03 April 2024

Got a call from the clinic and then a page from the Crowley hospital within probably half an hour of one another. Phone calls at home are unreliable and it’s one thing when it’s your brother and you can just text him to go “hey, the call dropped” and quite another when you are waiting to hear, from someone probably on a landline switchboard, whether you have a sick tit.

I wanted to get online anyway, so I came to Jennings (I am here right now) and called my clinic from the library parking lot. Not long after that talk, the hospital called me.

Good news. It’s benign. I have to go back in six months and do this fucking song and dance again, but they just want to watch it. I have a Mass of Unusual Size somewhere in there (I would not have felt it on a self-exam — it’s pretty deep) and a few other problem-child spots and they just want to make sure nothing gets any ideas. Fine by me. Long as I don’t have to keep getting stabbed in the tit every time as well.

I never told Dad about any of this and I won’t unless the mass changes. We can’t even have an intelligent conversation about nutrition and weight; I’m not going to burden him with worrying about my stupid tits when there’s nothing to worry about. If it’d been malignant I’d have had to say something, but only because you can’t hide tit removal and chemo hair loss. If it had been something treatable with pills and wholly invisible to him I’d have said nothing. I already haven’t told him I have a diabetes diagnosis. What does it profit? Nothing. I am not going to have a fucking fifty-five-year-long alcoholic who smokes and hates broccoli lecture me on “healthy lifestyle” any more than he already does. This is not open to debate. Even when he does bring it up I just let him talk because I know he’s full of shit and he isn’t going to convince me of anything on that subject, and it’s too late to convince him.

(Side note: There isn’t anything particularly healthy about broccoli. It is useful when you need fiber and certain vitamins IF the vitamins aren’t cooked or aged out, but it also contains antinutrients, particularly working against the thyroid so really, ya pays yer money and ya takes yer chances. But most people associate it with healthy eating, and he sure fucking does. So.)

And let that be a lesson to the rest of you. If I don’t engage you in debate AT ALL, not even to offer words of agreement or encouragement, I have decided you are a fucking idiot — on the subject in question, minimum — and that there is no hope for you. You have not won. You are not better than me. It is not a fucking compliment. You have fucking failed. I argue when I think you are intelligent enough to understand and have the moral fiber to accept being disagreed with or even accept being wrong, if that’s the case. (Just because I take a stance on something does not mean I am always right. YOU HEARD IT HERE, FOLKS) If you WANT me to respect you and if you WANT me to stick around, you do not want me going quiet. Even if it means I’m no longer swearing. Swearing means hope. No swearing because no talking means doom.

I am pretty sure it works this way for most other people, which is why the biggest assholes of my life tend to go quiet sooner or later. To be fair, had I submitted to their bullshit and let them get away with it and therefore was still allowed in their lives, I’d have just been miserable anyway. It worked out for the best.

One exception to the above is if we have an audience. If we have an audience I might well argue with someone I find hopeless, because it might educate someone else. I still think you’re an idiot, but you’ve become a useful one. Yay?

Anyway, the other reason I might not bother arguing is if the subject is not important to me (probably also true of most other people). I will usually make it clear in some way if that is the case. I can, believe it or not, be diplomatic. But nutrition has played a major role in my current health miseries so this is not one of those unimportant topics. NO, Dad, eating less crap is not better than eating more crap. Eating crap is bad. Period.

(I don’t mean morally bad, I mean if you eat crap it will hurt you. Bad in that way. Speaking as someone who keeps eating crap. I know what it’s doing.)

I should write a Substack essay about that. I am brainstorming topics that are not gender identity so I don’t become a one-trick pony.

And speaking of nutrition, I finally got on a multivitamin again. I had been thinking about it anyway but what really decided me was recently flossing my teeth only to have the gumline around one of my fronts go a gusher. I will get minor gum bleed from time to time because I am not my own best friend, but it does not do that. I thought, well, maybe I don’t need to eat grapes at every fucking meal but I sure haven’t tried to get enough vitamin C, and that decided it. I don’t need to have scurvy on top of everything else. That was a few days ago, and already the situation has improved because that wasn’t the only time I’d had an impressive gum bleed lately and now it’s not doing that anymore. I can take a hint. It might take being scared a couple times before it sinks in, but I get there eventually.

