Wired

I've decided to try a new type of art: bending wire to make goofy stuff. This is my first piece, which I think I'll call "Ninja Fresh". I have to work on my technique a bit as I'm not great at making the wire wraps with this heavy a gauge. Looks like another trip to the hardware store for some lighter wire.

My ASPCA cat photo entry

Here's my entry in an ASPCA cat photo contest.

Harley was born to a feral mother who I had been feeding outside my apartment. She had disappeared during the birth, and about six weeks later, she proudly marched up to my door with three kittens in tow. This was May, 2006.

I could not catch them at first; being feral, they would just hiss and run away. After a couple of days, I did catch two of them, but the little black one ran like the wind under a storage building out back. I surrendered the two I caught to my veterinarian, who gave them their medications and put them up for adoption in his office. They found good homes.

The little black kitten remained with his mother, and even though they would stay on my porch and come to me to be fed, they were still evasive. One day, I noticed that the kitten was by himself. The mother had evidently moved on, and I never saw her again. He lived under my car in the driveway, and I lived in fear of him getting run over.

I was diligent in trying to get him close enough to nab him to bring him inside. I set up a little device using a mesh laundry hamper, and put the cat food inside it. After several days, he was accustomed to it enough to go inside to eat. I managed to sneak around from the back and grab him. He let out a wail that I'm sure the neighbors heard! I ducked inside with him, and gave him a bath and cleaned his eyes. He was not amused, and terrified.

He was placed on a towel in the bathroom, and I brought in a small litter tray and a food dish. I kept him separated from my other two cats for the first couple of days, and he eventually began to respond to my petting. I named him Harley, because he had such a distinctive purr. He's still quite the talker.

Harley's favorite game is to fetch the cotton glove fingertips that I cut off my white gloves I use for crafts. Who would have guessed ten free kitty toys for each pair? His fetch record is forty-nine times in a row, where I toss the finger off the bed, and he comes back with it, dropping it by my hand. I was tired by that time, so who knows how many times he might have gone for it?

Harley is not a lap cat at all, but he is a love, none the less. He sleeps at the foot of my bed, after a nightly round of fetch. He does not jump up onto high places, and he still goes the long way around to get on my bed, having been so small when he first came inside that I trained him to use a little step ladder to get onto my bed. Instead of a ladder now, he jumps first onto a side table, then up onto the bed. He's the one cat I do not have to worry about getting on the counter.

One of his funniest habits is "burning out" before he takes a drink of water from the dish. One of my other cats always puts a paw in the dish to test the level of the water first, and I suppose that move has been reinterpreted by Harley to mean a quick pawing at the floor in front of the dish before he drinks.

I'm still amazed at how this big black cat who loves the foot of my bed was that scared little thing I rescued from the street.

This photo was taken in indirect sun coming in through the curtain on the window at the left of the picture. I love it because Harley is a real dust magnet, and you can see the fuzz on him in great detail. It also shows the parts of him that are not true black, which you can't see except in bright natural light.

Thank you, ASPCA, for everything you do.

Bogey boy and more VA adventures.

I came home after an entire day of waiting around at the VA hospital to find my internet service down. Blast, said I, among a few other choice words. I spent my evening then watching something on the History Channel, then flipping around, found a show called "Miami Ink" about a tattoo parlor. I had company in my lap, see below.


They say that having a cat can reduce your blood pressure and mellow you out. Man, did I need mellowing last night. We had a guy catch the DAV van to Memphis who wanted to go to the ER because he had broken his hand. Well, that was fine, but we later found out, after he had sat in the ER waiting room for nearly eight hours, and the rest of us had been in the lobby for the same eight hours, that the nimrod had broken his hand falling off his dirt bike TWO WEEKS AGO! No wonder they made him sit there while the REAL emergencies were being seen. He did manage to wrangle the narcotics (oxycodone) out of them, however. Bastard. And wimp.

I've dealt with chronic pain for the past twenty-five years, and they will not give me "the good drugs". Why is that? I don't complain of #10 pain all the time? (That would be the worst on the scale of 1-10.) Generally, I'd class mine as a 6 or 7 with an occasional 8-9. To me, when it gets that bad, I'm IN the hospital. Only once has that pain been really a level ten, where I begged for them to put me out somehow. That was when they were inserting a drain tube into my side, under my liver, to drain a staph infection after surgery. I was awake, and did not want to be.

Back to our story. I did see the neurologist yesterday. Unfortunately, my test results had yet to be delivered to him. He spent a good fifteen minutes trying to run them down in the complexities of the VA system, but they were not there. It seems that the contracted service has not had them couriered over to the hospital yet. Now why in heavens name could they not have handed ME, the fecking PATIENT, my OWN RESULTS to hand carry to the neurologist last Friday when I was on my way over to see him directly (Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200) after the testing? Because they cannot trust me with my own diagnosis? What the hell was I going to do with the cd-rom? Go operate on myself? Judas Priest on a pogo stick.

