I hear you….can’t you hear me?

So many things I’ve yet to do, so many things I’ve yet to see….
Please don’t take them all away from me.

So you go into the hospital for an asthma attack.  They treat said asthma attack and want to keep you in for additional observation, breathing treatments, CT scans of your bad lungs, etc.

What you do NOT expect is when they tell you that you need a follow-up mammogram because you have a tumor in you left breast.

Yep.

Kinda kicks your ass right back into reality.  And I had so gotten used to living in my little fantasy realm.

So tomorrow, I go see a specialist who will squeeze my boob into oblivion and we’ll find out if Jen has one more trick to pull out of her magic hat.

My Bubba has suggested we name it Uma the Tuma.  My sister wants me to bronze it and use it as a paperweight.

You can see that my family has an odd sense of humor when tragedy happens.

My mother has told me not to panic, but with the way my luck runs…its just about run out.

Jeebus help me now.  I’m in need of a miracle and I don’t really think I am deserving of one.

But I’m asking, begging, pleading.  Just this once.

I am writing to you today from Room Observation 2-11.  The phone number here is 919-350-3751, if you have the inkling to talk to a looney.

Reason for this new visit to the hospital….well, I kinda think I missed the incredible moving bed.  (In reality, I hate this fucking bed.  It moves to help “those that cannot move on their own” from developing bedsores.)  I, of course, CAN move on my own and have managed to rearrange my room & entertain my own personal hospital staff that consists of 3 nurses, 3 pulmonary specialists, 1 respiratory therapist & some poor schmuck who brings me my food.

I’m quickly becoming sick of hospital food and think that may be the way to lose weight FAST.    Since I can’t workout in that old “Kate & me workout days” way back when, because since then I’ve managed to rupture a disk or two and I have the thyroid of a dead person, I’ve packed on the pounds even when I don’t eat.  I swear, fat flocks to me like sheep to Bo Peep.  But she lost her sheep, didn’t she?  Bad analogy.  But you get the jist.

For those of you that have never had the opportunity to have a blood gas test done…AVOID IT AT ALL COST, unless of course, you love pain.  Then I HIGHLY recommend it.  They get to draw blood from an ARTERY.  Which is TONS of fun if you happen to be the Marquis de Sade.  Otherwise, it hurts like the bejesus.  Then to top that off by having just your regular old run of the mill blood test done, ON THE SAME ARM within a span of, oh…say 5 minutes.  They payoffs are GREAT.

They’d better be giving me fabulous pain pills for this shit or I’m going to rip out someone’s jugular.

I have removed myself from the moving bed because I was getting sea-sick.  Now where was I?  Oh yeah….jugulars & shit.

Frankly, they don’t have the slightest clue as to what’s wrong with me.  I mean, I know what’s wrong with me…but that has to do with growing up with my mother as my sole parental unit & that’s a psych case I just don’t feel like delving into right now.  (Sorry Mom…but you did suck.)

They know I have asthma (as does 1/2 the freaking world by now since all air quality sucks in some form or another), they know I have OCD (that one is to blame SOLELY on Mom), I have Migraines (again Mom, but that’s genetics), I have TIA’s associated with said Migraines (not Mom entirely to blame, but hell…lets blame her anyway), I have reflux (which I can blame on my children, because before them…I never had that.  Ever.  So its their fault.)  But it is getting better since they removed my gallbladder on St. Patty’s Day when I should have been getting schnockered, and according to the Blood Gas Doctor guy, my blood is too acidic.  Or not acidic enough….I don’t know how to read the monitor, although he was very nice in showing me all my numbers & shit.  I do know that my O2 levels are spot on.

You know, I really miss the days of being young & thinking I was invincible.  And getting sick meant getting wasted on bad tequila (Kate…that was JUST for you!).  That once upon a time I was thin, I was cute, I was irresistible & I was funny as hell.  Sad to realize I’m just funny…and even then, not so much.

