ProfessorTomoe

So many toes ...

You have gone far above and beyond what I would ask of anyone, much less a good, close friend (if I may call you that publicly). I need nothing more than sanity, which at last check I don't think Amazon carries. I thank you for what you have given, and for whatever support you may deem necessary to offer in the future. They missed a perfect chance for massive product placement by not going with the SUV name, you know.

I think the trail camera is outside tonight. Mrs. Prof left the outside light on. I've turned it off so that it won't interfere with the infrared camera. Let's see what happens.

Do you absorba the Greek yogurt?

9:26 p.m. CDT 20170614. Back to a more conventional update style. Hopefully that'll help my emotions rebound, because I've been low all day. The physical sine waves are back, with y centered way less than 0 and topping out at a very small positive value. My math sucks, because I used to remember how to compute sine waves. Now I can barely remember the names of things I held in my hand moments earlier. Anyway, my health has been on a big farking swing today. Take a hydrocodone, let it kick in and knock me out for an hour or two, wake up and waste time on the web, have my head start pounding, followed by my toe and my back, wait in pain until the next dose time, lather, rinse, repeat. Sort of like I'm doing right now. I can't wait for 10pm to hit. My toe and my back are killing me. Throw in a heavy dose of constipation from the medicine and you've got a real hoedown party. No medical calls, incoming or outgoing today, thank goodness. However, Mrs. Prof has been feeling out of sorts, so there's been the standard fight for the remote control. Note: I can NOT stand ANY of the Law and Order series, ESPECIALLY the SVU series. Mrs. Prof knows this. She knows it extremely well, to the point of being able to recite it in her sleep. So, what does she insist on watching when she's home like this? You get no prize for guessing correctly. Do I remind her of this fact? Does she take extreme umbrage? Again, no prizes. Doesn't help with the emotional side of things. She does help when it comes to the things that would take me a long time to do or that would be impossible. Things ranging from bringing me tea—especially when I need to carry something with it, since I've only got one free hand (the other's using a cane for walking)—to helping me wrap my bandaged foot for taking a shower and then helping me get dressed afterward. And, of course, I can't forget the fact that she has to drive me everywhere. I'm grateful, even when she vents at me. Next appointment is Friday afternoon with the podiatrist. He'll most likely give me another re-wrap, and he said he's going to X-ray my foot. I'm going to broach the subject of him helping me with my Frankentoenails (see The Forbidden Foot Pictures, not linked here for a damned good reason). Afterward, we're going to pay a visit to the imaging place that did my MRI and get a copy to send to the neurosurgeon at UT Southwestern. Maybe there's some hope left there yet, but I'm not going to hold my breath.

No, no, no, not that kind of Deadpool spell. I'm talking about the other aspects of Deadpool as highlighted in the movie, like the "butterface," the "127 Hours (spoiler)," that kind of thing.

There's naught wrong with being on The List. Own it! Be proud of it!

I should wrap this up by saying that Mrs. Prof did *not* just snack. She dug in heartily.

Of course. As the facts come to light, your words gain more weight. The shooter was a man who was seriously mentally disturbed.

Ah. USDA Choice or Select?

Okay, my fading brainpower is showing. What sequence is this?

Ohmydearlord. One has to wonder ... who did the firing? Did they shoot their own?

Adrian might also be Susan's (insert degree of greatness-)Grandfather, either paternal or maternal. If paternal, that'd explain Diane and his possible not knowing of his link to her. Maybe?

We currently have approximately 179 of them sitting in the Danish Parliament. Now, now, I thought this kind of talk belonged in the Political Thread. Besides, if you want to talk numbers ...

If The Dan starts rolling out a Deadpool spell, I may have to beat a path out of here ...

