Off to the Doctor Again

This time it's not me. Please say a little prayer for my neighbor, Susie. She's 66 years old - same age as my Mom. Yet, I never see her as that age because she's always out and about, walking her two weenie dogs, shuttling her grandkids, taking care of her elderly mom who lives with her.

She take the time to say good morning to the kid and me when we're getting into the jalopy each morning on our way to school. She plays with our dog, Ranger, in the yard while we're at work so that he doesn't get lonely. The whole nine yards. I love this woman.

Last week, while shopping, she fell inside a store, breaking her humerus and dislocating her shoulder. They had to knock her out in order to get the shoulder back in. The break? They don't put a cast on it. You just have to wear a sling until it heals and deal with the pain. While doing a scan in the ER, they found that she has an enlarged aorta. It's not good.

You have surgery to correct this, and it's not a pretty surgery, either.

We cancelled out trip to Williamsburg so we could keep an eye on her and her mom. I wouldn't have been able to ride any of the rides with my shoulder back in my sling anyway. I'm taking her to the doctor today to see about the aorta issue.

So send up a prayer, light a candle, push some white light Susie's way. She's good people. No two ways about it.

On a good note - those of you who aren't Facebooking along with my addicted ass need to hear a good vignette:

Last night, we had a thunderstorm here. The rumbling was greatness. I heard one particular boomer followed by my kid yelling, "Good job, Grandpa!" We have this understanding that thunder is nothing to be afraid of because it's just Grandpa whacking some golf balls up in heaven. I wasn't in the same room, hadn't been talking about him - nothing. Knowing that my kid, who's never met my Dad, has that connection made me feel amazing.

Double Down? Or Upchuck?

Oh KFC, why would you make something this vile? Really? The fried chicken is the "bread?"

Readers, let take note of a few things here:

1. I am a big girl and have always reserved my right to speaketh the truth regarding big peeps since I am one of them. Like it or lump it.
2. You DO realize that some big peeps are going to see this as "low-carb" eating a la South Beach or Atkins.
3. Really. #2. Reallllllly.
4. Double Down? That's what KFC named this behemoth? It sounds like a lame-o porn name. I'm just saying.
5. The picture above? It packs 540 calories and 32 fucking grams of fat.
6. As much as I damn love me some friend chicken, I really only eat it two times or less a year.
7. This sandwich would make me puke. I don't think I'd make it out of the parking lot before upchucking the Down Down.
   

You're Fucking Kidding Me Here

Those of you who know me in "real life" know that I am not a petite little slip of a chick. I'm a honking, hippy, big chunk of woman.

Which is why I am allowed to make the following statement:

Why the fuck do Big Girl Designers and Stores insist on creating clothing that:



1. Doesn't look good on anyone over a size 2



or



2. Doesn't look good on ANYONE, much less a big girl.

Let's be honest here, I'm not some cat-walking, trend-setting bitch. But I know enough than to even THINK about wearing much less than WEAR the following items I just ran across on Lane Bryant's website:


First of all, jumpsuity things like this are horrific. The peg leg look only furthers the LARGE aspect of your hips and ass. The spaghetti straps do not encourage you to wear a bra - which you dearly need. And the red shoes? Your "pop of color?" Gimme a break here. Please. You look like a fucking fool, lady.

A romper? Really? Take that shit off and go naked. I beg of you. I have nothing else to say on this vile swath of clothing.

Hello? Braless much? Bad. Mucho bad. Even if you're only a B cup. I have a friend who can get away without a bra - but she barely breaks the B cup. Seriously. We're talking an A. For real.

So...people, heed my fashionista words:

1. no all-over animal prints

2. wear a fucking bra

3. walk away from the jumpsuits and rompers.

You outgrew such things when you were a toddler.

Thank me later.

10 Things I've Learned

1. It's ok to take care of myself. There will still be enough time and energy left over to take care of everyone else. If I do it the other way around, there will never be enough for me. And that's not selfish.
2. There will always be egg and sperm donors who refer to themselves as "mothers and fathers." Just because your egg or sperm created life doesn't necessarily mean that you're a parent. You're just a donor - especially if you had the child only to spite or to control someone - including the child.
3. Those donors? They're dumbfucks who will undoubtedly have bad karma revisited upon them in numerous ways.
4. Letting go of vengeful feelings toward people who've hurt me is hard but SO fucking worth it.
5. I love watching and hearing my son go sleigh riding. His laughter constricts my diaphragm. I honestly cannot breathe when listening to it for fear that I'll miss one giggle.
6. Being able to life my right was something for which I was never grateful. Now that it's physically taxing to do it, I am grateful for the challenge and lesson that doing the tough stuff is greatness.
7. I love my physical therapy people more than some people I've known for years. I've been able to let go of so much excess "life baggage" since my rotator cuff injury, and it's a freeing feeling.
8. Just I relish in my deep friendships and still firmly believe that the small circle of tightly-knit friends I have is absolutely the most amazing group of people ever - being my friend is something you should savor. If you don't feel the same way, we shouldn't be friends. Really.
9. I need to reevaluate where I am professionally.
10. Turning 39 this month was an exhilarating experience for me!

