It's not pity, really it's not!
This is the time of the year that makes me totally crazy. I mean, papers are due, presentations are due, and I still have to buy Christmas gifts for my family. Ouch! Christmas and more holidays not cheer. OMG!
So, I go to my doctors every six months, you know the check ups, that is, if nothing happens in between. I try to schedule the appointments around the same time so that maybe I can knock off two in one day, not have to miss much of my life. Those doctors, my doctors! My doctors being, the shrink, the medical man, the arthritis man, the neuro guy, and the ortho guy—yep it’s all covered. While going to the doctor can be a good thing, for me it’s a bummer. My shrink increases my bi-polar meds, he doesn’t understand that I can’t actually begin the new dosages until I am out of school for the non-fucking-holidays; then there’s the arthritis man, who is so concerned about my rheumatoid arthritis that he sees nothing else, you know take care of the joints, no walking, no lifting, no living; then the neuro guy, well he focuses on my spinal cord, you know the one the drunk driver ruined and he, the doctor, reminds me that while I am walking a little the damage to my back is still there and any little thing can cause swelling or even worse—worse, what could be worse, been there, done that, so I ponder, any little thing, like dishes, laundry, lifting my grandbaby, what what, what can I do??? No answer. Then my medical doctor who takes care of my asthma and my ruined thyroid, the thyroid that was eaten up by the treatments for my arthritis—well that’s my theory. How good can liquid gold be? Or years of steroid use? So, I have seen the last of them, well the ortho was the last. Yesterday, he, the ortho doctor, tells me that I am going to have to quit walking, let my knees and hips rest he says. Who the fuck is this guy—quit walking indeed. I was in a fucking wheel chair for eight years, and I’m thinking, no I will not quit walking. So, he injects my knee with this fucking huge ass needle, no prep, no little needle first to deaden the skin or the subcutaneous tissue, fuck no, just a big fucking needle with a syringe filled with about 90cc of fluid. That’s three ounces. Yep three ounces right into the knee joint. I yell out, ouch and he says be still and I am being still seeings how I’m sitting up with my knee bent and he is shoving a fucking big assed needle in my knee. I cry, yes I cry. Then I feel ashamed that I have cried, never let them see you cry. That’s been my motto since, I don’t know, since I was five. I cried and that asshole just stood there like now what? Did I tell you I hate the medical profession, well I do.
Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign. No damit I can’t read the sign, I don’t know what I am suppose to do. Walk, don’t walk, eat meat, don’t eat meat. Fuck, I am burning here. Now, I am thinking I might as well just eat shit and die, no not really cause that eating shit isn’t on my list of dietary stuff and dying, well I don’t want to die until my grandsons are grown, somebody has to keep them grounded, and sane, imagine that, me the fucked up insane woman worrying about keeping my grandchildren sane.
I don’t know, ramblings of a nut case, an about to drown person, well actually, not drowning because I can’t swim in a pool because the chlorine sets off a set of respiratory problems that leads to very severe bronchitis, so no drowning oh and I don’t swim in water that is not clear, that’s the bi-polar nut part of me. If I don’t see the bottom, then there might be crawly things and gross things and mud between my toes and snakes and frogs and no, not going there.
I have pondered, not recently, but I have pondered the best ways to die—I don’t want to suffer, you know like with a really painful disease, wait, I have that really painful disease so I am suffereing, but I mean like with a gun shot or hanging or anything that would involve one moment of maybe wanting to change my mind, and there’s like this half blown out brain and I’m like whoops this was a really bad idea and then a second or two later, I am dead. See, that’s why suicide will not work with me, I am forever changing my mind, Whoops, can I have that bullet back, whoops, can I still reach that rope and take off my neck, whoops, have the pills dissolved yet. See, I can’t even end anything.
Well, I am good for the next six months. Well, that’s a lie, I have to go back to the Ortho man, he wants to watch my knees and make me feel badly that I can’t walk, can’t lose weight, and that I am only fifty years old and in 15 to 20 years, well the knees will be beyond repair. So, what are you saying, I mean it, don’t hold back, please tell me the bad news, let me have it, I am going to be crippled, You stupid fucktard, I have been crippled physically since I was five and mentally since I was nine, go away.
