April 16th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

Walk it Off

I think I now know everything there is to know about fractured ribs. For example, if the rib is broken, or cracked, it is referred to as "fractured". It usually won't show up on an xray, though I knew that from before. Never wrap a fractured rib, knew that one, too. Keep icing it. Didn't know that one. Pain pills are a must so you can keep breathing normally. Didn't know that. One should practice deep breathing and light coughing every couple of hours, but on pain medication. I keep having coughing fits, so I am taking cough medicine with the Naproxen. I also know the prescription dosage of Naproxen is WAY higher than the OTC stuff directs.

Doc is sleeping until three today. That really means 4. He will have his head together around 5, and will then make something to eat, which takes us to 6. Then he will fiddle around with his bike and get the lights put on it, then jump in the shower and be ready to go at 7:15 to ride to the bus stop to catch his bus to work.

He says I can go see the doctor tomorrow.

I'm in a good place right now, the pain is around a 3, and I'm able to breathe normally. My nose isn't clogged, so no sniffing, that kills me. And I'm not smoking anything, so I don't cough, as that makes me cry.

Another thing I learned about fractured ribs is that they hurt more in the mornings and evenings. So I have a few hours of prime time left in the day, it's only 1:30pm.

I know the doctor is going to do that thing where he encases my ribs with his hands, squeezes a little and if I don't just scream, asks me if it hurts. That's one of the diagnostic tests. The last doctor I had found me cute and amusing. He asked if he could have the multi-page print out of my ER stay the day before, when they found nothing wrong with me but "conversion syndrome". It was a classy print out, with doctor's comments and various specialist's comments all equaling nothing. When not one of them was clever enough to check if my rib was fractured. It took the Urgent Care doctor 5 minutes with me to diagnose me. With no costly tests. And my Medicare covered it. Not so with the ER stay. The hospital was out of network. I think only one hospital in this city is in network, but it is a closely guarded secret.

So, I can't clean. Doc made that perfectly clear last night. I could go outside with the Kindle and start reading Amanda Palmer's book.

In preparation of the possibility of the outside chance of me having to go inpatient sometime in the next 90 days, I located some 60's sci-fi books that I can take along with me. I can read sci-fi anywhere.

I wonder if Doc is aware, somewhere deep in his slumber, that Boomer just sneezed in his face. Nope. I don't think he does. Score 1 for Boomer.

Freddy keeps jumping over my lap and the laptop. I wonder if she is trying to get my attention.

More efforts to promote my new piece on Soundcloud have brought nothing. I will persevere. That reminds me, I have to look something up in my "for dummies" book. And then change the horrid text on the lovely background and replace it with something more fitting.
2013, cyd, new

Let's kick her while she's down!

I sat here for three hours while Doc played on the computer and promised to take me to the doctor tomorrow morning if he doesn't fall asleep first. And he'll pick up my meds when he wakes up in the evening. It's like he has no idea that I am in constant excruciating pain. So I sat here, trying not to slip into a full on psychotic episode.

At one point, I thought I'd talk to him. I somehow thought that now was a good time to hit him up for some artistic support. Because no matter how hard I work, how hard I promote, I fail. What I said to him, though, was more vague. It was, "I'm tired of working so hard and getting nowhere."

His response was that he didn't notice me trying hard, and actually saw me getting worse. For example, the sheer amount of time I spend with the TV and computer off, staring into space in silence. Then he noted the argument we got into over the microwave-ability of a plate the other night. He said I was being obstinate for no reason. I said, it's my plate. I bought it before I met him, and it was mine and I could do whatever I want to it. He said that's why I make no sense. Then repeated a few times that I have no common sense in any situation.

Then he told me that he didn't know how to talk to real people any more because of me. He told me his friends thought he was crazy for staying with me and had pretty much shunned him because of me. He told me he has to watch me every minute when we are out because he never knows what I am going to do. I've NEVER flipped out in a store. I always get myself out before that happens.

So for a good 45 minutes, he listed my wrongs. And I sobbed/screamed with pain. Then I quietly said, "Wow, are we on different pages."

"Why, what were you talking about?"

"My artistic endeavours."

"Don't get distracted from the point." says he.

"I'm the one who started the conversation, so you're the one that is off topic, point in fact."

