three days serviced by Urgent Care

I was in Urgent Care on each Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday of this week, with threats that I might have to go to the hospital to have surgery on my hand.

I volunteer with numerous different organizations here in the Twin Cities, many of them relating to animals.  one such organization, that I shan’t name in this context, needed some help fostering two feral kittens a while back.  with Brian’s approval, I volunteered.  shortly after, my contact (henceforth “Contact”) for the fostering said it wouldn’t be necessary, as she found someone else.

a few weeks pass, and Contact requested again that I foster the kittens.  I agree.  when next she contacts me, she informs me she needs me to foster an adult feral from Mexico (henceforth “The Cat” or “Motherfucking Bastard”).  I hesitate.  I’ve assisted in and/or have fostered all ages of cats before.  but my guy was telling me this was a bad idea for both The Cat and me.  however, I didn’t want to back out of a volunteering offer I made, so I reluctantly agreed.

I’m back at work, but I’ve a brace on my right hand.  the pain is so great that I can’t even drive my stick-shift car or hold a glass of water.  I could not wear pants due to my inability to zip or button them.

Contact arrived with her “kitty condo” — something similar to this –, explaining that she was hoping we’d keep The Cat in it and inside the room in which we spent the most time.  that would be the Office.  again, I had reluctance.  my tactic was always keep the feline in the bathroom — she had space to hide, but would still be exposed to use frequently.  but it was her cat I was fostering, so I followed her rules.

at this point, The Cat was responding well enough to me.  she let me pet her and almost never hissed at me.  by the third day, however, she was hissing more than she let me pet her.  she also had begun yowling at night and pacing in her cage.  it was obvious she was growing miserable in that small, enclosed space wherein she had no control over her visibility.

the trick is to give them somewhere they can hide slightly if they like, and let them come out at their own time.  this tactic has never failed me.

by the end of the week, I would get near the cage and she would hiss.  her yowling was incessant.  and even Zero was getting upset with the situation.

I called Contact and explained that this wasn’t working.  after brief discussion, Contact and I decided I would still keep her in the office (per her request), but that she’d be out of the cage (my request).

and that’s when all hell broke loose.

the pain in my hand is so great I am occasionally taking Vicodin.  me, with my high-ass pain tolerance.

Brian and I walk the Office trying to remove as many too-small hidey holes as we could.  I thought we had done a sufficient job….

Saturday afternoon, while transitioning The Cat from the cage into the room, she spazzed and escaped into the living room.  it was my fault for not ensuring the Office door was closed; that fact, I will own.  in an attempt to collect and relocate her, she scratch Brian on the nose and bit deeply into my right hand.  nevertheless, I got her into the office with no actual physical pain on her part (as far as I could tell).

and then she was MIA for two whole days.  she did not come out to eat, drink, or use the litter.  I was terrified she got herself into a hidey hole we couldn’t find, and was going to starve herself to death.  I was terrified that I had now scarred her forever, and she’s in a worse sociable condition now than when we first got her.  I was terrified of so many things.

at one point, an IV drip of antibiotics was rushed into my body, as mere oral dosages were too inadequate for the severity of the infection.

meanwhile, my hand was swelling up and turning red.  Brian urged me to the doctor; I denied — both repeatedly.  then one of the bite marks started to puss, and I had lost most mobility in my thumb.  I reluctantly agreed to go Sunday evening.

the doctors expressed great concern that, even thought The Cat was fully vaccinated, I may have an infection that was starting to go after a tendon or the bone.  while I was sitting on an IV drip of antibiotics, I was also prescribed oral antibiotics and Vicodin for pain.  I mistakenly expressed no need for the pain medication; let’s just say I have since been very glad multiples times that we got it filled anyway.  I was instructed to come back ASAP the next day.

I messaged and emailed the attorneys at work a brief tale of my misadventure, requesting to remotely do payroll from home so that I can then promptly go back to Urgent Care to get my hand reviewed.  my supervisors are very wonderful, understanding persons.  they approved my request with no hesitation, informing me to let them know if they could help in any way.

back at Urgent Care Monday afternoon, my hand showed signs of neither worsening nor improving.  after some discussion and inspection, the doctor braces up my arm.  I’m instructed to once again return to Urgent Care the following day.  this time, if no improvement was evident, hospitalization would be required — surgery to either mend the wound or amputate part of the hand.

when got home that day, Monday night, we see evidence that Motherfucking Bastard emerged and ate her food.  we still have no idea where she is hiding.  but at the moment, it’s not our top concern.  the potential necessary removal of my right hand was.

