Saturday, September 14, 2013


A Long-winded Rant of Self-pity  
This started as an e-mail but by watering it with tears of self-pity, self-righteous anger and bureaucratic frustration it bloomed into a veritable bouquet of assorted bitches, moans and complaints. I decided it was so nice that I would put it in a pretty vase and set it on a table in the window and share it with others. So, in these days of cyber-sharing of every bump, scrape and boo-boo in our lives, THIS is my window.
"Will write more later, some stuff is just betwixt OUR family. It’s been a crappy day and I’ve been up all night again."

The crappy day was actually a crappy night. Last Thursday night (09-05-13) I was the emergent social butterfly of the season; all kinds of visitors in cool vehicles and pretty lights. While watching TV, I had suddenly started sweating, feeling dizzy, nauseous and then I had trouble breathing. 

Normally, these symptoms wouldn't bother me too much but I am 50 now. Sweating is nothing new, I keep hoping it's menopause but no such luck. I’ve had random vertigo for years, I don’t know why. I’ve asked my VA docs but get no answers; it is the VA after all it's not like they're supposed to actually help me but I've got meds for it. I got my mum's nervous tummy; trouble breathing is rare now but for years my heart didn’t hold a rhythm, so for 13 years, the VA medicated me for a heart condition which I didn’t have. Once I was properly evaluated, diagnosed, medicated, treated and got a ticket on the Looney Express the cardiac problems vanished. Until now I’ve had no real problems since.
However, having the first 3 hitting all at once, rapidly followed by breathing problems was a new and "exciting" phenomenon. See, my dad had his first heart attack when I was 6 and he was 48 and my mum's first was when I was 9 and she was 50. I grew up knowing the signs and what to do; we ultimately developed a family policy of if you ask the question, "Should I go to the hospital?" out loud, you call the meat wagon and go.

So when I queried the universe as to "should I or shouldn't I?" I already knew what I had to do. Even though, I have no doubt that the VA will fuck me over again on the bills. They’ve done it TWICE, once when, after a noctural trip to the ER, a VA doc agreed that my gall bladder had reached critical mass and was eventually jerked out. I don't know how I’m going to pay for it but I wasn’t about to risk a heart attack for a steaming pile of bureaucratic bullshit. 
I may be a 100% totally and permanently disabled veteran, but I had the temerity to object when they fucked me and fucked me over. You see, I fought back when they flat-out discriminated against me for being a nutter. Instead of being slavishly, but silently, grateful that they even deigned to notice my miserable existence and bestow their largesse upon my inferior self. The Department of Justice (DOJ) investigated and determined that they had indeed discriminated against me because of my disability, specifically, my mental illness. So, when Mr. Barry Bahl, director of the Saint Cloud Veterans Administration Medical Center (SCVAMC) takes the time to pass judgment on and deny payment of a little ER bill from the Saint Cloud Hospital it's pretty obvious even to a loon like me that I’ve been deemed beyond the pale and have been blacklisted. 
Several people who work there have said that it's most certainly NOT normal for him to pay attention to such minutia. In this case, I'm not just being paranoid, other people see it too; my name is flagged so that anything pertaining to me finds it's way to his desk. It's so obvious that a blind man with no teeth can see that.

