Delicate Balance

Another day of uselessness. Don't think that I'm unaware of what's really going on. It takes a tremendous amount of mental energy to manage that delicate balance between terror and quasi-serenity. The only defense against emotional turbulence and obsessive worry is dedication to minimal synapse firing. In short, I don't work. On the other hand, I haven't had to visit the Ggirl Crying Building in the past couple of days. If I don't accomplish anything other than that, I've already done more than the majority of my co-workers do in a week.

I spend a lot of time fantasizing about my oncology surgeon. It is so not about how he looks. The men (or boys, really) I dated before I met my husband were all good looking, as is Hubby. I was exactly that shallow. On the other hand, if they couldn't keep up intellectually, they were banished in short order. I didn't care much for emotional accessibility, either. As a matter of fact, expecting me to be loving and open counted as a serious liability. Hubby is the only man with whom I've ever been truly vulnerable.

Back to the object of my desire. He's middle-aged, a little paunchy, seriously balding and he wears very thick glasses. I look around and see men every day who are far more attractive, but arouse absolutely no libidinal interest. It's that ineffable something. It's sexual attraction that arises from a primitive part of my brain. Maybe it's those expensive, heavily starched white shirts. (Although I see a lot of those around, too.) Or maybe it's the profound intimacy that develops when someone cuts off one of your breasts and calls you sweetheart, anyway.

My need to fuel this harmless obsession has resulted in some unpleasant consequences. I googled him, of course. (Of course!) Unfortunately, it led me to an article he published a couple of years ago in a medical journal. It impressed on me the seriousness of my illness. I hate it when I come across things that clarify the dangerous extent of my breast cancer.

A couple of weeks ago, I was editing some old entries from when I was first diagnosed. I thought I'd share them with Hubby, since my online friends are the only people who've ever been privy to the daily grind of that period in my life. The unvarnished truth can be emotionally devastating for loved ones. Hubby already seemed very fragile; helping him get through it would have forced me to really confront my situation. It would also have depleted my own energy reserves critical to survival. (See synapse management above.)

Now, I'd like to offer him the best of my literary self in addition to authenticity. In editing those posts, it became clear I'd forgotten the things my surgeon told me after the sentinel lymph node biopsy. It took my breath away. I have a truly world class ability to deny reality when it's too harrowing.

I try to put those things out of my mind, though. I get right back to obsessing about my surgeon. I know what's important. It's that delicate balance that must be preserved. If he's the necessary vehicle for that, I'll step into it wholeheartedly. I just need to be careful about knowing too much about exactly what he does.

Maybe if I Yahoo him, I'll be able to entertain myself for the rest of my work day. If not, I'll have to simply imagine the beauty of what lays beneath his starched white shirt.

Non-Binding Peace Accord Reached

I've been completely useless this week. The only thing remotely productive I've done at work was yesterday's conversation with Loathsome. That pretty much speaks for itself.

On the non-productive Crazy Land front, I've had several early morning chats with the Shunner. We've signed a non-binding peace accord and relations have been almost completely normalized. I should be dispatched to solve the Middle East problem; I'd have them talking amiably in two weeks or less. They still might not like each other, but they'd be discussing critical things like home grown tomatoes and soldering tools almost immediately.

Those are the kinds of warm, bonding experiences the Shunner and I have been sharing. He grows organic vegetables for his personal consumption and was kind enough to bring some to Crazy Land. He suggested I partake and I took him up on that offer without hesitation. Therein lay the seeds of the new relationship.

Then the Shunner shared with me his frustration with a soldering tool he used this week in an attempt to repair his beloved riding lawnmower. He has three acres of land on the verge of town and nothing pleases him more than loading up with a beverage, putting on the mp3 player headphones and mowing the hell out of the place.

A couple of belts broke on the mower on Tuesday and, stranded in the middle of the three verdant acres, he "was devastated," he told me. Humor never fails to soften my heart.

The Shunner, being an enterprising guy, got his handy 15 year old soldering tool to replace some wires that got thrown about the lawn when the Kevlar belts broke. (We're talking high-end mower here.) From what I can tell, it's like a self-adjusting heating iron. It heats up to a certain temperature, shuts itself down to cool, then heats up again. I guess one of the advantages here is that sparks don't fly up and cause unsightly burn marks on the user. There's probably some other highly technical reason, but I have no idea what it might be.

Not a patient man, the Shunner, after about 30 minutes of trying fruitlessly to solder the wires together, threw the entire thing into one of his pecan trees. His wife came out to find out if she could help and arrived at just the moment the ancient tool hit a branch. Without a word, she turned around, went back to their backyard deck and resumed reading a book. When the Shunner has reached his emotional limit, you don't want to give him an opportunity to vent. Not that the Shunner has any control over Brenda at all; she will kick his butt without a moment's hesitation. Sometimes it's just too much trouble.

Finally, we dissected the sad state of affairs the weather has wreaked on this area. It's been raining for weeks now with no reprieve in sight. May is the beginning of our usual drought season, so we're all delighted to have an abundance of water, but folks are having to be rescued on a daily basis from the roofs of their houses.

We've had so much rapid development in the past several years that the historical problem of run-off in this area has gotten much worse. Even though we regularly experience long-term drought conditions, we have our own brief spring rainy season. Every year, people are warned not to drive through moving water if it's more than an inch high. If you can't judge how high it is, you should just turn around and go back the way you came. Every year, during heavy rain periods, foolhardy souls fail to heed these warnings and are swept down torrents of fast-moving water. Many of them die.

You can see that the Shunner and I have our conversational hands full with all of this weather-related activity going on.

I'd love to share more with you, but I've managed to kill another day without accomplishing a damn thing. Must be time to go home and regale the family with Crazy Land tales. You'll just have to wait for what promises to be another unproductive day tomorrow.

Loathsome Needs His Receipts, Bitch

Oh jesus. Loathsome is in the office today and we've already been unable to prevent him from coming upstairs. Right off the bat.

I was on my way to Owner's office when I saw him standing in the Information Superhighway's office, forcing Money Man to look for something. (Information Superhighway is out for a couple of weeks.) I took some pleasure in noting Loathsome was already infuriating Money Man. I could see him clenching his teeth, presumably in an effort to keep his head from exploding.

I weighed the odds of being able to make it to Owner's office and back without Loathsome noticing. They weren't good, as always, it was too late to retreat. Sure enough, Loathsome turned around before I could escape into Owner's inner sanctum. I flashed him a smile and said, "Loathsome! How's life?" I gave him the thumbs-up sign as I kept walking. That should have made it abundantly clear that I don't give a rat's ass how he is, but we're talking about Loathsome here.

After I was back in my office for a couple of minutes, I thought I heard a faint voice coming from Crazy Employee's office saying, "Ggirl. Ggirl." For a second I thought I had lost my mind. I'm relentlessly optimistic. Of course it was Loathsome. Who else would believe it better to mumble my name from the other side of a closed door than to actually knock?

I girded my mental loins and told him to come in.

He asked, "Are you in the loop for paper receipts?"

Now he knows damn well I'm not in that "loop." I'm so far out of it that I had to pause for a minute to figure out what the hell he was talking about. At least he's consistent. I'm immediately baffled every time he opens his mouth. That's just part of his charm.

"No. That would be Crazy Employee. She's not here today," I told him.

He stood in my doorway and explained to me in excruciating detail why he needed some specific receipts immediately.

"She's not here today." Just in case I hadn't made it clear the first time and he hadn't noticed Crazy wasn't wandering around the office, whining. If she's here, that's what she's doing. Well, unless she's futilely attempting to create problems between Owner and me. Either way, Loathsome should have noted we're missing that special something Crazy Employee brings to the office.

Loathsome explained his customer really wanted those receipts and they'd been requesting them for a couple of days. Tough shit, Bud, I guess you should have gotten them a couple of days ago. Besides, I believe we addressed that, possibly more than once.

"Well, can't help you. Crazy will be back tomorrow, though." Maybe if I just wrote it down with a Sharpie on a piece of paper, climbed up on my desk and held it up over my head like that famous scene in "Norma Rae," I could get him the hell out of my doorway.

Three times is never enough with Loathsome. Yes, we went through it again. He seemed to finally comprehend, but didn't budge an inch. I know I always have to stroke his ego one way or another. Call me stubborn. I just don't wish to do it. Ever. So I hold out and, eventually, give in because I know he'll still be standing there at 5:00 o'clock if I don't just get it over with. Oh fuck.

"How's the back? And the wrists? And the ankles?" I hoped to get him to sum everything up for me so I wouldn't be nodding and smiling for the next 45 minutes. Dream on. He told me. It's all bad. Loathsome is a trooper, though, and hangs tough for our collective benefit.

"Yeah. I'm in pain every day, too. You know, I've had so many surgeries." I just said that because I know it irritates him to think about anyone other than Loathsome. I have to get something out of this, you know. That seemed to register briefly on his slack-jawed face.

"I really need those receipts." Back to me, bitch.

It was about as gracious an exit line as you're ever going to get from Loathsome. He had accomplished his objectives--bother the hell out of me, impress upon me the importance of his job, astound me with his capacity for endurance and, finally, to feign interest in someone else.

"I guess you're just going to have to call Crazy Employee on her cellphone."

I'd also accomplished my objective. I smiled at him as I got up, smiled sweetly and closed my door.

It's going to be a long 12 weeks.

What Book Are You?

