THE TIMMY'S WEEKEND OFF ================================================================= THE TIMMY'S WEEKEND OFF ================================================================= 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. =================================================================