Put Me Back Into My Coma

Lithium toxicity is what caused by seizure and subsequent coma. Even when I came out of it I was very confused. It took me a while to get my bearings.

My husband, mother, sister seemed very nice but foreign to me. It got better and then it got worse! How can Trump be in the lead?! How can he be in the race?

Hell, I’m more qualified to be president and I’m a brain damaged patient who never went to college! After getting home, I was glued to the TV. CNN, MSNBC and Family Feud were my viewing staples.

Today I dream about Coma-ville and it’s lovely. No pain. No hunger. No Trump. Ahhh … Good thing my husband keeps the lithium away from me. I wonder if a Democrat doctor would do me a favor.

Major Update

My story is this – I had a lithium induced seizure on Christmas 2015. It was followed by two weeks in a coma. For what seemed like an eternity, I couldn’t walk or eat (extreme nausea). Still, that wasn’t the worse. I suffer from memory loss, my reading level was 2nd grade and writing was not an option. After coming home in February, I fell several times. This caused a pinched nerve that makes any type of walking painful and tiring. Today I walk (with a cane or walker. I can read anything and write my poetry. I still require a plethora of medication and physical therapy. The good news is I’m alive and loved by a great husband and army of family and friends.

It’s Gross

For quite some time now, I’ve been hearing about alleged Christians and their intolerance to the LGBT community. Almost always the Bible is quoted as a means to justify there stance.

I propose that their prejudices stem from something more basic. When I look back at my childhood there was something all kids(or at least most) had in common.

You heard something coming from the bedroom. You opened the door. And absolute horror filled your eyes and brain. They were having sex! Gross! Yuck!

Oral, vaginal, handcuffs, from behind, missionary and of course you saw them naked. When they came out of the bedroom smelling like sex you were silent and eying the floor.

You didn’t want to talk about it. You never opened that door again. If your parents even hinted that they had sex a small or large amount of abhorrence rushed to your heart.

But with age you get over it. Maturity, compassion and love makes you want your parents to be happy in all aspects of their lives. So displays of affection turn into a good thing.

I propose that right-wingers can’t stand the thought of gay sex acts (much like normal kids did of heterosexual sex). If you don’t like it don’t think about it!

They point at the Bible and say, God hates them too. I’m not prejudice. I just want it abolished from society for God’s sake. I’m doing His work!

Hey, bigot! You need to grow up. You are a homophobic, mean-spirited, immature and socially oppressive person. By the way, don’t have sex in the house. Your kids think it’s nasty.

Get Up

My life before meeting my husband was peppered with hate. That kind of hatred could only be managed with drinking, sex, inner screams and hidden wounds. Who’s to blame?  At the top of the list was my mother’s boyfriend.

Granted, he didn’t make me bipolar. He made my symptoms far more pronounced by screwing with my head. He was a psychologist who liked breaking into bathrooms.

My mother’s relationship with him ended over 30 years ago. He’s been dead and gone for a while now. But something remains. He wasn’t just a pervert. He was father to five human beings.

Today I’m Facebook friends with three of them. His son looks just like him and carries his name. It isn’t hard to look or talk to him because my quasi-stepbrother is not his father. All of his children belong to themselves and that makes it easy for me to see them and not their father.

I have no hate in me. I choose to find pride in my great and minor victories. I have no cuts on my thighs. I have no booze or cigarettes in my life. My husband and I share guilt-free marital pleasures. Lastly, I can look at my pain without succumbing to it.

Like my quasi-siblings, I belong to myself. I refuse to relinquish myself to anyone. I trust that I will choose what is right for me. And if I fall, I’ll just quickly get up.

Yes, I live awkwardly

Sheepishly, I return to my blogger-istic mentality and PC. I am stuck in a biomechanical and anxiously stubborn status. And its been impossible to actually sit at the desk comfortably.

I refer to my knee of course. It is in fact an imperfect 3 inch scar that mocks me by looking up at me daily. I try to minimize its glare with my nightly ritual – Mederma scar cream. I see little change but others say it’s changing. So I am dutiful. Damn it.

My knee replacement surgery was on August 11. Never in my life have I been in so much pain and nausea (anesthesia and pain pills). I of course had a massive meltdown. Fortunately, my husband got me through it.

The first few weeks was rough. Everything hurt. I yelled at my husband. I was afraid to leave the house. Bathing was an ordeal I tried to avoid as much as possible. I was like a 7 year old boy trying to convince his mother he didn’t smell bad.

I got better and then I got a brand new and annoying walker. It’s clunky, noisy and generates much sympathy. But that was then and this is now. Today I have a very stylish cane with a blue and black design.

I have been dubbed the favorite patient by my physical therapist. I do my exercises. I walk the treadmill for 10 minutes. I ride the stationary bike for 7 minutes. It’s a big deal because for 2 months I could not do a complete rotation on the bike. Today, I’m like Lance Armstrong minus the juice.

I’m not 100% but my PT and surgeon like my progress. My X-rays look good. I’m able to drive, use the toilet without a commode and basically live.

My new awful problem to tackle is shopping. How am I gonna get any shopping done? I can’t walk for more than 10 minutes and I can’t take the Norco (pain med) until I’m home.

