Over the past couple of days I've been reading a lot in the British newspapers about Theresa Winters.
Theresa is 36 years old, unemployed, dependent on benefits to survive and lives with her partner, Toney Housden. Theresa is currently 25 weeks into her 14th pregnancy. Yes, I said 14th. That's slightly eyebrow raising, but in an age where Jon and Kate plus their eight and the Duggar family and their 18 are mainstream TV stars, it's not as shocking as it once was.
What is shocking, however, is that NONE of the 13 children Theresa has given birth to are in her or Toney's custody.
NOT A SINGLE ONE OF THEM. NONE.
They have all been removed from their custody by British social services. Theresa says that until "they" let her keep one, she's going to keep right on reproducing.
That's not the thing that really disturbs me, though. I mean, it's bad enough, but....the thing that really bothers me are the reports that several of her children have PEHO Syndrome.
PEHO is rare, and is considered to be an autosomal recessive trait - so for several of the couple's children to be born with it is strongly indicative of it being their genetic material at fault rather than a random or environmental cause.
This has presented a rather sticky ethical wicket for me and has caused me to ask myself some questions:
Who is suffering here?
Ultimately, who is paying the price for this couple exercising their reproductive freedom?
At what point does 'reproductive freedom' become 'sheer madness' and 'abject cruelty'?
Does society (or even the gub'mint) have a right to step in? They already have, to an extent; they're removed EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of the 13 children from these people's custody.
When, if ever, is forced sterilization appropriate?
I don't have answers as yet. My knee-jerk reaction is one of 'stop the madness; get a court order to give that girl a tubal ligation and that gormless wonder a vasectomy and do it soon', but that attitude is, I think, the very top of a slippery slope - one that I can't see the bottom of. I resent that they can just keep on having babies, and I fucking hate that they're just having more babies when there's clearly a genetic defect and, consequently, a good chance that those babies will have little to no quality of life whatsoever....but again, where does that train of thought come to an end?
I just don't know, y'all. I just don't know.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Boobage, shoulders and arms, oh my!
So, the mammogram this morning ruled out the possibility of the irregularity in my boobage being a cyst.
Okay, so it's not a cyst.
It's also not a "typical" malignancy.
Ok, so it's not "typical". So, what is it?
It's probably benign. It's either a microcalcification or fibrocystic breast tissue or scar tissue or there's a small chance that it could be something nefarious like a malignancy that's choosing to make it's appearance in a nontypical way.
So, I have to have a contrast MRI done to get a better look at it.
The only problem is that the first appointment I can get for the MRI is on August 13th. My shoulder surgery is going to be before that. I can't have the MRI until I'm 6 weeks post op.
Oh that's right! I didn't tell you what happened at the ortho surgeon's appointment, did I?
He made me cry. I swore I wasn't going to cry, but he got me going. I said that I'm sick of hurting every time I move my arm, I'm done giving shit up that I really liked to do, that I feel like I'm playing with fire being on narcotic pain meds for so long and that I gave myself an ulcer with NSAID's, that I want my life back - or at least a life with less pain back. I'd tried therapy, I'd tried conservative approaches and that I was done with them, too.
He said he couldn't guarantee that what he was going to try to do would leave me pain free, but that it would certainly help.
I said I didn't want guarantees, that I just wanted to try. If I have 2 or 3 pain free days a week or even just less pain on a daily basis that I would be happy.
He said he will trim and probably reposition my biceps tendon, decompress the shoulder process (shave my clavicle and other bone ends) tidy up the rotator cuff and perhaps tweak the bursal sac a wee bit. He's going to take a good look around and do what he can to give me a less painful shoulder. It might start as a laproscopic procedure and end up as an open surgery, but he'd try to keep the incisions small.
That's EXACTLY what I wanted.
Surgery will be sometime in the next week or so. I'll find out tomorrow when it is. In the meantime, I'm having a pain medication embargo. I recall how bad it was before *with* NSAIDs, and this time I won't have those. I sound like a junkie here, but I'm going to ask for percocet 10/325 instead of the 5/325's like I got last time - for the immediate post-surgical period, that is. I want off that crap, and soon. Fuck, that's part of the reason I'm having another surgery. I think that were I truly a junkie I'd be milking the injury for all it's worth.
So, back to the MRI: the tech said as soon as I know when the surgery is I'm to call her and she'd figure out a way to get me in there BEFORE I have the surgery. She's awesome, that girl. She's truly an asset to the hospital; she actually gives a crap instead of just saying that she does and then not backing it up. I love that.
*update* Surgeon's nurse just called. Surgery will be the week of the 10th; he's en vacance next week. The good thing is that I'll be able to start college on the 24th. The downside....another 3 month recovery period. However, I can handle that. 3 months is a relatively small amount of time.
Okay, so it's not a cyst.
It's also not a "typical" malignancy.
Ok, so it's not "typical". So, what is it?
It's probably benign. It's either a microcalcification or fibrocystic breast tissue or scar tissue or there's a small chance that it could be something nefarious like a malignancy that's choosing to make it's appearance in a nontypical way.
So, I have to have a contrast MRI done to get a better look at it.
The only problem is that the first appointment I can get for the MRI is on August 13th. My shoulder surgery is going to be before that. I can't have the MRI until I'm 6 weeks post op.
Oh that's right! I didn't tell you what happened at the ortho surgeon's appointment, did I?
He made me cry. I swore I wasn't going to cry, but he got me going. I said that I'm sick of hurting every time I move my arm, I'm done giving shit up that I really liked to do, that I feel like I'm playing with fire being on narcotic pain meds for so long and that I gave myself an ulcer with NSAID's, that I want my life back - or at least a life with less pain back. I'd tried therapy, I'd tried conservative approaches and that I was done with them, too.
He said he couldn't guarantee that what he was going to try to do would leave me pain free, but that it would certainly help.
I said I didn't want guarantees, that I just wanted to try. If I have 2 or 3 pain free days a week or even just less pain on a daily basis that I would be happy.
He said he will trim and probably reposition my biceps tendon, decompress the shoulder process (shave my clavicle and other bone ends) tidy up the rotator cuff and perhaps tweak the bursal sac a wee bit. He's going to take a good look around and do what he can to give me a less painful shoulder. It might start as a laproscopic procedure and end up as an open surgery, but he'd try to keep the incisions small.
