she doesn't want to have to rely on pills to sleep; a nice idea, if she could put otherwise into practice. Personally, I MUST take something to help me sleep, and it's been that way since the attack at 2:30 AM on 2 July 2002. I can sleep during the day, (although I prefer darkness to help me get to the land of Nod). My subconscious probably thinks I'm safer during daylight hours. But when night comes...? If I'm not taking SOMETHING for sleep, then I'm not sleeping. Not for long, anyway.

So many pills taken each day; it makes me debate the strong possibility that I'm now addicted to many of my meds. I only ever take my "breakthrough" pain meds when required, but it seems to be required too often. Am I truly that broken? Or is it my brain that only THINKS I'm that broken? If I could only be pain-free without the meds, I'd stop taking them to see how my body reacts to doing without.

Woke up in my clothes again this morning
I don't know exactly where I am
I should heed my doctor's warning
He does the best with me he can

I'm constantly questioning my existence, especially since I moved in with Becky. And my cognizance of my psych issues makes me question my questioning. For example, I'll have the thought, I'm never going to get better; the most I can hope for is "status quo." If Becky won't have the presence of mind to leave me, then I should leave her to save her the future heartache. What follows such a thought are many, many questions. Do you really think running would save her? Why would you hurt her like that? Aren't you deserving of happiness of some kind? Are you basing this thought on facts, or is this the depression taking hold of you? If it's the depression, is there a problem with your meds? If so, what's the problem?

It goes on and on, doubting my every decision and action. I told myself when my father had his open-heart surgery in the mid-90s that I would try to live my life as regret-free as possible, yet I've managed to make plenty of rather large mistakes, leaving me with plenty of regrets along the way. (Mind you, my initial thought was, I'm going to live a regret-free life! Only later, when I realized that was impossible, did I add, "as possible.")

Woke up in my clothes again this morning
I don't know exactly where I am
I should heed my doctor's warning
He does the best with me he can

So what mistakes am I making now? How do I avoid those mistakes? CAN they be avoided? Always worrying...always questioning...always doubting myself...always feeling inferior. And yet, in the eyes of a few, the mere fact that I do any questioning of myself and my actions at all is reason enough to consider myself a better man. Like Socrates's wisdom of ignorance, "I am a wise man because I don't consider myself a wise man."

*sigh* I don't know. But at the moment, my pains have abated, and that means I can rest my restless mind and go do something else. Perhaps War needs to shed more demon blood on Darksiders. Yes...Yes, I think he does.

He claims I suffer from delusions
I'm so confident I'm sane
Can't be no optical illusion
How can you explain
Shadows in the rain

The lyrics mixed into this post have been "Shadows in the Rain," from Sting's Dream of the Blue Turtles. It's actually a much jazzier rerecording of a track from the third album of The Police, Zenyatta Mondatta. While I couldn't find any concrete facts about it, the song is rumored to be about tripping on heroine. I think of it as more of a questioning of personal mental status. Having heard both versions of the song, I find the jazz/jam version after Sting went solo to be superior. =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

Am I an author now?

2011-12-28T14:27:00.000-08:00

Y'know, I used to hold it as an axiom that I was only a writer. AUTHORS get published. The thing is that I've now been published not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES at NotAlwaysRomantic.com. To an extent, this post is only here for me to show off. The first post comes from long ago. The second is fairly recent history. The third actually took place before the second, but was only remembered recently. (If you click the links and read, be sure to give the stories a thumbs-up...Please?

The thing is...I've been changing my mind about the whole "becoming an author" thing. My view is slowly turning into, "An author is someone who's not only published, but gets PAID for it, as well."

Ah...but who needs money. I have a relationship that is not only filled with lots of love, but plenty of comedy, too. =P

X-mas & Befuddlement

2011-12-24T17:12:00.000-08:00

Today was spent in Becky's home town with her family. This included numerous nieces and nephews I don't have quite yet, but Becky spent the day referring to me, when addressing them, as "Uncle Rob." Not that I plan on making a hasty exit in the near future, but I'm not quite their uncle just yet. Perhaps I should have shouted from the next room, "Stop smothering me!"

No...Shouting wouldn't have been a very good choice. We had plenty of children to do that, pumped up on sugary treats of the day and adrenaline from receiving gifts.

TOYS!

Yes, even I got "toys." After giving Becky a list of things I would like, she decided to get me the three main core books for D&D 3.5. I can see a difference just glancing through them, so I look forward to entirely too many hours reading rules for a game I probably won't be playing in the near future. Distant future...? Who knows?

Before we sat down to eat a monstrous meal, I made a decision. Actually, the decision was made weeks ago. I had it in my phone calendar and everything. The decision: to call my father and wish him a happy anniversary. My thought was that if I called around noon, I'd miss a potentially messy phone call, as they'd be down in the dining hall, but I'd still get to leave my message.

To my utter astonishment, my step-mother answered, and...she was glad...to hear from me?!? o.O

Okay, what's going on? I was shouted at on 16 August and told to "have a nice life," at which point she hung up on me. Today, both my step-mother and my father acted as though it had been MY decision to stop talking to one another. I wish I could blame senility, but they've both held on to most of their mental capacities. My father being forgetful later in life is no different than when he was younger. (On more than one occasion, with his reading glasses perched atop his head, my father would ask, "Have you seen my reading glasses?")

I made small talk. It was the best I could do on short notice, what with being shocked that my call was welcome at all and everything. Then I ended the call swiftly, as there was "other-family madness" to attend to.

While Becky and I went the route of toys for the kids, other far more responsible parties decided to buy them clothes. This didn't go over so well with Becky's eldest niece, all of five years old, named Riley. The look on her face at a new pair of jeans said, "You bastards dare to come here and kill my puppy, then expect me to cheer happily?!? GET OUT!"

"Uncle Rob" to the rescue! I took the jeans, designed for a girl and so small my arm probably wouldn't have fit through the leg, and said, "Well, if you don't want it, I do." I held the jeans in front of me. "I think I'd look cute in them." The kid knew I was just being silly...but wouldn't you know it? The moment I expressed even my nonsensical desire for the pants, Riley demanded she have them back. She was even upset a couple of hours later, when it was realized they were too small for her, and that they'd have to be returned. "No! Don't take them back!"

Count your blessings, mortals, that I only use my powers for the good of mankind. =P

Once again, Turk and I were at it, with him announcing that my Jewish butt was going to Hell, while I insisted he was like every other Muslim in the world, just sitting at home, building bombs in his basement! There was even an exchange that I'm simply not going to put here. Instead, I'd submitting it to NotAlwaysRelated.com. >=P

It was a good day, with Becky and I eating more food than we should have. We were also up entirely too early due to the cats fighting pre-dawn again, so come late afternoon, we were ready to pass out. It seemed like such a long drive home, and we looked forward to collapsing once we put away leftovers.

What did we do instead? Went online and forgot to be tired. But we're getting back to that point as fast as possible.

I hope all my friends and extended family out there have a wonderful holiday season. You should all be well, and DFTBA! =)

I was taking WHAT?!?

2011-12-21T10:36:00.000-08:00

So...I had moved to AZ to chase a woman, Robin, and we promptly broke up. But at least I had a job...until the accident. What accident? The one where I was pulling into my apartment complex and was rear-ended. Various x-rays and tests didn't show what was going on back then, but there was an incredible amount of pain coming from my shoulder. Like, along my back...that part of the shoulder. In an effort to treat me, my doctor prescribed all kinds of meds, most of which I don't remember the names of.

But there was one pill...It was prescribed to help me sleep. I couldn't remember the name of it, but have always wanted it again because it truly did the trick. If I was having difficulty sleeping, one of those tablets knocked me on my butt for an entire night.

Like the one time I traveled with new-found friends to a seminar. Some of us were a little too juiced to get to sleep right away, and it was strange to be crammed into a motel room, with 10 people spread out on the floor. So the few of us still awake went down to the lobby. I had a portable Chess set, and we intended to play a few games. Before leaving the room, I popped one of those tablets, assuming that it would kick in after about an hour.

We set up the board. My opponent and I made a few opening moves. Then I was waking up the next morning, a little stiff from having slept on the floor. According to those that were with me, I was still conscious, but somewhat unresponsive. It was almost as though I'd gotten stuck while daydreaming. They packed up the Chess set, escorted me back to the room, laid me in my spot on the floor, and that was it. It was lights out for Rob.

Since then, as I've had some serious sleep issues, I've wished for those mysterious tablets again and again. Alas, when discussing my insomnia with any of the doctors I've seen over the last five years, the only thing I could tell them about the pill was that it was green.

With a PCP visit rapidly approaching, I finally had the presence of mind to look it up before the appointment. The drug I discovered was called "chloral hydrate," and it looked just as I remembered it. I made a note of it in my cell phone without really reading up on it at all, intent on asking my doctor about it. When I finally got to ask, as the appointment was today, my doctor's initial response was, "I'm not familiar with that drug." So he pulled out his little pocket computer of drugs and typed it in.

The verdict is that...Yeah, I won't be having that drug again. Not right now, anyway. It's a MAJOR sedative that's often used prior to surgery. While it would be nice to have a medication that would unquestioningly put me to sleep, we don't want a drug that will make my ability to wake up a mystery, especially with all of the other meds I take. In fact, the doctor was pretty sure that the drug would knock me out...permanently.

What shocks me is that chloral hydrate was prescribed to me at all. My issue was shoulder pain along the back. While the pain was bad, it wasn't anything the likes of which I deal with today. And to have that doctor write for the drug and casually tell me to use it for sleep, when the reality is that it was one of the more powerful sedatives he could prescribe...Wow. Just...Yeah, wow.

I'm off to argue with my beard. I've been growing one for the last few weeks, and some of the hairs on it are growing in odd directions. I'm hoping that a chat will bring it into line. If not, then I'll have to use clippers as part of my argument. >=)

Be well, and DFTBA!

Dreams for sale!

2011-12-19T11:33:00.000-08:00

Okay...You need to take yourself back to 1989. I was all of 20, and usually heartbroken because "the love of my life," Tara, wasn't interested in me in any way. Much of my life was a shambles. Adding to this, I was wandering the world with undiagnosed depression. Very SERIOUS depression. Somewhere amidst the darkness of my life, I still found it within myself to write creatively. While I would eventually take to fantasy and science fiction, the one piece I seemed dedicated to was a murder mystery. Mixed in along the way was the occasional short story.

I don't remember the month it was released, but Lou Gramm of Foreigner fame released a solo album, Long Hard Look, from which the radio stations seemed determined to play "Midnight Blue" to death. I bought said album on an ancient audio device called a "cassette tape." (You kids in the crowd may have to Google it.) And on this recording was one song that I mentally latched on to..."Broken Dreams."

Did you listen to it? You really should listen to it. The whole thing. It's important to this post.

At the time, my father still owned his 1987 Pontiac Grand Am. In what seemed to be something of a mid-life crisis, he bought the two-door version; the closest thing to a sports car my father would ever own. He even had the dealer tint the windows. Not much of a tint, but a tint nonetheless.

Now to describe the full scene. Me, locked in one of my darker moods, cruising around in my father's car, "Broken Dreams" being played over and over, and me brooding while I listened and drove. There were moments when I would start crying, despite the music itself not being terribly depressing. It was the lyrics, specifically at the 4:16 mark.

Now I've climbed this mountain high
But it won't stop my heart from burnin'
I got dreams for sale!
Tears and rivers running dry
But it won't keep the world from turnin'
Ohhh, broken dreams for sale!

To me, with my home life so miserable, and my unrequited love, and just alone in that car...The lyrics were telling my story. The story of a guy trying to find peace atop a mountain, perhaps where the wise guru awaits. But once he's reached the top, his heart still aches for that one true love. And while he might cry enough to form a river, the world would remain uncaring. Thus, with little or no empathy from those around him, he might as well sell his dreams of love.

The song would often run through my head, and I found myself sitting at the cafeteria at the community college I attended. Based on my interpretation of the song, I wrote a descriptive passage about a man who appeared to be in existential conflict. He's handsome, with his hair neatly combed, but in need of a shave. His expensive suit is wrinkled, but his shoes are impeccably shined. He carries with him what appears to be a suitcase, but it's the kind with legs that fold out from under it. As the city streets begin to fill, and various street vendors set up shop, he does the same with his suitcase. Passersby notice it's empty. And in a clear voice, he starts calling out, "Broken dreams for sale!"

The passage I wrote was longer, with much more detail. I sat there one day, simply dwelling on what I'd written, when the girlfriend of an acquaintance sat down and started reading it. She was amazed by it, and asked if she could include it in the college's literary magazine. I agreed that she could take it.

A part of me was proud that I'd finally been published. I hadn't been paid, so I still didn't consider myself an AUTHOR, but one of my pieces was in print...with many, many typos. (I think at one point my nameless character ended up with suitcaseS, and he later unfolded the leG beneath it (them?).)

And all of this has come to mind because of my recent emotional crash. One thought keeps running through my head: This is not how my life was supposed to go. And with that comes the thought that I seem to have officially come to a time of my life when I have entirely too many broken dreams for sale.*

*Keep in mind that I now have a new set of dreams. They are different from those of my youth, but they are pleasant dreams nonetheless. And with my beloved Becky in my life to make them come true, perhaps I'll have less to sell in the future.

Something I'll never have

2011-12-17T13:28:00.001-08:00

So, I'm catching up on this season of Bones on Hulu. I missed most of last season, and I often find myself wondering how that show remains on the air. I mean, some of the murder scenarios are so desperately stretched that I shake my head in disappointment. It's not like Law & Order, where they get to tag an episode, "Ripped from today's headlines!" It's more akin to, "Ripped from the minds of our murderous writers while they were tripping on magic mushrooms."

I just finished an episode, and as part of the ongoing dramatic story that runs alongside the case, Booth's abusive, alcoholic father dies. He gets the news at the start of the episode, and Booth's reaction is one of cold determination to just focus on the case. And, of course, Booth is forced to confront his feelings about his past with "daddy dearest." One of the things mentioned is that Booth would never get to have closure with his father.

Well, it occurred to me that I'll never have such a thing with my parents, either. It was my step-mother, of all people, who shouted into the phone, "Have a nice life," and promptly hung up on me, without me hearing so much as a complaint from my father. My father, who's been oh so good at criticizing my every decision in life, finally had nothing to say, as he's made no effort to call me. I would call him, but...Well, I was told to have a nice life. I'm trying, but I don't think it'll be so nice. But that's a post for a different day.

My brothers...?

Well, Barry simply faded into the background, and his view of me having no value to him certainly made it clear how he wanted things. Mind you, during my very first suicide attempt, he arrived at the hospital in tears. You'd think he was afraid of losing me. Somehow, I think he saw himself in a similar emotional state and was afraid for himself. Honestly, someone filled with that much hate for so many ethnic backgrounds doesn't belong in my life. Odds are he'd have a racial slur for every one of the people whom I've befriended over the years.

Stu...Well, he got stuck somewhere between childhood and adulthood. He managed to learn all about responsibility to one's self, but never to another person. He cares for his son the way people care for pets; until they're directly within sight, they're fine on their own. Hence, his son being reared by a television set. And his wife seems to have an entirely different lifestyle from him because Stu doesn't know how to connect to anyone but himself. So closure with Stu...? Yeah, that's never going to happen.

Finally, (and I saved the best for last), there's my biological mother. There's a list of questions I'd love to ask, and expect no reasonable answers. "Why didn't you LOVE your children? Why did our cries for help fall on deaf ears? Why is it, when the whole world seemed to be complaining about her, did she not sit up and wonder if the problem wasn't HER? How is it that she was perfect and everyone else was flawed?" And the greatest questions of all time: "How could you want to see your son dead on the streets rather than call for help when he needed it? Why did you only summon the police when you felt YOU were in danger? With your eldest living child hurting so badly, how could you be so damnably selfish?"

How could she possibly answer any of those and not seem like an idiot? How could she see herself as anything other than the abusive harpy that so many psychologists warned her about when I was still a child? I was taken, you see, to a number of psychologists when I was so much younger, and a variety of therapists saw how fearful I was of my mother. Instead of seeing a problem in her behavior, she became insulted, forcing my father to accept how "wonderful" she was, and shopped around until she found a therapist whose diagnosis she preferred. She waited until someone said, "It's not you; it's the boy." That was...What? Psychologist number four or five?

Today, I carry the scars left by my family, along with some of the ingrained behaviors. My first instinct when I feel the need to argue with Becky is to diminish her...make her cower...belittle her so that the expression of hurt in her eyes is TRULY felt by her. I mean, if she's going to shed a few tears, why not make sure she's wailing in agony, as well?

Instead, I grab that beast with both hands and hold it back as hard as possible. No one, not even a misbehaving dog, deserves to be treated like that. I believe myself blessed by the fact that I somehow grew up to recognize how people should be treated. With kindness...with loving...with caring. I tried to treat my family in these ways, and they didn't know what to do with it. Stu glossed over it and moved on to things far less emotional. My father brushed it off as foolishness or...

When my father lived in FL, there was an almost daily ritual of visiting the nearest Dunkin' Donuts. There, a regular group of seniors would gather, and I went along while visiting my father. One woman was complaining about her relationship with some other woman, and I sat calmly, listened, and then distributed what I thought was the best advice I could muster. I spoke of the needlessness of anger, and how, if this other woman was being as spiteful as she seemed, she wasn't worth the complaining woman's time.

When I was done, my father wanted to know what was with the spectacular act I'd just put on. It wasn't an act. I was being myself. And my father didn't even know who or what I was at that point.

I'm the only one who grew up with a heart. I'm the only one who did his level best to hang on to anything positive in life, despite the horrors of diabetes thrust into my lap as my own doing. For this, I am lazy. For this, I am foolish. For this, I am an actor.

I'll never have closure with my family. And for that, I'm very, very sad.

Happy HOLIDAYS!

2011-12-16T13:24:00.000-08:00

Y'know what? Take your "Merry Christmas" and shove it up your -

No...That's not me. It's not in my nature to be that rude during the holidays. In fact, the holiday spirit tends to strike me more throughout the year, and doesn't require a specific date for me to be giving. When the opportunity arises, I try to do good deeds. Just the other day, while Becky and I were shopping for no-bake cookie supplies, I told a cute child to go find her parents and stay with them, as I'm still trying to be the protector of the young and innocent.

But I'm a bit annoyed with the hypocrisy of the season, especially when it comes to those who declare that people should keep the "Christ" in "Christmas." Even I, the nice Jewish boy from NY, knows that Christ, in an historical context at the very least, preached kindness, forgiving, and charity to those less fortunate. Yet those who point out the whole "war on Christmas" thing tend to give only on specific occasions. Kindness, forgiveness, and even tolerance go out the window as these "righteous" human beings demand that others say "Merry Christmas" openly and freely...

...and to Hell with all other cultures and religions!

I can't tell you how many cashiers I've made squirm with one simple line. As they wish me a merry X-mas, I simply say, "I'm Jewish." Suddenly, in this world where entirely too many people strive to be politically correct, these poor cashiers find themselves wondering if "Happy Holidays" wouldn't have been the better thing to say. If I were truly malicious, I could then file a complaint, saying that I was personally offended by the fact that my beliefs weren't being respected. But...no, that wouldn't be very nice, would it? Those poor cashiers already look confused at the idea of someone NOT wanting to have a merry Christmas.

The reality is that I DO want to have a Merry Christmas. Or, to be more generic and cover the multitude of those who celebrate this time of year, I want to have a HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON. (There's absolutely nothing wrong with being generic.)

I hope my readers - all two or three of you - can forgive my grumpiness, but this hasn't been a good day. Both my right knee and ankle have been aching. I think it's a weather-related event, as it seems to be getting much colder. I've not only taken the appropriate pills, but have Lidoderm patches on both areas.

And then there was the brilliance of Dell customer service, straight out of India, and their undying desire to see my surprise gift to Becky not be a surprise at all.

You see, Becky has had a laptop hiding under the bed for some time now because the power cord essentially snapped at a point where it can't be repaired. For months, she's been saying how she needs to buy a new cord so she can not only get some old files off the computer, but to also have a computer that she can use to bring to school and work on various projects between classes. Well, with us putting our gathering of money for the wedding fund on hold for this month, I thought I'd splurge and buy her the cord in secret.

I called Dell, the manufacturer of her laptop, last week and ordered up the proper item. It wasn't the most expensive thing I could buy, but it wasn't cheap, either. While talking to the customer service rep, I specified that this was meant to be a surprise gift. So he took my e-mail address and phone number, put them on what is actually Becky's account, and then...Well, he said that the address I gave him wouldn't come up as a legitimate address on their system. It was the apartment number that was screwing everything up. To get past this, I simply told him to ship it to the address on the account, which is 'Nita's address. (Becky's mom.) After this was all set up, I called 'Nita to tell her the gift was coming to her, and eventually also asked that she wrap it so it would remain a surprise.

Skip to today, when my phone rang with a mysterious 800 number showing up on the little screen. When I answered, it was another guy from Dell, looking for Becky to find out if she'd received the power cord. According to their records, it was delivered on the 13th. "You're looking to talk to my fiancee, whom I bought this thing for as a surprise gift," I said vaguely, as Becky was sitting near me. "Well, I'll have to make a call to see if it arrived. I'll call back if there's any problems." Mr. Customer Service Guy said he understood, and apologized for almost ruining the surprise. We hung up and, as far as I knew, that was the end of it.

I then went into the kitchen, gathered up the trash, and walked outside to put it in the trash bins.

When I came back in, Becky was finishing up a phone call. My immediate thought was that she'd called her mother to at least ask if my surprise gift had arrived. I was fine with that, so long as she wasn't trying to find out what it was.

But...No, that wasn't the case. Instead of her having made a call, I found out that it was THE SAME GUY I'D JUST SPOKEN TO, calling the other phone number on the account, trying to get a definitive answer as to whether the power cord had arrived. After being told he understood it was a surprise...after saying he understood that I'd call if there was a problem...after apologizing for almost ruining the surprise...he went and made another phone call anyway, essentially ENSURING that the surprise was ruined.

Here, in a few brief lines, is how I imagine a job interview at Dell goes...

Manager: Can you push buttons?
Applicant: Yes.
Manager: Do you speak in an accent few Americans can understand?
Applicant: Yes.
Manager: Do you, yourself, understand English?
Applicant: Not really, no.
Manager: YOU'RE HIRED!

I'm so glad such people weren't in on the engagement scenario I pulled off over a year ago. I can just see it now, as Becky gets a phone call two weeks before I asked her to marry me, with the customer service rep asking, "We just wanted to know if you received the engagement ring your boyfriend ordered from us in secret and if you're happy with it?"

True genius, I tell you.

With that bit of venting, I'm off to relax and perhaps read some holiday gifts I recently received from an old friend. Be well, and DFTBA.

Eight hours straight...please?

2011-12-14T08:32:00.000-08:00

Just one night - JUST ONE - I'd like to be able to sleep the night through without interruption. Instead, I have nights like last night.

It began around 10:00 PM, when I was lying in bed, reading, while Becky was playing some Zelda game on our newly acquired Wii. She and her mother bought it together some time ago, and her mother decided she no longer wanted it and gave it to Becky. So Becky is on the bed, playing, and I'm on the bed, reading...and I'm slowly losing consciousness. I might have drifted off to sleep right then, but when Becky had to fight off some baddie on the game, she would shake the whole bed.

Even with all of this movement, however, I started falling asleep...and then I had one of those things. You know...that sensation that you're tripping, stumbling, falling...and your whole body jerks to catch your balance, which you can't possibly lose while lying flat. (It's actually called a myoclonic jerk. Oh, the things I learn on House.)

So I find myself awake, and Becky finds herself having a hard time getting to sleep. We both get on our respective computers to try and engage in activities that will tire us out. Becky also popped a Benadryl; G-d bless her and her lack of need for narcotics to get to sleep. Unless I receive Benadryl via an IV, it doesn't make me tired at all. Instead, I pop 5 mg. of Valium.

Come midnight, we decide to give sleeping a shot...except that I'm not quite as tired as Becky is at this point. We cuddle for a bit. I relate a story from a Twilight Zone episode I saw many, many moons ago, and Becky eventually starts wanting to drift off...while snuggled against my shoulder. Well, that's not going to work, as when she falls asleep in such a position, she usually ends up snoring directly in my ear. After a bit of a lovers' conflict over the situation, she rolls over...

...leaving me still to awake to sleep. So I open my 3.0 D&D Player's Guide and try a bit of reading to knock me out. It usually does the trick, and was working while she was playing on the Wii...but now it's not having much of an effect. I finally decide that reading might be keeping me awake, close the book, turn out the lights, and lie in the dark, trying to think of nothing so sleep will come...

...and that's when the cats decide that NOW would be a good time to have a fight. They take turns antagonizing one another, but Raine always fights in silence. It's Nike who we hear during all such scraps. Thus, I find myself sitting up in bed and heatedly whispering threats to a pair of beasts who don't understand a word I'm saying. What they DO understand is my tone, and they run for cover, knowing the water bottle that we use to spray them can't be far behind.

Sleep eventually comes to me, only to be interrupted two hours in by the call of nature. When I WANT to be asleep for an extended period, my bladder starts complaining at a regular two-hour interval after finally getting to sleep. But when I want to use my bladder functions as a kind of alarm clock, it fails me. Like the other day...I felt the slight need to use the rest room as I laid down for a nap, and though, Good. In about two hours or so, my need will be that much greater, and it'll wake me up, thereby keeping me from sleeping the day away. Nope. My body allowed me to stay asleep for six hours, to which I awoke with Mother Nature screaming at me to get to the bathroom.

Okay...So I relieve myself, head back to bed, and notice in the darkness that Becky has thrown off the covers. She's too warm. This is actually unusual; normally, she's too chilly, as my own internal thermostat is broken. (It's a diabetes thing.) So it is that I ended up turning on the air conditioning in the midst of winter. Our place tends to get incredibly warm, and I run the fan on the AC unit almost continuously, but last night I actually turned on the AC itself. Then it was back to bed...

...and I fell asleep on my back. This isn't always a terrible thing, except that on occasion I will start snoring, and said snoring wakes me up. Yes, my own snoring will wake me up. How scary is that? And that's what happened about an hour after I'd drifted off.

The next time I awoke, it was because I was too cold, and seemed unable to get myself covered up properly. Now I'm out of bed again, trying to adjust the AC so it's "fan only," and get back to the Land of Nod. I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable on the sliver of bed that Becky's left me in her own sleep. This results in me bumping into my night stand, usually knocking something off in the process. As if that noise wasn't enough, it was the collision of my elbow against the corner of the night stand that caused Becky to wake and ask, "What was that?" I explained that I'd smashed my elbow, which seemed to satisfy her, and she rolled over to sleep again...

