This is sort of a practice blog entry. I really don't think the content is worth reading. Or raving about. And it's not particularly uplifting. Nor emotionally quenching.
So damn, what the hell did I spend all this time writing about?
But, I received ALL kinds of requests (three of you - lol) that I push forward and present a blog entry. So, I wrote this on Tuesday (I'm not sure what today is. But I do know, it's not Tuesday anymore). So please take that into consideration. Or not.
The Sting
Again, I awaken to the harsh burn, excess leakage from the blistering bile seeping out of my feeding tube stoma. It happens. Life happens. Sleeplessness happens. And I've been experiencing lots of happenings of late. This particular four in the morning happening is more of an irritant than any kind of life threatening event.
Of course, I blame Covid-19. My intestines ceased functioning altogether back on December 24th, and I had to go without nutrition for two weeks. Saline and Dextrose were all I could tolerate through the continually "blowing-up" (or imploding) IV's. So yeah.
You needn't be concerned. I won't escort you all the way down the boulevard, through the Covid carnage and Beyond Thunderdome into some future hellscape defaced with ragged Mel Gibson/Tina Turner posters affixed to decaying concrete pillars. That would be cruel, unnecessary and unconscionable. Everybody has their own mind muck, and no one needs to be dragged through mine.
Anyway, it's 5:13 in the morning and I am now completely shut down for an indeterminate amount of time. Ever since my intestinal shutdown event, I've had continual ruptures and seepages around my feeding tube stoma. So I am now determined to come up with a better solution. And no, I'm not asking anyone to present solutions to me, because none exist. The Way of the J-tube… The wearer of The Tube traverses along unique pathways forged on one's own.
What I am getting at is that I have simply become frustrated at this point. Each of us knows frustration. I am no different than any of you in that respect. But eventually this issue will resolve itself and I'll be able to sleep through the night. Yes. Everything is temporary. Life is impermanent. Reading my stupid blog is also akin to an insane undertaking, with words that soon to fade into the dark recesses of past nothingness. Nope, I am not experiencing some type of existential crisis here, but perhaps you very well may be after reading this nonsense.
Anybody ever notice how the word "crisis'' is no longer prominently used or affixed to the news headlines. Growing up in the 70s, every "trouble'' seemed to be labeled or defined as a crisis: The Watergate Crisis, The Gas Crisis, The Three Mile Island Crisis, and I think for a time, Skylab used to be part of a crisis management effort… up until they discovered it would disintegrate over Australia. Then all bets were off. No one cared anymore. Except the dirty dingoes doing their dingo best.
Real Life is Easy
Yesterday was the second time I went outdoors since returning from the hospital.. an event and effort more widely known as "Howard's Covid Crisis 2022!" Ha! And things today went a lot better than my initial foray outdoors on Friday. I desperately tried getting outside over the weekend, but on Saturday I ran up against a troubled CNA, the one who's mistreated me in the past. And then on Sunday they (we) were too short-handed to have someone bring me outside.
Hmmm… this blog entry is all sounding very negative. Let's not be negative anymore, Howard! Don't be a total f@!!$ a#@$#$! The People of Phoenix Rising require and demand cheerful exuberance!
The CNA will no longer be an issue (I finally took action) … unless he comes back here and tries to murder me. Something like that. Otherwise I should be okay from now on in that regard.
Because of the pandemic's 42% positivity rate (locally) we aren't readily accepting new residents now. So, to the best of my knowledge, they are staffing below the usual numbers (source: observation and gossip).
Up and Up
Yesterday I enjoyed a wide array of dissimilar cloud formations, a cerulean blue sky, a pleasant left-to-right breeze, and instances of socialization. Real people spoke to me with real words, and I spoke back to them. Well, that was mostly the idea and the plan.
