my jaundiced eye

what can brown do for you?

MJE is just back from her pre-op appointment. Nurse Holly was my angel of mercy today. We went through my medical history, medications and bad lifestyle choices, yet again. When she got to the drinking bit, the max option was 3+ a night. She allowed that she sure couldn’t get through life without her daily ration of wine and marked me down as a “moderate” imbiber, bless her heart. From there to drawing blood, a task at which she declared herself to be particularly adept. Well couldn’t prove it by me, (one too many last night Holly?)…holy cow, felt like I’d been worked over by rookie acupuncturist. But then the EKG: perfect! I requested that certified copies be sent to my children who are of the opinion that my heart is a non-functioning organ like tonsils or an appendix. Wrong! it works fine but it just doesn’t give a crap.

Then on to finding a notary to stamp my “Advanced Health Care Power of Attorney.” Toddled over to my bank first where there is a notary who can sign everything but powers of attorney. She helpfully directed me to the UPS store in the Walmart shopping center. There, above the screeching din of the packing tape dispenser, I tried to communicate the need for a public notary who could put an official stamp to my last wishes. The manager, Gomez Addams, declared that for $5 a punch he could do the deed. But I was short a witness. I needed more than the taping fool in the back for this business. The notary suggested that I check the computer game store next door for a spare literate. Well as my readers know it’s not easy to find a literate person in even the most promising of milieus, but a Walmart shopping center is certainly the least hospitable environment in which to search. But search I did. Sadly the game store was manned by a single large lesbian who refused to leave her post. She suggested I try the Mexican restaurant two doors over. Hmmmm, I pondered the legality of the signature of an undocumented resident in this capacity and decided to broaden the perimeter. I spied a slum lord furniture rental place and made a bee line. Some half witted kid was listlessly dusting massive television screens and I asked if he could take a second out of his busy day to come witness my signature. I might as well have asked him if he’d be able to rent a tux and limo and take me to the prom. Tonight. And bring a corsage. Completely baffled, he lethargically kicked it up to management via a second equally diligent employee. I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that discussion. After a protracted pow wow in the manager’s office, Thing 2 reluctantly emerged looking like she was about to face a firing squad.

So back to the UPS office with my new old friend Cha-qweeta. I laid out the paperwork, and Gomez, Cha-qweeta and the nameless packing tapist set about our business. In five minutes, in the UPS office in the Walmart shopping center my directives for end of life decisions were rendered legally binding.

it’s all in the book

The other night the OB&C and I were having dinner and I was having a bit of a sinking spell, as me ole mudda used to say. He assumed a peckish tone and asked why I was so goddam moody. I suggested he might like to leaf through the informative book that Nurse Navigator had given me, Breast Cancer is a Bitch and No One Wants to Hear About Yours which might enlighten him about what might be going on, breast wise and otherwise. He immediately shot back in a highly defensive manner “Well, YOU never read the book regarding MY recent extremely debilitating medical ordeal, The Heartbreak of Hernia Repair.” He got me there. The poor sod hadn’t even had a nurse navigator to get him through the ordeal of having to be driven to and from the out patient surgery center, helped up the apartment steps, into his jams and into bed and then play step and fetch it for an interminable period of time. Nor to lend a sympathetic ear to his weeks-long complaints that the doctor hadn’t done a damned thing, it hurt worse than before, he could still feel it (that also required a sympathetic eye as he poked and prodded his nether region on a continual basis), and he’d almost certainly need another (traumatic) surgery to finally get it right.