...which FINALLY gave me a little more room and allowed me to do the same. I might have actually gotten some decent sleep after that, except Mother Nature woke me again at 6:30 AM. I answered the call, went back to bed, and this time slept until alarms started going off around 10:00 AM.

And now it's after noon, and Becky is still asleep. I'm gonna have to wake her up, which I don't look forward to. I like to let her rest, as I believe she does so much more than me in our home. But I can't let her sleep the day away.

I just want a night of uninterrupted sleep. Alas, I'm probably asking too much.

Be well, and DFTBA.

Two down, six to go

2011-12-09T17:08:00.000-08:00

Have you seen it yet? Rick Perry's "Strong" video? Here...take a look.

What amazed Becky and I was the like/dislike bar. Neither of us had seen one as red as that. And by the time I'd gotten around to viewing it on YouTube, comments had been disabled, probably due to the epic amount of arguing and trolling going on.

But we don't need no stinking comment section to troll such an advertisement. No...we have video responses! So many, in fact, that I couldn't pick just one favorite. Like this one with the alternative voice-over. Or an "original" video like this one. And for all the mensches out there, we have this one.

The internet has seemingly exploded over this one, incredibly stupid commercial. All you need to do is look up "Rick Perry Strong Parody" on YouTube, and you'll wind up with plenty to watch. Some are funny, like the ones I linked. Others are quite bad. And many, sadly, are just rude. The comments are an insane flame war, with people, even more sadly, trying to defend his message.

In my opinion, he sunk his very own battleship. For me, it started when he had the 30,000 strong prayer meeting before announcing he'd run. The price he charged to get into it was enough to start a campaign. He then dug one of the deepest holes imaginable when he revealed that he couldn't debate worth a damn. (Really..."Oops?") And now this commercial, where he basically says, "I'm a religious zealot who's also a bigot."

Mr. Perry, if you'd just join Mr. Cain over there on the sidelines, we'll allow you to answer a few questions before disappearing into obscurity.

My guess at this time is that it's going to be Newt Gingrich vs. Barack Obama come next November. Because Newt is a familiar face and he has the experience. All other contenders are unknown or buffoonish, and...

Y'know what? Screw it. I'm moving to Canada. =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

In today's adventure, the terrorists win

2011-12-08T06:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday marked the day when a defense appropriations bill went through the senate. It passed at a vote of 93 to 7. The crowd can cheer, as we will be able to continue defending our nation. There is, however, a little attachment to the bill that should have every American not cheering, but quaking in fear. As I understand it, it states that anyone suspected of terrorist activity can be detained by our military and held indefinitely without a trial. I'm not talking about suspects on foreign soils. I'm talking about American citizens.

Now, look...I know we have our villains here. "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter." And there are those who would sympathize with various terrorist groups. But this law is going to end up catching a number of people who have no interest in such things; they just happen to ACCIDENTALLY fit the profile of what officials would deem a terrorist.

Watching Jon Stewart, there was a clip of one senator discussing those things that would constitute a potential terrorist. Waterproofed firearms. (So any cop with a waterproofed weapon in a rainy spot of America - say Washington State - is probably a terrorist for protecting the weapon he lives by.) Hands with missing fingers. (My landlord must be a terrorist, then.) More than seven days of food in one's pantry. Heck, on that last one, Becky and I, as well as probably a few million homes in America could be suspected of terrorism. (When a microwaveable meal goes for $1.50 less at Wal-Mart than at the market across the street, we try to stock up.)

There was this commercial after 9/11. (Watch it! It's only 30 seconds.) When watching it so shortly after 9/11, my heart would swell with pride in our country. We DID change. I felt we'd become stronger; that we'd bonded over our mutual tragedy. I was simultaneously made sick when it seemed so many Arab-Americans were targeted for hate crimes, simply because of their national origin or religion. We're better than that...or we could be.

But then, over the years, slowly but surely, we started seeing various freedoms taken away. I was all for the extended wait at airports while my belongings were searched. I even tolerated the limited amount of toiletry chemicals I was permitted to bring on a plane. And we were almost instantly hit with the PATRIOT* Act, which was passed less than two months after the attack. To almost every eye watching, it seemed to be rushed through the legislative process, and signed into law with almost NO ONE reading it. As per John Conyers, Jr., via Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11, "We don't read most of the bills. Do you know what that would entail if we read every bill that we passed?" It's scary, and misinterpreted or not, many people felt that the FBI having a blank check on wire tapping was terrifying in its own right.

Then this new agency popped up, the TSA, and it started making headlines that they were getting carried away with their searches. I mean, is patting down the seven-year-old girl really necessary? What about the eighty-six-year-old grandmother in a wheelchair? Once again, every eye on this agency seems to think they have entirely too much power, with virtually no oversight.

Along with the TSA came new technologies, which allowed total strangers to see what was beneath our clothes. Leave it to one woman, Tammy Banovac, to use methods to get past and around the screenings of the TSA, who said of a previous experience, "If it happened anywhere else, it would have been sexual assault."

Now this new law, which would allow anyone SUSPECTED of terrorist activity can be detained without so much as a word permitted in defense. No trial. No lawyer. No nothing.

But don't worry. President Obama plans to veto the bill. Why? Well, Jon Stewart put a spin on it, making it sound as though the White House will veto it because it doesn't grant the President ABSOLUTE POWER. From what brief reading I've done, it's because such powers already exist. "The authorities granted by the Authorization for Use of Military Force Against Terrorist, including the detention authority, are essential to our ability to protect the American people...Because the authorities codified in this section already exist, the Administration does not believe codification is necessary and poses some risk."

Oh good. I feel so much better.

That commercial, where it claims the terrorists changed America...? They succeeded, alright. They've helped to turn us more and more into a police state than any other effort made before. "Land of the free. Home of the brave."

Well, mostly free.

Be well, and DFTBA.

*Edited after I was "Targeted." =P

Learning old things

2011-12-06T11:44:00.000-08:00

I got curious. You see, I've been putting off writing my book about diabetes. The irony being that my writing it was interrupted by the dramas produced by the complications of diabetes. It's time to focus and get back to work.

But there are things that I simply don't remember about my past, and one of those things is the interaction with friends in the outside world. Outside the hospital, that is. In a way, it's sad that I had friends inside the hospital. They should have been fleeting acquaintances, at best. Instead, I knew many of the chronically ill kids by face and name, some of whom have died from their illnesses, like my beloved friend Sandra.

So what of my friends outside the hospital? What did they think was going on? Did they have any understanding of what was happening? To find out, I wrote to the only guy I'm still in touch with from my teen years, Terence. His response was both amusing and frightening.

You see, he claimed that I was able to make such statements as, "I'll be going into the hospital next Tuesday." The way that sentence lies, without further information, makes is sound as though I was able to plan my hospitalizations at least a week in advance. Mind you, the process of entering diabetic ketoacidosis, DKA, can take only a few hours. Take no insulin and ingest some sugar, and I could be puking my guts out in short order, as was accidentally proven just days before I returned to AZ.

Not sure if I told this story, so I'll tell it now. I'd just received all of my back pay from Social Security, and was feeling wealthy. Thus, I decided to get a new pair of glasses. The only place that could do it in one day was next to the nearest mall, which was about two hours away by bus. I made an early start of it, had an eye exam, and the glasses were being put together while I wandered the mall.

While I wandered, I started to feel my blood glucose rising. I reached into my pocket to get my insulin out, and discovered that I'd brought everything I needed to take my meds...except syringes. Well, I figured I could make it home in time to take a proper dose before things went badly for me...but I was starting to experience polydipsia, or excessive thirst for you uneducated, non-diabetic types. =P

I got the glasses, then went to get a drink at a bar and grill near the bus stop. Since it was mid-day, they were slow. I approached the bar and asked for the largest diet soda they had, to go. I was served the drink, popped the straw into it, and took a HUGE swallow of it...and noticed that it tasted very wrong. I asked if it was diet, to which the bar tender said, "No. It's a Coke." In that moment, I had a sense that I was doomed, all because this idiot couldn't take my order correctly.

Two hours later, stumbling up to the boarding house where I lived, I knew I was beyond a simple dose of insulin. I needed a hospital. I tossed together a bag of clothes and toiletries and was taken to the ER, and was admitted for being in DKA. When asked how I came to be in such bad shape, I told the doctors of the tragic comedy of errors that brought me there. One of the doctors, who'd cared for me when I was there months before with osteomyelitis, simply shook his head in amazement, especially at being served the wrong drink and the consequent swallow that I took.

Back to my machinations of my youth...Terence wasn't as close to me back then as would eventually become. Most often, we would bump into one another at the comic book store, and then end up hanging out for a bit afterward. This was pretty much a weekly event, and my guess would be that it happened most on Friday, when the new comics were in each week. That was my regular day to head to the shop, and...

Wow. And that's not a good wow. I would be planning on Friday my hospitalization at least four days later. I was incredibly STUPID!

And that's all from me. Be well, and DFTBA. (That last of which I obviously forgot in my youth.)

When I was young and stupid...

2011-12-05T15:30:00.000-08:00

...Y'know...a few years ago. Someone shouted amidst my blog comments or some such that I should run for President, and I took it to heart. I started another blog and everything, in which I decided to open up about myself and my political ideas.

That blog is now thoroughly and completely dead, as is the concept of running for office. No one is going to run out and vote for a guy who is tempted to call in sick while running the country. Sure, I could probably take care of everything from my bedroom, but the nation wants to see it's leader up and about, physically making a show of running things.

Aside from the fact that my potential annual Presidential physical would come back as, "He could have a diabetic stroke at any minute," there's also the fact that I had a lot of goofy ideas that wouldn't mesh with the idea of keeping America running.

One of those things was to become as close to an isolationist nation as possible. (Keep in mind that this comes from someone who calls himself a "backseat president.") My idea of isolating the country would be to tax imports more heavily than they are. That is to say, if someone wants things made outside the country, they're going to have to pay a lot more for it. The reasoning behind this is (was) to push American manufacturing harder. Give the jobs to OUR citizens. Entice companies to establish factories here, so that we'd see "Made in (usually some Asian country)" less often. Put our people back to work, and start having some pride in that old phrase, "American made." Those companies that moved outside the U.S. might save money on labor in their sweat shops, but they'd lose it all, and then some, when it came to paying to import their products. Again, the incentive was to keep the work here, in the States.

Then there was our military operations. Perhaps it's a military secret known only to those in office. Perhaps it's just known to people who aren't as lazy as me, who bother to Google it. Perhaps it's something known by people with more brain power than I...but I can't help but wonder why - for the love of G-d, why? - do we have military bases scattered across the globe? We "tamed" Japan in WW II. We whipped Germany into shape in the same war. And I could understand why we'd want to leave bases there for a decade or two to keep an eye on things - make sure they played nice with the rest of the world. But bases still there after well over six decades? Are you insane? This is a sore spot in our debt that I simply don't understand. (Don't explain it! My ignorance feels quite blissful, thank you very much.)

And then there are these wars we're involved in. We've become embroiled in too many conflicts, and it almost seems as though someone at some time after WW II said, "Hey...War is big business. We should make sure we're always fighting with someone." Since then, it seems as though we've either been at war or preparing to be at war with one nation or another. And while there are those politicians who think war makes for good business, what with various manufacturing contracts spread out all over the U.S., it's the blood of our young men and women that's being spilled on foreign soil. Bring them home, and stop meddling in every affair that we THINK we can meddle in.

As to the idea that we readily start fighting in nations with heavy oil reserves, I think we'd be able to kick our own butts into gear on alternative fuel sources if we would just learn to let go of foreign oil. I believe it could be a much larger industry right here at home if we bothered to put the resources behind it, and probably for a lot less money that it takes to support an army overseas.

Spurring the economy...keeping our military fingers out of so many pies...these ideas, in my head, would eventually start supporting various entitlement programs, instead of us living under the threat of them being bankrupt in just a few decades.

But the idea of cutting ourselves off from the world? No, I'm afraid George Washington would be out of his mind if he were to suggest such a thing today. I don't think there's anything wrong with the concept of "partial isolation," as my ideas might suggest, but we are also part of the global community, and must remain so.

Of course, I also thought running for President would be a great way to FINALLY get decent medical care, instead of having to juggle visits between one doctor or twelve.

And it troubles me that our nation is in such disarray at the moment. That's what all of these political posts have been about. It only seems to get worse as each day passes. (At least Herman Cain seems to have dropped out. That's one silly choice out of the way. NEXT!)

(Oh...if you're wondering why I used the "stupidity" tag, it's because I don't believe myself to be the brightest bulb on the tree when it comes to politics.)

Be well, and DFTBA.

Just this one

2011-12-04T10:32:00.000-08:00

As should be well known, by now, I have lots of aches and pains. The ones coming from my hips have been curtailed to an extent by the removal of the cast; my hips are no longer at a perpetually odd angle, but still ache now and again because of the tissue reduction there. My ankle hurts because of the numerous microfractures in the talus and, because it's new, I can only assume it's the cold causing the pain to flare up.

But there is one pain that is slowly making me more and more insane as time goes by. It's somewhere between the very end of the 1st metatarsal, the medial cuneiform bone, and the intermediate cuneiform bone. Somewhere in there, and I'm not sure where, is an old break that I'm blaming for all this pain, as it doesn't seem to be a good fit with the Charcot arthropathy.

How'd I break a bone in the middle of my foot like that? I broke it...over a girl.

I've mentioned numerous times that Perlin and I broke up because she was cheating on me. From what I can tell, I haven't told that story in full. I probably still won't do that, as I'm only going to cover that event up to the break in my foot. So here goes...

When Perlin and I got together, she was dating someone else, but was flirting heavily with me. Flirting eventually led to much, MUCH more. She broke up with the other guy, started dating me, and all was well. Or so I thought. I had it in my head that I would be the one to change her cheating ways; I would treat her so well that she'd never want to run off with someone else.

In other words, I was a fool.

There was this guy at our community college whom she started spending more and more time with. I not only became extremely suspicious, but insanely jealous. There was a point where he and I were in the college quad, surrounded by many people, and I shouted threats at him so loudly that I could be heard inside the administration building on the third floor. (Yeah, I can be quite loud when I want to be.) I didn't mind Perlin having new friends, but I saw her getting entirely too close to this guy, and told her to stay away from him. That he would visit her at work was even more distressing.

One day, Perlin walked me to class. She gave me a kiss goodbye, and then left for work, as she had no other classes that day. As she walked off, I was about to enter the classroom, when something in my head told me to follow her instead. I did, all the way out to the parking lot...and into a loving embrace with the other guy.

I lost it. I mean, I was undiagnosed with any mental illness, and not medicated in any way, and I exploded with rage. When I become that angry, I don't hit people. I hit things. And while venting my rage, I kicked the door of the guy's car. The car door dented...and then popped right back out.

But my foot...things didn't work out so well for it. Because of the way in which I landed the blow on the car, the bones in the middle of my foot collided, and one of them chipped. The pain at the time was so bad that I went to my PCP of the time, and he took an in-office x-ray which revealed the break. Upon telling my father of the broken bone, my father insisted I see a specialist...because, you know, specialists know more. But when the orthopedic specialist took an x-ray, there was no break to be seen. I then had to run to my PCP, get the copies of the x-ray, and show them to the specialist, who "competently" scratched his head and said, "Hey, there IS a break!" (Genius.)

(Shortly after the break was discovered, and I was retelling the tale of how I broke it, many people wanted to know why I didn't beat the crap out of the guy with whom Perlin was cheating. My repeated answer was this: "The human foot can withstand a great deal of abuse. From what I understand, you can slowly run over a foot with a car, and while it'll hurt, it won't break. So imagine how much force I had to exert to break the bone that I did. No imagine if I'd kicked the guy Perlin was cheating with. If I'd kicked him, my foot would have gone THROUGH him, and I'd be in jail for manslaughter.")

This part of my life was a complete mess. My psyche was shattered by the illusion of love becoming undone. I made one of my more serious suicide attempts over the next few weeks. At one point, I went to shower while I was in the hospital, and they gave me a flimsy plastic bag to cover my cast. The cast became soaked, and was so uncomfortable that I eventually hacked it off at home using an EXTREMELY sharp knife. The bone that was broken only had a brief time to heal - only three or four weeks - and probably didn't heal properly.

Now, years later, it's haunting me as one of the most agonizing pains on Earth. Seriously, it feels like there is a jagged shard of glass that's been shoved in there. The pain is sharp and perpetual, and none of my pain meds seem to be cutting through it. Among other things, it's terribly distracting, and brings about a fear in me of standing and walking. It's that bad, and the brace doesn't really help me with this particular pain.

I believe I'll be seeing the pain specialist in the near future. When I do, I'm going to inquire into the possibility of another nerve block. There has to be a solution to this pain without there being some kind of surgery or more narcotics. Or so I'm hoping.

And now that I've had another whine session, as well as another trip down "Amnesia Lane," I bid you all to be well, and DFTBA.

A brief clarification

2011-12-02T06:35:00.000-08:00

My last post...It's receiving quite a bit of criticism, which I don't mind, as the aforementioned critiques are intelligently argued. The thing is, I slipped in a kind of disclaimer toward the end that is being glossed over. It's the third to last paragraph, in which I state that I was skipping a lot of history. So allow me to clarify that...

I skipped A LOT of history! Lots of it. There's no way I could have covered everything I would have liked to, and there are instances where Washington's ideas would have been oh so very wrong.

The one that comes to mind most strongly is America's involvement in the European side of WW II. I'm surprised we stood on the sidelines as long as we did before we got into the game. To remain an isolationist nation in the face of such an evil as Nazi Germany would have been wrong in so many ways that I can't begin to count. And, really, Adolf Hitler presented a threat to the U.S., as he would have tried to conquer the world had we not stepped in. Could he have done it? We'll never know, thank G-d. But had we taken Washington at his word, putting every suggestion into absolute practice, our world might be very different in countless, negative ways.

We've become "the World Police," which is very much so against the thoughts of our first President. We also spend far more than we have, which has led us into this nightmarish debt the nation now holds. So much time has been spent in the Middle East that I'm surprised we don't simply OWN the nations there. And our political parties are no longer drawing party lines, but digging battle trenches.

My point of my last post was born from a fear that our country is entirely too broken. Governor Bush was a failure at every business his daddy bought for him. It only stands to reason that he would run this country into the ground and leave the mess for someone else to clean up, which is what happened. When/if I have them, my children will be the ones paying off the absurd amount of debt that Bush started and Obama added to. And the political arguments, with everyone pointing fingers and trying to lay the blame on everyone else...It just makes me that much crazier, as no one seems honorable enough to stand up and take responsibility for it.

I skipped A LOT of history. Lots, and lots, and lots. So try not to beat me up too much...Okay?

Be well, and DFTBA!

When we stopped listening...

2011-12-01T07:51:00.000-08:00

No, this isn't another music post. Too many people thinking there's real music out there now. (Kids these days! =P )

No, this is going to be another one of those posts where I discuss politics and history, and Becky will hate it. (She much prefers when I spew a love note in public.) Sorry, my love, but I've been learning things, and now I must vent!

In my post last Saturday, where I was mostly addressing Zeb, he replied with a comment that ended with a few words about our very first President, George Washington. (I mention that in case someone out there thinks our first President was Abe Lincoln or something.) Washington had no party. (Lewis Nicola made a suggestion that Washington become king of a new State, but he was the only one to really make the suggestion. Thus, the idea that Washington was offered to be made king of the United States is a myth. (My source.)) He was unopposed in the election. The framers of our Constitution simply assumed he would take the job, and when he agreed to come out of retirement to take the office, everyone basically said, "Good!" And they left it at that.

Zeb linked a summary to Washington's Farewell Address. It was a nice read, but I wanted to see what was actually said. So I read that, as well. (The man used the word "umbrage" in a sentence without the word "professor" before it! No one speaks (or writes) like that anymore...that I know of.) Having read the actual document and the summary, I have come to the realization that his words fell upon deaf ears...and still do. The House of Representatives stopped reading it back in 1984, but the Senate still reads it on Washington's birthday...and not a single Senator, as far as I can tell, understands a word of it.

But let's back up from our modern day and go all the way back to the election after Washington left office. Washington, having expressed that political parties were a bad idea, was followed by John Adams, a member of the Federalist Party. A member...of the Federalist...Party.

Right. Here's my interpretation of how this went down:

Older, Wiser Parent: See this? This is fire. It burns. Don't touch it. Understand?
Child: Yes, I understand.
Older, Wiser Parent: Are you sure? Because I don't want to see you get burned. If you get burned, it'll hurt. Do you like being hurt?
Child: No.
Older, Wiser Parent: So what won't you do?
Child: I won't touch the fire.
Older, Wiser Parent: Why?
Child: Because it'll burn me, and it'll hurt.
Older, Wiser Parent: Right. Very good.
Child: *immediately puts a hand in the fire and starts screaming in pain*
Older, Wiser Parent: Why'd you do that?!?
Child: I was making sure you were right.
Older, Wiser Parent: ...

Here was a man who'd invested everything he had, including his very life, into the creation of our nation, and then gave his later years into running said nation. On his way out the door, he made a gentle plea, as it were, that those who would follow him to take great care in how they conducted themselves in running the country. Washington had learned from that goofy thing we call EXPERIENCE. And you'd think that these men from another time - men almost certainly WISER than we are today - would heed his warnings. Nope. Human nature seems to dictate that we only learn through our mistakes, and so they had to do exactly what he said not to do in order to prove he was correct.

Okay...now that we've established when we decided to be a stupid nation, let's move forward to 1860, when our first Republican President was elected. (NOW we're at Abraham Lincoln.) Under the misconception that Lincoln was going to ruin their way of life, the Southern States secede. Why? Because of all of the personal discourse that Washington warned about. "False patriots," as Washington may have called them, screamed loudly enough to bring about a shattering of the nation. (Well done, gang.) And we paid for it in blood. This early version of the Republican Party was for a strong central government that would keep the country in one piece.

Today, here in the States, we have these things called "Red States." These are the States that tend to vote Republican most often. In a radical twist, it seems that many Southern States are the ones to vote that way...for the same party that "that heinous Lincoln belonged to." Why? Because modern Republicans are against big, centralized government.

Wait...What?

Y'know what? Let's get away from the whole political party thing and move on to Washington's urging us to stay out of foreign affairs. Oh, the occasional alliance to support a peaceful world was all well and good, as far as his address said, but let's not choose sides all the time...unless the other nation presents an imaginary threat to our way of life, like with communism. "They're over there, and we're over here...but let's make sure they stay over there and crush them while we still can! And while we're getting involved with such nonsense, let's also attack anyone who won't easily share their oil. And once we've established a presence in these other nations, let's not leave for a few dozen decades."

Oh, but I absolutely LOVE the part where Washington warns against debt, proclaiming it a necessity in times of preparation of war, but otherwise unnecessary. "As a very important source of strength and security, cherish public credit. One method of preserving it is to use it as sparingly as possible, avoiding occasions of expense by cultivating peace, but remembering also that timely disbursements to prepare for danger frequently prevent much greater disbursements to repel it, avoiding likewise the accumulation of debt, not only by sunning occasions of expense, but by vigorous exertion in time of peace to discharge the debts which unavoidable wars may have occasioned, not ungenerously throwing upon posterity the burden which we ourselves ought to bear." In other words, "Don't screw up the national debt unless we absolutely have to in order to stay free. And if we DO have to extend our credit, let's not leave the mess for future generations; let's clean up our own messes."

Thanks for the advice, George, but as an advanced society, we now have it in our power to park the country down the street so China can't repo the nation.

I have an idea. Let's erase all of the history books, and call Washington our first and ONLY President. After that, all others will be called "Ringmasters," as they've led this circus in some of the dumbest ways possible. It seems that all of them ignored the wise man atop the mountain, and we've paid for it ever since.

Okay, I'll be fair. I'm leaving out a lot of details in our history, mostly because I'm not trying to write an entire book on the subject at the moment. But I'm wodering what our nation would have been like - would be like - if we'd heeded George Washington's advice. No debt...No squabbling over petty differences...No Fox "News."

Perhaps one day I'll tackle the task of going over George's address, point by point, and exemplify how we handled each one. Or maybe I'll save it as a book idea. Or maybe - just maybe - I'll get over it and worry more about personal matters. =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

Remember when...

2011-11-27T09:24:00.001-08:00

...music truly affected our lives? Most won't. If you were born in the 90s and grew up with (c)rap, pop, or hip-hop, then you can probably only recall music that spews music only about love, sex, or, in the case of (c)rap "music," murder, abuse, and money.

I, in turn, grew up when rock-n-roll talked about more than just love, although love was certainly a repeating theme. I mean, how many couples adopted REO Speedwagon's "Can't Fight This Feeling" as their official song? (Forgive Kevin's Cronin's mullet. It was actually popular at one time.) And if you wanted to feel heartache, despite the song's faster beat through the body of it, there was always something like Styx's "Don't Let It End."

In terms of songs that didn't talk about love, you had bands like Saga, singing about, of all things, a gambling addiction in "Wind Him Up." They also had a song about growing up and facing the realities of adulthood in "Goodbye Once Upon a Time." (That was my interpretation of the song. According to Wiki, Michael Sadler wrote it about his late father; something I can see in the song, as well.) Rush was also notorious for addressing sociological issues, and was still doing it come the 90s with songs like "You Bet Your Life" and "Nobody's Hero." In fact, when I bought their album, Counterparts, "Nobody's Hero" shook me like no other song in quite some time.

Of course, if you wanted utter nonsense, but still fun rock-n-roll, "The Seven Seas of Rhye" fit nicely. And most of the time, I had no idea what Yes was singing about, but their music was utterly amazing. Even when they briefly split, a song like "Order of the Universe" had my jaw scraping along the floor with the level of talent tucked into its workings. (It should be noted that, since I was a late bloomer in so many aspects of life, Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, and Howe was he very first concert I ever went to see. Also, my idea of the order of the universe was, "ham on rye, light mayo, no cheese.") "Order of the Universe" was my favorite song on the album, and you have to listen carefully, but there is a most amazing guitar-playing that kicks in at 6:45 on the video I linked. It doesn't last long, but...yeah...wow.

Pink Floyd, Yes, Queen, Saga, Rush, REO Speedwagon, Night Ranger...These were some of my favorite bands, and listening to them brings me back to a time when I was quite troubled, but also surrounded by great friends. Some of the music I listened to was heavily basted in love and the consequences thereof, while other parts were simply about life, or aspects of life. It seems like today's musicians are only concerned about relationships. The only new performer coming close is Chris Daughtry, and...