Five to One, Baby
One in Five
Soon thereafter my activities coordinating pal came out (no, she's not part of the LGBTQRSTUV Movement… ) and brought me a package. It turns out my Medical Advocate purchased underwear for me. Five pairs. Navy blue, dark blue, light gray, dark gray and cerulean blue. And I swear I don't ask for things, besides my dumb applesauce, and now, those Gluten-Free Oreo cookies. But in this instance, I probably do need the underwear. Possibly someday I shall wear them out and about and throughout the desert terrain.
In addition, there's a plan percolating within and throughout this nursing home facility. One dedicated CNA is hell-bent on having my dirty clothes washed… and more importantly, returned to me. For instance, I wore that Orange Phoenix Suns t-shirt (that Lenora purchased for me) for 23 consecutive days.. until yesterday. Yes, I wore that t-shirt throughout my covid ordeal here, and then in the hospital, and then back here again.
It's now stained with blood, and other random colorations and spillages from my hospital time spent. But there was no way I was ever taking that shirt off, because taking the shirt off meant it would go to the laundry, never to be seen again. And that would be most unfortunate. Lenora made extreme efforts in purchasing that darned shirt for me. So I am going to wear the hell out of that shirt until...
Well, it doesn't seem they're going to do anything about it. I mean, I wore those super comfortable shorts for 47 consecutive days (October 11th - November 27th), until the super persuasive folks here at this facility super-convinced me to send my only pair of shorts in to be washed. That was more than a month ago. And those shorts haven't been seen since.
Anyway, a nice CNA woman went down to the laundry, insisting they find my missing clothes. My missing clothes include: two pairs of shorts, two shirts, and a pair of socks.
So that was on Saturday. And she failed to locate any of my clothing at that time. Then on Sunday (Sunday afternoon to be exact), that same CNA walked into my room with a fistful of clothes: three t-shirts and two pairs of shorts. So now I have more clothes to make dirty!
In theory, I can now wear different clothing items for a shorter duration. And I can start working a rotation, utilizing each clothing item until they become unwearable. Determining what makes them unwearable may be a problem (any suggested criteria?). Please keep in mind that I have a high tolerance for dirty clothes. Heck, I have a high tolerance for dirty things in general. I've slept in dirty places. I've lived in dirty places. I utilize dirty words more often than I should. And Southern Arizona is nothing more than a big ole desert basin full of dirt… accumulated windblown debris, former mountain remnants having succumbed to erosion. And compressed leftovers from ages-old inland seas. So nope, Dirty Ain't Such a Bad Place to Be! And that's likely the title of an AC/DC song, right?
So it seems everybody wants options, and I now have options. Additionally, my big sister wants to hire a laundry service for me. In theory, they'd be able to drop by the facility, pick up my very few items, wash and then return them in a timely fashion (@ once per month). The problem is that these people cost $30 per month. That's a lot of flipping money. Yes. That's more than I earn during an entire calendar year! Plus, you have to have a Minimum Sized Order. Something like 15 lb or 30 lb or some kind of serious poundage above and beyond anything I own or operate in clothing materials.
30%
Okay then, where are we now? Looks like I've rambled on and on about a whole lot of virtual nothing.
Meanwhile, I'm listening to "Layla" by Eric Clapton. Or rather, Derek and the Dominos. It's a Love Song on a love album. The making of the album's rather fascinating story, but I won't get into that here. Of course, I'm interested in how things are made, especially creative things. But if it helps at all, the album was recorded in South Florida in 1971, or maybe it was late 1970 (in and about Miami).
[I miss making music]
Cloud Covered
I need to start wrapping up here. I need to gather my outdoor apparel. There's a slight chance of rain today. I could get wet. I could be cold. But either way, I shall be fully glad to be out there in the open.
Take care,
Howard
Post Script: as of last night the J Tube issue seems to have resolved itself! Also, I tried on the new underwear, and they fit. Well, at least one pair fits. I take it there's no point in trying on all five pairs at the same time! I'm also physically improved, the past two days especially. I'm having better conversations as well.
On a sad note, my roommate is dead. Covid-19.
