ROW 80 4th QUARTER POST 7, WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – YOU GOTTA HAVE HART AND NASCAR

This isn’t really where I wanted to be right now. I didn’t want to be explaining that I haven’t written 750 words for 2 days, but that’s fine. It will have to be. My time machine has a broken confabulator. Anyway, Sunday afternoon saw Mary attacked by a fine case of the screaming meemies-mood swing, escorted by a skull-crushing headache and well on her way being carried off to Emotional Valhalla, where calm, hope and happy thoughts go to die horribly. Now is forgotten, or never experienced and strange things occur. I ended up in the ER with one of my headaches; ick.

So, Monday and Tuesday were a complete wash. I can’t even remember it. I know I folded laundry… and did some other stuff. Well, on to Tuesday; yesterday. Oh, yeah, I left my phone in the ER on Sunday, so Tuesday turned into a kind of “Iliad and the Odyssey,” a real two-fer, if there ever was one.

Yesterday, I had to leave the house by 10 A. M. to start my journey to my primary care doctor’s appointment at 12:30 P.M. I actually made it out the door to the bus stop at the exact time. It takes me a while to get ready and I have to be very methodical; cane, dark glasses, 7 tubes of lib balm, 80 cinnamon discs, bus pass, a pen, and my phone. Except I don’t HAVE my phone, because dimbulb left it in the ER waiting room. That’s why I have to act out the “Iliad and the Odyssey,” Redux. I decide to take my brand-new journal for my WIP, per Andie-Roo. Thanks, my dear friend. The journal is a new thing. I’ve avoided this like the plague, but my new friend, Ryan King, a very awesome writer suggested it; I love how he uses his journal. Thanks Ryan.

Since I’ve decided I’m going to try to self-publish some of my derangements in an orderly fashion, I figure a journal is in order, so JC bought me a spiral-bound 5-section, wide-ruled notebook. I have, very professionally, I might add, added post-it labels, “Dads and Moms,” “Weekly” and the ever-popular “Daily.” The first section is just ad-hoc, for the “inspiration.” This is what I have so far: ”Does this pen write consistently,” about 5 million times all over the page. Some of it looks dribbly, some of it skippy. Those pens failed the audition and went to pen heaven. Beneath all of that lies, “Add moms to dad blog,” the immortal “book” and “1 early life,” “2 music,” “3 computers,” “4 homeless.” Since I’m no longer homeless, I have to think up a number 5. I thought of “4 homeless and beyond,” but that just sounds like I went to my death, so I think I’ll think more prosaically. Maybe “4 homeless and then homeful.” Nope.

A must-read for any discerning bibliophile. Well, my journal had a nice ride over the thousands of miles we covered yesterday. I grabbed my “briefcase,” (aka FEDEX mailer) with all my current medical shit in it, a couple packs of crackers for the journey, water bottle and then discovered that I didn’t have 12 hands. So, I dumped all this shit into my back pack and hoisted it up onto my back. I gave JC a kiss and said I’d see him in about April, of 2016.

My doctor walked into the room looking like Shiva Destroyer of Worlds. She is a lovely woman and is from India. She also keeps up on what’s going on with her patients and she is part of the TGH network, where I visited the Neurology specialty clinic last Thursday. She and I put our heads together and came up with this: she has ordered the blood work. We both know there’s nothing wrong with my thyroid. We both know my bipolarity is under control. We both know blah-blah-blah. I am to go back to that Neurology clinic AFTER the blood work results are in; there is another doctor there who is a Movement Disorder Specialist, whom I should see. Good deal there. I go back to see her in a month. Yay.

I felt better and couldn’t wait to resume my trek. I got out to the patient waiting room. I’ve lost another 2 lbs. and am down to an even 100. My pants were falling down and I’m trying to get into my back pack. I feel this breeze, and I realize to my horror, that I’m mooning the waiting room. I hoist up my pants, saying “Shit, now everyone’s going to know that Mary has a crack problem.” There’s a guy standing next to me and he’s trying to “sign” one of those little electronic gizmos. This idiot is trying to “erase” his signature because he fucked it up. He says, “Oh, I made a mistake.” The nurse says, “everyone does it; it’s okay.” I pop up with my “crack” remark and then say, “Hey guy, you aren’t going to be graded on penmanship.” He looks at me and says, “I bet you got U’s in Citizenship all the time, too.” Asshole.