Well, before Becky and I were truly involved, she went to her first concert, which was Daughtry. His song, "September," takes me back to those "good old days." Me, Bryan, Terence, and Rick wandering the town of Wantagh, nothing to do but dwell on the fantasies churning in our heads.

Yeah...I miss those days when I was young and fit...and my greatest concern was whether or not I had enough money to fill up the tank so we could go for aimless cruises, blasting the music we loved so much.

I remember when...Do you?

Be well, and DFTBA.

Talking politics with Zeb

2011-11-26T10:04:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Troll;

No, no...I'm not calling him a troll. His name, (although I know his real name, but choose not to tell the world), is Zeb the Troll, and he's a moderator on GitP. Despite that last fact...=P...I deem him a good friend. =)

Anyway, I'm in agreement with you on our political climate. The President hasn't received much cooperation from anyone in his term, which is why I call him "the Great Compromiser." He tries to be friends with everyone on both sides of the aisle, and that just doesn't work. "You can please some of the people some of the time, but you can't please all of the people all of the time." His attempt at trying to accomplish the latter has produced more drama than there was on The West Wing. If he cooperates with the D's, he ticks off the R's. If he tries to throw the R's a bone, as you said, the D's get their feathers ruffled.

The problem, as I see it, is a complete lack of understanding, or only the most basic form of understanding at a bare minimum. The transparency that Obama advertised at the start of his term has become somewhat tainted. "We'll let you see everything going on behind the curtain...from our perspective." I suppose this is what makes Fox "News" so popular. They are an ongoing editorial about how they see things, and not how things actually ARE. The D's are as guilty of it, but they're far more subtle.

So we have our politicians, and many of them want to be reelected to office. That's their main goal overall. To do this, they must please their constituency. Their constituency doesn't truly understand the issues at hand because no one is taking the time to explain it in any other language that "legalese." There are also various complexities to numerous issues, including the dizzying aspects of economics, that most people don't truly understand. (It's why there was that one protester with the sign, "Keep your government hands of my Medicare!" This is the intellect of what I believe is the majority of the nation...unfortunately.) The lack of understanding leads to simplistic demands, which tend to be bad for the nation.

Thus, we have politicians trying to appease their constituency by fulfilling the latter's demand with simple legislation that doesn't fit the complex government system we have. The former does this so their constituents continue to like them and vote for them. And the whole thing is gumming up the works in ways never before seen in history.

Obama trying to make everyone happy isn't helping, either. He's shown a kind of weakness in trying to make nice with everyone on both sides of the aisle instead of being more Bush-like.

Bush...I hated that schmuck. Illegally in office. Dumb as a stick. Embarrassing to listen to. He was a complete ass. But what I'll grant him is that when he wanted something, he got it. He was as stubborn as every other Texan who ever made it into the history books. He wanted tax cuts for the rich? He got them. He wanted war? He got it.

*sigh* If only he'd wanted a dictionary at some point.

Obama is a great public speaker, and I think that's the only reason he got elected. After that, his leadership skills - something rather important in a President - are sorely lacking. The good news, as I see it, is that it's not too late for him. At the rate things are going, there won't be a strong R candidate to challenge him in the next election. Perhaps an independent will come along who becomes a threat, but the R's are too disorganized. So I think Obama will see a second term, and then it's entirely possible that he will throw caution to the wind and take greater chances. Chances that he knows will be good for our nation. And with the Senate and House currently having such low approval ratings thanks to their R majority, we might well see more D's taking seats. Then Obama just MIGHT see things going his way for a change.

Now here's the thing I feel I must point out. I don't see myself as a Democrat or Republican. I'm on the fence with a lot of things, and so I await the candidate who makes the most sense. The R's have been babbling nonsense, so I've crossed them off my list. And unless Obama starts showing more backbone, I'm crossing him off my list as well. I'm awaiting a leader who will actually LEAD.

So...while this seems mostly addressed to only one reader, all reader's are welcome to throw feedback at me. Meanwhile, be well, and DFTBA!

The honorable thing

2011-11-25T18:50:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of history involved, but Becky's dad is not her biological father. No...that particular schmuck was only around long enough to get 'Nita pregnant every now and again. Otherwise, he was off serving in the navy or servicing other women. Becky was all of six months when he walked away for good...kinda. I mean, he would spend time with his children when it made him look like he just might be a good father. Other than that, he was never really a part of her life.

Becky's dad, however, entered her life when she was two, and he was good to a family that technically wasn't his. Really, it was only genetically. In every other sense, he was "daddy" to Becky. Actually, he was always known as "Turk," even though he was perpetually thought of as "dad." 'Nita and Turk never married, but have been together for 20 years. Thus, when the time comes, it will be Turk giving Becky away, and not that other guy.

Now, when it came to meeting Becky's parents, I knew I'd be meeting her mother first, as Turk was out of the country at the time. It was nerve-wracking, as Becky and I were already engaged, yet her mom hadn't met me yet. We broke it to her as gently as possible, and in that instant I was made to make several promises. 1: Becky completes school. 2: No surprise wedding, in which we come home from wherever and announce, "Surprise! We're married!" (Her ex, Shawn, tried to set up just such a thing, which ticked off a lot of people.) 3: No child named "Oops." That is, we are to do our level best to avoid getting pregnant until Becky has completed school.

Fine. We can do those things. And since that first meeting, 'Nita and I have gotten along rather well.

By the time I met Turk, he'd already received the news that Becky and I were engaged, and had had time to cool off. (I think every father hates the guy who's bound to steal away his little girl. And with Becky being the youngest of three kids, she really was the baby.) He and I got along well enough, which came as a bit of a surprise to me. I mean, he's a Muslim and I'm Jewish. We should be rolling around on the floor, hands wrapped around the other's throat. The good news...? He's about as Muslim as I am Jewish. Thus, no fights to the death.

For all the times I've gone with Becky to visit her family, I've been overlooking something that I felt was important. It's a bit old-fashioned, but I'd never actually asked her father for his daughter's hand in marriage. Sure, I had asked for her mother's blessing, but not her dad's.

I corrected that on Thanksgiving Day. I explained how I'd been so wrapped up in seeking her mother's approval that I never asked for his. His response kept things simple enough. So long as I didn't interfere with Becky becoming a nurse, I would have his blessing.

And that was it. What had been plaguing my mind for months, but what I refused to do over the phone, was finally put to rest. I can be quite stubborn, shortsighted, and even downright rude. But at all times, I try to seek out the honorable action and follow through with it.

So it was that I had a good Thanksgiving. I know not all of my readers are here in the States, and yet it's my hope that as the Holidays approach, we can all count our blessings and be thankful for all the good we have in our lives. Sure, I complain a lot, but I've been given fair reason to do so. When I can, I try to see the bright side.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Collapses

2011-11-23T12:09:00.000-08:00

This post comes to you in two parts. The first is personal, and the second is political. You can pick your choice of topic, or read the whole thing. It's not just freedom of speech...It's the freedom to read! =)

Anywho, I went to see the special specialist today for that four to six week followup that was to come after I got my spiffy new shoes. I'd been a bit worried, what with all of the swelling, and the fact that there was a portion of the bottom of my foot that looked...Well, not good. Either something is wrong structurally, or my foot is pregnant. If the former, I feared more casting. If the latter, I was seeing the opportunity to become rich!

It turned out that the waiting was longer than the actual discussion with the doctor. I told him that the shoes fit very well, and they offer a decent amount of relief...provided it's not cold and raining, which it was today. Then I pointed to the part of my foot worrying me most, which is a lump on the underside of my foot, kind of along a path following the third and fourth toe, in the area most people know as the arch. Mid-foot...lump...callus forming. What gives?

Nothing unusual, according to the doc. It's common for people with Charcot arthropathy to experience the collapse of their arches. That mine is only a partial collapse is actually not so bad. It could be the whole thing, to which I'd probably have some major issues with that whole "walking thing." There's also the blessing that this collapse isn't bothering me; it's just there. I have other pains in the same foot that are apparently unrelated to that collapse, so...ummm...yay?

Overall, the doc was pleased. There was no longer anything incredibly unusual. My foot might be an ugly, swollen, painful monstrosity, but it looks okay for someone with Charcot arthropathy. He wished me well, and said I should call if I needed more help.

I should call him next week and ask if he could become a dentist for a little while. =P

* * *

On with my political topic, which I think should be entitled, "The Collapse of the Republican Party." Honestly, I can't recall any political race as what I've been witnessing over the last few months. The Republicans seem to have a goal: make sure they don't get a President elected.

Now, understand that I'm not pointing at Republicans as a whole; I'm looking directly at the politicians. The very first of their party to take the Presidency said quite famously, "A house divided against itself cannot stand." Republicans are so divided that they are fracturing any cohesive image that they might have had. And with members of Fox News leading the way as their heralds, they come off as a bunch of lunatics.

There are apparently eight people seeking to run for the big chair, and the party, as a whole, can't make up their collective minds as to who that should be. So far, from what I'm gathering while watching the race from a long, LONG way off, I have an idea of who should NOT run. In no particular order...

Herman Cain - The only things this guy can keep straight in his head are "Black Walnut" and "Nine, nine, nine." What he claimed to be a simple "pause" when asked about Libya came across as a kid caught in class by the teacher asking him a question, to which the kid, after hemming and hawing, finally admits, "I didn't do the assignment." And that whole sexual harassment thing...? The records say one thing. Herman says a half dozen others. Perhaps if he'd been honest and admitted his wrongdoing, as well as apologizing publicly, I might have come away saying, "Wow. That took guts. I like that." Instead, I shake my head in embarrassment for anyone and everyone in his campaign.

Michele Bachmann - No. No, no, no, no, no. She seems just as much of a crazy dingbat as Sarah Palin. Quoting MB, "Carbon dioxide is portrayed as harmful. But there isn't even one study that can be produce that shows carbon dioxide is a harmful gas." Sorry, but when common knowledge escapes a potential candidate, I can only pray that she simply goes away, silently. (My prayers will probably not be answered in that regard.)

Rick Perry - Of all the public speaking gaffes he's committed during the debates, I have just one word that sums them all up: Oops.

These are the ones who've been so dumb that the spotlight has shown brightly on them. None of them should be running for the Presidency. If anything, the Republican Party should be begging them to step down so the spotlight shines on someone who knows what they're doing. Instead, it's like the circus is in town, and everyone is enjoying the show. Unfortunately, this isn't entertainment to me, and should be to anyone else. This is our country's leadership. This "clown parade" that's being presented by the Republicans needs to come to a stop.

Why bring it up? Because I had great hope that Obama would straighten out the messes Governor Bush left us in. But with "Yes we can" being effectively turned into "We probably can't," I don't see him as a viable candidate in 2012. And at the rate things are going, there really won't be anyone worth voting for come Election Day next year.

Okay...I think I'm done. Be well, and DFTBA!

Too much stuff in my head

2011-11-20T12:17:00.000-08:00

This is a problem. A serious one. Because I want to get my butt working on my book about diabetes, but I'm perpetually distracted by one thing or another.

For starters, I see irony in the fact that my writing about diabetes was disrupted by the complications of diabetes. Oh, I got a little writing done during that time, but my head was often filled with, I hate this cast. I hate this cast. I hate this cast. In fact, just the thought of the cast and how it disrupted so much of what I was doing in life irritates me. The apartment fell into greater disarray. Intimacy between Becky and I went out the window. Showers became a much less frequent event. And let's not forget the pain I experienced, along with the occasional muscle cramp.

The cast came off, I got my new shoes, one with a brace, and my right foot...blew up. This time it wasn't just the ankle. It was the entire foot. Following the line of bones down from the big toe, right in the middle of my foot, an old break began to cry out in agony, as though someone were shoving shards of glass into that area. The swelling also affected my toes, giving very little room for the skin in between them to breathe. So as an added bonus, I developed athletes foot, which burns like fire.

I was supposed to become more active once I had the shoes. I even planned to start walking, which I gave a few tries. But then there are other old pains, like surgical sites and the like, that have started reacting to the increasing cold and all the precipitation we've been getting around here.

My personal life was not going in the directions I'd hoped once I moved in with my beloved.

Enter the world. I don't like what I'm seeing out there. The government seems intent on shutting down half of the internet. What's more, the government hasn't drawn party lines, but dug party trenches, and are fighting each other over every little thing, passing some of the dumbest legislation along the way. (Really...how important was it to have Styrofoam containers for their lunches over biodegradable cardboard? Who cares if "in G-d we trust" appears on our money, so long as it still spends?) The government is stall, and I believe it's because no one wants to work with "the Great Compromiser," President Obama.

I can see it now, as millions of senior citizens who have been rooting for the Republican Party suddenly find drastic cuts to their Medicare coverage. They'll be shocked, and start shouting about how this was not what they wanted...But that's what you've been screaming for. Don't you remember? You and your grass-roots nonsense have been wanting less interference from the government. They'll eventually have it and won't be happy...and manage to blame the Democrats, because they're just that smart.

Add to this the crimes that are being committed against our youth. The bullying that leads a kid to think of no other solution that suicide. The infamous rapist and what I deem his accomplices. White collar crimes, with the rich trying to get richer by stealing from their own companies or from investors. Executives taking bailout money as bonuses for a job done poorly. These are the things that keep popping into my head, and make me wish I had some magical power to fix this oh-so-broken world.

Not to mention my friends, who've faced their own crises. Ray's father dying. Julie's grandfather dying. Sophia losing an EMT friend to...something. Various friends combating their own illnesses, as well as struggling with issues of poverty. I want the power to fix their lives, as well.

Alas, there's no genie in a bottle, and no magic wand that'll cast a "fix-everything" spell.

Somehow, I manage to have hope. I still love Becky, even if we've been having a hard time of things lately. Julie's kids are a wonder, and I pray there are more parent's like Julie, with more kids like hers. And if all else fails, there's always Nike, snuggling up to me, simply wanting love. It helps when my brain is overloading.

Here's hoping that in the near future, I'll be able to get back to work on my book. I keep meeting people who, as soon as I mention I'm a diabetic, say that they know someone who isn't taking care of themselves. This book is NEEDED rather badly.

Be well, and DFTBA.

Calling Captain Obvious...

2011-11-19T08:06:00.000-08:00

Come in, Captain Obvious! We need your help!

Or, at least, I do. And when you lend me your aid, could you do so in a slightly more timely manner. Like when I was at the podiatrist on Wednesday and complaining that it felt as though my toes on the right foot were on fire. Well, I reported it as a burning sensation.

There are some details in this post, so if a fungal infection of the feet bothers you, perhaps you should run along and read some other source of material. I recommend The Iliad. =P

Admittedly, it's a tough call to make. Because of the Charcot arthropathy, there is perpetual swelling and discoloration. Skin against skin tends to produce sweat. (I remember an old joke. Q: Why to people sweat? A: So they don't catch fire while making love.) So at a glance, things appear to be status quo. A physical exam is also hampered on the doctor's part because he wisely wears gloves. It's the smart thing to do when dealing with the sweaty feet of someone whose hygiene habits are unknown to you.

By Thursday evening, the burning sensation at my toes now felt like they were actually on fire. While tending to my foot, I noticed that my toes appeared to be...crusty. Said crust could easily be dismissed as dead, scaling skin. Since I can't bend my leg or foot to get a better view, I rely on my sense of touch during such self-examinations. As my fingers moved between my toes, there was so much moisture that when I removed them from between my toes, I fully expected to see blood. Instead, whatever the fluid was, it was completely clear. I would gladly have dismissed it as simple sweat, but the stench...! Oh, dear G-d, it stank!

I don't recall ever having athlete's foot, and to think of a disabled man having it when all he does is sit around in his socks seems contradictory. But I quickly looked it up, and saw pictures that seemed to indicate I was right on the money.

Thus, I did what I could immediately. First, I dried as much of the fluid as I could with a paper towel, trying my best to clear away that crusty material. Then I scrubbed my toes with another paper towel soaked with rubbing alcohol. In my mind, the 70% isopropyl alcohol and water mix is enough to kill just about any germ alive. I've even used the stuff to kill the bacteria in kitchen sponges with great success. But I am also a firm believer in my fallibility, and didn't have enough faith in my ability to get the alcohol everywhere it was needed. So, using a third paper towel, I dried my toes and then coated them with a little Gold Bond Medicated Powder that I have on hand. I also poured more powder into my sock before putting it back on.

An hour or two later, I was feeling a bit better, hinting to me that I just might be completely accurate on my self-diagnosis.

While I could TRY to treat it on my own, I'm just not like that with anything that bothers me, as demonstrated by my recent dental adventures. Thus, I called the podiatrist on Friday morning and described my symptoms to his receptionist. She, in turn, put me on hold and reported to the doctor. When she came back, she told me that they would be calling in an anti-fungal cream, and that if there was no improvement in the days to come, I was to call back to be seen.

My concerns involve the fact that I feel this topical fungal infection so badly. While the underside of my feet are miraculously sensitive, my toes tend to be a bit numb when it comes to collisions and cuts. My fear - yes, another fear! - is that this thing is a bit deeper than I can observe visually or by touch. My hope - yes, another hope! - is that the cream will address the problem and there'll be no complications. (Having said that, there'll be complications. Just you wait and see!)

I just wish Captain Obvious had been on hand Wednesday afternoon. Just the mention of the burning pain should have had my podiatrist looking for signed of athlete's foot. Perhaps it simply wasn't bad enough at the time. I don't remember there being any crusting along my toes during the visit. Then again, the doctor had a much better vantage point than I'll ever have.

Oh, I hope this isn't a sign of things to come. I like this guy. Between him and my PCP, I honestly wish all of my doctors were like them. But if the foot guy is going to start missing or overlooking the obvious, then I suspect there's going to be big problems for my in the future.

Well, it was certainly nice to get back to my usual complaining, wasn't it? =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

Something lighter...Fuzzier...

2011-11-18T06:54:00.000-08:00

The last two days have been somewhat heavy topics, and my depressed brain can't handle it all the time. If I don't write about something less serious, I'm going to explode. In fact, I'm sorely tempted to rant about the Republicans and their ridiculous attempt at making a run for the White House -

Calm down, Rob. Caaaaaalm.

So, I wrote a week ago about wanting to rewrite Little Fuzzy for the fun of it. I wandered about the web, trying to see if there was anything else I could learn about H. Beam Piper's Fuzzies, and learned something new: that there was a third Piper novel about them. How I'd missed this before, I have no idea. But when I found it for a mere $1.99, I just couldn't pass up the chance to buy it.

I learned a few other things along the way. Mr. Piper, as he should be called if I'm going to respect his works, published The Other Human Race, later to be called Fuzzy Sapiens, in 1964...and then committed suicide. There's some argument as to why he ended his life. The argument seems to be between financial woes, family troubles, and wanting to hurt his recently divorced ex-wife. Whatever the case may be, there was rumor of a third novel, of which the manuscript had been lost.

It resurfaced in 1984 and was published under the title of Fuzzies and Other People. This was the book I bought...and cost more to ship than the actual product. Go figure.

Of course, I started reading it immediately...and have become suspicious. Did Mr. Piper truly write this, or is this someone's attempt at hackery? If the former, then the reason it wasn't published was probably because the author felt it needed a great deal of polish. I would agree with his assessment, as there are inconsistencies between novels. If it was the latter, then it was a weak attempt.

Here's what has me wondering what's what...The Fuzzies can speak, but have issues with the pronunciation of some English words. When given a vioce in the previous novels, there was nary an R to be found, with L's becoming rare from time to time. One of the characters, "Uncle Gerd" to the Fuzzies at that point, referred to him as "Unka Gehd." This was consistent in the first two novels. This third one, however, has the Fuzzies using the occasional R, and it has me thinking that either Mr. Piper was so distracted that he forgot an integral part of what made Fuzzies so adorable - their child-like speech patterns - or that the hack who tried to cash in on Mr. Piper's work had overlooked it.

But I'm enjoying the book. It's different, in that for the first time there is more focus on the Fuzzies on their own, and not all about humans and what humans do in one situation or another. I like the creative thinking, terming the idea of sundown as "the sun going to its sleep-place." A fact is an "everyone-know-thing." And Fuzzies don't die, so much as they "make dead."

With this bit of babbling complete, I'm off to get things done...I hope. Be well, and DFTBA.

Edit: I finished reading the book not long after this post, and definitely came away feeling like there was something wrong with the story. The previous novels weren't very long, and this one is similar in length...but it seems as though portions are missing. Just toward the end, in the second to last chapter that seems unattached to anything before it. That is, you have to look back and attach it to someone, which is rather messy writing coming from Mr. Piper.

Perhaps my fun project should be putting the polish on this novel? It could certainly use it, and, who knows...? It might even be something worth talking to the Piper Estate about.

Dead too early

2011-11-17T10:09:00.001-08:00

It's becoming a little too common of late. Youth around the world are being bullied to the point of wanting to end their lives...and they're doing just that. The latest victim, Ashlynn Conner, was only 10 years of age. She hung herself in her own closet using a scarf. While the local sheriff's department won't comment, it is being treated as a suicide.

Where were the adults during all of this? Why didn't someone take bigger and better action, other than saying, "We'll talk about it"? Her mother was going to talk with the school principal on Monday about homeschooling Ashlynn. Apparently, that was too long to wait. She killed herself on Friday, with her older sister finder her unresponsive.

I want someone to blame for this. I want to pay for what was done to this sweet child. She appears so happy in the one picture I've seen repeatedly. Are the kids who bullied her weeping at night for what they've done? Are the adults embarrassed for not taking action? Who goes to jail for driving another human being to their death? Who pays for it?

Can we blame the bullies? We look at all sorts of studies, and they tell us that bullies have their own problems with self-esteem, their spirits crushed at home by parents or siblings. Another study will say that the previous one is absurd, and that the bullies simply think they're beyond the constraints of socially acceptable behavior. "One must be at the top of the heap at all times. To do that, one must keep the rabble in their place." So it becomes acceptable to put down the geek, the kid whose family is poor and must wear the fashions of two or three years ago, and the kid that's overweight.

I was bullied...at home and at school. I don't know how I survived. Yet the feelings of worthlessness embedded in me all those years ago now carry on to my adult life, leaving me to wonder how it is that I deserved to be loved at all. The bullying continued into my adult life, as can be seen by the affects of my father's ongoing criticisms. (My favorites were being told I wasn't handicapped, despite numerous opinions of doctors, and having my pending amputation waved off like it was utter foolishness.) The thought to end my life crosses my mind daily, usually as only a fleeting thought when my meds are working properly. The only one who didn't manage to bully me in the family was Stu...until he adopted the ways of our biological mother.

So how DID I survive? I think, perhaps, it was the acceptance of those few true friends that I had. Those who accepted me for who and what I am, without making ongoing judgments about me. There were even a few who envied things about me...a long time ago.

What's envied now? My ability to endure. From all the garbage I had to deal with in my youth to the perpetual pain I've lived in for the last decade. Many are amazed that I didn't "turn to the dark side," as it were. Somehow, I maintain hope...I still find love...I manage to care, even about those whom I don't know personally.

I was living in Sayville, and it was about a year before I'd won my disability benefits. There was a park not far from the house, and I would often wander over there and sit to read. I was doing just that when I heard what sounded like someone hitting someone else, and a girl cry out in pain. I got up to investigate...

...and found a pair of high school students. They would have made a handsome couple, if not for the look of anger on his face, and the tears in her eyes...and the red mark on her cheek, where she'd been slapped. There are some who would have advised me to mind my own business. Really, what could some disabled guy do against an angry teenager? But there was no one to whisper advice in my ears, and so I confronted him about how tough he must be, smacking his girlfriend when the mood struck him. (No pun intended...seriously.)

Thank G-d I don't look sick. That's probably why so many have had a problem with my being declared disabled. The boy, had he wanted to, could've taken me apart. Instead, the bully immediately became afraid of someone willing to stand up to him, and said something to the effect of, "I'll go get my daddy if you don't go away." (Whatever his exact words, that's what his message boiled down to.)

The girl told me that "everything was fine," at which point I was left with little else to do. I didn't have a cell phone to call the cops, and they were on the move before I could get to a pay phone. Besides, had the cops found them, odds are that they would be powerless to do anything, as I'm sure she wouldn't have pressed charges. And she was so pretty, with a slight point to her ears that made me think of her as a pixie or elf. She could've had any guy she wanted, but chose the handsome, abusive jackass.

Inquiries I made afterward made it clear that everyone knew this young couple, and his abusive nature, yet no one was willing to do anything about it. It was as though I was the only human being amongst the inhabitants of Sayville.

I don't know what to do. Bullying is one of the issues that I wish I could magically make vanish. Alas, there is no magic power to make such a thing go away. All I can do is hope that there are people out there rearing their kids to be accepting and loving, and heroes to put an end to bullying when they witness it.

Be well, and DFTBA.

Crime against humanity

2011-11-16T13:23:00.000-08:00

In a very short time, this whole Sandusky thing has me wanting to hunt the bastard down and hang him by his parts until gravity rips them off. I've been trying to ignore it in the hopes that it would just go away, but then Jon Stewart did a little more coverage of the whole sorry story and I found myself wanting Sandusky to be slowly fed into a meat grinder.

Sports commentator Bob Costas was interviewing Sandusky's lawyer, when the scumbag called in himself. Bob went on to ask some hard questions, and not only could you tell Sandusky was lying, but the lies were bizarre unto themselves. I mean, Costas asked in Sandusky was sexually attracted to young boys, and the P.O.S. slowly repeated the question back. He didn't go for the ploy of instant shock. He didn't fall back on any sort of outrage. Instead, it sounded as though he was repeating the question while his mind slowly came up with what he believed would be the perfect lie.

And his "perfect lie" had me wondering what the hell he smoked before making that call. He stated that when he was caught forcefully sexually abusing a boy of 10 or 11 years of age that they were just engaged in horseplay in the showers. "Horseplay is when you wrestle your friend out of a pillow fort," Jon Stewart said last night. "Horseplay is pushing your nephew into the pool." And even if that ridiculous excuse could be bought, what on Earth was he doing in the showers, naked, with a child at all? And then to have Sandusky state that he enjoys the company of boys?!?

My mind keeps flashing back to Michael Jackson, whom I've come to believe was mentally ill on multiple levels. I don't think Michael could properly differentiate between what was proper and what was improper with kids.

Sandusky, however, comes across to me like a predator. And not a very good one, either. Confessing that he likes the company of young boys and was engaged in "horseplay" with a naked boy are some of the most pathetic lies ever spoken.

