Saturday, August 19, 2017

Passionate New Love

Passionate new love #1: Rag‘nBone Man. He’s a big burly tattooed singer from the U.K. He looks like someone in whom I’d take no interest but his voice is pure smooth moody honey. I loved his song Skin immediately upon hearing it. That’s why I bought his album. Now it’s Odetta that gives me goosebumps. He’s a male Adele. Oh my goodness!
Passionate new love #2: Saucisson sec with fennel from Oyama Sausage on Granville Island. Today when I go there I am going to ask if they ship product in case I move.
Lately some of the blog/websites I visit were “posting in black and white” to “honour those who died in Barcelona.” I’ve also seen a lot of graphic art “honoring” the same dead.
I cannot fathom doing something similar. I share in their horror of the event itself; I just don’t understand “honoring” the dead. What is “honoring?” What makes people hear about a tragedy and want to post their “pain” on twitter? Those who honour the dead on social media seem to be turning the attention on themselves: “See my pain;” repost my honour graphic.
I understand pain over the horror of the instrument of their death, the circumstances of their deaths and sadness for the horrific loss of the friends and families of the dead. But writing on social media about it? Really?
They care but they put me through Hell. Dr. Shoja shares my pain; she knows that many doctors cannot understand psychiatric illness. They only understand pathology. So my symptoms alarm them.
Last September I collapsed on the seawall and was taken to hospital and they were “worried” about heat rhythm irregularities. So off I go to a cardiologist and I wear a monitor and he tells me I am fine and not to worry with a what-the-fuck-did-you-waste-my-time tone in his voice.
Then, when my HIV doctor saw me, off I was sent to a neurologist who did the same thing — he adopted the wasted tone dismissing me. He was really curt so I was right back.
He said: “I don’t understand why you’ve come here. I told you when I saw you in Emergency that there is nothing neurologically wrong.”
To which I replied: “I’m here because your colleague told me to come here and he set up the appointment. He wants you to tell him whether or not my condition could be caused by my HIV medications. I’m not here for my health; I’m here for his research. And he’s internationally renowned whereas you are arrogant and rude — at least with me you are.”
Then he apologized for misunderstanding and I got to say: “You didn’t misunderstand. You misjudged. As I said, you’re arrogant.” My God that felt good; he was such a prick. And when I feel as insulted as I felt with him (and angry), I don’t stutter.
Starting Monday night at midnight I have to fast for twenty-four hours before a liver ultrasound: “Better safe than sorry.” This time it’s not only wasted time; the fasting is going to be dreadful. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with my liver.

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