Irony at Work in the World Today

So I have made myself scarce during hall duty so that no one bumps into me.

I've been careful to give kids wide berth even inside my own classroom.

All to no avail.

I waited until the first load of bus kids were dismissed today before walking out of the library with the remainder of my kids and going downstairs to my classroom. I didn't make it any farther than the lobby when an exchange student decided to dance backward and ram into my freaking shoulder with his freaking backpack.

Yeah. Thanks for fucking nothing. And the adult who watched the whole thing and did nothing? You're worthless.

I am icing my shoulder and will take a nice pill in a moment.

And will be seeing my surgeon on Friday. Cannot wait.

So much for being fucking careful.

Back from the Depths

Yeah.

Me.

Let's just say I haven't found the past six months to be kind to me. I'm done wallowing in exhaustion and depression. I'm hoping the bloggy will serve me well in documenting the rise. I'm a fucking phoenix, baby.

So I had the surgery to repair my rotator cuff.
Was denied by workers' comp.
Hired an attorney to represent my case.
Figured out that my personal life is so much more important than my work one. (Why am I learning that damn lesson all the fucking time? Let's just be done it, woman!)
Was schooled by the world of pain.

If you ever have to have your rotator cuff repaired, just know that it's a bunch of hellish pain. Worse than labor. Worse than gastric bypass. Worse than hernia and adhesion repair. For real.

I'm almost 6 weeks post-op and am still taking pain meds. I go back to work tomorrow, and to be honest, I'm fucking afraid. I know I'm still exhausted by normal everyday activities. I've missed a ton of instruction with my students. We have the 8th grade direct writing and multiple choice writing tests coming up in about a month. I still have physical therapy three times a week for at least another two months.

What the hell? And I'm scared shitless that some kid is going to bump into me and tear out the work my surgeon did.

Here's the skinny on that. I finally understand what he did. Took me long enough.

• opened me up
• ground down a bone spur from my upper arm
• drilled holes into my bone
• reattached the four muscles that create the rotator cuff (I always thought the cuff was just a tendon or ligament.)
• reattached the muscles to the tendon that had been ripped off
• sewed the tendon (pulling the muscles along with it) into the holes drilled into the bone. Get it? It's like a sewing thing. Weaving the tendon through the holes.
• Then the tendon eventually becomes reattached to my bone - grafted so to speak.

Yeah. And my stupid ass truly thought I'd have the surgery and be back to work after a four-day weekend. Seriously. That's what I thought. My PCP and surgeon looked at me like I was a psych patient on weekend leave telling them I'd won the Nobel Peace Prize when I explained that I'd only be missing two days of work.

I had the surgery December 17 and will be back tomorrow for "light duty" (what the fuck is that when you're a teacher?), January 25. My doc wanted me out through February 11, but I've already had to take weeks without pay because my sick days are LONG gone. I have to go back. My PT folks don't like it either. So be it.

I went into work recently to fax some paperwork for my return to work. One of my big 8th grade boys gave me a hug? Me? Started crying. I can't be hugged. Can't have my shoulder jostled or touched. Don't think about a massage. Blah.

One of my sisters bought me a gift certificate for a massage for Christmas - I'm not scheduling that until I can ENJOY a massage, people! No no no!

Good Stuff?

• Buddha is thriving in preschool.
• I'm menu planning so I can feel like I've got a handle at home.
• I'm back to creating recipes now that I can sort of cook with one hand. No bread for now, but I'm in the middle of a citrus chicken recipe with quinoa. I'm hoping it will be as good as I think and can post it to the food blog.
• I've decided that I will use the textbook to teach - no more creating the wheel stuff. If the book was good enough to be adopted, I'm using it. This means I will become a member of the Pocketbook Club. I will arrive early each day because I have to drop off Buddha next door for preschool. He begins about an hour before my kids arrive. I will leave ON TIME because I have PT and I am no longer married to a job that obviously doesn't give a shit about me. I'm pretty bitter about the way my district treated me after this injury. No more giving everything. I and my family deserve that.

Very disjointed post here.
That's the pseudo update for now.
Lighter topics forthcoming.

