I read a story in the local rag on Monday about a big fundraising supper for the Memorial Hermann LifeFlight capital campaign. It was tre' swanky. Tons of local bold-type-face people were there. It was a gathering at Tony's, a big time tre' swank grub house here in Houston. I read that the supper featured a beneficiary guest speaker who is a LifeFlight alum, like I am.

I immediately called my Cult Leader, who is working on the capital campaign.

Me: HEY! Why didn't you invite ME to be your alum speaker at the Tony's supper? I've never been to Tony's!

Her: HEY! Even I didn't get to go to the supper, and I've never been there, either!

Me: SO?? You didn't EARN it like I did!

Her: You can be my alum speaker at my next big fundraiser.

Me: Cool!!

Her: It's a 7am breakfast at the Ship Channel.

Me:

Her: Hello?

Labels: accident, cult

It's not so unusual in Houston to see a homeless person walking down the road pushing a purloined shopping cart filled with all the person's worldly possessions. Sometimes the person has a dog along for the ride. If I were a homeless person I would want a dog, too. But I can't figure out the logic behind the homeless woman I saw yesterday pushing her purloined shopping cart down the road. Balanced on top of all her worldly possessions was one of the biggest bird cages I've ever seen - one of those with four different levels and a penthouse. It had three birds in it. Still trying to figure that one out.


The Sister called me today. She was stuck in traffic on a road not far from my house. She called to tell me how glad she is that I was able to drive home today and be alive. She was stuck in traffic because of a big car accident. She had watched two ambulances leave, and she called me when she saw the Life Flight helicopter come in to land. Three years ago tonight I was living on morphine, dilaudid, and fentanyl as my body adjusted to having been broken and crushed the day before and then literally screwed back together again. Life is good.


I got to have lunch today with a couple of ladies I used to work with. (Hi Brandis! Hi Lacey!) One of them is pregnant with her second blessing. The other is frustrated with her many years longtime boyfriend because she knows he is going to officially propose but he keeps saying he wants to surprise her and he wants it to be perfect. Hey guy here's a hint: the perfect proposal is the one that ends in "yes". Just give her the damned ring, already. She's a keeper.


My dearest Mel's house got broken into this past week. BASTARDS.


I saw my favorite family practice physician yesterday. At one part he started talking about a certain subject that always makes me cry. I started to tear up and I waved my hand between us "OK time to talk about something else! If we talk about this anymore I'm going to cry!" He said that would be OK. I said no, I leave his office crying too much already. He said no, that he thinks it would be OK because I don't. See why he's the best?


Buffy is way finished. Now Angel is over. I am bereft. I may have to break down and read that new Potter book.

Labels: accident, cult, medicine, personal urban drama

You're trapped in a car that has been smashed to hell - the entire front end has been torn and crushed. You have, too.



It's rush hour in the fourth largest city in the country. Gridlock on the freeways. On a good day, in normal traffic, you're 30 minutes away from the nearest level one trauma center. Once you get cut out of your car. At 6 p.m. on a Monday it will take more than an hour to get your there by land. There is a local hospital about ten minutes from where you are, but if you are taken there you might not live. They aren't equipped or trained to help people who are hurt as badly as you are.

The Memorial Hermann Life Flight helicopter is called for while you're still trapped.



Finally, as you're strapped in for your first helicopter ride you are broken and bleeding, you are unconscious, you are helpless. Thanks to the Life Flight helicopter, twenty minutes after you are cut out of your car, you are in the Memorial Hermann Emergency Department being cared for by some of the most dedicated, talented, and experienced emergency medicine health care professionals in the world. They are your best chance at life. And you don't even know any of this is happening.

You owe your life, in truth, to James Henry Duke, Jr., Md. Dr. Red Duke. He is a legend in Houston. Without him, there would be no Life Flight helicopter to swoop out of the sky staffed with experts in their field to whisk you away to Hermann, to save your life.

The four helicopters that currently fly for Memorial Hermann are, on average, about 17 years old. They have thousands of flight hours. They have no GPS, no ability to download vital information to the emergency room that is your destination. Not a single one was designed to address the special needs of patients who are children. How many people do you know who drive a CAR that is seventeen years old?

The city of Houston encompasses more than 500 square miles. Life Flight services a 150 mile radius from Houston. They go all the way down to Victoria, over to Lake Charles in Louisiana, down to Galveston and up to Brenham. Just last weekend on the way home from Austin I witnessed a horrible accident on Highway 290 at 36 in Brenham that involved four people. One died. The other three were flown to Houston on Life Flight helicopters and they lived.

These helicopters fly more than 3,000 missions a year and are in such heavy demand that, on average, they must turn down over 100 requests for help because there just aren't enough helicopters and staff to respond to all the people in need. What if you are that person who doesn't get helped, who doesn't live because there just isn't help available. What if you are that person's husband? What if you are that person's mother? One quarter of all Life Flight patients are children.

The dream is six new helicopters and support facilities. The helicopters will cost $36 million dollars. It will cost an additional $1 million to build a new central dispatch and operations center, and to add a new operations base for the east side of town which doesn't have one right now. Another $3 million is needed to train staff, upgrade technology systems, and provide community education and outreach. Currently, more than $20 million has been raised toward a goal of $40 million.

You can't even imagine ever needing a Life Flight helicopter. Neither did I. You don't have to be rich to support this fundraising program. You just have to care. As you can see, I do.

Labels: accident, headlines, medicine, miata

So The Husband and I are gearing up for a camping trip next week. I am Super Duper excited because I haven't been able to go camping since the accident. When we can't go camping we can't (legally) set stuff on fire. It has been a long dry spell.

Anyway, I'm driving home this afternoon thinking about how long it will take us to get to the camping site, and how early we need to leave to make sure we get the site we want. I'm coming up with a number that is obscenely early in the morning. So then I'm thinking road trip early in the morning. Then I'm thinking back to all the early morning road trips I took with my family when I was a kid.

We would leave New Orleans before the sun came up. Heading to Laurel or Jackson, Mississippi, sometimes to Crowley, Louisiana. Once to Florida. Boy do you have to get up early to drive to Florida.

Mother would wake us up just enough to get us to walk zombie like to the Bonneville. She would pile us all in the back seat (usually with one or two black Labradors) and we would hit the road. About the time the sun came up we would rise from the dead and demand food. Now remember, I'm ancient so this was before there was a McDonald's with a McGriddle on every corner so Mother always made Road Breakfasts to feed us until it was lunchtime. Lunchtime, of course, meant STUCKEY'S with those gross pecan logs that we had to have even though we always left them to melt under the front seats, and key chains with every one's real first name on them except, of course, my middle sister who had what at that time was an unusual name so she always got shafted.

It's nice to remember those childhood road breakfasts made by Mother's loving hands. She fried pattie sausage (Jimmy Dean, of course). She crumbled it. She mixed it into my grandmother's cast iron skillet with a ton of scrambled eggs and cooked it all to a gooey mess. She toasted WHITE BREAD, coated it with butter, and piled it high with the cholesterol/fat/grease mixture of egg and sausage and voila the breakfast sandwich was born in Gretna, Louisiana. Wrapped it all in tin foil and stuffed it in a paper bag.