You're Love in the Time of Cholera!

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by
sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give
consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the
one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions
barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff
could get you killed.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

All Shall Be Well

Today I planned to get around to checking in with all of my online blogging friends. I always miss sharing in their daily lives when I have to be gone--usually because of a trip to deal with cancer in one way or another. I may not get around to that, after all.

I'm crying now. In my office. At the mercy of anyone in Crazy Land who happens to knock on my door. I do not wish for them to see me cry. It's too personal to explain and there is no consolation to be found. Certainly not here, anyway. Actually, I'd love to explain it to myself, but crying is only crying. No explanation necessary.

It feels so silly to be afraid. Is there something wrong in the new girl? Probably not. My mom thinks everything is okay. I should just banish the fear and rest in the thought that most likely all is well. Right? I'm almost certain everything is fine. Why would I choose to believe otherwise?

On the other hand, having once been overly optimistic, it's well nigh impossible to exorcise that anxiety gnawing around the edges of my consciousness. Two summers ago, I thought we were just going to have a look around, maybe remove a benign tumor and get on with things. Then I believed Dr. Ross would perform a little lumpectomy or a big lumpectomy and I'd go on my merry way. Obviously, that didn't happen.

Money Man's daughter poked her head in my office a while ago and, though I tried to pull myself together, I'm a messy crier. My eyes get puffy immediately and my nose turns red. Very, very attractive, I assure you. That's when I decided to take a little trip next door and get over myself. At least there I could cry noisily if it came to that. It did. But I'm back now.

A few seconds ago, Crazy Employee, who engaged in some egregious back-stabbing behavior last week, knocked on my door and made some ridiculous excuse for entering my office. If I wanted chocolate donuts, bitch, I would go to the receptionist's desk to get them. I do not wish to share anything with her. I'm insulted that she would think otherwise.

In what's come to be the Official GGirl Crying Building, there is an abandoned plant. I've been trying to get someone to take care of it for a long time and now it's dying. That touched off another round of crying and, as I sit here, tears are welling up again. Goddamn it. I'm going to try to find a way to get some water to the poor thing and, in the meantime, I slanted the blinds so it could get more light. I just need to find a big enough container to take some water to it; it's a very large plant and needs more than a cupful or so.

Back to the matter at hand, be afraid or not? Maybe I don't have any choice and I should just go with whatever the moment brings. Oh yeah. That was supposed to be one of those lessons I learned from having breast cancer. Being in the moment is being completely alive.

I tell everyone that I wish to live until I die. When I'm sitting on the floor next door, crying about a dying plant, that is exactly living until I die. Yesterday I was reminded of a quote from a Medieval mystic named Julian of Norwich. "All things shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well." They shall.

In the meantime, I may be vying for the office nickname, "Crazy Employee." I'll have to think of a new name for her, though. The possibilities are endless. I'm officially taking suggestions, but I have dibs on "Back-stabbing Bitch." I'll get back to debating fear later. I've got my priorities straight, you know, because all things most certainly shall be well.

Awesome

On Saturday, when I went to my local Walgreens to pick up a prescription, I was waited on by a young Pharmacy Technician. I've never quite understood what specific skills are necessary for that job other than the ability to talk (to pharmacists and customers), the ability to alphabetize (the prescription bags) and the ability to run the computer/cash register. On the face of it, that seems easy enough.

I've engaged in transactions with this tech before and all has always gone well. That's saying a lot because I've been "helped" by a number of true numbskulls who needed a lot more Pharmacy Tech education. Mainly in the area of "finding stuff." I hope there's a separate class on that subject, because it's sorely needed. Or, for instance, "Diabetes Drugs--Where To find them in the Pharmacy Refrigerator." That should also be a required class in the Pharmacy Tech curriculum.

This Pharmacy Tech must have had absolutely stellar grades in "finding stuff", because he located my prescription in short order.

"Have you taken this before?" he asked me.

"Yes."

"Have you had any problems with it?"

"No," I said.

His response? "Awesome."

Yet another suggestion for Pharmacy Technician required training: "Reasons Why 'Awesome' is a Completely Inappropriate Response. To Anything."

While I'm at it, I may as well cover my other pet peeve, one which must certainly define me as a crank. I always thank all waiters, cashiers and sales people. They've provided me with a service, they are fellow human beings and that is my way of acknowledging both of those things. I know the vast majority of people don't understand either one of those truths, are too busy or too irritated to be thankful. Some people probably don't even seen the need to show gratitude because, after all, the service provider is compensated either by the customer or the store owner or both. I get all of that and I'm not proselytizing for my way of doing things. Nothing wrong with those people.

It's not impossible for me to see that maybe people who work in customer service positions are completely unaccustomed to being thanked. Maybe they don't know what to say. Entirely possible.

However, once I've said my "thank you" and smiled at the cashier/waitperson/sales person, they should respond with something along the lines of, "My pleasure." Instead, the majority of service people say, "No problem." Well, I should certainly hope it would not be a problem, since it's your job, after all.

I know, I know. I have had sales jobs, but not waiting tables and not acting solely as a cashier. I have many times worked in malls at Christmas. I'm a war-hardened veteran of harried, bad-tempered customers. I've had many friends who've worked in restaurants. It's a tough to make a living wage and maintain your sanity. I'm entirely sympathetic to their plight or I would never say thank you.

I work in a service industry, though. (I will not bore you with my lecture about how we all are customer providers of one type or another. It's long and could be a bit tedious.) I not only answer to our clients, but to the other denizens of Crazy Land. Crazy Land notwithstanding, I still want to give my internal customers what they need. I will do whatever it takes to make the company's clients happy. I will tell them it's my pleasure to help them and they should let me know immediately if there's a problem or they need more assistance.

Please never, ever tell me "no problem." I don't get my panties in a wad or leave a paltry tip. It's a thing I notice, though. Think of this as just another note from the woman I swore I would never grow up to be. In the words of my co-worker, Loathsome, thank you for your cognizance.

Good News, Bad News

I got back from M.D. Anderson several hours ago. The good news: hotel was fine, water was hot, no one suggested that I might be feeble minded. The other up side: I saw my beloved Dr. Ross. One of my online friends asks what's special about my surgeon. Excellent question, which I'll answer later.

The mammogram process was terrifying. We did the usual four x-rays, they sent me to wait in a little room to make sure they hadn't missed an area. I was the only person there. After a period of time, they came to get me again. No big deal, I thought. We just missed something; that's not unusual at all.

Oh no. We had to do a different kind of mammogram because they needed to take a closer look (they being the radiologist and person who did the mammogram) at something. Hand crank makes a comeback. I was sent to sit in the little room again. Alone. Time passed and passed and passed.

Finally, after about 15-20 minutes of waiting, the mammogram person came to get me to take even more x-rays. Now I'm really afraid. That's how it started the last time. Picture, pictures, wait, wait, then bad, bad news. "This must be making you really afraid," the mammogram person said. "Yes," I answered. No response. She put the x-rays on a light board, told me to come over and pointed out several areas they were concerned about. Great. That also happened the last time.

More hand crank action and some highly unusual poses that I had to hold, without breathing of course. Back to the tiny room. As I waited, I became more and more afraid. I was almost ready to cry when she came back and said they looked okay. Too late. That's what the radiologist told me two years ago. Then I showed up at my local surgeon's office where I found out that things weren't fine, after all.

I was still terrified while I waited for Dr. Ross. He came in and asked about any problems, then reassured me about the right breast. I could relax enough to tell him they took my oncologist away from me. I asked him if he was going away, too. "I'll do anything you want me to do." Okay. I was feeling better enough to think, "Oh, really? How about I move in with you and we spend the rest of our lives together?" Instead, I said, "Please don't go away. You're my guy. I trust you. I know you're going to take care of me."

Dr. Ross then started examining the new girl and found a hard place where I had a lot of radiation last summer. He was concerned about it and wants to have a better look. A mammogram? Ultra sound? I don't know. "See?" I said, "You're my guy. I know you'll take care of me."

We scheduled another visit in a month, I think. Or in August. When your oncology surgeon registers concern, there's a part of your brain that shuts down. Or at least that's my experience. Off he went to fetch his appointment schedule. He wrote me down for whatever date it is and gave me a hug He's a very, very compassionate man.

Now, on to why he's so special. He saved my life. I had an unusual form of breast cancer that manifested itself in unusual ways. He found it. He told me. Then Dr. Ross took care of me. He's the best surgeon in one of the best cancer hospitals in the world. He's very gentle and cares about all of his patients as individual human beings who deserve kindness and support. He gave me hugs. Dr. Ross knows how terrifying any kind of cancer diagnosis is (he also specializes in skin cancer surgery).

Here's the final and saddest reason why I have such a huge crush. He's the first man I've ever known who's taken care of me. I can count on him. That's remarkably special.

Thanks for all of the prayers and good wishes. They help, you know, both emotionally and physically. That helps to take care of me, too. I have to rest now. See you on Monday.

The Hand Crank Is Better Than A Day In Crazy Land

Okay, here's the deal. Tomorrow morning, I will take my little Andy to be boarded, then I'm going to drive four hours to get to Houston. Thursday, I have a bone scan and a mammogram. The bone scan is no big deal. There's no pain involved in that.