None of them would admit of their statements or put them in writing but I can't blame them for that. All the VA can do to me is kill me with institutionalized incompetence and obstructionism; VA employees have to support their families and they need jobs for that. For my part, unless I’m on fire or bleeding from the eyes, I don't go near the place. Both Moon and I know that I will never again get anything more than the bare minimum of whatever care or treatment I might need. SCVAMC is my drug pusher and that's all I want from them.
So, I went downstairs to ask Moon to take me to the civilian hospital ER, the VA in it's infinite lack of wisdom, does not have an ER or it's own. However, having become fully vertical it became apparent that if I didn't sit down, I was going to fall down. So I told her to call 911, I wasn't fucking around with going into full-arrest in a car. And I wasn't going to do that to my girl Moon.
I never actually passed out, was able to give my personal/family medical history, gave them my meds case and told them about losing Igraine. Grief and/or belfry issues being what they are, what did I know? My dad always had pain but no nausea; mum always had the nausea but no pain. Heart attack or anxiety and panic due to stress? Then I edged closer to shock as I got dizzier and started shivering like Obama facing a sodium amytal session.
They kept me most of the night while they ran tests and such. They doped me up some and I dozed a bit, Moon went home to get some rest until they sprung me. Sprang me? Whatever. The ER folks and staff were great. They took good care of me and did everything they could to find out what the hell was wrong with me. The only bitch I had was that as they moved me around and tested me (I hadn't studied either) one person or another would highjack my blankies. I’ve have GOT to get me one of those blanket warmer thingies. Along with the bidet, it is one of the acme's of civilization.
Anyway, the long and short of it was no heart attack and, since it wasn't VA docs making that determination, I’m willing to take their word for it. Felt like hammered shit, slept all day Friday, then went into insomnia mode.
Emotionally, it’s been up and down, understandably but it's not that gods-awful, disemboweling, paralyzing agony that I went thru when I had to put Grace down. Then the guilt almost killed me but the idea of Rain leaving was in the back of my mind from the moment I saw her outside on the ground. I didn't speak of it because I was willing to do whatever I had to in order to help my baby. In the end, letting her go was the last and only thing I could do to help my girl.
I miss her and it hurts and I cry but it's like it is a "gentler" pain; mostly anyway. Those 3 weeks that I had her after her injury were a bona - fucking - fide GIFT! For which I am endlessly grateful. You, my darling Deb, and you, Mama Jeanne; oh, stop looking over your shoulders; yes, YOU two, you gave me another bona - fucking - fide GIFT! If you hadn’t nagged me into taking those videos of her, I think I might finally have ended up in-patient and I’m not sure I would've come out again. 
I watch all the videos at least once every day and always before I go to sleep. I see my girl when she was healthy and strong and HAPPIEST. Outside, in the snowy wastes, rompling with me with that goofy lunatic grin of hers. I’m able to watch the pure, clear joy she got from running around like a psychotic with ADHD on meth, rolling around in 3 feet of snow with me and dancing with me on the deck. Those videos tell me that I made the right call. Regardless of what might've been done for her, she would never again have been my adored, "abdominommal snow beastie".
Most importantly, I know I couldn’t let her be in pain at all, let alone constant pain. I promised her from the beginning of our love affair, that I would take care of her and NEVER let her hurt. Pain or no pain, seeing those images, I know my rainy day doggie would've never understood why she would never again be able to romple with me in the only way she ever learned how to play. If I was out of her sight longer than acceptable she would use her hind legs to push herself along and crawl on her belly and her elbows without making a sound of pain until she got to the bottom of the stairs to wait for me when she knew I was up here without her. It was MY job to keep her from hurting and from hurting herself.
It makes me cry when I watch them but the tears rolling down my face meet the smile coming up. I thank you for that, Sweet Deb. I thank you for that, Gentle Jeanne. I’m so incredibly lucky to have been able to teach her fun and love and JOY. Having her was overwhelmingly worth losing her.
Now, more of a downer; I don't know if I ever told you guys just where we were when Igraine decided to go empirical test the law of gravity. We were at the Social Security office to make an appointment to start a new claim. Moon went with me to that appointment last Friday (09-09-13). I was told that, having had a hearing with an Administrative Law Judge (ALJ) where that  fucktard made an imbecilic ruling and despite the fact that my well-dressed, expensive attorney was lazy AND in - fucking - competent, I can no longer even APPLY for SSDI. 
According to the documents I got from my lawyer (I know I should have looked at them sooner but life and crazy happened) the slimy, scuzz-sucking, maggot made my claim as "back and neck pain". NOT that I’m a toothless, incontinent, twitching, seizing, dangerous, half-blind, half-deaf, half-crippled, ALL-crazy basket case with no sense of time, can't remember what day it is or be allowed out without a keeper, a leash and a prong collar. No, no, NO; I’ve got back owwies. I do but for now I’m way crazier than I am broken and the side effects of my meds are getting pretty grisly. Well, the lawyer got his cut, so I suppose it wasn't a total loss. I got what was left of my settlement money only AFTER I dropped my appeal. If that seems like extortion that's because it was. I didn't want to but we were so broke it was that sell my blood like a wino or a street junky.
What the fuck did I do in a previous life that this is my karmic retribution?
GODSDAMMIT, WHAT? Did I wash my hands? Was I Hitler? Or did I do something truly horrible; like invent polyester?
I swear to dogs (Rain, Zeus and Grace to be precise), I went in determined to be nice and I was. Really! You can ask Moon. However, I didn't stay that way. I asked reasonable questions, although in an increasingly loud voice snarl. I told him that even though I’ve been hosed on all sides and no longer qualified for SSDI; I was sure that "all of the dozen or so towelheads in the waiting room would more than qualify".
Yep, I played the racist card and I don’t fucking care. There is a very large Somali community here that not only doesn’t have to pay any taxes for 5 to 7 years; they are also given grants of various shapes and sizes so they can start their own tax-free businesses. In most public and/or educational facilities they request and GET special rooms dedicated to only their religious needs; I guess godless infidel cooties would contaminate their holiest of holies. It is NOT a stereotype that some of them actually demanded and received special facilities for foot washing so they wouldn't have to use the toilets anymore.
Oh, while I was still being "nice," he did say that when I’m 65 or whatever, that I would qualify for SSI. To which I replied "if it still exists".

So, that errand to set up the appointment was all for naught. Had we not gone, there would have been no time or reason for Rain to take flight and bung herself up. Thus does my screwed up brain find a way to logically blame the government for killing my dog. Even I don't usually go that far but a + b does equal c.

Gods! I am so tired. How did it all go so wrong? I don't go away from home much and I don't want to. All I wanted was to live with my odd but loving little family of 2 -, 4 -, and no feets and my baby girl dog. Now she's been taken from me and the country that my father and others fought and bled for says I don't count. The normies as well as the very people and agencies that are supposed to help me have unanimously shit on me and made it clear that I should gratefully accept the crumbs from their table but have the decency to be neither seen nor heard.
As much as I’ve fought it and beat it for months, I cut again last night. A lot. The shrinks say that it’s a maladaptive coping mechanism that I’ve developed to deal with traumas. Yeah, so? There are a helluva lot of far more damaging or dangerous maladaptive coping mechanisms. This one only hurts me.

I don't know, maybe it's my teeth.

I’ve got a news flash for you superior but gutless, government hacks and clueless normals; you can continue to treat your armed forces, veterans and their families like turds in a punch bowl but sooner or later you might just hear them say; “Take our your own fucking garbage, Jack.”

So, I’ll end this epic the way it began, with a shitty day.


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