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?