That's EXACTLY what I wanted.
Surgery will be sometime in the next week or so. I'll find out tomorrow when it is. In the meantime, I'm having a pain medication embargo. I recall how bad it was before *with* NSAIDs, and this time I won't have those. I sound like a junkie here, but I'm going to ask for percocet 10/325 instead of the 5/325's like I got last time - for the immediate post-surgical period, that is. I want off that crap, and soon. Fuck, that's part of the reason I'm having another surgery. I think that were I truly a junkie I'd be milking the injury for all it's worth.
So, back to the MRI: the tech said as soon as I know when the surgery is I'm to call her and she'd figure out a way to get me in there BEFORE I have the surgery. She's awesome, that girl. She's truly an asset to the hospital; she actually gives a crap instead of just saying that she does and then not backing it up. I love that.
*update* Surgeon's nurse just called. Surgery will be the week of the 10th; he's en vacance next week. The good thing is that I'll be able to start college on the 24th. The downside....another 3 month recovery period. However, I can handle that. 3 months is a relatively small amount of time.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Dismay
Am I the only person in the US who thinks that there is something very wrong when:
a 40 plus year old man cannot spell basic words like 'lose' and 'divorce' (for the record, he used 'looze' and 'devorse')?
people seem to be unable to use the past tense of words and say things like 'suppose' instead of 'supposed', 'forgave' instead of 'forgiven' and so on?
a person who describes themselves as educated and intelligent spells 'gentle' 'g-e-n-t-a-l' and says that he likes 'ladys' instead of 'ladies'?
I am just amazed that middle aged people seem to be totally and utterly unable to spell at anything greater than a 4th grade level - and even worse, they don't seem to CARE that their writing is full of mistakes.
When did it become uncool to be smart? Was I asleep when that happened?
a 40 plus year old man cannot spell basic words like 'lose' and 'divorce' (for the record, he used 'looze' and 'devorse')?
people seem to be unable to use the past tense of words and say things like 'suppose' instead of 'supposed', 'forgave' instead of 'forgiven' and so on?
a person who describes themselves as educated and intelligent spells 'gentle' 'g-e-n-t-a-l' and says that he likes 'ladys' instead of 'ladies'?
I am just amazed that middle aged people seem to be totally and utterly unable to spell at anything greater than a 4th grade level - and even worse, they don't seem to CARE that their writing is full of mistakes.
When did it become uncool to be smart? Was I asleep when that happened?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Coming Bounty
My garden is blooming!
That's one of the bees that are constant visitors to my plants these days. That guy there is so loaded with pollen that I could hardly see any of his black stripes!
Those are some of the pear tomatoes that I got as tiny wee straggly little seedlings about 5 weeks ago. They've gone from sickly looking things to thick bushy plants that have fruit on them. I've never eaten any of this particular kind of tomato before so I'm looking forward to tasting them!
Crookneck squash. I also have straightneck and acorn. FTS and I are both excited about roasting those bad boys with some butter and pepper and maple syrup.
That's the habanero pepper plant Ruby decided looked very tasty and ate the top of a month ago. It's recovered, and as you might be able to see, is now producing for me. FTS's boyfriend and his family are getting the goods from this plant; I don't think that I can tolerate habanero heat.
Beans! I have beans! That's a yellow wax bean, growing on a plant that I grew from a seed. There's a great deal of satisfaction in putting a seed in some dirt, watering and feeding it and then, a couple of months later, being able to pick produce from the plant that grew from the seed and eat it.
I'll post more photos as I take them!
That's one of the bees that are constant visitors to my plants these days. That guy there is so loaded with pollen that I could hardly see any of his black stripes!
Those are some of the pear tomatoes that I got as tiny wee straggly little seedlings about 5 weeks ago. They've gone from sickly looking things to thick bushy plants that have fruit on them. I've never eaten any of this particular kind of tomato before so I'm looking forward to tasting them!
Crookneck squash. I also have straightneck and acorn. FTS and I are both excited about roasting those bad boys with some butter and pepper and maple syrup.
That's the habanero pepper plant Ruby decided looked very tasty and ate the top of a month ago. It's recovered, and as you might be able to see, is now producing for me. FTS's boyfriend and his family are getting the goods from this plant; I don't think that I can tolerate habanero heat. 
Beans! I have beans! That's a yellow wax bean, growing on a plant that I grew from a seed. There's a great deal of satisfaction in putting a seed in some dirt, watering and feeding it and then, a couple of months later, being able to pick produce from the plant that grew from the seed and eat it.
I'll post more photos as I take them!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sometimes I wonder
My father died three years ago this week.
I still find myself struggling with the concept of his simply not being here anymore. I see something and think that I must ring dad and tell him about it and I have the phone in my hand before I remember that he's not around to talk to any more. I usually hang up because I can't handle telling mum what I was thinking.
The silliest thought I have is that perhaps if I was there I could have saved him. He was in the coronary care unit of the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford; one of the best teaching hospitals in England. He had great doctors treating him, but still the thought that if I had been there; if it had been MY hands on his chest, pumping his heart...that perhaps his body would have sensed the familiarity, that he would have known it was me, his child, trying to save his life. That the love I had for him would have somehow seeped into his cardiac muscle and restarted it....that my love would be enough to bring him back to life.
It's utter craziness, I know. I can step back from that thought process and see the sheer insanity of it; I know how impractical it is. I mean, he had some stellar cardiologists treating him and working his final arrest. I couldn't have made any difference to the outcome. Yet still that thought remains. I can't completely shake it.
The fact is that he was lucky to live as long as he did. He had his first MI when I was 15; I witnessed my own father dying in his bed. At first I thought he and my mother were in the throes of passion because he was groaning, but when I heard mum go downstairs and dad continued to groan I knew things were not right. I went into his room and saw him flat on his back on the bed, his skin a horrible clay color, drenched in sweat. I called out to mum to ring 999, NOW. She said he was ringing the doctor. I said bugger the doctor, ring the bloody ambulance - it was the first time I swore at mother and to the best of my recollection it was the last. She insisted on ringing the doctor. I swooped dad up in my arms and propped him up on all the pillows I could find and then sat with him, telling him just to concentrate on breathing in and out, in and out, that help was on the way and that it was going to be fine. Pleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdie was what was running through my head, but I didn't say that to him.