I work a full day on Tuesday, very slowly and almost ineffectively.  after work, Brian takes me once again to Urgent Care.  three times in three days.  this time, however, there was evident visual improvement of both the infectious redness and of the swelling.  I was released on the condition of continuing taking my antibiotics (and probiotics) as instructed and that if it at any point gets worse, I was to just give up and go to ER.

once again, The Cat had emerged ate, and even new feces was in the litter box.

so where are we at now?  it’s Thursday morning.  how is The Cat doing?  how is James’s hand?  how is Brian’s face?  what all does Contact know of situation?  for how long are those fools going to keep The Cat?

Brian’s hand and face were fine.  he’s on the same antibiotic plan as me, minus the initial drip.  by day two, everything was cool for him.

my hand is healing, albeit slowly.  I still can’t really use it for anything.  I can type on a full-sized keyboard for the most part, though my usual usage of countless keyboard shortcuts are limited and typos are abound.  however, I cannot use my right hand, thumb, or index finger for: texting on my phone, anything that requires fine motor skills, anything that requires more than minor grip or holding, anything that requires muscle usage in the aforementioned areas.  as I’ve already stated, I couldn’t even wear pants to work for several days because I could not operate the zipper or buttons.  I’m wearing clip pants today, and I’m learning that was a bad idea.

Motherfucking Bastard is somewhere still in the room.  I don’t know where.  the current plan is keeping her for the next two weeks.  at that point, I will return her to Contact, explaining that Zero is not pleased and my family are coming with their dog the following week.  however, if she continues to not emerge at all while we are in the room, eating and shitting only while we are at work or asleep, I may send her back sooner.  it’s doing no one any good if she is that terrified.

and currently, Contact knows nothing after the phone call wherein we came to a compromise of letting The Cat loose in the Office.  I wanted to wait to see how things panned out first.

I tried to keep identity of the involved people, animals, and organizations.  but I may never foster via that group again; I will, however, still help and volunteer because of what their primary goals are.  there’s a difference between fostering feral cats, and housing a yowling monster.

that’s not to say Contact isn’t kind.  she purchased us a new super-large litter box with Zero, provided a ton of dry and food wet and of cat litter for The Cat, and even gave me a Starbucks giftcard as thanks.  but I think their system of fostering just doesn’t sync with me.

I guess I just won’t ever have insurance…?

I started my current job in late September.  early October, I sent in paperwork to the state letting them know that I can now afford to get off the assistance insurance plan I was on.  I never heard anything, and kept getting services and meds for practically free.

December comes along, and I send in another completed form.  again, radio silence from them.

April 10th, I receive a letter stating that my coverage ended on March 30th.  firstly, thanks for the heads up.  secondly, finally.  (I can afford to pay for my own insurance, so I want to.  I want the funds to go to the people who need it, not to people who are scamming the system; and I didn’t want to be that person.)

so I get onto MNsure.org, which is the method that most Minnesotans use to find their insurance plan, and I submit my application.  a few days later, I log on, but it looks like nothing was fully processed.  so I was on the phone between MNsure.org (via whom I purchased the insurance) and Medica (the actual insurance company) countless times, being on hold and/or transferred for most of a phone call.  I’m talking 40-minute holds just to talk to the first person, much less all the bouncing back and forth that follows.  Medica: “tell MNsure this.”; MNsure: “well, tell Medica that.”  it was like being between two people standing face-to-face who are doing that “I’m not talking to Sally” thing.  wtf.

additionally so, these places are only open on typical 8-5 schedules.  I have  a 30-minute lunch, and I’m expected to magically make a 40-minute hold time fit into 30-minutes?  again, I ask: WHAT. THE. FUCK.

eventually I somehow speak with humans just last week who said they were pushing my application through.  YAY!  she adds that I need to make sure I’m not late on the first payment — whose invoice should arrive in 60 days.  wut?  why so long??  you know what, whatever.  I just need insurance right now.  I’ll deal with down the road then.  we know we have the money for it, so we’re good.  and if this lady is pushing through my application, that means soon I can get the prescriptions that have been waiting for me at my pharmacy.

I go online over the weekend to see about getting a temporary insurance card, or at least some ID and Rx numbers.  but nothing.  it’s still blank.

so yesterday I call around and learn that my application has not yet been pushed through. BAH!

so today, I cheated.  while I started the call at the beginning of my lunch.  I stayed on the call after lunch was over; I ensured I was doing work-stuff at the time, of course!  I wasn’t cheating that bad.  and they mentioned I could call 10-minutes early from my lunch to get through some of the hold time.  so whatever.  I need to get this handled.

after being on the phone with these organizations for OVER AN HOUR AND THIRTY MINUTES TODAY ALONE, I gave up.  I’ll try again tomorrow.

