THE TIMMY'S WEEKEND OFF
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THE TIMMY'S WEEKEND OFF
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I made arrangements to go door-to-door by tardvan to the
prospective Royal Residence to look at the actual throne room
they have available for rent. I won't sign for (much less fork
over money on) a sight unseen. The neighborhood of the Royal
Residence is close to a cable car roundtable, the end of the
Powell Street line on Market Street in San Francisco. On one
side is the space which used to be called the world's biggest
Woolworth store.
On the other is the sunken Halladie Plaza adjacent to the
underground BART train station. The area teems with tourists and
ne'er-do-wells. The sunken plaza is locally called The Bear Pit.
Actually, it's The Bum Pit. The sidewalks around it collect a
strange mixture of humanity and dozens of pigeons and seagulls.
There is quite a lot of litter and birdshit all around. On the
one hand you have snacking and hamburger-eating tourists, and on
the other you have the spare change artists.
There are garden-variety crazies and then there are specialist
crazies such as the man who stands on the sidewalk as he has done
for many years with his plastic-coated NO UNLAWFUL SEX sign. I
have considered asking him if there is such a thing as lawful
sex, but since I am not having any of either kind, the topic is
irrelevant. I was treated to the ministry of a street preacher
thumping his Bible and babbling about how Jesus Loves and Jesus
Heals. He latched onto me and asked, Do you believe Jesus can
heal you, brother? I replied, Yes, I suppose He could, but I
don't think it's bloody likely. I popped my whip back at my
tardkeeper and he pushed me all the faster to get us away from
that diseased yokel.
I just love the way my guts are operating now. I only crap about
every third day. When it happens, you'd better look out. I
scared a new nurseypoo again last night. Unfortunately, I found
out about three a.m. that I wasn't empty. I adjusted one cheek
and ripped off a stenorian fart that wasn't all air. I had an
MLE -- Major Liquishit Event. I haven't crapped myself like that
for months and I was quite upset.
This morning I was up and checking email when George called to
me, I shit, I shit. Oops. George was in shaving and leaked. He
pushed the call button in the john and sat down on the pot. I
gather he made quite a mess of his clothes. No one came to
answer the red light in the corridor, so I went out looking for
our nurseypoo.
Instead of coming to see what was the matter, she had a big
discussion with another CNA and the charge nurse about who the
director of nursing had assigned our room to. This is the usual
game of pass-the-turd. Finally they got poor George fixed up.
He was still distressed. It seems his liquishit burned his exit
port. I cut the corner off a sigle-use packet of skin ointment
and told him to put about half of it on his sore little pucker.
He blessed me several times for being the instrument of his
relief. Later when he came back to make a further deposit, he
had the other half of the packet to smear on his starfish. We
have to watch out for each other around here. The droolers and
diggers get all the attention.
I spent part of yesterday morning writing another of my famous
bitch letters to Miss Ralph in her official capacity because mere
yak gets me no where--
As you are aware from our recent conversations, I spoke
two weeks ago to Ming the Merciful about his writing a
prescription for me to turn in to Cruella Cross for
reimbursement for the Glucometer Elite and two boxes of test
strips I bought in preparation for moving to my own
apartment. I bought this machine early because I wanted to
perform tests side-by-side with the machine used here to be
sure the new one was operating correctly and to be sure I
used it correctly. On at least two ocassions I have asked
the charge nurse at station two to get in touch with Ming
to remind him to write this prescription and to leave it
here for me. To date I have no prescription.
Two days ago the med nurse on the 11-7 shift woke me for my
morning fingerstick. She told me Ming changed my order
for Micronase and that I would get it at nine a.m. instead
of in the morning as I have customarily taken it for over
one year. Once again Ole Merciful has made a change in my
treatment without consulting me. I don't like this. I
found out he made this change on the advice of some
pharmacist who had second-hand knowledge of possible
difficulties with glyburide taken too early in the day or
some such thing.
Had anyone bothered to consult me before making this change,
I would have told them that in over a year of taking this
dose of glyburide/Micronase I have never had a hypoglycemic
reaction, which is apparently what is feared. I know what a
hypo feels like and I know the meter reading which indicates
I might be getting close. I am an informed and self-aware
diabetic person and I am being treated like a senile old
fool whose chart entries and the impersonal advice from
people I do not know are more important than I, the patient,
am.
Since Ming does not wish to speak to me but instead wishes
to speak for me, I am unwilling to continue having him as a
personal physician. Please give me a list of other
physicians who do business with this organization from which
I may choose a replacement. I want somebody who actually
talks to and works with his or her patients.
