Moved In, Mostly...

So moving day has come and gone.

I ended up having to stratigically plan my painting and the priority became to paint where the heavy furniture would go FIRST, so we wouldn't have to move that shit again to paint behind it.  So most of the rooms have that lovely 'half done' look to them.

The living room started out like this:

Pretty quickly ALL the rooms filled with boxes. Kitchen/Dining room:

The kitchen is a right horror, and I'm planning to remodel it in a year or so. For now it'll get a coat of paint and new cabinet hardware.

Den:

Kid's room:

Yes, of course my garage is carpeted. Isn't yours?

Back to the living room. When my husband leaned on the wooden fireplace mantle it fell off, as did one of the folding closet doors in the kid's room. Added their repair to our 'To Do' list...

Here you get to admire the vintage metal blinds the house came with, reminiscent of a 1950's-era government Social Security office and all the warmth and charm THAT entails. The den sports them, too.

You know, the living room doesn't look all that ba--

AAGGHHH!!! Dear God in Heaven--! What Hell did all those boxes spawn from?!

Even the birds weren't happy, tucked into a corner of the dining room temporarily.

But by 4AM, I had the living room Great Wall of Boxes tamed. Dawn found the living room wall looking much better.

Next, to set the kitchen to rights, ha ha.

Too Many Irons In The Fire...

Medically speaking. Between myself, my husband and the kid, it's been the Summer Of Medical Issues at our house, continuing it's wildly popular sold-out run into the Fall!

yay.

And, southern California is burning. Again.

Bleah...

OK yesterday was a fluke. Back to feeling really crappy again and getting worse. Back to the doctor again tomorrow I guess. Oh God, PLEASE let me keep out of the hospital...I don't have time for that BS...

Today brings another new medicine: a PINT (that's 480 doses, zowee!) of Prometh w/Codiene 10 mg. cough syrup. The bottle is ridiculously large and must weigh in at around several pounds. When J. brought it home, he gave it to me with, "Here's your fifth of cough medicine!"

Please tell me the doctor does NOT expect me to drink that whole damned thing...

Today sister J. came and whisked little N. away for the day so J. and I could get some rest...he REALLY needs it, he's been pulling solo parent duty, working full time+ and caring for me for the last week and a half. He's tired. His family has been wonderfully supportive and right there. Great folks. :)

Side note: I see the side of the Predisone package carries a warning: "This medicine may lower your ability to fight off infections. Avoid people who have contagious diseases."

Wait--that's me. Tell me again how to avoid myself...?

Fun With Pneumonia

Here are the fruits of my stupidity, what I get to eat for my meals these days till further notice:

Robitussin AC (with Codiene) Cough syrup, 2 teaspoonfuls every 4 hours.
Levaquin antibiotic 500 mg. tablets, 1 a day.
Amox TR-K CL antibiotic 875 mg. twice per day.
Methylprednisolone (Prednisone) 4 mg. tablets, 6 per day.
Albuterol 90 mcg. inhaler, two puffs every 8 hours.
Azmacort 100 mcg. inhaler, 4 puffs twice daily.

Most of this stuff is screamingly expensive (nearly $500.00), frighteningly strong and tastes like death. The inhalers flavor your every breath and swallow for hours, and dry your throat out so you COUGH MORE! I had to make myself a schedule, I was spending so much time taking medicine.

Backstory:
OK, so on Memorial Day weekend, I come down with a VERY nasty fever and a very slight, almost unnoticeable bit of congestion in my lungs. I figure I'm getting a cold and start with the OTC decongestant/supressant/expectorant cough syrup and Tylenol. After 5 days of 102 to 104 degree fever, which cheerfully shows no signs of being in ANY way affected by the Tylenol, the lung gunkies take a turn for the worse and become the worst tasting stuff I've ever experienced.

Now, this is saying a LOT.

It's foul. I can't even describe it properly--it was mostly bitter, with some salty-sickly-sweet-death taste mixed in, and it was STRONG. I knew that this was BAD, so I started myself on some Penicillin I had. I figured it was a chest cold gone awry, and spent most of my time trying to sleep/cough till I pulled muscles/sweat/freeze from chills.

No dice. The fever cleared after about 7 days, the lung gunk remained, evil as ever. OK, continue with cough syrup, slack off a bit on the Penicillin.

Until last weekend, when the fever creeps back and I start to feel really, dangerously ill. The kind where you want to turn to your spouse and say, "OK, call 911..." On Wednesday I give up and go see the doctor, resigned to having my ass chewed out for trying to self-medicate and avoid his office (he did, and I deserved it). Almost three hours later I'd had a chest x-ray (his reaction was, and I quote, an eye-popping "GOD--!"), a diagnosis of Viral Pneumonia (which I'd kinda figured out) provided him the sample of lung cookies he wanted, had a nebuliser breathing treatment, a HUGE shot of Roecefin (killer antiobiotic) to the hip and got the bad news that my blood O2 (oxygen) levels were only one point away from 'hospital time'. He gave me FIVE prescriptions to fill and told me to come back the next day for another breathing treatment and another shot of Roecefin, which I did. He also added another antibiotic to the pile of medications I was taking for a grand total of 6.