It’s One-A-Day which is marginally better than Centrum, but at some point when I’m somehow earning regularly (however that happens), I’d like to go back to my old multi. That fucker was AWESOME, and it is still on the market. Hallelujah.

I’m looking back at what I’ve written and I want to clarify. I can think someone ain’t too bright and still like or respect them. That’s the case maybe about half the time but, say we’re talking about family, you can’t pick your family. So if a lot of them are being stupid it is just something you have to live with. The alternative is walking away from your family. I may yet do that after my dad passes, because no one’s given me any compelling reasons not to, such as regular and positive social interaction. My walking away won’t be because I hate them, though I may be disgusted by a handful of them. It’ll be because it’s a waste of energy to chase something that isn’t there. Blood kin should matter, but all too often blood kin don’t matter and the ones who treat you the least like you matter are the ones yelling loudest about blood being thicker than water. I’m over it, really. But no, I’m not saying I’ve given up arguing with Dad about nutrition because I 100% disrespect him. Certainly me thinking he’s a doofus about biology isn’t respectful, but it also isn’t untrue. Guess what: Lying to or about someone isn’t respectful either. I’m not going to call him a genius about the human body when he plainly isn’t.

It’s weird, because I sense that he is quite smart about some things. I think a lot of times he chooses not to use it. Probably why he used to get so pissed off about my grades and is currently pissed off at me for not being a millionaire. He thinks if he bullies me then I won’t turn out like he did. Because he could have done better with the brain he was given than he actually did, and he knows it.

Just don’t ask him about what vitamins do. That’s best.

Also, for the record, bullying don’t accomplish jack shit. What it does is traumatize the bullying target and mess up her brain so she’s actually LESS capable of stuff. We thrive, as a species, on solving problems. The only way to solve a bully is to kill him. The only other option is if he solves himself and stops being an asshole. Most of them won’t because duh, they’re bullies. Most of us don’t want to commit homicide. The bully therefore becomes an unsolvable problem because most of us are not bullies. And that’s why bullying isn’t a “what doesn’t kill us” that “makes us stronger.” It’s more like termites or rust.

I thought I wanted to write more for today but my brain is scattered. I see my most recent job application is still hanging in limbo. Meh. I gotta pee, then home I go.

02 April 2024

Huh. I thought I had a lot more entries to catch up with than I do. This is just the third one I need to put online. I must have been thinking about my Substack essays and got my wires crossed.

I went to the library in Jennings yesterday and spent some time. I wanted to get some money onto my Chime to pay hosting, I wanted to get a better pill organizer for Dad, and I wanted to get ahead on Substack a bit because I was starting to fall behind.

Anyway, because I had a decent internet connection for it, I checked to see if my biopsy results are back. They are not. I’ve begun making Very Secret Diary jokes about it. Day eight: Still no biopsy results.

I also took another look at my EKG summary and the specific numbers mentioned in the results. I can’t read EKGs — it was never a skill required of patient admin specialists in the Army, even though we filed them in medical records (not really a discrepancy, I’m just saying we did encounter those squiggly-line printouts) — but the results were Englishy enough and the four items of (my) interest were Google-able. I can’t see where they got “inferior infarct” from. Doesn’t mean anything, I just can’t see it. I took some comfort from the language indicating they only suspect it. We’ll see how that goes.

However, my QT interval was interesting. It does not fall within normal range for a woman. I googled that one and turns out it does fall within range for short QT syndrome, which apparently is genetically inherited.

It is not something I have ever talked about because I assumed it was all just me being inactive and out of shape, but I have definitely had dizzy spells and similar all through my life. I wasn’t one of those stereotypical Southern belles fainting onto couches and needing smelling salts. It would just hit me at inconvenient moments just when I needed to have my shit together and an operational spine. And it was just a feeling, not a faint.

It wasn’t anything severe, though. Like, I could run two or three or five miles back in the Army and actually make it back upright and alive. But there didn’t seem to be any real pattern to the episodes other than I think getting overheated made them more likely to come on. Even then it wasn’t every time. Probably not even most times.

(Although it got worse somehow in the few months after I caught COVID. That seems to have improved, though.)