All I got yesterday for my time was the last visit with Dr. M, whom I will miss. He's a great doctor, and leaves today for Cleveland, Ohio, and a new practice. He told me in short to be careful, not do anything that might damage my back or neck (I promised no rollerblading or hang gliding), because there might be something they could do surgically for my neck, even if my back is probably beyond most help. I wished him fair seas and following winds. My next appointment will be as soon as they find my fecking MRI scans.

After waiting on the whiny kid all that time, we were all tired. He gets in the van, and the driver says, routinely, "Everybody buckled up?" Kid says "I don't wear no seatbelt. Things get you killed." I turned around, and said "That's the rules here, wear it or don't get a ride home." I continued the lecture. "I'd be dead already if I hadn't been wearing mine." He counters "Mine got hung up once". I said "I'd take my chances of being hung up rather than tossed out of the vehicle. Besides, you can cut the strap." He says, "You carry a pocket knife?" I said, "Yeah, a big sharp one."

He put on the fecking seat belt. Idiot.

End of rant.

Downer Diva part deux

I said I'd put an update after the MRI, so here's what I know so far.

Nothing.

I got up Friday at an appropriately early time to drive myself to Memphis to get the MRI at a facility that has an open MRI machine. I tend to be claustrophobic in regular MRI machines, probably because the first one I had, the techs wrapped me up in a constraint like a big burrito, and I had an extreme hotflash during the procedure. I had to squeeze the little bulb and have them get me out of there. They administered some sedative, and I snored through the rest of the procedure. Subsequent MRIs have been nightmarish, too, because once the fan was not working inside the machine and I got extremely hot. Beam me up, Scotty.

That's why I had to drive to the far side of Memphis for this test. I arrived fifteen minutes before my appointment, because the traffic was a bitch on Friday, and the directions to the office were not exactly right. There is no sign on the front of the building to indicate where this office might be, and I parked in the wrong lot the first time, and had to go back and move my car over to the next building. Not great for my mood in 94 degree morning heat.

The office was very plain, and the patient ahead of me was having difficulty understanding what he was supposed to do before he had whatever test it was. Something about a preparation he had to drink, and he was wanting to know if he could drink it with a Coke, because it tastes bad. The technician was trying to explain it to him why that wouldn't work, and he was becoming more agitated the more they talked. Finally, they got him sorted and sent him on his way, and called me to the desk to fill out the obligatory paperwork.

Don't you love doing that? I should carry a list of the medication I am taking. Seems like I'm asked that information at the drop of a hat. This paperwork even had a little MAN drawing fore and aft for me to point out "where does it hurt". (Where's my WOMAN drawing? What if it hurts in a spot men don't have?) After telling them my life by a series of yes or no questions, and the occasional "additional information", I signed beside all the huge X's and returned the clipboard (and the pen!) to the desk person.

I didn't have to wait long after that. The young girl sitting next to me was playing her Nintendo DS, waiting apparently for her grandmother to have her test done. Just as I reached in to get my book to read, the technician called me back to the testing area. She told me to strip and take off my watch, so the machine wouldn't ruin the batteries. (I didn't bother to tell her my watch is self-winding, so it has no batteries. I love this watch!) She asked me if I had brought something to change into. I said no, and wondered just what people brought to change into? She handed me a gown that actually had ties on it, and was big enough to wrap around me. (The VA always has you put on two gowns, one frontwards and one backwards, so your ass doesn't hang out. They are the skimpiest damn things I've ever seen.) She told me to lock my clothes and valuables in the locker, and bring the key with me. I chose #5, because I seem to have decent luck with that number. Whatever.

She directed me to the restroom first, and I complied. Then for the test. She asked me if I had taken any sedatives, and I said no. The machine was different from the last open MRI I had, but still very open compared to the VA machines, meaning you could see out the back side, and most of your person was not inside a tube. It more resembled a CT scan machine. I was relieved at that.




The bad part came when they told me that the orders were not only for a lower back scan, but for a scan of my neck. That meant they had to put this cage thing on my head. She asked if I was claustrophobic. I said, yes, somewhat. She advised me to keep my eyes shut. I should have asked for a blindfold. It's really hard to keep your eyes tightly shut for twenty or so minutes, but I did manage.

They rolled me out after the first test was complete, and had to shoot some dye into me because I have had previous back surgery. I had bruising from the last time I had an iron infusion, and from the big jab of the phlebotomist who can hit a vein where no one else can find one. They remarked about the bruising, and I wondered if they believed my explanation. They jabbed me near the same spot, and squirted in the dye. I tried to imagine good drugs, to no avail.

The next series took a little longer. MRIs are so noisy! I always feel like I'm in a barrel with someone pounding a sledge hammer on the outside. I went to my "relaxing place", which is the beach on Tokashiki Island. I visualized the blue waters, the fine sand mixed with coral, the lush tropical vegetation along the ridge above the shore. The cool water on my feet, and the gentle lapping of the water on the shore of the inlet. That took me away enough to keep me busy during the test.