As evidence of my displeasure with the current state of
affairs, I will not participate in any further morning
fingerpoking until this matter is resolved to my
satisfaction. As I have made painfully clear many times
previsouly, it is difficult enough to get meaningful and
unbroken sleep in this place. I will not have my sleep
interrupted for poking around and no medicine. You may find
my obstinance histrionic and amusing. If this is the only
way I can protest impersonal treatment, then, by God, I will
so protest. And the state licensing board might be
interested in the issues here, too.
I was emboldened by the advice of a dear friend who is a savvy
RN--
This is one of my pet peeves. Docs order things all the
time without saying anything to the patient about it. I
remember time and time again going into a patient's room and
telling them that transport will be there shortly to take
them to wherever: cat scan, x-ray, therapy, etc., and they
didn't know a thing about it. Then the zillions of
questions come and naturally, they're upset and bitchy. The
really pissy part was when the doc finally showed up, they
didn't say shit to the docs because they took it all out on
us. Nobody won. The whole mess could have been prevented
by the M.D. (Major Diety) lowering him/herself to speak to
their patients.
Am I wrong here, or am I really surrounded by fools?
No, you're surrounded by American health care. Another
problem is that you are one of the (probable) residential
few at St. Timmy's who is coherent, intelligent, and aware
of what's going on. They're so used to dealing with
residents who are unable to tend to their most basic needs,
that maybe they've overlooked your qualities. And then when
you question them and present logical arguments, they get
pissed because they know you're right.
Wish I had better answers for you, Paulie. It won't be
long, though, and you'll be out of there in a much better
place.
I have since found out that it wasn't Ming who made the change in
my med schedule. It was this nameless, faceless pharmacist
person who came in here and wrote and signed the order. And then
these people have the nerve to tell me our charts are
confidential blah blah blah. So Ming is off the hook but this
place and, indeed, the whole industry is not.
But I guess It-Won't-Be-Long has arrived. I got a tardvan ride
to San Francisco this morning to meet the property manager of the
new Royal Residence for a showing of Room 406. I have a slight
view of the side street below. Were I on the other side of the
building, I would have a view of the blank wall belonging to a
new luxury tourist hotel. I should be spared both the worst of
the summer afternoon heat (when it happens) and the blast of fog
from the Pacific. I should have morning sunlight as often as
anyone will have it.
I can peek into rooms at an opposing hotel with my telescope,
heh. On my block I have that luxury tourist hotel, another one
directly across the street, two restaurants, a cigar bar, and a
sidewalk cafe which I believe I will be holding court in much of
the time. Demon met me at the RR and we had lunch at this
sidewalk cafe while we awaited the tardvan to take me back to St
Timmy's. I have a sheaf of papers to look over and sign and
return first of the week with a check for first/last/deposit, but
I signed the lease! Demon asked me if I noticed that
residents at the RR may have overnight guests...? I looked into
those Keynesian baby blues of his and at his big, teethy grin.
Hmmmmm. What's on your mind, butchboy...?
I told them to banish the existing furniture to the basement or
wherever they keep cheap-ass hotel-type crap. I'll have my own
futon bed, dresser, monster teacher's desk, and my night stand to
begin with. I will be retaining for use two semi-upholstered
chairs which belong to the room. There has to be something for
people to park their butts on when I hold court -- I can't expect
them to stand in my royal presence _all_ the time!
The down side is, the royal buns will have to smile on a commode
chair because the royal carriage is never going to make it into
that bathroom. It's a nice tile bathroom, but it will be
reserved for guests only. I am told several people who live in
this building have whatever the modern equivalent of visiting
nurse service is, so I should be able to have minimal assistance
with living chores. I've gotten spoiled with having bath water
brought to my bedside for me to splash around with anyway.
Whatever its ups and downs, the RR will give me independence and
will get me away from screams and rants in the night. Instead I
can expect sirens and gunshots. I can go from tardfarm
overcooked and wanked-in healthy semi-food to good old American
overcooked and wanked-in bad real food. I have my choice of most
major greaseburger places within a two-block roll. The passing
parade of tourists and hostel-types outside the RR was quite
impressive for a cold, rainy and blustery January noon.
I told George this morning that I expected to be leaving soon.
He wants so much to be out of here, too. He can handle himself
in many ways better than I handle myself. His mental in and out
processes are damaged where my movement is restricted. When the
tardvan lady came to get me, George rolled out to see me off this
morning. I made him the promise that I would do whatever I could
to find him a better place to live. He bent down -- from
standing -- and kissed me on top the head.
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