As for the mammogram, my insurance company should be pleased that I am receiving the best screening possible. They manage to scrunch all of the skin and muscle from my neck to my bellybutton in between what I think of as the jaws of death. We spend a good twenty or thirty minutes getting me all lined up and making the plates capture the skin and muscle. Then, my friends, the hand crank comes into play. All of that bodily mass will eventually be compressed into a quarter of an inch. I swear.

After all of that, I'll be sitting around waiting for my beloved oncology surgeon. At least 45 minutes at best will be spent sitting in a hospital gown three times my size in a tiny, freezing little room. Given the size issue, I don't even know why they give me the gown thing. It's fastened in front and, having only two ties, I'm virtually naked from the waist up. I used to expend a considerable amount of energy trying to keep myself covered up in case one of the many nurses or Fellows or assistants show up. Going down the hall to the bathroom was always interesting. I'm shameless at this point. So many absolute strangers have not only looked, but touched extremely private parts of my body that I don't bother with modesty.

On mammogram days, I usually get back to my hotel room around 9:00 p.m., exhausted and starving. They make it impossible to actually eat anything substantial in a day always positively action-packed with waiting. In spite of all of this, it seems infinitely preferable to another day in Crazy Land. I know it will still be there waiting for me on Monday. But for the following three days, I can occupy my thoughts with more important things than back-stabbing attempts by co-workers, random rage attacks by others and my own weariness with it all. Bring on the hand crank. What a relief it will be. See you on Monday.

Perhaps You'd Like To Suggest A Nickname

One of my online friends recently asked me (in a perfectly humorous and non-offensive way) how my co-workers might describe me. I've given that a lot of thought. I've noted in previous posts that they might well describe me as "Crazy Cat Lady" or "Useless Too." Oh yeah, there's always "Psychobitch. That's one of my favorites.

Another that came to mind is "Who The Hell Is This Woman Anyway." Better yet, "Mysterious Co-worker." I wonder if it ever occurs to them how little they know about me. Some of them know me better than others, of course. I've known Owner for over 3 decades now. I'm not such a mystery to him. Superhighway knows me better than anyone else other than Owner.

For everyone else, I'm pretty much all surface charm, in an impersonal way. I'm known for making people feel important and listened to. I laugh at their jokes, but only when they're funny. No fake laughing. That's an ego boosting thing, too. I listen (if only vaguely) to their difficulties. I'm not so responsive when they're whining about working at Crazy Land. Get with the (crazy) program, folks, or move on. I'm helpful when called upon. What do they know about me? As much as I wish for them to know. That would be not much.

There are a lot of my own qualities of which I'm not so fond. I'm not sure people know what they are, but then, all the better. It's hard to see myself outside the framework of my own perceptions. Yes, I have qualities I think are funny. Unfortunately, because of the way the day started out, I can't remember what they are. I'm more often deadly serious about the ways I fall short. I'll have to get back to you on that.

The things that aren't funny? I have that list I've mentioned before of people who've mistreated me (on a grand scale, not the stuff that's merely irritating). Once you're on it, it's hard to get off. I'm not sure that could be called vengeful, because I have no interest in doing these people harm. I'm simply keeping track. Nonetheless, probably not one of my better characteristics.

I can be highly critical. Oh, you'd already noticed? How about sardonic? (Well, the sardonic thing may actually be something I like. Again, I'll have to get back to you on that.) Another quality I'm certain you've become intimately acquainted with is my staunch belief that everyone should buck up and stop whining about little things. Note to self: develop more compassion.

Even when I've been friends with someone a long time, I have a limit. When the annoying qualities outweigh the good qualities, I can be ruthless in cutting people out of my life. No looking back. I guess that means I'm not overly loyal.

I can be an intellectual snob. Oh how I hate that about myself, so I'd be less than honest if I didn't own up to it. As a matter of fact, I'm embarrassed by it. I'm working on it, though. Of course, I've been working on it for about two decades now. For a really long time there, it didn't strike me as something I should get over. I'm now a lot clearer about the value of intelligence--it's good for entertaining yourself, but not much else. I like people who are clear thinkers, not necessarily people who are highly educated. There is a difference. Feeling is just as valid as thinking, though. It simply depends on the circumstances.

I don't respond well to less than constructive criticism. Better come armed with some objective reasons, in which case I'll take it under advisement. Otherwise, I will cut you off at the knees. Do not fuck with me. Especially if you're a man. Here again, probably not one of my better qualities.

I'm generally disengaged emotionally. That's a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but other people probably find it troubling. See above.

I have issues with men. I can be unfair and capricious about those issues. There's a vast spectrum of behavior I will not tolerate. Never, ever, ever under any circumstances should men betray the slightest inclination to believe themselves better (in any way) than me or any other woman. I should probably lighten up. Been working on that for a long, long time, too. I'm not optimistic about making it go away.

I'm stubborn. I'm not impressed with authority generally. You're a Senator? Big deal. You might want to give me some other reason why I should treat you differently than anyone else.

More? Of course there's more. I'm far more critical of myself than others. How much time do you have?

There's Generally An Up Side To Every Day

Okay, well maybe not an up side. More like random thoughts that aren't quite so glum.

I'm back to some semblance of my old workout schedule. The good news: there really is muscle memory! The butt is making a comeback. The triceps--not so much. They need lots and lots of work. The rest of me is getting more muscular and my stamina improves every day. It was vitally important to get the muscle tone back to some extent so I can resume flirting with my oncology surgeon. That's such an odd concept--trying to flirt with a guy who regularly makes me lie down and then touches my breast (and now the new girl, I suppose). I have hair now, though. That's got to be an advantage. Yes, I will leave my husband. In a heart beat. Or a breast check, whichever.

I had a compliment from one of our contract employees last week. I always call him "The Ladies Man," although he's known by his peers as Killer, a tribute to his lady killer days. I've known him for years now, but he's still a looker. Killer told the Superhighway that I'm looking very sexy. I naturally thought she was making this up as a tonic to my poor physical self-esteem. Now I'm not sure. She looked pretty sincere. That used to be a thing that irritated the hell out of me--I always wished men would pay less attention to how I looked than how the brain worked. Now? It made my week.

I passed the compliment on to Hubby. Interesting how that made him actually see me again. After 30 years, in at least a couple of which I looked like absolute hell, we tend to take each other's positive attributes for granted. I don't care. I'd still leave him for surgeon noted above.

Should there be another post? Yes, I think there should. I write these long, verbose posts and I'm always afraid they're too long. They may become tedious. So next topic. I'm making up for my absence later this week. I can always tell myself that, anyway.

Waking in the Middle of the Night

I've got a trip to M.D. Anderson this week...it's never-ending. Bone scan and a visit with the ever lovely Dr. Ross. Even my great affection for him isn't quite a panacea for the stress extravaganza. I woke up four times last night. It never fails. Even when I'm not thinking about, my brain is working overtime with anxiety.

I think I get the month of July off, except for a visit to check on the progress of my macular degeneration. I fear the news will not be good because the eyesight in my left eye (the one most affected by the disease) has deteriorated. I can still see the grid I use to check md's progress, so that's good news. I'm tired of doctors and I'm tired of bad news.

In August, I have a follow-up with my radiation oncologist. He's here in town, so that's something, I suppose. August 29 is my next (and, I hope final) surgery.

In September, it starts all over again. I'll have to schedule a visit with my medical oncologist. I'll never forget the last visit after chemo ended. I told my doctor that I really like him, but I'd be thrilled to not see him again. Oh no, he told me, you'll be seeing me for the next five years, at least. Four times a year. My heart sank.

There will never be an end to this, unless they find a cure. I have my very own M.D. Anderson page on the web. A dubious distinction. It could be worse, though. As far as we know, there's no cause for concern. The Watcher notes the one-cell rule.

Tagged by the Rat Crips

I've gone back to editing old entries so I can post them on another weblog and, if I'm going to be funny, I'll have to do it now. Any reflection on my early life can only end badly. Some days I can be funny about that, too, but mostly not. And even when I am, you have to wade through all of the horror to find it. I'll spare you.

Besides, I'm really furious. I got this lovely pair of impeccably creased black pants back from the dry cleaner yesterday and, when I glanced down a little while ago, I saw a couple of white marks running across the front of the left leg. Mind you, I have no idea at this point who's responsible for the affront to my tidiness. It could just as likely be me as anyone else.

Wait a minute. It just occurred to me that it could be the work of one of those nefarious rats that seem to hang around in gangs downstairs in the kitchen. One of them probably tagged me and I'm the official property of the Rat Crips now. I'm going to have to get right over to the other side of the building and warn Money Man and his family to avoid the downstairs altogether. My kitties have once again attracted all of the rats fleeing sewer repairs and property development. That damn kitty cabal!

Having noticed the imperfection of my pants, I started searching for my recently acquired Tide pen. It was nowhere to be found, so I tried a damp paper towel. Whatever it is, it's not coming off. This is Kelly Ripa's fault. She convinced me on her wildly annoying commercials to buy one and now look what's happened. I've relied on it and it's missing in action.

I'll just have to remember to keep my right leg crossed over my left for the rest of the day. Maybe I could try to only let people see me from the side. I might be able to sidle in through doorways and then casually drape my left hand over the offending marks on the front of my left thigh. Or right hand. Whichever seems more jaunty at the time.

Of course, that's not to say that I have much interest in how I look at work these days. Lately I don't even use any makeup. I wash my hair and arrive at the office while it's still wet. (Thank you breast cancer that made all my hair fall out and then grow back curly!) Sometimes I put on a little blush and mascara after I get here, but I don't see any point in even doing that. My genial co-workers have gotten accustomed to seeing me in much worse condition than this.