But the thing that really tugs at me is how I used to react to fruity alcoholic beverages back in the 1990s. Random, right? Seems to have been daquiris and wine coolers. It wasn’t every time and I never figured out the pattern other than those broad categories of trigger; it didn’t help that most of the time it was drinking out somewhere and I wasn’t the one who mixed the drink. But what would happen is I’d get this uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I don’t mean my tits, which are a different body part. I mean the actual area around my heart. It wasn’t heartburn, because I’ve had heartburn. I just know it scared me, and I’d sometimes have to go outside and catch my breath for a bit to feel better. I think it happened maybe two or three times that I can recall. I wasn’t a big drinker in the first place, but that shit put me right off wine coolers and most daquiris. (I don’t think I ever had a problem with the strawberry ones.)

So, I mean, I guess I’ll ask about it. I am pessimistic. I’m on Medicaid, and in my experience no one gives two shits about people on Medicaid. No one gives two shits about middle-aged women in any case, but if no one is being paid to give a shit it just makes everything worse. Medicaid has, I heard, the lowest payout of any of the insurance plans in the United States, public or private. No bueno. The ONLY reason I am on it is I need medical care and don’t need to be in medical debt for the rest of my life. I’m so poor I wouldn’t even be fined for not being insured, so it’s not that. But I was thinking. Maybe if I tell my medical people I want to start exercising but want to make sure there isn’t anything serious to the EKG result first, they might take ME more seriously. It would make them look good if I lost weight and improved my health markers instead of dying young, right?

I dunno. There are no maps for me anymore. I get why so many women want a man in charge. I get why I so often defer to men. It’s just easier. It’s not because they’re actually smarter.

[waves arms around at the general state of everything]

What’s the point of having gone to the moon when rhinos are going extinct, amirite?

“Can’t we go to the moon and also save the rhinos?”

Not with men in charge, apparently. If you can think of some other reason we haven’t done both, I’m all fucking ears. Plus you aren’t answering why we need to save the rhinos in the first fucking place. Where the fuck did they all go?

Right. Moving on now…

Oh no, wait. I should add. When was it? Yesterday? Probably. So I’m driving to Jennings one day recently, whenever it was, and I coughed.

It was productive. (I coughed up goop.)

I am not sick!

Particularly troublesome was the fact the goop had a color. I had to open the tissue back up that I used to catch it, after I got where I was going, and look at it again to ease my mind that my lungs weren’t bleeding.

If the color looked like anything, it sort of reminded me of that sticky crap that gets all over the walls with Dad smoking. Depressing to think he’s fucking up my lungs already, but that’s probably what it is.

I realized a while back that when medical types ask adult patients about general habits and addictions, they never ask if there is a smoker in the house. Well, ain’t THAT a gigantic fucking oversight. You don’t even get the filtered smoke that a smoker gets. If they’re smoking, you’re smoking. Just the way it is.

Nothing I can do about it. Like so much else.

Pity that I won’t be able to play the but-I’m-old card if by some miracle I live as long as he has.

Fucking men.

That said. I got on Amazon while we were in town today (he had an appointment with his nurse practitioner, which was the reason he got the labs last week in the first place) and did some pricing. I am still figuring out the portrait-drawing thing because my speed in all matters must be fucking glacial, and I wanted to see if it made more sense to get stiff mailers for my Bristol board or to get real drawing paper the same size and then get mailing tubes that would fit it, being that I only had about seventeen bucks in my PayPal to spend on it. If I had bought a pack of mailing tubes it would have made more sense to get the stiff mailers, but I bought a pack of two. I suppose that’s fair. There is no use amassing a gigantic mailing-tube collection until I know if I can make a go of this. Just selling one portrait would leave me the money to buy tubes and then some. I’m not fussed.

So that gets here Friday. I’m anticipating being bitched at for buying something off Amazon. If the universe loves me, it’ll get here while he’s napping. The universe probably doesn’t love me, but we’ll see.

I may set aside a couple days a week and just go do it at the library. I haven’t decided yet. I CAN do it in my room on the little card table — even an 11″x14″ will fit on that table — but I have to juggle the lighting, and if I’m working from a source image on my computer, that adds to the surface space I need. 99.9% chance I will be working from a source image on my computer. And hey, you never know. The right person might stumble across me while I’m drawing at the library. Making art where one is visible in public tends to bring more art business. It is what it is. But dumb reasons for me to do it all at home are sure to develop. Welcome to my life.

31 March 2024

I almost wrote “31 Easter” as the title of this post.

