07 August 2013

The Mystery of Calcification

gray wolf sleeping in snow"A late diagnosis can result in more serious, long-term consequences." -- Olympia Snowe
Time for my annual pilgrimage to Houston to see my beloved Dr. Ross, the man who saved my life.  I won't be seeing the beloved Dr. Kronowitz, although I wish I were.  I learned about a month ago that he lost his wife to breast cancer this year.  They have a young daughter and a tiny daughter, born a couple of years ago.  Every time i think of it, I'm heartsick.
On my last trip, the breast made of my stomach tissue was fine.  The other breast, though healthy, had changed since my last visit.  Just some minor calcification.  That word has become terrifying to me.  On Friday, I'm having a cardiolite test.  A couple of weeks ago, my cardiologist ordered a CT scan of my heart.  Because they found calcification, I will now have yet another test.  This time, they're inject radio isotopes into my veins and watch it travel into my heart to determine whether I'm getting enough blood there.  Excellent.  More radiation.  Any day now, I'll no doubt find that I'm growing another arm out of my butt or some other equally inconvenient place.  Of course, there's also the old glowing in the dark joke.  
I'm not afraid of my heart.  I'm terrified about my breast.  My position remains that I won't endure another round of chemo.  I can't.  So what does that leave me with if something goes wrong?  I wonder which would be more painful--the chemo or dying.  I know chemo and I know what horrors lay in store for me.  Dying?  Not afraid.  I'd just rather not leave my loved ones alone.  But chemo...I don't see it.
Given all of this, I'm stuck once again (just as I am every year) enduring small bouts of terror.  Next week is a long time to venture small forays into panic.  But there you have it.  Excuse me now, while I have a flashback.

14 July 2010

Where am I now?

New place, same crazy.  I was officially removed from Crazy Land two days before Christmas a year ago.  I left with a whopping $2k severance pay and that, my friends, is it.  Furthermore, I had to endure over six hours of Owner delivering the news. Yes, by that time, I was more than ready to go. 

Now I'm with the State.  Craziness in a new form.  Perfect examples:
We're an entrepreneurial organization.  (Yes, I work for the State.  Don't ask.)
Unable to meet your performance standards?  I think you signed the document when you were hired, right?  Well then, you agreed to me.

That's the way we've always done it.  (See entrepreneurial comment above.)

As I said before, things can always get worse.

just checking

Are we still publishing?

10 December 2008

Psychological Waterboarding

Panic off. Instead of relying on rumors, Owner has turned up some reliable sources regarding the financial health of our clients.

That noise you hear is me laughing insanely and beating my head against the wall.

I won't get fooled again. No matter what the annual salary hit I'll take, I've had enough. In the meantime, cackle cackle whack whack.

09 December 2008

Poison Pen Letter

Owner is back from his sick bed and maniacally focused on sending the business into the proverbial trash can.

Today, I'm angry. Golf Pro and his father, a stockholder, are planning to suck up one of the clients the Pro has carefully cultivated over the years by neglecting. By the way, this is Pro's only client and one that existed prior to his employment. Pro foolishly believes this one client will provide him with the exorbitant lifestyle he's come to wallow in. In the words of Bob Dylan, it's a hard rain gonna fall.

Mr. Moneybags will no longer command his 6-figure income, nor will he have Crazy Land to purchase his vehicle. Owner is completely incapable of getting a job. Once we shut Crazy Land down, collecting outstanding debt will become vexing. However, Land's debtors will inside on being paid. Where will all the money come from to support Owner's grown children, his massive credit card debt and to support his own lavish lifestyle?

I'm at least realistic about the changes Crazy Land's demise will have on my life. I have not grown accustomed to unrealistic pay rates. (See previous post.) I have breast cancer. Money is not my highest priority.

I'm angry about injustice, I'm angry about stupidity and greed. Relentless impending doom, when it's not yet warranted, irritates me.

By all means, shut it down. Let's all try to find our way. Before the end, though, several people will need to clear their schedules for a final interview with Ggirl. You cannot imagine the fear and trembling that can evoke.

04 December 2008

I'm Not Home Yet


I threw away my prosthesis Monday night and moved my wigs off of my dresser. I don't know why it's taken so long, nor do I know why there are still things I can't look at and can't get rid of.

I have several tote bags in my bedroom that I've used in the 3 years I've shuttled back and forth between here and M.D. Anderson. They're filled with insurance forms, bills, magazines, puzzle books...the stuff that accumulates while you wait. Waiting is an art in which I've become well versed.

I can't make myself go through it. I try now and then, but that chemo nausea returns like a ghost to remind me of how bad it's been.

I also carry a small notebook with me that includes, among other things, several pages detailing the physical reactions I had to chemotherapy. I agreed to participate in a study that required I keep track. I can't tear those pages out.

I remind myself that I've been through a lot. I got rid of the prosthesis, I moved my wigs. It's a journey of reconciliation. I'm not home yet.

03 December 2008

Rules For Living In Crazy Land

Rule Number One for Living in Crazy Land: Let go of ego and resentment.

Rule Number Two: Remember that everyone here is suffering because of their own inability to let go of ego.

There's no need for anger or fantasies of sabotage. That self-indulgence merely leads me farther down the road into the Crazy Land wilderness where dysfunction flourishes. I don't do dysfunctional. I guess that would be Rule Number Three.

When I'm grounded in reality, I'm always free to offer compassion. And to be entertained.

01 December 2008

Jingling Bling

Thanksgiving being (thankfully) over, the Festal Pig has returned to plague Crazy Land with jingly bling.

We have a minimal staff today--Golf Pro (wonder of wonders!), Mr. Moneybags, The Information Superhighway, IT Boy, Moneybags' daughter, Morose Owner and, of course, yours truly, the Festal Pig. Were it not for the constant jingle jingle of my bracelet, Crazy Land would be utterly grim.

Though it gave renewed temporary hope to Owner, virtually all of our citizens have accepted the inevitable demise of Crazy Land. Owner, the Founder and Caretaker of Crazy Land, is determined to see the company crumble. As far as he's concerned, it already has. His pessimism is living proof to the theory of self-fulfilling prophecy. Owner is depressed and gloomy. He's already destitute. The worst has already happened.

On the Pig front, I recently gained starling new information regarding salaries here and it's given me new impetus to seek a new, more fulfilling Crazy Land. Yes, boys and girls, it's out there. I will most assuredly find it and settle into a new, dysfunctional country of ego maniacs and eccentrics.

It turns out that Golf Pro isn't the only one who's raking in the cash. Looks like I'm last in line for the gravy train. If we weren't already halfway under water, I might be tempted to sabotage my victories in developing a more efficient analytical database. Mr. Moneybags would have to revisit the cost of building a new version. Reality can be a cruel and pricey teacher. We're two steps into the quicksand, though, and I'm not sure it's worth the trouble required to commit software vandalism.

I console myself with the knowledge that job offers for the wildly overpaid with similar big bucks will be mighty slim. I know none of these comforting thoughts falls into the holiday spirit mode. I make up for it in jingle, though. If my jingly bling irritates my fellow workers, all the better.

Jingle jingle, you buttwads.