For several months, I had an incredibly white, moon face with dark shadows under my eyes. I was bald and had sores on my hands. My fingernails were black and deeply ridged. I weighed 20 pounds more than I'd ever weighed in my life. I only had one breast. Compared to that, I look positively fabulous now. I carry makeup around with me in my cancer tote bag, just in case I feel inspired. I rarely do.

My Meyers-Briggs personality profile notes that I'm strategic thinker. Comes in handy when you've been rat-tagged. I'll let you know what I come up with, you know, in addition to the walking sideways thing.

I'm A Uniter, Not a Divider

I've somehow managed to thoroughly confuse myself. That in itself isn't uncommon, but this was a huge medication error. I take Ambien every night so I can sleep. (It's difficult to sleep through the night when one has post traumatic stress disorder because of hypervigilance.) I've recently begun taking another medication during the day to address chronic depression and anxiety (ptsd, again). Cutting to the chase: I mixed up the two drugs, took the Ambien during the day and the other drug at night. I have no idea how long I've been taking the antidepressant twice a day.

I only slept about two hours last night and I'm pretty revved up now, but my doctor says things should stabilize soon. I suppose that means I'll stabilize soon. I'm a joy to be around right now, being very high on the Perky Scale. I suspect it's a little like being around someone who's had too much to drink; it's great if you're high, too, but annoying if you're not. Being ever so considerate as usual, I have not tested my fellow employees by interacting with them. That's so me.

On the Crazy Land front, Money Man is working his way up to either a massive stroke or coronary event. Since his return from vacation, he's been happily enraged every day. You know how he loves that. It's like mother's milk to him. I can only hope that I've played some part in it because it's important to me to contribute to the happiness of my co-workers, especially Money Man.

If I had to speculate (and you know I do), I'd say he's lumped me in with all the other "idiots" and "morons" (his favorite words) who work here. I think he's been harboring at least a little bit of hatred towards me for years, believing that I'm virtually useless here in Crazy Land. The Kitty Wars have raised my status in that regard. Now I'm totally useless. Of course, as far as Money Man is concerned, it appears the only people he believes aren't useless are him, his daughter and his son. Go figure.

Loathsome will be making a 12-week return engagement soon. The project he's been working on (and I use that term loosely) has been postponed. You know, he offices in my wing of the building. It can only be good news for me, because everything and everyone looks better when they're in close proximity to Loathsome. A little bit of his astoundingly good looks are bound to rub off on me as we pass each other in the hallway.

He's been here from time to time, but Owner has chosen to meet with him downstairs. I don't think there's any way we can make Loathsome stay downstairs for 12 weeks. My solution to the problem? Move Loathsome over to Money Man's wing and, just as a bonus, move Useless One and Shoe Lady over there, too. Or they could all move downstairs. It will be an all-day love fest, five days a week. As an added attraction, I'd be happy to drop by and make Money Man chat with me for an hour or so from time to time.

Much like our President, I'm a uniter, not a divider. And I'm a hell of a problem solver. I've fixed the entire office situation in one fell swoop. Let the love fest begin.

Holding Functional Brain Hostage

Here's a good decision: This morning as I was putting breakfast and lunch items in my tote bag (extra large bagel and 8 prunes for breakfast, apple and yogurt for lunch), it occurred to me that maybe I'm not eating enough. I'm sure that's a correct assumption. (No! Stop throwing stuff at me, people! I admitted I'm wrong!) What's missing here? I know. I'll take some dry-roasted nuts with me in case I need a protein infusion. Do I really want to do that? Once you start eating them, it can be difficult to stop. I was sane enough and awake enough to remember I've compulsively eaten stuff at the office as a means of coping with stress.

I should just measure out an acceptable quantity and take that amount. The thought crossed my mind, but ultimately time was not on my side. I had about 8 minutes to get to work. I live close to my office, so 8 minutes is no big deal. However, there was no way in hell I was going to figure out how to measure the stupid nuts, find a suitable container and stash them in said tote bag in time to make my 7:00 a.m. curtain call. So I just left. I did not bring any extra food with me.

Right about now, as I near the end of the day, the body is feeling terribly misused and has taken the brain hostage. The brain can not work until some sort of acceptable fuel is provided. Crazy Employee next door has M&M's. As a matter of fact, I think virtually everyone here has a chocolate stash. I don't think the body will consider that an adequate ransom to give the functional brain back.

Lessons and Tasks

Since I changed cable systems, I now have access to the EWTN channel (Eternal Word Television Network). It's a Roman Catholic channel; they have Mass every day, a program on Carmelite spirituality, lots of other RC topics.

It's a little conservative for my tastes (my church of choice is Paulist), but I've been tuning in for Mass every afternoon. I haven't attended Mass in many years, but participating (as much as I can) in the televised version makes me long for that connection.

I have a very broad spiritual philosophy--many paths lead to the same destination. God speaks to us in the multitude of ways we're individually able to hear. Some of us hear the word a little better via Episcopalian doctrine, some Baptist, etc. Some of our paths are not Christian. They're Buddhist, Sufi, etc.

Please don't send me comments about the True Word of God. I'm not interested in debating or converting.

The homily yesterday reminded us that, when "bad" things happen to us, maybe it's God's way of reaching out and getting our attention. God has lessons for us all and sometimes those lessons come through hardship. I'd forgotten that's a valid Christian viewpoint.

I hear a lot more about what God wishes to give to us materially. Or how we can talk God into giving us whatever it is we long for or think we deserve. Did I deserve the life I've gotten? I've been given the life I need, for reasons I don't necessarily understand. It's up to me to keep mind and heart open, to "accept hardships as the pathway to peace...trusting that God will make all things right if I surrender to God's will." (Reinhold Niebuhr) In Buddhist terms, every person I meet is a Buddha sent to help me learn a lesson which will hasten my steps along the path.

The homily warmed my heart. It helped me remember my own spiritual reasons for embracing the life I've been given. May I learn the lessons I've been sent to master; may I complete the tasks I've been sent to accomplish. I may not know what they are; all I have to do is to let go every day. I'm not in charge here. It's been a hard lesson, but at least I've gotten that far.

Introducing the Information Superhighway

I knew the Information Superhighway several years before she came to work in Crazy Land. She worked for another firm that provided services to my company. When Money Man was hired, Owner decided we needed a trustworthy assistant and she seemed to be the perfect candidate. (The acquisition of Money Man was yet another complex story I'll get around to at some point.) She was (and still is) hardworking, dedicated, thorough and intelligent.

Several years ago, I started calling her the Information Superhighway whenever I discussed her with my family. You know the importance I place on entertainment value when it comes to Crazy Land--even with my own family.

Anyone who's ever worked in an office knows (or has known) at least one person like her. Superhighway takes great pride and pleasure in maintaining a rather intense personal relationship with all of the people she meets in a professional capacity. She's friends with our contract employees and friends with employees of service providers. I mean as in coming over to her house friends. This quality is deeply perplexing to me. There are certain benefits, though, like knowing about the personal lives of all of these people.

Superhighway doesn't like all of her coworkers, but she has the lowdown on all of us. If you tell the Superhighway something, you can bank on the fact that everyone else in the office will know about it within 48 hours. I have sometimes floated information through the Crazy Land pipeline via the Superhighway. It's s almost always a tactical decision, but during my cancer treatment, she was very helpful to me in keeping everyone up to date on the progress. She's so much more effective than a group email. She may be faster in disseminating the skinny than any electronic means. I've tested the method over a period of years and it's always been reliable.

Obviously, it's critical to edit out any negative comments about anyone here in Crazy Land. Don't think for a minute that negative comments are excluded from dissemination. As we all know, I believe in direct discussion with co-workers. I do not engage in unfriendly chatter about them and I don't respond to office gossip. Engaging in that self-indulgence is unprofessional and overstepping that boundary can also have unpleasant ramifications. In virtually every job I've ever had, I made it a priority to identify the Information Superhighway in the company. The Superhighway can be an important strategic tool.

This all sounds very cold-hearted, but that's not the case. She's a personal friend and has been for years. I have actually been to her house not once, but twice. This is virtually unheard of in my professional history. After I've spent at least 40 hours a week with people whom I've not chosen to be a part of my life, I do not wish to see them socially. I made a mistake in breaking that rule early on in my career and the co-worker practically took over my personal life. She was an alcoholic and the director of the company. Another story, another time. Superhighway has been granted special dispensation, but I've done about all I'm going to do in that regard.

Well, time has slipped away once again. Rat Man called to ask for help with MS Word, so I spent some time with him. People here believe I know everything about software. (They seem to believe I have a more than passing familiarity with many things. Beats me.) That assumption is gravely incorrect and I have no idea what makes them believe it. Generally I have to keep trying things until I get it figured out. Sometimes I have to override built-in capabilities and do it the old-fashioned way. Luckily for Rat Man, I had encountered this problem before and resolved it relatively quickly.

Then my mom called because she was having trouble logging in to one of her newly created online bill payment services with one of her fave companies. Oh my god, what a poorly designed site. I had to click "Pay Bill" on literally five separate pages to actually get to the place to pay the bill. Mom has dial-up, so that complicated everything. She couldn't see the screen as I walked through it because, of course, she was talking to me via the land line. We decided that we'll revisit the process this evening. That will probably be far more effective. She also had some questions about spam and anti-virus programs. I suggested that we proceed one baby step at a time, because it can all be overwhelming at first. We're going to conquer the payment issue first.