The doctor finally arrived, wearing pajama pants and shirt under his sports jacket. He took one look at dad and told mum to ring 999, then he pulled a portable EKG out of his bag o'tricks and stuck the leads on dad's chest. All these years later, I remember what that strip looked like. It wasn't until I became an EMT that I truly understood what those spikes and curved bits meant: tombstones. Occlusion of the left anterior descending coronary artery. He was throwing a widowmaker.
I lost count of the number of MI's he had over the years. I know that he had triple bypass surgery twice and was hospitalized five or six times after the final surgery. He was on so much Coumadin towards the end of his life that he stopped shaving every day because if he nicked himself he bled for three days. He was frail...my dad, the man who created shapes from stone with his chisel and trowel, the man who carried hods up and down ladder his whole life...my dad couldn't walk from the bathroom to the living room without getting out of breath and having angina at the end. He had strokes. He couldn't talk properly. He got a motorized scooter and went to town on it, but one day he got lost and was out for 8 hours before he came to, realized where he was and went home.
He was old, and he was done living. His heart was tired, and so was he. I believe he decided that he was done, and I know in my heart of hearts that nothing I could have done would have persuaded him to live. He was tired of existing.
I miss him. I still talk to him like he's here sometimes. It helps.
I love you, dad. I'm not mad or angry at you for going, I don't blame you. You fought for a long time, and you fought well. I just miss you like crazy and I don't think that will ever go away.
I think as long as I miss him I'll still wonder if I could have made a difference.
I still find myself struggling with the concept of his simply not being here anymore. I see something and think that I must ring dad and tell him about it and I have the phone in my hand before I remember that he's not around to talk to any more. I usually hang up because I can't handle telling mum what I was thinking.
The silliest thought I have is that perhaps if I was there I could have saved him. He was in the coronary care unit of the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford; one of the best teaching hospitals in England. He had great doctors treating him, but still the thought that if I had been there; if it had been MY hands on his chest, pumping his heart...that perhaps his body would have sensed the familiarity, that he would have known it was me, his child, trying to save his life. That the love I had for him would have somehow seeped into his cardiac muscle and restarted it....that my love would be enough to bring him back to life.
It's utter craziness, I know. I can step back from that thought process and see the sheer insanity of it; I know how impractical it is. I mean, he had some stellar cardiologists treating him and working his final arrest. I couldn't have made any difference to the outcome. Yet still that thought remains. I can't completely shake it.
The fact is that he was lucky to live as long as he did. He had his first MI when I was 15; I witnessed my own father dying in his bed. At first I thought he and my mother were in the throes of passion because he was groaning, but when I heard mum go downstairs and dad continued to groan I knew things were not right. I went into his room and saw him flat on his back on the bed, his skin a horrible clay color, drenched in sweat. I called out to mum to ring 999, NOW. She said he was ringing the doctor. I said bugger the doctor, ring the bloody ambulance - it was the first time I swore at mother and to the best of my recollection it was the last. She insisted on ringing the doctor. I swooped dad up in my arms and propped him up on all the pillows I could find and then sat with him, telling him just to concentrate on breathing in and out, in and out, that help was on the way and that it was going to be fine. Pleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdie was what was running through my head, but I didn't say that to him.
The doctor finally arrived, wearing pajama pants and shirt under his sports jacket. He took one look at dad and told mum to ring 999, then he pulled a portable EKG out of his bag o'tricks and stuck the leads on dad's chest. All these years later, I remember what that strip looked like. It wasn't until I became an EMT that I truly understood what those spikes and curved bits meant: tombstones. Occlusion of the left anterior descending coronary artery. He was throwing a widowmaker.
I lost count of the number of MI's he had over the years. I know that he had triple bypass surgery twice and was hospitalized five or six times after the final surgery. He was on so much Coumadin towards the end of his life that he stopped shaving every day because if he nicked himself he bled for three days. He was frail...my dad, the man who created shapes from stone with his chisel and trowel, the man who carried hods up and down ladder his whole life...my dad couldn't walk from the bathroom to the living room without getting out of breath and having angina at the end. He had strokes. He couldn't talk properly. He got a motorized scooter and went to town on it, but one day he got lost and was out for 8 hours before he came to, realized where he was and went home.
He was old, and he was done living. His heart was tired, and so was he. I believe he decided that he was done, and I know in my heart of hearts that nothing I could have done would have persuaded him to live. He was tired of existing.
I miss him. I still talk to him like he's here sometimes. It helps.
I love you, dad. I'm not mad or angry at you for going, I don't blame you. You fought for a long time, and you fought well. I just miss you like crazy and I don't think that will ever go away.
I think as long as I miss him I'll still wonder if I could have made a difference.
Dear Troll
Once again, I have to thank you for stopping by my little corner of the blogsphere and really telling me how it is. Boy howdy, was my face ever red after reading your rambling, ill spelt and grammatically incorrect rambling! I mean, you sure put me in my place!
I know that it must be TERRIBLY disappointing for you now that Frank's been sentenced to A HUNDRED A THIRTY-FIVE FUCKING YEARS, but please don't take it too hard: they have visiting days in prison. You'll see each other again, I'm sure. I wouldn't hold out much hope of ever having anything other than a jail-house relationship, though. He's not going to be eligible for parole for sixty-seven years and six months. I should warrant that he'll be dead before that happens, especially if he happens to be unable to be placed in protective custody.
Would you like me to stop using words of more than one syllable, dear? I know how taxing it is for you to read above a 4th grade level.
There's nothing fake ass about me, dear. A bitch I may be, but I'm not fake. You did get one thing correct though: I am feeling pretty stupid. Stupid for letting Ashley into my home, stupid for letting him anywhere near my kids, stupid for letting him start to drive a wedge between me and my husband. However, I find solace in the fact that, stupid as I may have been, I am still married, still in love with my husband, still have a career, and oh yes....I AM NOT IN FUCKING JAIL, DID NOT COME OUT ON BEHALF OF A NOW CONVICTED PEDOPHILE, AND AM NOT REDUCED TO TROLLING THE INTERNET, LEAVING SEMI-THREATENING COMMENTS ON OTHER PEOPLE'S BLOGS. I do have to ask you this: if you are so unafraid of my knowing who you are, why are you signing in as anonymous yet again?