We LOVED those breakfasts. I mean LOVED them. I think back on them now, the white bread, the butter, the fat, the cholesterol. The love. I just wish maybe just once maybe in her entire life she had bought a loaf a honey wheatberry bread.

Labels: accident, personal urban drama, vacation

Everyone's favorite physician blogger (well, mine at least), Dr. Charles, has introduced the lay world to what is for most of us a new word: Eschara. It is a public record of private people's personal history as documented by the scars on their bodies. Take a peek at the memories invoked by the marks. Join me and my right wrist by sharing some of yours.

Labels: accident, bloggers, husband, medicine

I'm not much of a TV person. Unless it's Thursday night at 9pm. The house goes into lock down mode from 9pm to 10pm. Lights are turned out, phones are not answered, if the place caught on fire I wouldn't budge an inch unless it made it to the living room and I'd be very pissed about that because I don't have a portable TV. ER is on. Leave me alone.

But this morning I woke up and for some reason turned on the TV. The local news was running. We had a visual from a helicopter. The voice over was "Life Flight is en route". About a mile from my home a train had hit the back of an 18-wheeler. The trailer was turned on its side but the cab was still upright. The train hadn't derailed. So I'm thinking, "Why Life Flight?". Then the helicopter moved to the other side of the trailer that was turned over. And we could see a black vehicle that was crushed under the trailer. One of the doors had been torn open and an EMT or paramedic was crouched in the side of the passenger seat. Which meant a person was in the driver side, under that turned over trailer. I'm guessing still alive since the helicopter was on its way, and since the rescuer seemed to be talking to someone in the vehicle.

The voice over then said something about the occupant of the SUV. SUV??? How could that be an SUV? It looked so small there under that trailer. It was obviously pretty crushed. I said a little prayer for the person in the SUV. My mind of course placed my Miata under that truck. Had that been me, the helicopter visual wouldn't have shown my little car under the trailer because it would be flat. The helicopter wouldn't be on its way. This is something I visualize almost every day when I have to go out and drive. I am terrified of those huge trucks. They're so big. I'm so small.

Then I remind myself that I've already been taken out of a Miata that, from looking at it, one would never think a helicopter would be needed. I remember that there was nothing left of the front of the car, but that the passenger compartment was fully intact. Even with a pick-up truck turned over on top of it.

This is why I seldom turn on the TV. This isn't what I want in my head this morning. I'm going to take a long, burning hot shower now and think about bunnies and fields of daisies, drops of dew hanging from my rose bushes, how clean babies smell, and the crisp perfection of dawn in the Hill Country. Yeah, riiiiight.

Labels: accident, headlines

Let me tell you about a great side effect of almost dying in a car accident. Even though my broken knee joint was beautifully repaired, it will never be right and my unbroken knee is none the less truly screwed up - torn meniscus, damaged cartilage, some charming arthritis. Yeah all that sucks but it also means that I can't do the family grocery shopping*. Too much walking. And I refuse to use those electric wheel carts some grocery stores have. I'm not that fucking old or pathetic. And anyway, I would be afraid the battery would die in the store waaaaay back by the dairy case and then I would feel like an idiot.

You know what you don't get when you don't go grocery shopping? That's right. For TWO YEARS I haven't had a cold. What's the Very Best Way To Get A Cold? Go wrap your hands around the handles on your average grocery cart. I'm willing to bet a MILLION DOLLARS (yeah, I don't have a million dollars but I'm willing to bet it because I KNOW I'M RIGHT) that you've never seen a conscientious grocery store employee de-germing those grocery carts. Think about what you see in grocery stores. People coughing. People putting their kids with runny noses in the top shelf seats of those carts. People sneezing. People doing all sorts of germy things. And they do ALL of that on the grocery cart handles.

On Monday, I thought "Let's Be Brave". All I needed was bread, some canned corn, a twelve pack of diet coke, and a twelve pack of cherry coke. I knew these items were three aisles apart, all near the front of the store. So I did it. I went to the grocery store and I PUT MY HANDS on the handles of a grocery cart.

And I got what I deserved. Got any Mucinex?

*I don't have the words to tell you about the joy that my husband gets when I hand him a grocery list and then harass him:

"Buy the Del Monte even if the Green Giant stuff is on sale."

"Don't get the spinach in the bag - get a nice big unwrapped bundle."

"THIS is a Roma Tomato. Don't buy it."

"Buy the blue box of tampons, not the pink box. Nothing stinks more than a deodorant tampon."

"There IS a difference between cake flour and all purpose flour. Yes there is! Don't look at me that way."

And his very favorite:

"THIS is Lysol. Take it. Spray it on the handle of the grocery cart before you touch it. What??? JUST DO IT."

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

I was talking recently with a counselor when two subjects came up. First, we talked a little about the job I recently left. We talked about the sadness I feel over leaving this job that I really cared about and was a big success at. We talked about the harassment and hostile work environment that had been created by an inexperienced, incompetent person who was promoted to a job that gave her a lot of power over all the employees there. The counselor asked me if I planned to sue the organization.

We also talked about the long ordeal I went through trying to convince two different orthopedic surgeons that there was a problem with the bolts that had been implanted in my leg to hold my tibia together following a horrific car accident. I knew that one of the bolts had been implanted with a little too much enthusiasm, and that it was sticking out from the inside of my bone. I knew it because a year and half later, one spot on the side of my knee was still swollen, discolored, extremely painful, and hot to the touch. Not to mention that I could actually feel a hard lump that wasn't on my other knee, and hadn't been there before the repair. I finally convinced a surgeon to do an MRI and on reading the results was told "You're absolutely right". He removed the bolts and six months later I have had great results. The counselor asked me if I planned to sue the surgeon who installed the bolts.

I was shocked by both questions. In the first instance, my employment, I have good documentation and witnesses to the abuse. I could probably win a lawsuit and walk away with a tidy sum in my pocket. I even know an attorney who wouldn't rob me blind in the process. But the real losers would be the kids. I've working in the non-profit field for about ten years, most recently at a school. It isn't a rich school and if I sued, the school would suffer a tremendous burden. The kids would suffer and these aren't kids who can just choose to go to another school. Although I miss my job, the talented people I worked with, and the fantastic kids and their families, I am myself talented at what I do and, when I'm ready, will have no trouble finding another rewarding place to help people. Why would I damage the great people and kids there in order to punish the two people who deserve it?

In the second instance, I could probably sue. I've read the "standard of care" guidelines for the type of repair done to my leg and the guidelines provided by the company that manufactures the bolts used in my leg. They both warn about the dangers of implanting these bolts too far into the bone, and specifically address the problem I had. But to sue?? The surgeon who put this hardware in my knee saved my leg. It is because of his many years of dedicated training and his experience and skill that I am able to walk today, that I have little or no pain in the horribly damaged joint. I am so grateful for his work. Yes I had a problem because the bolts were implanted too far. But the problem was identified and fixed. I am so lucky! Why would I damage this dedicated professional who did everything possible to create the best possible outcome for my injury?