I didn’t get a chance to do any Eastering with Sean, but with Thea we never had much of a yard and weren’t really plugged in to community stuff, so most years we just did a plastic-egg hunt in the house. She had plenty of fun with it. Now there’s no reason to really do anything. Dad says he’s Catholic; technically I suppose I am too, thanks to infant baptism. (I think the Church counts us baptized folks even if we aren’t confirmed for Communion.) But Dad makes rabbit-hunting jokes this time of year so I suppose we know his take on it.

He’s still doing okay and will actually be grilling today. He got a barbecue pit a few weeks ago and then fell ill so had to keep putting it off. My only concern at this point is how long the chicken has been in the fridge. It could have been a lot worse. Dad initially had me take chicken out of the freezer over a week ago, last Friday I think, for thawing to grill on Sunday. Then he felt like shit so he never got started. Then on Wednesday he expected me to roast that chicken which had been in the fridge for more than half a week. I wasn’t fucking having it, because chicken’s not supposed to sit opened (not in original packaging) in the fridge for more than two days. I could fudge it to three or four if I felt like taking the risk, but no more than four for sure. So while he was napping that day, I thawed the same number and kinds of pieces and threw out the ones that had been in the fridge. Then he wound up in the hospital, so I never roasted the chicken, so that’s what’s in the fridge today. We have hit my four-day limit but as long as he doesn’t do his all-too-often thing of not cooking the bigger pieces long enough, I think we will be all right.

If I complain about having the pukes and the shits, you’ll know we weren’t.

I can’t decide if I am suffering negative placebo effect from learning about that stupid EKG result or if shit is just getting borderline scary. As it is I’ve had heart palpitations at bedtime for a while. Nurse practitioner asked if I was also having trouble breathing and I said no, but there are times I wake up from sleep gasping for breath so I’m betting sleep apnea is also on the fucking table. And sleeping on my left side is less comfortable than sleeping on my right. The only reason I ever do it is so I am not always sleeping on the same side and never giving it relief from pressure against the mattress. Kind of important for general circulation. I just miss being able to sleep like a normal person. Hell, I miss BEING sort of a normal person. It’s terrifying how far out of things I have fallen. One of these days I’m gonna wake up dead and my luck, Dad will have gone during the same fucking night and we’ll both be in this house for like a week before we’re found. I don’t even have life insurance and at this point, I’m not sure I could get any. Certainly not term. I would fail the physical. I think the whole-life products are more expensive, too.

But it could be worse, or at least just as bad. Matt had a policy out on me when I lived with him. I’m dead surprised (har har) he never tried to murder me. Though maybe that’s the real reason he stressed me out so bad. It’s so fucking awesome how I’m an evil nasty person for swearing loudly when people hurt my feelings but him driving my blood pressure up with his lies and games is perfectly okay. I love humanity, but I fucking hate people.

I think I have a lead on a possible job. It will go nowhere because this is me we’re talking about, but if it did by some miracle work out, it’s in Crowley. What happens with this position is I get email notifications of open jobs from the parent company. Every now and again they will tell me again that this specific position is available. I don’t know if they are just fishing for applications (which a lot of employers do, the bastards), if the same job has not been filled and I just get repeat notifications for the same one, or if people keep quitting. My chances of getting and staying hired depend greatly on which of those options it is. I really don’t want to have to drive 25 minutes one way to work, but it’s no worse than driving 25 minutes one way to deliver food, which is what I was doing two fucking years ago. As long as they never try to push me into management, I’m good.

I still have to sort out more medical shit, so hopefully if I did get it they would be flexible for me, but me not having work is just untenable.

I did sell a bracelet the other day, finally. It was one of the chonkier ones with gemstone beads in it, so that was good for twenty-five bucks. I did not get the full twenty-five. I had to put between four and five into shipping because I wanted a tracking number, and then I owed listing fees which came due this month, and of course there are Etsy’s version of final value fees when something sells. But I still had over seventeen left, so I’m not crying about it. That can sit in my PayPal, unless I hit an emergency, until the listing fees are due again. I’m honestly not fussed. I need to list more bracelets anyway.

