Do I Have A Screw Loose Or Am I Just Off My Rocker

Or maybe my rocker is loose. Could it be I’m off my screw?. Should I screw my rocker? I know, I bet my rocker screw is loose. Or even worse I have a loose screw rocker. My screwer rocks and I’m sure I rock my screwer.  It’s all very confusing.

I got my answer from Barrow Neurological yesterday.  The  dishonorable scum bag who calls himself a doctor, has ruled on my case.  He isn’t willing to see me as a patient.  He says there is nothing he can do for my back. Keep in mind – this verdict was imposed after viewing an MRI that is over six months old. Also be aware that this jerk has never laid eyes on me or heard the sound of my voice.  If he had been honest and told me that he was apprehensive about the transplant situation, I would have been disappointed, but would have admired his honesty.  Instead he wants me to go to an Intervention Clinic affiliated with Barrows. I don’t need an intervention. I need to have my friggin’ back stop hurting.  I went to this clinic’s website and read about their approach.  They do Physical Therapy. (Been there, done that, twice)  They do spinal injections. (I’ve had three – thank you very much.)  And they do pain management with drugs. (Vicky is already my good friend.)

So I guess I’ll just suck it up and move forward. I’m really tired of the whole process. I’m done with doctors.  If I can’t be fixed with Vicks, band aids, and Neosporin -  then tough shit.  I’ve faced bigger obstacles than a bad back and managed to come through with flying colors. I sound tough today. Stand by.  We’ll see how tough I am tomorrow after I flush my Vicodin.

Tom’s Tidbits

I’ve already let you take a peek into Tom and Shanlee’s secret newspaper world.  Remember when I told you about the little piles of torn-out ads that Tom places on the table every Sunday – and then never touches again. I usually throw them away on Tuesday or Wednesday. When adding scraps to the piles he always says something like, “We could really use one of these.” or “I’ve been looking all over for this.”  These statements are always made with a great deal of urgency.

Well, he  has another little newspaper-related behavior that I think you will find interesting. I call it “Tidbiting.”  Picture this scenerio.  We will be sitting in our respective newspaper-reading locations, sipping coffee and concentrating on the written word.  And Tom will suddenly say, (very loudly) “Listen.  You’re not even gonna believe THIS.”  Then, while I clean up the coffee I’ve spilled as a result of his loud directive, he regales me with some totally insignificant TIDBIT of information.  Because I love him dearly, I pretend to be as excited as he is.

One of these amazing revelations has haunted him for years.  He once read that a big ol’ lantern battery is actually  just a casing that holds many,  many AA batteries.  I recent trip to the dollar store gave him the impetus to solve this mystery once and for all.  I wish his enquiring mind also included a desire to understand how a washing machine and dryer actually work.

He burst into the house with his treasure, shouting, “Look what I bought.  Feast your eyes on this.”  I must admit I was tempted to say, ” But I didn’t see an add for a lantern battery  in any of last week’s scrap piles.” But I managed to restrain myself.  It was clear that for just one dollar he was going to solve one of life’s questions that had been bothering him for years.  AND HE WAS EXCITED !

 

Soon the mystery will be solved.

Where are all the AA batteries?

We’ll make you a heck of a deal on 1.5 volt batteries – as is. All sales final.

Today’s tidbit was, “Oh my God, Shanlee.  Listen to this.  A new study has proven that women who have one leg that is shorter than their other leg, want to have sex more frequently.” My bedtime routine has changed forever.  Now, before going upstairs, I must check to make sure that the chainsaw is safely tucked into it’s spot on the garage shelves.

 

 

Muddled Indeed

As I might have mentioned in recent posts, I’ve been having a situation with my lower back. Well, we still don’t have a satisfactory resolution, but we might have discovered what is actually causing the problem. The shot series was a failure, although I really enjoyed all the attention and the fact that I was ordered to “take it easy” every day that I had an injection. I also invented a post-injection pain reliever that I think could revolutionize pain management. It’s actually quite simple – vodka in your ice bag.