I told the counselor both of these stories. I told her - "Hey, if I went in to have a boil removed from my butt and came out having had my kidney removed hell yes I would sue". But I was not permanently damaged by either of these problems. I will continue in my career of choice. I will walk. For me to sue would be punitive, it would be mean spirited. It would be morally wrong.

I don't know if anyone has a solution for the lawsuit craze in this country. I have a fantasy whereby, if a suit is brought and found to be frivolous, the attorney who agreed to take the case would be fined in a robust manner. And that his fine would be paid to the folks who were injured by the case, not to the court or to some nebulous fund that would be eaten away at by administrative fees. Just my fantasy.

Labels: accident, law, medicine

I don't know if I've talked about this here before, but all my family and friends know there is an "Evil Carol" and a "Nice Carol". Often, when asked an opinion, I will preface it by saying "Evil Carol thinks XXX, but Nice Carol thinks XXX".

So, this is Nice Carol speaking.

Happy day, happy happy day. I've been checking in on the Harris County JP website occasionally to track the progress of the ticket that the ASSHOLE who ran the red light and almost KILLED* me got. I was amused a few months back to see that he got another ticket for running a red light 365 days after he almost KILLED* me. And I was intrigued to see that even though the rat bastard took defensive driving to get out of the ticket for the time he ran a red light and almost KILLED* me, he failed to pay some court fees. So his ticket was not disposed of.

I've been waiting like a hungry spider for the day to come that was his deadline to take care of this problem. And since he's proven himself to not be the most upstanding, law abiding citizen, I had great hope. Today my hopes have been realized and the web site says, in big red letters, "A WARRANT HAS BEEN ISSUED FOR YOUR ARREST".

Now, I know that there isn't a deputy out there with that warrant in hand hunting this jackass down. And I know that even if he does get arrested that he'll be in for a couple of hours, bail, and just have to pay some fines.

But it makes Nice Carol very happy that this warrant means his life will be effected by what he did, that he will have to think about the accident even for a few hours, and that it will at least cost him a little money. Because my life was sure as hell effected, I think about the accident EVERY few hours (especially when I try to walk, play with my dog, do the nasty with my husband, or generally recreate), and it sure as goobers cost me money.

I wish I could go to court and make a victim statement like the folks who Jeffie Skilling screwed got to do. I could take the big assed bolts they removed from my leg a few months ago. I could take the x-rays of the hardware that holds my right hand together. I could explain how any loud, sudden noise freaks me out. I could talk about how I'm afraid to drive on the freeway because of the speed and crazy people, how I hesitate before I go through any intersection, how the few times I've been watching television and seen a car crash that came on before I could turn it off, I've physically had to get up and leave the room.

So that's Nice Carol's take on it. Evil Carol just wants his dick to rot off.

*Did I mention that this son of a bitch almost KILLED me?

Labels: accident

Good things that have happened:

1. Survived another MRI today. I hate that damned thing.
2. My friend Mel held my hand through the whole thing and didn't think badly of me when I cried.
3. The legal aspect of the accident has been settled almost two years to the day.
4. It rained like hell this weekend and I got to spend it curled up in bed with The Husband and The Black Dog. Mmmmm. Thunderstorms and bed. Can it GET BETTER?
5. Less than a week away from Doc Chas's Tomato Awards.
6. Perfected my Shortcake recipe. Want some? I think I'll start selling it and retire on butter, flour, and sugar.
7. Laughed like hell at work with my boss yesterday.
8. Don't let me forget to tell you about this incredible fingernail polish I've got on. YEAH. That's right I said FINGERNAIL polish. You will be AMAZED. Honest.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Two years ago, to the minute.

"Live then, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope." -The Count of Monte Cristo

"Baah. Humbug." -Ebenezer Scrooge

Labels: accident, miata

There is a lot going on "back channel" in my life that isn't landing here on Ain't Chicken. I'll talk about some of it as some point, I'm sure, but not until I feel like I'm standing on more solid ground.

I do want to record that today was the first day of what might possibly be my last round of physical therapy to address my orthopedic odyssey. That in itself is special, but today was AQUATHERAPY!!!!

I swear, if you don't have an actual open wound I think by law that all physical therapy should happen at least four feet deep in a 91 degree pool inside a nice air conditioned building. I Am Loving This.

At one point today, when I was going from walking sideways to doing calf stretches my new therapist stood on the side of the pool, put her hands on her hips and looked sternly down at me. "Quit floating and playing. This is work." But she couldn't keep a straight face because I was SO FREAKING HAPPY IN THAT POOL.


On another note, I hugged an attorney today. In public. And I'm not afraid to admit it. I told him as I cried in his office, thanking him for his honorable work: Having him and his staff at my back through the past two years has made a huge difference in the whole process. I've been able to focus on getting my body back into working order (walking is a LOT MORE COMPLICATED than we think it is and FORGET changing a tampon if you can't bend your wrist) while not having worries about insurance companies or medical bills or any other nasty legal stuff. Incredible that there truly are attorneys out there who use their power for good. Fighting the good fight from the heart of Houston's Historic Heights. You go, Rex.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

I had a very Scarlett O'Hara moment this past Monday, just without the feeling of superiority.

I recently lost the blue hang tag that I use when I'm in other people's cars to access handicapped parking facilities. So this past Monday I went to my neighborhood courthouse to see what the process is for getting a replacement. My latest surgical site was feeling good enough for me to walk in without a cane, but because it still had scabs I couldn't wear the big velcro and metal brace yet. So I was gimpy but not obviously handicapped to the casual observer.

I go into the building and the line for the area where I need to go is backed out through the door. I know there is a guard station inside the door, and I know I can't stand in that line. So I squeeze past the line of people attempting to access the services of their local government and I go up to the guard.

I show her my paperwork and tell her what I need to do. She asks if the parking permit is for myself or another person. I tell it is my own. She stands up, stretches her arm in the air so she can point behind me and over AND behind the big long line of people (must have been at least 50 folks standing, miserable) and tells me to go stand inbetween these two blue ropes.

There is no one else standing inbetween the two blue ropes. Everyone else, all the people who were there before me and who have been standing, sweating, waiting, being good citizens, are on the other side of those two blue ropes.

I point, in the manner of the guard, and say, "Over there??"

She says yes, so I do as I am told. There are about 15 service windows, and about 5 workers servicing citizens. All the people behind the windows are white. All the people behind the two blue ropes are brown or black. I am white, standing alone, inbetween the two blue ropes.

I get called to the window to be serviced before all the black and brown people who had been waiting before me.

Now, I know I was helped first because of my physical handicap. Thank you, because while I could stand there for the 8 or 10 minutes it took for me to be called, there is no way in hell I could have stood in that line for what must have been at least an hour or more long wait. And I couldn't have sat on the floor to wait in line because I couldn't have gotten back up without a lot of pain and possibly additional injury. So I am grateful for the accommodations made by society to people such as myself who just can't do what people who've never had a broken knee can do.