Time takes much more than it gives back.  It takes your youth & leaves you with wrinkles.  It takes your vitality & leaves you with teenagers who hate your guts because, “NO YOU CAN’T WEAR YOUR HAIR LIKE THAT & I DON’T CARE IF EVERYONE ELSE IS & DON’T ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME MISSY!!!”, thus turning you into your mother (which in my case SUCKS ASS, cause who in the hell wants to be like her?)  It takes your fun & turns them into memories…which one day you’ll forget & that’s just as sad…hell, even sadder cause you can’t remember shit.  So maybe (for some) it might be good.  But for folks like me who relish their memories…its going to be killer to one day not remember the time we all got drunk on tequila and had one hell of a party in my old apartment (then again…maybe I DO want to forget that one, huh?)

Being in the hospital surrounded by sick & dying people makes your soul sick.  Especially if you’ve had someone you love die in said hospital.  I know he’s here…somewhere, telling me to quick being so sad, don’t I have some stupid function for Hedingham I’m supposed to be planning, quit feeling sorry for myself & for the love of God, stop dying & start LIVING.

Its that last part I really have trouble with.

Wow, this is turning into one bummer of a post, huh?  Well, fuck that.  Lets get back to the lighter side of this.

I looked at all the pictures of this past weekend’s reunion/regatta and I’m so sorry I missed it.  Seeing my girls again brought smiles to my face that I had long thought had died.  You all look absolutely beautiful.  Kate, you glow with a radiance of none other.  Debbie, how I’ve missed that broad smile that on so many occasions brought a smile to my sour puss.  And Tina, did you make some deal with the Devil, cause shit woman…you look EXACTLY the same as you did when we were kids.  Shit.  I want your secret.  I promise, if they do it next year, I’ll be there…even if I’m at death’s door.  I’ll be there for one last hurrah.

Well, its late here in hospital time (yes, 6PM is late for us sickly folk).  So I’m going to pop in yet another LOTR movie and see if I can’t become even nerdier than I already am (bet some of you didn’t know I took a course in elvish, did you now?  Great…I’ve outed myself as THE biggest nerd in the bunch).

Until tomorrow…..I love you all, I miss you all & most of all I miss a bed that doesn’t move (well….when its NOT supposed to <insert very evil sexy laugh here>)

Kisses and hugs to those who know me & love me best. My friends.

XO,
Me AKA The Sick Person in Room 2-11

Do you know what a dance card is?

The dance card originated somewhere in the early 1800’s and was used by women during dances (balls, etc) and held the list of songs that were to be played that night by the orchestra.  The fair maiden would wear this card on her sleeve and it was up to the gentlemen attending that particular night’s dance to seek out his beauty fair, and sign his name by which song he would like to dance her to.

This was highly considered a popular form of courtship right up into the 1900’s but began to see a waning in popularity immediately following WWII.  Although you may still find some “Card Dances” here and there, this form of courtship has unfortunately gone the way of the dodo.

Now, a gentleman could sign his name to one particular maid’s card and fill it in completely, monopolizing her for the entire evening (this is where you get the phrase, “My dance card is full”).

Sometimes (especially during the USO dances during the war) a lady would turn in her dance card for a variety of reasons.  She wasn’t getting any takers, she had found her “Prince Charming” and wished to no longer dance with another or she was just simply tired and through.

This latter answer is the point of my post here today.

I think pneumonia is trying to kill me.  Either that or Dale and the kids have a “hit” out on my ass and have reduced themselves to biologicals, which we all know is dirty pool.  I wouldn’t put it past them….they’re sneaky little shits, the lot of them.

I’ve been through, God knows HOW many varieties of antibiotics in the past 4 months, tons of steroids, too many hospital visits and just when I think I’m in the clear…..I hear that old, familiar rattle in my chest this morning.  Ahhh….the soothing sounds of loose bolts rattling around in my lungs.  I’ll tell ya, there isn’t a more comforting feeling.

I’m at a point in my illnesses that seriously, I’d like to either get better or just die and get it over with.  Either will suffice, because frankly…I’m tired of fighting.

In addition to finances being UBER (and I use that term sternly) tight around here, my beloved pneumonia kept me from doing something I’ve wished a million times I could do since….around 1998.