Interesting Memento

I have heard of people keeping remnants of their surgery. Bullets, placenta, kidney stones, pins, screws and plates etc. are all treasured mementos.

So apparently the surgeon chisels and/or saws off bone during my knee replacement surgery. Hmm. Interesting indeed. Should I get the bits and pieces of me back in a plastic cup?

What would I do with it? I could incorporate it into an unusual backsplash. I might bury it in a garden or even a potted plant. I’ve got it! I can take it to a jeweler and make it into a pendant.

Have I gone too far? I think I have gone too far on the last one. I need to go classy on this one. Okay, how about having them bronzed into some fancy bookends?

I need to stop thinking about this surgery. Actually, I can’t. My mind is really impressing me.

Audio Sedation

So, on Monday (in 4 days) I will be getting my knee replacement surgery. This bipolar succinctly goes through a plethora of thoughts and emotions. And now I’ve stopped .

What do I want to do, think or say? Music! That’s it. I need to think about a Top Ten Playlist for knee surgery and/or hospitalization. This may take a while.

1. Like A Surgeon – Weird Al Yankovic

2. Flagpole Sitta – Harvey Danger

3. Not The Doctor – Alanis Morrisette

4. The First Cut Is the Deepest – Rod Stewart

5. King of Pain – The Police

6. Just Like A Pill – Pink

7. Everybody Hurts – R.E.M.

8. Hurt’s So Good – John Mellencamp

9. Scar Tissue – The Red Hot Chili Peppers

10. Walk This Way – by Aerosmith

It’s Free

Lately, I’ve been experiencing some weather-incited nostalgic thinking. I find it odd because it’s as humid as the tropics and I live in Los Angeles.

It isn’t that I’ve never experienced humidity in my hometown, but the norm is dry heat. Southern California is in fact a desert.

Anyway, back to the nostalgia. I lived in Torreon Coahuila , Mexico for one year as a teenager. Flash floods were common on my grandparents street. Is was major boulevard with a hospital across the street.

The humidity was annoying, but the mosquitos were the worse. They ate me up alive even after I used ‘la bomba’ on my bedroom. This was my ineffective weapon.

Still, I loved the smell of an impending storm. I would hang out in the blue white tile courtyard. It boasted a productive lime tree.

The old fashioned washing machine (complete with a ringer) was underneath a corrugated metal roof. I loved the sound of the roof as the rain came down.

All my senses were in different realms or dimensions when it rained in Torreon. And when the rain left me I faced a dry, plain reality.

Before I met my husband I lived in a Pasadena house with roommates. We had a concrete slab porch. I used it to smoke my cigarettes on the coveted porch. Porch, smokes and a crazy humid thunderstorm was sheer joy to me.

Today I’m free of smokes and mosquitos, yet part of me stays in those places. I, of course, got into the rain to drench myself. I think everyone should succumb to the elements for a while. It’s free.

 

Aftermath

July 27th was my birthday and no, I will not say my age. I’m middle-aged and that’s all I’ll divulge. Am I vain? Yes. Absolutely.

I had a lovely birthday complete with gifts, well wishes, yummy food and affection. I was taken care of by all who love me.

The aftermath is always strange and fuzzy. I’m in an awkward state for a few days. Then I do my life assessment – accomplishments and failures. This is dangerous, but I do it anyway.

When will it all end? Bipolar is forever. Hysterectomy – am I really a woman? Knee replacement surgery is forthcoming. Until then pain and fear is a staple in every step I take.

On the flip side, I have gone on amazing trips with my lovely husband. I can speak Spanish. I have two blogs. And I have a lot of good people who love me.

Why do I do this to myself? Maybe I want to lob my own stones at my own house. I’ve been doing this all my life. Judging myself is the place where I hide.

I don’t hide all the time, but birthdays are a trigger. I think reaching physical and mental balance is like scaling Mt. Everest. Sadly, I don’t want a Sherpa.

 

It Repeats Itself

DISCLOSURE: I have Jewish, Muslim, Christian and atheist friends. All of them value life.

Anyone who follows my blog knows I’m fond of making lists. It alleviates stress for me and makes me proud of my levity and humor. That said, there are lists that are not easy or funny and will cause much stress.

I’m referring to a time and place when paperwork, typewriters and forgeries equaled life. Many Jewish and non-Jewish children were saved by good people who were not Jewish. World War II …. big deal, right?

I know everyone knows about the Holocaust, Schindler’s List etc. And yes, many acts of heroism, heartache and cruelty. Should we just let such history go? It’s been 75 years since Hitler reared his psychotically evil head.

Shall we forget it, then? HELL NO! Why not? The evil spirit of the Holocaust is here, today. Today’s Nazis go to Synagogue, fast for Ramadan and shut their Christian eyes and ears to the world’s suffering children.

An Israeli Parliament member stated that all Palestinians are terrorists and their mothers should be killed. All I could think of was her ancestors. Does she not know who she is? http://english.astroawani.com/news/show/israeli-mp-says-mothers-of-all-palestinians-should-be-killed-40024

Perhaps she thinks that her race is superior? Where have I heard that before? All of us are here for a reason. Whether you believe in God or not we can all agree that there is no superior race. We are capable of wondrous reasoning and self-serving bullshit.