And I know that the folks who were near me in the room knew I was getting a handicap tag, they could see it, and they knew I was getting helped first because of a physical need.

BUT.

MAN oh MAN did I feel really really WHITE standing there.

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

I am losing my words. This is so scary.

Labels: accident

On August 23, 2004, my car was hit by Long Ngoc Van, a man who ran a red light.

I was injured pretty badly.

While in the hospital I had a bunch of things put inside of me that were not original factory parts. There were tubes and needles and probes and human fingers. There were sharp knives and drill bits, there were staples and threads, there were rays of light illuminating private sinew, then being sucked into stranger's eyes, projecting images of my common but oh so intimate tissues onto their retinas.

These things slid into my orifices, sometimes making new ones - breaking open my skin and spilling my blood.

Slowly, most of them were removed by gentle, caring hands owned by the superhumans who had cared for my body and worked hard for a week to help me remember who, where, what, and when, to comfort my fear and pain, to ease my confusion and heal my broken body.

The stuff that didn't come out is structural - metal stuff screwed into my bones. I did recently have a THIRD surgery on my left leg that produced some really cool show-and-tell material in the form of three big assed bolts in a sterile plastic package that I like to pull out in restaurants and use as dinner conversation starters. The other bunch of metal in my arm will hopefully still be there many years from now for the forensic guys to use to help identify me if I get kidnapped and killed and dumped in the woods.

The metal doesn't concern me. There are brazillions* of people out there with metal aftermarket bits inside of them.

The part that I sometimes wonder about is the tiniest part. You have two scaphoids. REALLY. I bet you didn't know that. Well, I have one original and one that was pulverized and replaced with "artificial bone material". Now, just exactly what the hell does that mean? It's trivial in the face of all the other questions you pose to a doctor when you get him into a little room so it's not made it up the long list yet, even after almost two years.

And then I read a story like this one, a true gothic horror tale of body snatching, and well - how can a girl not wonder?


*Donald Rumsfeld briefed the President this morning. He told Bush that three Brazilian soldiers were killed in Iraq. To everyone's amazement, the color ran from Bush's face and he collapsed onto his desk, head in hands, visibly shaken, almost whimpering. Finally, he composed himself and asked Rumsfeld, "Just exactly how many is a brazillion?"

Labels: accident, headlines, medicine

An ordeal I wouldn't wish upon Sheila Jackson Lee:

Getting three big assed carriage bolts (with galvanized washers) removed from your tibia. The doctors all say "It's no big deal!" "You'll be walking the next day!"

You don't realize that they're talking about no big deal in the context of the big deal it was when you got the Frankenstein bolts put IN your leg, not no big deal as in the great scheme of pain in general.



And when they say you'll be walking the next day they mean in the context of having spent three months in a wheel chair, not in the great scheme of hobbling and wincing and using a walker to go pee like an 80 year old hunchbacked snaggle toothed bag lady who happens to have wall to wall carpet and central air conditioning.



And when they say "I'll go in through the same cuts they made last time" they don't tell you how incredibly gnarly it's all going to look.



Thanks for the vote on confidence, CAD - and good luck with yours.

Labels: accident, medicine

OK people - we're going to try for the 5,439,402 to yank these bolts out of my tibia tomorrow. They scheduled it for 5:45am just to piss me off. That is how bad I want this over with - I will get out of bed before DAWN, people. Fingers crossed.

Labels: accident

I have a friend who irritates the crap out of me. If you come within her orbit you sort of don't exist in a totally three D way anymore. She talks constantly, usually about herself, her children, her work, her life, her crisis of the day. There is a lot of drama here.

And yet, she is golden. She is kind beyond thought, she is funny funny funny. She is always available for anything, yet always busy doing thirty things and lighting a cigarette at the same time.

Today I am going to her house and I am going to sit on the hard, cold, raw concrete floor of her living room, regardless of the fact that it may take two people to get me up, as she orders tile layers, painters, installers, floorererers, and Carlos, her contractor around. Nothing like sitting on your ass in a room full of tile dust and chaos to take you away from your own problems and frustrations.

I don't know if it's surgeon ego, or interdisciplinary politics, or a legitimate difference of medical opinion (FUCKERS!) but yesterday I got royally screwed by the medical machine that has been seeing to my not insubstantial needs for the last year and a half. Today was supposed to be a Red Letter Day.

Two, maybe three of the bolts are coming out of my tibia! Finally the "bedsore like" raw tissue on the inside of my pes tendon can heal because the freaking threads of the screw sticking out the wrong side of my bone won't be rubbing on it with every twitch of my thigh or calf. A year and a half thank you to the series of doctors who kept saying "Nah, that screw is fine!" as I limped around in obvious pain on a cane.

But no. Canceled. Yesterday. Maybe. Maybe Not. Hang on. Ortho is PISSED at Anesthesiology. I am pissed at everybody. Anesth won't come down from the clouds to deal with Ortho. I am STILL pissed at everybody. Maybe today? Maybe Friday? IT IS ELEVEN A.M. WILL YOU PEOPLE JUST DECIDE SO I CAN LIMP OVER TO THE FRIDGE AND HAVE A COKE ALREADY I'M DYING HERE.

Or maybe I'll just go back to bed and cry.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Well boys and girls, it turns out that you are in the presence of a gen-U-ine soon to be published in a respectable medical journal anomaly. My neurologist told me this morning that she and my gastro guy are writing a paper on me. My faithful FP will be delighted. For years, I've been going to his office with one thing or another and he so often has the reply of "Wow, Carol, that's just weird. I've never seen/heard of/felt/smelled anything like that."

Now, I don't presume to rival Joseph Merrick or Johnny Holmes, but I am so far apparently one of what are soon to be two documented diagnosed cases in the great annals of those whole heal for a living.

There will be ladies at the doors to will accept your donations of cash or check as you exit the building. Sorry, no AmEx.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Aidan was right. Vitamin V (combined with my sister standing hunched over the massive sausage stuffing machine and holding my hands the whole time) did the trick.

Now I understand why people like Vitamin V so much. I had no IDEA a drug could make you Just. Not. Care.

Or, as my boss said the one time she took it, "Gimme another one of those Vaticans!"

Labels: accident

Ooooooh. So THAT'S what a panic attack feels like.

They've decided this burping thing (pardon me) may be neurological. So they send me off to the MRI. I've done a cervical spine MRI before. I snored my way through it, no problem.

But this time? This time they were shoving me like sausage filling into a dark, tiny coffin from which I would never emerge. In they shoved. About 30 seconds later my heart started racing. I started sweating. I started shaking. I said "Take me out. Take me out!" They started to reverse my sled. NOT FAST ENOUGH. I'm not a screamer but I yelled "GET ME OUT NOW! NOW!"

They pulled me out of my coffin and took the cage off of my head. I lay there gasping for air, embarrassed and freaked out. A few minutes later and a lot of telling my brain to calm the hell down and quit being stupid I said, "Let's try again."