That night was scary as I got REALLY ill, and I realize that had I waited just one more day, or even a few more hours, hospitalization would have been the only option. It hurt to breathe, I COULDN'T breathe, I was coughing insanely and the high fever made a spectacular comeback. The next day I managed to drag myself back to his office for more of the same. My blood O2 levels had not changed and he stared at me long and hard, obviously trying to decide if he was gong to stick me in the hospital. The only thing that saved me was the fact that I felt a *tiny* bit better. OK, he says. If you don't feel *BETTER* by tomorrow, come in again for another breathing treatment and shot. OK.

So progress was made finally today, Saturday--I'm out of bed for the first time in more than a week, although I am 23 pounds lighter, still have no appetite and cannot eat, which to my surprise isn't bothering me in the least. I figure it's the negative side effect I'm getting from having to have three different kinds of high-powered antibiotics in me. Antibiotics kill off ALL the bacteria in your gut, the good AND the bad.

Which just makes for one more medication to be added to the routine: Imodium.

Life is a joy. Hopefully in another few days I'll be able to walk across the room without having to stop and rest and get my wind back.

In conclusion, DON'T BE ME. I'm an idiot. The nurse says this crap is making the rounds, and it's damned sneaky and nasty, starts out just like mine. If you start to feel ill, get to the doctor right away...

*bleah*

Bleah

I'd like to exchange this week for another, please.

No, it wasn't the weather, the midweek rain was just enough to make everything muddy, and I discovered that one of my windshield wipers keeps falling annoyingly out of the bottom clip.

It wasn't the kid, either...although she did do time in the principal's office...again...

Mostly it was my teeth.

No, that's not right, either...it wasn't all of my teeth, it was juuuust one.

The one that needed a root canal.

I find this doubly annoying and a personal affront since I am a Registered Dental Assistant, and know all about all that stuff on how to take care of your teeth. This tooth didn't even have any fillings in it, for cri-yi. It simply started to hurt, got dramatically worse before my appointment for next week, and when I went in on Tuesday to get it checked out, needed a root canal. For added fun, he couldn't get it numb, either and had to keep poking away at me with the syringe. Sometimes all you can do is hang on until it's done, which I know from my years in the assistant's chair. So now I've got the classic swollen face, can't speak or eat, etc. Some fun.

I also have another of my chickens in the house, living out her last days. She is one of a set of identical twin sisters, and I think suffered internal damage from suddenly coming back into lay after many years--she's too old for such nonsense. When we got these two buff bantam cochin hens in 1996 they were already adults so we have no idea of their true age, but they have been with us for 10 years. Since we couldn't tell them apart, we named them The Chicken Sisters (after a favorite book of my daughters'). They are cute little buff-colored fluffballs and did everything together, they were never more than 6 inches apart. They even brooded a clutch of eggs together and raised chicks. We have never seen them peck at each other or fight.

I think at her age she's not going to recover. She is in the house and seperated from her sister for the first time, which we did not like to do, but the other girl was freaking out because of being in the house. We will keep her warm, comfortable, safe and loved until her time comes.

Other, more serious and depressing things are going on this week as well, all of which just leave me...tired of life. Some times are like that, and it's a struggle to find anything good.

Chew Your Air Thoroughly Before Breathing It, Please...

...it's brush fire season, bleah.

For the last few days a very worrisome fire has been persistently burning uncomfortably close to both one of my sisters' house and of an extended family member. We don't miss out here though, it's raining large chunks of greasy (why?) ash here at my house. The air is horrid and smelly, and the chickens are coated with ash and miserable. I go out from time to time and mist them and the yard and plants with the garden hose, which seems to be appreciated by all. All three of us here have developed the same lovely hacking cough, and tonight the sunset was beautiful, but the sun was literally blood red through the smoke. No good photo ops unfortunately...

I called my sister yesterday but only got her answering machine, and she hasn't returned my call yet. I'm sure she's OK but it's still bothering me, in that nasty, nagging at the back of your mind way...

I'm all Natural-Disastered-Out. The last 12 months have been too much of a whupping from Ma Nature all around.

Random Cruelty From Strangers

Interesting event at Disneyland the other day, when we took N. for a last visit before school started. Since I just had another surgery on my left ankle--number 3 of 6 needed--and am still in the Frankenstein-esq orthopeadic boot, I was in the wheelchair--extended walking still being a no-no for the present.

Firstly, no one, but no one looks out for wheelchairs at The Park. I've never had so many people run into and/or trip over me as I did that day. J. was muttering seriously about installing a sharpened cowcatcher to the front of the chair. Also, since J. was pushing the chair, N. walked beside me and held onto my hand so she wouldn't get lost. Those people that DID allow room for the chair refused to allow the child to get by. It was weird.