  Next my spine doc ordered some flex-extension xrays - very interesting, slightly erotic poses taken while wearing a sexy “gown” that ties in the back. It was these pics that ultimately provided a huge clue. I have a broken screw (from a previous surgery) wandering around in my back. I truly have “a screw loose.” Dr. Brad has referred me to Barrow Neurological Center, but they are taking their sweet time deciding whether or not they are willing to take me as a patient. What a crock of BS. What happened to that oath all doctors take? I suspect that they spotted the “T” word (transplant) on my records and don’t want to risk it. I’m becoming more and more convinced that neuro surgeons are ego-driven, sadistic assholes who will only see patients who have guaranteed successful outcomes. I’m going to wait two more days and then I’m going to write letters to everyone I can think of. I also intend to trash Barrows on every Rate-a-Doc website I can find. This ain’t my first rodeo. I didn’t acquire all these zippers without learning a thing or two along the way.  Thanks for letting me vent.

Until this elusive screw is located or relocated, I’ve been taking VICODIN to help with the pain. A thousand mgs. of Vicki (my pet name for my new friend) certainly makes my pain more tolerable and my attitude much improved.  The pharmacist warned that Vicki might make me a little fuzzy and muddled.  Quite the contrary!  Let me give you an example.  I’ve always suspected that there is a panther living under my dining-room table, but what I did not realize is that said panther runs around the house in the middle of the night wearing my underwear. I bet you aren’t aware that my neighbor’s entire back yard folds up to reveal a training stage for Irish Step Dancers. And I have proof.  Muddled indeed.  Just look who has invited me to be his date to a White House event honoring FOX NEWS…

Lush Limpball. Oh I mean Blush Flimpaw. What do I mean?

What should I wear? How about that gown I wore for the xrays.  Maybe I’ll tie it in front. Wink. Wink. 

 

 

 

Esther’s Cultural Journey

Last year Esther elected to be a TOMBSTONE for Halloween, complete with a dramatic R.I.P. emblazoned on her chest. The year before she made an interesting statement dressed as a  FRENCH DIP SANDWICH.  She practiced balancing a bowl of ajus on her head for weeks.  I’m sure we can all agree that these costumes are unusual, so you can imagine my dismay when she announced her intention to be Maria Callas this year.  Esther, with Tom’s help constructed a representation of the balcony in Covent Garden where this famous opera Diva performed.  She also carefully drew and cut out a life-size picture of Ari Onassis, Callas’s true love.  It was agonizing to watch her drag Ari and the balcony construction door-to-door as she trick-or-treated.  She soon fell far behind all the other kids in her group.  I questioned her endlessly about why she chose Maria Callas to portray.  She steadfastly refused to give me a straight answer.

Esther as Maria Callas.

 At the very last house we were able to hear some mumbling that answered all our questions. Esther quietly said, “Aida my last cookie. Aria gonna give me another?” Finally, the whole picture fell into place.

 

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AZW@PT

As part of the ongoing campaign to break my spirit, the spine doctor has prescribed six weeks of  PHYSICAL THERAPY. (PT)  On the day of the first session, I marched (actually limped)  into the facility with tons of confidence and a very positive attitude.  The first order of business was filling out reams of  required forms – (1) complete health histories of almost every human I’ve ever known and even some non-humans  (2) all available information on every medication, legal and otherwise, that I’ve  taken during my lifetime  (3) dates and descriptions of all surgeries I’ve ever had – including toenailectomies  (4) lengthy questionnaires about my eating, drinking and bowel habits  (5) many questions about my political and religious affiliations  (5)  and lastly, a checklist of coupons I would like to receive in the mail.  Then the eight-year old behind the desk made copies of everything in my purse including snotty Kleenex. 

Finally, I was ushered into the back room and introduced to Phylissia Prunegate, my personal therapist.  We exchanged a few pleasantries and I answered about 1,ooo questions – the same questions I had just  answered on those forms.  Maybe Phylissia can’t read.  Before I knew what was happening, my body was thrown face-down on a table.  I was told to close my eyes.  She then began to stab at me with a red- hot fireplace poker, all the time saying, “Does this hurt?  Does this hurt?” over and over.  Hell yes, it hurt!  After about twenty minutes, she flung me into the air and flipped me over onto my back.  At this point she grabbed my right leg and somehow wrapped it over her shoulder and around her neck.  As she pushed on my knee I heard her say, “Can’t you just feel that tightness leaving your body?”  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was on the verge of feeling urine leaving my body.  And the torture continued…

These pictures will give you an idea of some of the other contraptions that were used to ease my pain.

These were placed on my wrists and ankles to make sure I stayed for the whole session.

This was placed around my neck to insure cooperation.

The straight jacket was very attractive.

I was able to sneak this photo of the director of the facility. He writes an individual torture exercise plan for each patient.