... and to make things worse, they have diplomatic immunity. Update: I have spent much of today dealing with the pain—emotional and physical—by sleeping. I normally have the television on for background white noise. I haven't even had that. You could say I'm at a bit of a low point. UT Southwestern, however, has been a beehive of activity. They've e-mailed me a survey, wanting me to rate the service and treatment that I received at my first appointment with the neurosurgeon. Mrs. Prof is out of the house right now, so I'm going to wait and let her do that one with me. That should be a laugh. They've also already phoned me and asked to set up an appointment with their "pain program." What is this "Pain Doctor"'s job, anyway? To sit and listen to people in agony, tell them he's not going to do anything for them, and then shunt them off to a quack holistic "pain program?" No wonder the son of a biatch's name is Noe. (Even his handshake hurt, BTW.) Anyway, I told them I'm not ready to set up any appointments yet until I talk with my insurance company. (Ha! Bet ya didn't see that one coming, you jerks! (They did sound taken aback by this.)) They said for me to just call and tell them when I was ready. I don't think I'll ever be "ready." Not for what they want me to go through. Dear lord, will an insurance company actually have an idea of how to fix my underlying back issues, or at least how to treat them? Or am I going to be treated like an opioid outlaw, living on the edge of society and handled like scum? God, what do I have to do to get some real relief?

/* goes off to fetch brain bleach */ So much for my emotional health and sanity ... *

That he does. He will help with a part of the load, as you said. Thank you. Actually, the other sausage on my wishlist—the one that doesn't require cooking—would be a huge help. You see, at this time I can't stand at my stove long enough to cook anything. I can barely stand in one spot long enough to microwave anything. That's why the Wurstfest was planned. My son did the cooking honors, but he had to travel halfway across the Metroplex to get here, almost an hour's drive. (And Mrs. Prof does not like cooking period sausage unless it comes from a grocery store and can go on top of a boxed potato casserole.) So, while the sausages you bought were appreciated beyond belief (and I seriously do mean that), anything that doesn't require cooking would be even more greatly appreciated. There is a possibility that I might explore tomorrow or Thursday. Unfortunately, it involves calling my insurance company. They have a "wellness program" that's supposed to help you find your best care providers. Mrs. Prof swears by them. I don't know. If they aren't helpful, I may go back to my primary care physician and see what he thinks about all of this. It's hard typing this up. The emotional side of me wants to pound my face into the keyboard until I bleed. Item 2 is the closest one to getting solved. I'm in this boot for maybe four or six more weeks. I already feel a reduction in pain, and the sesamoid bone doesn't hurt as often. They'll check it with another X-ray again on Friday. Item 4 will increase slightly when my moon boot comes off. That sesamoid bone has got to heal first, though. Even then, I won't be able to drive, thanks to the radiating pain from the back nerve plus the hydrocodone. Items 3 and 5 are why I went to UT Southwestern in the first place. I was hoping that they'd be able to fix my back and control my pain. They're telling me they can't fix my back and they can only "rehabilitate" my pain. I swear that the last time I was off of the hydrocodone, I hit a 10 on a 0–10 scale that was sustained for hours. I don't ever want to do that again. EVER. I don't understand how "rehabilitation" is going to keep me from doing that. That leaves item 1. My emotional health and sanity broke on the way home. I've got an appointment on the 22nd with my psychiatrist that might help, but that's way off, relatively speaking. I don't know where Mrs. Prof stands right now, especially after watching me break down the way I did. I imagine she's doing her best to ignore it for now. I still don't know what I'm gonna do. The insurance company is a possibility. Mrs. Prof will blow a gasket if I don't at least give them a call. I'm tempted to go back to my PCP and see what he says before continuing. At least I've got a new supply of hydrocodone to temporarily get me through the problem.