In closing, let me just say this: Frank was given a hell of an opportunity to save his own skin. All he had to do was undergo psychosexual (I know that's a long word and I'm willing to break it down for you if you like) evaluation and he'd have been given a lighter sentence. What did he have to lose? If he was innocent, it would have showed. If he was guilty, he could have probably lived to see the outside of a jail cell again...but he refused. He was given the chance to still maintain his 5th amendement rights and NOT have the results announced in court, but he still chose to refuse. I just cannot understand why in the hell he wouldn't help himself.
Oh wait, I do: IT'S BECAUSE HE'S GUILTY.
One more thing: if you think that a truly innocent man can be convicted on "storytelling" in this day an age, then you truly are madder than a box of frogs. But yeah, keep telling yourself what you need to in order to get some sleep at night. Whatever it takes for you to feel better about standing up for a child molesting fuck. Perhaps you should start drinking again; that worked for you in the past.
Kisses,
NinjaMedic.
P.S. If you are who you say you are, you know exactly where to find me. Oddly enough, I haven't gotten any phone calls or seen you in my area. I can't imagine why...*rolls eyes*
P.P.S. It's 'whore', not 'ho'. Get it right, stupid.
I know that it must be TERRIBLY disappointing for you now that Frank's been sentenced to A HUNDRED A THIRTY-FIVE FUCKING YEARS, but please don't take it too hard: they have visiting days in prison. You'll see each other again, I'm sure. I wouldn't hold out much hope of ever having anything other than a jail-house relationship, though. He's not going to be eligible for parole for sixty-seven years and six months. I should warrant that he'll be dead before that happens, especially if he happens to be unable to be placed in protective custody.
Would you like me to stop using words of more than one syllable, dear? I know how taxing it is for you to read above a 4th grade level.
There's nothing fake ass about me, dear. A bitch I may be, but I'm not fake. You did get one thing correct though: I am feeling pretty stupid. Stupid for letting Ashley into my home, stupid for letting him anywhere near my kids, stupid for letting him start to drive a wedge between me and my husband. However, I find solace in the fact that, stupid as I may have been, I am still married, still in love with my husband, still have a career, and oh yes....I AM NOT IN FUCKING JAIL, DID NOT COME OUT ON BEHALF OF A NOW CONVICTED PEDOPHILE, AND AM NOT REDUCED TO TROLLING THE INTERNET, LEAVING SEMI-THREATENING COMMENTS ON OTHER PEOPLE'S BLOGS. I do have to ask you this: if you are so unafraid of my knowing who you are, why are you signing in as anonymous yet again?
In closing, let me just say this: Frank was given a hell of an opportunity to save his own skin. All he had to do was undergo psychosexual (I know that's a long word and I'm willing to break it down for you if you like) evaluation and he'd have been given a lighter sentence. What did he have to lose? If he was innocent, it would have showed. If he was guilty, he could have probably lived to see the outside of a jail cell again...but he refused. He was given the chance to still maintain his 5th amendement rights and NOT have the results announced in court, but he still chose to refuse. I just cannot understand why in the hell he wouldn't help himself.
Oh wait, I do: IT'S BECAUSE HE'S GUILTY.
One more thing: if you think that a truly innocent man can be convicted on "storytelling" in this day an age, then you truly are madder than a box of frogs. But yeah, keep telling yourself what you need to in order to get some sleep at night. Whatever it takes for you to feel better about standing up for a child molesting fuck. Perhaps you should start drinking again; that worked for you in the past.
Kisses,
NinjaMedic.
P.S. If you are who you say you are, you know exactly where to find me. Oddly enough, I haven't gotten any phone calls or seen you in my area. I can't imagine why...*rolls eyes*
P.P.S. It's 'whore', not 'ho'. Get it right, stupid.
Better
*listening to Lou Reed 'Walk On The Wild Side'*
The past couple of days haven't been stellar, but they've been better. Nobody has wanted to kill each other, and mama hasn't been eyeing the booze section in the store with quiet desperation, wondering whether it really *will* come to that.
I actually got to talk to my husband for 10 minutes one day, and the next day we had *another* 10 minute call with no cackling or interruptions. It was bliss, I tell you. Sheer bliss.
I feel bad for Urbaner. Not only is he being asked to work is ass off there, he's has issues to deal with at home. That's not easy for anyone. However, it's not fucking easy to left here dealing with the fallout of his absence, either.
*Goldfrapp, 'Strict Machine'*
Found out that Numbah Two hasn't been taking his medications as regularly as he said he was. It explains a lot, and as I explained to him this morning, it also means that I'm going to have to start dispensing them again. He had built enough trust with me and his pa that we had let him self dispense, but that's gone for a little while. I think that once his serum levels become adequate he'll stabilize and will be back on track, but that's going to take a couple of weeks.
*Cat Stevens, 'Wild World'*
Sat next to the head Brass at a dinner last week. Have promised him some tomatoes and peppers out of my garden. He says he's going to hold me to it. I believe him. I'm starting to notice a difference in the way brass talk to and interact with Senior NCO's....it's difficult to explain. It's not exactly familiarity, but it's something like that.
*David Bowie, 'Modern Love'*
I have found that the older I get, the more I need order and cleanliness in order to be able to operate. I used to be able to live in a proverbial sty, but I can't do that anymore. So, gentle reader, I am going to leave you for now and go about setting my house into some semblance of order.
*Play nicely whilst I am cleaning, please and be aware that if I come back and find my shit fucked up there will be consequences.*
The past couple of days haven't been stellar, but they've been better. Nobody has wanted to kill each other, and mama hasn't been eyeing the booze section in the store with quiet desperation, wondering whether it really *will* come to that.
I actually got to talk to my husband for 10 minutes one day, and the next day we had *another* 10 minute call with no cackling or interruptions. It was bliss, I tell you. Sheer bliss.
I feel bad for Urbaner. Not only is he being asked to work is ass off there, he's has issues to deal with at home. That's not easy for anyone. However, it's not fucking easy to left here dealing with the fallout of his absence, either.