They put the cage back on my head and started sliding me in. I got halfway into my grave and threw my arms up against the outside of the machine, yelling (again) "Stop! Back up!". I sat up, gasping for breath, and apologizing for being such a pussy. I got up, put on my glasses, and walked around while take slow, deep breaths. I looked into the coffin. I talked to the room. See? There's nothing in there to hurt you. It's open on both ends. It's nicely lit. It's smooth and clean. Nothing to be afraid of.

Lay down again. Cage the head. Stuff the dead girl back in the sausage casing. I'm all the way in. One, two, three, four, five, six - "OUT! GET ME OUT! NOW! NOW!"

Later that night, laying in bed with the husband, I wondered if my lizard brain was remembering the Lifeflight - I understand they really strap you down for those flights, and I wondered if my brain remembered how scared I must have been. The next day, my sister told me that in the trauma center before they got me to x-ray that I was tied arms and legs to the stretcher, my head blocked by foam, that I couldn't move anything more than a fraction of an inch, and that I was struggling to get loose, begging them to untie me.

I'm going to try again tomorrow night. With Valium this time. I have my doubts. I took Valium once for recreation and literally didn't feel a thing. But then, I wasn't having a panic attack at the time.

Labels: accident, medicine

Well boys and girls, here we are a year and a half after The Accident and guess what I've done in the last two weeks? More doctors appointments. More printing of EOBs to send to my attorney since my insurance company says "Yes we're mailing them to you" but THEY'RE NOT. More pain.

CAT scans. Oh - when they tell you they're using contrast and that it's going to feel warm and make you think you have to pee REALLY BADLY, they're NOT LYING.

MRI scans. Yeah, I amazed the techs on that one since they had to wake me up after it was over - my snoring was bothering them. "Didn't the sound from the machine bother you?" Obviously not.

Now, a neurologist. I just love new and exciting medical specialties. My husband's been saying for years that there's something wrong with my head. Maybe now he'll have proof. And I'm sure this will mean more MRI time. More CAT scan time. More needles.

OH - they keep asking me - Did they do a CAT scan in the ER? Did you lose consciousness? Did they do an MRI? What part of I HAVE NO MEMORY OF ANYTHING do they not understand?

On a nicer note, the nice man over at Sound of Muzik has asked me to appear as a guest blogger. When I have something nice to say, I'll let you know.

Labels: accident, bloggers, medicine, personal urban drama

Day 213: Hostage to "Intractable Belching"

Or that's what the orders for the upper GI and esophagram said, anyway. The results? Neg neg neg neg neg. I don't want to be a news story five years from now: Woman Burps 800 Times A Day for Five Years, Then Jumps Off Building. Actually, I think it will only take a couple of more weeks. Calling Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay, Come Right Away!

Swallowing air, my significant ass. How can someone honestly look you in the face and say that? You mean to tell me I've been breathing and eating and swallowing the SAME WAY FOR FORTY YEARS and then all of the sudden about seven months ago I decided (subconsciously) to start swallowing AIR??? What a load of hooey. BUUUUUUUURRRRP.

But then, my gaseous husband just says I'm showing off.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Burp. Burp. Burp. Burp. Burp. BURPBURPBURPBURP. FREAKING BURP.

You know why people jump off buildings? Because they can't quit burping.

I ended up last week in a GI's office after having this BURP thing happening for about eight months now. My wonderful FP guy and I have done the food/beverage elimination dance. We've done the Gas-X, Mylanta, Pepto, etc. thing. We did the Pri-lo-sec (that's how the GI pro-noun-ced it) thing for a whole damned month. AND STILL SHE BURPS!

She burps upon awaking, she burps when she eats and when she doesn't. She burps when doing physical therapy. She burped while having sex last week. She burps while sitting on the side of the bed, wishing only that she would quit burping so she could go the hell to sleep already.

These aren't the wonderful "I just took a big slug of ice cold beer and the gas rumbled up my esophagus like a freight train and exploded from my mouth with the force of an A-bomb and enough decibels to put a 777 to shame" burp. These are little, annoying, random, sometimes continuous for HOURS burps that originate from the middle of my sternum.

So the GI is doing his thing, asking a bunch of questions, trying to rule out all sorts of things and he asks..."did you have chicken pox when you were a child?" I answer and we continue and then there's a little bit of "does it hurt when I press here?" and we schedule some tests and I'm on my way home.

It doesn't start to bug me until that night. WHY THE HELL DID HE ASK IF I HAD CHICKEN POX? WWWWHHHHHYYYYY? Now it's driving me almost as crazy as the burping. Why didn't I ask him why he was asking what to me, a lay person, was a very strange and totally random question? What does childhood chicken pox have to do with middle aged burping?

Yeah. YOU try to have a merry Christmas with that running through your head.

Actually, I did have a merry Christmas, but it still bugs me. I hope your Christmas was jolly and burp free.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

I don't know about where you live but here in Houston, it is the Christmas Season. Not the Holiday Season. For most people. For some it's time for Hannuka, for some I know there is always one or another planetary alignment event coming up.





There's one in every office. Yours may hoard the garlands and the wreaths all year in those oh so popular ginormous plastic tubs with matching lids, stacking the boxes away in an obsolete storage closet. And every year your person pulls out the STUFF and faithfully tapes and pins and ...strings.

Or you may have one that buys new every year or so, changing the entire theme. Reindeer one year. Blue angels with gold star-glitter-wire halos the next year. Oh and yeah, remember Gingerbread House year? The bugs! The silverfish! EEEW.

This post's theme should be Rehab Christmas. In America. Damned It. 2005.

The tree came out a little blurry which is nice because it gives you a bit of the jolt you feel when you first walk up on it. But really, they're nice people.

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

It's here. IT'S HERE!!!

I went to Kroger tonight after physical therapy to pick up a couple of items and when I left, oh my gosh the SMELL! The exit door was surrounded by fresh Christmas trees. I am TOTALLY about the smell of Christmas trees! The smell is here! I may just go hang out on the Kroger sidewalk for a while and snort in the scent of the season.

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

I had a surprise today when I went to pick up a prescription for Darvocet. I developed the habit many years ago of checking what is actually in the pill bottle before I leave the pharmacy. Today I opened the bottle expecting to see my big, oblong, dark pink pills and instead I saw a bunch of small, round yellow ones. I asked the pharmacy tech and she said "Oh it's just a different brand."

Pardon me but, no. So I read the bottle. Dilaudid? DILAUDID? Wow! Now don't get me wrong. I've HAD Dilaudid. And I've ENJOYED Dilaudid. But only in a hospital bed with the rails up and lots of tubes going in and out of me so I couldn't actually fly from the room.

I called the tech back and showed it to her and explained that I didn't want to get high, that I just wanted to be able to walk with a little bit less pain. And that while it might be fun to spend a week thinking everything was really groovy, that I really needed to function and could I please have my actual prescription filled instead of the one they imagined I might want?

She looked really confused. I asked for the pharmacist. Who was REALLY FREAKED OUT when I explained the problem. Boy was she fast when she snatched that pill bottle out of my hand.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

I truly love the high tech solution they've found to prevent performing a procedure on an incorrect limb. I LOVE THIS! A Sharpie costs what, $2? This is brilliant. First they ask me which limb. Then they write on me. Then my surgeon comes and asks again and ads his initials.

