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It’s been awhile since we’ve talked and boy, do I have news. I’m well on the road to recovery and contrary to Miriam’s last blog, I wasn’t that bad of a patient. Yes, from time to time, I was a little whiny and cranky, but she’s a drama queen. I’m a drama queen too, but her crown is bigger than mine.
Let me tell you what I’ve been doing. Have you all heard of the 2011 Dieux du Stade calendar? What? You don’t know? Let me tell you. Sigh. First let me get a cold drink and a fan, because just talking about the calendar heats me up.
Every year Stade, Francais, puts out a calendar for a children’s charity to entice women everywhere to spend money and have beautiful, buff, naked French men hanging on their wall. Mon Dieu! Stop: I have to fan myself. The calendar is a smorgasbord of beautiful man meat. Although they aren’t all French, this year it was an international cast: Argentina, Scotland, South Africa, Italy, England and one year they even had an incredible hot Canadian, but not this year. Needless to say, I’ve been spending a lot of time alone with the calendar. Make your own inferences.
I know as a romance writer, we look at gorgeous men all the time: at least their photos. And we should be somewhat jaded, but I have to admit, this year the calendar was extra special. I am so intrigued by the cover that I’m started watching rugby, which makes no sense to me. It is exciting to watch, though I have no idea what the rules are or how anything is scored. There are no pads, or helmets, or elaborate uniforms to hide the players from me. And once in a while, someone will grab onto a pair of short and I get to see bare-naked butt.
The calendar came a couple days before I went into the hospital so I didn’t get a chance to look at it thoroughly. By the time I got home, I was salivating even in my Vicodin induced haze and finally had the time to really look and really enjoy it. I didn’t get past the cover for a couple days. Because my favorite rugby player, Dmitri Szarzewski was on the cover. Ladies, what a treat. If you have five seconds, go to YouTube, plug in his name and just watch. Keep your fan on with a cold drink because you’re going to need both. He is hot. When you’re done with him in about five days, check out Fulgence Ouedraogo. (Do you remember Designing Women and the Sugarbaker sisters’ friend, Bernice? She would spontaneously break into song every time she saw Anthony. Black Man.) Yeah, I get it now and know why. Looking at Fulgence revealed all to me. And then there’s always the sweet, young Alexis Palisson who when I watched him play on BBC looked about twelve. In the photo he is hot and intense and makes my inner cougar purr.
After mentioning the calendar to my doctor and my friends at work, they all bought one. It’s a twofer: helping underprivileged French children and looking at hot rugby players.
So remember—calendar, hot men, and altruistic lust. Lust for a good cause.
Excuse me. I have to go be one with my calendar.
Until next time, Jackie
Miriam here,
Life has been filled with lots of challenges the last few months. Between various surgeries, both me and Jackie, and lots of time recovering, it’s finally over and I survived. Maybe I shouldn’t say that because the karma goddess is probably laying in wait to make me regret making rash statements.
I’m exhausted which is interesting because Jackie’s the one laying on the sofa taking a snooze. Her mouth is hanging open and Snuggles (my dog) is sniffing at her mouth and I’m wondering if I should take a photo or shoo the dog away. I’m having a hard time not laughing, but I don’t want to wake her up. So much for keeping her promises since it’s my turn to take a nap.
I’ll survive. I had caffeine today. But my bed beckons. I keep looking at my bedroom door wondering if I sneak away will she wake up asking in that pathetic whining voice of her’s if I would mind getting her a blanket or a pillow. My snarky answer would be, “I’m not your mother.” Unfortunately, my snark would be wasted on Jackie. She’s in a Vicodin haze today. Do I really want another repeat of our trip to the emergency room? About $10:30 am I’m in the middle of a meeting and my phone starts vibrating, which I ignored. Then I get another one and finally a third. I answered the third. It’s Jackie. And she’s crying. She tells me I have to come home immediately, she thinks she’s dying.
I dropped what I’m doing and make the thirty minute journey home in thirteen. I pulled up into the driveway and Jackie comes out looking pale. She’s shaking and can barely walk. I’m working to stay calm as I bundle her into the car and head for the hospital. As we’re walking out the door she says to me, we have to go the post office first. If I hadn’t been wearing a dress and high heels, I’d have kicked her in the ass. I’m trying to close my mouth and get her in the car. She’s moaning and groaning. I lied and told her I’d go to the post office later after we’ve sorted out what’s wrong with her.