Go to Miami ALONE and have FUN with my friends.

And thanks to pneumonia, I was able to miss out on something I will probably never be able to participate in again…unless they decide to do this again next year and my friends who came in from out of state decide to come back for their “REUNION…THE SEQUEL” (imagine some cheesy news station “storm watch” intro music here).

And it wasn’t just to visit with my friends.  I miss my parents (yes, even my mother, and if anyone TELLS her that I miss her…I will find you and I will kill you), I miss my sibs (even if my sister is both dating a tool and IS a tool), I  miss my grandmother, I miss my father (notice I left out the step-monster), I miss my old streets, miss my old neighborhood, miss the familiar sights and sounds that only The Springs and VG can provide.

My Great-Uncle Bob (who has since gone on to the great hereafter and man does that suck ’cause he was cool as all hell) used to tell me that I, “had the stuff the pioneers were made of, fire in your belly and strength in your bones”.  That I could conquer just about anything, handle any situation, fight any fight, climb every mountain…you get the jist.

But I’m beginning to realize I can’t anymore.  Even though my brain tells me I’m still “sexy & 17″ (gotta love The Stray Cats), my body more resembles an 80 year-old invalid, rather than the 37 year-old that I am, wracked and riddled with pain, overthrown by illness upon illness.  I sincerely think I take more meds than MY OWN 80 year-old grandmother.

I’m tired of being tired.  I’m sick of being sick.  I’m done with being angry.  I’m finished with it.  I’m through with having to deal.

Now off to choke down some more meds, lay in bed doing absolutely NOTHING (well…I am playing Harvest Moon) and wish that things would get better…for everyone in this house, city, state, country.

And just when you were wondering why I began my post with a lesson in history….

Here is my dance card.  I’m turning it in.

I don’t know about you all, but I’m already sick to death of this fucking recession/depression/economic downturn…whatever.  No matter how the news spins it, no matter how the President says it…NOTHING IS GETTING BETTER.

Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nein.  Zero.  Null.  Void.

I know, I know…I’ve listened to all of my grandmother’s depression stories and I’m sure you’ve heard your share…but shit, I DIDN’T have to go through it & I sure as hell don’t like this “thing” we’re in now.  Because, dammit, you’re fucking with my lifestyle.

And not just mine, mind you…but my children’s lifestyle as well.

I like being able to take them places & buy them the things they want (not EVERYTHING they want, because I don’t want to let loose on society 4 uber-indulged brats).  But now I can’t.

Hell, its even hard to head to Mickey D’s without cringing at the $28 we’ll spend to feed the entire clan.

And oh yeah…speaking of finances Mr. President…where is MY fucking bailout money?

Oh that’s right, us poor schmucks who do most of the working and living and spending and dying in this country, you’re completely failing.  All because we don’t have some fancy fucking acronym attached to our names.

Well I say we do it.  We can all pick a cool acronym to mean who we are & then we can get our bailout money too.  (I do know that with my bailout money, I plan to fly a private jet to Fiji where I will give each member of my company (family) a HUGE bonus check, just for being “there”).

But you gotta come up with a COOL one.  You know, like AIG, FMC, IRS, USA, CA, etc.

I’ve been pondering our acronym for a while.  And I think I like FED.  Fucked by the Economic Downturn.  (you really don’t have to use a conjunction or articles in your acronym)  So now…OK, I’ve got my “name”, I’m drowning in debt, there is no money coming in to this corporation….so….WHERE IS MY BAILOUT CHECK??

Its been 6 weeks now that Dale has been unemployed.  And its reached the point that we’re both at one another’s throat’s for just about any & everything.  We’ve applied for food stamps, I got assistance on the light bill yesterday & I am also trying to look for a job, which is funny in itself since I really can’t sit for longer than 20 minutes at a time, to which I can’t stand for more than 20 minutes at  time, I can’t lift anything, I have the immune system of a newborn, I am racked with pain at every given moment of the day & oh yeah…lets not forget the whole “brain seizure” thing.

So I don’t know how well I’m going to do with a job.  I know that I am planning on going to see the Dr. to try & get put on disability, since I’m a walking catastrophe.

