railenthe: (Default)

The Barnes Er.




The wait was short in registration, long in seeing a bed. My pain level went from annoying to “periodic knock out and frequently disorientation.” The wait went on so long that my father had to go start his shift at 1 that morning.


By the time I got to a room I was so disoriented from pain they had to throw something into my IV to render me coherent, and I described the pain, the bleeding cystic mass, the torn abdominal muscles, and the sickness I felt on sitting up. Somewhere in the middle of this an IV drip was started, freezing cold and stupefying. I managed to describe how the pain and nausea kept me from eating for two days and how despite that long of no intake my fasting glucose level was 103 as read in an ambulance.


I was told that everything that could be done had been done, and in my current state the recommended ultrasound was not possible (one needs to be awake for that in its entirety), and without the ultrasound nothing could be done about the bleeding mess—though I was told to avoid aspirin until further notice…


Which means the only thing that works on my back pain is out.


Anti-nausea drugs, stacked like mad. Acetaminophen, stacked on the tramodol.


Agreement with the doctor's judgement that my pain is undermedicated. Disagreement on what to do about it.


That was as far as I got. The room fuzzed out on me along with one pain spike, and I was out.




“We didn't put anything drowsy in there.”


“Here's the thing, sir—being in constant pain is exhausting.”


I don't know how much time passed, but when I woke up they were back to the back and forth on how to manage the situation. A bag was changed. A comment was made on my dehydration. I was asked… Something. I don't remember. I remember answering “Huh?”


“Get some rest, kid.”




I wake at morning in no knowledge of where I was, exhausted, and mildly delirious. I was also given my discharge papers. I had a sense—there were no windows—that it was dawn out and I knew my father wasn't present. They offered to help call him. I thanked them for letting me sleep the pain off and not tossing me out like Memorial does, and I was wheeled to the exit, along with the seven blankets that kept me from catching a chill.


For the record he was unamused with the results. I registered just long enough to explain the why before I was out again.


Then I slept until two.




Now what?


I have to survive this long enough to take all the appointments. I've also been advised to slowly, slowly increase my sitting up (heavily medicated for nausea and vomiting, of course) with back support. I'm not supposed to push it, and after such a stretch of no food I am to EASE into solid food again, no matter how much I feel like I can eat seven giant sandwiches, so that I don't hurt myself. Continue with the Gatorade because calories in.


Just writing this has worn me out. I'm going to rest until I'm due for the late pills.

railenthe: (Default)
Today I have eaten eight chips.

In two days.

This is actually progress, not old school backsliding.

I've been sick—mostly a mechanical injury, but it complicated eating and drinking—and at some point I got a nice little kidney issue that I'm going to be taking an alarmingly named antibiotic for shortly. I'm also downing electrolytes, which has helped the fog significantly. The ER suggested I actually go for the sugary sports drinks on account of not having eaten since Sunday, try to gas up the old heals system.

Sitting up still hurts like hell. And I've misplaced the Bentyl for the ab spasms. But I'm awake and hydrating again after that ER trip.

Also, potassium heavy drinks all taste terrible. No wonder all the sugar. (Then again it is literally a salt.)
railenthe: (Default)

This isn't a real wreath, Mom.


And I'm a little late. It's technically Monday now.


And this isn't the real site.


I still don't know where that is. I never could get that information from anyone. If there was a split second I could unblank from my memory, this would be one.


I can hear it land in my mind's ear. It's all roses, since this isn't physical space and I am not constrained by my lack of money like I would otherwise be. I've also brought your favorite drink and smoke. I'm…past policing things like that. There's not all that much time to live, really. Why waste it on that?


I've been thinking a lot about the things out now that you would like that we never got to enjoy together. You'd love this Instagram thing. It's like our old Polaroid-offs. We wouldn't be limited to how much film we have left either. There's all this new cooking things too. And Nintendo things have cameras now, like I said they would. Also, they're in color. With two screens. (Yeah that's one I never guessed.) I'd love to let you try it but…well, we don't have to say why we can't do the thing.