*Goldfrapp, 'Strict Machine'*
Found out that Numbah Two hasn't been taking his medications as regularly as he said he was. It explains a lot, and as I explained to him this morning, it also means that I'm going to have to start dispensing them again. He had built enough trust with me and his pa that we had let him self dispense, but that's gone for a little while. I think that once his serum levels become adequate he'll stabilize and will be back on track, but that's going to take a couple of weeks.
*Cat Stevens, 'Wild World'*
Sat next to the head Brass at a dinner last week. Have promised him some tomatoes and peppers out of my garden. He says he's going to hold me to it. I believe him. I'm starting to notice a difference in the way brass talk to and interact with Senior NCO's....it's difficult to explain. It's not exactly familiarity, but it's something like that.
*David Bowie, 'Modern Love'*
I have found that the older I get, the more I need order and cleanliness in order to be able to operate. I used to be able to live in a proverbial sty, but I can't do that anymore. So, gentle reader, I am going to leave you for now and go about setting my house into some semblance of order.
*Play nicely whilst I am cleaning, please and be aware that if I come back and find my shit fucked up there will be consequences.*
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Enough
*warning: rant ahead*
Out of the last 90-ish days, my husband has been gone for 51.
That's over half the time. That's a lot.
It's not like he's had a whole hell of a lot of downtime when he HAS been here. For example, he worked in one capacity or another all last week, packed his bags on Saturday, and left on Sunday. He's working 10 hour days and is always fielding phone calls when he'shome.
I've dealt with the death of Urbaner's grandfather, our middle son's cry for help and subsequent hospitalization in the adolescent psychiatric unit, his grandfather's funeral, a tornado that shook the house a destroyed buildings a mile away from us, and the news that I will probably never have enough range of motion or strength in my arm to work as an EMT again - all by myself. He's been gone for all of those events....but he didn't seem to understand until I told him that those all contributed to my general stress level and my feeling totally isolated.
He doesn't seem to understand that our children NEED their dad; that he is an integral part of the family. Right now his presence is incredibly erratic and that bothers them.
He doesn't seem to understand that this thing with my breast bothers me, too. He was insistent on telling me everything would be fine and that I shouldn't worry. He didn't seem to understand that I NEED to talk about the 'what if's'...what if it ISN'T fine. What then? I NEED to talk to him about that. I'm scared. I know that it's probably nothing, but I'm still scared. He actually said ' so what if you lose a breast? If that's what happens, that's what happens'. I know he meant well, but for fucks sakes....how would he feel if I said 'Oh, so what if you lose a nut? It won't matter'. I don't think he'd like that.
It doesn't help that he's either sleeping, getting ready to go to work, working, eating dinner in some restaurant, or sleeping. Whenever I talk to him, there is always someone else in the background. I cannot tell you how much it bothers me to be trying to talk to him about things and hear some person cackling away behind him...or worse still, interrupting him. That's happened every fucking day so far. He says that he's in another room or away from them. I say I don't care, it still bothers me. I also find it incredibly annoying to be literally pulling my hair out with the kids and their behaviour, trying to talk to Urbaner about it but have him say 'I'm eating right now. Can I call you back?' or 'I'm getting ready to leave and they're waiting for me. Can we talk about this later?'. It fucking pisses me off to no end.
I have actually told him that if this continues it will be the thing that breaks the back of this marriage....and I meant it. He doesn't seem to comprehend that in 3 to 5 years, the Air Force will hand his retirement papers and a cake then wave bye-bye and tell him not to let the door hit him in the arse. If he takes care of it, this marriage has the potential to last for the rest of his life. He has made no effort to spontaneously volunteer to try to curb the TDY's and missions. He's in a position to negotiate somewhat, and he's not done that. That hurts me. I had to ask him to try not to be gone so much for the next couple of months. I can't tell you how bad that stung me.
He says he feels it too, that he's frustrated and it's not easy. Having been gone myself for periods of time, I can understand that. However, I can also understand how easy it is to forget about things when you only have yourself to care for and you get to eat out every night. It's not so easy to do when you're trying to separate two teenage boys who want to rip each other to shreds or deal with a petulant 13 year old who refuses to listen or cooperate or chastize the puppy who peed on the kitchen floor for the third time in an hour and then clean up the puddle or pick up the house after teenagers have trashed it or listen to whines about how we don't have anything to eat and why can't I go to a friend's house 5 miles away with a kid I met once for 10 minutes and why can't I go to the pool; being a turd to my brother and telling him I wish he was still in the hospital isn't a good reason to ground me and I hate you and I hate this family and this house and I wish I could live somewhere else ALL DAY. It gets really fucking old after a while when you have NO BACKUP. The boys have started acting out because they miss their dad, and I am left here to pick up the pieces.
I have tried and tried to be supportive over the years, particularly for the last 5 years. When I had the accident that nearly killed me I recovered alone. I've done my best to keep him deployable and when he deployed, to keep him there. The one time he came back was when I needed surgery to fuse my spine and was going to be in a back brace for 8 weeks. He came home, and then he left for another 6 weeks 3 days after the brace came off. I've done really well and tried really hard, but I'm about at the end of my rope and he just doesn't seem to get why.
The bottom line is that everyone feels his absence and he doesn't understand why. I NEED him. We all NEED him, and he's just not here and I can't even talk to him about it. Phone calls are simply exercises in frustration right now. That makes things even worse.
I don't know what to do.
*rant over*
Out of the last 90-ish days, my husband has been gone for 51.
That's over half the time. That's a lot.
It's not like he's had a whole hell of a lot of downtime when he HAS been here. For example, he worked in one capacity or another all last week, packed his bags on Saturday, and left on Sunday. He's working 10 hour days and is always fielding phone calls when he'shome.
I've dealt with the death of Urbaner's grandfather, our middle son's cry for help and subsequent hospitalization in the adolescent psychiatric unit, his grandfather's funeral, a tornado that shook the house a destroyed buildings a mile away from us, and the news that I will probably never have enough range of motion or strength in my arm to work as an EMT again - all by myself. He's been gone for all of those events....but he didn't seem to understand until I told him that those all contributed to my general stress level and my feeling totally isolated.
He doesn't seem to understand that our children NEED their dad; that he is an integral part of the family. Right now his presence is incredibly erratic and that bothers them.
