I didn’t write yesterday, even though I got on the internet at Carrie’s, because… I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess I forgot. It doesn’t matter. I can write now.
I want to have a word with two out of three medical providers in this bloody state about their not knowing how to apply blood-pressure cuffs. (There’s an actual name for the blood-pressure-measuring machine but I have never mentally retained the spelling. If I told you what it was, most of you would go “Huh???” anyway.) When I went in for my consult for the colonoscopy, they put the cuff on my LOWER arm. What the fucking fuck. Only time that’s ever happened in my entire life. If I mentioned this before in this journal (I am not online as I write this, and haven’t been saving recent entries offline), I probably said the same thing then. Well, the other thing they do is put a normal-person cuff on a fat upper arm. Which is not limited to Louisiana, but EVERYONE does it here. Don’t tell me y’all have no goddamn funding for hamhock cuffs. Half or more of us are fat. Get them. Long story short I have compression bruises on my upper left arm — something else that has never happened, and I’ve had my BP measured several times since I went porker — and came this close to being prescribed blood-pressure meds. Fuck.
But the procedure went well otherwise. Those were some good drugs because I sort of felt the device up my ass as I was waking up but he must have been at the very end (har har) of the procedure because it wasn’t there long.
Verdict: No polyps. Not even a benign-looking one. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Whew. But he remarked that I have a lot of diverticulosis, which is where your colon forms pockets in its surface. I am not surprised because when I was in Ohio, I had a lower-left-quadrant pain episode that sent me to the doctor and she guesstimated I had diverticulitis (inflammation in those pockets) at that time. I actually must have developed the pockets early for the average because normally they start showing up around age forty and I know for a fact I had them in my twenties because I had the same pain a couple times then, once with a slight fever. No idea why. It wasn’t like I never ate fiber, so that’s probably not the issue.
Doc said to take Colace morning and night. Forever. I’m gonna take a wait-and-see attitude on that one. I need to do more digging. It’s supposedly a safe drug but if I can get habituated to it then there’s no point.
I generally didn’t have that high of an opinion of him. He was very brusque. I don’t need to have long conversations with my doctors but it was like he couldn’t be bothered acting like a human being for thirty fucking seconds. Dude. No.
Well, I don’t have to do this again for ten years so it probably won’t be him next time.
Carrie and I went to an Asian buffet in Crowley afterwards. They had these mushrooms in some kind of sauce that were fucking divine. They made up for the sorry sushi. Neither of us got food poisoning off the sushi but man, they even messed up the inari and how do you mess up inari? I could have dealt with the crab and seaweed salad in the inari if the rice had been okay. It was not. The rice in the maki was better, but it was all cooked. I guess most people in the smaller towns don’t want to eat raw fish. I might be able to find raw sushi in the cities. I’m not going to try right now, but it’s something to keep in mind.
I wasn’t allowed to drive for the rest of the day, which worked out because I had considered driving to Carrie’s house yesterday morning so she wouldn’t have to come get me because I thought I’d hang out at her place after we got back and then drive home. So it’s just as well I didn’t. Surprisingly, I could have because I was actually on time. Gasp. You’d think I was into anal or something, har har. (Family hide your eyes. Everyone else: I thought it was interesting at one time but my poor ass is just too trashed now. Not from finding it interesting. From the natural outcome of two pregnancies and way too much weight gain. Yep, you guessed it. So we are not going to go in the out door again. And that’s if I ever get laid again. And I very much doubt it.)
Oh, and Carrie and I discussed my biopsy next week. “Are you okay with losing it?” she asked, meaning my right tit. I dunno, I guess. I mean I’d rather not, but if it’s lose it or die, chop off my tit and call me a fat Amazon, I suppose. At least we will have caught it early, whatever it is, if it’s not benign.
We also talked about Stanford. When I was here two and a half years ago she had kicked him out because he’d talked shit about her honorary granddaughter (I think this was). I guess they reconciled, but it’s not much better now. I mentioned a while back that he (still) likes to talk shit about people. Apparently (and these are my words, not hers) he is also a gigantic man-baby who has to be the center of her attention at all times. I think that if she could find some way to fix the situation, she would. She might yet try. Lord knows she’s given that stupid man chance after chance, but if he doesn’t start minding his p’s and q’s he may be in for a shock. I did point out to her that a lot of people who’ve had cardiac events get depression afterwards. Stanford has had a whole-ass heart transplant. You never know, that could be all it is. She said he was a very quiet person when they were in high school together, so maybe he’s just changed. Whatever, I hope he sorts it out, and not at her expense. But we all know how that often goes. Men who want to marry usually do it because they want a fucking bangmaid. They keep enough of us poor that if one bangmaid doesn’t work out, why, they’ll just shop for another one. But Carrie’s a retiree from the school system, and before much longer she’ll be drawing Social Security too. She does not need that shit. She’s been divorced two or three times already. What makes him think he won’t be number three or four?
Ah well. I will very likely not be dealing with that nonsense again myself, so I wish her the best of luck.
So, today. I had thought I would go out and deliver for a while, but last night Dad said he wanted to go to Jennings today. It was one of those “let’s get some supplies in before it rains” things. I thought, well, if he buys me gas today I can still go to Lafayette tomorrow. Well, we went to the bank and looked at his balance and then we went to Walmart and got all kinds of shit and then I got home, counted it up and realized that I had not only the car insurance amount (I had already had some cash and he went and handed me more today) but I would have a decent amount left over afterwards too. So I went and deposited it after he was in bed for a nap and then paid the insurance and then went and got thirty dollars’ worth of gas and I still have twentysomething left. I still need to do delivery-driving, unless a miracle happens and I sell some bracelets, but at least it is not a national emergency right now.
And get this. I got an idea to start buying a one-dollar scratchoff every time I go in to Murphy’s to get Dad’s cigarettes, since he only does that a couple times a month. So I got my first one today. Got it home, scratched off, and I won a ticket. So when I went back out later to put my money on my Chime, I went and got thirty dollars’ worth of gas and then cashed in (ticketed in?) my winning scratch-off. Got that home? Won four bucks off of it. Cool. I won’t use that to buy four more tickets though. I will just cash it in next time I’m out thataway, or at some other lottery location. I can wait til it’s Marlboro Day to buy a ticket again. That particular scratch-off has pretty good odds, even if the odds for the max prize are not that great.
But hey. Four grand. I can dream.
I felt like shit for a good part of today though. I have no idea why. Could be leftover from the drugs yesterday, and I woke up with a headache, too. But I’m a lot better now.
I do need to eat, though, and finish my laundry. At least it is not ten tons of laundry. THANK YOU LAWD.