Ahhh All That is Beauty

Thought I'd suck your ass in with this on. I guess in a manner of speaking, this IS a beauty, but I want it to be someone else's beauty.

Dr. Quack who said I was bruised and needed to exercise my shoulder should be shot at a firing line. I should be the one with the pistola.

I went to see the competent doctor yesterday and was shown how my cuff is not only torn but has a fucking hole in it. A bone PUNCTURED it. Yeah.

1. I felt pissed and scared all at the same time because now I know there will be more hoops through which I will have to jump in order to get this covered by workman's comp.
2. And relieved because I was beginning to think I was Miss Hypochondriac in a Sling. It's been almost a freaking month that I've been walking around in this thing, and I've started to feel like a freak show.

I will find out when the surgery is tomorrow. The surgical office through which my surgeon works was closed on Saturday. I'm looking at about three weeks out of work, three months in a sling, and physical therapy to get back to a semi-normal condition.

I didn't tell the good doctor that I'd seen the bad one until yesterday. After he went through he MRI results with me and explained that there was no other way to attempt to fix my shoulder, I enlightened him. I explained how the idiot had told me that I merely had a bruise and needed to exercise the shoulder to gain my mobility back. The good doctor's face got all red and puffy. I almost cracked up.

I think what he was feeling was what good teachers feel when people tell them about BAD teachers. We're sorta lumped into the same category no matter how good or bad, ya know?

He told me it was ridiculous, that I still need to be in the sling, that surgery is the only option, and that it doesn't really matter what the idiot said, I will get the care that I need.

You said it, mister.

And off to make my appointment with the superintendent to ask her how she's going to fix THIS.

The Pig

Butter's got the pig flu. Bastard pig.

Brought him the dr yesterday even though I didn't want to. I had to ask for a mask. I don't care if there ARE a ton of people with this. Let's cover it up, peeps! He hated the mask but wore it until we were back in the room.

He cried and cried because he thought they were going to give him another shot. The last time we were there he had three shots and a finger prick. The kids's got a mind like a steel trap. The doc? I LOVE him. He walked into the room, took one look at my kid, and said, "Hey, buddy! NO shots today! Not one!"

Prior to the doctor coming in, Butter had tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked at me and said, "Let's just get out of here! I'm not sick anymore!" Yeah. He was fine and dandy with being sicker than hell as long as he didn't have to face a shot. Once the doc made it clear he wasn't going to stick him, he jumped off the chair and let the man poke and prod. Again. I. Love. This. Doctor.

I am no longer going to the chick who is there. She pissed me off to high heaven. The guy is greatness and digs Robert. He talks to me like I'm not an idiot and is old skool - he didn't give me Tamiflu, and I wasn't piss faced about it.

Normally, that would have set me off. Nope. Vick's, Motrin, and HONEY. For real. He said dark honey cures a lot of what's ill with people - including some of the BAD BAD BAD symptoms from this pig shit.

Lucky for me, I have a HUGE jar of the shit in my kitchen from one of my local bee keepers - AND it's dark. Love love love!

And get this - he REMEMBERED Butter from an appointment we had with him 2 1/2 months ago. Before that appointment, he'd never seen Butter. Hell, I'd never seen the doc. He was new to the practice. We'd been shuttled into an appointment with him for a physical and well-child visit. Because he was new to the practice, he had more open appointments than the other docs. Without me mentioning a word to him, he brought up some blood work he'd ordered on Butter from last time, asked me if I was giving my kid the supplements to help with the low numbers we saw on the blood work, blah, blah, blah.

Yeah. He remembered. That means a whole hell of a lot to me than someone who rifles through a file before opening the door. I don't expect doctors, or anyone else for that matter, to remember everything. No one can do that. But he recalled my kid's face and some sketchy blood work. That's good enough for me. We discussed the timeline - we weren't supposed to go back for a recheck on his blood shit for another month - and parted with smiles all around.

I hope everyone has a doctor who's half as compassionate, smart, and supportive as this one.

N.B.
I am heading to my ortho guy this morning. I had an MRI last week. I'll know more on my fucking shoulder shit later today. I'm hoping for some PT and that's IT.

Quote Time

From one of the kids in my double block class. All but one child is a minority student. All of the kids failed the state standard test last year and have a double block of English with me to help get them up to speed.

I mentioned that I knew about a show on BET. I even gave proof by quoting something from the show.

Several children looked at me in disbelief. I could see the whole thought process working - how in the hell could she possibly know about anything on BET because she is WHITE.