Obviously, I lived. And I got to see pictures they took inside my knee before and after. SO cool. My surgeon had thought I probably had a tear in my meniscus. What he found was that it looked like a cat had gotten in there and shredded the sucker. So he cut and resurfaced and smoothed and he also was able to remove some arthritis. So the prognosis is great. I can't wait to see how it will all feel in a few weeks.

The modern practice of medicine is AMAZING.

Labels: accident, medicine

General. Anesthesia.

Those two words sent a shiver of terror down my back today. The orthopedic surgeon who earlier had said "arthroscopic surgery" last week with a gleam in his eye said "general anesthesia" today the same way I say "extra cheese" to the guy who makes my nachos at Taco Cabana. Like "no big deal, but I MUST have it".

I'm not at all concerned about having him cut holes in my leg and stick things in there and muck about. But, a tube down my throat? Gas forced into my lungs? Pardon me while I pee my pants in fear.

Labels: accident, medicine

OK boy and girls - can you say meniscus?

Oooooo sounds bad, huh? Can you say....TORN meniscus? My orthopedic surgeon can. With a gleam in his eye.

Tuesday before Thanksgiving I'm going to let him cut some holes in my left knee, pump it full of sterile saline and go have a look-see. I'm hoping he's right because if he IS then he can fix it while he's in there and six weeks later I'll have as close to a normal knee as someone whos tibial plateau is held together with three big bolts can have. If not, I'm just stuck with arthritis and bursitis and tendonitis and FUCKITIS I WANT MY KNEES BACK.

Go on. Google Fuckitis. It's on the AMA web site under the picture of the dickwad who ran that red light a year ago.

Labels: accident, medicine

So I went out to supper with the Cult last night for wonderful Italian (and a few shots of bourbon for fun). We're all sitting around this big table and there has been much laughter, hugging, joking and eating of melted cheeses and tomato sauces.

We've reached a point for a review of everyone's day. One cult member says "I had to get four reports into the boss by 3pm that almost killed me and then she wasn't even there to receive them!" Another member says "I was supposed to set up a stage for an event tomorrow and the people who are holding the event never showed up so I just put the pipe and drape where I wanted it. If they don't like it that's too bad." Yet another member said "I had to sit by this guy after lunch in a meeting who just stank of curry and I almost urped."

I said "I had a needle THIS LONG (spreading thumb and index fingers wide) shoved into my right knee this morning!"

I won.

Let us hope that Supartz is all they say it is.

Labels: accident, cult, medicine

Another activity reclaimed: I swept a year's worth of dust off my work table this weekend and started breaking some glass again. Felt good. In spite of the four cuts on my left hand and the big 3" long gash on the right side of my belly. That's what I get for wearing a short t-shirt at the glass table. Man, that sucker BLED! Now, THAT'S a hobby!

Looking forward to seeing how my wrist holds up to soldering.

So far I'm 2:1. Sailing, rollerblading, no. Breaking glass, yes.

And I have this almost everwhelming urge to learn how to play the clarinet. And canoe. Oh, MAN I wanna canoe.

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

Did you know that you can move your kneecap with your fingers? I certainly didn't.

I was at a physical therapy session last week. I was on a stationary bike and my knee was popping every time I make a revolution. Now, I'm going to this therapy so I can walk better and stand up without pain and hopefully not have to use a cane anymore - to improve the health of the knee that has all the bolts in it. The therapist comes over and puts his ear next to my knee and listens to all the popping. He comes back with a couple of rolls of tape and a pair of scissors and tells me to stop peddling.

He takes his fingers and places an index finger and a thumb on each side of my kneecap and wiggles it around. Then he draws on my knee with a ballpoint pen. He put a big piece of tape across my knee. Then he puts another piece of tape ontop of the first one but only secures one end of it. THEN HE SLIDES MY KNEECAP ABOUT 1/4 INCH EAST and uses the top piece of tape to hold it there.

It is a FREAKING MIRACLE CURE.

No more popping. Pain pills reduced from five a day down to two or three a day. MUCH easier to walk. MUCH easier to exercise. I've had him give me a fresh tape down three times now (I wear the tape for two days at a time).

Who knew? At this rate I am going to owe the successful use of almost every joint in my body to a skilled and caring physical therapist before I reach 50.

Labels: accident, medicine

I've given away my rollerblades.

Can't skate with a cane.

Not that I could skate all that well without the cane but HEY that's not the point.

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

Today I officially became decrepit. Had a check-up with the GP and he sent me and my held-together-with-steel-bolts-knee away with a permanent handicapped parking permit form all notarized and everything.

Guess he felt bad for me because I don't shop at Target anymore since the parking is such a hassle.

Oh yeah, and - more physical therapy. Woo. Hoo.

On the bright side, he didn't pinch me with the speculum!

(Decrepit panhandler graphic used with permission from the talented gentleman over at Via Negativa.)

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

I was always the girl who sat on the floor.

Everyone going into the living room to talk? No, no - you take the sofa. I'll sit on the floor and lean against the arm. Are we having an impromptu meeting and there aren't enough chairs? Don't go down the hall. I'll just sit here on the floor.

No leaning forward to the coffee table. Your table is the whole floor, right there at your fingertips.

No worrying if your skirt is giving a peek show. They'd have to do a belly crawl to peek!

No having to sit a little bit too close to that creep from accounting. You've got the whole expanse to yourself.

No more for me. Now I'm the couch-sitting, skirt-pulling-down, creep-come-sit-by-me girl.

Ten months post trauma and my freaking knees hurt. The one with the tibular plateau fracture (and all the screws) and the one with the lacerations. I went to my wonderful ortho guy hoping he would say "Hey girly, those screws need to come out and then you'll be good as new!" But no. He said the dread words:

Arthritis.
Patellar Tendonitis.
Bursitis.

I said, "But doc! It is hard to sail when I can't crawl across the trampolines without pain!" and "But doc! What about all those funky sexual positions in the Kama Sutra!"

He said "Girly, no kneeling or crawling for you, probably, forever."

I don't like him now as much as I did when he performed miracles.

Labels: accident, medicine

I first met my future husband when he was my sister's roommate. I remember going to visit her and he was sitting on the sofa watching the tube. It was a non-event. This was in the neighborhood of 15 years ago. Funny how you never know how precious a person's face can become.

This past August when #*(@&% ran that red light and turned his truck over ontop of my Miata, I suffered, among all the broken parts, what the good professionals at Hermann Trauma called a "severe concussion". To this day my memory stops about 15 minutes before the accident. I remember being at Northwest Mall, buying a pair of sunglasses and eating a light supper in the food court there. I remember standing from the table and walking to a trash can with my tray. I very clearly remember shaking the paper off my tray into the can and that is it. That's all I remember until...this face.

I know I am laying on something flat. I know I am looking straight up at a ceiling. All I can see is the ceiling and this face. This beautiful face leaning over me and looking directly at me. I am desperate to see this face. I think - I know - I recognize this face. I am hurt. I look at the face. "Are you Husband?" I ask. The face breaks open with joy and pain and fear and happiness and tears. I feel fingers brushing across my right temple. The face smiles and says "Yes, honey, I'm Husband."

