This is the first video I've posted on my channel since HALLOWEEN. Some sort of a record. I just did it on impulse, and so it would NOT be controversial in any way. I even worried about how I slurred on "flock", thinking the algorithm would hear another word. It's mysterious, because I cannot believe I did not post anything in four months.
I decided not to edit it, just get it up there to see if I could still post. Strangely enough, that "warning" notice isn't there any more, and the format for the studio is different now. I have probably a few hundred of videos, most of which I probably won't post, but I sure won't run out either.
So, does this balance out the way I feel now? We'll see. So far it has seemed like 3 steps forward, four steps back. The progress I've made can be easily undone. It will be a while 'til I am able to actually get out and birdwatch, so this will have to do.
Bogey and Bette. Like faithful friends, they just keep coming around.
I spent a Jesusly long time, weeks, practically fastened to a chair, laid out like I was in a sarcophagus of heated blankets and squashy pillows. And I watched movies, and movies, and movies, until I was right sick of it. Even my favorites on Turner Classics wore thin after a while, or just weren't as great as I used to think.
It's only now I'm crawling out into the light, more or less, with plenty of backsteps. My newly-reorganized digestive works are still trying to make the adjustment, but I was glad to see I don't need to see the doc until March 6. I want to blow the whole thing off, as she is glib and superficial and self-interested enough to let me do just that. NEXT!!!
I have never been sick before, at least not like this, and it was an ordeal greater than anything I have endured (up to now). I believe, though no one ever spelled it out for me, that I nearly died twice. The hospitalization of 2 days went on, and on, and on, for nearly 2 weeks. It's one long surreal nightmare, but I am slowly putting distance between myself and the horrors. The mental recovery has been the worst. Slowly, bit by painful bit, I am getting my life back, but it is anything but a straight line.
And I will admit, or just state, that I've been using THC oil judiciously, and it IS actually stimulating my appetite. I lost a good 8 pounds after returning home, and though I'm not exactly a bag of bones, it's weird for me how I have had to reverse everything I've ever done (or thought of doing) with food
All my life, and I mean ALL my life, I have counted calories and felt stabs of guilt if I indulged too much in anything. Now I must flip this on its head and INCREASE my calories, or I will end up sicker, weaker, and more prone to further medical collapse. I can't afford this, but I cannot tell you how impossible it is to eat anything at all when you are either nauseated, or just have zero appetite. All the way through this, there has been a great deal of finger-wagging because "you're not eating!". From nurses, from doctors, even from my family. But the greyish-green plastic trays of steamed slop they call food often made me literally retch, and that's without even tasting it. Prison food would be better.
I wasn't going to go back there. But a scar is a scar. I suppose if I have another one of these, it will likely kill me, or leave me so disabled and dwindled that I won't want t live any more.
Had it not been for the visits from my delightful grandkids, I would have succumbed to despair. I know this, because I was suicidal for weeks. I just was, often leading to MUCH more and more brisk finger-wagging: "How can you do this to your family?" - meaning, MY loss wouldn't really matter too much anyway. Or it sure seems that way.
I don't think anyone reads this blog any more, but I do it for me, and so that I can look up things I posted years ago. And the comments, which I do get, are always on really old ones. I won't try to figure out how they found them, or why.
So I have to get on with my day, which is (very) gradually approaching my old life, the one I love so much, basically because it is MINE and no one dares to take it away.
Black rider, black rider, you've been living too hard Been up all night, have to stay on your guard The path that you're walking, too narrow to walk Every step of the way, another stumbling block The road that you're on, same road that you know Just not the same as it was a minute ago
Black rider, black rider, you've seen it all You've seen the great world and you've seen the small You fell into the fire and you're eating the flame Better seal up your lips if you wanna stay in the game Be reasonable, mister, be honest, be fair Let all of your earthly thoughts be a prayer
Black rider, black rider, all dressed in black I'm walking away, you try to make me look back My heart is at rest, I'd like to keep it that way I don't wanna fight, at least not today Go home to your wife, stop visiting mine One of these days, I'll forget to be kind
Black rider, black rider, tell me when, tell me how If there ever was a time, then let it be now Let me go through, open the door My soul is distressed, my mind is at war Don't hug me, don't flatter me, don't turn on the charm I'll take a sword and hack off your arm
Black rider, black rider, hold it right there The size of your cock will get you nowhere I'll suffer in silence, I'll not make a sound Maybe I'll take the high moral ground Some enchanted evening, I'll sing you a song Black rider, black rider, you've been on the job too long
I promise (sort of) that I will get back to posting when I can. The surgery was utterly brutal and went so wrong, a 2-day hospital say stretched to nearly 2 weeks. It has been a long haul, and will probably be longer.