10:31 a.m. CDT 20170613. Well. That could have gone a lot better. I should have suspected something when they had a couple of rather major mistakes on my paperwork (e.g., no primary care physician, didn't list Mrs. Prof as the insurance carrier). They called me back and had my blood pressure test going before I had a chance to fill out half of the other paperwork they wanted. Rush, rush, hurry, hurry. Then I finally met the doctor. No Bond fanfare for him anymore—he doesn't deserve one. I told him everything that I've gone through, in detail. Mrs. Prof told me on the way home that he started doodling at one point, so she jumped in and tried to move things along. I'd been led to believe that he'd probably work on a solution that would involve injecting more neural blocks into my back, since I got some relief from them on my right side. Wrong. Didn't even want to talk about it. He wants to put me through a "pain rehabilitation program," using all sorts of different non-surgical, non-drug things, including acupuncture and—here we go—biofeedback. Mrs. Prof had to keep me from laughing in his face. Or crying. The program would involve four weeks' worth of twice-weekly half-day sessions. I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to get down there, because I can't bloody drive. What about the underlying cause of my pain? What about the injuries that made me hurt in the first place? Not his department. I left his exam room with some sheet of paper that I still haven't looked at. On the way out, I asked if the neurosurgeon had received the CD of my MRI from the imaging place. Of course not. I got another piece of paper and a card with their address on it. Once I've filled it out, I'm supposed to mail it back and let them fax it to the imaging place, who is then supposed to mail a CD of the MRI to them. Damn. It'd just be easier to go over there and get a copy of it myself, but I can't bloody drive. Halfway through the trip home, I finally broke down. I'd had enough. Actual tears came out. For God's sake, this special place, this University Research Hospital, they were supposed to FIX ME!!! They were my treatment center of last resort. First they tell me nothing's wrong enough with me to operate on, then they treat me like a damned opioid junkie who's seeking medicine which they say they don't even give out, and finally no one there will bother to repeat the one treatment—the diagnostic spinal blocks—that gave me any relief whatsoever, and in fact they tell me to go back to Spine Team Farking Texas to get them to do it for me when they've dropped me as a patient! WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ANYMORE? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE WITH THIS? HOW DO I KEEP GOING ON WHEN NO ONE REALLY CARES OR REALLY WANTS TO HELP ME??? I couldn't control my emotions for several miles. Only when we got close to CVS was I able to suck it up and regain enough composure to go in. Thank God they didn't give me any hell with my hydrocodone prescription, but once it runs out, what am I going to do? That's the big question in the end. What the hell am I going to do?

I'll take it, too. Mrs. Prof will definitely take it, because it means her workday isn't interrupted by having to drive me around—just by me being me. Sigh. Oh, pulmonologist referral cancelled. Rather quickly, too. Like they couldn't get me off of the phone fast enough quickly.

Don't know about any other worms, but he's strictly an indoor cat. He is, however, surrounded by ferals outside, with whom Mrs. Prof interacts daily. His drinking and litter box habits are normal, and he doesn't feel thinner. His vet never called him a fat cat at 13 pounds. Hold on, Mrs. Prof is re-weighing him ... now he's 11.4 pounds. Maybe he's just balancing out at a healthy weight again or something. If he dips down into the 10-pound range, I think then it'll be vet time. Until then, it's weight (pun intended) and see.

8:02 a.m. CDT 20170612. Well, damn. I don't know what the hell my right foot is doing now. Apparently, the edema has eaten itself, most if not all of the bruising around my old hardware implant scar from 2009 is gone, and I'm not feeling sick to my stomach anymore. I've also received an e-mail from my doctor, saying my vitamin D level is at goal (55) and my white cell count is improved at 12.6, which is still above the normal of < 10.8. Still, it's a damned sight better than it was, and apparently there were no myelocites. Put simply, I don't think I'll be going to the doctor today after all. Yay no doctor trip. Instead, I'll be getting ready to go see Dr. Goldfinger Noe tomorrow morning at the ungodly hour of 8:15 a.m. CDT and trying to get the phantom pulmonologist referral cancelled when they open up at the lazy hour of 9:00 p.m. CDT this morning.

Grace wasn't actually looking "through" the mirror at Adrian. She was using the mirror to look at the disguise spell Adrian had cast on her. It had made Grace look like Susan. Case in point: frame one of this following installment, where both Adrian and Grace are in their disguised forms as the world sees them. They're in their true forms for the rest of the installment.

So, who would the male target be? Tedd?

Box is not a happy camper. Poor Box.