Dad finally recovered. I… I don't think I will, not really.


You missed everything.


The hospital fucked up, and so you missed everything.


People started calling it St. Murder's after that instead of its actual name. It's not a thing anymore. They started to turn it into a prison, but the state went broke and it didn't happen. (You called it on the corrupt governor. We had two in a row, even.)


I'm actually following in your footsteps. I have my own inept doctors, now. One of them has really cost me big. As we…speak, I guess, the injury he steadfastly refused to diagnose is escalating. On the upside, the major hot zones seem to be quiet.


At least, I've heard nothing.


And you said no news is good news for this kind of thing. So there's that.




I don't know when my next letter will be. I debated doing this one. I decided that I had to, however. It was not a pleasant experience that led me to my conclusion—rather, the realization that you held one of the few sparks on the planet that really dimmed my own for a bit when you went…wherever it is that you've gone. It's not here.


You're a member of a single hand, Mom.


I'm terrified of thinking about when those lost sparks hit more than one hand to count on.


But I'll guard them that much more closely because of that.

railenthe: (Default)

About a week of groceries there. There is not much variety today. Or much there at all really. The tear in my abdominal wall muscles keeps me from carrying much, as well as from eating much—if my stomach is close to half full that part of my body is nothing but pain.


So dinner is a single bologna sandwich, made with the cheapest brand I've ever seen, praying that “flavorings” on the ingredients list doesn't involve anything related to juniper.


The pain in my side is about the worst it's been in a while… And the worst part about it was that it decided to kick in at the store. An impulsive decision to use a European style shopping cart paid off when I used it to keep from hitting the floor.


I should have got a motor cart was my first thought. The second was blinding panic. You know, the usual. Is this that bad this can't be that bad SUCK IT UP MOTHERFUCKER


The aisle goes Laser Floyd. Muscle spasms in the area force me back onto the cart.


Is this it? Am I DISABLED?


It took a lot of good Samaritans to get me home today. The groceries were put away, only mildly smashed—the bread may reinflate from where I landed on it—and I was finally able to rest.


I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. This is the kind of injury that I'm not supposed to do the things that are in my line of work. But if I don't, bills and rent…don't. If I keep working, I could really wreck my body… Well, worse.


…I think I'm gonna sleep now. I really can't see straight from this pain anyways.


railenthe: (Default)
The recent influx of these so called bathroom bills is just the latest round of body policing and transantagonism that has been going on since the time of the colonizers. People don't understand something, so instead of trying to understand it, they seek to violate, dehumanize, or rationalize away their own internal revulsion of it.

It happened before in every culture that embraces nonbinary identities as something to be acknowledged—but, slowly, we remember our heritage as our spirits wake. And it happens now as our sisthren, brethren, and sibthren come into their identities and walk their truths. At the same time, they—we—live lives like the other people, like those people who do so dislike being called what they are—the cisgender.

And it is with the cisgender that I take my current beef.

(Any comments to the effects of "not all cis" are subject to a metric buttload of side-eye. Only warning.)

It should be no one's business what is in anyone's trousers/kilt/skirt/long dashiki except their significant other and the owner of the parts, yet a mob of legislators wants to control where people can go to the bathroom or change clothes at the gym based on this. Were we to subject the cisgender populations to this treatment it would be called invasive harassment and overturned so quickly that your head would spin.

But since it's "for their protection," this is fine. The double standard is disgusting. It makes me furious. And more than a little sick.

It has also brought back the old chestnut that equates gender to genitalia, and I'm seeing more and more talk about how people would immediately drop a partner—even a long time partner—if their genitals didn't match the perceived or presenting gender. No other justification is even given, just "I thought you had X" and "bye, Felicia."

This revelation makes me sick. Just plain sick. And I don't understand how this line of thinking could be interpreted as anything but transphobic. Putting my cards on the table as nonbinary gets the same reaction. And the reaction is always the same:

"Never mind. Thought you was a woman" and a fast walk away with much dusting of shoulders.

Determining partners on plumbing exclusively is fetishist at best, phobic bull at worst, and needs to stop.