He doesn't seem to understand that this thing with my breast bothers me, too. He was insistent on telling me everything would be fine and that I shouldn't worry. He didn't seem to understand that I NEED to talk about the 'what if's'...what if it ISN'T fine. What then? I NEED to talk to him about that. I'm scared. I know that it's probably nothing, but I'm still scared. He actually said ' so what if you lose a breast? If that's what happens, that's what happens'. I know he meant well, but for fucks sakes....how would he feel if I said 'Oh, so what if you lose a nut? It won't matter'. I don't think he'd like that.
It doesn't help that he's either sleeping, getting ready to go to work, working, eating dinner in some restaurant, or sleeping. Whenever I talk to him, there is always someone else in the background. I cannot tell you how much it bothers me to be trying to talk to him about things and hear some person cackling away behind him...or worse still, interrupting him. That's happened every fucking day so far. He says that he's in another room or away from them. I say I don't care, it still bothers me. I also find it incredibly annoying to be literally pulling my hair out with the kids and their behaviour, trying to talk to Urbaner about it but have him say 'I'm eating right now. Can I call you back?' or 'I'm getting ready to leave and they're waiting for me. Can we talk about this later?'. It fucking pisses me off to no end.
I have actually told him that if this continues it will be the thing that breaks the back of this marriage....and I meant it. He doesn't seem to comprehend that in 3 to 5 years, the Air Force will hand his retirement papers and a cake then wave bye-bye and tell him not to let the door hit him in the arse. If he takes care of it, this marriage has the potential to last for the rest of his life. He has made no effort to spontaneously volunteer to try to curb the TDY's and missions. He's in a position to negotiate somewhat, and he's not done that. That hurts me. I had to ask him to try not to be gone so much for the next couple of months. I can't tell you how bad that stung me.
He says he feels it too, that he's frustrated and it's not easy. Having been gone myself for periods of time, I can understand that. However, I can also understand how easy it is to forget about things when you only have yourself to care for and you get to eat out every night. It's not so easy to do when you're trying to separate two teenage boys who want to rip each other to shreds or deal with a petulant 13 year old who refuses to listen or cooperate or chastize the puppy who peed on the kitchen floor for the third time in an hour and then clean up the puddle or pick up the house after teenagers have trashed it or listen to whines about how we don't have anything to eat and why can't I go to a friend's house 5 miles away with a kid I met once for 10 minutes and why can't I go to the pool; being a turd to my brother and telling him I wish he was still in the hospital isn't a good reason to ground me and I hate you and I hate this family and this house and I wish I could live somewhere else ALL DAY. It gets really fucking old after a while when you have NO BACKUP. The boys have started acting out because they miss their dad, and I am left here to pick up the pieces.
I have tried and tried to be supportive over the years, particularly for the last 5 years. When I had the accident that nearly killed me I recovered alone. I've done my best to keep him deployable and when he deployed, to keep him there. The one time he came back was when I needed surgery to fuse my spine and was going to be in a back brace for 8 weeks. He came home, and then he left for another 6 weeks 3 days after the brace came off. I've done really well and tried really hard, but I'm about at the end of my rope and he just doesn't seem to get why.
The bottom line is that everyone feels his absence and he doesn't understand why. I NEED him. We all NEED him, and he's just not here and I can't even talk to him about it. Phone calls are simply exercises in frustration right now. That makes things even worse.
I don't know what to do.
*rant over*
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Invictus
That's my latest ink. I've been talking about getting it for ages, but the events of the last couple of weeks spurred me into putting my money where my mouth is.Invictus is Latin. It means 'unconquered'.
I AM invictus, you see. No matter what happens to me, I will still be invictus. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head may be bloody - but I will never bow it. Ever. I don't care how many threats of hellfire and damnation are levelled at me, I have CHOSEN this path I am on and I am unapologetic for what I think and what I feel. I am being true to myself; I AM the captain of my soul. I refuse to give some petulant, sadistic (Job, anyone?) deity any credit at all for my life; I have steered myself to where I am now and I will continue in that manner, come what may.
No matter what happens to me; whether this mass I have turns out to be benign or malignant, whether I ever regain full use of my arm, whether I cannot complete the PA program I want to attend, whether I ever work as an EMT again...no matter what, I am invictus. I will not change my personal beliefs and convictions because of what life throws at me, if anything I will cling to them even tighter in the face of adversity. I will not give in, and I will not give up.
I am an athiest. A heathen. An infidel.
I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother.
I am a human, and I am invictus.
Monday, July 13, 2009
What the hell??!!??
I woke up this morning to find our female rat, Brenda, perched atop a pile of squirming, squealing pink rat babies.
MORE rat babies.
The original litter are only 6 weeks old and are barely weaned, and now we have more. Brenda got put in the cage with Dale a few weeks ago so FTS and I could clean out the tank that's serving as a nursery - she wasn't in there for very long and they were supposed to have been supervised, but I'm guessing that the 'lings found playing XBox to be far more important than keeping an eye on the rats.
I don't know exactly how many babies are in there because I don't want to move Brenda to count them. I've seen 5 thus far, but I'm thinking that there are likely a few more that I haven't seen yet.
This is ridiculous. We're going to be overrun with rats if this keeps happening!
MORE rat babies.
The original litter are only 6 weeks old and are barely weaned, and now we have more. Brenda got put in the cage with Dale a few weeks ago so FTS and I could clean out the tank that's serving as a nursery - she wasn't in there for very long and they were supposed to have been supervised, but I'm guessing that the 'lings found playing XBox to be far more important than keeping an eye on the rats.
I don't know exactly how many babies are in there because I don't want to move Brenda to count them. I've seen 5 thus far, but I'm thinking that there are likely a few more that I haven't seen yet.
This is ridiculous. We're going to be overrun with rats if this keeps happening!
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Please, in the name of humanity...
*Ahem* Can I have your attention, please?
Thank you. I have a public service announcement I'd like to make.
Summer is upon us, people. That means it's hot. Not HAWT, hot....as in like an oven. Hot, and sticky. I know how uncomfortable clothing can be when it's this hot, but please, in the name of humanity:
If you are a big girl or a larger lady, please don't squeeze your fat arse into shorty-shorts like the ones Victoria Beckham wears. You may think you look great (you may also think that you're not fat, but you are. Really. Trust me, you are) but you don't. You look like you're in pain most of the time, and I'm telling you you're going to do yourself a mischief if you try to sit down in those Daisy Dukes. They also make you sweat in odd places and nobody needs to see your sweaty camel toe and wedgie combination.
