Had to go to the hospital one last time today.
Was a lazy shit and didn’t go till 4:30 pm, so here I am with only around 50 mins to do 500 words of blogging before we leave for Denny’s at 7:15 pm.
Hey kids, can YOU figure it what time it is?
Nothing eventful about today’s journey. Went to the ER, and got the pink (purple to me) form, went straight into the ER, put the form in the tray, and sat down on one of the lovely comfy chairs in the waiting/IV area.
I need a chair like that. Not sure how that would work vis a vis using the computer, but I would be willing to do a LOT of rearranging of things in order to get to do my computering in a really comfy chair.
Hell, I’ll hang shit from the ceiling if that’s what it takes.
IV went smoothly. Having been through the IV antibiotics program at the hospital at least three times, I am super comfortable with the routine.
The nurse shows up, takes your vitals (temp for sure, maybe blood ox and pressure too), cleans the area around the IV needle site (or, as I like to call it, my circulatory port), hangs the IV bag, programs the IV pump, hooks it to said port, and presses go.
Some time later, the pump beeps 6 times and the process is complete.
I find it quite soothing, to be honest. It’s usually nice and quiet (for a horse spittle) and it has to be the world’s laziest way to be doing something productive without actually doing anything at all.
That appeals to my oral retentive personality to a positively unwholesome degree.
Eventually chatted with a doctor. He asked me if I thought the leg was getting better. I had to admit that I had never experienced any symptoms in the first place.
If Doctor Woods hadn’t noticed that my ankle looked red and swollen, I would never have even known I had a problem.
Makes me wonder how many other infections I have had without knowing it. I thought I was beyond that crap now that my blood sugar is under control.
I only have to look at all the scars on my legs to be reminded of all the really very dangerous cases of cellulitis I had many years ago, and how blasé I was about the whole thing at Wound Care.
Like it had nothing to do with me. These things just happen. Oh well.
And the nurses tried to get through to me. But I suppose my psychological defenses were up and so I listened politely then did nothing.
How the frick am I even still alive? My legs were covered in nasty wounds that I now know could have gone berserk and spread to my organs and killed me in a lot of truly grisly ways, and I was still, “Oh well. ”
Caring about someone like me must be so frustrating and confusing and downright crazy-making sometimes. For that, my loved ones have my deepest apologies.
“Holy shit, Fru, your head is on fire!!”
“What, again? Oh well. Shit happens.”
“Don’t you think you should do something about it?”
“Yeah, I probably should. ”
“Like…. RIGHT NOW?!?”
“I’ll get to it soon, I am sure. ”
More after the break.
I can’t fit in
I can’t fit in.
I can’t be normal.
I will always be a weirdo lurking at the edges of society.
No matter how much I long for an audience, and comrades, and somewhere where I feel welcome and wanted and needed and useful, I absolutely cannot and will not change in order to blend in with the herd.
Not an option. Never gonna happen. I am offended by the very thought of it.
From the very beginning, I have been ferociously myself no matter what. Maybe if I had gone to kindergarten, I would have learned to bend a little.
But I did not. And so I was my own very odd and occasionally downright spooky child. An off-putting child for the way I talked like an adult trapped in a child’s body and how confident and self-possessed I was for a child my age.
I spoke to adults as if we were equals. I neither showed them deference nor rebelled against them. I remained my own little island fortress no matter what.
And there have been times when, looking back, I wish I had been more flexible. It would not have killed me to bend a little in order to get along with the other kiddies.
There are a lot of possible settings between “total sheep” and “edgy loner”.
But then I think it over and wonder if that was ever even an option for me. It’s hard for me to imagine taming my fiery temper and hotheaded stubbornness and generally combative nature enough to conform to anything, really.
But perhaps I could have found some kind of compromise I could live with.
Then there is the issue of this gigantic brain of mine. I was thinking about it recently and realized that the soft, tender, human part of my soul are absolutely terrified of the robot monster that is my powerful intellect, and that their greatest fear is that one day the robot will devour them and take over my mind and its resources completely.
And now that’s my greatest fear, too.
A very deep part of me knows that the fucking robot always has the highest priority access to all my mental resources and that the rest of me – the simple, gentle, animal parts of me – have to exist on whatever it’s not using at the moment.
And at any moment, I could start thinking a really big thought and the tender bits of me will get pushed out of the way suddenly, rudely, and with great force.
And that’s not right. It’s supposed to serve me, not the other way around.
I built it, I upgraded it, I feed it and take care of it. It’s my goddamned pet!
And I, the real me, am the only important thing in my little universe. You’re all here to serve my happiness. My wellbeing. My entertainment, even.
You have no agendas of your own, effective now.
We need to get our shit together if we are ever going to be one, unified, whole, and healthy person, and that means being ruthlessly selfish in my priorities.
Make me happy, my imaginary underlings.
Or I swear I will kill your and give your resources to someone else.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.