That is when he first knew my brain wasn't gone, the moment he first knew his beloved wife was still with him. Apparently he and I had been having this conversation for a long time - for hours - and this is the first time it stuck in my head. This is the first time my eyes knew him.

Me: Are you Husband?
Him: Yes, honey. I am husband.
Me: Where am I?
Him: You're in Hermann Hospital.
Me: How did I get here?
Him: They brought you in the helicopter.
Me: Wow, I must be really fucked up.
Him: You're hurt pretty bad but you'll be ok
Me: Thank God I'm at Hermann!!
Me: Are you Husband? You're husband, right?
Him: Yeah, honey. I'm husband.
Me: What happened?
Him: You were in a car accident.
Me: Did I do something wrong?
Him: No it wasn't your fault.
Me: Did I hurt anyone?
Him: No you didn't hurt anyone. You got hurt.
Me: They brought me in a helicopter? I must be really fucked up.
Me to Passing Nurse: I'm sorry I shouldn't say fuck. Thank you for being here and taking care of me. I'm really fucked up, huh?
Me to Husband: You're Husband, right?

For hours and hours and hours.

How could I not love this man? Look what he puts up with from me.

Labels: accident, husband

Well I had a truly awesome experience today - I went down to Hermann Hospital to meet with the folks who run the Life Flight program. They were nice enough back in August to send one of their helicopters out to scrape my broken and bleeding body off the highway and haul it back to the medical center where the wonderful doctors and nurses put humpty dumpty back together again. So today I took the chance to go tell everyone there a big thank you and show them that they really do make a difference in people's lives - I'm walking talking living proof that they do indeed!

I have to tell you that they were some of the nicest, most welcoming people I've run into in a long time. Everyone I met was very happy to hear the story of one of their survivors and Andy Folette was nice enough to take me on a tour - he took me around to where the helicopters land and let me walk out onto the roof of the hospital onto the landing pads - it was so beautiful up there - what a great view of the city! He also showed me where I had come in and the elevator where I rode down to the emergency department. He let me see their dispatch and control center and was even going to let me go out and get in a helicopter that was coming in but it got called off to another location so that didn't go.

AND AND AND I got a cool cap:



It was a challenge just finding the place. The Life Flight offices and landing facility are on the 11th floor according to all the signage, but none of the public elevators go to the 11th floor. A few staff people who could see I was obviously lost offered to help and when I told them I wanted to go to 11 they all said there was no 11. It became a bad joke until I finally got a security guard who knew where it was. I imagine it's easier to get in to see the queen than it is to go through two security desks and then to figure out which one of the 6 elevators in the bank of staff only elevators actually goes to 11. So if you want a Life Flight cap you have to really work for it. And be willing to walk through security check points like you know what the hell you're doing.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

An observation:

When you sleep til 11am, get out of bed and climb into your wheelchair (and eventually your walker) and when the highlight of your day is successfully pulling up your own underwear without having to take a narcotic in preparation, somehow - inexplicably - you house stays a hell of a lot cleaner than when you get out of bed at 7:30am and go to work all day.

All my life it has been true that my house is at its cleanest when I'm pissed off at someone. I clean like a dervish and curse under my breath and fume and all this smoke comes out of my ears. Since I've been pretty darned happy for the last number of years the house, well, it's suffered.

But when stuck in a wheelchair I found that I piddled. I picked up and rolled around and put up and wiped down and straightened and swept - just to PROVE I COULD. Now that I can walk again I guess I don't have to prove to anyone that I can do crap.

Which is why, as I sit here at my computer desk looking at three empty diet coke cans, one empty diet Dr. Pepper can and two empty microwave popcorn bags, I think "Hmmmm who can I get really annoyed with tomorrow for oh say about two hours?"

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

ALERT! ALERT!

I have achieved: MIATA.

Freedom, after 114 days of surgery, rehabilitation and painful recovery, has been achieved. This is the longest I've lived without the ability to just walk out of my door and get in my car and go do what I want to do whenever I want to do it since I was fifteen years old. That's 25 years of total autonomy. This has been hard.

Repeat: I have achieved: MIATA.

Labels: accident, miata

Sitting here on the cusp of a new Monday:

1. Shannon rejoins the Cult at work tomorrow after a short hiatus as a fund raiser whose mission was to indoctrinate upper middle class white children into the Christian faith through high schooling. We're very happy to have her back!

2. I re-mounted my stool at my work bench today for the first time since the middle of August. Major steps toward full recovery are happening! I had a piece of glass that I had finished all the metal work on and had put a coat of wax on just before the accident. Total I pulled out my steel wool and polishing brushes and cleaned it up and hung it in a living room window. Very satisfying to be back at the work table playing with glass.

3. Baring any annoying and unnecessary delays I will be the proud owner of a screaming red brand new Miata by the end of the week. Yes I have decided that the only way to do this is, in the words of my big brother, to Climb Back Up On The Horse That Threw Me. My first choice is Strata Blue but in deference to the workings of the human mind and optical system I am choosing the cliche of a red sports car simply because if I insist upon driving a little zippy zoom zoom at least I can buy one that people are more likely to notice when they're running red lights. OK OK OK I realize the fault in the logic there - if they don't see the red LIGHT why would the see the red CAR but help me here, ok? I'm trying. Soon to re-achieve "Happy Garage". My catamaran has been lonely.

4. Did laundry like a good girl so I have clean underwear for the week. My co-workers appreciate the simple things in life.

5. Will have lunch on Tuesday with former Cult Leader, Susy the Wonderful. Can't wait - have you ever had a boss that you just loved? I miss her so much.

6. First real live cold front of the season is supposed to come through tonight - I'll have to wear a coat in the morning. I LOVE the cold. As long as it leaves again soon so I can drop the lid and go zoomzoom.

Labels: accident, cult, miata, personal urban drama

Well, well, well. Ladies and Germs, it's looking like Santa has indeed decided that I've been a good girl this year after all and is going to arrange for my insurance company to FINALLY yes FINALLY come through with a settlement for my car. No, not ALLSTATE (P.S. You are most definitely NOT in good hands) who has yet to accept responsibility for the idiotic red light running bastard who they insure even though three witnesses said "It's the idiot red light running bastard's fault!" and the constable who was on site at the accident ticketed the jerk wad. No, not ALLSTATE but rather MY insurance company which will just end up in a nasty subrogation battle, but hey, that's what I pay them for, right?

So I'm going to my Mr. Wonderful The Lawyer Man's office tomorrow - that's right - an attorney who wants to meet with me on Saturday - and sign the property waiver so we can settle the car and get me back in a set of wheels in the next week or so. FREAKING FINALLY! One funny point - Mr. Lawyer Man said "and bring the keys with you" and I said..."Um the keys are probably still hanging in the ignition right where they were when Idiot Drippy Testicle Guy ran the red light and murdered my precious little zoomzoom." (He loves it when I talk in technical terms.) And in truth that's probably where they are. I sure as hell didn't take them from the ignition - my wrist and arm were broken at the time and not in their best operating condition. And oh yeah, I was distracted by the big red ambulance helicopter coming from the sky to wisk me off to a Level One Trauma Center in an attempt (successful, thankfully) to save my life. (Can we hear a ya-hoo for the LifeFlight folks??) So I ain't got no keys. Mr. Lawyer Man said, "Oh. OK."