I'm not sure I had any more information to impart about the Information Supherhighway, but I speak of her relatively frequently and I thought you'd enjoy a more well-rounded picture of her and the role she plays in Crazy Lane.

We still haven't covered Useless One or the Question Lady at all. And there's more to say about Money Man, Lying Boy, Daddy's Girl, Rat Man and maybe Owner. Owner is iffy. He not only pays my salary, but has been friends with my husband and me for over 35 years. Not that he doesn't have quirks. But then don't we all. I may even have to cover some of my more negative (but entertaining) personality traits as they manifest themselves in the Crazy Land environment. I certainly bring some nuttiness to bear in my work life. Hell, let's cover it all.

Driving Me Crazy in Crazy Land

I'm feeling inexplicably better today. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that it's Friday and I get to go home early (to therapy), then I don't have to see any other Crazy Land denizens for a full two days. It's so easy to make me happy these days.

I had an impromptu meeting with my internal customer, Rat Man, for whom I'm creating the database. The design changes--that have nothing whatsoever to do with the actual functioning of the db--are driving me absolutely insane. Move this line down half an inch, the left margin is too wide. He is driving me fucking crazy. I'm always a lot more focused on function rather than form. At first, anyway. Just let me get the damn thing to work and we'll spend as long as you wish dicking around with how it looks. Jeez.

I've had several encounters with Money Man, but I've avoided any real conversation with him. We sometimes share the same air space, but that's about it. He hates me in a big way. I passed Lying Boy and his sister, Daddy's Girl*, coming down the stairs yesterday. It surprises me how quickly they rose up through the ranks of people I dislike. The family now fills the top three spots. These are definitely tough competitors; it's hard to capture all three in one fell swoop. As for their specific rankings, Money Man has to be first (only because he's the oldest, really), then Lying Boy, then Daddy's Girl.

No one has spoken to me about cats at all. Wise decision.

I'm going to write a separate post now regarding the Information Superhighway--who she is, why she's earned that name, etc. That way you won't have to plow through my usual excessively long posts. Isn't that just like me? Always thinking of your comfort. You're worth it.

* I told you I'd find a name for her.

Bad Day, But I'm Bucking Up

I'm having a bad day today, sitting in my office crying. Why? Well who the hell knows. I actually had to leave a minute ago and spend some time in the other building, sobbing. Then I walked around the block to make sure I wasn't carrying the Dreaded Fleas into the main building.

Today I guess I'm thinking of everything I've lost. It wasn't just a breast, it wasn't just a childhood, it wasn't even innocence. It wasn't any of those individual things. I'm not sure I can even enumerate them. And, after all, what would be the point of that? Sometimes hope seems so far away I have no idea of how I'll reach it, or if I ever will. Hope for what? If I knew, I'd be working hard to get it.

It's a bad day. That's all. One of the great things that breast cancer taught me is that it's just fine to cry. Furthermore, I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to. And I really, really want to. I'm a person who just gets up every day, hoping to learn whatever lessons the universe has to teach me, and I get on with things. Buck up. Get a grip. Move on.

I'm more composed now. Thanks for listening. I am now officially bucking up. I might even have a macadamia nut or two.

Notes From The Parasite Taxi Stand

My brain is a bit fried from showing up at work at 7:00 a.m. I know that's not so early in the grand scheme of things, but I am so not a morning person. It is a huge deal to my brain. I've been working on the relational database all morning, so my thought processes are in a completely different mode than verbal. Relational or something like that. Anyway, that's a brief explanation of why exactly I may not be my usual sardonic self. Apparently it takes some energy to be sardonic. I'm going to plow ahead anyway.

One more thing before I get started. Oncology surgeon visit coming up on June 21. I don't wish to go there again so soon, but you know I'm in love with Dr. Ross so it could definitely be worse.

I've been meaning to get around to the complete Kitty Catastrophe story because I was so happy about how it turned out that I didn't even feel like sharing the gory details. The fun stuff is always hidden in those details. (See "Crazy Land In An Uproar")

I'm guessing that, in the email Money Man sent to the Owner, regarding the source of the fleas on his beloved boy, he mentioned the high cost of flea and rat extermination. Money Man should have known better. Owner does not like to be told what to do. It's not like it isn't his company or anything. Money Man tends to forget that, at his own peril.

Owner merely referred to the Money Man email in our conversation. He did not share the actual contents. Nonetheless, the finger of blame was, of course, pointed at me. As I said before, Lying Boy entered my office and hordes of fleas immediately saw him as their big chance to take a taxi over to a new, tastier venue. I've decided to be bad-tempered and angry about the accusation. As a matter of fact, the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get.

Money Man and family were in Hawaii last week. Of course, even if they weren't, none of them would be brave enough to come to the Flea and Rat Taxi Stand (my office) to say something directly to me. They're mean spirited and untrustworthy in personal relationships, but they're not that foolhardy. Nor that mature.

I was in the Information Superhighway's office when Money Man showed up on Monday. Being highly intuitive, I could see the flicker of rage behind the mask. Money Man is supremely pissed off at me. Why wouldn't he be? It's all my fault, you know.

He came bearing gifts for the office. Superhighway got a couple of cans of Macadamia nuts for her personal consumption. Well, I was sitting right there. What could he do? There was a moment or two of silence and then he knew there was no alternative to offering me one. You could see how much he really didn't wish to do it, but to not offer was a clear sign of his true feelings. God forbid. Did I take one? Absolutely. It could only piss him off more, right? Excellent.

I haven't seen Lying Boy at the office since their return. Frankly, I was a little surprised about that turn of events. It temporarily delays the necessity of deciding how to deal with him. Daughter is here, so I've got my hands full trying to find the proper tone with her. I'm thinking distant, but superficially friendly.

This whole episode is the biggest reason why I've decided to get my sorry ass up and to the office at 7:00. Less time to see any of them. I'm tired of dealing with Money Man, jollying him up and indulging his narcissism. My ass is in my chair, developing the database for 8 straight hours a day. No lunch period. The only pay-off for me in this is being home at 3:00. This week is a trial run, though. If I can't do the schedule, I won't. I am, after all, not a wuss. He is.

I hesitate to say I won (once again). I think all of this transcends me. It's part of a larger battle between Money Man and Owner. I did get what I wanted, though. Good triumphs over evil once again. I'm giving you that sardonic smile again. I bet you can see it all the way from there.

Weekend Update

I'm taking a tiny break from the database project. Unfortunately, my internal client is picky, picky about turning things into pdf format. I know nothing about Acrobat. Big learning curve here and I'm not sure I'm going to learn easily. Wish me luck.

Hubby had an emergency stress test on Friday. It irritated the hell out of me because I knew from the symptoms that he was fine. Yes, right again. Tingling toes? I'm not familiar with that being a sign of an imminent heart attack. Poor circulation, maybe. I am so cutting to the chase here.

We had a huge storm last night. It left this morning very green and cool for the Southwest at this time of year.

I watched the Democratic debates last night. It was yet another opportunity for me to talk back to the television. I do that all the time. In answer to any questions related to what we can look for in terms of federal assistance (like universal health care of one type or another), I have one thing to say: Iraq.

I won't go on about how irritating I find political posturing to be. Maybe they believe the shit they were dishing out, but it was primarily crap. I was impressed that they all felt okay to weigh in on the questions of "no ask, no tell" policy and the "English as the official language" questions. See? I can, too, be reasonable.

Holiday Inn

I've been busy with several unpleasant activities since my return. I may not be able to address all of them in one post.

First unpleasant item: Holiday Inn.

I've been staying, for about a year now, at the same Holiday Inn near M.D. Anderson when I go for treatment. Prior to that, I stayed at hotels, like the Crowne Plaza, owned by the Holiday Inn chain. Everything has always been acceptable.

First Problem. During an overnight visit in April for my plastic surgery follow-up, there was no hot water. I only stayed one day and I know that sometimes things happen. I was very gracious about it.

Second Problem. During my last stay, no hot water. Again. We called the front desk, they sent a maintenance person to our room just to make sure that we weren't moronic enough to not be able to accurately determine whether we had hot water. Sure enough, maintenance guy sees we're not idiots and says we'll have hot water in the morning. Yes, we believed.

The next morning, when I had a lab appointment at 8:45, we arose at 6:00 a.m. to find we had no hot water. We decided to go downstairs, get something to eat and speak to the front desk people. I was a little testy.

I told the front desk person that this was the second time I'd stayed without benefit of hot water and I didn't think we should pay this time. She said not a word and walked into the office (I suppose) to the side of the desk. A manager appeared. I explained once again and suggested that a fair way to resolve the situation would be for them to comp the room. He told us to wait a minute and he'd be right back. I pointed out that I had a medical appointment I couldn't miss.

He disappeared behind another door, was gone for about five minutes and returned to tell us that we did, indeed, have hot water. We just were too stupid to use it. Of course he wasn't quite that blunt. He said we "must have done something wrong." He'd be willing, though (since we'd done something wrong) to cut the bill in half. I was amenable simply because I couldn't waste any more time arguing. I could have come back after my late afternoon oncology appointment to argue with him some more, but that would have meant I'd have to stay another night. Probably with no hot water. You know, we're too stupid to figure out how to turn it on, so I for damn sure wasn't going to stay another night in a hotel room that complex.