One spoke up to defend my honor:
"Ya'll!!!!!!!! SHE BLACK! You didn't know that?" Yes. He meant this. I am not kidding.

Which was met by a chorus of "Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhssss..." as if all it took was one kid explaining that I am not in fact white; I am black.

Ok.

Race change. Check.

I love my kids. Love them. They are tore up from the floor up. And damn greatness.

Let the Pen Speaketh

I have been known to put pen to paper in order to have my voice heard. This year, school's been bad in many ways. The kids? Hell, I can deal with them. You make nice-nice, you get to know them, you engage their attention, you make them see how much you care.

Whammo. They love you back and will do whatever you ask.

It's the adults with whom I have reached my limit.

Take a look-see at the letter I sent, on Friday,to the school board chair in my city.


Dear Mr. School Board Chair Guy,

I am alarmed about several issues teachers within Name of My City Schools are currently facing. Among my greatest concerns is my current situation involving a report I made for workman’s compensation after I was injured while working earlier this month.

I arrived for an appointment to see a Name of My City Schools workman’s compensation-approved doctor, Dr. Quack, yesterday afternoon in order to be assessed for an injury which occurred while I was breaking up a fight at Name of my Middle School.

I took a half day of sick time in order to attend the appointment. I had been told that I was the first appointment of the day, would be seen promptly, and would be able to make my next appointment within plenty of time. I was not seen until almost 30 minutes after my arrival. My consult with the doctor lasted all of 10 minutes and consisted of him looking at x-rays I brought with me from my primary care physician by holding them up to the light in the ceiling and of me being asked to take my arm out of a sling, raise and lower my arm, and push my hand against the doctor’s hand. Dr. Quack told me I shouldn’t be in a sling, had a contusion to my shoulder, and should be moving my shoulder in order to “gain mobility.” These comments were made while he took note that I am only able to raise my arm in one direction 20% of what a healthy arm and shoulder is capable. He told me to complete pendulum and wall-walking exercises and to come see him again on Monday, October 26. In order to do so, I will have to take another half day of sick time as well as prepare plans for a substitute.

I had an appointment, previously scheduled through a referral by my primary care physician, with Dr. Who Knows What He's Doing at Name of my City Orthopedic directly following my appointment with Dr. Quack. Again, I brought along my x-rays which were looked at by Dr. Who Knows What He's Doing prior to his arrival to my examination room. I was chastised for not wearing the sling provided to me by my primary care physician and was told I had to wear it because I couldn’t move my arm and was using my neck and shoulder blades to support my arm. Dr. Who Knows What He's Doing said I should neither bear weight nor complete any exercises on my right side at this time. He also ordered an MRI in order to get a better picture of the possibility of a deep bone bruise, possible break not showing on the x-rays, and other injuries associated with my ligaments.

I am dismayed that two doctors would have such conflicting diagnoses and treatment plans. When this injury first occurred I didn’t report it because I’ve dealt with many situations like this during my tenure at Name of my Middle School and always bounced back after a short time. I did the best I could in a volatile situation by diffusing the fight between two students and redirecting them to their classes. I reported my injury after realizing that my shoulder was continuing to worsen and was met with what I took as doubt from Nurse Ratchet, the employee nurse who handled my report.

Through my contacts with Nurse Ratchet and Dr. Quack I can only conclude that there is doubt and mistrust in the teachers and their reporting of injuries with the city schools. Additionally, the care provided to those of us who have incurred injuries as a result of our employment in the city schools is substandard and arbitrary. I will continue to use my own insurance and sick days as a result of this experience so that I don’t lose use of my right shoulder. According to Name of my City Schools, teachers are Priority Three. My recent experience leads me to believe it is even lower than that.


Sincerely,
My Damn Name
Teacher of the Year 2009
Name of my Middle School
Name of my City Schools

Fuck Surprises

My Mother in Law decided to blow into town.

How did I find out about this? Thursday afternoon as I was rushing out of work to make it to Butter's Back to School Night, the Pack Mule called to let me know. How did he find out? She fucking sent him a text. Who sends a text to let someone know they're coming into town FROM STATES AWAY?

This woman lives in fucking Florida (thank you, God) for cripe's sake. FLORIDA. I'm in VIRGINIA. This isn't some couple of hour drive to "stay overnight."

He told me she'd be here Tuesday. Fine. A few day's to prepare myself to see the Drunk Grandmother (AS IF she really fits that moniker) of the Year.

NOPE.

Got the call from the Pack Mule on FRIDAY evening when he was leaving work. "She's here. She's in town."

Are you fucking kidding me? No prep time? Nothing?

