Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Hospital Humour Meets The Comedy Clinic.

You may have noticed I'm still not exactly active in the blogging world.  Yep, I'm lurking in the background sharing your posts via the various social "notworking" sites.  That's about the extent of it because I'm stuck in irony overdrive. Stuck,for now, with the aggravating "tit" on my right elbow aka "tennis elbow" aka bursitis.

I went to the hospital to get it sorted out way back on February 28.  I should of sensed that things weren't going to go well when the doctor asked me if I had a Northern Irish accent.  That's a new one on me.  Sort of refreshing, I guess, when I think about the number of times people have asked me what part of the States I'm from.  I have, well sort of still have, a Canadian accent.  Some might think my accent is "mid-Atlantic".  Which confuses me because I most certainly don't sound Jamaican.  "No way, mon!"

Oh, I've nothing against Northern Irish accents if you like to listen to people who sound pissed off all the time.  Maybe the doctor thought I was pissed off.  He would be correct, especially after what transpired next.

Right then, so this doctor, who probably sees loads of swollen elbows in a day, stuck in needle in the offending right elbow.  He looked puzzled.  "Never seen this happen before." he stated, "I should be getting out fluid but I'm getting out blood."

For the next few minutes he proceeded to squeeze my elbow.  He finally gave up, stuck a plaster on my elbow and suggested I have surgery.  I agreed to that.  He told me I would get a surgery date.

I left the hospital with a sense of irony.  My elbow was now feeling worse than before I went to the hospital.  Yes, irony right up there with the time my car got wiped out by an ambulance.  Note, "irony overdrive", in the first paragraph of this rather disjointed post.

On March 9, I received a letter that I thought would be in regards to my appointment for my surgery. Instead it was for me to make an appointment with a doctor at my health centre for a routine check in regards to my visit to the hospital.  Huh!?

On March 27, I got to see a doctor about the letter I'd received  He was as puzzled as I was about not actually getting a date for my surgery.  He said he'd  contact the hospital to actually get me a real time for my surgery. What a complete screw up.  Thus, I wait and wait and wait...

Here's me
Doing a selfie
What agony
See my elbow
Oh no and woe
Took five days to type this
Not exactly bliss
Elbow, el-boob, on this dude
How very, very crude. 

Tuesday, 21 February 2017

Ten Years After.

Today, February 21, marks the ten year anniversary of what has become a rather sleepy blog.  Yes, ten years to the day, I set out to demonstrate that my mental health issues are only a small part of who I am.

The past year has challenged every fibre of my resolute determination.  I will not, I cannot ever go back to that dark, foreboding place that put me on the brink of death.  I have so much to live for.

Those that bullied me brought me to a profound crossroad in my life.  A broken, shadow of a man who found the way out as I lay dying on a hospital bed.  I clung onto the loving power instilled in me by the hug from my then nine year old son, Tristan.  My son saved my life for he gave me a reason to live.

I choose to live with rather than suffer from my mental illness.  My illness, not a curse.  An ironic blessing that's humbled and inspired me.

While I still struggle with getting any semblance of blogging momentum back, I have, once again, switched off comments.  I know you will understand.  I'm grateful to you.

"Ten Years After" and this song is still so very poignant. 

Penny the Jack Russell dog 
The heart of this blog
Together, we have a visualisation
A blessed realisation
Of the flag of peace unfurled
In an all different, all equal world.