I made a note to never stay in that hotel again.

Third problem. When we checked into the complex water facility hotel, the first credit card we offered up was declined. That was odd. They ran it again. Still declined. Very, very puzzling. They requested that we provide them with another credit card and we did. It was accepted.

Yesterday, in checking on why exactly the original card had been declined, we found out that, in fact, it had not been declined. It had been charged $260.00 for what was (after the discount) a $70 room. Having found that minor miscalculation, we decided we'd better check the card that had been accepted. That card had a charge of $235. I guess they were a little irritable about the complaint.

I was enraged. I called the Holiday Inn, I contacted Holiday Inn Corporate Headquarters. They refused to address the charges on the second card because, according to Holiday Inn's records, they had only charged us $70. I had visions of purchasing a rapid fire assault weapon and taking a little drive back to Houston.

The upshot is that, after spending almost a full day dealing with it, I believe I've gotten the charges corrected. However, I will never ever stay in another Holiday Inn. I'm vengeful and I work in a customer service industry. Not once did I hear an apology. Not once did I hear someone say they'd try to clear it up immediately.

No more Holiday Inn.

Maybe over the weekend I'll get around to the next unpleasant event--my husband's hypochondriacal fear of a heart attack.

In the meantime, though, Go LeBron!

Happy in Crazy Land

As you know, I spent the past several days alternately enraged and heartbroken. I came to work today with a heavy heart. Money Man and family are in Hawaii this week, spreading a little bitterness and bad humor around the tropical islands. I won't have to see them until next week.

I talked to my friend, The Information Superhighway, first thing this morning, told her about how things went on Friday and how devastated I was. Mid-way through the conversation, Owner walked by the door on his way to the office. He pantomimed something, but I wasn't sure what he meant. I finished up my conversation with the Highway and went into his office.

"I fed the kitties yesterday," he said. My heart melted. "Did you go see them?"

"No."

"You didn't feed your kitties?" He looked like he didn't believe me. I said I didn't know where we stood on that issue.

Where we stand on the issue is that I get to have the kitties. Lying Boy will be having his hours cut back by 75%. I shouldn't worry about Money Man and I only have to interact with him on business matters. Crazy Land feels like a wonderful place to be right now. I'm too happy to even gloat.

Blood Work and the Return to Crazy Land

I'm just back from Houston. I've been home a couple of hours now. The blood tests were good--nothing to be concerned about. My platelets are a little low, some other cryptic stuff is high and I probably need to address some bone density issues. I had the beginnings of osteoporosis before I began chemotherapy and the treatments sped up that process. We're not medicating now because I take a lot of medication already. I already take calcium with vitamin d, so I need to concentrate on getting more natural sources of calcium, in addition to addressing my anemia. These are small problems in the grand scheme of things. Thank you, kind friends, who were sending positive thoughts and prayers.

Tomorrow, it's back to Crazy Land. I'm a little obsessed with the whole kitty thing. That's how I am--a bit obsessive compulsive. I kept wishing I had a computer as I was whiling away the hours in the waiting rooms. Nothing like a few empty hours to jump start my vindictive fantasies.

You know, bed bugs have made a strong resurgence in hotels across the country, irrespective of their price and reputation. Since I read an article about that a couple of years ago, I've been terrified of waking with horrible bed bug-inflicted welts everywhere. They're well nigh invisible unless you tear the whole bed apart. Fortunately, so far I haven't encountered any.

It occurred to me, though, that I might have to send out a friendly email to my co-workers in a day or so, telling them that it seems my hotel had an infestation while I was staying there. I could point out that I may have, inadvertently, infested the whole office. Perhaps people should start burning everything they own, because that's the only way to get rid of them. That advice is reality-based; burning everything is the only sure cure for bed bugs.

I've had lots of time to think about my co-workers and I've come up with many ideas about how to make the kitty issue seem infinitesimal by comparison. I've a very, very evil woman.

I'll be spending most of my time in my office until Lying Boy and his family return next week (when we'll have some face time so I can share my feelings directly with each one personally). I'm certain I'll have more to share. After that, I'd say all Crazy Land time will be spent in my office. Not to worry, though. I've got hundreds of Crazy Land stories for your entertainment. You know I wouldn't let you down.

See you tomorrow and, again, you guys are the best.

Crazy Land In An Uproar

When I walked through the patio this morning, I saw Money Man looking out of the kitchen door (which is downstairs). I knew. I saw his daughter and The Information Superhighway (I don't think I've mentioned her before, but you know I'll get to it sooner or later). I knew they were standing around having a bitch fest about the cats. I've been very in touch with my anger lately. As I walked through the adjacent building where the cat food is, I thought,

"I should just go in there and say, 'Bitching about the kitties?'"

I thought better of it and calmed myself down until I was walking into the main building (where the bitching was, in fact, taking place). "I know you're talking about the cats," I thought, I need to walk in there and say that. I calmed myself down again.

Let me just cut to the chase here. I didn't know until I got here this morning that one of my co-workers (hmmm....what to call him...I know, "Lying Boy") sent out an email yesterday afternoon, complaining of how he has taken on the burden of martyrdom by withstanding the onslaught of fleas that come into his office in throngs. Obviously, they come from the cats. He's tired of carrying the weight of that mantle. It came to such a point that he had to (at great personal expense) de-flea his own cat and his whole apartment. Even though he loves working with such great folks every day (nudge, nudge), Lying Boy just really can not tolerate it any more. (He is called Lying Boy for events not related to the Kitty Catastrophe.)

I then noticed that I have an email from Owner, telling me we need to talk about the cats. Want to talk about the cats? Well I don't want to talk about it anymore. Ever. I went from zero to full fledged Psycho Bitch in two seconds. Even the Italians can't produce something that accelerates that quickly. I walked into his office and closed the door.

"First of all, I want you to know I'm having some mood issues lately." Understatement is one of my many appealing qualities. "I don't know why I'm having them, but I need to tell you that because I'm furious."

"Sit down," Owner said, "Are you mad at me?"

"No. And we don't need to talk about the cats. I'm going to let them fucking die," (I don't know. Maybe I should start referring to myself as "The Drama Queen"or "Alec Baldwin" maybe.) I took a deep breath and calmly said,

"You have done everything you can. You have spent a ton of money. I understand that and I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done." This is where the tears started welling up in my eyes. I composed myself again.

"I'm tired of dealing with it and you shouldn't have to. I'm going to stop feeding the cats. They can fucking die and then, when the rats and the fleas continue to proliferate, my beloved co-workers can get back to me on how it is exactly that the fucking pests are still here." There may have been more uses of "fuck" or some permutation of that word. I know it was sprinkled liberally throughout my discussion with him.

Long, long rant here (about 20 minutes worth, in fact). The upshot is that I'm sick to death of this. "We'll just let them die. I'm going to go in there and let them know that. That'll make their fucking day." (I really like to use that word when I'm angry.)

Owner told me to stay where I was. He proceeded to get on his own high horse about the situation. He doesn't know why Lying Boy is here full time. (In case I haven't mentioned it, Lying Boy is Money Man's son. Money Man has a daughter who works here, too, but I haven't picked out a name for her yet. I will, though, and I may think of it before I get to the end of this post.*) Owner said that he went downstairs to Lying Boy's office and sat there for an hour yesterday waiting for a flea to hop on for a late afternoon brunch. None showed up.

Owner re-read Lying Boy's email and decided he didn't like the tone of it. He immediately sent a snotty email to Lying Boy, requesting that, when he has a problem, Lying Boy should come talk to him instead of sending out an email to everyone in the fucking office. (Yes, the "fucking" is mine. Sigh.)

Somewhere in the midst of our mutual rants, I said that it's my belief that nothing will make those assholes (yes, I did, too, use that word) happy short of the cats dying. I was still ready for confrontation with every single one of the Assholes.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes." I not only think so, I know so. Furthermore, after the cats, they will find something else they can inappropriately displace their anger onto. There are many reasons why that will happen. I won't bore you with it right now.

There were more tears running down my face from time to time. I hate it when that happens. I'm pretty sure that, if I'd had a confrontation with my co-workers, I would have been able to stick with the rage. I'm not certain, though. When I'm in my right mind, I might be able to see some tactical advantage to crying, but it's a fundamental part of my stoic personality; I do not let those people see me cry. I don't usually let Owner see me cry, either, though.

Owner convinced me that I shouldn't go to each individual office and have highly charged personal meetings with my friends here in Crazy Land. You know I don't send emails. I also don't talk behind people's backs, like some whiny-ass cowards I see every day. If I have an issue, I will talk with you, face to face. Some may pee their pants, but that's not really my problem, is it? Let them rush over to the local convenience store and get a supply of Depends. Apparently, there's some crack available next door if they think that will help them.

He got up to leave for an appointment and gave me a hug on the way out. I started crying again. Owner suggested I use the side door through another office instead of going out into the foyer where the fucking assholes could see me.

I called my mother to vent, alternately raging and crying. She asked me if I yelled. I didn't yell, but I did use an elevated tone of voice from time to time. Perhaps some of the assholes heard me.

So here we are. I'm in my office, venting to cyberspace. There is, once again, a deathly silence in the building. Though the phones are somewhat busy, no one is relying on me to help answer them, as I sometimes do. It seems likely that people did hear part of my conversation with Owner. Excellent. They should come on over and talk to me.

