HalfAsstic.com

Hello everyone!  This is Cam, Krissa’s much, much younger brother.  I am INVADING Halfasstic.com to announce that I have finally gotten around to updating it to the current version of WordPress AND finally installed Akismet (a comment spam blocker).  So now Krissa should be able to manage her comments much easier than before.

Before I go, however, I’d like to leave you with a few gems I came across when I was recently back at our mom and dad’s.  Call it revenge for the pictures Krissa posted of me back in July for my birthday.

Enjoy, and please comment!

(to view in their full-sized glory, click on them!)

Hello boys and girls.  I have been spending time doing things other than reading my blog sites and I am so sorry!  I need to get caught up, but I need to do laundry worse.  I haven’t been here much in the past few days as Henrietta got herself in hospital.  OK, really, the ambulance got her there, but still…

About 3:30 Thursday morning she rang the bell and I went in and she was shaking really, really hard.  I felt of her and she had no fever so I thought she was surely having a really bad anxiety attack.  She has before, so I got her an ativan and gave it to her and told her not to worry she’d feel better soon and she did and fell asleep within about 10 to 15 minutes.  I left her bedside table lamp on and went back to bed.  Next morning I went in and looked at her and turned off the lamp and tiptoed out.  The anxiety attacks really take it out of her, though she doesn’t have them often, so I wasn’t surprised when she slept in late.  I went by her room about 11:30 and she was sleeping but the lamp was on.  Strange.  So she had been up, but why had she turned the lamp on, it’s daylight and there was plenty of light in the room.  I walked over and looked at her and fliped off the lamp and opened the blinds a bit and she opened her eyes and looked at me and started trying to talk.  It was like something out of a nightmare.  I couldn’t make out what she was saying at first, her words were slurred and she couldn’t talk loud enough at all either.  I got down and listened and asked her questions and she said things that made no sense at all.  So I started calling people and ended with 911.  They came and got her and while they were here assessing her, the hot, young cutie that was doing most of the talking said that yes, she could be having a stroke, but the fact that I was treating her for yet another UTI, (urinary tract infection), told him that she could possibly be septic and the symptoms mimic those of a stroke very closely.  I, personally, thought it wasn’t possible, just because her previous UTI had gotten much worse than this one.  With this one she didn’t even  have any symptoms.  I would have never known she had one without the urinalysis they did as a follow up from the previous UTI.  In hind site I can see that it was all the same one and the antibiotics from the first one didn’t completely get rid of it.

So H gets hauled off to the hospital and I went with her.  My friend, Lisa followed in her car.  This was about noon and she went straight to an ER room and stayed there for a few hours and was put in a room by about 9:30.  They have, by now run every test under the sun and determined that:

A) She freaks out when in the MRI machine.

B) She did not have a stroke.

C) “She’s a pistol.”

D) When she misses her dose of Miralax she can’t poo.

E) When she gets two doses of Miralax too close together she has diarrhea.

F) When I find out they are running all kinds of stupid tests that don’t make a hill of beans difference, just stress her out,  I get pissed off.

G) When I call and have them leave a note on her chart for the Dr. to call me, I mean it and will call and chew out everybody else in the nurse’s station if he doesn’t.  (He makes rounds at 6:00AM.)

The night before she had these problems at home, when I changed her diaper and put her to bed, I noticed she had a strange line of diaper rash kinda down on her thigh a little bit.  I was telling Lisa about it in the hospital after we got her in a room.  I looked down at H and asked her if she’d mind if I showed Lisa her diaper rash. (At this point I should point out that Lisa’s mom died of multiplemyloma and Lisa took care of her up until her death, so she knows at least some, and usually a lot, about every aspect of care giving.)  Immediately after I asked her if she’d mind me showing Lisa her rash, without pausing, she looked at Lisa, pulled a deadpan face, and said, “It’ll cost you $20.00.”  Lightning fast wit, that one.  The nurse came in and she looked at her and said “It’ll cost you 20, too!”  She died laughing and we were all giggling uncontrollably.   She also told us to tell the EMT that she’s single.  My gawd, I’ve got to watch her like a hawk!

H) She charges for a peek at her hooch.

Last night, Kes was walking, (barefoot), through the kitchen on her way to the living room when she stepped on something.  She yelled, “Oww!”, and limped over to the couch to examine her foot.