I guess MJE and the OB&C could both take a few lessons in being “mindful” of one another’s suffering.

nurse navigator

As my readers who’ve paid attention (and give a rat’s ass) may suspect, MJE’s been diagnosed with a wee bit o’ trouble, bumpulous on chesticle. Nothing she can’t handle and she does hope the experience provides oodles of good material. But so far so boring, “Strip to the waist, put on the gown open to the front” rinse and repeat. Pretty sure everyone within a 20 miles radius has gotten a gander at my six shooters by now. Feel like a middle-aged stripper doing five shows a day. But there was a bright light yesterday when I received a call from Nurse Amy who chirpily introduced herself as my “Nurse Navigator!” Huh? and went on to describe herself as “my new best friend.” Whoa nelly, back off Ames. Besties? Hmmmm. Let’s see, can you handle long boozy lunches and rally in time for the 5pm cocktail gong, or cut someone to shreds with a withering glance or caustic quip, or make merciless fun of your family? What about never mentioning avocados, or talking about god’s will (until Jesu Christe himself comes knocking on my door and turns a six pack of club soda into a couple of bottles of nice cab I will remain a non-believer), or your golf game, especially your golf game. Oh and are you prepared to be almost totally ignored until I need you to do something for me? Pronto. Not so much eh, too much pressure? Got it. Totally understand.

But you’ll still be my #1 NN and that’s something.

my kingdom for a hernia

Dear readers, MJE very much appreciates your outpouring of support and encouragement regarding my medical situation but all that tea and sympathy is driving me into a diabetic coma. I would request that you follow OB&C’s example. As most of the civilized world has probably heard, he had a hernia repair several weeks ago. He is totally and completely obsessed with his progress, or lack thereof, and issues hernia updates more frequently than CNN issues Breaking News reports. When I tried to clue him in on my biopsy results I could hardly get a word in edgewise. When he finally he came up for air he said “oh, you’ll be fine, but my hernia…”. Now that’s what I call putting things in perspective. It reduced my diagnosis to the level of an ingrown toenail and brightened my spirits to no end. Tough love baby.

don’t worry be happy

Ironic, given MJE’s last post that I should receive a crappy medical notice just this past week. But as my loyal readers know MJE is nothing if not an optimist, glass half full, etc. That was a joke, I am a bottle ¾ empty kinda gal for sure.

But in the spirit of looking on the bright side, my first step was to make a beeline (on the sunny side of the street !) to Galatoire’s for a long boozy lunch. For those poor souls who are unfamiliar with Galatoire’s, it’s a 100+ year old restaurant that, aside from switching from gaslight to electric bulbs hasn’t changed much since it opened. You specify your waiter when you arrive signaling your status as a regular. If you don’t have one you get a newbie and sit in Siberia. Our waiter is Imre the Hungarian. He’s been there forty years and took over after Michel (my mother’s waiter) retired. Imre is wonderfully old school, hand kissing and all, plus he’s an enabler par excellence. Any ethyl alcohol request is met with an immediate heavily accented “Good idea, thank you.” The OB&C and I were joined by SOB who was in town for a wedding. Knocking on forty and having lived in Atlanta for too many years, SOB, after having gone to Galatoire’s all his life, took a look around and realized that Galatoire’s is a Technicolor dining experience in a sea of black and white restaurants. It’s not that the food is the best in the world, nor the décor, although I do love the tile floors, ceiling fans, flocked wallpaper and mirrors lining the walls (better to watch people across the room), it’s the whole ball of wax. The portly waiters in their often too tight black jackets, white shirts and tiny bow ties, the unhurried pace, the weeding out of riffraff clientele by a now quaint dress code requiring that men wear jackets and an atmosphere of civilized, convivial, well-mannered debauchery. Lunches stretch for hours. Last time we went, the OB&C and I were the last people left, just us and the waiters having their dinners before the evening rush. Some people never leave, they just stay on for dinner.