I had to have lunch with her at the Pack Mule's place of work yesterday. Why? I wouldn't have it at MY HOUSE. Nope. If I can reduce the amount of time this fucktard spends at my home, I WILL DO IT.

Misery. She is misery.
She complained the ENTIRE TIME.
About everything.
Her daughter.
Her "friend."
Her life in general.

The "friend?" Yeah. Another drunk. The Pack Mule's mother sanctimoniously attempted to talk shit about her friend being a bad mom, she drinks too much, blah blah blah. Dude? Hello?Pot. Kettle. Black. And we're not talking about the fucking hue of your skin either, sister.

I finally said, "You know what? I have found that confronting someone about alcohol and drug abuse when that someone isn't willing to even look at her behavior is just a lost cause." I stared at her coldly with a gleam in my eye. She shut her drunk-ass mouth about THAT.

Today will be yet another day of me attempting to be civil when I really want to punch her in the head.

I may have to take some of my anti-nausea meds. The Rx kind. Why?

I'm not pregnant. I'm just literally SICKENED when I have to watch how she stares at my son as if she had some magical connection, some universal link with how he's turned out.

Lady? You have seen him all of seven times since he's been born. All of those times you've either been buzzed or dead-ass drunk. Do you honestly believe you've had a hand in anything positive? For real?

Go back to Florida. Drink yourself to death. And be done with it.

The best news? (This is cold-hearted. But I'm not about to lie here. C'mon. You know me better than that.)

She told me that her kidney functions are fucked up. I asked her about the numbers and meds she's on to get an idea of HOW fucked up. They're fucked up. She kept going round and round about how the doctors "just can figure out why I'm having these issues."

Do you think it has anything to do with the fact that you drink a GALLON of wine each day and chase that wine with BEER? Do you THINK????????????

Renal failure without treatment of any kind is quick. I told her that to her face. I reminded her that my Dad lasted all of 10 days once his kidneys failed. That's it. I said it with a straight face and followed up with, "So if you're telling me that even though they've mentioned dialysis and you're refusing that option - you should know that it won't take long to die from this. At least you won't be suffering from a long death as a result of lung cancer from all those cigarettes you smoke. There's a positive, right?"

You could have heard crickets. Love that.

Target Snack Bar - Meeting of the Minds

An evening at Target has become one of those predictable moments for Butter and me since school started. My Pack Mule's schedule's been changed during the past six weeks to reflect an even LATER end time.

By Friday, I'm usually sapped of any energy but know that I must pick up necessities before heading home. What's a mom to do?

Drag her ass to Target.

This past Friday Butter and I went there with two things on our list: milk and a Halloween movie.

After snagging both of them, we headed to the almighty snack bar. We shared popcorn and a pretzel. (That fucking popcorn machine? Money in the bank. For real. For Target.) I have seen more popcorn fly out of that place than at a movie theater.

There was one guy on duty who was having a tough time keeping up with everything because the smoothie machine was on the fritz. When things finally calmed down he was cleaning and straightening things up in an effort to catch up. Butter kept asking me what he was doing, why, etc.

Finally, I said, "Do you want to go help him?"

He looked at me as though I was a loon who'd recently retched up my anti psychotic meds and replied, "Mommmmmmmmmm. I don't have a JOBBBBBB."

Thanks for clearing that up, kid. Setting me on the straight and narrow. Yeah.

And I Quote

One of the best quotes from this week in school, aka The City of Beasts, is from a kid in the 8th grade. I'd never met him before and took him off someone's hands after he was so disruptive in her class that he had to be referred to the office.

I was up there when the referral came in and told the Assistant Boss Lady that I'd take whoever it was since ISS was full of kids and the possibility of getting a hold of the kid's parents was unlikely. (As an aside, get this - with all the shit that's been going down, when we call parents, they REFUSE to pick up their kids. Yeah. What the fuck?)

So the kid's brought to my room which is already filled with 8th graders as I now teach both 6th AND 8th grades. I seated him and told him there was NO WAY he would even consider holding a desk over his head in MY room as he had been doing in his other classroom. I made no bones about it and pointed out several large boys in the room who would beat him down if he acted like a nitwit.

During one of the group activities, I walked past where he was sitting. He asked to see the tattoo on my ankle. I threw my foot on his seat and let him take a gander. He pulled my capris UP looking "for the rest of it." Ha ha ha. He thought I had some sort of leg piece going on.

He then shared one of HIS tattoos. Yes. He has more than one. The one he pointed out was his mom's name on his forearm.

Not five minutes later he said, "Ya know what? I think a neck piece would look good on you! You need to get one."

And he was serious.
And a discussion ensued among the other tattooed children in my room.
And pictures and words were thrown about in an effort to "help" me choose my neck piece.