Also on the agenda, hopefully tomorrow:

1. I just lost a domain name. I went back and forth about whether to try to keep it and in the end decided that if I haven’t done anything with it in all this time, I’m never going to do anything with it. I will double-check to see if they’ve driven the price up to $70something to renew it now that we’re past the expiration date. If it’s still its normal price I’ll grab it, but if not, it’s gone.

It’s the “bistitchuality” domain. I love the idea, because I both knit and crochet, but some part of me is now going “eh” about the TQplusWTFLOL reference. I still think I want to do a blog about my yarny crafting at some point. I don’t know why, because I’ve never done one yet. I’m weird. But if I don’t use this name, I have to think up a new one. You see my very silly dilemma.

That said: Even if I can’t renew that one, if the finances are right, I might re-up “bigmanchronicles” early. Just so I’m not having fucking heart attacks about it next month. Having possibly had one already, that was e fucking nuff, thanks.

2. Get money into my Credit Builder card so when hosting hits I’ll actually be able to pay it. When Dad was discharged from the hospital and while we were still in Crowley, he handed me a $100 bill and sent me into Walmart for a few things (he wanted to sit in the car and have a smoke) and told me to keep the change. He does that sometimes, which is why I don’t have to constantly beg for money.

(That said, the GoFundMe is still up. I don’t know the link off the top of my head but you should be able to find it if you want to.)

(And thank you if you do. I’m so glad I have minimal expenses right now. This is embarrassing.)

…And basically whatever else occurs to me, but those are the two major things. I need to list more bracelets and I’d like to edit the existing listings. We’ll see, though. Typically I get sucked into social media because I miss having people to chat with (Carrie is wonderful, but not chatty), and next thing I know two hours have gone by. I don’t know what I do about that. I don’t want to be reduced to doing nothing but shucking and jiving for income. There is so much more to life than that and I never get any of it. What I’m gonna get is all the way to dead having never done anything significant or interesting. How depressing.

(“You had two wonderful kids, blah blah” And they both hate me, so now what)

Adding this in later. It transpires that Dad has not changed his bicarbonate dose yet. He thinks he is supposed to wait until he gets his revised prescription from the pharmacy. Now, his kidney doctor did not say to change the pill dose. He just said to take two pills instead of one and to take them three times a day. For some reason, Dad didn’t understand that all the way.

So Dad’s at the very beginning of crashing again. He was okay this morning, but as he was minding the grill he got extra tired. I am debating with myself whether to make him take a double dose (not double the new dose, just the new double dose the doctor prescribed) of his bicarbonate before bed. The pharmacy will be open tomorrow and I’ll probably be going to pick it up, and maybe he’ll be okay until then, I don’t know. My concern is that he will not listen to me. He usually doesn’t.

Guess that thinking of me as slow and stupid ain’t working out so hot, eh Dad?

I wonder if we can figure out organizing his medicine doses to account for the midday bicarbonate. Maybe I can find a three-times-a-day organizer at Walmart. I’ll try to remember to look when I go to town. I’ve got a $25 gift card I can dip into.

Eh, we’ll figure it out. It may take him being sick a few times. We’ll see.

30 March 2024

Day five after biopsy: Still no results.

Took Dad for his regular labwork Wednesday morning. Got that drawn, went on a couple errands, came back to the house (I’m writing this at the house; I won’t upload it from the house), puttered about, and suddenly the phone’s frantic. It was Aunt Matilda wanting to know had Dad heard from his clinic because they saw a lab result that worried them and they wanted him to go to the ER.

So we went to the ER. We were there for long enough that he told me I may as well get supper and go home. I figured he was right because if it had been any sort of a “not big deal” thing, I felt like they’d have sent him home already, so like as not they would admit him. I was right. Not only did they admit him, they sent his ass to Crowley, which has a larger hospital in the same system.

Aunt Matilda and I chatted a little before then and I always get this vibe like she’s holding me out at arm’s length, which would sort of fit what’s gone on so far, but at the same time neither of us even hinted at hostile — or I like to think I didn’t, since I wasn’t trying. But we’re both at the point that with him and drinking we might as well just let him do whatever since he’d have to be the one to decide to quit anyway. He did make some progress though. He admitted to them he’d had alcohol. Last time I heard a medical person ask him about drinking he claimed he wasn’t, and I knew for a fact he was. Maybe he’s coming to some sort of peace about it too. Who knows.

