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)
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: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

I step across my threshold with nothing on my mind except the prescription bottle that I’ve forgotten on my bed. I’ve been sans a nerve pain pill for two doses and at this point I have excruciating pain in four places and an alarming lack of sensation in a fifth. The first thing I’m going to do is take a missed dose.

The first thing I actually do is drop four F-bombs. Sitting on my wall is something I can only describe as a fucking corpse blow-fly (DON’T google that!). It’s about as long as the first joint of my thumb—I have long thumbs—and it’s…not actually doing anything. I avoid aggroing it as I get into streets and prepare a snack to take this med with. It is then that I notice something…odd about the air in the apartment. It smells vaguely like battery acid and hate. I get the distinct impression that I should check my glue trap.

Ay, Yemaya help me!”

I realize that they don’t have actual collarbone an are also all around flexible, but even Eldritch Mouse shouldn’t be bent in such a position. It clearly didn’t approve of the plan I had laid out for it. Its body is twisted double—triple-jointed even, using the entire available width area of the glue trap. From the looks of things, I got him shortly after leaving for work—maybe that was the noise I heard when I thought I dropped a pack of caraway seeds.

Worthy opponent aside, I’m not looking forward to moving that trap. But if I don’t get up to do it now, it won’t get done…

*cringe/shudders and gets up*

railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

It appears that some kind of thing has gotten to my gmail account. While I don't know how far it's gotten, I can confirm that it's only hit any addresses that I've ever accessed from my phone.

I am now changing all of m passwords.



Apr. 19th, 2014 08:22 pm
railenthe: happy OMG snake (OMG snake)
The power is back on.

The fridge is purged of the now-inedible stuff.


The problem has been fixed.

I had to spend my Thursday and Friday jumping through hoops on one leg and a pair of crutches to do it, but I defeated the attempt to evict that I got WHILE I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH THE POWER COMPANY.

...I had to send them a screencap of a fax that wouldn't otherwise send. By sliding my phone through the office. But it worked.
railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)
I'm on the phone with the power company. My payment plan has been abruptly cut off. They rejected it months ago apparently, and SOMEHOW the notice got lost. And all the bills didn't? I call bullshit.

I'm on the phone with the power company and I can't get a new payment plan. They'll keep taking the other money but won't be running the power on.

So I'm calling aid agencies
While I have phone. It's dark ages time.

EDIT—I just got off the phone with the agencies. They all either:

• don't take applications on days other than Monday, or
• I don't make enough money to qualify for financial assistance. (What the fuck?)

I'm dipping into the reserves again—if nothing else, I'll keep fed until I can throw more money at these tardigrades. That's what the PayPal reserves have been lately: feed myself until the next check arrives and bill can be paid. Tomorrow I ATTEMPT to get the food stamps fixed again, and all the money can go back to bills IF that gets fixed.

(Actually that insult does a disservice to tardigrades. Those weird little things can survive the vacuum of space.)
railenthe: (Default)

Friday morning began with me rolling over and smashing the front of my phone with the palm of my hand. The phone’s face is made from Corning-brand Gorilla glass, though, so all that was doing was—actually, it wasn’t making my hand sore, I couldn’t feel my hand. I’ve come to terms with that recently, it seems that 90% of the time, I can’t feel my hands in the morning. Since it wasn’t damaging the phone or my hand (I hoped), I kept banging on the front of the phone until the alarm stopped. I didn’t know if I hit the snooze button or the dismiss button.

I’d spent the entire week up to that day like a paranoid ungulate, chewing over the same terror cud over and over—what if it’s cancer? what if it’s lupus? what if it’s some hitherto undiscovered SUPER LUPUS? what if it’s none of the above and I’m some new freak of nature?!

I stopped the train right there and made a glass of cranberry soda. And then another. And then another. And then for good measure, I had one more. Because frankly I was freaking out. Then I got off my ass and got to the doctor. By this point one arm was flipping between on fire and “where the fuck is it,” but I brought things to read and do so I wouldn’t have to think about it.

The doctor’s office was damn near vacant, considering that I thought I was running late—I was not, in fact, I was running early—and I got in right away. I explained what I was in for, pulled out my phone to browse news links on reddit (and, let’s be real, look at cute cat pictures because when you’re feeling bad, cats) when the doctor came in with a handful of papers.

“Do we know what’s caused it?” I ask almost immediately.

His response?

We’re stumped.

We can’t find a cause for the neuropathy. We can’t do anything but treat the complications of the neuropathy as they come up. And apparently if it progresses long enough I might have the loss of digestive function to look forward to. YAY. Basically, deadened nerves would paralyze my gut and bladder, as well as making my arms and legs more often than not numb and/or painful. ANOTHER sweep of the blood work ruled out it being caused by any of my meds. This also fails to explain the blisters inside the sinuses and the roof of my mouth. To turn bad into worse, this is affecting my leg as well—after all, that was where the FIRST bad nerve came up, back when I bricked the damn thing three years ago now. In fact, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what set this whole thing off.