Well, so. I guess I'm OK, but in less than a week I have to have major surgery, and it has thrown me just a teeny tiny bit. Talk about having your world turned upside-down and shaken like an existential Etch-a-Sketch (oh, what a lovely phrase!) Or am I panning for gold? More like panning for deposits in the cat's litterbox.
Today I put up a 2025 calendar and realized it was one of those free ones from a charity, the Canadian Cancer Society. It gave me pause - is this lucky, unlucky, tempting the gods, etc.? Then I decided, hell, it was free and I hate buying calendars, and besides, this is an outfit geared towards ever-more-effective treatments. I hope. So it went up.
Yesterday was a misadventure, but it turned out OK after all. I have had to scribble down a ton of information due to surprise phone calls, extremely important dates, times and locations for the huge number of tests and preps I need to keep track of before I get mutilated forever. They only go over it once, fast, and you'd better be ready for it with a pen and paper, right now, because you have one shot at it, and as usual there is no way to confirm it afterwards. Not that it's stressful or anything.
One of the most bizarre ones came on Christmas Day, during one of those ultra-rare times when I have my whole family together. Christmas Day. Right! So I scribbled the info down on a sticky note (which is how I organize my world, forget about phones, I hardly ever use one) and stuck it on my calendar. They told me I had to have a CT scan on New Years Eve, which is about as festive as my holiday season got this year.
Yesterday was the day we were supposed to go to (I thought) Eagle Ridge hospital (a 15-minute drive) for the CT scan, and when we got there we were told we had the wrong hospital, it was at Royal Columbian in New Westminster (a horrible old hospital attached to the worst memories of my life, which I can't even go into here because it made facing possibly terminal cancer look like a bloody day at the beach). The receptionist kindly rebooked me for 45 minutes later, and we got there just in time. It being New Years Eve, there was no waiting at all, and the procedure was incredibly fast, so it all worked out after all, but I did NOT need the stress it caused. As it turned out, I did have the information from Christmas Day written down correctly, but was so confused by all the other stuff crowding in on me that I just got it wrong.
Tomorrow is a horrendous day, with all sorts of stuff I have to do, end-to-end for the entire day, cardio, blood tests, other things too bizarre and intimidating to even mention, with no appointments or requisitions or anything, and it's damn hard to get straight information out of anyone. They always start screaming at me to "calm down, calm down!!" It's OK for THEM to be agitated, of course (because they hold all the power and I am just a peon), but never me, oh no, never me. What have I got to be upset about? Aren't I grateful for all this excellent care? What is wrong with me?
I loathe dealing with the medical system at the best of times, and this is NOT the best of times, in fact, it might turn out to be the worst outcome I can think of. I hope not, and I do try to focus on things I want to do after my recovery (particularly, just going out and doing my birdwatching again - it really doesn't take much to make me happy, but to have these few simple things withdrawn from my life is truly miserable, and it's worse to think I may never be able to enjoy those simple pleasures again).
In truth, I have no idea what will happen. Part of me is convinced there's nothing wrong in there after all, and this has all been a big mistake. They'll gut me for no good reason, and I will be immobilized and in unrelenting pain for the rest of my life (with no relief whatsoever, of course! And asking for pain meds automatically makes you an addict trying to cadge drugs for your own partying purposes, or just a thief, and, in any case, obviously weak. Pull your socks up, dear, and stop complaining, NOW.)
My reaction to all this has shocked me somewhat due to all the anger I feel, about so many things. And of course it's bad mojo to say all this, or even think it or consider it, at the start of a fresh new year, unspoiled by catastrophe (so far - it's only 11:30 a.m.). But I do remember being all pleased at the start of 2020, such a symmetrical, lovely-looking date for someone who used to pay some attention to things like numerology (which, thank God, I outgrew years ago, along with palmistry, astrology and Christianity, the worst con of all). And look how THAT turned out.
And of course, all those Nostradamus types are now insisting they KNEW 2020 would be a hellish year, in spite of initially painting it as God's gift to mankind and the luckiest year in human history.
I can't say, but I have to say, and this is my blog so I WILL say, but really, no one is reading it anyway or has any interest whatsoever. I write this because I need to write it. I keep seeing those last few grains of sand trickling through the hourglass. Can I turn it upside-down again? Well, isn't my life upside-down to begin with?
