Two Hurrays!

Big Hurray #1

Thank you to all those prayed for me. Full glory to God I am not needing any more surgery. Just a check up in 6 months. SO HURRAY and thank you.

Big Hurray #2

More Tolkien coming soon. Ooooo I cant wait for this!

Happy First Day of Spring!


Out of Sequence

A horrifying hour in the Chair today. Thinking it was a minor appointment, there were no thoughts of implements of torture in my mind as they lay me back. Alas alas.

My Oral Surgeons are very kind and capable. The biggest problem is that my injuries were repaired out of sequence. Cosmetics were the issue in the beginning as bloody mouths, jagged bones and hanging tissues are not socially acceptable. The Insurance Companies suckered me as I had no idea about future complications or alignments of bones. I just wanted my mouth to be normal.

After my inner jaw was *relined* and mu gums reattached, I had crowns done one by bloody one. This was NOT covered by the Insurance Claim but necessary as the broken teeth snapped, fell out or cracked one by maddening one. THAT was the mistake. I should have had my jaw realigned them, but noone told me.

Now I am nearing the end of this hell. The wires mostly do not show anymore as they work to bring the back jaw to a stable position. Some of my teeth had to have brackets on them however because of the crowns, the brackets do not stay on. They snap off at the most annoying times. This is an improvement from the first wires which were on a total of 72 hours when I had a seizure. Lovely, no?

Today was a hard go in the chair.
And hey--- I paid big money for this too.

Remember: if you have an accident jaw, teeth, or any part of your face is broken, get a tough as nails lawyer and sue for big money. You are going to need it. Of course if you can ignore breaking teeth, migraines, popping and clicking and eardrums crunching don't bother.

Mostly right about now I wish I had enough money for a massage. It would be so nice to relax totally and bliss out.

okay, where's the Advil.



An addition to the day was welcome. After all, between the many kilometers travelled in vain, and
the lack of practise of skills, a definite feeling of uselessness enmired me, the futility factor was
in play. There is a strange quirk in my personality; one among dozens, nay-hundreds, that makes me desire above all things to make a difference to someone every day of my life. Some people have suggested this is a co-dependence trait and that in caring that my needs are met. Whether it matters much means nothing to me. I do what I do because I love to do it.

My addition turned out to be a retired Nurse who lives in one of the many waterfront communities.
She was delightful. At one point in our most interesting conversation she stopped suddenly and
looked at me strangely. "I don't know why I am telling you all this."

I hear that exact phrase alot. This is my true skill - pulling from people memories that they hold
dear. The care is incidental really. People tell me all sorts of things all the time and I
appreciate it immensely. In memory we live forever. It is an honour that I carry them with me.

My client told me that she had been an Army Nurse in the Second World War, During her training she was injured rather badly in a training accident. She was very gracious in her recollections although she did say that the Officer involved should have been court-maritalled. After listening to her, I was inclined to think that was too minor a consequence for what he did. And what did he do? He pulled the pin from a live grenade and threw it at her feet.

The blast threw her 20 feet and after she got up from it, noone seemed to know what to do. She
was in a group of 1500 trainees and noone had the presence of mind to do anything sensible. Instead she had to WALK a mile for treatment. And then, the Army Doctor said to her: "Hmm, phosphorous, hmmm." And he looked it up in his Medical dictionary.

Thanks to a very interested involved and engaged family, she now gets a pension from Veterans
Affairs. They had to help her apply for it as the myriad of paperwork was daunting. Amazing that
until that time, she got nothing at all. Just 4 months off to recover from the burns, and then she
was shipped overseas where she met the love of her life. A rainbow at the end of a bad storm.

It would be a great pleasure to be called back to that place. I would love to be helpful to her.
She deserves it and more. At the very least.



Mojo, Our Lady of the Colourful Metaphors

It has been years since I saw Mojo. I stopped going to her because of the smoking. Mojo is another chain-smoker who has a nicotine fit if more than 10 minutes go by without a puff. Trust me, it is never more than 9. I had forgotten she was a smoker or I would likely have said no to her but once in it is rather too late. I carry emergency puffers for this exact reason.