I had a visit with my podiatrist today. He and I engaged in some extremely off-color humor. My doctor said he was now accepting applications for an assistant coaching position, to which I replied, "I assume that would be the boys team?" Yeah, Becky quickly made a noise to indicate I was crossing the line of decency, and I swiftly made something of an apology. The reality is that absolutely none of it is humorous.

But what's worse is the concept that Sandusky might very well get away with his crimes.

First of all, how can he have a fair trial? Who hasn't heard of this whole thing. There are entirely too many mediums with which one can be exposed to the story. If I were picked for the jury, the moment I walked into court, I'd be harboring such hatred for the defendant that no penalty under our current legal codes would be enough to punish him.

Next, I have big issues with the judge involved thus far. She was a volunteer with Sandusky's charity, which, as I understand it, was where he was able to hunt for prey. That she didn't recuse herself immediately is worrisome at the least, and criminal at the most. She's the reason why he was set free on $100,000 bail, not bonded, and wasn't required to wear a tracking anklet. If she's hearing the rest of this...? G-d help those children, and all future victims of this creep.

Finally, there is something my podiatrist pointed out, and that's the possibility of some people seeing a gravy train being presented. False accusers are likely to come forward, hoping to see some kind of payout along the way. Once the liars are caught, it then leaves the defense clear to accuse EVERYONE of lying. Once that happens, and the lies are proven in court, the prosecution's case will unravel at terrifying speeds.

There are other disturbing things along the way...Like the assistant who found Sandusky abusing the boy in the shower. Only AFTER his grand jury testimony is this guy claiming he put a stop to the abuse; something he didn't include when before the grand jury. No, according to his testimony, he saw what he saw, left, and called...his father?

And Joe Paterno...After learning of what Sandusky was doing, he called...his boss. And that, he felt, was the end of his responsibilities in the matter.

It almost seems as though Sandusky had surrounded himself with a crowd as inhuman as he is.

I really don't want to hear about this any more. I see it as a crime against humanity, especially because kids were irreparably harmed, and it's entirely too disturbing. But there's no escaping it. I just pray that there's a swift end to it, with Sandusky learning how well child molesters are treated in jail.

WAY too old to be "kiddo"

2011-11-15T05:09:00.000-08:00

My favorite MMO, City of Heroes, has undergone numerous changes over the years. Quite a few changes during the first few years had players losing their minds at the "stupid logic" applied by the CEO, who is now gone a couple of years. Since his leaving the company, they game's improvements have been amazing, if not also rather complex. There was once a time when I could sit with a new player and explain the major points of the game within a half an hour, allowing for their questions and such. Now...? Oh, I don't dare offer my aid. The most I'll do is refer them back to the forums for tips on how to get the most out of their characters.

In their first expansion, the makers of the game introduced City of Villains. It wasn't the best in terms of writing, as it seemed the villainous characters players created would often end up fighting other villains. But what they did do was introduce a number of different archetypes that players could create. One such archetype, as far as I'm concerned, corrected something that was missing.

When you make a game based on comic books, you want to be able to mimic certain aspects of the comic book characters. One aspect was that of the Hulk. The more he fought, the stronger he got. With the original game, the best you could manage was a "tank." For tanks, your primary power was defensive, as your job is essentially to keep getting hit while others around you finish off the baddies. Your secondary power set was offense, and the damage dealt was subdued compared to the other melee class, "scrappers."

But City of Villains gave us "the brute." It was the tank, but reverse. You took an offensive power as your primary set, and a defensive power as your secondary set. And the fun part was that the more you fought, the greater your damage output. The game makers won't allow characters that are copyright infringements, but you could certainly crate "The Incredible Schmaltz" if you really wanted to. (Ummm..."schmaltz," for those who don't know, is chicken fat.)

Here's the thing...If you wanted a brute, it had to be a villain. If you wanted an heroic brute, that was your tough luck.

Then came the most recent expansion, Going Rogue. It introduced a starting point in the game where you could choose whatever archetype you wanted. Come level 20, you had to choose between being a hero or a villain. It was at that point that, if you wanted to, you could send the brute you created over to the heroic side.

Now, City of heroes/Villains, also known as CoX by the playing masses, gives free updates to the game. Like a comic book, then call them "issues." The most recent issue, "Freedom," made all sorts of monumental changes to the game, including free play (for two characters), a points system (that let's you "buy" various things for the game...so long as you still pay into it), creating ANY archetype and starting them in any starting point of the game, and numerous story arcs that are completely new.

For that last, one of the new story arcs includes a would-be super group called "The Shining Stars." Your contact, and the groups leader, is Twinshot. She's a trained veteran of some kind of military group, and as the story moves forward, all sorts of things get revealed about her. The story line is also, it seems, an extension of the tutorial. She sends you on a number of tasks that reveal more and more of the game's complex systems. Enhancements, notoriety...how to use the transit system. (Wait...you click on the gate to the tram and you can travel to other zones?!? Amazing!)

Okay...Backing away from the mechanics of the game, allow me to tell you about Thadeus Grimm. He WAS a tank. I didn't like him as a tank. I'd always wanted him as a brute, but when I made him, Going Rogue hadn't come out. I held onto the character I could make, and got him all the way to level 39 - a mere 11 levels before the maximum. And because of his back-story, he was to be a hero.

Y'see, Thadeus wasn't an evil man. He wasn't a good man. So when he died in the mid-1600's, he ended up in a rather boring version of the afterlife that was between Heaven and Hell. He spent centuries petitioning the Powers That Be to let him have a "do-over." Heaven was all for it. Hell was for it, too, but decided to make it tough to accomplish. They put his soul into a freshly rotting corpse, viciously marked it up with scarring and chains, and gave him the terrifying powers of the netherworld with which to do good. Seeing the disadvantages heaped upon him by Hell, Heaven placed the reborn Thadeus Grimm in Paragon City, where a hero is judged by his deeds, not his looks.

Suddenly, I could remake him as I wanted. I deleted the tank version and remade him as a brute. I then started playing through the new stories, happy that there was finally new material in the game. And when I was given Twinshot as a new contact, she, according to her script, stuck me with a nickname: Kiddo.

This is my gripe. "Kiddo." The character is over 350 years old, and she's calling him "kiddo." There has yet to be any evidence that she's a time traveler, and there are quite a few of those in the game. Heck, one of the Shining Stars states he's from the future, and so he MIGHT be able to get away with such a moniker for my character. But Twinshot is, on a guess, an estimated 325 years younger than Thadeus Grimm, and he finds it insulting. (Okay, *I* find it insulting.)

Yes...this whole post was me griping about a nickname given to a fictional character I created inside an MMO. Doesn't your life feel fuller for this information? =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

Happy 11/11/11!

2011-11-11T16:12:00.000-08:00

Third time's a charm, right? That is, this is my third attempt at a post today. The first was a draft made yesterday that I was going to publish today; it was a spectacular "whine-n-cheese" session about how I screwed up my psych meds. Then, earlier today, I tried to compare the honor of Veteran's Day to the thoroughly dishonorable behavior of certain college staff members currently facing charges of sexually abusing MULTIPLE children. Those posts totally sucked.

Instead, I'm going to talk about something of much lesser importance. My desire to rewrite a book that I've mentioned before. Actually, it's two books, Little Fuzzy and The Other Human Race, which was later given the title of Fuzzy Sapiens. When combined, they became the book, The Fuzzy Papers.

Why would I do this? For fun. And that's the ONLY reason. John Scalzi wrote a reboot of the original novel, which I've already griped about. You see, I recently sat down and read the former books, and then sat and read the reboot in the hopes of finding some redeeming qualities. I didn't. There was only one good line in the whole thing. "Get off my planet you son of a bitch." That was it.

So I certainly won't be rewriting the original books in any attempt to make money from them. I just want to rewrite them for the fun of it. Perhaps make a few alterations to the characters, turning the main one, Jack Holloway, into a younger man, and adding a bit more depth to him. Update the technology and maybe insert a little more science into the science fiction. And this would be my little project, just to kill time when I have nothing else brewing in my life.

Which is to say, it might well never be completed once I start it. There's always something else that needs doing in my life, including original writing ideas. Some of the latter, however, become immobile by writers' block. So reworking a novel that already exists would be a way of keeping the brain functioning, instead of allowing it to be stuck in neutral.

As to the veterans who are meant to be remembered this day...? Well, I already offered Zeb a virtual handshake yesterday. And my father...? Well, he's a veteran, but I don't think he's taking my calls anymore. And while that makes me incredibly sad, it was him and Stu who chose this path, not me.

Be well, and DFTBA.

The tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth

2011-11-09T16:56:00.000-08:00

So, as I promised Zeb, as well as myself and my beloved Becky, I went to the dentist today. I knew the news wouldn't be good, but I didn't expect it to be as bad as it was made out to be. A part of me is a bit suspicious about what I was told, but I'll get to that later.

I'll start, first, with the ordeal of the x-rays. Through the whole of my life, I'd never had so many extensive x-rays of my mouth taken. They started by having me stand on a platform while a machine took what I assume to be a panoramic view of my mouth. Then I was brought to another room and x-rays were taken of my teeth, ten pictures in all to capture the disaster in all its glory. The x-ray tech was all business, and I was a bit nervous at having to make this dental visit, so I was of a mind to start cracking wise about what was going on. She made this difficult by her all-business attitude...so I made a joke about said attitude, and that thoroughly broke through her demeanor. That I was able to make her smile helped me to relax a great deal.

No rooms were immediately available, so I went back out to the waiting room, where I kibitzed with Becky and a few other people seated there. Again, bringing smiles helped me to relax.

Then I was called back to a room...and had to wait again. There were several dentists at this clinic, so the nurse couldn't tell me who I'd be seeing. "It all depends on who becomes available," she said. Thus, to kill time, I started futzing with my brace. Although we'd left early, I didn't like how little of the lacing had been available for me to tie off the brace. So I undid the whole thing with the intention of tightening it up...when the dentist arrived.

He was all business, too, and he didn't seem to have a sense of humor hiding anywhere on or in his person. He simply told me to open wide and started examining the nightmare that is my mouth. A nurse was on hand to take notes as he went from tooth to tooth. Every time he said the word "extraction," I winced internally. Twice when he said the word, he added "surgical" to the notes. I was liking the situation less and less.

I was a genius today. For the first time in ages, I left the apartment without my wallet. If I'd brought it with me, I could have the actual details on such things as how many root canals and drill-n-fills he recommended. What I recall quite clearly is the call for six extractions, with two of them being surgical. Once teeth have been removed, I'll need a partial denture to retain the spaces where teeth will then be missing. Oh...and this clinic doesn't do root canals, but they told me the could recommend somewhere to go, where it'll cost between $800 and $900 per tooth.

My rough estimate, overall, is that all of my dental work will cost around $7,000...and I have no dental coverage.

While I was waiting, there was a woman wandering about who, at first glance, seemed to be the clinic's prostitute. She wore stiletto heels and pants that were entirely too tight. I was wrong; she was the office manager. After summoning Becky from the waiting room, we sat down with this woman and discussed what I needed to do...

...and all I wanted to do was weep. I can barely afford to have one tooth pulled - the truly bad one right now - let alone six, along with all of the other work that was recommended. As I understand it, Medicare will take care of dentures and partials once a year, but this clinic "doesn't work with them." Spectacular.

Oh...Zeb? While the doctor didn't necessarily agree with my self-medicating with the antibiotics, he said I'd made an excellent call, as my infected gums would have been A LOT worse had I done nothing at all. He then prescribed Amoxicillin to finish what I'd started. So...nyah! =P

I'm going to have to find another clinic, one that works with perhaps some kind of sliding scale base on income, to address my oral issues. This one, with offices spanning several states, is entirely too expensive for little old me. I only went here because the first visit was free, and they were willing to take me so soon.

Now to my suspicions about this visit. I felt I was being pressured to get things done as swiftly as possible. Teeth that aren't bothering me at the moment were being advertized as being the greatest of my problems. I had flashbacks to when I was buying a car, where the salesperson was trying to make it sound as though, if I dared to walk out the door, whatever deal that was on the table right then and there would vanish, never to be offered again. This isn't to say I'm not taking the situation seriously, but it felt like high-pressure sales tactics were being used on me instead of medical care, and I didn't like that one bit. My mouth is in bad shape. I know this. But if it were life and death, as they made it seem, they wouldn't have let me walk out the door.

And if it IS life and death, and they let me walk, then Becky will have good cause to sue them into nonexistence once my mouth explodes.

I have calls to make while I chase what needs doing. I just wanted to report what I could, just in case anyone out there was worried about little old me.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Answers to comments

2011-11-08T11:38:00.000-08:00

First, to Blue, who says I forgot to mention the priest in PotC 4.

Sorry to tell you this, Blue, but I didn't forget him. I was simply trying to forget him. That's because he was there for only one reason: to have a good guy.

As mentioned in my last post, the Spanish were completely underdeveloped. They COULD have been the good guys, but to give their characters any exposition would have extended the film to even more running time, and might have even proved boring because all they were doing was traveling from point A to point B in an orderly fashion. They had no "misadventures" to report.

This essentially left us with a bunch of bad guys. Barbossa, a villain in all previous films, wasn't really sold as being a good guy. Jack, being a self-serving and self-proclaimed pirate, could never truly be the white knight that a good guy should be. Blackbeard was, supposedly, our main villain this time around. And finally, Angelica was made to be somewhat deceitful and self-serving, in that she wanted her father to have his life extended so she could have her daddy back. (And what a marvelous example of fatherhood he turned out to be, eh?)

Thus, the film needed a good guy. Once they had him, said good guy could also be woven into the story to be the mechanism that brought about the much-needed mermaid's tear. They could easily have had other characters perform the tasks of the priest, and still gotten the tear when she was heartlessly shown the fate of other mermaids. And had the villain been truly villainous, he might even have tortured her until she cried in agony.

I also didn't say much about the mermaid, herself. This was because of a disappointment in what Hollywood deems a necessity in many films. There must be a love interest with whom the audience can identify. Unfortunately, while I was sitting here and watching the movie, I paused it and told Becky what was going to happen, just when the priest and mermaid were starting to give one another "that look." I said something to the effect of, "He's not just going to see her as one of G-d's creatures, but one of G-d's truly miraculous creations. She's rare and beautiful, and that will be the mechanism for him falling in love with her."

Really, it's a shame I can't just sit and watch a movie like a "normal" person. =(

Now to Zeb, and his worrying over my taking antibiotics without a doctor saying I should do so.

In this case, Zeb, experience dictates my actions. My teeth are in TERRIBLE shape. It comes from being a diabetic, taking the painkillers that I do, and a genetic history of gum disease in the family. That I unconsciously also grind my teeth, effectively wearing down the enamel, probably doesn't do me any good, either.

The bottle of penicillin that I was given was handed to me for just such an emergency. I can't get in to see a doctor right away, and I know more than enough trouble is brewing that I should be started on something immediately to prevent a nightmare. The key to having this bottle of oh so many tablets is that when I start taking them, I ALSO call for medical attention as soon as possible. If I had the power to diagnose myself, I would probably have at least a dozen antibiotics on hand. I don't I have the basic stuff for the express purpose of starting the battle against infection. Once I've seen a doctor, I usually end up walking out with a prescription with an antibiotic that will be able to target the infection with greater accuracy.

This is why I have so many pills remaining in the bottle that was given to me last February. (It'll be time to throw them out in a few months.) I only take them for a short time until I can be given the more accurate meds.

Guesswork? Dangerous? Maybe. But as I said, I have experience with this nonsense. And the prescribing doctor of these antibiotics came to realize that I know my body a bit better than most. And wouldn't you know it, I was right. While I'm not completely better, there's been a reduction in the pain.

The most important part of my argument - that which defends my actions - is that I'm still going to see a dentist. I made the appointment for as soon as possible, and will follow through with that appointment to receive better care. If I were stupid about this, I'd cancel the appointment and just keep taking what I have. I know better. This is only a precaution. I know I need a doctor's care, and will be going tomorrow. I promise.

Not sure if this has dissuaded you from your worries. Your arguments were all perfectly valid, but experience has taught me to do things a certain way. Thankfully, I don't have to do this often.

Be well, and DFTBA.

PotC: On Lackluster Tides

2011-11-07T09:09:00.000-08:00

First, let me address the tooth issue. (This will allow for those who haven't seen the film to read a bit, then walk away so as not to endure the spoilers that are sure to come.)

My days started with a web search for the nearest dentist. It turns out that he's a block and a half away from where I live, and it would have been perfect to set an appointment with him. But according to the woman who answered, they don't do extractions. She did, however, recommend someone...who didn't have an opening until the 18th. It was then that I called my PCP in the hopes that they could recommend someone to help me swiftly. Lo and behold, I was given the number of a clinic that was able to set me up with an appointment for Wednesday at noon. This works out well for me, as Becky will be unable to drive me over there today or tomorrow. (He school and work schedule sometimes make scheduling appointments difficult.) Meanwhile, I asked that my PCP call in a prescription for an oral rinse that would help numb my mouth for extended periods, unlike over the counter stuff.

Now, there's a bit of a money issue, in that even pulling a tooth isn't covered by any of my insurance. It would have been nice to know this before we purchased both Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides and Cars 2. The cost of both of those movies would have covered about a third of the cost of a tooth pull. Thankfully, the initial assessment appointment is free.

And so, having mentioned the movie, let me get into it. This is the part where, if you haven't seen it and don't want anything ruined, you scurry off to another part of the internet. Especially since I'm going to say something about the Easter egg.

First, let me say that I think PotC 1 was the best of the films. PotC 2 was good, and had what I considered an excellent cliffhanger at the end; it left us wanting more. PotC 3 was also good, as it wrapped up the ongoing tale rather nicely. Call me a sucker, but having Will and Elizabeth have a unique "happily ever after" kind of ending was pleasing. PotC 4...? Well, Becky liked it, and I think it was okay. But I don't want my movies to be okay; I want them "good" at the very least, and this wasn't so good.

The movie opens with the usual PotC madness. Jack Sparrow is up to something, and we get to know what most of that is immediately. After that, it loses its direction and wanders aimlessly toward an ending of sorts.

In all of the first three films, we were treated to a triangular struggle. It was Jack Sparrow and company vs. some force that was "official," (the Royal Navy), vs. some insidious villain, (usually another pirate). In the second and third films, the "official force" was in the form of a maliciously apathetic character, Lord Cutler Beckett, who didn't care who lived or died, as long as he got what he wanted.

The fourth film forces four sides at us. We have Jack, who seems to be lacking in the way of "and company." Then there's Blackbeard. Then there's Barbossa, again. Finally, there's "the Spanish," who receive so little character development as to leave the audience wondering why they're there in the first place. By the end of the film, they are revealed to have only one purpose, and it's just a plot device. And everyone is racing toward the Fountain of Youth.

Now that we've revealed the players, let's see what they do in the movie.

Jack, as usual, is interested in what Jack wants, and that's about it. His loyalty is never in doubt, being that he's mostly loyal unto himself. His ability to care about others usually goes only as far as to what he can get from them. He almost has a love interest here, that being the lovely Penelope Cruz as Angelica, but Jack loves himself more.

And this time around, Jack's lines weren't as entertaining as they'd been in the movies before. It's hard for me to describe, as whatever the word is I want as a descriptor is lacking in my vocabulary. His lines had a way of meandering while still managing to make a point. In this movie, it was almost as though he'd run out of wit, and was straining with all his might to muster that old Sparrow charisma.

Skipping the villainous villain a moment, we have Barbossa, who apparently lost his right leg at some point between movies, and is now working for the Crown. I just couldn't buy into this drastic change, that he'd align himself with the Royal Navy, even if it was to reach a personal goal. In my eyes, he was a pirate and should have remained a pirate. What's more, after all of his evil deeds before this movie, would the Royal Navy REALLY take him in and allow him to captain a ship? In the first movie, anywhere the Black Pearl had been left few if any survivors. Now he's their pal? Nope...The makers of this movie were instantly straining my suspension of disbelief.

The Spanish...We open with a scene involving them. There is a brief bit of dialogue involving them. And then we are treated to absolutely nothing about them until Jack and Barbossa visit their camp to steal stuff. Even then, there's no development of the characters. They're just there. Then, toward the end of the film, they show up to break things, which was really their only purpose.

Finally, we come to Blackbeard, who wasn't nearly as bad as any of the previous villains. At one point, he's referred to as "the pirate all pirates come to dread." Yes, his magic ship and zombie officers make for interesting aspects to his character, but they aren't used to any great extent. There's a mutiny at one point, and he's SO evil that he kills...one man. After that, he might kill this one; he might kill that one; and when others get killed during his part of the story, he's apathetic at best. He just doesn't revel in his evil the way Barbossa did in the first film or the way Davy Jones did in the next two.

The whole race to the Fountain of Youth...? Not much of a race, really. It was merely confusing as to who was in the lead. I mean, the Spanish always appear to be ahead of anyone who started out from England, but they arrive last? It left me with a sense that they were in a rush to get nowhere.

But now we come to that which actually bothered me most.

There is a voodoo doll of Jack that is used to first inflict pain on Jack, then to help him make an impossible dive. (You really have to see it to understand it.) For the latter, the doll is tossed over the side of a cliff, into a river that's leading out to sea.

Cut to the Easter egg, as it's often called, which comes at the end of the credits. Ms. Cruz has been abandoned on a small island and is waiting for...rescue, I guess. As she sits there, the doll washes up on shore.

Ummm...So the people who made this film want me to believe that a doll thrown over a cliff, landing in a river leading out to sea, just happens to make its way through the depths to the one small island where a character from the movie just happen to be stranded? Really? It wasn't swallowed by a big fish or snagged on some coral? Even if it floated, wouldn't it have simply washed back up on the shore near the river's mouth? It went all the way out to sea to end up right there, at just the right time...? And this is what we're left with, with the implied concept that this will carry us into the fifth movie, or somehow connect it to the sixth? (Yes, Disney hopes PotC 4 is the start of another trilogy.) Nope...They took my suspension of disbelief and cemented it to the ground on that one.

It wasn't ALL bad. But there was a quote used to describe this movie that stated, "The best of the Pirates franchise," to which I now read with wild-eyed confusion to ask, "It was?!?" No...the best was the original, which was a fairly original tale itself. There was a bit of dialogue in the first, in which Elizabeth asks, "Whose side is Jack on?" Will replies, "At the moment...?" That was the embodiment of the film, as every twist came with Jack's next series of antics. But now...? Jack is firmly set on Jack's side of things, and it would seem that everyone else is a bit player. My opinion is that they stop before they further ruin a good thing. Besides...if they keep rehashing the soundtrack alone, they'll wear out the original recordings.

And for the record, Becky liked the movie. Then again, she just wants to be entertained, and doesn't watch movies with the hypercritical eye that I do. It's the side effect of having taught myself to write screenplays. I can't "just watch a movie" anymore. =(

Be well, all, and DFTBA.

Can't get it write

2011-11-06T08:22:00.000-08:00

For the last few weeks, I've tried to start a few meaningful posts. Something other than, "Woe is me. I done gone and hurt myself again. Now I gots a pain in my one part and the other part, and I'm going to see another doctor about everything." I tried to discuss the division of government, and how our two-party system has become so divided that they can't even talk to one another, adding that whatever other parties out there are treated as though they don't exist. I then tried writing about my loss of faith, and how I feel somewhat adrift in the vast sea of religions...which also seems to be a great way of dividing humanity. And lest I forget, there were a few attempts at writing posts that were simply no one's business except mine and Becky's.

But you know what? I can't get the ideas out. Not in any sort of coherent fashion, that is. Why? Because of all the damnable PAIN I'm in! And being in pain...well, that always helps to write about being in pain. I'm almost at my wits end with it. And my popping pills isn't really helping as much as it once did.

Take the pain in my foot, for example. I was given lidocaine patches to help with it, as well as the mystery pain in my hip. Lidocaine, for those who don't know, is a local anesthetic. I can cut the patches to any size I feel necessary, and then apply them to the parts that hurt. I was told by both the pain specialist and the pharmacist that the medication would penetrate deep into the sites and help. They do, to a degree...but then I can't wear them all the time. It's 12 hours on, 12 hours off. During the 12 hours off, the pain slowly climbs back to its original level, and that, without any doubt in my mind, sucks.

It was also hit of miss with the placement of the patches. Mind you, these things are pretty big. I was tempted to simply take the whole thing and place it over my entire foot - the top of the foot, that is - and pray my foot would go numb. But by way experimentation, I found the spots where the patches seem to help most. One is directly over the arch of the foot, where I tend to experience the most of my pain. The other, quite oddly, is over the scar where the most work was done during the multiple nerve decompression years ago. Why that latter site gives me as much relief as it does is a bit of a mystery to me.

But I've also been placing these patches in an unexpected place: my right cheek, over the cheek bone. (The zygomatic arch, according to my beloved nursing student and fiancee.) Why? Because over the last week or so, I've developed a toothache. If you've never had a "good toothache," then you're missing out. The tooth aggravates a nerve, and that nerve gets so thoroughly pissed off that more than the tooth ends up hurting. In fact, at first I couldn't locate which tooth it was. It turns out it's the last tooth way in the back on the right side. But I feel it in that tooth...on all the teeth along that section of my mouth...along the joint of my jaw...and down my neck.

Thinking the tooth issue was only a rampant case of gingivitis, I started taking some penicillin I have in the house for infection emergencies. Trust me; a diabetic with basic antibiotics on hand can't go wrong by taking coverage doses until he/she can get into a doctor. Alas, the antibiotics haven't helped all that much. The tooth has got to go. So tomorrow, I will be seeking a dentist to pull the little bastard.

And so we are back at one of my seemingly favorite topics: pain. Excluding this post, there are 106 posts with "pain" as one of the tags. And you'd think that with all of the medications I take to address pain that I would have less of it to talk about. Instead, I seem to always have more.

This then becomes emotionally distressing. If I'm experiencing all of this pain now, how bad will it be in the years to come? And when these pains spread or become more intense, how will I be able to address them when my body has become dulled to the effects of medications?

Becky and I had one of our chats last night. It was about us, and whatever difficulties we're facing at this moment. There are some issues that we have individually, and I asked about how we can tackle them TOGETHER. This is not anything to which she's accustomed. Much of her life has been spent with someone - almost anyone - being in opposition to her goals. She has a hard time talking about anything existing in a negative light because she feels she's going to be reprimanded, or put down, or be dissuaded from pursuing any one of her goals. She's unaccustomed to someone like me who comes along as speaks openly about the problem, and then wanted her cooperation to bring about a solution. She more accustomed to giving up.