Before you think I’m going to stand idly by and just take that, I’m planning on fighting this shit—there’s got to be something out there provided by Mother Gaia to fight this shit, and I plan on finding it and taking it, regardless of the risks. I DO NOT plan on being on incontinence wear by my thirtieth birthday (the neuropathy is moving fucking fast).

We are now down to House-ing it: We’re taking everything that my system is torturing me with, treating it individually, and seeing if it does any good—except the neuropathy itself, since the one prescription medication approved to treat that is something that I can’t take with my current medications. Killer interaction, you see. Next on the list is an antiviral—because the blisters apparently kind of sort of behave like shingles. If it doesn’t work, we’re back to square one.

railenthe: (Default)

Pardon the formatting. I'm on my phone.

See this?

This is the hole that has been in my apartment for a little over a year. Today I got home to discover a small family of mice scuttling back out of here through it. They appear to be subsiding on the glue traps--the one I just pitched was fuzzy as fuck.

I've just replaced them with fresh ones, and put out bug baits on top of that. Now I'm looking for any kind of tape, because I am SICK of the building manager not repairing the hole despite my many times reporting that things can get in.
railenthe: (We're screwed.)

OK. The hell.

I’m burning up.

Decided to go easy with dinner. Just some broccoli. Maybe a hotlink. Nothing fancy. I’m burning up.

Get up to discover that the apartment is, in fact that yes, it is that damn hot.

Too hot to think. Call me when slow-moving clipper…er, clips.

To make up for missing Friday’s post, 100 Things AND LTTP LP both go up tomorrow, even if it means I have to go to Starbucks to do it.

railenthe: (Default)
Hey, freezer. Why must you be devoid of fish? I'm having a craving of fierce magnitude.

The foodpanic has ended, I have bookmarked a book for purchase ASAP, and I have reached a conclusion after a weeklong experiment:

I do NOT have the constitution for a low-carbohydrate diet.

I've spent most of the week feeling like I've got the worst migraine hangover—it keeps going and going. The only thing that has had a noticeable effect is complex carbohydrates (OMG BREAD). The verdict: No more low-carb.

Also, someone please suggest some kind of topical pain thing for pain, like how Tiger Balm works for migraines. I can't keep popping caffeinated aspirin all day.

Speaking of, time to pop a caffeinated aspirin.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Default)
I'm freaking the hell out.

I'm supposed to lose weight. So says my doctor. I wouldn't mind doing so for my own reasons—like a single digit pant size (I have too much rack to ever have a single digit dress size again).

But the doctor is persistent. Pushy almost. I dislodge my kneecap in my sleep and I get crap about my weight.

I look for more effective migraine solutions, I get crap about my weight.

I get it. I weigh more than the ideal at my height.
But the way to go about that was not to say nothing about an unrelated visit and prescribe a screening for "obesity."

I have been paranoid since then. Every calorie gets counted. Even the negligible 2 from brewed tea. If I want a luxury snack I skip the day before so I can have it.

I avoid my mirror because my face looks fat. Everything does in the mirror. I've been considering covering it with something so I don't have to see it.

I've had maybe 650 calories today. Not enough.

I know I should eat.

I look at my fridge and I freeze.

I'm about one standard cuil from asking it for a hamburger. Hell it might answer.

I should eat...

*looks at fridge*

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

Erg. No.

Feb. 22nd, 2013 07:04 pm
railenthe: (Default)
Minor problem. Hormones fucked up. As in "DAMMIT I HAD TWO WEEKS A WHOLE TWO WEEKS" fucked up.

Crashing early as hell. Everything is on fire and even food is bad. EVERYTHING tastes bad. Even sirloin. My favorite crisps? Either I got a bad batch OR I CAN'T TASTE.

I don't even want sweets!

Bed now. Maybe my system will unfuck itself enough that I can stomach my meal shake later.

I think my stomach's shrunk a bit. Which on the one hand is good but my BELLY is no smaller.

Ergh. *flops over*

Oh, and Estrogen?
When I catch up to you? Dragon Claw, my favorite sword, wants a word with you.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Default)
Yesterday I blew up at two very good friends for no good reason, came very close to quitting writing for good, came even closer to getting drunk just to feel stupid and happy—I don't miss the alcohol but I miss feeling happy (and yes, a little stupid), and then came close to recommitting myself.

I honestly wanted to destroy something. Preferably something with a consciousness so it could see what was happening to it.

To avoid a raking over the coals (which didn't happen, as my friends are neither my family nor my dick of an ex) I start apologizing, one of which produces the...absolute stupidest mental image. It winds up becoming the first thing I've written in three weeks.