I didn't really know him much at all, but perhaps him no longer being with us means he's no longer suffering (he had all kinds of physical difficulties). So, yeah…
So damn, what the hell did I spend all this time writing about?
But, I received ALL kinds of requests (three of you - lol) that I push forward and present a blog entry. So, I wrote this on Tuesday (I'm not sure what today is. But I do know, it's not Tuesday anymore). So please take that into consideration. Or not.
The Sting
Again, I awaken to the harsh burn, excess leakage from the blistering bile seeping out of my feeding tube stoma. It happens. Life happens. Sleeplessness happens. And I've been experiencing lots of happenings of late. This particular four in the morning happening is more of an irritant than any kind of life threatening event.
Of course, I blame Covid-19. My intestines ceased functioning altogether back on December 24th, and I had to go without nutrition for two weeks. Saline and Dextrose were all I could tolerate through the continually "blowing-up" (or imploding) IV's. So yeah.
You needn't be concerned. I won't escort you all the way down the boulevard, through the Covid carnage and Beyond Thunderdome into some future hellscape defaced with ragged Mel Gibson/Tina Turner posters affixed to decaying concrete pillars. That would be cruel, unnecessary and unconscionable. Everybody has their own mind muck, and no one needs to be dragged through mine.
Anyway, it's 5:13 in the morning and I am now completely shut down for an indeterminate amount of time. Ever since my intestinal shutdown event, I've had continual ruptures and seepages around my feeding tube stoma. So I am now determined to come up with a better solution. And no, I'm not asking anyone to present solutions to me, because none exist. The Way of the J-tube… The wearer of The Tube traverses along unique pathways forged on one's own.
What I am getting at is that I have simply become frustrated at this point. Each of us knows frustration. I am no different than any of you in that respect. But eventually this issue will resolve itself and I'll be able to sleep through the night. Yes. Everything is temporary. Life is impermanent. Reading my stupid blog is also akin to an insane undertaking, with words that soon to fade into the dark recesses of past nothingness. Nope, I am not experiencing some type of existential crisis here, but perhaps you very well may be after reading this nonsense.
Anybody ever notice how the word "crisis'' is no longer prominently used or affixed to the news headlines. Growing up in the 70s, every "trouble'' seemed to be labeled or defined as a crisis: The Watergate Crisis, The Gas Crisis, The Three Mile Island Crisis, and I think for a time, Skylab used to be part of a crisis management effort… up until they discovered it would disintegrate over Australia. Then all bets were off. No one cared anymore. Except the dirty dingoes doing their dingo best.
Real Life is Easy
Yesterday was the second time I went outdoors since returning from the hospital.. an event and effort more widely known as "Howard's Covid Crisis 2022!" Ha! And things today went a lot better than my initial foray outdoors on Friday. I desperately tried getting outside over the weekend, but on Saturday I ran up against a troubled CNA, the one who's mistreated me in the past. And then on Sunday they (we) were too short-handed to have someone bring me outside.
Hmmm… this blog entry is all sounding very negative. Let's not be negative anymore, Howard! Don't be a total f@!!$ a#@$#$! The People of Phoenix Rising require and demand cheerful exuberance!
The CNA will no longer be an issue (I finally took action) … unless he comes back here and tries to murder me. Something like that. Otherwise I should be okay from now on in that regard.
Because of the pandemic's 42% positivity rate (locally) we aren't readily accepting new residents now. So, to the best of my knowledge, they are staffing below the usual numbers (source: observation and gossip).
Up and Up
Yesterday I enjoyed a wide array of dissimilar cloud formations, a cerulean blue sky, a pleasant left-to-right breeze, and instances of socialization. Real people spoke to me with real words, and I spoke back to them. Well, that was mostly the idea and the plan.
Five to One, Baby
One in Five
Soon thereafter my activities coordinating pal came out (no, she's not part of the LGBTQRSTUV Movement… ) and brought me a package. It turns out my Medical Advocate purchased underwear for me. Five pairs. Navy blue, dark blue, light gray, dark gray and cerulean blue. And I swear I don't ask for things, besides my dumb applesauce, and now, those Gluten-Free Oreo cookies. But in this instance, I probably do need the underwear. Possibly someday I shall wear them out and about and throughout the desert terrain.