Let us examine a fact and see if we can find any:

1. Logic
2. Justice
3. Honesty
4. Fairness
5. Righteousness

Fact: In Texas you are required by law to pay for and keep paying for automobile liability insurance. HOWEVER, the insurance companies have no laws that say they have to actually honor a claim or even make a decision on a claim. They can screw you forever. Thanks, Rick Perry (Drippy Testicle Idiot #2 in my book).

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"The sheeping of America is nearly complete." -Ted Nugent

Labels: accident, law, miata, personal urban drama

Evening Report:

Thanks to the miracle of an ice pack and constant elevation, my knee returned to the size of a normal human knee this afternoon in spite of the three huge steel rods that are burrowed through the marrow of my tibia. So of course, I went for BBQ. There's a place not far from mi casa called Lyndons and it's some of the best BBQ in town. It is what I consider a true Texas BBQ joint because it plays really old c&w from the 40's and 50's (Bob Wills anyone?) and because on the cold relish buffet the tray holding the jalapenos is every freaking bit as big as the tray holding the onions and pickles:



Also, husband made the effort and expended the energy of moving my computer and its accoutrements back into my work room. However. In the three months or so since I've been able to get into this room it has, shall we say,suffered. Witness:



You can see in the first shot the piece I was working on when Dick Trickle the Wonder Idiot ran that damned red light and banished me from my glass room for all this time. It's almost laying on the floor - I'm calling it "Little Black Dress" and I do plan to finish it...as soon as I deal with the issues in the other picture, which include the fact that all the crap from the shelving that got moved and the table that got taken out of here and the desk that got taken out of here - ALL THAT CRAP got piled on my stool and my worktable and my floor. So before I can break any glass I've got about a week worth of serious cleaning and organizing to do. But it's nice to be back anyway.

And since I am back in my work room I took the opportunity to do a little creative stuff - I designed my Christmas card for the year from a little felt, some glue, some twigs from our Christmas tree (which is proudly decorated and watered) and some blue card stock. I'll have to go into mass production mode this weekend to get these out in time. Luckily I don't like so many people that I have to make more than about a dozen of them. I know it needs something - maybe some snow somewhere or something. I'll ruminate.



AND finally, I've had two people comment on the Fuck You No You Can't Have A Banner Posted Rudolph incident. They both thought that it was.....fucked. I love these people. Thank you!

Oh! P.S. I find it amusing that the Blogger spell checker suggests "Calvanist" as a substitution for the word "jalapenos". Sort of a funny thing if you think about it.

Labels: accident, husband, medicine

Dear Blogexplosion:

I am a good monkey. I will choose the correct number with my mouse pointer. Please give me my food pellet / or / give me mystery points! / or / just don't electric shock me.


Dear Blogexplosion:

You suck. I made five really cool banners and I was ready to play along with your banner games and then you say noooooooo little girl you can't play along with our banner games because you are a red nosed reindeer! Oh, wait - no - you said - you are a blue language user! HEY! You never said I couldn't do banners if I said fuck on this page. It doesn't say that anywhere!

And listen up you censorship happy exploder boys - my banners are DAMNED CUTE! I submit the evidence:











I am at home today with a swollen and painful knee. OK OK OK Mel you were right maybe I did walk away from that cane a little too fast. Fine! Be right! (wimper.)

Labels: ac, accident

The house...she smells like...Christmas! No, not like Happy Holiday, or Seasons Greeting, but real live politically incorrect Christmas! There is a massive 8 foot tall Douglas Fir tree standing in the center of our entrance hall, blocking all access into or out of the house and it's smelling up the whole damned place with its pineyness and it is just so so yummy.



Yeah I know now we have to:

1. Move the great chair that Alice gave me to sit in so my butt wouldn't take on the shape of the wheelchair seat since I couldn't sit in any of our regular furniture with all those broken bones because all our regular furniture is big and low to the ground and soft.

2. Relocate my computer and its desk and all the crap that has accumulated around it in the last three months back into my work room when it all belongs, said room now being accessible to be since I am a tripod (two legs and a cane) instead of a wheeled-creature.

3. Climb up the precarious and rickety ladder in the ceiling of the hallway and lug all the Christmas crap out of the attic.

4. Haul lovely big assed green piney symbol of nature, renewal and presents into the living room.

5. Decorate that bitch.

Ahhhhh the rest and relaxation of a family Christmas. Feliz navidad.

Labels: accident, husband, personal urban drama

Today, Monday, November 15, I graduated from Physical and Occupational Therapy. WOO HOO ME!!! If you ever get broken or stroke out or for some other freaky reason find yourself in Houston and in need of being fixed through physical or occupational therapy, you just can't do better than Spring Branch Rehabilitation Center. Thank you Gayle for making my wrist bend and my hand work again! Thank you Lily for teaching me the incredibly complicated act of walking again! Thank you for giving me my life back!

This is the same place I went when I left Hermann Hospital and I spent a week there as an inpatient learning basics like how to function without my right hand - things like how to get out of bed and how to feed myself and how to pee. You know, the basics. What a great place to heal! What a positive and professional group of people!

Damned. Now I have to go back to work. On Monday, November 22. Good thing I love my job. I'll be spending this week working on walking with my wonderful cane and not limping, and increasing my right hand grip strength although I've already done great - when I started therapy my grip was 9 pounds. As of today it is 64 pounds. Pretty darned good for a girly girl. Oh yeah - WOO HOO ME!

Labels: accident, medicine

This is a quick Thank You for my father. Certainly he never won Father of the Year, and certainly I could talk a lot about what was pathologically wrong about so many of his Fathering Techniques, but the one thing - the one never changing, totally immutable thing Daddy ALWAYS said was - Insure Everything In Sight.

Certainly I never won Daughter of the Year, and certainly I spent a lot of years doing the exact opposite of what he would have wanted me to do, but the one thing that really truly settled into the marrow of my being was - Insure Everything In Sight.

I happen to be particularly grateful today for this gift my father gave me because once again my mortgage is due and once again in my mailbox this week was a check from the insurance company that underwrites my personal short term disability insurance policy . These checks have been arriving in my mailbox like friendly little reminders of my father for the last couple of months and they have made it possible for me to concentrate on my orthopedic rehabilitation instead of being worried about loosing my home or damaging my credit*. Thanks Daddy.

P.S. GO RIGHT NOW AND INSURE EVERYTHING IN SIGHT. You will NEVER regret it.

P.S.S. I was going to add something here like "or having to eat cat food" but damned, have you SEEN the price of cat food these days? Who could afford that??

Labels: accident, personal urban drama

Did you know that if you have had steel implanted in your body that your oral sur