So, after a couple of rounds of bloody marys and bottles of wine, oysters Rockefeller, crabmeat maison, gumbo, soft shell crab, trout meuniere and Brabant potatoes we sauntered over to the “Slavery in New Orleans” exhibit at the Historic New Orleans Collection. Somewhat (but not completely, thank god) sobering subject matter but was relieved not to see my maiden family name among the owners. The OB&C’s family hails from the dreary heartland of the country so he was safe. While my forebears were all sitting on the porches of our plantations drinking mint juleps and having our mammies tighten our corsets or our house servants step and fetch it, they were slogging away inventing the steam engine or electric light bulb or something. Well, good for them. New Orleans made its own not insignificant contributions to the betterment of society with the creation of the sazerac and the gin fizz, both of which are equally enjoyable under a lamp shade, candlelight or in total darkness. No electricity required.

death defying decisions

MJE is by nature pretty controlling, not to an unpleasant degree mind you but I just like to be in the driver’s seat as often as possible. So, sticking with the automotive analogy, when my car starts petering out I want to make sure that the mechanic doesn’t do something stupid, unnecessary and expensive when it just isn’t going to make the car last any longer. To wit, I’ve been perusing materials pertaining to end of life (human not automotive) decisions.

Well it turns out it’s a bit more complicated than I thought. Fortunately, there is a 26 page guide and questionnaire put out by the Death, Near Death and Certain Death Society that those of us who are not immortal should consider completing and sharing with our doctors and health care proxies. Given the subject matter the title is catchy and upbeat, “The Tool Kit for a Better Death!” It’s divided into nine sections, or “tools” for you to keep in your “death toolbox. “ For example Tool #2 is “Are Some Conditions Worse than Death?” Hell yes, the OB&C’s family reunion I have to host in May. There are a lot of “What If” questions like “If you are in severe or untreatable pain on a scale of 1 to 5 do you “Definitely Want Treatment or “Definitely Do Not Want Treatment.” Really? Who the hell is going to say I definitely do not want treatment except maybe members of Masochistics Anonymous. Or “How Do You Weigh Yours Odds of Survival” well last time I checked no one is getting out of here alive so I’d say 0% on that one. Tool #5 is “After Death Decisions to Think About Now”, isn’t that an oxymoron, how can I think about them now when I am alive when they are decisions to be made after death? Tool #6 includes a helpful section entitled “Five Times to Re-examine Your Death Wishes…” It’s the five D’s: Decade, Death, Divorce, Diagnosis and Decline. Seems like one of those might be a day late and a dollar short so I recommend sticking to just four of the D’s.

FYI, there’s a quiz at the end so pay attention!

bring on the burka

The other day MJE was strolling through the park when she happened upon a woman of a certain age dressed in short shorts and a tank top. That’s not the noteworthy part, it’s that this woman was a walking talking tower of cellulite. And I mean stem to stern. I am always envious of people who have such a positive self-image that they will bare parts of their bodies regardless of their condition, seemingly unaware or indifferent to how revolting their appearance is to other people.

I myself can barely look at my ankles without a shudder. Forget thighs, stomach, upper arms or decolletage. It has been years since I donned a pair of shorts or a skirt and a bating suit is so far beyond the realm of possibility that it might as well be a suit of chain mail. Then I thought, what about a burka! I know it’s a symbol of Islamic misogyny but talk about no hassle. First you can wear the same one everyday and who’s the wiser, no one even knows what’s under there. Imagine the freedom! Good bye exfoliating, shaving, waxing or plucking. No more costly cuts and color or blow outs, hell you don’t even have to wash your hair if you don’t feel like it. Sayonara, free weights, exercise class, or a healthy diet, although I do wonder how those women eat, maybe they carry around a camel back loaded with ensure. Kiss off all those expensive creams and potions and no more botox, laser treatments or facial peels. All of that falls away under that shroud of polyester. Who knew that something so repressive could be so liberating! I know what you’re thinking, under a burka a woman is reduced to a non-entity. But if that’s what it takes to never have to shave my legs again I am down with it. In fact I am going to http://www.islamhateswomen.com right now and order a couple.