So, I go to my doctors every six months, you know the check ups, that is, if nothing happens in between. I try to schedule the appointments around the same time so that maybe I can knock off two in one day, not have to miss much of my life. Those doctors, my doctors! My doctors being, the shrink, the medical man, the arthritis man, the neuro guy, and the ortho guy—yep it’s all covered. While going to the doctor can be a good thing, for me it’s a bummer. My shrink increases my bi-polar meds, he doesn’t understand that I can’t actually begin the new dosages until I am out of school for the non-fucking-holidays; then there’s the arthritis man, who is so concerned about my rheumatoid arthritis that he sees nothing else, you know take care of the joints, no walking, no lifting, no living; then the neuro guy, well he focuses on my spinal cord, you know the one the drunk driver ruined and he, the doctor, reminds me that while I am walking a little the damage to my back is still there and any little thing can cause swelling or even worse—worse, what could be worse, been there, done that, so I ponder, any little thing, like dishes, laundry, lifting my grandbaby, what what, what can I do??? No answer. Then my medical doctor who takes care of my asthma and my ruined thyroid, the thyroid that was eaten up by the treatments for my arthritis—well that’s my theory. How good can liquid gold be? Or years of steroid use? So, I have seen the last of them, well the ortho was the last. Yesterday, he, the ortho doctor, tells me that I am going to have to quit walking, let my knees and hips rest he says. Who the fuck is this guy—quit walking indeed. I was in a fucking wheel chair for eight years, and I’m thinking, no I will not quit walking. So, he injects my knee with this fucking huge ass needle, no prep, no little needle first to deaden the skin or the subcutaneous tissue, fuck no, just a big fucking needle with a syringe filled with about 90cc of fluid. That’s three ounces. Yep three ounces right into the knee joint. I yell out, ouch and he says be still and I am being still seeings how I’m sitting up with my knee bent and he is shoving a fucking big assed needle in my knee. I cry, yes I cry. Then I feel ashamed that I have cried, never let them see you cry. That’s been my motto since, I don’t know, since I was five. I cried and that asshole just stood there like now what? Did I tell you I hate the medical profession, well I do.
Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign. No damit I can’t read the sign, I don’t know what I am suppose to do. Walk, don’t walk, eat meat, don’t eat meat. Fuck, I am burning here. Now, I am thinking I might as well just eat shit and die, no not really cause that eating shit isn’t on my list of dietary stuff and dying, well I don’t want to die until my grandsons are grown, somebody has to keep them grounded, and sane, imagine that, me the fucked up insane woman worrying about keeping my grandchildren sane.
I don’t know, ramblings of a nut case, an about to drown person, well actually, not drowning because I can’t swim in a pool because the chlorine sets off a set of respiratory problems that leads to very severe bronchitis, so no drowning oh and I don’t swim in water that is not clear, that’s the bi-polar nut part of me. If I don’t see the bottom, then there might be crawly things and gross things and mud between my toes and snakes and frogs and no, not going there.
I have pondered, not recently, but I have pondered the best ways to die—I don’t want to suffer, you know like with a really painful disease, wait, I have that really painful disease so I am suffereing, but I mean like with a gun shot or hanging or anything that would involve one moment of maybe wanting to change my mind, and there’s like this half blown out brain and I’m like whoops this was a really bad idea and then a second or two later, I am dead. See, that’s why suicide will not work with me, I am forever changing my mind, Whoops, can I have that bullet back, whoops, can I still reach that rope and take off my neck, whoops, have the pills dissolved yet. See, I can’t even end anything.
Well, I am good for the next six months. Well, that’s a lie, I have to go back to the Ortho man, he wants to watch my knees and make me feel badly that I can’t walk, can’t lose weight, and that I am only fifty years old and in 15 to 20 years, well the knees will be beyond repair. So, what are you saying, I mean it, don’t hold back, please tell me the bad news, let me have it, I am going to be crippled, You stupid fucktard, I have been crippled physically since I was five and mentally since I was nine, go away.
posted by zelda1 | 3:04 AM
2 Comments:
Something I've meant to ask you before, Zelda--have you been to a Chinese medicine practitioner? I strongly recommend it. I have one, and she knows more than all the doctors.
I am not sure there is one here, but I will check. At this point, I am willing to try anything.
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