When it comes to me and my medical issues, Becky wants to help me the way I want to help her. But there are no specific actions that can be taken to resolve my problems. And she's left to feel helpless as she sees me suffering. For that, I feel like my falling in love with her, and her falling in love with me, is a disservice. I keep having visions of a future filled with her having to care for her husband, as well as her kids. And my thoughts on the matter are that she should have done better, and should do better.

Now look at what I've gone and done. I've given her reason to reprimand me. =P

The fact is that because we're in love, we feel strongly about wanting to help one another, and to build a future TOGETHER. So the most I can hope for is that she goes ahead and gets her nursing degree, and then she can tend to all my aches and pains in as professional a manner as possible. I can handle a subcutaneous shot. She'll be able to handle any IV or IM shots I might need.

So there you go, my love. One more point of inspiration to kick butt in school. Not that I want one of your goals to be taking care of your broken groom-to-be, but it certainly couldn't hurt...hurt more than usual, that is.

In Memoriam

2011-11-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

It was a week ago when I learned the my old housemate Ray's father was severely ill. I would have known it two weeks earlier had Facebook just kept its news feed as it was when I'd joined the site. I honestly didn't expect Ray to sit and write individual letters under the circumstances, so I was taken a bit unawares that things had become so dire.

Ray's dad, Bill, had been hospitalized because he was having difficulty doing much of anything. Putting on his pants knocked the wind out of him. Exams and tests revealed that there was a build up of plaque INSIDE the left chambers of his heart, which made pumping the blood to where it was needed a chore. He was given a 70% chance to be dead by or before Thanksgiving.

It happened Thursday. I don't have a specific time, and the time stamp of these posts has always been a little wonky. Bill was staying with Ray and Ray's sister, the two "kids" thrown from the role of offspring to caregivers. While hospice care was available, it was deemed better emotionally for Bill that he be with family during his last days. It wasn't easy on them, but love has a habit of overriding that which is "convenient."

Prior to his heart issues, Bill had gone through plenty of illness. Cancer and diabetes had mad his life complicated enough. He struggled financially. Heck, it would seem that the path of his life was never easy. But toward his last days, Bill made it clear what he wanted when he passed. Quoting him via Ray, "Throw a big party for me, and make sure everyone has a good time; that's all I want."

I will be unable to attend such a gathering. Becky has offered to help get me there for whatever will happen, but we really can't afford it. She floated the idea of me staying with Ray and company, but they'll have enough on their collective plates, and having a guest staying with them isn't my idea of being helpful in a time of need. What's more, I'm simply in no shape to travel. Being on a Greyhound bus while experimenting with new medications is simply not a good idea.

With the idea of celebrating a life, rather than simply mourning him, I will now tell the tale of how Bill almost caused me and Becky to have a heart attack. My memory is mush, so if I get any part of this tale wrong, my apologies.

It was during one of Becky's visits to me in KS. I had a doctor's visit. Since Becky had taken the bus to KS with me, we didn't have access to her car. No one else was available to drive us, as Ray's car had been pronounced dead some time ago, so we got Bill to drive us over to Manhattan for my appointment. This put me, Ray, and Becky in Bill's truck, with Bill at the wheel.

Manhattan, KS is a college town, and you could tell that on this particular day, as their college football team was preparing for some grand confrontation, and the town was gearing up for it. The streets were filled with cars, with some streets actually being closed off, just to make traffic more...adventurous.

Actually, I think this whole adventure was about medication refills, as I don't recall anyone having to wait for extended periods. So I got my prescriptions at the doctor's office; we went to the pharmacy to get my meds; then we were on our way home.

That's when we encountered...THE YELLOW LIGHT! When approaching a yellow light, one usually has several options. It all depends on how much road you have before you reach the light, right? Not in Bill's mind. A yellow light means you prepare to stop, and that's that. And so we were driving along at a pretty good pace, in the opposite direction of the college madness on the other side of the road, when, with only about 50 feet left to the light, it went yellow.

Bill slammed on the brakes. The rest of us were locked into terrified silence and the truck's wheels locked up, and we skid to a halt. As we all recovered...everyone but Bill, that is...I went into one of my comedic rants about how I was never getting into his vehicle again, unless I was either medicated in advance, or had Xanax on hand to take immediately after such driving...techniques.

It then became a thing for the next few days, being able to say that, "Yes, I got in the car with Bill at the wheel and was able to live to tell the tale." It seemed to be a known fact that being a passenger in Bill's truck was an adventure unto itself. The thing is, I'd had Bill drive me to one place or another before, and those trips were fine. This one...? No, this one was a true test of my cardiovascular system.

It's probably a much better tale to tell in person, in which I can then make facial expressions to go with our brief moment of terror, as Bill did what he considers normal, and the rest of us thought was suicidal. I believe I can pull off that "deer in the headlights" look rather well when I need to.

For all the other times I'd encountered Bill...Well, he was just a nice guy. Nice guys shouldn't have to suffer as he did in life. And yet I never heard him perpetually griping about his issues. Perhaps, like me, he had a place where he deposited all of his woes. He and his wife seemed to have done a great job rearing to very good people. And Bill had the added bonus of being able to spend time with his grandson, a joy to almost every senior out there.

"Rest in peace" seems to be the usual thing people add to such moments as this, without giving the phrase much thought. But after a life of struggling. especially in his later years, I certainly hope there is now a great deal of rest for Bill, as well as a great deal of peace.

Thus, I propose a toast: to William Max Hays...a man who never forgot to be awesome.

It only hurts when I live

2011-11-02T17:28:00.000-07:00

Well, today was the day of the much-anticipated visit to a new pain specialist. Compared to the last one, this one was a virtual saint. In fact, she made mention at the start about my visit to Dr. Doom-n-gloom, to which I told her to erase all such information. "I've met several people who've either seen him or know of him, and not a one seems to think he's a human being. It would seem that he's only still in business because he's the only pain specialist that's a part of the major health system in the area. If not for that, he'd be out of business."

Then we got into it, discussing what's been done for me in the past, what medications I've tried, and what I'd like to have happen as a result of treatment.

What do I want as a result of treatment? I want to be pain free. As in, I get up and I'm not in pain. I stand up and I'm not in pain. At no time during the day do I even briefly consider amputation a method of eliminating pain. That's when she slipped in an important question: "Do you think that that goal is realistic?" Nope. Not at all. If it was, all little girls would grow up to be princesses, and all little boys would grow up to be superheroes. She asked me what I hoped for, not what I thought I could get realistically.

In a semi-joking manner, I also suggested the concept of finding a way to sever the nerves in my neck to kill all pain below that point, but somehow maintain motor function. Again, it wasn't realistic, but a man can dream...right?

I'm honestly not sure what's what when it comes to pain management. Different theories keep getting thrown at me, and I'm left feeling somewhat lost when it comes to judging the validity of such theories. Could an abundance of opiates be causing me pain? That was one of the ideas floated during the visit today, and it doesn't ring true. I mean, during my toe amputation I found that 2 mg. of IV diloted worked wonders on my pains. Then again, I pretty much avoided all other painkillers whenever possible while receiving IV meds. My current list of painkillers puts me at a fairly high level of opiates almost all of the time. So what's right and what's wrong...? I don't know, other than the fact that I have yet to "get creative" when taking my meds, as my old neighbor in AZ did.

Becky stayed for most of the visit, but had to eventually leave to get to class. I ended up taking the bus to get home from the doctor. Because of this, Becky wasn't there for the discussion of whether or not a morphine pump would be a good match for me.

Right now, the general impression is that it wouldn't. Infections treat me like a Petri dish, and like to grow on or in me. This is why, if you've been following along, I recently lost a toe. Opening me up to install a pump would put me at risk for infection. What's more, a morphine pump would be intricately wound into my spinal cord, which runs its own risks of causing paralysis if something goes wrong. Add to this the idea that growths can start appearing along those co0nnections to the nerves, which could then create new of even greater pain.

No...for the time being, there will be no pump.

Instead, we're going to try a couple of new medications, both non-narcotics. I'd have them right now, if not for the fact that I dropped them off at the pharmacy, then came home and collapsed in bed for many hours. (I believe I slept from noon to 6:00 PM, with only a brief half hour of wakefulness in there.) I am to take this one pill at night, as it may knock em out, and see how it works. I'm not sure exactly WHAT it's supposed to work on, but...Well, I have another problem brewing. It's another tooth ache. That particular pain was growing during the entire visit, and my concentration was slowly evaporating as we went along. The other medication is a Lidocaine patch. I'm TOLD it will penetrate deep enough to address the various pains in my foot and hips. I'll be picking these up tomorrow and start them as soon as possible. With luck, relief is around the corner.

The doctor seemed to be at something of a loss with me. It was as though I wasn't targeted enough on my goals for her. What she wasn't grasping, I think, is my level of desperation. I'm in so much pain that I'm willing to try ANYTHING in the hopes of getting some relief. In fact, I said to her, "Doc, I'm so desperate for relief that if you told me to visit a witch doctor who would cast a spell on me to cut my pain down, I'd be out the door, making such an appointment for as soon as possible."

With that in mind, I'm also going to try therapy. Psychological therapy. I learned today that there are therapists who help patients deal with pain. Again, I remain unclear on what to expect. Will this therapist have some methods of pain relief that cannot be supplied by a prescription-writing doctor, or is this alternative professional going to teach me how to smile when I want to rip off body parts? No idea. But I will give almost anything a try if it means bringing greater function to my life, as well as relief.

Well, almost anything. The only time I'd ever let Dr. Doom-n-gloom treat me again is if I was unaware he was doing so. You know...me in a coma, with brain waves telling doctors I'm in great pain, and they call him in to consult. But if I was conscious...? I'd start throwing anything and everything around me at him until he took the hint to get the heck out of my life and to stay out.

It's time for this old, broken man to get more rest. Be well, and DFTBA.

Wait...REAL human beings?!?

2011-10-29T18:14:00.000-07:00

No. No, no, no, no, no. The students and faculty of Patrick Henry High School must be from another planet. Because people don't elect an open lesbian as their homecoming king, nor would they dare to nominate her girlfriend of two years as homecoming queen. Human beings don't do that. It's unheard of to be that accepting.

Isn't it?

It would appear that I'm mistaken. It's happened. For the first time (that I know of), someone who's sexual preferences aren't "normal" is being celebrated by her community in a most normal fashion, instead of being the victim of bullying. My congratulations go out to Rebecca Arellano and her girlfriend.

Now we need to take it the next step. I mean, it's very nice that they chose this girl to be the "king" who welcomes back the high school's alumni, but wouldn't it be even better if they could drop the whole gender-specific title? Why can't Rebecca and her girlfriend be elected "Homecoming Couple?" I mean, if you're going to break with one part of the tradition, why not break with bigger pieces?

I guess we're not there yet.

Meanwhile, this was the first time in a while that I'm seen some actual good news...a story that restores at least a drop of my faith in humanity.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Captain Amerokay

2011-10-28T19:00:00.001-07:00

In an effort to keep this blog from turning into a non-stop scream-fest from me, (as my foot hurts that much of late), I've decided to review another movie. As usual, it will contain spoilers, so if you haven't seen Captain America, stop reading.

It's really quite simply. If it's about a superhero, I'm probably going to buy the DVD. I didn't rush out to theaters to see Captain America, but I'd been interested in see it. Over the years in the comics, Cap went from being something of a "grand American thug" to a fighter who brought an acrobatic style to his fighting. Spider-Man had a similar style, but was exceedingly acrobatic, almost to the point of being virtually inhuman. But Cap would bounce around in a fight, landing punches and kicks, slinging that shield, and practically spewing American propaganda every time a speech bubble appeared to be coming from his mouth.

So Becky and I, seeing money was tight, decided to buy the movie anyway. I wanted to see this American icon brought to the silver screen...or at least the small flat-screen in our living/bed/computer room. (It's a two room apartment. Stop judging me!) We loaded it up, started watching, and I found myself entertained, right up until the singing and dancing.

Yes, singing and dancing. Captain American, the character in the film, is initially used as nothing more than a means of selling war bonds. That's it. And it's done it what appears to be traditional 1940s style. It wasn't a bad little stage production, but...I mean, I just couldn't buy into the product of "Operation: Rebirth" to be relegated to stage and film work for the great American war machine.

They do a decent job of sticking to the character created back in the 1940s. Steve Rogers is a little guy, with a good heart and big ideals. He's a patriotic American who wants to do his part in the war effort, but can't get past the physical to enter the Army. He's too small, too weak. But General Chester Phillips sees the potential in Rogers and offers him the chance to serve his country in a top secret experiment, "Operation: Rebirth." The years have been a little wishy-washy on what the procedure entailed. It was a shot. Then it was a drink. Then it was a drink AND a shot. And, because superheroes aren't made with just a shot and/or a drink, Steve Rogers was bombarded with "vita-rays." (Vita-rays: with more vitamins than gamma rays, and half the calories!)

Out pops Captain America, who immediately faces a saboteur in the lab. The lead scientist, Abraham Erskine, who has the super soldier formula memorized, (because writing important data like that down was always a bad idea, right?), is killed. Thus, Rogers is the only man to successfully undergo the super soldier procedure successfully...back then. (Variations on the theme have since been duplicated.)

The comic book...the movie...they are almost in synch until this point. And then, because Steve Rogers is such a valuable asset, Chester Phillips, a mere colonel in the movie, decides the test subject should be kept safe inside a lab. Senator Brandt, who was one of the politicians helping to fund the super soldier project, decides the best use of the successful experiment is to sell war bonds.

Enter the song and dance number.

So we, the audience, get about 40 minutes of solid movie, with a decent plot and characters who have real potential. Then it all goes to hell. The story on the hero's side of things loses focus. The part where Captain America feels compelled to take real action feels forcibly shoehorned into the film.

I can't say the acting was bad; it was pretty good, I guess. But, oh, how the script needed work! I was reminded of a scene in the movie Starship Troopers, which was infinitely inferior to the book. The troopers are picked up after a terrible fight. The character of Dizzy, who was mysteriously made into a woman and actually had speaking lines for the film, is fatally wounded. The main character, Johnny Rico, holds her in his arms, and she actually says, "I'm dying, Johnny." There was so much cheese in that one moment of film that there could never be a cracker big enough for it.

Captain America came across like that entirely too many times. Mind you, it wasn't AS bad as the above example. I mean, they had decent talent delivering the tripe of the script. And I don't think a script doctor - heck, even a team of script surgeons - could help.

The movie was also in too much of a rush to cram the career of a superhero that spanned over six decades into two hours. The fight scenes tended to be very short, and none-too-spectacular, including the climactic confrontation of the Red Skull and Cap. Here we had two men made as close to perfection via science that humanity can possibly achieve, and they slugged it out like a couple of brawlers in a back alley. It was disappointing.

Speaking of disappointing, I'm a great fan of Hugo Weaving. I have always been amazed at what he was able to accomplish in V for Vendetta without ever being permitted to see his face. An actor's face is where most of his skills come into play. I absolutely loved Weaving's ability to convey all he needed to with body language and vocal tone. But along comes this movie, and they didn't utilize this incredible actor's skill set. "Throw some prosthetic makeup on him and give him mediocre lines, and wish him luck." For G-d's sake, they had a character that started out as a Nazi and then went rogue against THEM, and he came across as "an un-nice man."

The movie isn't without hope. The other Marvel films meant to lead into the Avengers movie are tied in well enough, with specific regards to Thor. That they have Howard Stark as a character only loosely connects Iron Man to this film. My favorite moment is when the colonel, trying to prove who the best candidate is, throws a grenade into the midst of those being co0nsidered for the program, and Only Rogers steps up...That was a good one.

But overall, Captain America was an unambitious attempt to get a character introduced before their big ensemble movie. I suspect a good deal of the $140,000,000 spent to make this film was spent making Chris Evans look like the literal 90 lbs. weakling. It's filler, and if you expect to watch The Avengers next year, I suspect you'll want to watch this movie, if only to get some pertinent information. Beyond that...is was okay at its best.

Be well, and DFTBA.

On second though, just kill me

2011-10-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough couple of days. My right foot has been in so much pain that I feel as though I've been popping my painkillers like M-n-M's. I am careful not to exceed what I'm permitted in any one four-hour period, but it seems like I'm am taking ALL of the painkillers, instead of just taking what I need in a day.

How bad is it? Some of it has been so bad that I have more than once seriously contemplated the removal of the foot altogether. And it's not 100% of the foot, but varying parts of it. The old break from my mid-20's. My ankle. The outside of my foot. and the second toe. My RIGHT second toe. Because losing the left one wasn't enough.

My right second toe has been "special" for some time now. It was developing into a hammertoe, and a podiatrist out in AZ decided to release the tendon underneath to stop it. The surgery worked. The toe healed. And it's been utterly useless ever since. The only time it moves is when it's being bent my something else. I'll curl the other toes, and that one only moves about a millimeter because the skin is pulling it that way.

Now it's one of the biggest problems on my foot. It's a nightmare. The toe, itself, feels like it's ON FIRE! No joke, I sat last night, cradling and caressing the toe besieged by utter agony, wondering if there was a way for me to just rip it off without things being made worse. Becky has an unused dissection kit. If I just got myself drunk enough, I could...

No, no. I've actually heard tales of diabetics who think that way and attempt a little home surgery. It's absurd, and yet I can now understand the kind of pain that would drive someone to do something like that. I contemplated calling my podiatrist and begging him to remove the damn thing in his office, but I don't think he'd perform an amputation because "it hurts A LOT!"

And yet Becky and I were able to make a Wal-crawl last night for some needed items, and many of my pains were reduced. My new shoes are truly amazing. And they SHOULD be. They are molded to fit my foot, and my foot alone, with every physical imperfection and alteration to my gait taken into account. Seriously...The mold told the manufacturer something about my left foot that the orthotics guy didn't even mention, and they added about an eighth of an inch to the sole to adjust for the way I stepped. And the brace on the right foot is designed to take about 30% of my weight off my foot. How it does that, I'm not sure, but I know my ankle feels better in the shoe.

Thank G-d insurance covers it. I'm going to keep a lookout for the bill, (if I even get one), just to see what it looks like, but my guess is that they cost around $1,500.

I don't think I'm helping myself emotionally, either. I've been such a whiny pain in the ass for so long, first being slapped into a cast and then having the toe amputated, followed by this growing hip pain...I just don't want to bother her non-stop with every ache, even if they are serious enough to make me view death and a "pain reliever." =( And that has crossed my mind, if only for a few seconds.

I just want to be done with this pain. I'm 44, not 84. Walking around like an old man...complaining like an old man...these things should not be a part of my life just yet.

I'm off to try and get some more rest. Be well, all, and DFTBA.

Shoe Day: Second Post

2011-10-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

SHOES!!!

Yes, dear friends...I am free of the cast at last, and upon reaching home, I celebrated with a lengthy shower that in no way involved extra packing around my knee, a plastic bag, or a balancing act. I washed and scrubbed and scrubbed and washed. And I only feel PARTIALLY human. I think it's going to take a few more showers before I can make a claim to being somewhere around 99% human.

Leave it to me, of course, to immediately discover the DISADVANTAGES of being without the cast.

Being a total contact cast, it was holding everything inside my foot exactly where it should be. I essentially had no moving parts in my foot. Now that parts can move again, some of them hurt. Some of them hurt a lot. =(

There's also the fact that my foot has been...pampered...inside the casts. The inside of those fiberglass monstrosities were not only padded, but an initial layer of what they sometimes called "gel wrap" was put on me. This was a bandaged coated with Calamine lotion. This managed to keep my skin not quite so dry, but then it was also not wet. The basic function was to protect the skin, which tends to be rather delicate on a diabetic, and to prevent the dreaded itching that will often come with a cast. To these extents, it worked. But it also had the effect of softening up the calluses on my feet. Walking in the cast created just enough agitation inside to wear those away. The result: my calluses are GONE! (Dun dun DUUUN!)

Do you know what happened when you have no calluses on your feet and are toting around approximately 190 lbs. on them? IT FREAKIN' HURTS! Seriously, once I was out of the shoes and preparing for my shower, it felt as though I was walking barefoot on sharp gravel.

Aside from those "wonderful" aspects, I am FREE! And freedom means getting back into the realm of physical activity. I just have to be sure to wear the brace whenever I plan on being on my foot for more than only a couple of minutes. Y'see, the brace...well, it's quite the production. It covers most of my lower leg, with metal prongs going into the sole of my shoe. The leather portion that covers so much of my leg needs to be laced up every time I put it on. There's no other way of getting it on and keeping it on. So...bumming around the apartment when I plan on doing nothing in particular? I can be shoeless. Sleeping? Shoeless. Showers? Shoeless. Doing dishes or cleaning up the apartment...SHOES!

Soon, I will head for bed, where I can unwind from this exciting day. And it WAS exciting. Emotionally, anyway. The whole thing about escaping from the cast - hopefully for good - hasn't left me with much energy for anything other than coming here to report to the world, and then crawling into bed to relax.

And that's the way it is. Be well, all, and DFTBA!

Shoe Day: First Post

2011-10-24T10:17:00.000-07:00

Y'know, I kinda failed to mention the fact that I have engaged in a form of exercise already. It started back in KS. When I found myself missing it, I bought a replacement here in PA. It's the Ghostbusters video game!

I found it somewhat odd that the neurologist I saw actually recommended video games to help with my weakening hands. The muscles are wasting away, as previously mentioned, and he said that some video games would actually help keep my dying muscles active. I looked over what we had in the apartment, and they all seemed to be the same. Primarily, you occasionally use your left hand to select various gear, and then it's all the right hand, pulling the trigger to fire and and alter the camera angle, while maybe, on occasion, using the left hand to alter direction. So the "workout" I was getting involved my thumb, forefinger, and middle finger on the right, and mostly my thumb on the left.

Ghostbusters is a little different. Weapon selection needs to happen more often and faster, as you can be attacked by differing baddies with differing weaknesses simultaneously. Also, with many TPS games, the secondary fire isn't needed often, but Ghostbusters practically requires it. This means I have to pull that left trigger almost as often as I'm pulling the right. So it turns into quite the little workout.

Now for the bonus. My hands tend to get tired after lengthy runs of activity. Typing for long...playing a game for extended periods...holding a book upright for me to read it. These things lend to making my hands FEEL weak. But because I'm so wrapped up in the fun I'm having with Ghostbusters, I tend to "forget" that my hands are tired, and just keep on playing.

Of course, I'm not going to see a whole lot of change in my hands. Nerve damage doesn't lend itself to building muscle. Still, I'm making the effort...playing video games, as prescribed by my doctor. =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

Hipsters?

2011-10-23T16:21:00.000-07:00

Many thanks, Jesse, for your comment on the last post. I am sincerely hoping that the shoes will help, because...Well, welcome to yet another post in which I whine about pain.

The situation with my hips is getting bad. The pain in my hips is waking me up regularly. I get only as much sleep as my painkillers will allow. So let's imagine that I take a pill around 10:00 PM, give it an hour to start working, and then "summon" Becky to bed for our regular cuddling session. Depending on how things are in our little universe, the aforementioned cuddles will last from a half an hour to an full hour, (and on rare occasion a little longer). With the conclusion of cuddling, there is sleep...which lasts between one and half to two hours, at which point the pain will awaken me. Then it's pill time again, followed by another hour of waiting for it to work. IF I get to sleep as soon as it kicks in, I just might squeeze out another four hours before the next bout of pain kicks in.

I've been foolishly trying to ignore it. Just this afternoon, after taking a drug-induced nap, (chock full of painkillers, of course), I woke to pain, got out of bed, and sat in a position marginally more comfortable than lying in bed. (Odd how lying in bed causes me more pain. For the first time in my life, "bed rest" is bad for me. Go figure.) I then sat in a chair for about an hour, trying to ignore the pain, rather than reach for painkillers again. This doesn't coincide well with what I said when I saw my PCP on Wednesday.

Oops. I forgot to mention this one. On Wednesday, while talking with my doctor, I expressed a desire to be "free of pain." Not have my pain reduced. Not to be merely comfortable. I wanted to be PAIN FREE! Indeed, I think we'd all like to be millionaires, as well. My expectations of being pain free are unreasonable. There are too many malfunctions in my body to even hope for such a thing. Still, he decided to refer me to another pain specialist, whom I hope is nothing like "Dr. Doom-n-Gloom."

While both hips hurt, the right is worse than the left, and I've decided that this is, in fact, a direct cause of walking around in this cast. While wandering around my apartment, even for only a couple of minutes, my right foot is raised, while my left lies flat on the floor. This translates to a poor alignment in my hips, which is ABSOLUTELY exacerbating whatever is going on in my hips. And I say this because of the pain that occasionally comes during locomotion, in which just one small maladjusted step can cause me to gasp from the sudden ache that fires out of my hip joint.

It's those noises of pain that sometimes bother me more than the pain itself. You see, for the longest time, I believed I didn't snore. Well, Becky corrected me on that one. I snore. She snores. We snore. (We're a match made in noisy, sleepy Heaven.) About a week ago, I woke to the sound of my own snoring, which, as far as I know, doesn't really happen. Then it struck me that it wasn't my snoring that woke me up; it was the fact that my vocal cords were engaged while snoring...I was attempting to moan in my sleep with every slumbering snort I made. It was my voice that woke me. I just happened to be snoring at the time.

It's not the first time I awoke to hear myself moaning in pain. I occasionally discover myself lying in bed, whimpering and gripping my hip, as if my hand on my hip will somehow dissipate the agony from deep within. These noises...they make me want to tell myself to "man up" and "stop being such a wuss."

I'm truly hoping these shoes that I'm getting tomorrow will be the answer. In fact, I'm trying to plan some kind of exercise for the future, starting with having Becky show me where her classes are on the college campus. The college is just a few blocks away, making it a distance I SHOULD be able to walk. Now I can catch my beloved when she has a break between classes, and go grab a bite to eat with her, without my being utterly and completely trapped at home. I hope to start rebuilding some of the muscles in my hips, thereby placing some distance once again between the bones.

As far as I can tell there's only one little problem with my plan: I'm 44. Once upon a time, I would workout regularly, and I was even something akin to being fit. But that was in my teens and twenties. The time for building muscles may well have passed, as my body isn't so much in condition to start doing something like that. No, my body has started the race to not break down, to stay status quo. And my meds certainly don't lend themselves to burning calories as I start naturally slowing down.

Oh, Becky! Why, oh why, did you choose to fall for such a broken old man?

"Oh, shut up. You got the girl, so stop complaining!" Indeed. I'm off to try and get more rest, as tomorrow I have plans to break out of this mobile prison that's been attached to my leg for four months.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Dual doctors and SHOES!

2011-10-19T18:12:00.000-07:00

Today was a fun day, considering I had two doctor appointments within a single hour. The first was with my podiatrist at 10:40, followed by my PCP at 11:30. And here, boys and girls, is what happened...