Anyway so he was hospitalized from Wednesday evening until Friday morning. This is going to sound awful and there is nothing I can do about it; I’m often an open book and sometimes people don’t like to read it. But it was nice to have that little bit of time. By the second day into it I figured he was going to be okay anyhow. No one interrupting my movie (I don’t mean talking to me, which is fine; I mean changing the fucking channel, which is not), I could shower without being afraid he’d have to pee or worse, I got to sleep all the way through the night without massive TV noise, and so on. I’m glad he’s back now, but if we could be like in both sides of the same duplex, that would be ideal. It won’t happen, I’m just saying.

(A further note about the TV thing. I never fuss at him. It’s his TV, it’s his satellite subscription, and I am a guest here. I get it. It’s just, as objectively as manners ever can be, fucking rude to change what someone’s watching when most of the time you get to pick anyway. Just wanted to be clear where I was coming from.)

I wasn’t sure what was up from what they said in the ER versus what they said later but it sounds like he needs to up his baking-soda-pill dose. Not even kidding. The paperwork said acidosis. They had worried about ketoacidosis, the dangerous kind (there are two kinds), in the ER but it sounds like it was just his kidneys not doing what they were supposed to do which, he’s in stage three failure so that’s kind of a given. So it was urgent but not a really really really bad emergency. But still something they had needed to monitor. He also needs to get off his potassium supplement, so that was interesting.

No need for dialysis though. Not yet, anyway.

Now, while all that was going on, I was sitting in his room on I think Thursday and started poking around in the MyOschner app to see if my biopsy results were back. Not only aren’t they back, I found my EKG from the preadmission screening for my colonoscopy which, I will remind, took place two Tuesdays ago, so the preadmit would have been the week prior. So, by this point, two and a half weeks gone and no one has called me. Why would they need to call me? Oh, I had an abnormal fucking EKG. In fact, the EKG indicates I had an infarct. That’s right. A heart attack. Apparently occurring at the bottom of the heart structure. The indicators also go along with a certain artery getting clogged. None of this surprises me overmuch; I have neglected my health for years and I expected some kind of consequence. What surprises me is that this literally says something bad happened to my heart that in turn makes it much more likely something worse will happen, and here we are a week and a half after finding out about this and NO ONE HAS CALLED ME ABOUT IT. It makes me wonder if they will even mention it at my followup with my PCP on the 8th. Well I’m sure going to fucking mention it. I want a stress test. I want to know what my options are.

Such horseshit.

I’m curious whether keto is cardioprotective even after something has happened. I’m sure going to fucking find out when I get the chance. One more reason to go back to it.

But I can sort of narrow down when this might have happened. I haven’t felt right in the general area of my heart for literal years. To be more precise, probably since 2020. Possibly worse after I caught COVID in ’22, but I can’t be sure. The unbelievable amount of stress everyone and everything put me through where I literally had to run away to get any relief and it still wasn’t enough. One of the sources I read about this particular pattern of infarct says broken-heart syndrome can bring it on. I mean, who fucking knows.

I have said multiple times, mostly to myself, that Matt better keep his ass in Colorado. Never come back east, for sure. I never said I was here in Louisiana forever. I will probably never see this as home. The place I DO see as home is my fucking turf and he can just stay away until the universe fucking dies. Stealing twenty years of my life, ruining basically everything and going “oh but here’s a car and a bunch of art supplies you have no room for” and then disappearing with my last child like I wasn’t going to notice. Fuck that guy. I want to run him over with a truck and THEN kick him off a skyscraper. Fucking WATCH me.

(I will tell you a secret, which will mean it isn’t a secret anymore: When I think about what I’d do if I ever won one of those billion-dollar Powerballs? I’d buy the fucking red house, is what I would do. I’d make it AWESOME and then spend my old age in it. And if he ever came around, I’d answer the fucking door. Just to see his stupid fucking face before I pepper-spray it.)

(I was going to say something worse, but fuck all y’all. You’d like that, WOULDN’T YOU.)

Some part of me hopes there’s a benign explanation that I just haven’t found. To be fair, I did not dig very far because what I was seeing in the search results was freaking me out enough. Not even mommy blogs. Actual sciencey-mediciney sites. But I guess we will see. I did have a dizzy spell at Super One a few weeks back when Dad and I were in Crowley shopping. I’ve had other stuff going on that I really couldn’t pin down. Having an explanation would be nice, even if it’s bad news.