That, my friends, is the latest Crazy Land catastrophe. I'll be out of the office on Tuesday so I can see if we can detect any cancer cells. One last thing before I go, though. Fuck you, you idiotic, cowardly, bitter, narcissistic fucking assholes. Did I adequately convey my contempt? Probably not.

Thanks for the comments, guys. As you can tell, I've been a little busy. See you on Wednesday.

*I don't know why we don't change the name of the company to Money Man and Company.

Things I've Learned By Writing This Blog

I'm not sure I've learned anything writing about myself in my breast cancer blog, but maybe I don't want to know anything more about myself in that regard.

I think this will be an ongoing, sporadic accounting of epiphanies, not in any particular order.

*I'm verbose. Very.

*There are a lot of very kind and thoughtful people out there in the cyberworld. Unfortunately, I don't work with any of them. Or actually live in the same city.

*People who read this blog know me better than anyone else on earth.

*My work life doesn't just make me angry, depress me or make me feel like a failure. It entertains me on a regular basis.

*I have no idea why everyone else doesn't find me as fascinating as I do.

*I no longer hate myself when I write. I no longer consistently hate what I write. It's okay to not be T.S. Eliot.

*Anonymity is liberating. Honesty about my life is exhilirating.

*I need a Thesaurus and dictionary more than I used to before I started taking Tamoxifen. Or went through chemotherapy. Or both.

What have you learned since you started your weblog? I find you every bit as fascinating as you do. So tell me.

That One Tiny Cell

"I'm back." It was only a couple of weeks ago that I had that epiphany. I might even be better than I once was in some respects. I seem to laugh more easily. I joke with people and poke fun at myself. It seems I'm more chatty, more friendly and less anal. Yet another medical marvel brought to me courtesy of the new medication I'm taking.

Underneath the new, better me is the Watcher. She hovers just under my consciousness, ever mindful of the fact that a mastectomy, six months of chemo and seven weeks of daily radiation do not in any way guarantee that all the errant cells have been killed. The Watcher is the mad woman in the attic. She's extremely irritable and the closer I get to my three-month blood test, the more easily frustrated the Watcher becomes. I can hear the annoyance in my voice as I talk to someone while I'm struggling to get the batteries out of my wireless tracball. Everything demands more from her than she has to spare.

The Watcher notes every unusual physical experience. What is that itchy spot on my upper left shoulder blade that I keep forgetting to show someone so I can get some reassurance? As if anyone could reassure me. Is that a new mole on my face? I have a new cough. That's particularly troubling to the Watcher. She knows where breast cancer will metastasize and, even though the rational mind remembers we're in the middle of allergy season, the Watcher knows she needs to keep track of how many times I cough every day. My radiation oncologist told me months ago that part of the carcinoma was very close to the chest wall. The Watcher remembers as if it were yesterday.

Friends, co-workers and family know nothing about The Watcher. As far as they're concerned, I'm fine. The minute radiation treatment ended, I was officially fine. My mom thinks I should have a positive outlook. I do. I just wish someone would figure out that worry doesn't end when radiation does. The fact that it doesn't makes me feel like a hypochondriac. I feel silly and embarrassed.

The Watcher knows it's not silly. Just under the level or ordinary consciousness, she reminds me about that one cell.

(Garbled Garbled) Hurt Guy

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I hate doctors and I'm sick of seeing them. I'm just going to have my teeth cleaned, but it's all the same to me. I've got appointments coming up with my dermatologist (for my annual skin cancer check) and my opthamologist (for my annual macular degeneration check). I don't have firm dates, but I always see these doctors in June or July. I know they'll be calling me soon. I have oncology appointments in June and August. (I love that word "oncology." It sounds so much better than saying cancer.) I don't understand why I can't simply call a temporary halt to any further medical examinations.

Here in Crazy Land, I've already waded deep into the jungle of absurdity. I got a call from one of my local hurt guys while I was having a conversation about the database with The Shunner. Now that's the way to start your morning. No hesitation, no procrastination--just full throttle nutty right off the bat.

The Local Hurt Guy (as opposed to the Hurt Guy With Crappy Law Firm in another state) injured his ankle over a year ago and only recently reported that he's still having pain from it. He went to the nurse's station at our client's site on the day he hurt himself. I reported it to our insurance carrier and they decided to deny the claim. Hurt Guy also went to a local clinic to have them look at this ancient ankle injury, but they sent him back to work with no restrictions. That day. I'm guessing that's at least part of the reason the claim was denied by Carrier.

The clinic people, like all clinics and doctors these days, thoroughly understand the love affair our country has with litigation. It's like a national hobby. Therefore, they passed him off to someone else who could more definitively say whether Hurt Guy has an injury. And so he could sue them if it came to that. The doctor referred him to an orthopedic physician (or surgeon). This is where it all gets a bit murky. Either the original treating physician ordered an MRI or the orthopedic doctor ordered one...or something. Somebody wanted a damn MRI.

I'm guessing that our insurance carrier declined to pay for that, too. When the Hurt Guy called me this morning, he said he'd gotten "a whole buncha" letters from the insurance company and another "whole buncha" letters from the State Workers' Comp Commission. I was a little puzzled as to why he was calling me. But you know, being perplexed is a daily feature of my life here in Crazy Land.

"Well, if you can't understand what (carrier's rep) is telling you about it, ask to speak to someone else. I don't know why they denied the claim or even if they denied the claim." I said that in a much gentler tone than it seems when I see it here on the screen.

"I'm at the (garbled garbled) clinic. (Something something) Julie."

"Well then tell Julie to call them." I said

Then he starts in again on the "buncha papers" thing. Eventually I managed to get him off the phone. Just so you know, the closer I get to blood work day with my oncologist, the more irritable I become. When I hung up the phone, I did not rip it out of the wall and throw it across the room.

That was lucky, because I needed the energy for more aggravation. Hurt Guy decided to drop by the office with some paperwork from the (garbled garbled) clinic. Crazy Employee buzzed me from the front desk, informing me that he was here. She told me that he was scheduled for an MRI and he'd been referred to a podiatrist.

"Wait," she said to me. I hear more garbled, unintelligible (what I believe to be) speech from Hurt Guy. "He's not scheduled for an MRI..."

"I'm coming," I said. I actually hoped that, if I talked with Hurt Guy in person, I could figure out what the hell was going on with him. I know. Ever the optimist. Or the lunatic.

Nope. Didn't work. I still don't know a damn thing about what's going on with him. (I can hear you laughing, so stop it.) I took his papers from him and made some copies to fax to the insurance carrier. He held out his hand for me to shake and it was that limp, barely touching you shake that gives you the willies. You know, if you don't really want to shake my hand, then don't stick yours out there in my direction. I told him thanks for stopping by.

I did not go back to my office, pick up my computer and hurl it across the room. As a matter of fact, I didn't throw anything. Instead, I made the rounds to all the offices in Crazy Land, being disruptive and causing general hilarity (but not about Hurt Guy-- he's not funny at all). I dropped by Owner's office to distract him from whatever he was doing. He wanted to know what the good mood was about. "Anxiety," I told him.

He made me promise to go back to my office and settle down. But he wants me to drop by his office tomorrow and Friday. I'm irresistible when I'm aggravated.

Hurt Guy in Crazy Land

It looks to be an exciting day at Crazy Land. Loathsome is here and I should probably just take a break and go find out what's up with him.

I did. Can you even believe it? Then, in the middle of our conversation, I got paged. I remember now why I never talk to Loathsome. I didn't find out anything amusing. Total waste of my time. Don't say I never did anything for you. This was a major sacrifice solely for the sake of your entertainment. No need to thank me.

The page was from our office in another state. One of our boys got hurt and we filed a workers' comp claim. He and the insurance company got together and they took care of his bills. Now it seems he's filed a personal injury suit against someone. Hurt Guy got a letter from an attorney. (Hurt Guys' name was misspelled a couple of times in it. What level of legal representation are you getting when they can't even consistently spell your name correctly?) He then gave the letter to his supervisor on site. The supervisor brought it to our office. There is absolutely no indication of exactly who is getting sued.

The woman from our other office said she called our workers' comp carrier, who told her that she should write a letter to Crappy Law Firm, informing them that it was a workers' comp claim and, therefore, all correspondence should be directed to the insurance company. Given the way things have gone so far, I shudder to think what action that information will lead Crappy Law Firm to take. We can only hope that, whatever action is taken, they will finally figure out the correct spelling of Hurt Guy's name. Or maybe they'll just refer to him as Hurt Guy. I wonder if I could get some kind of monetary compensation from them if I called up Crappy Law Firm and made that suggestion. All future clients could be referred to Hurt Guy #2, Hurt Guy #3...wait a minute. That should be Hurt Person so there won't have to be any further distinction between male and female hurt ones. No need to add more complexity to an already confused Crappy Law Firm. I should get extra money for the upgrade.

Anyway, I'm cc'd on all the correspondence, so I should be able to keep up with the Out-of-State Crazy Land situation. I'm all aflutter. What fun.

I spent about 45 minutes this morning with The Shunner, trying to get some more specific information about exactly what he wants in this massive and complex database I'm trying to build for him. The fact that I use the words "massive" and "complex" is just to indicate his level of expectation and my sense of being overwhelmed. It has no bearing on whether you have to be intelligent to build it. Because not necessarily, I think.