We get to the hospital and I try to get help for her. Finally a man saunters out and helps her out of the car and takes her in. I park the car and hurry back. Jackie’s sitting in the hall in her wheelchair, half passed out and nobody is doing anything. I try to get help for her, but the receptionist keeps telling me they’ll get to her when they get to her.
A woman eventually comes out and calls Jackie’s name. I’m trying to get the wheelchair moving and it keeps stopping. I’m juggling Jackie’s purse, my purse and the wheelchair. I ask the woman for some help while she’s propping the door open and she says to Jackie, “Well, can’t you walk?”
I was appalled. Jackie is sitting in a wheelchair, most obviously for a reason. What part of emergency room doesn’t make a woman sitting in a wheelchair an emergency? Jackie staggers to her feet and is clutching at the door in such obvious distress I can’t understand why the woman just stands there. Yet she just stands there and watches. Obviously sympathy and the mission statement for the hospital are not on this woman’s to do list.
Finally, we get into the emergency room. I have to get her undressed. This is the first time I’ve ever seen Jackie’s boobs and it’s making me way uncomfortable. I get her onto the Gurney and a handsome young man comes in. Boy did Jackie perk up and I perked up a little, too. He gets her comfortable and is laying out supplies to start an IV. Jackie looks at me and says, “I’m so glad I took a shower this morning and shaved.”
The young man just stares at her, his mouth open and a look of such astonishment on his face I almost forgot why we were there. I patted him on the hand and say, “Just ignore her. That’s the way her mind works.” He doesn’t look relieved and is replaced by a nurse who gets the IV started and fills Jackie with morphine. She falls asleep while I’m trying to get the hospital to call her doctor. They won’t call him. I’m wondering why. He’s her doctor; he knows what’s going on. When I get a hold of him and explain the situation, he tells me to have the emergency room personnel call him. They still won’t call him even though I’ve given them the number and his instructions. Apparently since he isn’t on staff at this hospital, they won’t call him. I talk to him again.
By now the hospital is trying to get Jackie to sign a release to have an ultra-sound done on her stomach. The doctor has already told me the situation is normal for the procedure she’s just had and that if they do an ultrasound they’ll insist on a hysterectomy. First I fought with the emergency room staff to get her cared for, then I fought with them to have them speak to her doctor and now I’m fighting with them to have them follow his instructions. The emergency room doctor and nurses tried to get Jackie to sign a release for the ultrasound four times. She refused, I refused and still they kept asking.
After five hours, they give up and I was able to liberate her. Her pain is under control; she’s been re-hydrated and is high on morphine.
Next time I’m calling an ambulance or just putting a pillow over her head. Jackie felt really, really guilty over this. She not only took me out to lunch, did my laundry, but she also put gas in my car.
Jackie guilty is a beautiful thing.
Until next time, Miriam
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Miriam
J.M. Jeffries
Going back even further–my best friend in childhood whose name was Mary Ann Powderly–her mother used to ask me if I wanted candy. My answer was, “No, thank you, may I have some Saltines?” My friend’s mother told this story for years. Turned out, all my childhood friends’ mothers’ always stocked Saltines just for me.
Saltines today just aren’t the same–not salty enough. In today’s nutrition conscious society, salt has become the villain. Not for me. The more salt the better. I was at the doctor’s on Monday and even after a salt laden breakfast of egg whites, portabello mushrooms, green onions and mozzarella cheese, my blood pressure was only 118 over 72. Apparently, right inside the normal range. I’m sixty-two years old. I don’t think high blood pressure is in my future just yet. Even my doctor concurs, but she always adds tons of caveats.
Good with His Hands in print format in November 2010. Carnival Diabolique in print format in December 2010.
First let me apologize for anyone who may find this distasteful and the fact that I have found humor in it. Humor and Dove bars are my way of getting through life. After reading this blog you’ll know why Dove bars are now off the list of things that make Jackie feel good.
June 29 was my birthday and I turned the big 4-7. Guess what the cosmos gave me? Stomach flu or so I thought. I went to the doctor and I’m laying on the table (Miriam: thank God she wasn’t naked) and he’s palpating me which was uncomfortable having a strange man I’m not attracted to touching my tummy. He says, “Do you know you have a mass in your uterus?” (Miriam: and I’m thinking she has priest in her uterus saying Mass. After listening to her being sick, bitching and moaning for two days I wasn’t surprised my thoughts weren’t on the same page as the doctor’s.) Jackie said, “I had no idea.” The doctor says, “How could you not know?” “Dude, I’m fat,” Jackie responds. And then it kind of hits me after a moment of panic. This isn’t the stomach flu, but something else. The MD gives me happy pills and in injection to calm my stomach (which cost $165.00). And he goes on talking about the mass and I’m thinking, fine I’ll see my doctor. In fact I already had an appointment on the schedule.