Right now, it’s after 2 P. M. I’ve been gone since 10 A. M. I still have to go south to TGH to the Security Office to get my phone; someone did turn it in when I left it in the ER waiting room on Sunday. I’m at the 30^th Street Clinic which, as the crow flies, is really about 4 miles from where I live. It took me a little over 2 hours to get here. Remember that 1 minute in human life is like 7 bus years. You have to have left the house in 1394 B.C. to get to any appointment on time. Expect to return home in a casket, sometime in the 40^th century.

So, I go out to wait for the bus. TGH has helpfully installed giant blue signs in line of sight between where you might be able to see actual bus activity and comfortably wait in the bus shelter, so of course, I have to stand out in the sun. If I don’t, I know the fucker is going to race by here at 90 miles an hour and never even slow down, so he can keep to his already hopelessly fucked-up schedule. I’ll fix his little blue bus wagon; I lurk out in plain view.

Oh. My. God! That guy is actually here and on time! He slows down and makes the bus kneel! I don’t have to climb Mt. Everest! Yay! I run back to about the 2^nd or 3^rd row. It’s pretty empty, so that’s nice. I sit down in relief; onward to Marion Transit Center to catch a bus to the hospital. “…AND ALL THAT’S HOLY AND GOD AND JESUS CHRIST AND FLEW UP INTO HEAVEN. YES SIR, WELL SHE HAD ALL THAT MONEY AND SHE WAS GOING TO START HER OWN CHURCH AND I TOLD HER SHE WAS WRONG, AND BLAH-BLAH, LA-DE-DA-DE-DA-DE-DA” Ten minutes of this. I’m not hearing another thing. It’s behind me and it’s incessant. I finally kind of half-stand and turn and look back and shout, ‘WHY THE HELL ARE YOU BOTHERING WITH A PHONE?” Silence. I turn and sit. I would never, ever have done that before I got sick. I would have sat there and endured it. No more. As I sit back down, this nice looking young man catches my eye, and he just grins.

So, here we are at the mixing bowl of hysteria that is the Marion Transfer Center, downtown Tampa, Florida. This is the central hub of HARTline, municipal travel. I need to hop off the number 18 and catch the number 19 bus. The hysteria is not from the passengers. No, no, dear hearts. The hysteria comes from the buses themselves, or rather the bus drivers. Coming into and going out of the Marion Transfer Center is the next best thing to the Wheel-O-Death, or a scary carnival ride. I was able to go out to TGH and get my phone safely and get back safely.

Getting in and out of MTC is something else. Buses screech and roar. Bus ass-ends heave into view and out of view so quickly, you’re not sure you didn’t hallucinate them. They perform these ballets of giants better left to whales in oceans. Once begun, you’re certain you are headed for a fiery collision, only to experience a cheery wave and a revving engine. Once we left the center, heading north to home on the famous Nebraska Avenue, number 2 bus, motto: “where every crazy fucker ends up, sooner or later,” we found ourselves at a red light next to the number 19 bus.

I began to fantasize about HARTline Bus NASCAR, which would be so fucking awesome, I almost have a seizure thinking about it. At first, I was thinking we could just paint the buses like they do in real NASCAR, but that was just lame-sauce. What we could do, to spice it up, is have the inhabitants in each area ride the buses. Number 2 would so win, because this is truly Crazy Fucker land. Number 32 might give us a run because that’s Psychiatrist’s Row, but they have a disadvantage; St. Joe’s Hospital. Sick people. Same for number 19. Too many sick people. You still have to have a certain amount of people with canes and blind folks; but that can be sneaky; witness me. Wheelchair people, too. It hurts to get your shin rammed into by someone in a wheelchair. 

So, you have to have some of them on all buses; it'll be in HARTline Bus NASCAR official rules. See, here’s how my NASCAR works. HARTline buses and "riders" drive around the track, like real NASCAR, which would be cool, because these things are tippy. But, here’s the fun part. To score, you have intervals, where the “riders,” who have to live on the bus line, get out and beat the hell out of the other “riders.” Just think of the mayhem. Last rider standing wins. What do you think?

ROW 80 4th QUARTER - POST 4 – TRIP BACK IN TIME TO GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS AND JEFF’S DEATH, PART 1

After my much-anticipated trip to the Neurologist and what I was sure would be a slam-dunk “bed-side” diagnosis of my Parkinson’s Disease (you have to exhibit 2 of 4 symptoms, there are NO quantifiable tests), I came home in a frazzled state of mind. Worse than my usual state of mind and felt I had been set up. I had all of my paper work and all of my ammunition; MRIs, EMG test results and corroborating documentation from leading neurologists.