THIS. IS. PREPOSTEROUS.

at the one-hour mark, I was livid.

I think I’m just going to have to take a day or a half-day off and go to some office and handle this shit IRL.  because 1] I don’t want to get hit with a fine for not having insurance; 2] I need insurance for my meds and my docs.

speaking of which, I had to cancel my psych appointment for tomorrow because I HAVE NO INSURANCE.

I hate everything related to US health care right now.  like, even more than usual.

work nigh resulted in self-injury

I was lying on my side, repeating a phrase with which was I was far too familiar. at the “ch” sound in the collection of words, I felt the top of my tongue bounce of the roof of my mouth in a familiar pattern. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

I couldn’t breathe out of my nose, and I could barely transmit breathes past the sounds I was chanting. my eyes burned, and I could feel the air against the entire surface of my eyeballs. tears from the topside eye flowed into the lower. snot was dribbling out of my nostrils, passing just above my upper lip and down onto the couch.

but I didn’t cut. I didn’t pull out any hair. I only hit my head a few time. I didn’t scratch or burn or bite, or anything else that I wanted so terribly to do. I didn’t even drink. I Disappeared for a little bit to calm down, also known as purposefully disassociating. then I slowly rose and took a klonopin. I had no reason to be alive, and even less reason to be awake. I actually had a say-so in the latter, so I worked towards a goal — Disappear until tomorrow.

as I swallowed the pill, a shot of memories ran past my mind as I recalled how what was previously such a wonderful day pushed me into this dark, hateful place….

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should we be alright with being mediocre?

only 2.5 of the numerous jobs I’ve had did I very actively not like.  1.5 of them were retail (I say a half because I liked the job at first; it just got old and certain changes yielded to my starting to dislike it), and one of them was a call center.  all of the others, I actually didn’t mind going to work most days.  some days, I even really enjoyed it.

I’m on the fence about this one.  I like what I do — I like the money management, I like the paperwork, etc.  and I like for whom we do it — impoverish people who are just trying to have a new start in life, or who were unjustly attacked or injured.  and I even like most of the people I work with.  but when something here stresses me out, I bring it home and I obsess over it for several days later.

I allowed a few tears last night because of yesterday’s miscommunication.  because I’m just tired of it.  and I still am not sufficiently fluent in Spanish.  and I keep messing things up.

I asked Brian last night how do people endure working somewhere they hate.  he said, from what he’s come to understand, is that in most cases they just don’t care about the job they do.  they text, or play on Facebook, or take forever to do Job A to avoid having to do Job B, etc.  they don’t actually try most times, nor do they really care about their quality of work.

I can’t fathom that.  I mean, it makes sense.  it really does.  and I can see if from an employee’s view and from a customer’s view the poor service many people provide in various jobs.  but I can only see that a possibility; surely that can’t be reality.

that’s one reason I left the half-disliked job — the changes they made ensured I would not be able to do my best work in the position, and I wasn’t okay with that.

when I was at the call center, I tried to help every single customer to the best of my ability.

because that’s what we’re supposed to do, right?  how can we expect good service from others if we’re not providing it ourselves?  how can we ever improve or grow as individuals if we’re not challenging ourselves?  how is acceptable to okay at be shitty?

so maybe he’s right….  maybe I care too much about the quality of work I do.  maybe I’m at fault for having respect for others and for my job.

and I would love to say, “well here on out, I’ll be alright doing mediocre work just like everyone else.”  but I know that’s a lie.  so I’ll just stay in this job, and I just keep going home miserable, and I’ll keep crying and struggling.  because even I wanted to, I don’t think I could sacrifice my integrity just to make my life easier.

a major medication mess-up

WOW.  so I managed to really fuck up being an adult.  I made a great discovery last night when I was dishing out my next two weeks of pills into each day’s three packet-things.  I was putting my vitamin C’s in my morning spots, when I noticed one said “200” on it.  I looked further, and I noticed a wide variety of different pills in the large bottle, such as “APO | QUE 200” and “905“.  if you clicked the links, you know where I fucked up.  if not, here it is:

I WAS TAKING 200MG OF SEROQUEL EVERY MORNING instead of my vitamin C.  O_O

for those of y’all who don’t know, Seroquel is an antipsychotic that is famous for the “Seroquel Zombie” side effect.  it also causes extreme drowsiness, feeling generally “spacey” or “out of it”, flu-like symptoms, GI issues, weight gain, et cetera, et cetera.

and the best part of all this — I have no clue for how long I’ve been taking 200mg of Seroquel every morning on an empty stomach.  😄

I need to call both my psychiatrist and my therapist and tell them about this little, uh, hiccup.  but I’m not sure how to do that.  I’ll text my therapist tomorrow (not sure if 9pm is too late for her on a work night) and ask when is a good time for a few minutes to talk.  I guess I just leave a message for my psychiatrist’s nurse, who I don’t know at all.