People forget: we are whole persons, with minds and lives and interests and hobbies. Not just sets of genitalia for you to fixate on.
railenthe: (Default)
It seems that my ability to physically sit upright is done with by around five in the evening.

Standing upright, I can do in fifteen minute bursts (if you can call them that).

But sitting up straight does something to that muscle that not only HURTS like hell through a prescription painkiller, it completely kills my ability to breathe. As in "ADJUST NOW TO TAKE IN AIR."

We're still trying to figure out how this happened. Tore my abdominal wall.

I fucking broke my abs, basically.

I have to get up and argue with my midsection and get food now. There's a "vvtvvt" sensation under my ribs, and I've got intermittent loss of visual focus from pain. I'm not a fan.

Maybe screw cooking...
railenthe: (Default)

So, the OB went looking for the mass and almost knocked me out, right? And he says that if the thing gets removed we might lose that ovary but do you realize there's also a fucking hernia here


And I'm like “ask again later when I'm not seeing lightning bolts?”


Five minutes later in the room with the books he literally goes down the textbook and


Yeah


It's also probably already INCARCERATED even and he's gonna kill my GP for missing it last month before it got here.




He doesn't think it's the mass causing the pain—in fact after the pelvic almost knocked me out, he was positive. It was why he went through the book and looked at the signs of a hernia (after I'd recovered enough to answer his questions) actually. We're going to need more exams to see if the thing is benign or something else, but the fact is this thing is kicking from one side to the other in my guts along a hernia scar that is literally the same age as me—the hernia that was repaired in it is older (I WASN'T BORN YET).




It gets better/worse: we are having a fuck of a time finding a surgeon who takes my HMO.


Literally my best chance is to blow this thing at work and wind up in the hospital from there.


So yeah, this kinda sucks.

railenthe: (Default)
 
These are two of the games my ex refuses to return.

The top now goes for almost six hundred dollars.

Fuck you, Ex.

GBA games are prone to bootlegging and false copies, just like GBC games when rare games came up (Pokemon Crystal Vietnam anyone?). New is damn near the only way to make sure you weren't getting ripped off.

Now the only way I'm probably going to be able to play again is if I get the nonphysical copies...or pirate.

Fuck you, Ex.
railenthe: (Default)

The novel approach my doctors are taking has basically been

  • test this.
  • test that.
  • did we test this? Test this.
  • Don't test this. We don't need to test this. This person is healthy.
  • “What the fuck do you mean they didn't test that? Send a fax right now and then make sure they send one back CONFIRMING they tested it today!” (My gastroenterologist may have had words with my GP.)
  • UH this is worrisome let's test this.
  • THIS IS NEW. So that side effect might actually be THIS thing we found here
  • But hey at least these are healthy!
  • Oh, those though? Not so much.

I've spent a third of the month in and out of medical testing. We've found nerve damage in my legs and the hip/groin (THAT one, we're not sure how it happened). We've found a not small ovarian cyst. We've found no problems with my boobs, which means I've so far beaten a family curse. The migraines are atypical and we don't know if they're seizure related, but the zappy lights do trip them. I go back in a few months.

The legs are fucked. Losing five pounds might ease the pain on them but no guarantee. But I've got six months to do that in. Three of the four doctors do not care otherwise about where my weight is.

The fourth proceeded to fat shame me and suggest that I drop to 130. The last time I was that light, I was, if you can believe it, sicker than I am now. I also had no chest. (…and no associated back problems, but hey.) However, he finally took my pain seriously and provided something for it—

And it knocks me out for six hours at a time.

I'm a fan of not being in pain, but, I kind of miss being conscious sometimes.

railenthe: (Default)
The trip to the neurologist was interesting. First thing that happened was I went the wrong damn way.

This is kind of normal. I don't know the layout of his complex yet. 

I got directions to where I was supposed to be and got to his office, my consternation with the freaking battery of tests that this month has been mildly lifted by the fact that today I look damn good.