Dad for his part is doing a lot better. I’m learning that when he is feeling bad, not only does he slow way down and need more help, his voice goes really quiet. If I see that again I’m suggesting a visit to his nurse practitioner, minimum. If he says no off the bat I’m bringing Carrie into it. The sooner we jump on that shit and solve it, the less time he might have to spend in the hospital. After the fit he threw over the poor quality of his meals, maybe that’ll get through to him. But for now, he’s got a lot more oomph than he did at the beginning of the week.

Metabolic acidosis. Who knew. I already couldn’t take the alkaline-diet people seriously. I take them even less seriously now. As in less than zero. Morons, you will know if you “go acidic.” Fucking trust me.

25 March 2024

I’m gonna be lazy and copypasta my Facebook post from today (one of them):

This has been a weird day.

So, first up I went for my biopsy. They told me some of what to expect, but be aware that if you ever go in for a needle biopsy, it is unpleasant. She did numb me up well. Even added extra on the second biopsy site because it ran deeper, for which I was profoundly grateful. AND with my tit numb I didn’t feel as squished by the ultrasound doohickey either. But when they stick in the sample-taker, it… clicks. Like… ugh. I did not even watch what was going on. (I don’t watch my vaccinations either.)

I got extra-strength Tylenol, or actually the Walmart brand which was like half the price, after that. Already took dose one. I am not fucking around with this. I didn’t bleed on the surface really — they said I hardly even oozed — but I’m sure I’ll bruise plenty.

And the whole experience left my poor boob misshapen, so that was fun too. Not.

So, but, anyway. I get to Jennings, look in my Humana account because I figure I’ve got at least $15 in there and it’s actually $95. I have no idea why. I will not complain. I turned $25 into a Walmart gift card and went on in.

Then, I’m checking out, right? I look down when I’m fiddling around with paying, and I see a $20 bill on the floor between the self-check kiosk (YES I USE SELF-CHECKOUT) and the drink cooler. Right as I see it this employee wanders by and remarks that I have dropped my money.

If it’d been a $100 bill I probably would have taken it to the customer service desk.

Probably.

But it was $20 and I need to pay my phone bill with minimal stress. I already had like half of that. Especially after I cashed in my $4 scratchoff, which is what I did next.

So that’s sitting in the Credit Builder card waiting for the bill to hit.

I have some things to dick around with here at the library and then I suppose I’ll go home. Though I’m debating stopping by Carrie’s first. Haven’t seen her in a bit. I dunno. We’ll see.

I actually have been sitting here at the library doing this, that, and the other, and my boob is not sore yet. I did take a dose of Extra Strength Tylenol after I bought it and maybe that’s why, or maybe the numbing shit hasn’t worn off yet. Impossible to say.

Did a little research and it looks like Walmart carries a couple card readers that also read micro SD cards. I probably won’t get it today, but probably soon. I would rather use gift card balance to get it than try to earn the money for it at this point. It’s like five bucks more. I don’t care.

Cooked spaghetti last night. Dad comes out after it’s all done and it’s “I can’t eat that because it’ll keep me up for hours,” and then… he was up for a while after I went to bed. And then got back up again later. Dude, it’s your blood sugar. I wash my hands of it. If I don’t cook, you fall out. If I do cook, you don’t eat and then you fall out. I am not even going to try to figure this out anymore. This is just one more person never being happy with what I do. And I already knew that about him.

God. Thea thinks I’m shit but at least I used to call attention to good things about her. Yes I fucking bragged on my kid. I still will do it. She’s awesome. My parents never thought I was awesome. They thought I was broken and couldn’t be fixed. I don’t care if I am or not, I’m fucking over it.

Applied for another job; once again will not announce it until I hear something. It’s to do with medical records and I’m kind of hoping a lot. The pay is not super stellar but FOR AROUND HERE, and me not owing rent right now, it’s pretty good. I think it could even score me an apartment in Iota if it works out, if it comes to that. Which again will mean I don’t get it, but I’m certainly going to try.

I’m tired. Being stabbed in the tit wears you out even if you aren’t feeling it. I’m sure the drug didn’t help. This is one of the things I hate about being this old. Shit that used to be nothing has become something.

Or I’m way too far out of shape and poorly nourished. Either way.