The verdict? “We’re not sure you have Parkinson’s Disease; you also have malnutrition, you need your thyroid checked, you take B-12 injections every month, you’re blind. You have mild neuropathy.”  They blinked at me and here came the zinger, “You’re bipolar.” More blinking. “We must rule out stoofs.” This after almost two hours of neurological TORTURE and making me run into walls and try to touch their goddamned fingers. I CAN’T SEE, YOU STUPID SHITS; DON’T MAKE ME DO IT 20 TIMES. I am not an act in a circus.

No. Fucking. Shit. Guilty to all of the above, but for one, assbites. This shit has gotten WAY worse, every fucking symptom I just told you about over the last 2 MONTHS. The tremors, the pain, the ear-hooting, the 1000-yard stare non-vision, the neuropathy, all of it. I’ve had all of that other shit for years. So, tell me, Dr. Mengeles, why the FUCK didn’t you just come out and say “We’re going to wait until Medicare will pick up the tab in March of 2013. We have no intention of lessening your suffering until then.” Fuck you, you Nazis. And Dr. Mengele? If you ever, EVER barge into a room again and say to me “Why are you here?” in that tone of voice as your first word of greeting to me? I will behead you. I mean it. You suck. You can just goose-step right out into traffic.

This Guy Would Have Been a Better Doctor

I was all set to go off and sulk for 2 months or stay up for a month or set my hair on fire and run down Nebraska Avenue, 33605, but the last time I chose number 2, it earned me a stay at the State-Subsidized Happy Acres. Rather then eat a bunch of pills, stay up for several weeks, have a psychotic break, try to climb in the fridge, go back and play “Wheel O’ Death” with those fine folks at St. Joseph’s Hospital, I decided to write about it instead. Besides, and this is the worst, not the possibility of dying; the fact that I would do something so wantonly callous and thoughtless to JC and possibly leave him behind. That leaves me colder than cold.

One of our compatriots from the shelter died, precisely 5 weeks after Wade died. Jeff wasn’t well and didn’t really take care of himself, but he had a companion who looked after him, Dana McKinney. Ms. McKinney is a dear and loving woman. She promised Jeff, that he wouldn’t die homeless, and she saw to it. I weep now as I write this. I couldn’t always understand their connection. They were rather like 2 children. He would get a bit huffy and leave her behind, but in the end would always return where she would be waiting patiently. Sometimes, when people aren’t well, they require a great deal of patience. We all require a great deal of patience.

She would come by and visit us after we moved, every so often and they were doing okay. He was still working, but had put on a great deal of weight. I didn’t really care for him, because he could be loud, and I was concerned for her. As always, I’m on the outside. I once again, for the millionth time, have had the lesson, “Thou Shouldn’t Judge,” driven home. So has JC. He was critical of Jeff as well and worried about Dana; we needn’t  have.

They moved about 2 months ago. About 2 weeks ago, Jason, who still lives at Happy Acres texted us with a very confused message about Dana and Jeff had died. I called Dana and got an answering machine. She, then called Jason, who called me and we were on some weird 3-way phone connection. Jason is in the main Guy/Frat Party house standing next to Mike, the Manager who’s on the house phone talking with Dana, who’s on the hospital bedside phone at St. Joseph’s with Jeff, who’s in the process of dying. Jason’s on the phone with me, so we have this fucked-up round robin of death thing going on. I want to do nothing so much as hang up the phone. This is so Nebraska Avenue, 33605. Touching, yet a scramble-fuck-wheel-o-mortality of hilarious. These are dear, dear people. We really do care. Possibly because in many cases, we’re the only family we have, as fucked up as we are.

I can hear beeping and yelling from the hospital. I can hear some kind of football game “12 to 3 Bobcats!” and cheering. I can hear somebody threatening someone with a knife “Yo Dude, dem’s my Twinks; I be cuttin’ yo ass! Git yo hands off ‘em!” and rap: “BOOM-dada BOOM-dada BOOM-dada” in the Frat House. Dana’s quiet hitched-in sobs. Jason’s breathing. Mike and I are silent. I’m standing next to JC. He’s looking down at me with his blue eyes. He has such blue, blue eyes. Beautiful eyes, with black lashes. We always argue over who has the prettiest blue eyes. He does, by miles. I look down; I’m welling up. Gradually, I notice the sounds dying out, the TV goes off, music stops, the banter stops, I can’t even hear Jason’s breathing. Just Dana’s quiet  sobbing. It’s absolutely silent…. No beeping. Utter silence for maybe 20 seconds. A long time on a phone. First Dana, then Jason says, quickly, “Jeff’s gone.”