In addition, there's a plan percolating within and throughout this nursing home facility. One dedicated CNA is hell-bent on having my dirty clothes washed… and more importantly, returned to me. For instance, I wore that Orange Phoenix Suns t-shirt (that Lenora purchased for me) for 23 consecutive days.. until yesterday. Yes, I wore that t-shirt throughout my covid ordeal here, and then in the hospital, and then back here again.
It's now stained with blood, and other random colorations and spillages from my hospital time spent. But there was no way I was ever taking that shirt off, because taking the shirt off meant it would go to the laundry, never to be seen again. And that would be most unfortunate. Lenora made extreme efforts in purchasing that darned shirt for me. So I am going to wear the hell out of that shirt until...
Well, it doesn't seem they're going to do anything about it. I mean, I wore those super comfortable shorts for 47 consecutive days (October 11th - November 27th), until the super persuasive folks here at this facility super-convinced me to send my only pair of shorts in to be washed. That was more than a month ago. And those shorts haven't been seen since.
Anyway, a nice CNA woman went down to the laundry, insisting they find my missing clothes. My missing clothes include: two pairs of shorts, two shirts, and a pair of socks.
So that was on Saturday. And she failed to locate any of my clothing at that time. Then on Sunday (Sunday afternoon to be exact), that same CNA walked into my room with a fistful of clothes: three t-shirts and two pairs of shorts. So now I have more clothes to make dirty!
In theory, I can now wear different clothing items for a shorter duration. And I can start working a rotation, utilizing each clothing item until they become unwearable. Determining what makes them unwearable may be a problem (any suggested criteria?). Please keep in mind that I have a high tolerance for dirty clothes. Heck, I have a high tolerance for dirty things in general. I've slept in dirty places. I've lived in dirty places. I utilize dirty words more often than I should. And Southern Arizona is nothing more than a big ole desert basin full of dirt… accumulated windblown debris, former mountain remnants having succumbed to erosion. And compressed leftovers from ages-old inland seas. So nope, Dirty Ain't Such a Bad Place to Be! And that's likely the title of an AC/DC song, right?
So it seems everybody wants options, and I now have options. Additionally, my big sister wants to hire a laundry service for me. In theory, they'd be able to drop by the facility, pick up my very few items, wash and then return them in a timely fashion (@ once per month). The problem is that these people cost $30 per month. That's a lot of flipping money. Yes. That's more than I earn during an entire calendar year! Plus, you have to have a Minimum Sized Order. Something like 15 lb or 30 lb or some kind of serious poundage above and beyond anything I own or operate in clothing materials.
30%
Okay then, where are we now? Looks like I've rambled on and on about a whole lot of virtual nothing.
Meanwhile, I'm listening to "Layla" by Eric Clapton. Or rather, Derek and the Dominos. It's a Love Song on a love album. The making of the album's rather fascinating story, but I won't get into that here. Of course, I'm interested in how things are made, especially creative things. But if it helps at all, the album was recorded in South Florida in 1971, or maybe it was late 1970 (in and about Miami).
[I miss making music]
Cloud Covered
I need to start wrapping up here. I need to gather my outdoor apparel. There's a slight chance of rain today. I could get wet. I could be cold. But either way, I shall be fully glad to be out there in the open.
Take care,
Howard
Post Script: as of last night the J Tube issue seems to have resolved itself! Also, I tried on the new underwear, and they fit. Well, at least one pair fits. I take it there's no point in trying on all five pairs at the same time! I'm also physically improved, the past two days especially. I'm having better conversations as well.
On a sad note, my roommate is dead. Covid-19.
I didn't really know him much at all, but perhaps him no longer being with us means he's no longer suffering (he had all kinds of physical difficulties). So, yeah…