"You're deflecting."

Me? Deflecting a list of what I do wrong? Imagine that.

And again with the accusation that I don't allow him to have emotions. Which was true a few years ago, but I have worked really hard on that. And if he chooses not to acknowledge that, well fuck him.

He doesn't get it. I KNOW I'm getting worse. What am I doing when I sit and stare? I'm just checking out and letting the voices take over for a while. Sometimes I try to sift through and follow one or the other, but I usually just let them jabber on. The only ones that talk directly to me on a regular basis are the Shadow Man and Little Girl. But I don't dare tell him that.

He doesn't understand what a TRS diagnosis would mean. I've tried to explain and he just blows it off. He doesn't get that it would make the parts of me he hates the most, worse, by a lot, from what I've been reading. And the perpetual Lab fees. And the side effects. And the companion treatments, like frequent and long term ECT sessions. In an effort to stop some generally harmless audio and visual hallucinations, my life would effectively end. I would have to go to an assisted living facility. Fucking chemical lobotomy. Or it just seems that way when you're looking through the crack in the door of it. Whatever, I'm fucking terrified of that happening.

And so, Doc has gone to work. And left me in this state.

And there's the way he just completely dismissed the thing I brought up in the first place. My artistic endeavours. I really needed some support. This latest failure with Soundcloud has taken the rest of the breath out of the muse. I can't write anything new because, what's the fucking point? the act of writing releases me, I don't read it myself. And if I have to dig really hard to find something to release, I don't want it to just sit and fester in some notebook, I want to share it. But it seems that is not what is meant for my poetry. 15 years I have had it online. And I can count on my hands and feet how many people have seen any part of it. And listening to 15 bytes of my piece doesn't count.

So now my soulmate, my best friend, is dismissing my art, the same way the rest of the world is.

And my fucking rib hurts! If anyone really loved me, I would have Vicodin by now! I only have to obsess over this tonight, because after tomorrow, for the next 4 weeks, I will be blitzed out of my head while my rib heals.

Oh yeah, and I got yelled at for getting the mail. I'm basically not allowed off the furniture.

Doc tried to get me to agree to a mile long walk to the bus to take to another Urgent Care than the one I've been to before. With a cracked rib. I breathe so shallowly, I am always close to fainting, sitting on the couch, so can I walk a mile? Going out to get the mail at the end of our short driveway was stupid . . . but can I walk a mile to the bus? I just looked at him. I couldn't, literally could not, think of anything to say to that.

Soon it was past 8 and he had to go get ready. As he walked away from me, he muttered loudly, "It's just not fucking worth it to talk to you."

Wait. What?

I don't get it. Is this because I go in to reheat my coffee while he is in the kitchen? The kitchen is huge. WTF? It's not because I wait on him hand and foot. He says I mutter. And if I say something that he doesn't hear, he literally screams his inquiry at me, sometimes getting right up in my face before he does it. It scares the shit out of me every time (PTSD anyone?). I can't take a breath to talk loud. He screamed at me a lot today. But he's been on this kick for a while. The screaming is just new. He won't speak audibly and will not repeat what he says, ever. Then later tells me I committed to something I've no clue about. But when I won't repeat what I said because I don't think it's important, I am lectured on what a rude bitch I am.

And he does this thing with words. He picks out of my sentences words that are unfamiliar to him and interrogates me about them in a really aggro way. I have to tell him the word origins, definition, country of common use, and valid (in his mind) reason for using it instead of an American or non-tech word. God help me, I said I had a "yen" for something the other day and he started into this routine. I said I "couldn't be arsed" one day and got a huge lecture on how I'm not from the UK and how much a fool I sounded, when he uses UK colloquialisms himself. Today the word was "meme". Which he has latched onto before. Every time I say it, in fact. So I had the definition all ready.

Is this care giver burn-out? Does the care giver eventually turn on the cared for? Is that what we're going through? His hostility is really out of hand. And it's making me hostile. And I'm a ragerific person as it is. I don't even need to be poked or prodded. I can tell when we've taken things too far, the dog jumps up on me, either to protect me, or more often, soothe me.

I should just take my meds and lie face down on my bed. Or the big couch. At the very least I need a smoke.