First of all, my podiatrist was immediately impressed with my black and yellow cast. Becky seemed to insist on my becoming a Steelers fan for the next two weeks, and so it was that I fulfilled her request...only to have the yellow look somewhat green against the black. That, and because it's a striped pattern, it looks more like I'm prepared to dress as a bee with a broken leg for Halloween.

He then inspected the amputation site. I've been tending to it, placing only a band-aid over it because there's really nothing else to do there. It hasn't been draining. Any pain I feel in the area is nothing horrific; just the pains one might expect, (whatever those might be), from a toe freshly removed. A somewhat long scab has been along the residual toe, making it appear like the head of a fat worm with a smile. I haven't picked at it. I haven't scrubbed it. I have been doing that which was probably best: leaving it alone.

He felt no such need. He inspected the wound, did a little work on other "trouble spots" on my foot, and then went after the scab on the surgical site. He carefully peeled away the scab and revealed...NOTHING! There was, perhaps, a very tiny spot that needed just a wee bit more healing, but beyond that, it was HEALED!

I have to admit, I was greatly worried that this would turn into something worse. It's always possible when such surgeries are done. Hospitals, themselves, become breeding grounds for infection, despite their best efforts to keep the place sterile. MRSA, ("Mer-sah"), or Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus Aureus, is altogether too common in hospitals. But my fears were for naught. I have healed miraculously well, and that's fairly good cause to be pleased wit the results of what started out as a radical method of "dealing with a boo boo."

Then I was off to the PCP, where I had a nice, long chat with the doctor about the pain in my hips and...some other stuff.

When I looked at my hip x-rays, I compared them to online pictures of other hip x-rays. And, y'know...because I'm an expert and all that...I didn't see much of anything from them. They don't appear arthritic at all. I voiced the entirely too normal appearance of the x-rays, and found myself being corrected immediately. They ALMOST look normal, except that the spacing between the bones has been reduced.

There are a number of potential causes for this. The first is that I may be developing arthritis in the joints, even if there aren't any blatantly obvious signs of it on the bones at this time. Another possible cause is that my hobbling around in this cast is exacerbating minor arthritis and/or...Charcot arthropathy.

Yes, once again, this could be that great mystery that is a complication of the complication of diabetes. Remember, arthropathy is a malfunction of the brain communicating with the soft tissues. Why? Well, even when I saw the neurologist, he hesitated to give me a cause. There seem to be plenty of working theories, but no one is absolutely sure of the cause. Whatever the case may be, the tissues deteriorate, and the result is a realignment of bones and PAIN!

The other stuff discussed with the doctor was about my emotional state. Everyone is in agreement that being trapped in a cast for 18 weeks can be frustrating, perhaps moreso when one suffers from depression, as I do. My question was whether or not my meds should be switched, which I expressed a desire NOT to do, (but was willing under his recommendation), or if something else should be added.

The result of this conversation was that he felt my pending freedom from the cast and my desire to start getting some exercise might well be what I need. Just to be able to get moving again could help with burning off some of the weight I've gained, as well as produce come much-needed endorphins. Said exercise might also be beneficial to my aching hips.

And so we wait. I need to get my shoes next week, and then start doing more than sitting/lying around all day long. Walk over to the college campus and meet Becky for lunch, use her long day of classes to wander over to the movie theater to see something she might not be interested in, or even try to find a cafe in the area to which I can stroll, sit and babble with a few strangers, and then walk home again. Not all of the answers to my problems come in pill form. =)

And speaking of the shoes...

SHOES!

This has become the rather excited battle cry around here since yesterday. At random, Becky or I will simply say loudly, "SHOES!" It's our way of beginning the celebration of the fact that I will soon have more freedom than I have for the last four months. Mind you, it won't be A LOT of freedom. With the exception of showering, I should be wearing the brace whenever I'm out of bed so as to keep the foot supported and protected. Still, a brace I can remove is far better than a cast I can't.

Oh...While I prepare to get the aforementioned shoes and start burning a few extra calories, I bought something that Becky has wanted for some time. Her dumb-ass ex, Shawn, often said of the game "Dance Dance Revolution" that they didn't have room in their apartment. Yet when the Wii came out, they had plenty of room for the game "Wii Fit." Becky has wanted a fun way to burn some calories of her own and trim down, if possible, and my motto remains, "What baby wants, baby gets." (When physically of financially possible, that is. "Why, yes, my love...I'll happily carry you over the threshold when the time comes, provided I can use a hand-truck, since I probably won't have it in me to do it without help.") And so I bought her the game, and she has already started putting it to good use. When she's not drowning in school assignments or required to run off to work, she'll fire up the PS2 and "boogey-oogey-oogey til she just can't boogey no more."

Y'know, it occurs to me that her reaction to receiving the game was the same as her current reaction about my shoes. Before, when the game arrived, Becky wandered about saying, "TOYS!" Now it's, "SHOES!" With this knowledge comes a thought...If I should stop posting some time after next Monday, assume Becky "played with me" until "I just couldn't boogey no more."

Be well, and DFTBA!

The end is nigh...again.

2011-10-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

For all intents and purposes, I've been in a fairly steady depression. I don't go out unless there's a specific need. My appetite is an iffy venture at best, with me having only something that resembles dinner each day, or downing something to treat low blood sugar. I'm more easily annoyed of late, sometimes by the simplest of things. And I want to sleep...A LOT! Even when I'm awaken by pain, I try to find a position less painful and attempt to go right back to sleep without painkillers. These attempts are always failures, to which point I am awake while I wait the meds to kick in...and the whole time, I'm wishing I could simply be asleep again.

You see, when I'm asleep, I don't experience the ongoing stress of being trapped in this occasionally functioning body. In my dreams, I've flown, outraced the police in daring chases, performed superhuman feats...and some of the latter weren't in bed. (Nudge-nudge; wink-wink; say no more.) Oh, many of my dreams represent the frustrations I experience in the real world, but I leave the symbolism to my subconscious, and try not to dwell on it when I'm awake...which I wish often wish wasn't so damnably frequent.

Today was like any other. Becky resisted getting out of bed for as long as possible, slipping out the door just in time for her to get to class when the first one started. In her rush to get out the door, she forgot her phone...again. (I love you, baby! Stop doing that, please!) I paid a visit to Hulu to catch up on "House" and "The Daily Show." I wandered to those sites I regularly peruse. And then, realizing that I was suffering my usual aches and pains, with a bit of cramping in my becasted foot/leg, I popped a Valium and laid down.

The reason I took the Valium and not the Soma, (a muscle relaxer), is that the latter doesn't do much for the anxiety I often feel when I realized that I am, in fact, trapped in this cast. Tomorrow makes it 18 weeks in and out of casts on my right foot, with the time out of them spent waiting for a new one to be put on. Really, there was no significant time spent out of the cast. If we go by months, then this Saturday will make it four months of casting. I have every right to be going nuts, and have been doing so in my usual fashion.

I was what I will call "partially asleep" when my phone rang. I was still not quite conscious when I answered. It was some woman calling from the orthotics lab at the hospital almost an hour away. She was calling to let me know my diabetic shoes with the brace were in, and -

I let out a stunned gasp that had the poor woman thinking I'd stepped on thumbtack. I then started babbling excitedly, as her seemingly routine phone call meant freedom for me. Freedom to shower without wrapping my leg in a garbage bag to keep it dry. Freedom to go for walks again. Freedom to not need ropes and pulleys so Becky and I can -

PG-13, Rob. PG-13!

I tried desperately to get in this week, but they didn't have anything the coincided with Becky's school schedule. But Monday...MONDAY! That is the day when I will be released from this fiberglass prison known as a cast, and I will have the freedom to...WALK! And SHOWER! And -

PG-13, Rob. PG-13!

Anywho...I wanted to share the good news. I will finally be "paroled" in a week. I'll simply try to sleep most of that time away.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Maximum Anxiety

2011-10-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

We have this neighbor that we could do without. Rumor has it that he's supposed to graduate by the end of this semester, but how remains a mystery to me...unless his professors aren't particularly demanding. I mean, he's too stupid to have gotten far in life.

The reason I say this is that he's been told numerous times to lower the volume on his stereo. Becky has told him. The landlords have told him. The POLICE have told him. Today, even I hobbled to his apartment and told him, using quite a bit of my native New York vernacular, to lower the damn stereo. Yet even as I type this, I can hear the thump, thump, thump of the bass through the wall.

I would ask how stupid one person can be, but I've been reading entirely too many examples online. Just go to Failbook or Not Always Right and you can see prime examples of idiocy in action. Like this marvelous attempt at parenting. Then there's this genius who decided to release her hamster "back into the wild."

This is the one truly bad part about my personality. I have an extremely low tolerance for stupidity. You could even ask Becky, if you were so inclined. I have a seemingly infinite well of patience. But when it comes to someone being stupid, that patience dries up faster than a cup of water spilled onto a blacktop in 120 degree heat.

Like the week Becky and I were getting to know one another face-to-face. We paid a visit to a nearby McDonald's, and I ordered chicken nuggets. With these small masses of mystery meat, I asked for honey mustard sauce. Now I know that having a PhD isn't required to work at a fast food joint, but if you don't know what a customer is asking for, ask someone else. The girl working the drive-thru couldn't grasp the idea that there was a specific sauce called "honey mustard." Instead, she decided to improvise and gave me separate packets of honey and mustard, probably expecting me to mix it on my own. I almost lost my mind over this relatively simple thing.

Yes...I lost my temper over honey mustard sauce.

I have tried to keep this particular beast under wraps. I believe I'm ugly enough without letting rage distort my features. (Becky's gonna give me a talking to for that little comment.) And today, I'm pretty sure I didn't make myself all that attractive to any member of the human race.

I'm sitting here at my computer, and the television is right next to me. I have a movie playing, as is my old habit from when I lived alone in AZ. A movie playing sets up the illusion of there being other people around, specifically when Becky is off at school or work. The volume on my TV is not all that low, yet it remains at a respectable level so as not to disturb my neighbors.

Would that the same could be said of them.

I was sitting here, and through the wall comes that damnable thumping of a bass line. Since I'm not about to run around the world for any specific reason, I chose to pound of the wall. This received no response whatsoever. The thumping through the wall continued.

Thus, I hobbled around to the front of the house, up the short, uneven set of stairs, located the apartment with the loud music with ease, and pounded as loud as possible on the door. My actions freaked the guy out. With his own colorful words, he answered the door and I laid into him verbally. I didn't give him much time to respond, and I was still mutter as I walked away about his level of ass-hattery. He must have heard something else, since he was asking, "What did you just say?!?"

I kept walking.

By the time I got back to my apartment, I was starting to suffer an anxiety attack. I don't like confrontations, and when pushed enough to become angry, the anxiety level rises exponentially. Frankly, I couldn't take a half a Valium fast enough.

Whatever the idiot thought he heard, he felt it was enough reason to not lower his music. So now I did that which the landlord instructed me to do: I called the cops. No, I didn't dial 911. That's for emergencies. I called the non-emergency line to file my complaint.

Within about 10 minutes, the cops arrived, and I received a call from their communication department to let them in through the locked front door. I then returned to my apartment, looking forward to the peace I should then have...

...and the little punk decided to ignore the cops warning to lower the music.

I gave up. With the Valium kicking in, I decided to do my best to ignore the noise. It helps when my mind suddenly has difficulty focusing. In fact...this is the end of the post. My brain is drifting, so...Be well, and DFTBA!

The first rule of Facebook...

2011-10-10T08:41:00.000-07:00

...is not that we don't talk about Facebook. It's that we don't play games on Facebook. Why? Because they suck your soul out of your body, into the computer, never to be seen again. Never ever!

But what do I do instead? I let Becky convince me to play Sim Social for the sake of her having yet another format with which to flirt with me. Because, you know...having me here, in person, is obviously not enough. =P

So I bring up the app, create a character as close to resembling me as possible...and discover that I may have done only too well. What makes me say this? Well, there are these things that your character demands you do often. Perhaps a little too often.

My character needs to use the bathroom what seems to be every other minute. This means that he's probably crossed the renal threshold, spilling sugar into his urine, and he's in desperate need of controlling his diabetes.

He then needs to wash his hands, almost as often as I do, meaning that he has just enough of a touch of OCD as I have.

Oh...and because his body isn't processing sugar properly, what with lacking insulin and all, he is constantly hungry, as well as needing to sleep quite often.

With illness starting to dominate his very existence, he feels a need to visit friends several times a day. Alas, none of them have a medical degree, and none of them have the insulin he so desperately needs.

Thus, my Sim character, literally exhausted because his body isn't being fueled properly, makes his way home...to play games on his computer or play guitar. (*I* can't play guitar, but my Sim can. How unfair is that?)

Who needs real life?

Every day is a struggle in the Sims world. In less than 24 hours of playing, my character has had to fix his computer, which, quite oddly, involved a wrench and a bit of kicking. Have you ever taken a wrench to YOUR computer in an effort to fix it? Unless its power source is a diesel engine, I doubt it. The very same methods of repair were made when it came to the toilet, which my character apparently stopped up. My amateur diagnosis is that he's eating too much fiber. I mean, the guy SITS down every time. So...either his diet needs addressing, or he has stock in toilet paper and is making his own small effort to drive the price up.

For reasons beyond my understanding, several frogs keep appearing on my property. To get rid of them, I apparently have to take a picture of them. A quick review of my Bible reveals that what's REALLY happening is that the Sims world is being visited by one of the ten plagues, and it should "let my people go." But, no...I'll snap a few shots first. This way, when yet another version of the Bible is written, I'll have photographic evidence of G-d's work.

I'm also bothered by the property on which my character resides. As far as I'm concerned, he should be renting. The jobless hack can't afford to own a place, that's for sure. That said, the property is a mess, and it's apparently HIS job to clear it of weeds, mushrooms, wild flowers, and these things that just have to be growing into tumbleweeds. It's also his job to water the trees and the flowers, the latter of which he was forced to plant. What my character SHOULD do, since he MUST be renting, is call the landlords and let them know that the property is in need of serious landscaping. Okay, okay...my character will handle the flowers; they were his doing. But trimming the grass - by hand, no less - shouldn't be his responsibility.

Being strong-armed into being a social character, I've been contemplating making my character the neighborhood slut. The game hands players a few NPCs to visit. I also have Becky, whom my character is dating. However, that being said, there's the opportunity to flirt with the NPCs as well once you've clicked on them. If he flirts with all of them, and eventually dates all of them, will my character end up with a bad reputation? If so, will my character be run out of town after becoming a home-wrecker? Or maybe, instead of seeking some kind of legitimate job, my character can become a male prostitute. Think Becky's Sim will become suspicious when my Sim starts asking for money after we've made whoopee?

The real fun comes when you ignore the game for an extended period. When you bring it back up, the character's numerous statuses go from green, to light green, to yellow, to red. Essentially, this means that he's in dire need of sleep, food, washing, bathroom relief, fun, and social activity. One would expect to find the Sim standing there, skeletal from lack of food, with a distended bladder, weeping in a corner, with circles of exhaustion around his eyes. How am I supposed to handle all of this on my own? MY SIM NEEDS HOSPITALIZATION!

Okay, okay...I'm being a goofball. Becky is probably going to read this and think she's done something horrible, "forcing" me to play. But I don't really mind. I mean, it gives me material for silly posts like this, right? =P

Be well, and DFTBA!

Tears of an Angel

2011-10-09T04:55:00.000-07:00

It was one of "those" days. Becky was scheduled to work from 11:00 AM until 4:00 PM. Just a five-hour shift. But a day shift as a supermarket cashier can be quite hectic. Everyone too busy to do their food shopping during the week shows up on the weekend. And when the weekend rolls around, many people seem to shut off their brains. I can understand this to an extent. I mean, they've taxed their gray matter for five days in a row; they need the rest. HOWEVER, if this is the case, I honestly wish they would stay home, where they can't affect anyone else beyond family. Really...If you're going to flex your stupidity, do so with those who don't have a choice of whether or not they should deal with you. Leave the innocent masses alone.

Ah, but I'm asking for the impossible. If people are going to be stupid come the weekend, then they're not going to be smart enough to stay home, are they? No...they're going to go out and stun the world with how low an IQ can become and still not be considered legally mentally retarded.

This was the case with Becky's very last customer. Having dealt with numerous people already straining their brain power to their limits, she came across "Mrs. Absolute Moron" mere minutes before she was due to go home. Mrs. Moron decided to break her overflowing basket into three separate orders, but couldn't decide what went where. So as the conveyor belt moved everything forward, and Becky was trying to scan everything, Mrs. M would shift things around, or wait until AFTER Becky had scanned something to say, "Oh, no...that doesn't go with that order."

It gets better. Mrs. Moron had a thick stack of coupons that were completely unorganized. She kept apologizing for not having a coupon organizer. I think she should have been apologizing for not going through them before going to the market and removing those she had no intention of using in the first place. I also believe an apology was in order for not even reading the coupons. "One per customer" means that you can only use the coupon once during a visit. It does not mean the coupon is used once for each item of the same type. But it was upon the latter that Mrs. Moron insisted, complicating Becky's job.

Allow me to add to this: when Becky says, "I'm not authorized to (whatever it is she not permitted to do)," it means exactly that. She can't force a coupon to be used more than once. She can't override the cash register in any way. She is not a supervisor and she doesn't have magical powers. Still, Mrs. Moron kept insisting that Becky perform the miraculous.

This special brand of idiot stretched 4:00 to 4:15...and then to 4:30...and on into 4:45.

That's when I finally called. In the past, Becky has been forced to work up to 20 minutes past her clock-out time. I tend to make allowances for this, while also praying she's not off with her boyfriend. (This is an ongoing joke with us, pretending the other has someone else on the side. It coincides with the idea that I was "married" to Nike before even meeting Becky.) But my beloved not being home 45 minutes after punch-out time was a bit much for me. She might have called me briefly to tell me she was going to be late, but she'd left her cell phone at home. And my true concern was that something was horribly wrong in the universe. (They're called "accidents" for a reason.) Thus, I called her workplace to find out if Becky was even there.

The woman at customer service, after being convinced that I was not a debt collector, brought Becky to the phone. My lady-love, trying to hold her tongue because Mrs. Moron was within earshot, told me that she was just getting off from work, and that she'd explain when she got home. Only then did I learn about her "Adventures in Dumb."

Prior to going to work, Becky had made plans for the evening. She wanted to use some cheesecake mix she'd bought to make us a rare treat. She wanted to cook dinner. She'd also wanted to sit outside and do some school work, as it was in the mid-70s and slightly breezy, making it a positively gorgeous day. Well, the idiot customer had screwed her homework plans, as it was getting a little too late to sit outside. The cheesecake idea had to be set aside, as we didn't have all the utensils needed to make it. (We'd made sure to have all the ingredients, but a whisk? Oops!) And when it came to dinner...In her frustration and desire to relax, Becky forgot that she was supposed to stir the cooking meal. It didn't really burn, but it did become slightly overcooked.

That was it. Her psyche had had enough. In a span of two and a half hours, Becky had been inundated with one frustrating disappointment after another. While I had gone into another room to take some insulin before eating, Becky broke down.

It was the absolute silence that caught my attention. Instead of hearing the clatter of the pan as she further inspected the meal for possible evidence of charcoal, I heard nothing at all.

This was because she'd moved into the sound-dampening space of the bathroom, which I discovered upon coming out to investigate. I coaxed her out of her emotional collapse long enough to fold her into my arms, and I held her, gently saying that that things were not as bad as they seemed. Mrs. Moron, the inability to sit outside to do homework, the cheesecake goof, and the minor overcooking of dinner...none of these things, on their own was worth the tears. But together, they conspired to turn her evening into crap. With me on hand, I wouldn't allow these things to become a reason for utter despair.

I was quick to offer to pay for some Chinese food, but that wasn't needed. Dinner, it turns out, wasn't bad at all. It was a little tough to chew, as a few noodles had been turned into a leathery substance, but it honestly tasted no different than if it had me "properly" prepared. I suspect that Becky thinks I forced the meal down, just to make her feel better. That's not the case at all, and she should know better. Bad night or not, I would have said, "Baby...we need to order in, as this meal is now capable of removing toxins from the bloodstream." (Charcoal is used in hospitals for that purpose.)

When I was holding her, in her greatest moment of upset, I wasn't wearing a shirt. After she'd cried a bit, she paused a moment to wipe the tears from my shoulder.

She shouldn't have worried. As long as we're together, I will hold her for as long as it takes for the anxiety and frustration to dissipate. I will whisper in her ear for hours, if need be, until she finally believes me when I say that everything will be okay. And I will always, now and forever, be willing to catch her tears...the tears of an angel. The tears of MY angel. =)

24 Days

2011-10-08T11:29:00.000-07:00

Ew.

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!

I have been doing my best to stay clean under the circumstances. I shave. I wash my hair. I use antibacterial wipes to kill the plethora of bacteria growing on me. But in terms of truly getting clean, none of this is as good as a shower. Neither hot nor cold, I enjoy the idea of using soap and having all the "stuff" getting washed away with the flow of warm water.

Today makes it 24 days since my last shower. I think I'm overdue.

Turning back the hands of time, I can recall the second multiple nerve decompression surgery I had. This time, the doctor had worked on my right side. Due to the slow healing experienced on my left foot and leg, he decided to leave the staples in my ankle for an extra week. Instead of three, I went four weeks with staples holding my ankle closed. He then plucked them out and instructed me to wait 24 hours before showering.

I was a good boy. I didn't just hear what he said...I LISTENED! I waited just OVER 24 hours, and then FINALLY enjoyed a shower. You must understand how difficult it was at the time. I mean, I lived in Phoenix, AZ, which can be hot, dry, and windy. I would regularly be covered in desert detritus. To go 28 days without a shower had been rough, but I'd done it, was was about to be rewarded with the joys of getting truly clean!

When I was done, I was toweling off, when I realized that there was an awful lot of blood dripping from my foot. Without my glasses, I couldn't see the end of my leg very well, and the lighting in the tub wasn't all that great either. Leaving a trail of blood drops, I headed into the well-lit portion of the bathroom and saw...

Ugh!

...and saw that the incision along my ankle had split wide open, allowing me to see the inner workings of my foot. I was mildly fascinated and greatly nauseated. It took a great deal of willpower not to vomit on the entirely-too-open wound. I covered the wound in as much gauze as I could and hustled off to the doctor's office for him to examine it.

Well, it all worked out in the end. I mean, it healed...eventually.

But this is why I've held off on taking a shower for so long. The stitches were removed over a week ago. I was told to wait a few days before showering. But, no...I had every intention of playing it as safe as possible. I have been avoiding my residual toe soaking in water for a week beyond the doctor's recommendation of elapsed time for a shower.

Today, my friends! Today is the day it happens! I will be clean! AND THERE ARE NONE WHO CAN STOP ME! (And probably many who are saying, "It's about time!")

Edit: The results of the shower were somewhat frightening. Due to the lack of even intermittent moisture, I believe I removed a complete layer of skin-like substance during the vigorous drying process. "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew," indeed.

"The problem...

2011-10-07T19:00:00.000-07:00

...with quotes on the internet is that a large percentage of them are wrong." -Abraham Lincoln

If you didn't catch that, you have to stop reading my blog and immediately return to elementary school...and NEVER come back! =P

Honestly, I've been trying to figure out why technology makes people so incredibly stupid. You would think that we'd advance intellectually as technology made its leaps forward. Instead, it seems to become the next greatest reason to become lazy and stupid.

My "favorite" example of late involves our favorite religious group, the Westboro "Church." I hate dragging Godwin's Law into this, but they're about as close to Nazis as one can get without committing acts of violence. And what absolutely kills me is their latest antic, which is their scheduled protest of Steve Jobs's funeral...which they announced via iPhone. To quote their Twitter announcement, "Westboro will Picket his funeral. He had a huge platform; gave G-d no glory & taught sin." When it was pointed out they were essentially losing this one because they were using the very technology Jobs had created, Marge Phelps replied with, "Rebels mad cuz I used iPhone to tell you Steve Jobs is in Hell. G-d created the iPhone for that purpose!" She even included a smiley emoticon.

If religion produces this level of ignorance and stupidity, I'm becoming an atheist.

The original article about this that I'd read was even more disturbing, in that it had a picture. There was one of the Westboro lunatics holding some of their favorite messages. "You're going to hell." "Thank G-d for 9/11." Beside the woman holding these slogans was a guy with his own poster board, "G-d hates signs." But the most distressing thing about the picture was the smiling boy, around the age of seven, holding a sign that read, "G-d hates fags."

This isn't freedom of speech; it's freedom of stupidity.

Speaking of freedom of speech, what about my freedom of hearing? I don't want such messages thrown at me. I don't want to hear them. I don't want to read them. These people are lunatics and should be bustled off to a cave and left there until dead. I mean, provided there IS a G-d, I'm pretty sure what He truly hates is intolerance. My right to be left in peace from these morons is being violated...

...by the media. These idiots only have the attention that they enjoy because the news media jumps up and down excitedly every time they open their collective mouths. And technology has ensured that I'm going to hear about, read about it, SOMETHING about it as soon as the feed can deliver it to me. And I don't want it. The only way to avoid this kind of idiocy is to never bring up the internet again. So I have to stop doing something I WANT to do in order to avoid something I don't want at all.

"Oh, Rob...Stop your complaining and go outside or something." Trust me, I would if I could walk. I'm still healing from surgery, and still have that pesky cast on my other foot. But trust me...I'll be getting away from technology a bit as soon as I'm physically capable of it.

Still, it won't be an escape. I'm going to want to connect to my friends via the virtual world, and am going to connect to the internet at some point...and that's when my right to have a little peace from morons is going to be violated. Just a headline that reads "Westboro Church at it again" would be a disruption for me, as I'd know there'd been no air strike against one of their protests. And, really...that's what these "people" need. I get the sense that the first people to wipe out this "church" using flame throwers will be hailed as heroes.

And THAT would be using technology for the betterment of humanity.

So...to the media: stop following the Westboro lunatics! Let them go the way of the dodo. You're the reason they have any voice at all. If you would shut up, I'd have one less reason for a Xanax prescription!

Complaint Department

2011-10-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not terribly happy of late. It could well be that as the seasons change, I'm sinking into some form of seasonal depression. It's one of the reasons why there's been such a gap between blog posts, as I haven't been of a mood to write much. It's not for a lack of things to report. I mean, I got fitted for the brace and my replacement cast was covered with paw prints. It was very cute and amused Becky to no end. This was followed by the adventure of thinking something had gotten into my cast, and had to have it removed to discover nothing was there. (The replacement cast is orange.) The stitches came out of my residual toe and it appears to be healing nicely. The cold I reported a week ago finally seems to be fading. I have things to say.