Mojo was as always. She goes for the shock value. You walk in and see an 89 year old woman in a muumuu. She gives you a lovely smile. You ask her what she is up to and she tells you she is off to "take a crap."

Mojo had a career as a Nurse back in the days when they did those bad lifts. Her back is very painful, and her gait is unsteady. She lives alone, in a very nice ocean view apartment with rather minimal help to stay independent. She has kids and grandkids and great-grandkids but noone ever comes by. One of her sons calls every now and then. She thinks he is just checking to make sure she didn't die and leave it all to someone else. She has given up on her family completely and spends most of her time with her hired help. Her best friend is her cleaning lady. Naturally the Son(s) do not approve but also do not visit.

"Haha, he doesn't know but I did get a big inheritance. And I spent it all. I planned out ten years of trips and fun and I spent it all. And he can have what's left. Sweet bugger all. The fucker."

Today, Mojo told me that recently there have been alot of stories in the news about teenagers assaulting old ladies. She now keeps her doors and windows locked at all times. She made it to 40 minutes and then she said she HAD to have a ciggie so I had to go.

Mojo walked me down the hall to lock the door behind me.

"Isn't it sad that I have to do this? I worry about someone breaking in and stealing my stuff. Or raping me. Actually I wouldn't mind a good rape but it would have to be consensual."

Another one off.


Happy St. Patrick's Day

A touch of the green to you...

happy St. Paddys.....

Drink a green beer for me.


Hillbilly Guy

Another change to the ol' schedule necessitated my driving to an adjoining little area. A rental building on a main street where my client waited at his front door. He ushered me in.

We chit-chatted mindless silly stuff you say to distract the person from what you are really doing to them, and he prattled on about his life. Prattle is the wrong word. But it is close. He spoke in homilies and strange little sentences that made me wonder if he had experienced a stroke or if he was just unschooled. The home was dingy. The towels were dirty. The supplies were ancient.

He had an extra bedroom where a Roland electric keyboard was hooked up to a Fender amp.
A microphone lay strewn about.

"Yeah me and my Rose used to play at the Army and Navy 4 times a month. She never sung in front of anyone but the mirror when I met her and after 5 years I had her up to 200 songs."

Rose died a few years ago. She smoked herself to death he told me.
I had asked him something about the pictures of the pretty young blonde girls that may be grandkids and he said to me:
"Oh Rose was not my wife. I had two women."

He looked at me triumphantly. This was really something to him.
Then he smiled and leaned back a little.
"Yeeeup. Rose, I never married her but she was my woman for 14 years. The wife I had before we had the kids but it was no good. Rose was great. I bought her a '75 Ford Van and fixed it up and we had ourselves a Coffee Wagon. Went all over town selling. Made darned good money too."

Of course I had him play me a tune. Buffalo Gals and Secret Love and Please Release Me, and a couple of country tunes I had trouble identifying.

"SO are you married?"


I gotta tell you, the answer to that question is always, emphatically YES. No matter what. The answer is YES.

He did mention as how he was going to be at the certain restaurant at a certain time if I was interested perhaps and then told me about this woman he met for breakfast every Friday who was 45 and so on. A player. A Hillbilly player.

I found some geriatric soap and did the dishes that were absolutely mouldy. I even scrubbed the toilet when he wasn't looking. I just couldn't stand all that drab. But damn it all if he didn't put his same old grimey clothes back on after we finished his dressings.

Ah well.

I know this guy. I remember him. A long time ago I was in a little cafe in the boonies. I remember the band because it was appallingly bad, in a strange and endearing way. I remember this little man because he has a facial deformity that is not visible if his hat is on. His hat is almost always on. I remember Rose too. She sort of yodelled as she sang.

Right on Rockabilly Hillbilly Guy.
Right on.