I know the question on every one’s mind is whether or not the PT is helping the AZW.  Well …. I’d have to say it is helping.  I no longer need to crawl from the couch to the bathroom.  I can roll instead.

Movy and The Mall Rats

Several months ago Meghann asked me if I would have any interest in taking care of Roscoe for a few days in mid-September so that she could attend the wedding of one of her high school friends in Buffalo, New York. Of course I immediately agreed.  And the plan evolved from there. We decided that it would be fun if I could combine Roscoe watching with Weezy visiting. So I flew into San Francisco on Wednesday afternoon and Meghann and Roscoe joined the party late yesterday afternoon.  Meghann left for New York on the red-eye last night at 11:15. 

Our first night went very well.  My little pal awakened a few times in the night, but all it took to reassure him was a mini-back rub and a few whispered words, “Movy is right here watching over you.” After a huge breakfast and a few minutes of Sesame Street (and one very odoriferous diaper) we dressed and took off for the mall.  First stop – Barnes and Noble for some browsing and extended play at the train table.  Then on to the indoor playground.  Roscoe took off running the minute his shoes were off, and he didn’t stop running – or smiling – for almost an hour.  Weezy and Movy did some people watching and lots of drooling (Weezy, not me.)

Lunch time found us in the Food Court surrounded by every tempting taste treat imaginable.  The kid ate a slice of cheese pizza the size of Texas and licked his way through several frozen yogurt samples.  A grand time was had by all.  Too bad about his shirt.  It will never be quite the same.  I was astonished by  the number of people who stopped us to exclaim about how adorable my grandchildren are.  I must say I  did become slightly puffed with pride.

And now for some bath-time antics.

Salt and pepper.

Every family needs a unicorn.

Mall madness.

Movy, watch what I can do.

Go faster, please.

Munchin’ on some lunch.

Weezy will have her lunch later.

Pizza on Movy's lap. I'm so tired.

 The long walk back to the car.

I’m one pooped cowgirl.

On the agenda tomorrow:  1. An event in the morning – “Banjos and Ballads”

2.  A barbecue at 2:00  3.  Game night with Katie’s friends in the evening

LIFE IN THE FAST LANE. 

 

The Nip and Tuck Express

I must begin with an apology.  It seems like an inordinate number of my recent posts have dealt with grotesque procedures being perpetrated upon my body.  But you must understand.  If one truly strives to be bionic, one must be willing to constantly “have stuff done.”  These atrocities are simply stepping stones which must be endured to maintain my superb physical plant.  If my incident descriptions are too graphic or just plain boring, fire off a comment and I’ll stop with the blood and guts. I’m more than capable of fabricating stories about reading trashy novels and eating bonbons while Tom Selleck gives me a massage - naked. 

Last week it was stainless steel pipes in my eyes.  And this week it’s liquid lightning shot into my ass.  After several weeks of intense, excruciating, horrible, gut-wrenching lower back pain and sciatic pangs that knocked me out of bed, I finally agreed to a series of three steroid injections administered directly into my spinal region.  I haven’t wanted to go on-and-on about  this latest physical crisis because I fear that my DEAR READERS will begin to think that I’m a pathetic hypochondriac, or worse, making up symptoms to get out of doing the ironing or shelling those peas that were recently harvested, or painting the garage.

I opted for no general anesthetic to minimize my time in recovery so Tom could at least make an appearance at his office.  (After all, weekly surgeries are ginormously expensive.)  This decision proved to be a BIG MISTAKE.  The doctor assured me that I would be fine with just localized numbing shots.  His promised numbness was a bold-faced lie.  There I am on this skinny table, on my stomach, with sizable portions of my body hanging off on both sides.  Nurse Nita rolled the elastic waistband of my yoga pants down and my tee shirt up. All I could think about was the huge, globular fat roll that was created as a result of all this rolling up and down of my apparel.  For the several minutes that Dr. Backburn spent preparing my ”sight” (my butt is now a “sight,”)  I continued to fixate on this tremendous tube of whale blubber as it slowly began to fill the entire room. I’ve never felt so exposed.  It didn’t help that all the nurses in the surgery suite had bodies that hinted at night jobs as exotic dancers.