And then I threw a bucket of cold-ass water on their plans when I explained that neck pieces were frowned upon by higher-ups in education.

That pissed 'em off. They wanted to know who they could speak with to "plead my case."

It was then that I had to tell them that I would NEVER be putting something on my neck. I did temper the news by telling them I'd probably get a tramp stamp though.

But I didn't say tramp.
Promise.

I Got...

Nothing.

The year has been SOMETHING. So far, September's had chairs thrown in class, desks on top of kids' heads, colors being worn in class, gang signs being thrown anywhere, fights galore.

Add to that - numerous paperwork minutia, meetings, meetings, meetings, phone calls, conferences, more paperwork.

And knowing that I will never see the $9,000 raise I was SUPPOSED to get this year before the district went into an "economic crisis." I worked this long for nothing. No cost-of-living increase. NOTHING. And I will never see that 9 grand either. Ever. Mark my words. I'm glad I've been able to help those in central office balance the budget.

Things Could Be Worse

I could look like that.

Nah. That would never happen.

But imagine if my enemies had super powers and could turn me into that monstrosity.

*shuddering*

Oh Fer Fuck's Sake

No surgery yet.

I had an appointment on Tuesday with a surgeon in Dr. Young Cute Boy's group because Dr. YCB is on vacation until the end of the month. I'd originally had an appointment with YCB, but my physician wanted me seen earlier because of the CT results, my current pain, and my past history. SHE changed the appointment and communicated the reasons with the OTHER doctor.

Yeah. An hour before my appointment, the idiot's secretary called to tell me that Dr. Fucktard didn't want to see me and thought I should see Dr. YCB. What? Are you fucking serious here? An hour before my fucking appointment? When you fucking office called me not 12 hours prior to CONFIRM the appointment that you are now CANCELLING? And hello? I had to take an entire fucking day off from work for NOTHING?

Fuck you.

I was as pleasant as humanly possible to the twit who gave me this news.
She knew I was pissed and said she would go speak with Dr. Fucktard who was "with a patient at the moment," and would call me back.

My reply, "Does this mean I SHOULD or SHOULD NOT come in? 'Cause now it's 45 MINUTES before I'm supposed to be there."

Mind you, I was in incredi-pain because the drugs I got in the ER are so fucking strong that they make me feel like hammered shit. Hence, I am taking NOTHING stronger than fucking Bufferin. Yeah. Bufferin. It's fucking old peoples' drug. I'm almost embarrassed to admit it here.

Dumb bitch calls me back and says, "Dr. Fucktard says you'll be just fine until the end of the month when Dr. Young Cute Boy returns."

My reply? "Really? I think it's great that he can come to that conclusion without having seen me or discussed this case with me. Fine. Get me an appointment with Dr. YCB. And because of this MESS, you WILL be giving me preferential treatment with regards to the latest appointment possible in the day because I CANNOT TAKE ANOTHER ENTIRE DAY OFF FROM WORK TO FIT YOUR SCHEDULE."

She made the appointment and a fatal error. "Ok. You're the latest appointment. Hopefully, all of the earlier times will fill up so that you can keep it."

REALLY? Did you just say that to me? For fucking real? Bitch? Have you ever heard of LYING? Today would have been a great day for you to LIE. You should have called and LIED about Dr. Fucktard being out of the office on an emergency. Barring that, you should have LIED and said NOTHING about the appointment status.

Cause ya see, if I get a cancellation on the September 30 appointment, heads are gonna fucking ROLL in the form of an open letter to the editor with all of the direct quotes I recorded on the morning in question.

*deep cleansing breath*

I also put in a call to my personal physician who returned my call pretty quickly and also threw up a little in her mouth when I explained my dilemma with Dr. Fucktard. I love that she was pissed. I also love that I was able to scream and yell profanities without her thinking that I am a total crackpot. (She loves it when I let loose with some profane statements as much as I love it when she treats me with compassion when I'm sick. It's a win-win, right?)

She made a note in my file that HE cancelled appointment. Her words, "In case anything happens, I am making a note of this so that you have recourse." Of course I have recourse, darling. I know medicine as much as any fucking lay person could. I never entered the hallowed halls of medical school like Dr. Fucktard, but I know my shit. I also know PATIENT RIGHTS. Fucker. The ER people last week asked if I worked in the medical field. Boss Lady and I both laughed hearty and long when the question was posed.

I was fired up on Tuesday and made no bones about it: I was returning to work the next day, come hell or high water.

And I did.

And it hurt.
And I'm tired.
And I'm still not dead so it's worth it.