Then there are the parents who I swear, go to Disneyland specifically to lose, injure or kill their own offspring. Unattended kids were the worst for running into the chair and hurting themselves. One little boy of around 3 even walked beside the chair for a bit, staring at the wheel. I could see it coming, and his mother was looking the other way, oblivious. "No!" J. and I both told him as he stretched his hand out. Yup. He did it anyway, stuck his little fingers right in the spokes of the chair. By then I was SHOUTING "No!". Luckily J. knew what was going on and stopped the chair fairly quickly, but the kid still got his fingers pinched but good. Mother finally did turn around and grab him by the hand and haul him away. Incredible.

But that wasn't the worst.

I waited for J. & N. to ride Roger Rabbit, then we all went out through the standard exit, J. pushing the wheelchair. At the exit was the Goofy unit, comprised of Goofy and his handler, a girl named Shannon. No one I knew at all. Shannon spotted me, immediately pointed at my injured leg, laughed loudly and yelled, "Hey, can I kick you in the other leg and make it even?"

I was so shocked I couldn't speak, and J. just looked at her and angrily kept us going. NEVER in my life would I have expected anyone to say such a horrible thing to someone in a wheelchair, much less a stranger.

It was so cruel, so unexpected, so unprovoked that it literally took my breath away.

She, of course, had no idea why I was in that chair, or if it was temporary, or forever. To say that the last 6 years have been agonizingly painful, frustrating, stressful and depressing is an understatement. It's been a VERY long road so far and the end is still not in sight. The work they'll have to do to restore even partial use of my left ankle is complicated and has only a partial chance of success.

Shannon's bizarre comment, unfortunately for me, opened up the floodgates of all the emotions I've been trying to hold back for years, trying to look forward and hope for the best. We didn't even get out of Toontown before I was crying, and J. was trying to both comfort me, shield me from staring, curious people and explain the situation to N., who was very upset that I was crying.

We did stop at City Hall and file a complaint against Shannon, and the guy at the desk was very sympathetic.

We got out of there as quickly as possible, the day ruined. Sometimes people are just no damned good.

Happiness ISN'T...

...getting your freakin' leg whacked open from stem to stern. Here comes a full-on whine: DAMN, MY LEG HURTS!!!

OK...that's better. At least yesterday I made it down to the doctor to get the 900 ton cast removed. Since I couldn't get my left leg into the car on the driver's side around all the gas/brake/emergency brake pedals, J. had to drive me. I took along my old friend, Das Boot (a Frankenstein-ish orthopeadic boot, complete with numerous adjustment knobs, heavy duty black velcro straps and steel reinforcements, it looks like something Q would invent) that I had from the original broken ankle back in 2000. Lucky I did, since they were nice enough to cut off the bulky cast and replace it with the boot, but with a no-nonsense steely gaze and stern instructions NOT to walk around without the boot, and then even only when strictly neccessary.

No problem there. Especially since walking feels like someone is cheerfully holding a red-hot poker against my leg, it's automatically self-limiting. Since they had to make an even bigger incision to remove the hardware than they do to place it, the current incision is something on the order of 10 inches long. J. inspected it last night and said, "Hey, now you've got another new scar!" Whoopee. I told him I was going to come up with an interesting story to go along with it, maybe involving a bar fight down at the docks or the time that little voodoo doll came alive and chased me around the house wielding a butcher knife. Hmmm....

Ya Gotta Think Like A Kid...

Tomorrow I go in for surgery...NOT my favorite thing...to remove the metal bar and 6 or 8 screws that are holding my left ankle together. Yesterday and today I've been trying to get the things done that require me walking/driving/leaving the house/being upright. Bank...grocery store...gassing up the car...the kind of chores I refer to as "killin' rats"--that is, things that have to get done, but nobody likes doing. I'm also digging out my Advance Directive paperwork to take along, much as thinking of that kind of thing is Big Time No Fun and makes me cringe a bit, it's gotta be done. My own personal take is: No heroic measures (which means no rescusitating me or placing feeding tubes if it means I'll be a vegetable and have no quality of life), and if I pass away I want to donate any organs they can use and cremate the rest of me. Strip me for parts and burn the rest, heck I'll be long gone anyway so I won't care. *L* J. has the same plans, although he still needs to officially fill out the paperwork. Hate that general anesthetic, *bleah*. I really am fascinated by surgery anyway so I'd prefer to be able to watch, but they don't allow it.

This evening I was out enjoying the grass and visiting with the chickens since I'm going to be in the house for the next few days/weeks (our house is raised and has no wheelchair ramps). Phoenix the rooster

 Ain't he cute? Goofy, but pretty!

came over to be friendly, so I picked him up, talked to him and petted him. I teased him a bit with my standard line as I gently felt his little meaty thighs, "Ooh, aren't we a yummy, meaty bird! Umm, yep he's just about ready to eat, FEEL those meaty little drumsticks!" Phoenix just gives me a "Sure, like you'd ever really eat me. I know you're full of BS." look and bears with it. N. came over and said, "Can I?" OK, I said, but gently. She does, feeling his thigh and saying, "Yum, ice cream!"

I was laughing so hard I had to set Phoenix down. Drumsticks=ice cream, in the mind of a 5 year old... :)