“MOM!”

“Yes, dear.  I’m right here.”, I deep sighed… (I guess I should know where she gets it.)

“Ohmigosh Mom!  There’s a piece of glass in my foot!”  She glances up and says accusingly, “You left glass on the floor when you broke that glass cake pan the other day!”

You know how Pyrex shatters, eight million gillion pieces, give or take 6 or 7.  I am STILL finding chunks of it two rooms away as it fairly exploded when it hit the ground.  Not to mention the worst part was I was taking a batch of brownies out of the oven when I dropped it.

She plucks the offending shard out and shows it to me.  “It’s huge, Mom!”

She begins to tease now, “You left it there to stab me!  I’m bleeding Mom!  Quick get me a band aid, Neosporin, and hydrogen peroxide.  Hurry, Mom, HURRY!

I am laughing at the fuss she is making and go to the bathroom to get the stuff.  While I’m in there I hear her flip open her phone and start madly texting.  She finishes up pretty soon after I get back and doctor her toe.  I asked, so, who were you texting, and she replied, boyfriend.  What did you tell him?  She flipped her cell back open with the ubiquitous deep sigh/eye roll and read,

“I don’t think I can cook dinner for us nonight, as I am wounded.  Mom has stabbed me with a piece of the pyarrhea cake pan.”

Swear to God, she flipped the cell shut and looked me straight in the face and said “WHAT?”

I couldn’t stop laughing.  And even when I told her it was Pyrex, not pyarrhea, she still didn’t see what was so funny when she thought she was just being a litte silly.

Well, there is more excitement here at the Nut House.  Last night when I put Henrietta to bed, her diaper was wet.  Not just a little, but soaked,   Great.  The catheter had failed during the day sometime.  Just a little bit of pee in the bag.  Sometimes moving her around and repositioning her gets it to start working again so I was keeping my fingers crossed that it would fix itself over night.  No.  This morning she woke up swathed in wet sheets and nightgown.  FREEZING, of course.  Everything was soaking wet including a diaper full of shit.  I ran in and threw a towel in the dryer and got John to call the nurse while I started trying to strip the bed with her in it and get a dry hospital chux under her.  Got the sheets, blanket and mattress protector off the bed and another chux under her, ran and got the towel out of the dryer and put it over her while I went and ran water in a basin and got washcloths and then bathed her off.  I was answering questions from John for him to answer the nurse on the phone.  He hung up and shouted down the hall that she would be coming at 3:00ish.  M’kay, fine.  She showed up and DID NOT BRING A NEW CATHER WITH HER.  This was a new one for me.  She said she thought she’d just wiggle around the old one and see if she could get it to work.  She explained that she would need to go back to the office to get one.  Well, I had already deflated the old one and removed it, I mean it was just in the way and doing nothing whatsoever.  So no way it was going back in.  She went out and rummaged around in her car and finally found a kit.  I happened to have an extra catheter.  So we poked around and never got any urine back and had no more to try with.  She left and I scheduled Paula to come and give it a shot after she left the office at the home health care place.  She brought 4 catheters and several kits for me to have on stock and we used all but one of them and never got any urine back in the tube.  She said it was time to let H have a rest and she’s coming back tomorrow.  woo-hoo…

Aren’t you glad I don’t have pictures with my post today?

John wanted me to call this diaper incident F.L.  Full Load.

Hello, people!  It’s been a while!  I am happy to report that I am still alive, only just barely it seems.  I am having a hard time shaking this funk I’m in and it really makes it hard to post.  Ideas that seem good to me late at night while watching Ferguson or trying to go to sleep, seem ridiculous the next day.  I am being a little depressed and my mind doesn’t want to work fast or freely anymore, just like the rest of me, I suppose!  Haha.

John was only off one day this week and it was yesterday.  We frantically ran around for three hours while the caregiver provider person was here and managed to take in lunch at a nearby Chinese restaurant, which I felt like was splurging because everything is so expensive now.  And I don’t just mean at the Chinese Restaurant, I mean everything.  At this point I am thinking the only way we can help pay for college is if we rent out the daughter in servitude.  I know what you’re thinking.  If she is in servitude, how will she go to school that is getting paid for?  Vicious circle.  I guess we could sell the younger daughter into servitude and she could support her sister’s need for knowledge, but I am thinking that would create a good deal of resentment and bitterness.  Just guessing.