But I often find myself sitting at my computer, watching a BBC show called "QI" for hours on end, and no desire to do much of anything else. Given any time alone to think, I don't have many pleasant thoughts. Nothing that suits my typical symptoms of depression, mind you. I'm not dwelling on suicide, as is my wont. No, I'm on my meds, and they're working.

Instead, I find myself thinking about such things as the level of stupidity Stu has demonstrated. Like a child unable to defend himself, he went running to our father with the essential desire to whine. "Daddy, Rob's being mean! And you should see what he said about you!" My father would never have found my blog had Stu not directed him on where to go. Thus, a rift was created, and I was left with the inability to report the goings-on with my toe. And it was Stu's doing. This blog was for my friends, and that was it. Stu found it, didn't like what he read, and once again took the route of an infant and had a temper tantrum. In the process, he ruined a father/son relationship, all because he couldn't be a grown up about it. In the greatest of family traditions, Stu has proven without doubt that he is his mother's son.

Please, G-d, let me be like none of them...EVER!

Then there's been this increasing feeling of being a disappointment to Becky. There was so much that was supposed to happen once I'd moved in. I was going to do my best to keep house while she was off at school and/or working. There was also supposed to be a great deal of time playing games, watching movies, or...ummm...more adult activities.

But what happened instead? I walked in the door and started coming apart.

Becky often says that it's not my fault that I'm disabled...that I come down with one illness or another. The thing is, she's wrong. These things ARE my fault. I'm the one who screwed around with my diabetes to the point that the complications were assured to affect me. I dug this gloriously destructive hole for myself to lie in, and now I am suffering the consequences. As a kind of added bonus, Becky suffers vicariously with me.

She could, and should, do better.

Chances are excellent that she'll read that statement later and reprimand me for it. She seems to think I'm a one-of-a-kind item. But my argument is as follows: in order to demonstrate that someone is somewhat unique among the masses, they are told that they are "one in a million." Assuming that's true of myself, we now skip to the fact that there are approximately 7 billion people on the planet. Mathematically, that translates to the idea that there are 7,000 people just like me. Just as kind. Just as caring. Just as funny. Just as cynical. Just as needy. A perfect combination that seems to have attracted my beloved...and there are 7,000 of them out there...and one of them has to be younger and healthier than I.

My life isn't where I wanted it to be when I envisioned it decades ago. Then again, if it had worked itself out as I dreamt, I wouldn't be with my beloved Becky. So while I have my complaints, I also have plenty for which to be thankful.

Be well, and DFTBA!

Just a brief moment of pride...

2011-09-27T18:59:00.001-07:00

I was, for an EXTREMELY short time, employed by a jewelry store in the Sunrise Mall in Massapequa, NY. During that brief period, something funny happened with a pair of customers...but to be honest, I had no venue under which I could or should repeat it.

Last year, Ray's mom made mention of a web site that told stories about some of the dumbest customers on the face of the planet. The name of the site only goes to prove that the customer is "Not Always Right." Many of the stories are quite funny. Others cause me to grieve for the future of humanity, as the customers in some tales are SO stupid that it makes me believe the gene pool needs a stronger dose of chlorine.

Several weeks ago, they launched a sister site, "Not Always Romantic." Reading the stories there jogged my memory about that brief job at the jewelry store, (the name of which I'm trying to avoid, as the manager was a moron). At last, I had my venue and submitted the story to them. This evening, as I dropped in on the site to read the latest bits of funny, the story at the top of the page...WAS MINE! O.O

And so I present to you what they entitled, "The Man Show-ology 101." Enjoy! =)

Oh...as I pointed out on Facebook, this makes me, once again, a published writer, but not an author, as it is my belief that a published author gets PAID for their writings. =/

Because being in love...

2011-09-27T13:36:00.000-07:00

...is all about sharing, right? I mean, when I was being hospitalized, Becky shared the experience with me as best she could, becoming worried enough for the both of us. A recent Facebook post from me about our anniversary turned into an online pissing match by her "aunt," who decided to call me a "moron" and to "feel sorry for Becky" because she was with me. And my beloved shared my outrage at this woman's utter stupidity. (Becky's "aunt" had yet to make a humorous or happy post to her wall, which was rather pathetic, really.)

Ah, but all of that is entirely too serious as I now tell you that which Becky decided to share with me. I deem it a true demonstration of her love for me, as she chose to freely give over that which was truly from deep within her very body...a cold. Cough...congestion...itchy nose. I can't begin to tell you how pleased I am that she felt the need to donate viral microbes to me.

Now I feel as though a truck has driven over me several times. Forwards and backwards, mashing my body until I'd rather stay in bed and moan. As it is, I'm notorious for occasionally croaking in a childish manner, "I dying." This usually prompts Becky to say, exasperatedly, "You're not dying."

But I am. I'm sure of it. This cold will be the end of me and she doesn't even care. I'll have the last laugh, though. I'll die from this cold, and she'll be miserable. So...HAH!

Actually, I was reading my posts from a year ago, and I must say I was really quite the sap. Page after page of all that "lovey-dovey" crap. What was I thinking?!?

Ummm...Probably all of the things I think about regularly. I am so in love with Becky that I occasionally FEEL it! (I know, right?) This is astonishing to me because I'm a bit on the emotionally stunted side. My psych meds tend to subdue certain emotions, which unfortunately doesn't cover anger...but then I have Xanax to keep that one under wraps. It probably also has a lot to do with my past, which has seen me beaten emotionally over and over again. I'm oh so guarded against leaving my emotional heart defenseless, as I believe I will forever be afraid of having it broken again. I'll probably stop believing she will hurt me in such a way when I die...which should be any day, now, what with this cold and all.

But I *DO* love her. And when her "aunt" proclaimed that she felt sorry for Becky for being with me, I became enraged. This woman...she graduated from nursing school and recently received her nursing license. Along with several others, I congratulated her, and she chose to complain back at me...and just me. (I said something about Becky doing well in her pre-nursing courses, and this got the crazy woman started.) Then, on the wall post in which I celebrated being engaged to Becky for a year, this woman chose to start taking my jokes about me not wanting "nurses who scraped by with a C starting an IV in me seriously. She started lecturing me about the grading system, and I went and made more jokes, because the original statement wasn't serious to begin with. (Does anyone honestly pause to ask what kinds of grades a nurse got in school?!? Apparently, this woman thinks I do. To this idea, I say, "DUH!") And so, to a couple of sentences ending with an emoticon, =P, she chose to start calling me names.

Oh, I was pissed! (I'm getting angry just thinking about it now.) And what made me angriest was the idea that I would somehow make Becky suffer through school. Me, the guy who helps her study. Me, the guy who reviews anything she has to write. (I do no rewriting, but make suggestions on what could be fixed.) Me, the guy whose first reaction to Becky making the dean's list was to call her mother. Yeah, I'm going to really make Becky miserable.

[/rant]

I love Becky, totally and completely...or as completely as a guy whose emotional circuits are malfunctioning. I will do anything and everything in my power to see her happy. My one great wish at this moment: that she wouldn't share things like this cold with me. Because, now..."I dying."

Be well, and DFTBA!

A forgivable forgetting

2011-09-25T12:01:00.000-07:00

Whoops! Despite my best intentions of making a happy post of some kind yesterday, I forgot something rather important. Yesterday marked the first year anniversary of Becky and I becoming engaged.

So it was that last night's cuddle session was filled with the happy memory of me setting her up for the big surprise. It's still amazing to us that so many people knew of what I was planning, yet no one slipped up and told her about it. Even the bride and groom, whose wedding I would be asking at, managed rather well just mere days before.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table, talking about the toast I was supposedly going to make. It seemed like the more outrageous the idea, the more the bride and groom-to-be liked it. The most frightening aspect was that I was so uncomfortable about lying to Becky like that, even if it was for the best of purposes, and yet so very good at it. The same applies to Kat and Mike. Supposedly, they weren't thrilled at the concept of lying, but we all knew Becky would absolutely love the surprise that awaited her at the reception.

Mind you, I was somewhat impatient at the time. The wedding ceremony, which I didn't sit in on because I would have felt uncomfortable, (being Jewish and all), seemed to take FOREVER! I waited in a courtyard the church had, excited and nervous at what was coming. To be honest, I'm not sure why I was nervous. Becky had been "threatening" for some time that she'd say yes when I asked her to marry me. My best guess is that I was nervous because I'd be doing it in front of about 100 people.

When I met the videographer and his wife, I was all the more stunned by how many people knew what was coming. Out of the 100 people gathered for the wedding, only ONE had no clue; the most important one to not be let in on it, which was good.

The memory of asking Becky to marry me is lost in a flood of adrenaline. In retrospect, I think my fumbling and stammering came about from said adrenaline; I was loaded with far more energy than my body could handle while trying to stand still. I believe there's a perfectionist in all of us, and I wanted it to be THE perfect moment for us...and there I was, bumbling along, screwing it up.

Despite my thinking me ruining it, it turned out wonderfully. Becky, looking on in utter disbelief as I pulled the ring from my pocket and asked in a voice loud enough for all to hear, and seeing the desire in her face to start shaking her head. No...No, he can't be asking me to marry him. He hasn't given Kat the money yet. She hasn't assembled the ring. Heck, she hasn't even ordered the parts to assemble the ring yet! So, no...he's not asking me to marry him, and this is some kind of bizarre joke.

Oh, but I WAS asking! I was even down on one knee, which wasn't easy, with one recently operated on and another still requiring surgery. It was the perfect surprise, and Becky managed a minimal nod to let me know she was agreeing to be with me for the rest of our days. Then I was holding her close, slipping the ring on her finger, while the watching crowd applauded us.

It was a truly magical moment...one I shouldn't forget. But I did yesterday, and for that, I'm sorry. Happy anniversary, my beloved! =*)

Is broke. I make fix.

2011-09-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

There's a bit of a silly accent that goes with that, but I suppose the fact that it's in "foreign English" is good enough.

It occurred to me earlier today that when something is broken in my relationship with Becky, I try to fix it in some way. Two recent examples come immediately to mind.

The first was just prior to my recent hospitalization. Becky was fretting over me being gone for so many days, despite my being only one mile away. Well, as I'd said in previous posts, my being laid up would mean a disruption to our rituals, and those disruptions were bothering her a great deal. (Thank goodness neither is considering breaking up or dying...Then again, does one consider dying actively? (I suppose if one were suicidal...) (Bah...totally off track!)) I've become somewhat accustomed to being hospitalized, and so it wasn't THAT big of a deal for me, with my only concern being that I was about to lose a toe. For my beloved, however, it was quite a big deal, as hospitals tend to be scary places where truly sick people go.

In an effort to make her feel better, and as a kind of apology for being "dumb enough to get sick," I did the cooking the night before. Really, there's only one thing I seem to make exceptionally well and that's matzoh brei. I whipped up a couple of them Tuesday night in the hopes of bringing much-needed smiles to our home. It worked, as kisses and thanks were rained upon me in great quantities. And, really, I kind of needed the affection. I may not have been panicking, but I was quite nervous about losing "the piggy that stayed home." =(

Even more recently was yesterday. On the way home from a fitting of my newly made diabetic shoes, Becky said something that hit my emotional buttons in just the right way to enrage me. When I'm angry, I desperately try to avoid saying anything at all, and thus go quiet for some time. I need to calm down, or it becomes quite possible that I'll say something I'm sure to regret.

Angry responses, in almost any form, frighten Becky. She's lived with entirely too many people who've had poor anger responses, and tends to want to flee before anyone that's enraged, most specifically at her.

Making it worse was the fact that when we got home, there was no time for any kind of discussion. She had to get to work. We did, however, manage a quick tearful apologies to one another, and I promised we would talk more when she returned from work.

We did. We ironed out the problem as best we could, although I know it will happen again because Becky is unaccustomed to having someone talk TO her and not AT her. And I suppose one major argument every five months is acceptable.

The thing about our arguments, regardless of how serious they are, is that I am often right. I don't enjoy this fact, as Becky often comes away feeling like she's been thoroughly reprimanded. I'm not ALWAYS right, and I couldn't possibly be 100% right...but I am...sometimes right. (Oh ho! Can you NOW see the play on word of this blog? I write occasionally, and I'm also correct now and again. I'm such a wit, (and words that rhyme with "wit."))

Due to the rain yesterday, I was unable to hobble over to the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions. So it was that I called today, had them prepare the various meds that needed to be refilled, and prepared to head over there about an hour later. Becky noticed me getting ready to go and said that she thought it was going to be her job to pick up my meds. "No," I replied. "I don't know if you've noticed this, but whenever we have something that's affected you emotionally in some way, I try to do something nice, even if it's to simply give you a break from doing this or that." (I said something to that effect. The exact words have managed to escape me in a rather short time.)

The mere fact that I give her any thought whatsoever, thereby demonstrating that I actually CARE about her, had her on her feet and moving to embrace me with tears forming in her eyes. Honestly, I don't think I'm committing a great feat of romance when I do such things, and the fact that it brings her tears of joy makes me want to find everyone who's done wrong by her in the past and beat on their heads until the space between their shoulders is concave, with their heads forcefully tucked into their torsos.

So...Is broke? I make fix! =)

* * *

In other news, I am becoming concerned about the goings on in my body. There is a pain in the second metatarsal of my left foot, and that could simply be related to the fact that the second toe had 66% of itself removed. Simple enough, right?

Except that my nose has been itching rather madly the past two nights.

"Ummm...Rob? Your foot hurts and your nose itches. You do realize that they're on opposite ends of the body, right?"

Yeah...except the nose is a breeding ground for MRSA, (pronounces "mer-sah), which is Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. It could be a sign that, while caring tending to the surgical site, (and foot in general), I've managed to spread the infection from my foot to my nose. Not sure how, but it's possible. And if I have MRSA...

*sigh* Here we go agaon, with time spent in the hospital to confirm it, and then a lengthy round of strong IV antibiotics. I won't have to be hospitalized the entire time, but there will have to be a few days to confirm it and set up a PICC line. Even better will be the enforced limited contact between Becky and I, as it's contagious. Hoo-freakin'-rah.

I'm going to try to hold out for the doctor appointment I have on Wednesday to have stitches removed. Here's hoping it's all in my head.

Be well, and DFTBA.

Yep...saw one.

2011-09-21T19:23:00.000-07:00

After my diagnosis of Charcot arthropathy, the special specialist suggested I see a neurologist. But he couldn't refer me to the neurologist himself. Not sure why, but he couldn't. So I brought it up with my PCP, who got me a referral some time last month, but wasn't able to schedule me until today.

And so it was that I made the trip with Becky back to the very same hospital I was released from this past Saturday. The neurologist's office was beneath the main floor. Into the office, where I filled out a few forms and then waited. As usual, Becky accompanied me when I was called back to see the doctor.

But first, I was interviewed by a nurse, who also took my vital signs. I was, much to my astonishment, a mere 106 over 67 when my blood pressure was taken. Prior to my surgery, my BP was hanging around 140 over 80. It varied, but that was the average. The stress brought on by the pain in my toe, as well as the ongoing fear of infection, kept the pressure up...literally! So I attribute my reduced BP to the fact that I actually eliminated a problem.

Eventually, the doctor arrived. He was at an immediate disadvantage because I already had a diagnosis: diabetic neuropathy that had advanced to Charcot arthropathy. And so he inquired, "Why have you come to see me?" I told him that I was one of those rare patients who listens to doctor's instructions, (for the most part), and I was told to see a neurologist. He then asked what medications I was on for neuropathy pain, and what I'd tried in the past. He even asked if I'd ever used Capsaicin, which is a cream that uses a hot pepper extract to help alleviate pain. So I told him about the ONE time I'd used it, back in my late 20s, and...

Way back when, my attempt to use that cream resulted in me running from my desk at work to the cafeteria, where I would fill paper towels with ice, then try to line the area around my waist, just inside my jeans, where the cream had been liberally applied. After my third trip to the cafeteria, I went to my boss and said that I could no longer concentrate on my work, and that I was homeward bound. And when I got home, I ran to take an icy shower and scrub what was left of that cream from my skin. Even before I began scrubbing, my skin was red and raw in appearance, almost as though I'd been sun burned.

So, no...No more Capsaicin for me...EVER!

The only other drug under consideration was one that had been mentioned during several doctor visits with various specialists: Cymbalta. This is supposedly an antidepressant that also relieves pain. There's just one little problem with it. Y'see, there's this drug I take now for my neuropathy pain that has always worked called "Ultram," (or its generic name, "Tramadol"). Apparently Cymbalta and Ultram come together to cause seizures in those who combine them. I've never had a seizure from mixing Ultram with other drugs, as is the usual warning, but the neurologist didn't feel it was worth the risk. Besides, the Ultram was doing what it was meant to do. If it ain't broke, why fix it? (Right Facebook? >=P )

The doc then proceeded to give me a neurological exam. He checked my pupil reaction speed, my reflexes, and coordination.

One of the coordination tests was one to which I was unaccustomed. I was to touch my nose, then touch his finger. Simple enough, right? I did so a couple of times, and then he did the unexpected. He relocated his finger and expected me to continue touching it. Because he caught me off guard, I reached to where his finger was, and then cried out comically, "That's cheating!" Well...Becky smiled, at least. He did this to test my coordination on both the right and left side, and I was able to keep up just fine.

On my word, he didn't even bother testing me for sensation. I told him the best I'd feel was the contact between an object and my skin, bit I wouldn't be able to differentiate between dull and sharp.

With the exam over, he had virtually no suggestions as to what I should do. I jokingly suggested I play more video games to help prevent the wasting that's been evident in my hands, and he actually agreed! The use of a console game controller could, indeed, help prevent some wasting, as well as rebuild muscles in my hands. My feet...? Well, any wasting there would be difficult to address, as I have other issues there.

What surprised me was the lack of knowledge as to HOW Charcot arthropathy affects the joints. Doctors have a good idea about what causes diabetic neuropathy, and they know neuropathy affects various autonomic functions. But how it affects the joints...? Nope. They remain in the dark on that one. Even if you go to the major source of information online, Wikipedia, you'll find only theories as to what's happening under "Disease Mechanism."

That was really the end of the visit. There was nothing new to diagnose, and there weren't any other treatments for what was ailing me. The doctor finished the visit with, "Well, you were told to see a neurologist, and you've seen one."

Yes...Yes, I had.

Be well, and DFTBA!

How it looks

2011-09-20T12:57:00.000-07:00

Well, I had a followup with the podiatrist today, and he said the most amazing thing. "It looks good." Really?!? It DOES?!? That's...that's...THAT'S AMAZING! Who would have thought that the answer to the problem was to remove it altogether? I mean, I had hopes, but I remained somewhat nervous that it wouldn't work.

Oh, but don't worry about that. There's still plenty of time for my foot to self-destruct.

I've successfully avoided looking directly at the surgical site, but had a fairly decent view of it today. It's a genuinely weird sensation to look down at the place where a part of your body was visible just a week ago, only to see a tiny stump. But "stump" is an "improper" word. Had this been an arm or a leg, the remainder would be called "a residual limb." I suppose that makes what's left on my foot "a residual digit." Whatever it's called, it looks strange.

It also feels strange on occasion, as I reported to the doc. I told him about the phantom sensation in my toe, which seemingly kicked it up a notch on the way home. Instead of simply feeling like he was grinding the toenail, it hurt as it did before the surgery. There's no toe there, but it felt like the old wound was aching.

Bah! I have bigger pains than that.

So, according to the doc, I can actually spend A LITTLE time on my feet. Yes, I may help with the dishes when I feel up to it. I need not change the dressing on the surgical site, but can if I feel the need. And next week, on Wednesday, he'll remove the sutures from the beheaded toe, which is good news.

Also in the category of good news is that my specially made diabetic shoes have finally arrived at the orthopedic lab near the special specialist. So I'm going on Friday to be molded for the brace. From there, it shoudl be three or four more weeks of living in this danged cast. And then...AND THEN...I'll be able to shower without having to practically balance on one leg the whole time! I'll be able to go for walks. I'll be able to...No...No, that last thought is not for the public. Never mind.

So things are slowly getting better over here. I have other medical adventures coming my way, but I think the whole "Foot Panic of 2011" is almost over.

Be well, all, and DFTBA.

Hospital Adventures: The Aftermath

2011-09-19T05:39:00.001-07:00

So I'm home, and I'm pleased that it was a relatively short hospital stay. Because my doctor didn't actually have faith in the idea of IV antibiotics at home, he thought there was the potential for me to be transferred to a nursing home for continued treatment, as hospital beds should be reserved for people sicker than I. Thank goodness it didn't come to that.

Just over ten years ago, when I briefly lived in a homeless shelter, there was an older man also staying there, and he'd just had surgery to remove his big toe. It was treated like ambulatory surgery, so he was in and out on the same day. I was shocked by this. The big toe is essential to balance, so him being kicked out without any kind of physical therapy was wrong in my eyes. He also had no choice but to be up and about during his stay at the shelter, as there was no hanging around permitted during the day. My thought was that the hospital should be ashamed. They operated on a guy, in what had to be emergency surgery, (as I couldn't imagine a homeless man having regular medical care), and then dismissed him with only a wound care nurse to stop by once a day to change the wound's dressing. I am, by comparison, far better off.

And yet I'm going to gripe. Yeah, it's somewhat selfish, but his problems are now in the past (I hope), and mine are in the present.

Knowing that I was likely to face this amputation, I asked the special specialist treating my Charcot arthropathy if I could start weight-bearing on the affected foot. He said I could, and had the cast techs give me a weight-bearing cast. My instructions were to do as I pleased, as much as I could tolerate. As the weather gets colder, it would seem I can't tolerate that much. Joints that have been broken tend to ache during dramatic atmospheric changes, and I had plenty of microfractures in my talus. But at least I could do SOMETHING.

Now I've been ordered back into the realm of bed rest for the next two weeks, and I'd just gained a bit of freedom. Forgive the childish outburst, but...THAT ISN'T FAAAAAIR! (Reading that in the whining tone of a five-year-old makes it sound proper.) I had only a few days of being able to do the dishes, take out the trash...and now all responsibilities fall back onto Becky's shoulders. Like she didn't have enough to do already.

Speaking of my beloved, I was particularly astonished that my brief hospital stay had such a profound effect on her. She's said a number of times, "I understood the need for it, but that didn't mean I had to like it." She'd become so accustomed to coming home to receive affection from me that the lack of it bothered her immensely. I came home to an abundant amount of evidence that she'd occupied my side of the bed while I was gone, which somehow brought her comfort. And we've been making up for lost time by showing a great deal of affection - just a wee bit more than usual - since my return.

As for how my foot feels...? Well, it hurts a little. Not nearly as much as other aches in my body. Even though it's just a toe, I've been getting the occasional "phantom pain" in it. Because my toenails have come to grow like little mutations at the end of my feet, they sometimes have to be ground down instead of simply cut. It's the strange discomfort of having the toenail being attacked with a grinder that I've felt most, and it's more bothersome than anything else.

Emotionally, I'm just frustrated. It's been months since I've been able to engage in any normal activities. It's been ongoing with this bulky cast, and now I have the added "joy" of an amputated toe. Again, it's bothersome. I want to be able to shower regularly...to go for a walk without having to limp...to be able to do more around the apartment than play the role of vegetable.

What's more, it isn't going to end with my foot adventures. Next on the list is the mystery pains in my hips. My right hip hurts more than the left, but it's in both. It could be arthritis. It could be related to Charcot arthropathy. Whatever it is, it won't be anything that'll kill me...just make me miserable.

Oh well. One problem at a time. It's good to be home with my beloved taking care of me instead of a parade of nurses that alternated between pretty and not-so-pretty. The would-be nurse caring for me now is beautiful all the time. =)

Be well, all, and DFTBA!

Hospital Adventures: Part 2

2011-09-18T05:57:00.000-07:00

I left you with the doctor just having removed my toe, but I failed to mention something that happened before that...

Becky and I debated whether or not to call my father about the pending surgery. Honestly, I don't know what I should have PROPERLY said. In my emotional hurt and frustration, as well as the stress I was experiencing, I would have tried to call when they weren't in and left a message, "I know you don't care, but I'm going in to have the surgery that you waved off as nonsensical." I honestly don't think I would have scored any points on that one. And if Becky called...Well, I could see her taking the blame for whatever crime they believe was committed against them. As a result of such thinking, no call was ever made. And since they may well be following this blog, as I'm sure my infantile brother is from time to time, they know my number. They could have called it at any time.

And now back to the day of the surgery. It went well. The troublesome toe was gone. There was no pathology on which to report.

Becky was waiting for me back at my room. To be honest, I don't remember much of that visit. I was still quite out of it, but I distinctly recall her being there, filled with her customary amount of love. G-d, she is so good to me and for me! After a short time, she left for classes, and I rested...

...until an infectious disease doctor showed up. (Honestly, if you expect to get any rest whatsoever, don't have such expectations in a hospital.) He confirmed that one of the cultures taken on the day of my admission was a staph infection, but didn't know what kind of staph it was. What they were keen to learn was if it was or wasn't antibiotic resistant. That answer wouldn't come until the next day. Still, he started me on two IV antibiotics to cover his bets. One was a broad-spectrum drug, while the other was designed to go after resistant staph. The latter I'd been on before. It's called Vancomycin and it can burn quite a bit going in; I'd had a number of IV sites changed because it would "burn out" the vein into which it'd been going.

Here's where I became INCREDIBLY stupid. You see, went a long time without a cigarette. About eight hours, if my guess is right. I should have stayed in bed and just done my best to ignore the urge. Instead, I got a hold of a wheelchair and made my way outside for a smoke. It didn't taste very good, and it made me lightheaded. I should have gone back inside and made some kind of attempt to quit. Instead, I made it as far as the next morning and found myself making my way outside once more after a dose of painkiller. Really, I am dumb beyond belief. Before I knew it, I was heading outside every two hours for another fix. Amazingly, opportunity was still knocking, as I couldn't bring myself to smoke a whole cigarette. I should have responded to the lack of enthusiasm to my 24-year habit.

Day number three brought me back into the Twilight Zone. The day before, I'd called Becky and she woke up easily. On this day, I called and she was ALREADY AWAKE! At 8:10 in the morning, without fighting me to get up? I recall saying something akin to, "I don't know who you are, but if you tell me where the real Rebecca is, I won't press charges." She said she had a lot to do before she came to the hospital, so I didn't make further fun of her behaving oddly.