That is, I look damn good for someone who's about to get told that ze has highly atypical migraine and a significant amount of nerve damage to both legs, and that the cause of the nerve damage is NOT something that we've found the cause of yet, it's just THERE.

And the CRPS that work's lawyers and insurance wanted to say wasn't a thing is probably a thing. The left side, which is where the pain started off at, is worse than the right—but the right is there, too. It's just that this burning, searing, stabbing entire left side STOP THIS SHIT PLEASE thing only affects the left side.

We have no solution. We're shooting in the dark and guessing that maybe dropping a couple pounds will at least do something in that there's less of me on my feet. There is literally no other reason behind it: all my other vital numbers are fine—this is literally "let's see if this shuts off the pain signal because there ARE NO SOLUTIONS for this that we haven't attempted."

…and best of all I have $243 of bills coming up and I haven't worked that many hours to pay for them. Fun shit.

Monday's a meeting with my regular doctor about what we think is an inguinal hernia. Can't work that day.

Tuesday's a mammogram. No work

Wednesday's the liver ultrasound. I'm spending a lot of it unconscious. Needless to say, not working that day.

I wonder if Pops will lend me some money.


railenthe: (Default)
 On Tuesday, I had to wake up at what a relative calls “ass o'clock in the AM” to go to an appointment. It was an EEG, to get to the bottom of my migraines. So I started the day getting little electrodes taped to my scalp and forehead—about 22 of them total—and then two clamp style on my wrists—and then plopped into this chair into a dark room. They were going to do a bunch of tests to measure what was going on in

 

Oh it gets better. That got followed by this...this thing.

 

“Um, what is that?” I asked, pointing at the thing that looked like it was part of GlaDOS.

 

“It's a light. I need you to close your eyes, and it's gonna blink a lot.”

 

There may or may not have been a long “nooooooooo” from me. Blinky bright flashy lights close to my eyes make a weird noise and make me twitchy.

 

And this went on for...I don't know how long. All I know is my face, shoulder, and part of my leg went completely twitchy and I was told to unclench my jaw once or twice. (Couldn't do anything about it. Reflex. Twitchy means clampy.) By the time the blinky-horrible-light was gone, I was dizzy and headachey and sick. And still twitchy.

 

Fun fact: apparently migraines aren't supposed to do that.

The next place I had to go was beyond awkward. It STARTED awkward when security had to be called on a very public fight in a bus stop. And the bus was speeding. By the tine I got to the place I had to get directions, but apparently I wasn't ready for the exam.

 

Let's just say there was enforced drinking of water and the awkward discovery that, despite an intake of over a gallon of water a day, I am severely dehydrated. We skip that part of the test after three attempts and 45 minutes of waiting we get to the second part of the ultrasound.

 

There's this...thing that gets SHOVED and PRODDED. And a lot of asking about where the pain is and where it has been and where it's been moving if it's been moving. We're looking for two things here: the cause of strange inflammation and this obstruction we can't explain.

 

By the time that one is over I've been moving since six in the morning and haven't eaten since...a quarter to seven in the morning. It's a trip to fast food place before home.

Next week it gets interesting again. We got the followup from the ultrasound, and a nerve conduction test. The neurologist who thinks that the migraines might actually be seizures also thinks that the neuropathy that I've been having could be something else—like lupus or MS—and he needs to test the functionality of my nerves to be sure. In fact, he thinks that my GP has been irresponsible with his throwing around of the shingles pill and the nerve drugs without sending me to him at some point or another.

 

A week after that, I got an ultrasound of MY LIVER.

 

Then I get to enjoy something that I'm apparently a few years overdue for thank to family history: a mammogram. I'm losing a lot of work to scan days and recuperating from scan days.

 

It's beginning to look a lot like fuck this.

railenthe: (Default)
 The phrase “that escalated quickly” achieved meme status so rapidly that one could use the phrase “That escalated quickly” to describe it. It’s quite literally its own tautology, and in this case, it has happened.
 