That leaves us with Henrietta and I just can’t see anyone paying me for taking her off my hands.  Correct me if you know something I don’t.

I was soooo gonna do a post on Wednesday.  Things stewing around in my little head, fingers itching to type them out… whatev.  H. woke up that morning distressed that she was having stomach cramps, “all night”.

me: Why didn’t you ring the bell?

H: Oh, I didn’t want to bother you!

me: (teasing) Well, when you need to use the potty you have to tell me.  I can’t read your mind….!

H: (Smiling) Oh I don’t want to bother you at night, Krissa.

So all this happened BEFORE breakfast.  This is important because it is an UNSCHEDULED POOP, or a “U.P.”  This set the tone for the day.  She ate half her oatmeal very slowly and did the characteristic whiny and sing-song voice.  I knew she wouldn’t eat all of her food just because that is what she automatically does if anything is amiss in her life.  Unscheduled Poo, hangnail, cramp in her calf, cold chill while getting a bed-bath, coughing due to allergies/sinus drainage, whatever.  But, when I brought her the egg and little piece of sausage with a roll and jelly she, ate everything but about a bite and a half of the egg and a little tiny piece of the bread.  It’s like she was thinking, “I have to leave something on the plate, I’m sick!”

So when I picked up the tray and saw she hadn’t finished everything I knew it was going to be a day of pitifullness and staying in bed.  Which really does suit me fine.  She discovered other problems during the day and had a bout with indigestion and we did Malox and Sprite and a teaspoon of baking soda in water and everything we could think of, I don’t know how bad it really was, she was teary eyed all day and acting ready to cash in her chips cause he couldn’t burp.

Thursday she decided she needed to stay in bed because, “Maybe I had better just stay here… you know, to make sure.”  Make sure of what, I have no idea.  Make sure she can burp?  Make sure she only poops between the hours of 1:00 and 2:00PM?  Make sure I can still run up and down that long ass hall, (and getting longer all the time), 400 times a day?  Make sure the clapper on the cowbell she rings isn’t worn out from the day before?  These are questions I now wish I’d asked her.

So that’s it people.  That’s all I got.  Sorry I don’t feel the least bit like trying to produce anything remotely amusing.  I am hoping this will eventually pass.  I am sure it will.

Well, today was the day I returned to the house of horrors for my two fillings.  This all went down without a hitch and I also got a cleaning again although, it wasn’t as involved or heavy duty because I had just had one a little over a month ago.  Anyway he shot up my mouth with Novocain and drilled and filled and sent me outa there.  I got home and ran around with John a bit and eventually looked in the mirror when everything was starting to wear off and I have a half dollar sized bruise on my cheek!  This has never happened to me before and I don’t know of it happening to anyone else.  My doc is a very gentle dentist and wasn’t in a rush or anything.  I was completely aware of everything that happened, but on the side he was working on I have this large blue bruise.  My kids keep making fun of me and telling us that “Dad finally got tired of the lip you’ve been giving him and belted you one.  (hysterical laughter)”  I assured them that if that was the case I would have been dead years ago.  Yet they persist. (They, clearly, don’t know on what side their bread is buttered.)

This reminds me of a similar incident that happened years ago that should have made John very uncomfortable to be seen with me in public.  I know I felt more than uncomfortable.  I, for no apparent reason, out of the clear, blue sky, got an incredible allergic reaction to….something.  We never did figure out what and believe me, if it had continued to happen I would have had ALL kinds of tests done.  It happened during March one year and wasn’t that severe and then in April the next year it came back and I thought I may as well be dead.  It was a full blown HORRIBLE allergic reaction that made Michael Jackson look pretty damn cute in comparison.  My whole face blew up and except for actual discoloration from bruising, I looked like someone had beaten the holly hell out of me.  I looked ridiculous.  I applied HUGE amounts of makeup and did up the eyelashes…  No.  Nothing was going to detract from this.

John swore he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with me and I assured him that EVERYBODY thought he had beaten me.  No.  He didn’t care.  But I did!  It was so strange to see all these people looking at me with so much pity.  The same way I might have looked at someone that looked like me…

It only lasted a couple of weeks and slowly went away.  I cried it was so awful.  I remember thinking I might always look like that.  It was a truly BAD time of my life.