So even though things worked out half decent? I'm keeping my damn mouth shut.

I've had a med adjustment, I've got an empty hormone rod in one arm making me off in general, I've lost all knowledge of how being social works outside the series of tubes internet, and I'm having a string of recurring nightmares about friends leaving me for dead. Also my headache set up camp again and that always sours my mood.

So today, I keep quiet. And sleep.

When I wake up next, I won't be so bitchy.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Beat)

*drag* *bump* *CRASH*


*drag* *scrape* *SQUAWK*

“Move, dammit!”

Oh, furniture-moving.

The condition of the apartment started bugging me—the décor’s gotten old (only took five months this time), and so I had to rearrange things. The good news is this one wasn’t flashback related—this is just me being bored with my surroundings.

Which explained why I had to put down a chest of drawers and knock on their door, explaining the racket (“Don’t worry, I didn’t drag the bastard here to disembowel. I’m just redecorating. =D”). I began the work a little before Jeopardy started, so I’ve been at it on and off for…damn, four hours now. The bed is now flush with the wall—I’m going to have to run an extension cord through underneath the bed for access to the stuff there. The couch is now flush with the bed—I needed room to move my work area—and the chest of drawers now faces the other direction. All in all I have added about a square foot to the apartment’s space.

It doesn’t sound all that big, but last night convinced me that I could do with better space—it was bad. I was in some pain from tweaking my back, and then there was the head pills. I wasn’t feeling well at all so I decided to pop them right away. Within fifteen minutes I had to sleep.

Within an hour and a half I was awake again, attempting to do handstands and walk a lap around the apartment, because it sounded like a great idea at the time. When I finally realized how very bad an idea it was I was split between the bed and the floor giggling. High? A BIT.

That was when the apartment got hot. Unbearably hot. Mental images bombarded me, none of them unpleasant…but all of them incredibly distracting.

Right about then the best idea was making a grape soda cold enough to hurt my teeth until the sensation passed. I was asleep AGAIN in a little less than half an hour. I woke up at six AM and was about to throw on clothes for work when I remembered—no work today.

I totally need a vacation.

…or caffeine.



The floors a mess, but the apartment is widened ever so slightly due to the positioning of the furniture. Even my work area is functional, no longer a place to throw mail—and it will stay neat, because it is in view of the entrance now, and a bad looking work are doesn’t exactly go over well. Stove is clean, fridge is organized—ish. Floor will be cleaned and swept shortly, and then I’m crashing out. I got a LOT done today; and the position of my new office-area—right in front of my bookshelf—serves as a constant reminder to do what it is I do: write.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there is a glass of pineapple-orange soda and a clary-sage soak with my name on it.

Chrysanth WebStory What's your WebStory today?
railenthe: (Grr arg *stress'd*)

So the new year begins and it’s going to be better than the first, right?


I began the year with a fucking misdemeanor.

railenthe: (Default)

I wasn't going to post this but 1) I survived reading it and
2) I wasn't letting the asshat on the train platform get away with calling ME Sugartits! And he kept going!

Discussion opens on this until Friday, when my head gets out of "where the HELL is my favorite steel gentlemen's cane?!" mode. Got a friend who wants to weigh in? Feel free. It's high time I showed some godsdamn rage at this particular machine.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Default)
The other day, after finding out I had freelancing/social opportunities, I returned home to discover that the text of the inspection notices on the walls and most of our doors had been changed. It had gone from a standard “check for bugs, Schmoopie” inspection to a compliance inspection.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Someone must've got caught holding.” Getting caught holding basically means just that—they busted someone with an undeclared gun. Or illegal recreational drugs. That shit gets you evicted and triggers compliance inspections on everyone else.

A compliance inspection is basically a rather invasive inventory of a resident's unit, complete with photos, housekeeping drill, and a subtle check to see if they've broken the non-smoking agreement. It also covers a search for “undeclared residents,” supposed guests who appear to have moved in without a lease agreement.

That shit also gets you evicted.

I spent the day wondering if I had the stamina to get the place up to code, making sure to mention a need to get home while I still had the stamina to whip the joint into shape.


Stepping inside I realize there are only a few bad zones left. The plan: clean to the point of nausea, rest, repeat. Estrogen has done a number on my stamina, and the point of nausea comes rather fast.

Attacked first: top of the fridge. It's straightened...ish. Code, at any rate.

Bath: code when I left to freelance. (HIGH TECH VACUUMS ALARM ME.)

The kitchen workspace is rather alarming. It is being oxygen bleached and once bleached will become the work area for cleaning (rather, organizing the pantry—it's CLEAN, just cluttered).

Except we are beyond the point of nausea and to the point of incredible nausea.

...gotta keep going.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

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