My kids hated the sub. My coworkers who thought she'd be good thought she was an idiot. She's a nice person but cannot deal with the kids we currently have at my school. (We had a gang fight on Friday. For real. But that's fodder for another post.)

So. I'm back and staying at work until at least September 30. I'm hoping Dr. Young Cute Boy will find a way to let me hold off until Christmas Break so I don't have to take a lot of time off. The kids I have this year will cause many a mental breakdown in various adults if I'm not there on a regular basis. If I spike a fever or have the vomits, I have to (and will) go to the ER. I told my workmates that I would smuggle in beer and margaritas as long as they'd come and stay for the show. I'm pretty entertaining in the hospital. I can do almost anything under the guise of being zooted up on drugs. Greatness, I tell ya.

So. Thanks for the well wishes, concerned emails, phone calls, etc. I'm hanging tough. Nothing like some fucking adrenalin and anger to make the pain fade. I told my doctor that if I could invent some synthetic drug to mimic the adrenalin/anger train I was on Tuesday morning, I could quit teaching and live high on the fucking hog with nary a concern in the world.

Spigelian Hernia, Anyone?

Come join me again on my fucking hell voyage to Surgery Land again. One would think that I would have already been cut enough times to last a FUCKING LIFETIME. Alas, according to my surgeon, my torso "is swiss cheese" and every time he cuts or attempts to repair something I "bleed." Great. So platelets are in my future as well.

I went to my doc on Thursday because I've been in incredi-pain. For a while now I've felt what can only be described as "stingers" in my right side. I figured I was straining against the mesh that was nailed into my abdominal wall during my last surgery. The machine they use to attach the mesh that was used for my surgery is a Pro-tacker. I read my surgical notes and can clearly remember shuddering because I envisioned something akin to a fucking nail gun inside my belly. My surgeon told me I should feel as though someone had stabbed me repeatedly. I told him he was right on the mark and that I would be happy to be his spokesperson who would be honest with future patients and would explain that the surgery would "hurt like a fucker" rather than the whole "you'll experience some discomfort and pain" line that clearly doesn't do the pain factor justice.

So. My doc spoke with me on Thursday. Before palpating on my abdomen, she said, "I'm going to schedule a CT scan for you in the morning." My response, "You have GOT to be fucking kidding me here. The last time you sent me for one, they cut me. And now it's the THIRD DAY OF FUCKING SCHOOL."

She changed her tune after pushing and prodding. She became very calm- almost serene. I looked at her and said, "Fuck me. You're sending me to the ER, aren't you?" Yup. Of course.

She didn't think I would go and kept badgering my ass.
I told her she would have to give me an hour or so to find my husband and get my kid.
She told me I had to pack a bag because she couldn't guarantee that I'd be sent home.
Whatever.

I had my scan.
Bloodwork
Questions, questions, questions.
All the while, the pain increased.

I will be honest with YOU people.
The pain I've been in has been excrucitating.
Wednesday night I took 500mg of Hydrocodone. That shit touched NONE of the pain. THAT is why I made an appointment on Thursday morning.

I was the hit of the surgical team - two peeps came to see me. One of them was handsome yet smug. The other? Overeager and ready to dig her hands into my stomach.

Handsome boy asked me what I thought it was and followed up with, "I KNOW what it is." Then just fucking tell me, asshole. I'm not on some game show here. And I want to go HOME.

Overeager girl was so excited because she'd never seen this type of hernia. It's evidently quite rare. Whatever. I want to be the middle of the road hernia girl. This is one I'd prefer to not have. It's rare and much more painful than the run-of-the-mill ones.

Handsome boy wanted to "reduce it" back into the hole after explaining what it was. Yeah. Hello? That took 100 micrograms of fentanyl on top of I have no idea how much morphine they'd already shot into my arm. Overeager one was so excited to feel the belly and push, push. push. I wanted to push my knee into her face. Handsome boy, while smug, was informative and a nice piece of Latin eye candy. He could have stayed all night. Boss Lady was there with me so that my Pack Mule could be home with Butter. She had a great view of his ass. Had she been wise enough to take a picture, I would have posted it here.

Here's some linkage in case you want to know what this shit is. I can't take the time to fully explain this particular type of hernia that sounds like spaghetti but is so NOT the case.

So. More stories will be forthcoming regarding my evening in the ER. It topped almost any Jerry Springer fest I've ever seen. At least I got some good bloggy material out of this.

The good news is that it's not appendicitis or an ectopic pregnancy, which are two of the possibilities the docs were looking at. The bad news is that I'm heading BACK INTO THE FUCKING OR sooner rather than later. I have an appointment with a guy in my surgical group on Tuesday morning and will know more then.