We are so fresh from having lost a global icon in David Bowie. Tributes all over the world—his star on the Walk of Fame currently littered with glowing glitter (Stardust for Ziggy Stardust), his flat in Berlin, concert venues, an unearthly mural flooded with flowers, plush aliens, people wearing the Aladdin Sane lightning bolt unabashedly. Actual respect for the family’s request for privacy during this time. Until…

Months ago, a story came out about a groupie. A number of them, actually,  but one in particular got a lot of attention, because 1) teenage groupie; 2) teenage groupie makes her sexual debut with David freakin’ Bowie (Blogger’s Note: I hate the term ‘losing one’s virginity for deeply personal reasons and will not be using it); and 3) the legend (because he is one and always will be) is no longer around to explain anything.

 


 

Is this problematic behaviour? Yes. It was also 40 years ago, participated in by almost all of the big names—you can see how many names were dropped in that article. It was all over the place. It was pervasive. There was an entire subculture around it.

And this ‘news’ has been out there for months, if not years.

But it gets dragged out now, at the time of the man’s death, when we’re all still reeling from the news.

And now it has become a reason to drag a dead man’s name through the mud. And I see people reveling about it

 


But only a few short days later, the stars began to look different. Literally.

 

 

Source: pitchfork.com

From a capture of the sky of the day he went home, a Belgian radio station—Studio Brussels—and MIRA Public Observatory (that place is a big deal, btw) got to work and set up what you see here: Starman.

A constellation in honor of David Bowie. An honor usually reserved for gods and legends. …looks like at least one of those has been deemed official. 

Square Enix, for a limited time, is offering free copies of Omikron: The Nomad Soul—a game that David  Bowie had extensive input on (his music, too).

In Spring, Carnegie Hall will host two tribute concerts.

Look up.

Everyone says hi.

railenthe: (Default)
Where I was: On the train, trying to get a busybody out of my ears. It changed to trying to prove this was a hoax pretty fast—but, the source? NPR. Pretty reliable. 
 
The plan was to entertain myself with the newsfeed during the commute. Instead I found out that we have lost Alan Rickman to—excuse me while I curse the sky—cancer.
 
I was introduced to his work through the irreverent Dogma, and seeing him in serious roles (“MR. Potter…”) was something of an adjustment. The man's range was incredible, from the almost despotic to serious that bordered on silly.
 
And now he's gone. 
 
I'll say it again:
 
Fuck cancer. 
railenthe: (Default)

Sitting at an improvised chair revising a chapter. It was 1:30 in the morning, prefaced with a text message of simplest nature: "Are you up?"



Nothing remains
We could run
when the rain slows
(--from Sunday)


On his birthday, David Bowie put out an absoultely smashingly excellent album, titled unpronounceably with a graphic but translateable as Blackstar. He celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday in festive fashion, we heard. I excitedly planned on getting that album in hard copy—struggle season be damned.

That was on Friday.
in which I am not particularly put together, fair warning )

railenthe: (Default)
 

So Yeah: You're not going to believe this.


Then again, you might.

Last chance to bail if you're super squeamish about a certain type of bug! )

You've heard the stories about my apartment building. It's mismanaged all to hell, the building is old enough that there is a fading Fallout Shelter placard on the exterior (as opposed to this positively pristine one mounted on the local Masonic Temple—and I do mean that in the original definition of the word: that thing looks like it came out of the original factory and somehow was protected from all the elemental nonsense that's been thrown at it since it went up). There is enough mold in the building that adding a HEPA system to the unit last year actually did increase my quality of life (I actually haven't had a sinus event since I got the thing). Pieces and bits of the bathroom wall regularly fall in and it takes weeks to get any attention to the problem. I've had to repair my own damn sink a few times because maintenance seems to not care about that issue, and the only reason a gas leak that I've been reporting since I moved in got fixed was because I was out for an extended period of time, there was a draft, and someone else just so happened to smell it.

I'm not saying that you have to have high expectations for a damn public housing complex but base livability would be nice, yannou?

This is the same place when, the BB infestation started a little over two years ago now, certain residents—yours truly included—were called unhygenic, had our morals called into question, told we had fleas and “why don't we try bathing a little more?”

What the miso-glazed fuck?