Shunner and I have two completely different styles. He's very extroverted and hyperactive. You know me--introverted and overwhelmed by hyperactive. I may have to sit in my office here for the next four days just recovering from that 45 minutes.

I'm clearly having way too much fun now. I guess I should get on with the database development. I knew you'd wish to know, at the very least, any fun news from Crazy Land. Oh yeah. Before I start? I'd like to just get five dollars from each of you as payment for that whole Loathsome interaction.

In Case You're Interested

I'm working on an enormous relational database project for work. You know that's one of the few things I actually enjoy doing here, even though it can be exhausting and sometimes baffling. The co-worker I'm doing this for (The Shunner) and I don't necessarily communicate all that effectively. Very, very different personality types. I think I get what he needs. We'll see.

On the up side (yes, there always is one), I finally finally got cable Internet, so maybe I can summon the energy to post something longer in the evening. Lots of thoughts rolling around in my head. Lots of stuff going on to talk about.

Old Friends

I'm stunned. My old friends I wrote about recently have found themselves at a terrible crossroads. Old Friend B. will have charges filed against her today in connection with the allegation that she offered one of her students a good grade in exchange for some act of violence against her daughter's boyfriend. I read that moments ago in her local newspaper.

That's all I know. I'm heartbroken and baffled. My husband believes this is a "world class rush to judgment." Sadly, I'm not certain that's the case. I have, indeed, known charges to be filed against people who turn out to be not guilty. No question about that. It seems unlikely to me that someone would be arrested based only on the word of a disgruntled student, though.

Old Friend B. is not a stupid woman. I can't imagine that she would make such an offer. It's ridiculous. There are so many things in jeopardy. I'm afraid she may choose to commit suicide. As a suicide survivor, I'm pretty regularly worried about that whenever something goes profoundly wrong in people's lives. Especially people I know.

So much damage has already been done. I pray that she will find the strength to get through this, no matter what the truth may be.

I don't even know what to say.

Pat The Oncology Nurse

It's 4:29 here now, so this will be a short, venting kind of post. I got a call from my oncology nurse this morning, telling me we need to reschedule my appointment with my oncologist. We agreed on 11:00 (same day as scheduled); she advised me that I'd need to do lab stuff an hour earlier than previously scheduled (that was originally scheduled for 11:00).

That sounded odd to me because the whole point of going there is to review blood work with my oncologist and I assure you the lab would never have results to my doctor within an hour. I decided to check my personal page at their website and, lo and behold, Pat (the oncology nurse) got it wrong again.

My lab work appointment is scheduled for 8:45 a.m. and I'm going to see the nurse-practitioner at 11:30. I wonder if I should feel comforted that they're not making me see the doctor. That's probably too much to hope for.

Pat. I'm sure she's extremely competent somehow. Unfortunately, my experiences with her have been less than satisfactory. She's ditzy. When I was having sores in my mouth and on my hands because of the chemo, I called Pat and explained my symptoms (as they told me I should). She asked me in a vague tone of voice whether I was doing prescribed oral hygiene. Oh God yes. Believe me, you will do anything to try to get rid of those.

As things got worse over the weekend, I called my oncologist. He immediately called me back and prescribed antibiotics to prevent the sores from getting infected. Had I depended on Pat, I would have had twice the problem--and infection and the sores. My immune system was almost completely shut down by the chemo, so an infection would have been difficult to overcome.

I really try hard to respect and value Pat The Oncology Nurse. If only she'd give me more reason.

AT&T: Still Clueless After All These Years

Feeling a bit ragged around the edges today. Flashbacks will do that.

I answered a random direct line (that goes to someone's office, but I don't know whose) this morning and it was a recording from our good friends at AT&T. They said a repair person would be here on Friday, between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. to address our telephone problems. The recording said I should stay on the line if that time wasn't convenient.

I stayed on the line. God help me. A woman answered and I recounted the message, as an explanation of why we were having the conversation. She wanted to know the phone number. It's a line that goes directly to someone's office; I have absolutely no idea what that number is and no way for me to find out--at least any time soon. Now if she had an hour or so, I could probably figure it out. They called me. Why should I have to know what the number is?

"Well, what's your name?" she asked.

I told her my name and spelled it for her. I asked her if it wouldn't be more helpful to know the company's name. She reluctantly took it down while I spelled that to her. Address? Can do. Gave that to her, then she asks me what I want!

I said," I'm responding to the repair call so they know that there won't be anyone here after 4:00 on Friday." I thought maybe they wouldn't wish to waste their time coming if no one is going to be here. God help me.

The clueless (and quite lovely, I'm sure) AT&T woman informed me that the number I gave her was a residential number. I pointed out to her that I was having the conversation with her from an office. I reminded her that they called me. She said she'd have to transfer me to the commercial repair folks. She wanted me to hang on and put me on hold.

Now I ask you, why in hell would I want to hold on just so I could go through the whole annoying conversation with some other clueless (but quite lovely, I'm sure) AT&T representative? That's right; there is no reason whatsoever. So I hung up.

If they show up to repair the phones on Friday at 6:30 p.m., I guess someone else in the office will have to explain to them again on Monday that we're only here until 4:00. I'm so glad to have AT&T in charge once again. Their middle name is "Customer Service," you know.

Flashback Rage

Important note: If you are a survivor of child or spousal abuse, please know this post may trigger flashbacks.

Today is my father's birthday. He would be 72, had he not committed suicide 9 years ago (10 in October). I chose to cope by occupying my mind with frivolities. Then I went home for my afternoon rest. I knew today's episode of Dr. Phil would most certainly cause me to have flashbacks and yet I watched, anyway. I've learned to be disciplined about what I see or hear, but sometimes I'm unable to look away. The show was about a woman who has three children. Her parents called Child Protective Services because they were afraid that he would not only kill or injure their daughter, but perhaps their grandchildren.

Despite the fact that her husband has hit her, choked her, held her with a knife to her throat, stepped on her head, among other outrages, despite the fact that her children saw these attacks, she chose to take her children back to live with her husband. In defiance of an order of protection. At least one of her children has been injured by the man and at least one of her children was injured while trying to protect her mom.

Anyone who has read the early archives knows that my father was terrifying. (Note: not all archives have been published on this site after being transferred from another site.) He assaulted my mother on a regular basis until he found other women to assault after he had moved them into our house while my mom and I still lived there. My father assaulted me. (Note that I do not use the words "domestic abuse" or "child abuse." I think those are ridiculous phrases, demeaning to the people who live through them.)

I was terrified of him for years. Maybe I was always terrified of him, but there came a time after I was an adult, when I stood up to my father. Terror is the word I keep using. Terror is the word I mean. My father was a pedophile and used me as bait. My father subjected me to sexual abuse of such an unusual nature that I was well into my thirties before I even recognized that it was abuse. He did not protect me from his brother, who sexually abused me in more typical ways. I could write forever and not be able to catalog the offenses of which my father was guilty.

After my father killed himself, I went through about five years of feeling sorry for him. He had a tough childhood, filled with abuse. He was mentally ill. He was most certainly chronically psychotic for most of my life. I found it difficult to separate out the things he was in control of and the things he had no control over. This is why I view every situation as complex. I grew up with extraordinary complexity. It can be a safe haven, a means of avoiding the frightful truth.

Five years after his death, I began to finally experience my own rage. At first, it was rage that he had chosen to leave this world in such a devastating manner. I was enraged that he chose to shoot himself nine days before my birthday. It was still all about the dying.

These days, I'm still enraged. Now it's about my entire life. It's about the long, long shadow his violence still casts in my life. There was never a time when I was innocent, never a time when I didn't know violence up close and personal. I can't begin to say how angry it makes me and how profoundly sad it makes me for the child I was, the woman I am now.

This is my birthday card to you, dad. Wherever you are, may you understand fully what you did and what harm it caused. Happy birthday.

Old Friend Update

OFL called Hubby today to tell him OFB hasn't been home in 3 days. She's at a female friend's house. Okay.

I asked Hubby if OFL is furious. Hubby says he seems to just be waiting to see what happens. So no, he's not angry.

I'd be furious. I'd be enraged. Wouldn't you?

Fatigue

Fatigue is different than being tired. I'm fatigued. Very.

My mom and I had dinner with Owner and Owner's wife last night.

Saw my psychiatrist earlier in the day. I was late. That stresses me out. These days, if you wish to be on time, you just have to camp out the night before. There is way too much construction going on in this town. It's free-floating construction. Just when I think I've found alternative routes, they randomly move the construction projects so they're in my way, specifically. It may be a conspiracy.

Psychiatrist and I are eliminating more medication. Little by little. That makes me happy.

I'd love to tell you more, but I'm too fatigued. I should be better by tomorrow (she said with her fingers crossed).

Things I've Learned Since I Started My Weblog

I'm very verbose.
I think I'm fascinating and don't understand why everyone else doesn't.
It's wonderful to know people from all over the world.
Virtally all of these people are kind and generous with their hearts.
I like writing again after I stopped being so critical.
I think everything is complex. Oh wait. I knew that before.
I really love the word "just" and have to be vigilant not to use it in every sentence.
I've forgotten how to spell.
My work life is a lot easier to bear when I get to view my co-workers as entertaining.
I'm afraid that someone I know will see what I've been writing. I might lose my job.
I love the freedom to write about anything I wish without the fear that someone I know is reading along.