So lemme tell you about a certain incident I witnessed.

So I am sitting there with the IV in my arm, getting my antibiotics, when one of the nurses (a very nice older lady named Nola^[1]) answered the phone and ended up on there for ten minutes or more because of someone I will call Nurse Karen.

It was around 3:30 pm on a Friday and from the side of the conversation I could hear, I deduced that Nurse Karen wanted Nola to admit a patient to the IV antibiotic program despite the fact that a) such an admission would obviously be a weekend admission given the day and time, and b) the nurses were not allowed to admit anyone to the weekend IV program without Doctor Vortel’s approval and he wasn’t around.

Simple, no? “I want you to do the thing. ” “I can’t. ” “Oh, OK, thanks, bye. ”

But noooo. Nurse Karen just kept trying to convince Nola to admit the patient anyhow and Nola had to keep trying to explain why she could not in different ways hoping one of them would get through to this moron.

At one point, Nurse Karen actually hung up on poor Nola. Can you believe it?

But alas, she called back 5 minutes later and resumed the harangue. When the assault was finally over and Nola came over to change my dressing, I said “What’s HER problem, huh?” and she laughed.

Score! I love making people laugh.

This is definitely a situation where my temper would get me in trouble because once I had tried politely explaining it two or three times, I would have just said “Listen lady, it ain’t happening, so get over it!” and hung up.

I hate repeating myself and I REALLY hate not being listened to, so having to repeat myself because someone isn’t listening to what I am saying is a shortcut to my shit list.

Speaking of the ladies what do my IV antibiotics and such, I had a pleasant experience this morning when I went in for my infusion as I was their only client at first and so I had all three nurses attending to me.

It felt quite luxurious. I felt positively pampered (small p) It reminded me of that scene from The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and the gang have been let into Oz as the honored guests of the Wizard and are thus being pampered and spoiled with beauty treatments and such.

What a gay reference!

Otherwise, the only notable thing is that they removed my IV port today because I am due for a new one tomorrow, so currently, I don’t got one.

Feels kinda weird, to be honest. I’ve had one in for a couple of weeks now. For a moment I was tempted to ask them to leave it in to maintain continuity.

If all goes well, Wednesday will be my last day on the program. I am 90 percent sure the infection is long gone, and so therefore is the need for antibiotics.

And I will miss it. Sad but true. Gives me something to do every day, etc.

After that, it will off to the Wound Care Clinic. which is now located in this massive new public medical center. They have done a good job of making the place soft and friendly by having nice carpets in the corridor as well as warm lighting and a fabric treatment as well as art on the walls, but it still can’t totally hide the fact that you are in a huge concrete spiraling labyrinth, so the place is still oppressive.

Oh well. I shall endure.

More after the break.

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Meet the Troglodyte

I’ve started to visualize the sick part of my mind as The Troglodyte.

Let’s call him Trog.

And all Trog wants is to squat in his deep dank dark cave far, far away from the harsh heat and light of day, and hide from the terrifyingly overstimulating world up above.

It is very cold in Trog’s grotty little grotto, and that’s how he likes it. The cold keeps the hated heat away and keeps Trog nice and numb to all the voices and feelings that might want him to leave his grotto and move closer to the light.

Such voices are clearly insane and only want to destroy him by making him destroy himself in a suicidal act of warmth and humanity.

Trog knows that moving closer to the light will destroy him. Not that he would die, exactly. But he might stop being a Trog, and that’s the same thing to him.

Instead, he writes on the wall of his cave about how lovely it would be to walk in the light and how he is sure to be doing that Real Soon Now and he basks in the imaginary warmth of his fictional sun because it’s the only kind of sun he can stand.

If anything even looks like it might actually take him out of his homely hole in the ground and bring him into the light, he squeals and squalls and fights like a trapped animal until he can squirm away and scuttle back to his filthy alcove and settle back down to writing on the wall and wishing there was someone – anyone – who could set him free.

Poor, poor little Trog. Stuck in his hoary lair because he can’t see that freedom has come for him many times and he’s fought it off in blind terror every single time.

The idea of freedom and living a whole and wholesome life in the sun-drenched meadows that lie under the big blue skies of his dreams is very comforting.

The actuality of it is scary and overstimulating and means having to change.

And who would our little Trog be if he wasn’t Trog any more?

He doesn’t know. And when he doesn’t know if someone is safe or right, he assumes that means it is crazy and/or wrong.

And that doesn’t allow for doing much of anything.

And that’s exactly how he likes it.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.