I go to my primary care doctor and she tells me I have a tumor the size of a 4 mouth fetus in my uterus and I’m thinking I’m now the proud mother of a tumor baby. So if this news was not enough, I was scheduled an ultra sound and found out I would have to drink 64 ounces of water in an hour and half and not pee for another hour and a half. Do you know how difficult that is? One word comes to mind–TORTURE. So clutching my legs together hoping I didn’t have an accident on the table, that would be embarrassing, I survived the ultra-sound.
On to the next thing. Two days after my ultra sound, guess what happens to me? Car accident. I was rear-ended and not in a fun way. (Miriam: thanks for that image.) Fortunately, I was okay and my little Hyundai came though with nothing but some bumper damage. The other car–not so lucky. Other than a few aches and bruises I was fine. But a few days after that I lost my glasses. Luckily I kept my old pair so I wasn’t a blind tumor baby mama without a car. P.S. if you ever have to be in an accident, hope it’s with someone who has the same insurance as you because they couldn’t be nicer to you. Props to State Farm.
BTW it wasn’t stomach flu, but food poisoning. (Miriam: it’s not fault we ate out that week. )
I get the results from the ultra sound which were inconclusive. Really, you couldn’t tell how bloated I was from all that water. I’m surprised my tumor baby didn’t need a life preserver. I want back to the doctor who told me the results were inconclusive and scheduled me for an MRI. And since I haven’t had a physical in a while, she arranged for the labworks, the MRI and a followup appointment. A couple days later, after driving all over I can now find every doctor and hospital in the city of Corona, (Miriam: Jackie can’t find crap, I had to drive her everywhere, she could get lost with MapQuest and a sherpa guide on her way to the bathroom) I visit the blood vampire and she gives me a cup to pee in. But the pressure unnerved me and I was in the bathroom for twenty minutes praying to the gods I’d have a little flow. The next day I am going to get the MRI when the doctor calls and says I have to come in immediately. I’m thinking, I have cancer and only three weeks to live. Who’s gonna take care of my dogs and how are Miriam and I going to get the novella done. And do I need to clean my bathroom? Do I care? I guess so, so people will judge me. “She was nice, but she was a terrible housekeeper.”
First I go for the MRI which turns out to be a no-go. It was a torpedo tube and my ass wouldn’t fit. No matter how I arranged my arms I couldn’t get in. The poor tech tried to help, but I finally said, “Dude, I need a fat girl machine.” So I finally get out of there and roll over to the doctor’s office. And basically they tell me I have a raging infection, I’m dehydrated, my triglycerides are high and my blood sugar is high. The good side–my blood pressure was excellent. Not anymore after today, though.
So they found a fat girl MRI machine, but let me tell you something it was still torture. It took me 3 hours to get it done. (Miriam: Thank God I saved the latest Jim Butcher for my adventures in MRI land. Jackie is such a drama queen) but I got through it.
This has been quite a month. The doctor just called to tell me, Tommy, my tumor baby is the size of two and half fists clenched together and benign. In Jackie speak, I’m one tumor away from being a size twelve. And the doctor is telling me about my options. I don’t care, tumor baby has to go. It doesn’t pay rent, doesn’t mow the lawn, and doesn’t make me happy.
After refering to my last blog on bumper stickers, I now have to lose weight, thereby making me easier to kidnap. My good friend Seressia Glass( reference my blog on what I want done with my earthly remains) wants to throw me a tumor baby shower. (Miriam: oh hell no. How will I decorate?) And Miriam won’t let me keep it in the refrigerator. What is life coming to?
This is what my last month and a half has been. Last night, Miriam asked me to do the dishes and I gave her my best puppy-dog look and said, “but I have a tumor.” And Miriam says, “It’s not in your hands.” I have decided my best course of action, since I’m no longer allowed Dove bars or cocktails, is to laugh. I don’t have cancer, and I can live with diabetes. I can fix the cholesterol and triglycerides even though I’m afraid the fish oil pills Miriam is making me take could make me smell like a halibut.
The theme of this blog is: LAUGH. Laughter makes me feel like I’m in control. Laughing makes me feel like I’ll get through this. And if I make a joke about it, I feel that Miriam, my mom, and all the people who love me won’t be so stressed out. I don’t need their drama, I have plenty of my own.
Much love, take care of yourself and go get a physical, Jackie.
miriamapace