Happy Pi Day

its 3.14

Happy Pi day

Pi Day and Pi Approximation Day are two unofficial holidays held to celebrate the mathematical constant π (Pi). Pi Day is observed on March 14 (3/14 in American date format), due to pi being equal to roughly 3.14. Sometimes it is celebrated on March 14 at 1:59 pm (commonly known as 'Pi Minute'); if Pi is rounded out to five decimal places, it becomes 3.14159, making March 14 at 1:59:26 pm being 'Pi Second.' Pi Approximation Day may be observed on any of several dates, most often July 22 (22/7 - in European date format - is a popular approximation of π).


Happy Birthday Wids!

Happy Birthday Widdy.

Wishing you health, happiness, joy and humour.
(You too, 'Clue)

Speaking of humour:
click here


Still Waiting...

and waiting.... and waiting.... and waiting....


Pieces of Me

Perhaps when this is over I should request my bits back and sell them on EBay.

Get it first! Harmony's cervix! Uterine lining only slightly used!!

It makes me crazy to think pieces of me are being sampled and prodded and tested while I sit on tenderhooks waiting. tic-tic-tic

Hurry bloody up.


A New and Entirely Unexpected Pleasure

We take our joy where we find it. Lately my joy has been something that I always loved but had forgotten. It is reading. Being read to. I love to be read to. This came to me at one of my regular ladies where an audiobook cassette lay by a CNIB machine.

At home, I decided to try a search for AudioBooks on my favoured file-sharing program and was bowled over by the results. I must admit to adding about 25 names into my filters list. Harry Potter and Zig Ziglar and so on. I also added the phrase "self help" and the words "hypnosis" and suchlike betterments. It is not self-definement I require. It is the comfort of a voice reading me a story. Now, Neil Gaiman's stories don't seem to come up--how annoying-- but Agatha Christie's certainly do. I spent my adolescence reading every Agatha Christie book I could get my hands on. I think I own most of them still in leather bound volumes in my library. So downloads-a-go-g0 it has been on my personal machine.

All this last time of hospitals and tests and Doctors, I have spent my evenings being read to. Poirot and Miss Marple and the usual cast of upperclass twits and gossipy villagers. Strangely enjoying.


Creekside Kate. Shopaholic extrodinare.

A very nice woman of my acquaintence asked me if I knew a certain lady they called Creekside Kate. It rang a bell. I remembered the whole name but I could not quite get the details until my friend told me that Kate slept in her living room, so that she could watch the Shopping Channel on her hugescreen television that she had ordered, of course, from the Shopping Channel.

Oh yes, I remember Kate very well. I was noone to her and there she was, touring me through her home showing me all the things she had bought from that Channel.

"They all know me by name", she said, like that was a good thing.

Kate was neither rich or needy. She occupied that grey space of having just enough money to get through life, but she had discovered to her delight, after her husband died, the joys of credit. Shortly after that she learned about liquifying investments and then finally, reverse mortgages. She suffered dreadfully from anxiety attacks and lived alone in a very nice little strata complex where she had a newer modular home. I would talk to her and coax her into doing little things, like leaving the house, bit by bit.

Kate smoked like a chimney and finally I told her that I could no longer come see her if she smoked in the home. I just cannot breathe. We parted ways but I did continue to drop by from time to time. I always wondered why her family did not come to help her a little bit. Why were the operators and telemarketers filling the role of paid family? It seemed such a sad thing.

My lady friend told me that Kate had a bout with pneumonia and was in hospital. Her daughter came over but declined to stay and called this friend from the ferry saying: "You'll have to pick my mother up from the Hospital. I have a reservation for the ferry."

Cold as nails.

Mom came home and went back in again. My friend called the daughter to tell her that her mother was very ill, and the circumstances were grave.

"What do you expect me to do about it?"

---- *

I know that not everyone can do for their parents or family. But if you cannot, find someone who can. Paid help, volunteer help, government help... whatever. It is so sad to think that Kate died alone in the hospital.