I’m now worried about Dale.  He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, snaps at everyone, and lately is prone to making lovely holes in the wall (but really…that was my fault for being an uber-bitch).  I know he feels completely helpless and I nor the kids are any help in that department.  So for now…I’m trying to ignore him & just let him be.

I’m doing the Rosary every day & trying to do a St. Jude novena (bet ya’ll didn’t know I was Catholic too, huh?).  I hope it’ll have a positive outcome.

But with the way our luck runs…I’m not going to hold my breath.

And this day was just like all the others since his passing.  But today…I missed him just a whole smidge more.

There were no faux-angry directives thrown in my direction, there were no “have you done this, have you done that?”, there were no glances back to see him beaming as I went about doing the job that I really am pretty good at doing. There was just an empty chair where he should have been.

And today, my heart broke just that much more.

Granted I have both my knights in shining armour (Louis & Dale) to defend my honor, but The Boss, he would have walked through fire for me.

And today I needed that.  And what I got was a lot of the old “let bygones be bygones”.  He wouldn’t have accepted that.

For the greater part of the last 3 years, we have waged a war on a particular someone (who from this point will be known as He Who Shall Remain Nameless) who threw the first of many verbal blows in both our directions.  There was no love lost between The Boss & HWSRN.  But when things became most personal between HWSRN & myself…The Boss made sure that he wouldn’t stand for any of his bullshit & called him on it SEVERAL times.

Anywho…today was my very first event without The Boss.  And it didn’t go right (even though…I know he was there in spirit), and it didn’t go smooth and it didn’t got off without a hitch.  But it was still a good event.

Then HWSRN shows up.  Now granted, this man (and I use that term loosely) has never before shown up to an event I’ve planned with The Boss before.  But I guess, now that he’s dead…all bets are off.

I overheard him speaking to someone about “time to bury the hatchet”.  Yeah…I’d like to bury a hatchet in his skull.  He then proceeded to attempt to take over MY event with his photo taking & name taking, so he can spend his billions of dollars on a substandard website & a self-serving newsletter.

And when I expressed my sadness and anger over both being left alone by The Boss and trying to be overthrown by HWSRN, I was brushed off with a “well you know…some things have to come to an end and its time we stop this nonsense”.

It wasn’t nonsense.  It was personal.  And to quote one of my favorite scenes from 1998’s You’ve Got Mail:

Joe Fox: It wasn’t… personal.
Kathleen Kelly: What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s *personal* to a lot of people. And what’s so wrong with being personal, anyway?
Joe Fox: Uh, nothing.
Kathleen Kelly: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.

And to quote my Boss, “Every dog has his day.  Some dogs get two.”

Here’s to you, Dad.  I miss you more than you could possibly know and I’m glad you were only looking over my shoulder today, instead of yelling over it.

(But secretly…I missed the yelling)

I love you.

Sleep has evaded me for years.

This is because I’m a mom.  And we’re not allowed to sleep deeply enough to ignore an atomic blast going off in the next room.  We have to be at the ready, at any moment for puking, fevers, nightmares, bad thunderstorms or boogeymen.

But I’m also an insomniac.  So aside from not being able to get GOOD sleep (even from a mother’s perspective) I can’t sleep if Thor himself knocked me unconscious with his hammer.

When I was in the hospital, they gave me nice heavy drugs for pain periodically.  And they swore they’d make me sleep.  Well, they didn’t.  They made me drowsy, but I’d never sleep for more than a few seconds at a time.

Now day before yesterday, I was again on one of my marathon I-can’t-sleep-for-shit-no-matter-how-many-diazapam-tabs-I-take-even-though-taking-that-much-makes-me-feel-like-an-addict sleepless nights.  It was night #3.  By now (its only taken me YEARS) I’d had it.  I called into my MD and told her that if she didn’t give me SOMETHING to MAKE me sleep like the dead, I would be in a matter of moments.

She called in Flexeril, which as you all know is a muscle relaxant.  And one doozie of a sleeping pill.  I am to take TWO to sleep.