RIP

MJE was perusing the obits the other day and was surprised at just how many people kick the bucket every day. FYI, it’s a lot. Curiously, out of all of the deceased only one person “died” (but it was peacefully.) All of the others’ expirations were euphemized in the blandest terms. “Passed away” and “passed on,” despite being the least imaginative were the most popular expressions of choice. “Entered into eternal rest/peace/heaven” was a distant second followed by, in no particular order, “ascended to heaven/heaven’s gate”, “was called home”, “was called from above and brought home”, and “went home with his lord and savior.” The boldest choice was Eddie “Bit” Martin who “transitioned from the physical life to the spiritual realm” which seems a good deal of verbiage just to say Bit bit it.

The nicknames and memorable life factoids of the departed are a fun feature of the obits, “Maw Maw Francis” (a graduate of Katie’s Beauty College), Edward “Charlie” “Wookam” Joseph (whose worldly achievements were limited to a vast number of offspring), Joseph “Turkey” Starring (his favorite activity was working on the CHS barbeque), and Donald “Bulldog” Fernandez (a proud member of the Local 406 Union and the Invincible Masonic Lodge No 360).

One of the creepier sections is birthday wishes from family and friends to their dearly departed. It seems to me that once you’re dead you shouldn’t have to be troubled with birthdays, anniversaries, or any other guilt inducing holidays. You don’t have to worry about back taxes, overdraft protection, colonoscopies, unused frequent flier miles, the check motor light on your dashboard, that pledge to PBS that you never paid, or your grandchildren’s orthodontia bills. You’ve earned your eternal rest, so a note to those left behind: Do not disturb.

the visitation

The OB&C and I have just survived the double trauma of his hernia repair and the visitation of my sister, Shalleaux and her husband Duhl. She is a professional flake who also goes by the name “Aziza,” Tibetan for Narcissistic Dope. Duhl is a lapsed lawyer who has the charisma of the Rain Man but less personality. Shalleaux has traveled the globe for thirty years conducting “workshops.” No one in the family knows what she teaches in these workshops because no one cares enough to ask. But apparently there is an endless supply of gullibles willing to pay for her sage advice on life. Duhl, a Boston Brahmin long ago ditched his expensive ivy education to build sub-standard houses in New Hampshire.

Her annual visits always start with a call on hermit brother Joey. Several years ago he somewhat oddly declared that he should be referred to as Joseph I. I suppose at the tender age of forty he decided that he wasn’t getting enough respect and a name upgrade might change that. Who wouldn’t respect a middle aged guy who blew off his education, hasn’t worked a day in his life and has spent most of his adulthood in an isolated house drawing doodles and taking care of his cat.

But let’s not forget the OB&C’s hernia! Last week he had a colonoscopy, which you would have thought was a heart lung transplant. A hernia was like manna from heaven, akin to a case of ebola. Having Shalleaux and Duhl in residence was an added burden which you might have thought they would forgo, considering, but the lure of free room and board was too tempting. However Shalleaux assured me that they would be “quiet as mice.” I don’t want mice either.

Yesterday was St. Paddy’s day and I cooked corned beef and cabbage. Shalleaux bounced into the kitchen and asked what I was cooking. When I told her, she was totally bewildered, “Like corned beef hash?” No, corned beef brisket, which I held aloft. From the look on her face you would have thought I was braising a side of hippo.

Upon returning from their day foisting themselves on other relatives Shalleaux inquired as to how my irish stew was coming along.

doin’ the harvey hustle

Once again MJE has to tip her hat to the local rag for providing an engaging topic. The front page piece drew attention to the arrest of a number of members of an extremely violent gang called the “Harvey Hustlers,” (I hope their first victim was whoever came up with that name, sounds like a line dancing club) a dangerous group of bad asses that have terrorized parts of the city for years. The charges ranged from intent to distribute this or that illegal substance, to racketeering, attempted murder, actual murder, carjacking, rape, assault, etc. Of particular note was hustler Davante Gumms who was charged with five counts of attempted second-degree murder. FIVE! For god’s sake get this guy a learning specialist and a bottle of Ritalin to help him stay on task.

Several of the hustlers were charged with cruelty to juveniles. Holy crap, didn’t know that was against the law. MJE sure dodged a bullet on that one.