OK.  Here I am in aaaall my glory.  You’ll have to excuse the hair and nightshirt, but other than that, it’s almost as bad as it got.  And I was trying HARD to open that left eye for this picture.  And I was SMILING.  Can you tell?  No need for collagen injections here!  My lips were HUGE!  While one eye was swollen shut the other had this huge, unusual bag under it.  I had…something collecting in spots all over my face.  I remember calling the allergist and CRYING to the receptionist over the phone that they HAD TO GET ME IN THERE.  They did and I got a shot.  The first thing that happened is my face started getting narrower, then it all started fading and I finally looked human again.

Shudder.

Today at Chez Lopez we are undergoing technical difficulties.  However, not in a too terribly tragic way.  The cable is stuck.  Every cable channel is frozen.  And not in the most attractive poses for the people on said channels.  Basic channels all work fine.  But, hey, it’s Saturday and there is no sense in explaining how utterly and completely useless basic channels are on a Saturday.  OK, maybe not for someone out there.  But not me.  Henrietta is distressed, also.  No good can come of this.  I am gonna have to get dressed, walk outside, and get the damn paper to read. I need to just sue the damn cable company.  But I guess they have so much money they’d hire a very good, snooty, high powered attorney and investigate my situation and see quite clearly that my time is best spent cleaning house and not watching TV anyway.  I would lose.  They’d probably sue me for annoying them and I’d lose my house…. But, then I wouldn’t have to clean it!

I smell a lawsuit coming on…

John came in from work the other day in, quite possibly the worst mood I have ever had the misfortune of being subjected to.  We’re talking Lewis Black on a bad day.  Just cranky as all get-out.  I went ahead and did the requisite wasting of my time by asking him what was the matter and was careful to have the look of concern placed squarely on my face.  I looked attentive and mildly distressed as he gave me the requisite answer of “Nothing is wrong”.

Right.

Moving right along then.

And this is what gets me.  I can’t understand getting that response from him to a question that is reasonable to ask any person who has announced his homecoming by slamming the car door hard enough to register on the Richter scale, literally throwing the loaf of bread he brought home across the entire kitchen to land only partially intact on the counter, (part in the sink), and tossing me a glare when I said, “Oh!, but…but, the bread….  Even the dogs, (whom I tell you can sense evil), were scarce and they always go into their frantic jubilant dance when Daddy comes home.  Not this time, baby.

So, let me get this straight.  “Nothing is wrong?”

“No. Nothing is wrong.”

And this is how it works sometimes at this house.  I learned a long time ago that if I keep on asking and asking eventually he will tell me and he just gets all worked up about it again.  I mean I know it’s not something that’s my fault cause, for heaven’s sake he’s been at work all day.  So I ignore him and after a couple of hours or so he’s fine.  Eventually I’ll ask him what was wrong and he’ll tell me and it will all be OK and he will be over it.  But every once in a while, when I suspect there must be some sort of planet misalignment or full moon or someone at work bitchslapping him, I get this kind of attitude when he gets here and I NEVER SEE IT COMING.  I’d like to say at this time that I always handle it beautifully, but it really happens so seldom that I have to stop and take stock and think about the propper response.  And anytime there is a SWAT truck parked outside my house, I have neglected to do that.

Well, Crystal, the caregiver provider person, called this morning at 11:00 and talked to John. He made arrangements for her to come over at noon. So at12:45 when she hadn’t arrived yet, he called her and she told him that she was in her car and was “trying” to get there from another street and she was having a hard time. Well, she knows how to get here as she has already been here and the street that the subdivision is off of is a dead end. It is a very small, private subdivision and there are only two ways in and out. That dead end street is approximately a half mile long and comes straight off the freeway’s service road. He said that he heard the sound of a baby in the background and that she insisted she was in the car “looking for the house”. He explained where we were and she said she would be here in a minute. When she got here I chatted with her for a minute and found out that she lives here in Dickinson and isn’t that far away and she has a toddler. Well, I guess it’s easy to deduce that she was at home until he called her at 12:45 and asked where she was. I wish he wasn’t such a wuss. OK, I wish I wasn’t, too.

Conversation between John and me at the Mrs. Baird’s Thrift Store this afternoon about a 75 year old looking guy standing in the corner GLARING AT EVERYBODY:

Halfass: “Who is that really old guy standing over there just watching everyone? He’s never been here before.”