I slept 15 hours yesterday.

Granted, they were the weirdest 15 hours of sleep I think I’ve ever gotten.

DC says I talked nonsense in my sleep.  TOTAL nonsense.  Professors, papers, kids, movies, etc.  I was rambling all over the place.

After talking to my MD on the phone about my lack of sleep, she asked me a few questions:

“I know you have OCD, but what happens at night?”
“You mean, do I keep obsessing while I’m falling asleep?”
“Yes”
“Well, yes”
“Does anyone in your family have sleep apnea?”
“My Daddy does, he has one of those machines….”
“But he doesn’t use it, right?”
“Right”
“Does he have alot of anxiety & stuff like that”
“Oh YEAH!!  Worse than my mother.  He’s always worrying about junk”
“Hmmmm….”
“What’s on your noggin, Doc?”
“I’m sending you to the sleep study anyhow, but I don’t think you OR your father have sleep apnea”
“And you know this how?”
“I think you both might suffer from severe sleep disorder.  But we’ll talk about that when you get back in the office next week, OK”
“Oh, OK.”
“And I’ll call in Flexeril.  That’ll make you sleep”

I forget what she called it, but now there’s something new wrong with Jen (and Daddy as it seems!) but it IS treatable ad thanks be to Jeebus that my MD knows TONS about sleeping disorders.    She’s good like that.

Well anywhos, I also visited the Wake Neuro & Sleep center yesterday to do an intake to see if I have any form of sleep apnea or whatever. The sleep doctor.  Dr. Jag.  He thinks that my migraines, moods & all my other junk is because I can’t sleep well at night.

Well…DUH!  (With exception to the migraines…those I’ve had for eons BEFORE I had sleeping trouble)  I fully believe all my other problems stem from my lack of sleep.

So I have a sleep study scheduled in 2 weeks.

And I’m sure its only to tell them that there is nothing wrong with me, to quit my bitching & buy a new mattress.

My life…this is how it always works out.  Big problem for me, little fix for them.

Anywho, its Good Friday.  Which means Stations of the Cross at Noon & then shopping at Sam’s for tomorrow’s Easter Event at the Clubhouse, where my bro, Lou will play the EB once again.  But this is our first foray into an event without Dad.

Its going to suck, my heart will be heavy & the work will be monotonous.  But the kids will have fun, the parents will appreciate it and I will have done the job he always asked me to do…

A wonderful one.

You know…this is getting to be a little ridiculous.

Round #3 of pneumonia sucks.  The doctors have no idea what is wrong or why I keep getting this.  But we’re on NEW antibiotics to see if we can’t knock this shit out.  Cause the other one was making me worse….sounds just like me to reject something that will ultimately make me better, right?

I’ll tell ya..it sucks.  Royally.

Breathing gets taken for granted when you can’t take a good, one of those…life is wonderful, deep breaths.  I can’t do that.  I can barely get a breath without hacking up a lung.

And don’t worry…I’m not contagious.

But here I sit.  2:40AM, trying to figure out AP Biology for my brother.  Shit…its hard as hell.  I have NO CLUE what I’m doing, bro.  But I am trying.  What the hell am I supposed to fill in on this crap???

Anywho…just thought I’d keep you posted on what I’m doing, with my bad day.

PS – I miss my boss, my friend, my father.  God, this sucks.

One of my parents is in deep shit.  I mean seriously.  Which one of them idiots forgot to keep paying on my extended warranty?  Cause the offending parent is getting a swift kick in the ass.  HARD.

I just returned home from the doctors thinking that, “hey…I’ve just got a bad chest cold.”

WRONG-O!

I’m now on my 3rd bout of pneumonia.  Don’t people die from this shit?  I mean seriously?  And who in the world did I piss off to have such a suck-ass year healthwise? 

They have me on some new ’script.  Close to levoquid (which is an IV biotic) and another round of them yummy prednisone tabs.

Life sure is grand, ain’t it.

And in all seriousness…if I get one more bout…they’re going to put me in ICU.  Talk about your buzzkill.

I wonder if I can play Rock Band from a negative pressure room??