Speaking of sweaty, can I just say this: DEODORANT IS YOUR FRIEND, but you have to bathe regularly. You cannot - I repeat, YOU CANNOT - just keep applying layer after layer of deodorant and thinking it will keep the stank at bay. It won't, and it doesn't. Soap and hot water are your first line defense when it comes to not smelling to high heaven. I don't care if you're a skinny-minnie or a Fat Albert who has to wash themselves with a rag on a stick, each and every one of you needs to expose each part of your body to soap and water at least once a day when it's hot like this.
Now, let's talk about boobage. Ladies, I know that it's hot and that bras can be uncomfortable, but if you have big ol' breastessessesses, you MUST keep those bad boys harnessed. Just as nobody needs to see your dimpled ass cheeks hanging out of your shorty-shorts, nobody wants or needs to see your boobage hanging around your waistband. If you've got perky ones then perhaps wearing one of those tank tops that has a shelf bra in it is okay, but unless you've got ones that are literally self supporting please for the love of humanity wear a freakin' bra. If you have to roll your titties up and out of the way so you can button your pants then YES, you absolutely need to wear a bra.
Men, you're not let off the hook here either. I know that some of you have moobs because I've seen them. Whilst I'm sure that some of you are proud of them, please understand that you don't need to flash the flesh and show the rest of the world your man-tits. Please refrain from wearing those tank tops with the sides that droop open, especially if you have not followed my advice and washed your arse. You are a double affront to society when you wear those things; you offend not only sight but olfactory nerves too. Unless you have a fetish for it, armpit hair is pretty much universally considered gross...and ladies, please for the love of all that is good in this world, shave or wax or somehow de-fuzz yourselves if you're going to be wearing shorts and tank tops. The only thing worse than a man's hairy pit hanging out for all to see is a woman's hairy pit (actually, I tell a lie. There IS one thing worse and I was assaulted by the sight of it last week: a fat chick wearing shorts that were far too small and who failed to realize that her *ahem* bikini line extended down her inner thighs. Excuse me whilst I retch....*gag*).
Ok, where we were? Ah yes, I wanted to talk about feet. They're concealed most of the year, but come summertime everyone wants to display them - despite having ignored them for a good long time. Some of you don't seem to comprehend that feet are in fact a part of your body and therefore need to be washed with the soap and water we talked about earlier. They also have nails that need clipped, corns and calluses that need shaved or trimmed, are subject to various fungal infections that make them nasty to look at and can emanate an odor that the majority of the population finds most disagreeable and even repulsive. Being a military spouse I have been privy to lots of advice given by respected and seasoned leaders, but the one piece of advice that I hear again and again and again is this: take care of your feet, and they'll take care of you. This doesn't just apply to military personnel, this applies to you, too. Nobody is expecting perfect trotters all the time and you don't need to get a pedicure weekly or have pretty painted nails: just try to make sure they don't stink and people don't gag, flinch or recoil in sheer terror when they see your footsies.
As the banner underneath the title of this blog states, you are not here alone; there are other people who live on this planet with you. Whilst I am all for people living freely and in the manner they see fit, I'm also all about courtesy for those around you. So please, before you venture out into this big wide world we live in, take a moment to think: will my body odor be offensive to my fellow man, and if so what do I need to do to correct it? Will people really appreciate seeing my boobs/moobs/ass cheeks/nasty feet? Would I want to see theirs?
There is a happy medium here, people...and it's not that difficult to find.
Please feel free to print this out and give it to your friends and relatives; the more people that hear this message the better.
Thank you. I have a public service announcement I'd like to make.
Summer is upon us, people. That means it's hot. Not HAWT, hot....as in like an oven. Hot, and sticky. I know how uncomfortable clothing can be when it's this hot, but please, in the name of humanity:
If you are a big girl or a larger lady, please don't squeeze your fat arse into shorty-shorts like the ones Victoria Beckham wears. You may think you look great (you may also think that you're not fat, but you are. Really. Trust me, you are) but you don't. You look like you're in pain most of the time, and I'm telling you you're going to do yourself a mischief if you try to sit down in those Daisy Dukes. They also make you sweat in odd places and nobody needs to see your sweaty camel toe and wedgie combination.
Speaking of sweaty, can I just say this: DEODORANT IS YOUR FRIEND, but you have to bathe regularly. You cannot - I repeat, YOU CANNOT - just keep applying layer after layer of deodorant and thinking it will keep the stank at bay. It won't, and it doesn't. Soap and hot water are your first line defense when it comes to not smelling to high heaven. I don't care if you're a skinny-minnie or a Fat Albert who has to wash themselves with a rag on a stick, each and every one of you needs to expose each part of your body to soap and water at least once a day when it's hot like this.
Now, let's talk about boobage. Ladies, I know that it's hot and that bras can be uncomfortable, but if you have big ol' breastessessesses, you MUST keep those bad boys harnessed. Just as nobody needs to see your dimpled ass cheeks hanging out of your shorty-shorts, nobody wants or needs to see your boobage hanging around your waistband. If you've got perky ones then perhaps wearing one of those tank tops that has a shelf bra in it is okay, but unless you've got ones that are literally self supporting please for the love of humanity wear a freakin' bra. If you have to roll your titties up and out of the way so you can button your pants then YES, you absolutely need to wear a bra.
Men, you're not let off the hook here either. I know that some of you have moobs because I've seen them. Whilst I'm sure that some of you are proud of them, please understand that you don't need to flash the flesh and show the rest of the world your man-tits. Please refrain from wearing those tank tops with the sides that droop open, especially if you have not followed my advice and washed your arse. You are a double affront to society when you wear those things; you offend not only sight but olfactory nerves too. Unless you have a fetish for it, armpit hair is pretty much universally considered gross...and ladies, please for the love of all that is good in this world, shave or wax or somehow de-fuzz yourselves if you're going to be wearing shorts and tank tops. The only thing worse than a man's hairy pit hanging out for all to see is a woman's hairy pit (actually, I tell a lie. There IS one thing worse and I was assaulted by the sight of it last week: a fat chick wearing shorts that were far too small and who failed to realize that her *ahem* bikini line extended down her inner thighs. Excuse me whilst I retch....*gag*).