Finally HE said, “Are you ready?”  Without even waiting to hear my answer, HE began to mutilate my left butt cheek with at least 12,000 jabs using a needle as big around as my arm. HE proudly announced that these tiny little pokes would more than take care of all the external pain.  I wanted to ask about internal pain, but never has the chance.  HE next rammed what looked like a garden hose into my spinal region and dispensed several gallons of yellowish crud that was the consistency of Karo Syrup.  Suddenly a blinding pain shot down my left leg and blew my foot off.  I heard it hit the wall.  At this point I think I might have died for a few seconds.  My next clear memory was hearing the words, “All done.”  I didn’t even have a chance to ask about how they had reattached my foot, before I was slammed into a wheel chair and taken into the recovery area where the Big Irishman was waiting.

As we all know, every cloud has a silver lining.  My s.l. from this particular cloud was that I was allowed to take home a flippin’ $2.00 ice pack. Although when the bill hits, I bet we will discover that I was actually charged $600.00 for that $2.00 ice pack.

The next stop on the Nip and Tuck Express is cataract surgery.  They plan to slice off the top half of my eyeball and install some fancy-pants, state-of-the-art lens that will allow me to see through people’s clothes and also look into the future.  I sure hope the eye doc doesn’t dent my stainless steel pipes.  

   

HAWLEY WOOD

Would you believe that it has taken me almost Two months to gather photos from every one involved in our Family Vacay. I’m still waiting on a few stragglers, but have decided to go ahead and post anyway.

In mid-July we rented a cabin in the White Mountains. Meghann, Roscoe, Katie, Henry and Weezy flew into Phoenix so we could all drive up together. (We were very sad that our Scotty couldn’t join us this year, but next year will be perfect with his addition.)  I had been involved in a massive packing extravaganza for over a week, so the kids walked into floor-to-ceiling piles. We had to transport everything necessary for a week in the woods. These cabins are on the Indian reservation and very rustic and minimally furnished. Dear readers, I’m sure that you are going to hear all about how old, silly Shanlee hauled nine rugs on vacation.  Well, believe it, and know that I’m proud of my rug fetish. I might add, none of my family had any problem putting their stinky little piggys on MY RUGS. Also know that anyone who continues to give me  shit grief about “the great rug transport” will be required to walk AROUND said rugs next year.

Patrick and Jessica joined us late Friday night and stayed for the whole weekend. Jessica got rave reviews from Meghann and Katie. Historically, Patrick’s sisters have found all of his other girlfriends to be “not worthy” of his affections. Not so with Jessica. In fact they posed this question several times over the course of the weekend, “What can she possibly see in him?”  Just one brief skirmish to report. Katie and Jessica got into a fist fight over the “last pancake.” It ended in a draw. Katie is strong, but Jessica is quick. Folks in all the cabins near ours started taking bets on the outcome of the chick fight. Tom acted as bookie and he made enough to pay the cabin’s rent for the entire week.

The last few sentences were pure unadulterated lies – a stupid attempt at humor. Without further frivolity, let me share some poignant photos from our family adventure.

Roscoe takes a break to smell the daisies.

What more could a woman want?

YOUNG LOVE. What DOES she see in him?

Thanks for the ride, Mom.

Sweet dreams Baby Boy.

Well, that’s it for today. I’ll share more pics tomorrow.

Further Bionification

Why haven’t I posted since June 26th? I don’t even have an excuse this time. How about:  (1) My hand was mangled trying to dig cow pies out of a corn picker.  (2) I was released only yesterday from a, shall we say, “reprogramming facility,” after being found in a cart in the HYVEE  parking lot eating a Braunsweiger-covered banana … naked.  (3) After seeing how successfully I cover my bald spots with a variety of spectacular hairstyles, Michelle Obama asked me to travel with her and act as her stylist. (Yes, the shorts were my idea.) Please choose one of these excuses, but also know that I shall try to be a more prolific poster from this day forward.

I have taken another giant leap forward in my quest to be a truly “bionic woman.” Yesterday I has my second glaucoma surgery. My eyeball was zapped several times with a laser and then a small stainless steel drain was implanted. I guess my original drain became clogged – probably from looking at inappropriate images in PLAY GIRL magazine. The doctor has assured me that I’m good to go. He did caution that I need special sheilds during MRIs. If left unsheilded, the powerful magnet in the machine will develop a fatal attraction to my new drains, and suck my eyeball right out of my face. I guess then my orbs will bounce around inside the machine (picture a ping pong game) and smear eye goo all over everything. No instructions on how to unplug my drains if they become clogged. Will Draino work? Would Liquid Plumber be better? Will the Roto Rooter guy work on eyeballs? I guess I’ll cross that bridge later.

No extra charge for the wrinkles.