Medical Frustration

Early in the week, Fio's cardiologist prepared her for eye surgery by having her hold her coumadin pills and inject herself with lovenox instead. Fio called him on Friday, the day after surgery, and asked if she could discontinue the lovenox because the shots were unexpectedly painful, so Dr. H worked out a new regimen that would take her off lovenox by Monday, although she would have to go to the ER of her local hospital on Sunday to be sure her INR was 2.0 or above.

Fio followed directions, giving herself what she hoped would be a final shot of lovenox Sunday morning, then driving off to St. D's Hospital for the INR check. However, no one knew what to do with her because Dr. H hadn't given them any "orders." The nurses finally got another doctor to write the "orders" and, about an hour later, Fio was ushered into a room where a phlebotomist took a vial of her blood. Fio protested, saying that the procedure should be a simple finger-prick, but the phlebotomist said she'd never heard of INR and that that Fio could get the results from Dr. H on Monday. Fio explained that she was supposed to get the results immediately so she would know whether or not to use lovenox in the evening, so the phlebotomist said the lab would report to Dr. H within an hour and he himself would call Fio.

Five hours later, Fiorella got hold of Dr. H on her own. Bad news--her INR is too low to discontinue the lovenox so she'll have to shoot herself up for three more days.

Fiorella is not happy on several accounts.

Five Fio Factoids

Fiorella planned to grow up tall, slender, graceful, dignified, and serene.  Guess who didn't hit her mark, mark, mark, mark, mark.
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Fiorella's operates by priorities, lists, and systems. And yeah, she's a three-things-at-once kind of gal.
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Fiorella likes people.  She's interested in them, especially the ones she doesn't understand.
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Fiorella knows all those words but usually doesn't use them. Usually.
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Fio has a deep need to communicate, to express herself. So far she's written books, short stories, poetry, essays, and reported for newspapers and magazines. She also maintains this blog and is active on Facebook. The girl just can't keep her mouth shut or her pen still.

Fast Away the Old Year Passes

Where have all the Christmas cards gone
Long time passing
Where have all the Christmas cards gone
Long time ago . . . .

As usual, Fio displayed this year's cards on the front of the folding doors between the living room and the dining room--all twenty-seven of them, when she used to receive twice that many.  Years ago, her mother easily received four times that many.

But times have changed. People can pick up a phone and stay in contact with friends on a regular basis rather than waiting to scrawl a year's worth of news onto the back of a Christmas card.  Besides, those paper cards cost money, and so does mailing them--Fiorella paid almost forty dollars to send her seventy-five cards off to the corners of the earth.

Face it, Fio--Christmas cards are old hat now.  How sad.

Christmas Cards

Fiorella has finished off her Christmas cards and is sending them on their way, fully realizing she is in a minority population--the cards she proudly displays on her dining room doors get fewer and fewer each year. If people want to communicate holiday greetings, they can text each other, or send emails, or sign up with Jacquie Lawson.

Fio remembers when Mother would spend days not only signing Christmas cards, but adding a little note inside each one.  It was called communication, and was particularly important before the invention of computers that engendered instant contact to anywhere in the world.  In fact, when Fio's family moved to far-away Texas, the voluminous letters written by her three sisters-in-law, Aunt Miriam, Aunt Hattie, and Aunt Julie, were what kept Fio's parents in touch with life and family at "home."

But Fio likes Christmas cards for more than communication.  She likes to design them.  She likes to create something interesting and pleasing to the eye.  She likes to add something new to the world, something that is uniquely Fiorella.

Like this blog.

Yelp-Bark-Grrrr!

Sonia Dog has six basic needs: love and treats, food and water, to go out and to come in.  But lately she's been expressing a seventh need--language.  Yes, our doggie has been expanding her vocabulary of yelps, bark, and growls so as to communicate with us better. Will let you know when she writes a romance.

Striving for Organization

Fiorella is going crazy(er) with her lists.  There's her list of the cell numbers of RWA chapter members, the list of parties she's invited to, the list of people she wants to meet up with, the list of clothes she will take with her, the list of her meds, the list of workshops she hopes to attend, the list of things she needs to do before she leaves, the list she plans to make for husband to do while she's gone.

There's no punch line to this entry.  It's just another list.

Wordless

Of course, the idea that people think in words is ridiculous.  Every time Fiorella accords her characters interior dialogues, it's fiction.  People think in--well--thoughts, splotches of conjecture, sometimes inspired and immediate, sometimes long and drawn out.  When Fio plots out her romances, she starts with the relationship between the two leads, then opens her mind to whatever would logically follow, then tries to record what her inarticulate brain has told her.  When she is painting, she goes into the zone and lets her hand do the walkin'.  When she encounters life problems, she goes totally cold and lets her id/ego/anima/whatever take over.

Words are an artificial construct that we use to try to communicate the essence of our thoughts, but sometimes they aren't enough. As in the above paragraph.

For Better or Worse

Has Fiorella told you about the phone system Husband rigged up between the downstairs guest room, where Fio is now residing,  and the upstairs master bedroom, where he sleeps?  And not only did he set it up, but also has answered each and very one of Fio's calls for help in the middle of the night.

Thank you, Husband.