She was the woman I once told that it might be best not to show every person who came in her home the chiffonier loaded with shopping channel jewellery. She told me once she had spent her last 50 thousand dollars on nothing but jewellery. She never wore it, it just sat in the chiffonier, twinkling in the dark drawers. What that 50 thousand dollars really bought her was a friendly voice in the middle of the night.

She was a very pleasant and kind woman. I am glad she had someone who will actually miss her.


The Wilds (and other such things)

Here in Paradise there are two distinct classes of people. The very very wealthy and the rest of us. Amongst the very very wealthy are some rather colourful sorts that are land-rich. Mostly, they are children of pioneer types, who carved out acres and acres one hundred years ago. There are more than a few Reserves of the different Aboriginal Nations but the great majority of wealth is held by the companies who hold the logging rights to Crown land.

Only in the last five years has the real estate here gone the way of the bigger cities of the Province. When I moved here I had a palace above the ocean that I paid $144,000 for. It had 3 levels and 4 bathrooms. I sold it for $155k and was content. Now it recently resold for $565,000. Obviously I am not destined to become rich via real estate.

I live in the coziest of cozy condos. 954 sq feet of shiny things. Not worth anymore than about $165k but it is unimportant to me. I love it here. It is the happiest I have ever been in a home. Everything in my space was chosen by me. Does that seem vain? Doesn't matter to me.
I love my home. ~~la la la la love it.

Now being a city girl of course I live in the heart of this tiny city. I am close to everything. Only for work do I venture out to the different areas of this vast district. My usual clientelle reside in the upscale downtown area of our posh bits, but every now and then I get a call to the wilds.

"The Wilds."
There are so many different explanations for the people that reside in this area.
Inbreeding comes to mind. But since discovering the double first cousin marriages in our direct line of ancestors I cannot quibble about that too much. *wink

There is a part of me that wants to tell my today story about the gentleman who stripped naked and walked around his home with his *member* at full attention but I have decided to overlook that.

Maybe tomorrow.
Sleep well.


Last day in the Big Chair

Today is my last day in the big black chair.
I am sad.

Farewell my lovelies. I shall miss you all.


The Ambulance Comes (and goes)

So many, so very many ambulances have come amongst my clientelle this year, I have lost count. The lovely chef, the woman who is all heart and no stamina summoned one in the middle of the night after two very busy days in which she went out and about and had two glorious meals with family and friends. Not so bad, all in all. It likely passed the ambulance bringing the Word Smith home.

With delight, I noted he was back on my schedule, home from the Hospital. He is frailer all the time, and breathing is more difficult each subsequent week, but he isn't rolling over just yet. I am one of the people he remembers, although not by name. He always raises his arm in a salute saying: "Hail Petronius." The retort I am expected to give has not yet been perfected.

"I am a Wordsmith" he said to me.

This is how we now communicate.

He remembers that I love words and admire his craft and lore. He remembers that I love to hear his stories. I adore him. I adore his wife as well, but she is not my client. She gets so little time off from her fulltime care of him. Today it will just be the hour that I am with him. Although he is not well enough to get up today, and his personal care takes all of 8 minutes, including the washing of his dentures, I take my time and sit on the edge of the bed.

Today, I cheat and ask him of his love for his wife. The Wordsmith would have to be in a coma before that story would fail delivery.

"Five year I adored her from afar. Five years and then destiny took a hand."

This story I could tell you by heart, I have heard it so often. I sit there staring into his cloudy eyes, past the glaucoma and into the dancing lights. He is barely able to stay upright, but the love story is laid out for me none the less. That adoration he has, that abiding adoration for his wife meets you at the door. It is a home full of peace and love.

The Wordsmith has come home to die. He knows it, we know it.
He is scared but not terrified. He just does not want to leave his beloved.
After the end of the stories, and my one hour visit, I bid him adieu.
He kissed my hand as I left.

That is the first time ever for that.
It was a goodbye kiss, I know that.
Just in case we do not again meet.

Farewell Caesar.