At the height of my own problem—thrifting was in, I'd had a rather gorgeous sofa sleeper thrifted in because I was getting rid of everything associated with a certain ex. Little did I know, this gorgeous sofa sleeper was going to soon be known as…


PESTILENCE COUCH

Yes, THAT Pestilence Couch. Turned out the store was POSITIVELY RIDDLED with the bastards. And reporting did nothing. So, took drastic measures. I captured one of the fuckers and brought it to the landlord.

“That's a flea.”

…y'all better get used to the phrase “What the miso-glazed fuck” because I actually asked her “What the miso-glazed fuck are you talkin' about? Does this look like a flea to you?”

“Look. I don't know what kind of life you live, what you have—”

“I know you didn't just call me flea-bitten.” A death stare. The landlord is oddly quiet.

“I've already confirmed outside what this is. I'd like a confirmation from the exterminators, and then an extermination.

“If we don't find anything, though?”

“Then y'all are full of it and I'm getting rid of the furniture that brought them in if you're JUST THAT SURE.

On my way back up, I found a neighbor who ALSO had them on hand to report. She lived four floors below me. On the one hand, it was good to see I hadn't tracked them in with that damned Pestilence Couch. On the other, it meant the building is completely fucking fucked.

Three weeks later, Orkin doesn't trip the tripline I set leading to the obvious signs and I have Pestilence Couch removed. You know what else gets removed? Orkin as the building extermination company.


But it ain't over

Fast forward, it's nigh a year of sleeping on the floor, and I replace the bed with something new. The building still has issues. My linens and bed are mostly clear. I'd like them completely clear. I report every one of the bitey bastards, since a winter with them has taught me that I am very allergic. A few times a month the place is sprayed. A few times a month the new exterminator tracks a new one or two in. A few times a month a few hitchhike from the bus and I have to take care of that. It's all very awkward and panic attack inducing. The bugs have invaded my C-PTSD. Apparently it's colloquially called 'bedbug psychosis.' I can kinda see it.


And now the Fuckery

The building manager and the exterminator are in disagreement about my bug status. You know why?

BECAUSE MY MATTRESS IS TOO CLEAN.

So, what am I supposed to do, let them bite me? Feed? Breed? Leave them be? Fucking fuck no bruh. I literally got orders to “capture one alive to prove it” from the manager

And this morning I got my chance. Yanked him right off the bed and an attempt to get at my ankle and slammed him into a glue trap. Then there was one on my back support pillows for gaming. ONTO THE GLUE TRAP WITH YOU TOO—YES, DEFINITELY SIR WITH THAT SHAPE.

And then I missed my bus for work.

…but, while I was trying to make the intercept walk to my bus, I got called off. Not a day of work this week so far.

I turn around, leave a giant fucking sign with an arrow on it reading BEDBUG by the glue trap, and make a grocery run—smoothie stuff because my stomach is back on the warpath.

By the time I get back (a prescription won't be ready until later, I have to make a second trip), the trap as been moved slightly and replaced with a fresh, empty one.

…got my point across this time.

railenthe: (Default)
I had two things: the fortune for my old man to be understanding, and the misfortune to come down with a stomach bug.

As we all know by now that is the worst thing for ME to be coming down with, with my history.

It's madness.

It's about a week before my neurologist's appointment. My paperwork is missing. It's been missing or a month. I have no fucking clue what I did with it. I've looked for about three hours every day, giving myself a pounding headache each time. About the only productive thing that I've done is I've cleaned underneath the stove.

Btw, moving a stove when you're ill? I don't recommend it.

They may be increasing my rent. I haven't heard a damn thing since the interview earlier this month. I had 15 hours on my last paycheck. (Does not compute.) But my food stamps got turned back on!

At some point, I'm going to break down the shiny things that have happened over the course of the year. For all the awful, there has been some nice.

But right now...I need to attempt another food and electrolytes.
railenthe: (Default)

In my head today: Vicarious Atonement




It's happened.