After breakfast, I hobbled outside for another half-cigarette. I took all of four or five puffs before turning around and heading back to my room. Thinking that I should waste the cigarette, I cut off it's burning end and stuffed it back into the pack. By the time I got back to my room, I recalled what a stink a half-smoked cigarette could create and flushed it down the toilet. Natural instinct versus addictive urges. I should have listened to the former.

Amazingly, I STILL hadn't needed any of my short-acting insulin. That was about to change. You see, I wasn't just eating regular meals now, but was also receiving my IV antibiotics in a solution of dextrose. I asked about this and was fed some silly line from a nurse that the dextrose increased the strength of the antibiotic. It seemed to me that all it did was increase my blood sugar. By lunch, my glucose level was 243. (I took a few notes while I was hospitalized, which is how I can produce the occasional detail.) That level indicated that there was 243 milligrams of of sugar per 100 cubic centimeters of blood...and normal, as mentioned yesterday, is 70 to 110. My dream of having suddenly been cured of diabetes went out the window. (Hey! A guy can dream, right?)

In terms of pain, I was experiencing some ache in my feet, but a majority of my pain was in my hip. When I say "feet," I DO mean both of them. There was a bit of pain coming from the surgical site - just a bit of soreness, really. In my other foot, still in this damnable cast, there was a steady ache coming from the talus, where I'd had so many microfractures. But when it came to my hip, I was in true agony. Lying down seemed to cause the most pain. Sitting made it somewhat bearable. Standing and walking reduced it the most, so really...what the heck is going on in there?!?

The hospitalist came by, and my pain wasn't really on my mind enough to discuss it with him. Instead, we discussed my rising blood glucose levels, and he decided to raise my 24-hour insulin slightly. I came in taking 0.5 CCs of Lantus daily. He lowered it the day before to 0.3 CCs. Now he was raising it to 0.4 CCs. But as long as they were using dextrose with my IV antibiotics, I didn't expect much of a change.

And I must say, the timing of my IV meds made life in the hospital...annoying. My need for a lengthy nap yesterday came from the fact that I received the broad-spectrum antibiotic every six hours - 6:00 AM, 12:00 PM, 6:00 PM, and 12:00 AM - and the Vancomycin every 12 hours - 4:00 PM and 4:00 PM. Those doses that came along while I was sleeping were a lot of fun. Each time I was given medication, they had to use a laser scanner on my hospital ID bracelet. If I was sleeping in a position where it was hidden, they had to dig my arm out to scan it. Then, to connect the IV, they might have to do the same with the other arm to find the IV port. As an added bonus, the "Vanco" burned, so...yeah. Sleep was a bit difficult. And every time I was awakened, I became that much more conscious of my pain, which meant I was soon asking for a dose of Diloted again.

That drug was somewhat enjoyable. I mean, there's a reason why people become addicted to such things. When injected into a vein, there's an instant feeling of euphoria. That said, I was actually proud of the fact that while I was in the hospital, I was able to cut one of my narcotics from my list of meds. The major use of my Valium is to sleep. (PTSD and all that.) But while I was there, I was able to receive 25 mg. of Benadryl through my IV, and it would knock me flat. On the very first night, they gave me a dose of Benadryl, and I didn't feel much of a difference, so I decided to read a bit. I found myself reading the same sentence over and over again, unable to make sense of it, and taking longer to read it each time. Silly me, I thought it wasn't working; it was working just fine!

During day number three, a nurse came in to talk to me about my discharge. I was excited in that I thought they were going to0 cut me loose, but there were no such orders. No, she wanted to discuss what would happen WHEN said orders would come along. She explained to me that if I required IV antibiotics for a longer period, I was all set to receive everything I needed, as my medical insurance appeared to be excellent from her perspective. A week's worth of the broad-spectrum stuff would cost me $2.40. The Vancomycin would cost $4.60. And everything else was covered. She sounded truly amazed. She was also somewhat pleased that I knew about how to handle such home care. Mind you, she wasn't happy that I'd required it in the past, but did like the fact that I wouldn't be a complete novice when it came to setting up my own IV at home. (They'd install a PICC, or Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, and all I'd have to do was connect the lines to receive my meds. There would be no starting a new IV at home for me.)

Alas, there was some confusion as to what was or wasn't happening with the whole home care thing. At one point in the morning, a doctor was saying I'd need it...and was saying I wouldn't need it at another point. None of the nurses were sure when he said which one, so the one nurse discussing my home care said she'd leave a note in my chart and let the doctors figure it out later.

My podiatrist stopped by that evening to say he'd be back bright and early to change my dressing. When I mentioned the whole home care thing from earlier that day, he stated, (and not for the first time), that he'd never heard of someone being able to do IV meds at home while on Medicare in his 20 years of practice. When I'd argued that I'd done so in the past, he shrugged it off and suggested that maybe it was an issue in Pennsylvania. He remained skeptical, so I sent him off to read my chart, where I knew a note was awaiting the infectious disease doctors. He was back in short order, telling me that he had great trust in the nurse who'd written the note, and that he now left HER a note asking her to teach him "this strange and powerful magic."

I was going to cut this post here, but there's not much left to tell. So...

My final day started with my podiatrist dropping by at 6:30 AM to change the dressing. He rinsed it with saline, said it looked good, painted it with iodine, and covered it with enough gauze to make it virtually bulletproof. he then instructed me to stay off it as much as possible, rest with it elevated when possible, and to keep it dry. And I loved his instructions for the happenstance of it getting wet. "Wash it with soap and water, dry it thoroughly, apply some iodine again, and put a band-aid over it."

"Really...? A band-aid?" I asked.

"It's not that big," he replied.

Between this foot's surgical site and my other foot being in a cast, it looks like I won't be showering AT ALL for the next couple of weeks. Thank goodness I've lived with similar instructions in the past and know how to remain clean under such circumstances.

An infectious disease doctor was in around noon to tell me that the deep tissue culture had gotten off to a rough start, not growing anything. But then something had started to grow, and they were still awaiting those results. He was positive I'd be spending at least one more night in the hospital...and returned a half hour later to say the results miraculously came in while he was still there, and that it was antibiotic-sensitive staph. I could go home immediately with a prescription for oral meds.

Thus, I was immediately discharged with instructions to call for an appointment with my podiatrist ASAP.

And that's it. I suppose I could now go get a pedicure and insist on a 10% discount due to my now-missing toe...if ever I was of a mind to get a pedicure at all. And while I may not be able to count to 20 anymore, I CAN get as high as 19 and 1/3.

I'm off to try and get Becky out of bed. It would seem that my return home has also meant a return to her fighting wakefulness. Perhaps I really SHOULD call her; it worked better that way.

Be well, all, and DFTBA!

Hospital Adventures: Part 1

2011-09-17T10:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm home. Kind of tired, as not a single night went by without interruption, but otherwise intact...minus a toe. This may take a few posts, but I'll try to fill in the details of what went down.

So, Wednesday rolled around, and I toyed with the idea of a blog post, but couldn't really think of anything to say, other than, "I'm going to the hospital very soon. Ummm...Yeah, that's it. Be well!" Not exactly the writing exercise that most of posts are.

Becky and I arrived at the hospital and I encountered what had to be the easiest of all hospital admissions ever! I walked in, signed some paperwork, and was shortly escorted to a bed waiting for me upstairs. I answered a whole bunch of questions pertaining to what meds I take at home, and was then examined by EVERYONE! At least, it felt like that. First the nurses wanted to see what the problem was. Then the infectious disease doctor wanted to see it. Then the hospitalist wanted to see it. That last was the only one to confirm the fact that there we hyper-mobility at the end of my toe...and it hurt.

Ah, but pain would not be an issue during this hospital stay. I ran down the list of painkillers at home, and told the hospitalist, who'd be in charge of my "regular" meds, that I was hoping to take advantage of the fact that I'd have IV painkillers available to me. Instead of having to wait an hour for relief from pills, I could get it instantly. The doc agreed and wrote for 1 mg. of diloted every two hours, which is dilaudid in injection form. When I was conscious, I pretty much got a dose every two hours, as my pain was continuous.

The thing is that much of my pain had nothing to do with my toe. Yeah, that was bothering me a bit, but was nothing compared to the pain I experienced in my hips. (It got so bad on the last day that the diloted was increased to 2 mg. every two hours.) Of course, I was never able to truly settle on the effects of the IV painkiller. Did it really help with the pain, or did it make it so that I didn't CARE I was in pain?

As a side note, the infectious disease doctor chose not to start any antibiotics that first day, and for a very good reason. He said that if he started such meds, they could mask an infection without actually killing it. The result would be me being treated for nothing while I needed treatment for something.

The one aspect that bothered me the most about all of the examinations was what almost everyone said. "It doesn't look so bad. I've seen worse." That may have been the case, but *I* haven't seen worse on me! This thing was looking pretty bad to me, even if it wasn't going gangrene just yet. In fact, that was my great fear. Y'know...my superstition that one a diabetic starts losing parts, it's about 10 years until it's all over. Well, I've decided that that only truly applies when there's no choice whatsoever. I still had a choice in this case, but it wasn't a very good option. I mean, I could've waited until it went gangrene or until it miraculously healed...an in the case of the latter, it would never heal on the interior...because there was nothing to heal on the interior. The end of the toe demonstrated a hypermobility that suggested the tendons were gone...but then I believe I covered that previously, so let's move on, shall we?

My first day in the hospital was akin to living in the Twilight Zone. They gave me my daily coverage of my 24-hour insulin, and then...ummm...I required no other insulin until late the next day. In fact, my blood sugar dropped to 56 around 4:15 AM. Since I wasn't permitted to eat due to my pending surgery, they had to inject me with straight dextrose. That was...fun. My nurse that night was still going through orientation at the hospital, and had never injected dextrose. It's thicker than most other injectables, and when it leaks...it's sticky. So the nurse struggled a bit, and it leaked, and...yeah. It was fun.

What made it strange was that Becky and I ate McDonald's that night. I kept calling it "the last supper." A meal like that tends to have all the calories one should eat in an entire day. The side order of fries alone should have jacked up my sugar levels. It didn't.

The worst that night was my missing my sweet, beautiful Becky. There were no cuddles that night...and being in the hospital made romance somewhat difficult. I don't know...It seems that they can pull off some very loving moments on various television medical dramas. In real life...? Yeah...far more difficult. Maybe if there was an appropriate soundtrack.

The next day continued that Twilight Zone-esque experience when I called Becky at 7:45 AM. The phone rang; she answered; and she was awake infinitely easier than when I was actually at home. I'm thinking of calling her from now on, even if I'm sitting right next to her. It seems to work better than pleading with her to get out of bed in the morning.

I was visited by a different hospitalist that morning. His first question was whether or not I'd eaten breakfast that morning, even though I was NPO. (NPO is "nil per os," the Latin equivalent of "nothing through the mouth. In other words, NO EATING!) So, no...I hadn't eaten. He mistakenly thought I'd already had surgery, so I had to iron that one out.

Due to my blood glucose adventures, he decided to lower the dose of my 24-hour insulin. I tried to object, but he would have none of it. I mean, he was a doctor and I was just living with diabetes for 37 years. It's not like I knew anything, right? Sure enough, my blood sugar would be over 200 after that dose, and normal is considered between 70 and 110 these days. (No one seemed to know with any certainty what the normal range was. Maybe they should have called a doctor in, eh?)

Becky stopped in before the surgery and we managed to get some cuddles in. It was very comforting, which is what I needed. I mean, once she left, my brain did all it could to shut down. That's right, kids. I was so stressed that I almost slept. Hardly the reaction I used to have. Once upon a time, I used to start laughing hysterically prior to surgery. That sense of doom would make me so nervous that I'd start laughing, and often found myself unable to stop.

They brought me down for surgical prep around 12:30 PM and almost immediately gave me something to relax me. Then I was wheeled into the operating room, where I saw my doctor preparing to operate. I believe I greeted him, and then something else was put in my IV, and I didn't remember much of anything else until I was in recovery, where my doctor was saying that he'd forgotten to get some deep tissue cultures that the infectious disease doctors wanted. That's all I caught, as I drifted off again...but I believe he cut my stitch, (I think there's only one, really), and "double dipped" to get what was needed. My foot was so completely numb that I didn't feel a thing.

The surgery itself went smoothly. The doc didn't encounter any abnormal bone along the way and was able to stick with removing the first and second bone in my second toe without having to cut out more. He also didn't do any cutting into what was removed, so anything pertaining to understanding the infection I had was off to the lab; no visual inspection was done. For this, I'm actually glad. I mean, I'd rather have my doctor concentrating on what was being done with all the parts still attached than the little bit that had been removed.

And that's all I have at the moment. I started this post much earlier, and ended up napping shortly after I began. What a grand change, not to have a nurse coming in to connect me to an IV filled with medication that burned on entry. So until I tell more, be well and DFTBA!

How it's supposed to go...

2011-09-13T12:15:00.000-07:00

I saw my podiatrist today for my pre-surgical visit. I started it by showing him the new wound on my ankle. Y'see, the exterior of the cast is rather rough, and so I've been wrapping it with an old shirt and an ace bandage to protect my "good" leg, (which isn't very good). But I haven't been covering it as far down as the ankle, as there's been no real contact between the exposed ankle and the cast. That apparently changed yesterday, and I discovered my sock was bloody from a collision I never felt. Brilliant, eh?

Anyway, I am to be at the hospital by 2:00 PM tomorrow. The intake will be done by either a "hospitalist" or an infectious disease team. With luck, they'll start me on IV antibiotics right away. It'll also be up to them as to how my meds are handled. I'm hoping to get a break from the regimen of pills that I take and get the IV form of all that "fun" stuff. Even while I sat with the doctor, my morning dose of pain meds was wearing off, and my hip was starting to ache fiercely.

My podiatrist should be making a cameo appearance at my room some time in the evening.

At some point on Thursday, I'll have the surgery. I'm scheduled for 2:00 PM, but cancellations or emergencies can always skewer a schedule.

Then things become a bit of a mystery. My doctor has no idea how much of me will have to be removed. He may have to only take off the tip. He may encounter "mushy" bone and have to take the next...and the next...and the metatarsal after that. But anymore than that and he'll have to stop and wait for me to recover enough to discuss it. He'd likely have to wait until Friday, as trying to discuss serious surgical matters with someone recovering from twilight anesthesia isn't recommended (by lawyers). His opinion at this point is that he will probably have to remove the distal and part of the middle phalanges.

The problem with this whole procedure is that he won't know anything with 100% certainty until I'm on the table and he's cutting away the bad pieces. He doesn't believe, at this time, that he'll have to take out so much. He said that if it were THAT infected, we'd see a distinct red streak going from the toe and up my foot...

What I failed to point out to the doctor was that I have yet to be "normal" about a few of my diabetes complications. Like the last time I had osteomyelitis. The only symptoms I displayed were swelling and pain. It took various tests to show that I actually had a bone infection. There was no severe redness and I didn't have a fever. Just pain and swelling...like I have now.

Unfortunately, the doctor was distracted. I believe he was also prepping another patient for office surgery, and wasn't in his usual friendly mood. Too much going on to make bad jokes about my pending doom, I guess.

His receptionist handed me paperwork that I must have with me when I arrive at the hospital. She added that she wouldn't be at all surprised if I was out by Friday. And while that would be nice for Becky and me, I honestly hope they keep me over the weekend at the very least to give me a full three days of post-operative IV antibiotics.

Meanwhile, I should be on my way. I have a bag to pack and nerves to settle. Be well, and DFTBA!

Edit: I made a post about my pending surgery on Facebook, and one of my friends said (about not knowing how much will come off the toe), "Make sure he promises that if it's more than half the toe, he gives you a prosthetic that shoots lasers."

My response: "I was thinking missiles instead of lasers. This way I could literally have missile-toe."

In the week toe come...

2011-09-12T07:15:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is the pre-surgical visit with the podiatrist, in which we will be discussing the surgery details. That means there'll probably be a post tomorrow about those.

Meanwhile, Becky and I are trying to prepare ourselves for the week to come, in which we won't be around one another perpetually. Since moving in six months ago, we've grown accustomed to the presence of the other, and it's a comfort to know someone is always there...that someone always cares about what's going on in your life, and is constantly asking about you.

It would be very different if we were constantly clinging to one another. Her ex, Shawn, was like that, always busting her chops to do something with him. We like to do things together, such as watch movies and play games...but we don't have to be in constant contact with one another, which is what her ex essentially wanted. The only time we seem to get "clingy" is when we're shutting down and cuddling.

And it's cuddling that's become the problem. In the last month, it's become a nightly ritual. It's our time to be selfish and share our day with one another. Concern...tenderness...comedy...They all come to the fore once we've taken up our posts for cuddle time. When I'm in the hospital, there will be a serious interruption to our nightly ritual, which is distressing to both of us.

What's more bothersome to me is my interpretation of "never go to sleep angry." I don't say those words, but I insist that there be a goodnight kiss before we roll over and drift off to sleep. (Our most comfortable positions are facing different directions; her on her side, with me on my back or stomach because of hip pain.) Sure, we can have a kiss before parting ways while I'm at the hospital...but it's not the same as a kiss before heading directly to sleep. I want my kiss goodnight from her. I NEED my kiss goodnight from her!

Last night, as we cuddled, I tried to think of ways for us to get the doses of love to which we've become addicted. I could always sneak out to a door where she'd meet me, regardless of the hour, and get what we need. Maybe we could get therapeutic permission for her to spend the night, with my doctor signing off on orders that Becky and I be permitted to drift off to sleep in each other's arms. Then, of course, there's Becky's plan of "accidentally" getting beaten up and having to be hospitalized, and we could arrange to share a room. All but the first would probably not work, and the first isn't quite the same as what I'd have at home.

Thursday is probably going to be the roughest on Becky. I'll be having the surgery around mid-afternoon, and probably spend the remainder of the day in a medicated daze. She, in turn, will have classes all day long, well into the evening. At best, she might be able to get in a few short visits, but she won't be able to spend as much time with me as she'd like. And I've been adamant about her attending classes. "No time off. I don't want you missing material that may turn out to be important." I even added, "I know it'll be hard, but I want you concentrating on your classes. I know you'll be worried about me, but this isn't going to happen under general anesthesia, so the risks are reduced. Keep your head in class."

Easier said than done, I'm sure.

The great comfort is that we know the love is there. We started officially dating on 13 May 2010. Then, while still enduring a long distance relationship, we got engaged on 24 September 2010. Yeah, it seemed a bit rushed, but I didn't want this one getting away from me. I was moved into her place - OUR place - by 12 March 2011. The affection and communication haven't faded in all that time. NOTHING has faded in all that time. Our home is still filled with life, love, and laughter.

Here's hoping the hospitalization will be short.

Be well, and DFTBA!

A Decade Later...

2011-09-11T05:29:00.000-07:00

On 2 May 2011, we finally killed the mastermind behind 9/11. Most of us rejoiced, while simultaneously wondering if it was finally a reality. Had we really killed Osama bin Laden? We took the word of the President. He was dead. And the nation breathed a sigh of relief...until 6 May 2011, when Al-Qaeda confirmed it and vowed to retaliate.

Today, we're on high alert. There's rumor of a credible threat on this 10-year anniversary of the fall of the World Trade Center. Like I needed something else on my mind this day. Hopefully, the appropriate security officials have it in hand, and we won't have further reason to mourn this day.

What else is on my mind? Well, I've considered turning this into "Punch a 9/11 Truther in the Head Day." Really, their list of "evidence that 9/11 was an American conspiracy" is absurd. They point to quotes by people who've said the Towers could withstand the impact of a Boeing 707...and, oddly, THEY DID! What they couldn't withstand was a sustained fire that burned away the floors holding the building up. In know it's hard to grasp, but the floors were engineered to be the things that kept the walls up. That which gave the buildings their square-ish shape was turned to cinder, and so it was that the structure collapsed in on itself. Maybe they would have toppled like dominoes had the plane struck at the base. But because it was higher up, it came down almost as though a demolition crew had set it up.

Just because it APPEARS that way doesn't mean it WAS that way.

Then there's the infamous footage of Building 7, which was heavily damaged on its south face and its southwest corner after the North Tower collapsed. Bulging on the SW corner and perpetual creaking indicated that the building might come down, and so it was evacuated of all rescuers around 3:30 PM. At 5:20:33 PM, the east mechanical penthouse crumbled. At 5:21:10, just 37 seconds later, the whole structure came down. The footage shows a vertical line of windows shattering as the building collapsed, and this has given rise to the Truthers' claim that it was planned.

"Open your eyes!" "Face the truth!" "Those who don't believe are 'sheeple!'" And let's not forget their questioning battle cry, "What about Building 7?"

The problem with a conspiracy is that often there are too many people who are "in the know" about it. If more than one person knows about a secret, it's really not a secret anymore. Someone else has already been told. In order to pull off something as large and horrific as the destruction of the WTC, A LOT of people would have to be in on it. And many of them would not be "trained" to keep secrets. Had there been a conspiracy, it would be leaking in so many places that the whole idea of keeping a secret would be a sinking ship by now, and plenty of people would be on the hook for it.

And my final thought on it: Americans would NOT slaughter Americans wholesale like that. I refuse to believe it. I'll buy into the conspiracy theories surrounding JFK because, as I said, secrets can't be kept in Washington D.C., and the leaks started almost immediately. One man killed for what appears to be a laundry list of reasons. I've been sold on it specifically because there are documents sealed away that won't be released to the public until all possibly involved parties are dead. But 11 September 2001 was the work of terrorists, not the U.S. government.

This year, the Truthers were given another reason to start crying foul. Video was leaked years ago of the execution of Saddam Hussein. We knew he was dead. But no one saw the killing of bin Laden except those soldiers who carried out the execution. And pictures of Osama shot/blown to pieces were never released. And to top it all off, he was buried at sea. So now, (aside from giving me cause to start a number of sentences with a conjunction), the Truthers don't believe Osama bin Laden is actually dead. If he is, they decry that he was killed for no good reason, as they believe there's nothing that connects him to the destruction of the Twin Towers. This is despite the fact that he was quoted as saying, "G-d knows it did not cross our minds to attack the towers, but after the situation became unbearable - and we witnessed the injustice and tyranny of the American-Israeli alliance against our people in Palestine and Lebanon - I thought about it. And the events that affected me were that of 1982 and the events that followed - when the Americans allowed the Israelis to invade Lebanon, helped by the U.S. Sixth Fleet. As I watched the destroyed towers in Lebanon, it occurred to me to punish the unjust the same way: to destroy towers in America so it could taste some of what we were tasting and to stop killing our children and women."

Yeah...nothing to connect him to the attacks, besides that quote and the fact that he proudly announced that Al-Qaeda was responsible.

And then there are the rumors that firefighters and police charged up the stairs of the towers to steal all they could. I've actually heard them. Perhaps they should sit down and watch the documentary I've been recommending the last couple of years. I found it on DVD last week and bought it. (Now I can watch and weep from the comfort of my bed.) And perhaps I should explain in a bit more detail what it is.

James Hanlon, along with Jules and Gedeon Naudet, set out to make a documentary about a rookie firefighter going from being a "probie," or probationary fireman, to "becoming a man." So they auditioned several candidates at the academy and found Antonio "Tony" Benetatos. Amongst the superstitious men of Ladder 1 and Engine 7, Tony was what they called "a white cloud." A "black cloud" is a probie who comes out of the academy and brings every fire in the city with him. But a "white cloud"...? There seems to be nothing that happens after his arrival, which leads the men to believe that the mother of all fires is on its way.

The film sticks to its original purpose, showing Tony as he learns his job, as well as how to laugh under the comedic hazing of his fellow firefighters. After weeks of filming, Gedeon Naudet claimed that they had a great cooking documentary, showing various men at the station whipping up meals to feed at least a dozen guys at a time. But no fires. Not any serious ones, anyway.

On the morning of 11 September 2001, Jules Naudet, still learning how to do camera work, went along with Battalion Chief Joseph Pfeifer on a call about an odor of gas on the streets. It was a routine run, not very exciting. And then at 8:46 AM, the day became anything BUT routine.

It would seem that there are only two shots of the first plane hitting the Towers. Jules Naudet unintentionally caught the first, clearest, and most horrific one. There's the sound of a plane flying entirely too low. He aims his camera at the WTC...and there's the collision, with a ball of fire and debris exploding into the air...one of the firemen shouts, "Holy shit!"...then comes the sound of the impact.

From that moment, it would seem that the documentary changes its focus. It's no longer about a probie working his way into the role of fireman, but about the day our nation was forever changed by an act of terror. And yet it doesn't quite lose its focus entirely. It's still about Tony and the day his aspect as "white cloud" came back to bite him in the butt...HARD! At the same time, it shows what REALLY went on inside the towers. Yes, INSIDE the towers.

It's not an "all hail America" propaganda. It is, however, probably the most honest telling of what went on that day. If you haven't watched it, it's worth it...and I believe I read that it will be aired again at 8:00 PM tonight on CBS.

I've rambled on enough for one day. Be well, and DFTBA!

Sometimes Write

The End

It's been some time...and stuff

Can we PLEASE give the man an award?

I had to accomplish *SOMETHING!*

Exhausted, and then some

And now for the tears

Processing...processing...processing...

A followup...

Not sure how to feel

A girl, a book, and a game...

An update on Sara

A great wrong in the universe

Happy New Year!

Shadows in the Rain

Am I an author now?

X-mas & Befuddlement

I was taking WHAT?!?

Dreams for sale!

Something I'll never have

Happy HOLIDAYS!

Eight hours straight...please?

Two down, six to go

In today's adventure, the terrorists win

Learning old things

When I was young and stupid...

Just this one

A brief clarification

When we stopped listening...

Remember when...

Talking politics with Zeb

The honorable thing

Collapses

Too much stuff in my head

Calling Captain Obvious...

Something lighter...Fuzzier...

Dead too early

Crime against humanity

WAY too old to be "kiddo"

Happy 11/11/11!

The tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth

Answers to comments

PotC: On Lackluster Tides

Can't get it write

In Memoriam

It only hurts when I live

Wait...REAL human beings?!?

Captain Amerokay

On second though, just kill me

Shoe Day: Second Post

Shoe Day: First Post

Hipsters?

Dual doctors and SHOES!

The end is nigh...again.

Maximum Anxiety

The first rule of Facebook...

Tears of an Angel

24 Days

"The problem...

Complaint Department

Just a brief moment of pride...

Because being in love...

A forgivable forgetting

Is broke. I make fix.

Yep...saw one.

How it looks

Hospital Adventures: The Aftermath

Hospital Adventures: Part 2

Hospital Adventures: Part 1

How it's supposed to go...

In the week toe come...

A Decade Later...

I had to accomplish SOMETHING!