John: “He’s the new bouncer.”

H.A.: “I’m not sure you should call him “new” on any counts, and bouncer? In a Mrs. Baird’s Thrift Store?”

John: “Keep an eye on him… he’s watching everyone’s every move.”

And just then some kids came in and spread out and the guy practically lost it trying to frantically keep up with it all. I mean you could almost hear him thinking, NO! DON’T TOUCH THAT! It was kinda funny how weirded out he got cause the kids were just trying to see how far they could push the envelope and what they could get away with. I don’t think anyone stole anything and they left as soon as his eyes started to bulge, but when I turned to look him fully in the face he was sputtering and totally red. I am thinking he needs this job as much as my “provider care aide” needs hers….

People, I am telling you… this is exactly the kind of thing I would be taking pictures of if I would just go ahead and get the new camera already!

Witchy-Poo, over at Psychicgeek has linked me up and given me a mention for comments. I really appreciate it and can only say that she can always open my can of funny. She and AssBurgerBoy have got it going on.

I am sorry there was no post for “Fecal Friday”. I was not here and, truth be told, I dealt with no poo yesterday. How did I escape the poo? I will tell you.

I left with my daughter about 6:00AM to drive to downtown Houston for the second day of Orientation. AND I am happy to report that I didn’t get separated from the herd. However things didn’t go smoothly to start off. We were running on schedule and Kes went out to start the car while I collected my purse or put on earrings or some such thing. She came back in looking stricken and said, “My car won’t start. MOM, MY CAR WON’T START!” At this point John, (who was sleeping in and trying hard to get over the virus I gave him), woke up and came outside. “Kes, are you sure it’s in park?” Check. She tried to start it and it was evident it was either the battery, the starter or alternator. You know that noise…errrrrerrrrerrrrrerrrrr, nothing. So we looked under the hood and saw that one post on her battery was completely covered with corrosion. I ran in the garage and got a wire brush and came out and attacked it. With the first stroke of the brush a tiny, evil particle of…corrosion? battery acid? whatever, flicked straight into my right eye. OH MY GAWD! I have never felt anything burn that bad in my life. Not in my eye. Anyway, while I am in the house rinsing my eye out, Kes and John come to the conclusion that Kes will drive us there in John’s car and he will take our pickup to work. We were running a tad behind at this point and Kes was having an apoplectic fit to leave. (Have I ever mentioned that she is a bit… high strung? Tightly wound? Oh hell, she’s a stereotypical, type A personality. Not a lot of fun to live with sometimes.) So I run out and climb in the car with ALL the eye makeup missing from my right eye. I swear, she glanced at me, started to comment, made this microscopic head shake and started the car and backed out almost all in one move. I waited until we were almost there and the burning had subsided somewhat, to reapply some mascara. The red, swollen eye combined with my chapped red nose from the SINUS INFECTION FROM HELL, had me looking particularly…what…hungover? disgusting? I am not sure, but it was bad.

I should have taken a box of Puffs Plus with me because I sat through hours of one professor after another stress THE EXACT SAME THINGS, OVER AND OVER, while I repeatedly blew my nose into a red paper cocktail napkin. (UH Cougars, colors-red and white.) By the end of the day there was no way to tell if my nose was red from constantly blowing it into sandpaper a paper napkin, or if the color on said napkin ran and stained my nose. I lived though. Maybe because I knew that by the time I got home John would be at work as would younger child and H would have already been pooped and diapered, washed and dressed, drug into wheelchair and rolled into living room. OH! And fed!

That’s right, people. Behold. The power of the federal government, finally put to use for good and not evil. It is paying for a company named Home Health Providers, or HHP, to send a “Caregiver Provider” to our house TWO, (2) times a week! Note the title says “caregiver provider” as in providing ME, the caregiver with help. LOVE the concept. This lady does the same thing the aide for Home Health Care did as far as the bath and dressing, twice a week, BUT! WILL STAY FOR THREE, (3!) HOURS WHILE I LEAVE AND GO WHERE EVER THE HELL I WANT. WOO-HOOOOOO. So don’t call me on Tuesdays or Fridays between the hours of 1:00PM and 4:00PM. I WILL BE GONE. Probably. At the very least I will be in the bathtub. FOR 3 HOURS!