The rent adjustment meeting used the data from the busiest fall we've ever had, and had no data from what is becoming more and more the slowest winter I've ever seen. I've worked a single day this week—and would have had two if I hadn't had to take off for the damned adjustment meeting.


But I did.


As rent was late—I was ill the day I thought I paid it, and hallucinated the action—I had to take the money that would have been an emergency food budget for the week and spend it on the late fee.


There is enough for lights.


There is enough for the phone bill.


There is enough to stay connected and not have to face the isolation that paralyzes me every time I think about it.


There is enough for rent if it doesn't go up, at the least, if there are enough hours by payday next.


…there is not enough money to eat. I can't spend anything but what is there for the next rent. I have enough stashed to survive December thanks to the physical inability to actually eat much more than a sandwich a day, but I'm going to have to come up with something. That meeting confirmed that I have no EBT benefits—and I don't make enough money to bills and food at the same time.


There is not enough money for next month's bus pass—a $78 expense—unless I risk not having enough for rent, or attempt to pick up odd jobs on a flareup, risking a hospital trip. Hell, today my legs lit on fire from an attack and I had to walk a room on feet that burned and legs that were absent from hip to shin. I was given the option to work tomorrow or not—apparently I looked bad after the pain attack.


…not that I have a choice.


I fucking hate the winter grind.


But rest is a luxury I literally can't afford right now.




This is life at the bottom. This is what you live with when making more money means you keep less of it. When you pick between bills and food.


When you spend the first half of the year stocking the shelves because you know damn well what is going to happen.


When you see an upside in the disease they've been trying to nail down for—shit, officially a year next week—because it means you have more time to figure out what the hell you're going to do about the new problem of eating.


…I'll figure something out. Maybe.


Possibly.


Perhaps.


At least the medicine I need hasn't been cut off.

railenthe: (Default)
And now you're going to read this in his voice doing his gravelly a.

Sphincter of Oddi dysfunction.

This cut is here because this is kinda graphic. )
railenthe: (Default)
 The telltale scent of gasoline, syrup, and carrion meat is all I needed to tell me that for the final few weeks of not having an actual mattress, I’d been lucky: the bedbugs are in the bedding. I’m quite glad I’d taken the paranoid option and bagged every piece of linen that I had used as a temporary bedroll mattress assembly at this point—I didn’t even need to see the place where a dead one had dislodged its desiccated corpse.

What I’d forgotten about was that this is weeks of signal chemical, and anything live was about to come running.

Cue my shriek when an exceptionally fat, well-fed little pestilence bringer shot up the side of my bed frame and made a beeline for me.

The horror.

*INTERNAL SCREAMING* )

 

“NO. NO. NO. HELL NO.”

I had a plan. Trap it with an envelope and flush it like I did with the one I found on the tote sham.

Problem—this one was live and bouncy. The other was not. It took ten minutes to catch that fucker.

After that I stripped the bed and sent everything to the laundry.

The battle with the bedbugs has been going on for a year. We’ve been through two extermination companies since it began. The landlord has not taken us seriously.

On the first claim, she told me that I had fleas.

If I had the time to think about it I probably would have been arrested for the thing that I thought about doing. I’ve worked in hospitality for almost ten years—I know damn well what one of these things looks like. The couch that was my introduction to the bastards was teeming with them, and when I tried to get the exterminator in, I discovered that he didn’t even look.

…for the record, the new company is not impressed with the old one.

I ditched the “pestilence couch” after getting the all clear (we know it wasn’t) but by then I wasn’t the only one. I’d been on a roll being able to say I’d avoided the things. By then… The entire building had them, all because of the rampant mismanagement going on.

• Dryer sheets don’t repel them or kill them. That’s one of the lies we got.
• Glue traps won’t do shit. These things eat YOU, not peanut butter.
• Those plug in ultrasonic things don’t work.
• Unless they make contact and are baited to eat it, borax won’t be able to work.

So we dealt with the things for a year, and I developed a violent allergy in the process.

…even if you’re living into low income housing, I think you should learn from my mistake—vet your building management.

I thought the maintenance was bad… This is worse.

July 2017

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