As soon as I was done, I asked about the results. The technician told me the doctor would get the results, but they had to have a courier take the disk over to the VA. They would not release it to me. I got dressed and headed over to the VA hospital where I was supposed to talk to the doctor about the results.

No one seemed to know anything about my appointment with the neurologist. I was shuffled from pillar to post because no one could figure out what to do with me. I was becoming increasingly flustered. About that time, the doctor I was looking for happened to come out of a room down the hall and saw me sitting there. He told me he would see me next. Just then, one of the nurses came up to me with my appointment paper and told me I'd have to come on Tuesday next, because that was the appointment on the books. It was delightful to have the doctor tell her we had it all straightened out, and he would see me next.

Dr. M is, by my estimation of his accent, from the Czech Republic or somewhere in that region. I have never asked him, because it makes no difference to me. He is a thoughtful man, and very patient. He asked me how my new medications, prescribed to me two weeks ago, were doing. I told him I had only received them the day before, so I had no idea. He shook his head, and said that there should be no reason for things to take that long to be mailed out. I agree wholeheartedly. He went out to see if the reports were back, and was gone about five minutes. No, he said, they were not in. He apologised, even though it was well beyond his control. There was little he could tell me until he reads the MRI.

It was a good thing I have that appointment on the books for next Tuesday, because I can ride the DAV van over instead of driving myself. Parking is horrendous at the VA. I even have a gimp tag, and I can't find a place to park, because nearly everyone there has one, too. It's one place where I will use the far parking lot and wait for the little golf cart to come around to pick me up, rather than park in the reserved spots. The lot is so large that I am exhausted by the time I walk into the building, and my heart rate is out the ceiling, along with my blood pressure.

If you have read this far to find out what I know about the results, you still know as much as I do. Such a long post for such little reward. Ho hum. I hope to have a more informative post soon.

~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, the new kitten, Bogart, is doing wonderfully. We call him Bogey, of course. He is still not allowed full run of the house, but we let him out during the day when we are able to supervise him to an extent. He follows us like a puppy, and loves to spend time curled up on Dan's chest when he's watching tv. Too sweet for words.

The other cats are getting acquainted. A little hissing at times, but usually that occurs when I put kitten chow in Bogey's bowl in the bathroom, and someone else comes in to munch. Bogey puts on a little hissy show, and they back off. Nothing like seeing a 2.5 pound kitten bluff a 15 lb tomcat. Gotta love it.

Downer Diva

I was reading an e-newsletter that I get called The Professional Quilter just now, and in it found a sad note that Gail Broadwater died today, June 21, 2007, after a long battle with cancer. I'd known Gail and her mom for many years as part of the same quilting clubs and she was undoubtedly one of the best longarm machine quilters anywhere. It struck me as how out of touch I have become with the quilting community. I had no idea she was even ill. To think I read the news online about someone who lives the next town over. I feel terrible about it.

I suppose this goes to show how isolated I've let myself become. Seldom do I go anywhere that is not necessary, like to the grocery store, UPS store, or to Memphis to the doctor. I'm not leaving a huge "carbon footprint" because my driving is down to the minimum; in fact, I might buy two tankfuls of gas a month, but only if I've had to drive myself to Memphis. I'm more often than not riding the free shuttle van that the Disabled American Veterans chapter provides.

Maybe this is all due to my feeling like crap most of the time. Tired is my middle name. The smallest effort seems to spend all of my energy. My back is giving me a really bad time of late, and in fact, tomorrow I go for an MRI to see what is going on there. The plan is to meet with the neurologist right after the MRI to determine if there is anything that can be done, or if I am totally out of luck. Guess I will know something this time tomorrow.

Play me again, Sam

I am a sucker. There is an unwritten law that says I must fall in love with homeless kittens. Here I go again.

Meet Bogart. At least that's what we are calling him right now, because we are fairly sure it's a male. Bogie was found a couple of days ago by my friend under the fenderwell of her dad's Mustang. He was hiding, scared, but friendly enough to let her snag him and get him into the cat carrier. She called me, distressed because she couldn't keep him, and wasn't able to find any of the neighbors who might have lost a kitten. Bring him on over, I said.

He's a delight. We've been keeping him in my bathroom, with a blanket of his own and a litterbox, water and food. I'll take him to the vet to be checked out in the morning, to make sure he's not got anything to spread to the other cats.

Dan had him out laid up on his chest while he watched tv this evening. The little guy just curled up and purred like he's been here all along. Melt my heart, why don't you, guys?

Ham-fisted?

You Are a Ham Sandwich

You are quiet, understated, and a great comfort to all of your friends. Over time, you have proven yourself as loyal and steadfast. And you are by no means boring. You do well in any situation - from fancy to laid back. Your best friend: The Turkey Sandwich Your mortal enemy: The Grilled Cheese Sandwich

What Kind of Sandwich Are You?