I was planning on going to work on Monday but was told by Boss Lady that I wasn't allowed back. Huh? Did I miss being banned at work? Evidently so. She said Handsome and another ER doctor said I shouldn't return until I was seen by my surgeon. Hello? I must have missed that on all of the drugs pumped into my system.

This is also probably due to the fact that I had a severe panic attack after the "reduction" completed by Handsome.

I didn't say a word but got really antsy, wanting to get out of bed, change positions, etc. I didn't want to admit that I felt like I was having a heart attack. It wrapped around my shoulder and upper back. I honest to God could NOT breathe. I calmly asked Boss Lady to get my nurse and was quickly hooked up to O2, a heart monitor, and then, an EKG. The entire experience was fucking humiliating. I do not EVER lose my shit.

I'm hear to tell the tale: I lost my shit in the ER.

They shot Ativan into my IV. I felt NO effect whatsoever. What the hell?

Yeah. So the morphine and fentanyl also restricted my ability to breathe well, but I'm readily admitting that the complete loss of control over a situation involving my health caused me to spiral into panic mode. Christ. I hate this shit.

More later.
Think good thoughts.
Please.

Sisterhood

October holds a great deal for me. I'm focusing on that month with fervor right now.

The one thing in particular that's holding my attention is the first weekend in October. I'm heading to Raleigh to see U2. They were my first concert ever. I was in 7th grade. I went with a girl from my middle school and my Dad. He drove us there and back to the Meadowlands in Jersey. He paid for the tickets. He sucked up the pot-laden air. And never made a complaint.

I've seen them since then, but this time I'm going with a dear friend from high school - someone who found me 20 years after the fact. I had no idea she'd been searching for me. I'm just freaking grateful for Facebook because that's how my Siouxie found me! Love you, woman!

And Lara is now coming along as well! She just paid for her ticket and will be flying down. We're having a girlie weekend of amazing escapades.

I seriously don't think there are many people in the world who are blessed with the kind of friends I have.

Even if you aren't Siouxie or Lara, know that I appreciate your words, smiles, support, and laughter. Most importantly, I value what you offer to the sisterhood we share!

Green

While I love the color green, for the time being it will only evoke a very fresh memory from my family.

The other night, I was getting Butter into the shower. He was chewing gum, and without being prompted, bent over the bathroom trashcan as if to spit it out. I was proud; beaming even. What kid willingly spits out gum?

Then I was kicked in my proverbial balls when I realized the green was not in fact gum; he's been chewing the cud that was formerly known as the PEAS I served for dinner for at least 15 minutes.

Just waiting.
Patiently.
For an opportunity to SPIT THEM OUT rather than swallow them.

And couldn't understand my disbelief and sputtering words.

I believe this is what we call "premeditation."

I am so fucked when he gets older.

Shut Your Mouth

I made a decision today that I regret.

I allowed my Pack Mule to convince me that taking Butter to fucking McDonald's and letting him play in that breeding ground for all that is nasty filth was an acceptable idea. Note, I did not use any of the following adjectives: good, happy, wonderful, intelligent.

I went because although Butter and I rode bikes together earlier today, the rains commenced for the fucking third day in a row, and I foolishly thought, "This will give him a chance to get some more energy out."

Whatever. I'd rather raise a slovenly, lazy potato of a son than go back to fucking McDonald's. It's that or medicate me. Got it?

What did I eat? A cup of unsweetened iced tea. I do not drink sweetened iced tea. I find it to be a vile soup of sorts. Be mean to me if you will, but I will not change my ways even if you feel it your lot in life to "reeducate" me on the supposed finer art of drinking Southern tea. I am not a Southerner and will never pretend to be one no matter how long I live in Virginia. Don't waste your breath.

I ate the tea because the thought of ingesting anything else actually made me dry heave a little.

I also bought a newspaper thinking I'd be able to distract myself.

No such luck.

I attempted to imagine I was the step-mother in today's Ann Lander's column who sobbed about how her step-daughter betrayed her after years of living in peace. Blah fucking blah, lady.

MY LIFE IS WORSE THAN YOURS!!!! I AM IN A MCDONALD'S ON A SATURDAY TWO WEEKS BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS LISTENING TO FUCKING GRIMY KIDS SCREAM AND YELL.

*sigh*

I also found myself muttering to the woman in the next booth, "Will you PLEASE shut the FUCK up? PLEASE????? You have nothing of value to say. Just. Shut. Up."

I know it was audible because my Pack Mule was staring at me in horror.

I will not go back there. Will. Not.