Ok, where we were? Ah yes, I wanted to talk about feet. They're concealed most of the year, but come summertime everyone wants to display them - despite having ignored them for a good long time. Some of you don't seem to comprehend that feet are in fact a part of your body and therefore need to be washed with the soap and water we talked about earlier. They also have nails that need clipped, corns and calluses that need shaved or trimmed, are subject to various fungal infections that make them nasty to look at and can emanate an odor that the majority of the population finds most disagreeable and even repulsive. Being a military spouse I have been privy to lots of advice given by respected and seasoned leaders, but the one piece of advice that I hear again and again and again is this: take care of your feet, and they'll take care of you. This doesn't just apply to military personnel, this applies to you, too. Nobody is expecting perfect trotters all the time and you don't need to get a pedicure weekly or have pretty painted nails: just try to make sure they don't stink and people don't gag, flinch or recoil in sheer terror when they see your footsies.
As the banner underneath the title of this blog states, you are not here alone; there are other people who live on this planet with you. Whilst I am all for people living freely and in the manner they see fit, I'm also all about courtesy for those around you. So please, before you venture out into this big wide world we live in, take a moment to think: will my body odor be offensive to my fellow man, and if so what do I need to do to correct it? Will people really appreciate seeing my boobs/moobs/ass cheeks/nasty feet? Would I want to see theirs?
There is a happy medium here, people...and it's not that difficult to find.
Please feel free to print this out and give it to your friends and relatives; the more people that hear this message the better.
It's probably nothing....
...but my left breast hurts and has an area of thickening in it that's pretty noticeable.
I'm not panicking - yet, anyway. I had a lump develop in the same breast after the car accident; it was about the size of a hen's egg and turned out to be fat necrosis. For those of you who aren't medically-minded, I'll explain: injury to the breast can cause the body to create firm scar tissue when it repairs the damage. My seatbelt caused a lump of breast tissue to be sheared off, and my body created scar tissue when it tried to repair the damage. It didn't look normal on mammogram imaging so I had a surgery to remove it and have it biopsied. The peace of mind that came from that was wonderful.
Urbaner was gone for the whole thing. It only took 2 weeks from the initial appointment to the surgery, but it seemed like forever....and I think part of that was because I was alone and didn't have anyone to physically lean on. This time isn't going to be any different; Urbaner is leaving today. Apparently my ta-ta's like to act up whenever he's gone.
I don't know whether I should make an appointment with my doctor in the next couple of days to get it checked out, or whether I should wait for a week or so to see what happens with it. I don't want to make a fuss about nothing, but I also want to have some peace of mind.
For once, I really don't know what to do.
I'm not panicking - yet, anyway. I had a lump develop in the same breast after the car accident; it was about the size of a hen's egg and turned out to be fat necrosis. For those of you who aren't medically-minded, I'll explain: injury to the breast can cause the body to create firm scar tissue when it repairs the damage. My seatbelt caused a lump of breast tissue to be sheared off, and my body created scar tissue when it tried to repair the damage. It didn't look normal on mammogram imaging so I had a surgery to remove it and have it biopsied. The peace of mind that came from that was wonderful.
Urbaner was gone for the whole thing. It only took 2 weeks from the initial appointment to the surgery, but it seemed like forever....and I think part of that was because I was alone and didn't have anyone to physically lean on. This time isn't going to be any different; Urbaner is leaving today. Apparently my ta-ta's like to act up whenever he's gone.
I don't know whether I should make an appointment with my doctor in the next couple of days to get it checked out, or whether I should wait for a week or so to see what happens with it. I don't want to make a fuss about nothing, but I also want to have some peace of mind.
For once, I really don't know what to do.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
If all goes well..
...I will be starting full time classes this fall to complete the degree I started many years ago.
All I need is the funding, and I can get that via the Air Force, in the form of tuition assistance for military spouses and as part of the GI Bill sharing that Urbaner is going to do with me.
With luck, I won't have to apply for student loans for at least 2 years and maybe not until I get into a post-grad program.
I might actually make a PA after all. Man....if that happens I will totally be living the dream.
All I need is the funding, and I can get that via the Air Force, in the form of tuition assistance for military spouses and as part of the GI Bill sharing that Urbaner is going to do with me.
With luck, I won't have to apply for student loans for at least 2 years and maybe not until I get into a post-grad program.
I might actually make a PA after all. Man....if that happens I will totally be living the dream.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Painting by numbers the NinjaMedic way
Step One:
1: Gather your materials, in this case a Gesso treated canvas, 3" and 2" brushes and a bottle each of red and yellow acrylic paint:
2: Add appropriate soundtrack. In this case it included the Beastie Boys, David Bowie, The Smiths, The Stranglers, The Clash, Dexy's Midnight Runners, The Pretenders, The Jam and Fun Boy Three:
3: Turn music on, apply paint to canvas with brush (or fingers if you want a more textured look). If it looks too thick, add a little water. Don't be afraid, some of the best art comes from being fearless. Groove for half an hour or so or until desired effect is achieved:
4: Leave alone and let it dry.
Tomorrow we'll discuss Step Two, again with pictorial directions.
1: Gather your materials, in this case a Gesso treated canvas, 3" and 2" brushes and a bottle each of red and yellow acrylic paint:
2: Add appropriate soundtrack. In this case it included the Beastie Boys, David Bowie, The Smiths, The Stranglers, The Clash, Dexy's Midnight Runners, The Pretenders, The Jam and Fun Boy Three:
3: Turn music on, apply paint to canvas with brush (or fingers if you want a more textured look). If it looks too thick, add a little water. Don't be afraid, some of the best art comes from being fearless. Groove for half an hour or so or until desired effect is achieved:
4: Leave alone and let it dry.
Tomorrow we'll discuss Step Two, again with pictorial directions.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Hey, Ambulance Driver....
....look what I found:
Yep. Chocolate with bacon:
Say the word, and a bar will be on it's way in your direction.
Everything's better with bacon, right?
Yep. Chocolate with bacon:
Say the word, and a bar will be on it's way in your direction.
Everything's better with bacon, right?
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