I suppose maybe this is why I was so tired last week when I was not taking any of my morning medication because I am irresponsible and moronic.  maybe that’s why I then started becoming very manic.  maybe that’s why I just feel like I’m starting to spiral down in the can’t-focus-look-a-squirrel-omg-I-want-to-cry-because-life-is-horrible route. just ugh.

another year

I will have been alive for 30 years as of tomorrow.  the current average life expectancy for both males and females is about 78 years.  I like to be liberal and take off a few years due to my general stupidity and possibly brain damage via concussions, lol.  but even so, even if we say 70 years, I’m more than halfway through my life.  this is comforting in the fact that this shit is probably at least half over.

but this is depressing, as I’m at halfway through and still have no clue what the hell I’m doing.  sure, no one ever really “gets” Life or masters it.  but I don’t rightly care.  I’m not comparing myself to them; I’m comparing myself to me.  and I’m no better now than I was few years ago; in fact, I think I’m worse than I was ten years ago.  at least during my college years I was still in school and learning; I had a semblance of a purpose.

but now, I don’t even had a sail or a rudder, much less a plan.

I want that to end.  I’ve been making very big, positive steps to get Better —   mentally/emotionally: I’m seeing a psychiatrist and a psychologist; I’m going to group therapy; I’m taking my medication regularly.  physically: I’m working out regularly again; I’m on great meds for my pain and sleep; I’m drinking much less, and have cut out the harder drinks.  professionally: I’m doing mediocre at job hunting; I’m taking steps to getting my car and license back; I’ve doing well about getting back onto the SNAP program; I’m spending less money in general.  et cetera, et cetera.  hell, amid all this, I even got back on the Nerd Fitness forums (which often helped me a lot).

I’m just scared of the inevitable Down again.  it seems like my Downswings are always more stark than my Ups.  that leads to a general decline, which is not cool.

anyway, I want to see about stopping this.  I want to start having a better approach to life, a better view of what’s going on now and what’s to come.  this means making both short-term and long-term plans and goals.

most people do annual reviews during December and January.  my birthday is right at the end of summer; it’s not an arbitrary date for me, so I’ll adopt it for my transition period.  so in the next post or two, I’ll put up what I hope to be the start of my annual “Annual Review”.  ::crosses fingers hopefully::

but back to my birthday.  I don’t really know what Brian’s going to do.  he already gave me one gift — plastic goggles (for when I’m chopping onions, cleaning with bleach, or changing the cat litter).  he knows I like useful gifts, so yeah.  I’m pretty sure I know the other thing he’s getting me (no spoilers).  we talked about cooking a fancy dinner together, then dressing up and eating the dinner at the kitchen table — save money, instead of going out to eat.  I have a feeling that’s going to be a disaster.  maybe I’m being pessimistic because we had a tiff last night that wasn’t resolved, so I slept on the couch; of course, he awoke butt-hurted this morning because I never came to bed.  so we’re at odds right now.

I just feel so alone up here.  so I feel like I want to celebrate my birthday alone.  I want to spend a day or two being INCREDIBLY PRODUCTIVE, and just call that my gift to myself, The End.  but we’ll see what he decides tonight….

how do you read the stories on my arms?

I have self-injury scars all over. and as aforementioned in my previous entry (written on Mar 24, but apparently never posted until moments ago, lol), I have long slices into my forearms from a para-suicidal decision/mistake. I didn’t get proper stiches (just butterfly-stitched them myself, as I usually do with my deeper self-retaliations), so the scars are very bright, bold, puffy, and obvious. people frequently attempt to hide or restrict their passing glances and less-than-subtle inspections.

butbyou know, I don’t mind. I really don’t. I don’t mind them looking and wondering. I mind even less them actually asking me about them (which happens occasionally). hell, I’m not even bothered when people believe that I truely attempted to kill myself.

what does bother me, however, what legitimately causes me discomfort and almost upsets me, is when they believe I failed at killing myself.

if I really attempted to end my life in en fanality, I would not fail; I would not fuck that up.

and I’m not really sure what that says about me….  but hey, you know, whatever. at least it means I’m interesting, right??   :/