MORE RECIPES, MORE NONSENSE FROM NEBRASKA AVENUE VIA BUS WORLD

Whilst rehashing the recipes from my previous post, I picked up a new recipe, or rather a time-saver for those busy, homeless folks who are on the go. Between washing clothes with my posse yesterday, (yes, we really do call ourselves the "posse") and reminiscing about our favorite cartoons from our misbegotten childhoods, came this gem:

     1 Package Ramen noodles, any flavor
     Open package, remove noodles
     Pass briskly under hot water approximately 3 to 4 times
     Open little package of chicken- or pork- or beef- or shrimp-flavored sodium
     Sprinkle on damp, sticky, hot noodles
     Eat like a cracker

Yum! Now you're ready to take on Bus World.

I have saved Bus World for now. I know you're all probably thinking, "Golly gee, she's really getting to the best stuff!" No, I'm not. I have held off on Bus World, because frankly, words fail me. I have no idea how to even begin to describe the rich and varied experiences of Bus World. I've mentioned that Nebraska Avenue from Downtown Tampa north to about Bearss Avenue is notorious. It is a truly dangerous place to be or to live. Shootings are common, drug deals, home invasions, police chases and fires are also common. There are about seventy-five residents in both the Happy Acres houses. The Tampa Police and Fire departments are here at least four times a week and this is no exaggeration. 

The Bus is... highly entertaining. At least I think so. But then I am easily amused. We all ride the Bus up and down Nebraska Avenue, off to our various Doctor's appointments, grocery shopping, drug dealing and other assorted mayhem. Of course, this is typified by the passengers, who defy description. Last week, J and I were just about to board the Bus to return home from our latest visit to Dr. (fill in the blank) for my latest medical test (choose one of the following: EMG, MRI, Doppler, Nuclear Stress Test, eye exam, blah-blah.) Feeling a little out of it, and unable to see regardless, I hear "hey, there's people getting off the bus!" uttered by this... being. Before I could debate his interpretation of the word "people" he barged his way past us. This is what I "observed" but maybe it was just my meds kicking in: a real-life Peter Griffin, only with a hot-buttered raccoon pelt on his head. He is face was a  bulldog countenance with scrunched up eyes, as if he had just let a huge fart. It must have smelled as if he had a heaping helping of dead mice for lunch. He(?) wore tight, tight red shorty-short pants, and a black wife-beater, with cheap-ass (are there any other kind?) day-glo pink crocs. J must have had a horrified look on his face. I was busy trying to remember if I had taken my Ativan that morning, or if my visual disturbances were really that bad. J looked at the Bus driver and she said "don't you do that to me, sir!" Mirth and merriment ensued. I took a second look at Mr. Red Shorty-shorts, the person who had and was treated to his back side, which consisted of two red, red boxing mitts minus the thumbs. The mitts were struggling against one another; kind of a hug-fest, like the worst boxing match ever. Legs and arms like pipe-stems, giant barrel-like middle and pinhead to boot. Truly awe-inspiring. Ten minutes later, the Bus driver was still laughing.

Anyway, I heard a joke, or at least I think it was a joke. What is the trifecta of Homelessness? Give up? These three establishments on the same block. Amscot, American Pawn and Family Dollar. Extra points for a Bail Bondsman. Sharpie's Bond, While U Wait. Oh, also any Rent To Own Car lot. Nebraska Avenue sports all this and more. If you think I'm making this shit up, go google "God Center, Dancers Wanted" and get back to me with the address. Heh.

A little aside; I am on full Disability as of tomorrow. If I said this somewhere else in this blog, I apologize. I have no short-term memory. Apparently, the Federal Government thinks I'm sicker than I really thought I was. Heh? So, I'll be operating from my fabulous room at the Happy Acres resort come this weekend. Pictures will be posted soon, along with other extra goodies. I'll also be able to post more. I hate having to save up all my muses for the library computers.

Another personal aside. For those of you who knew I got pissed off and cut off my hair (a long, boring story) and cut it really, really short, I have passed the burn victim, Dorothy Hamel and Annie Lennox stage and am now in the Justin Bieber stage. Thank god it grows quick.

NEXT POST: MEDICAL FUN AND MORE BUS WORLD. Anyway, peace to all of you. Love and joy to you all and your families.