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Wk 24
Mar 1, 2021 21:20:04 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Mar 1, 2021 21:20:04 GMT
Symptoms of Ms. Rocks' congestive heart failure began well before Doctor Google diagnosed the condition, directing us to emergency and her subsequent admission into the new local hospital. Eight nicotine-free days later she was released to carry her own suitcase down a long hallway and flight of stairs. A week later a message on our answering machine said it was urgent she contact some local cardiologist whose name I forget. At her appointment his receptionist explained they'd been having trouble with their phones, hence the delay. Elevators were out in the new building and so heart patients got to climb two flights of stairs to his offices. He poked her calf with his finger (which we've since come to realize is the standard cardiologist medical examination), told her she needed a double valve replacement (mitral and tricuspid), rush-referred her to another hospital with a cardiac unit for surgery, then threw in a Holter monitor. Because he'd neglected to schedule his technician to install it at the time of the appointment, we returned the following Monday for this cumbersome device that prevented bathing or comfortable sleep for three days, that informed no diagnoses or decisions, and that I'd bet my good eye no one ever even checked the data from.
A week later the cardiac hospital scheduled an echocardiogram for the following Wednesday. As per printed instructions, we arrived 10 minutes early and phoned. Contrary to printed instructions, Ms. Rocks was not escorted to diagnostics, but just screened for covid, and got lost. She did eventually get tested, but because the hospital had no chart or history she was treated as a walk-in and admitted utterly unprepared into emergency there by a perplexed and (she said) aggressive doctor. She called me to, instead of take her home, come back and help her answer admission questions. In hindsight, this was the first indication of what became pathological confusion.
Because of covid, patients may only have one visitor for one hour a week, though we talked on the phone every day. On her fourth day I was unable to reach her through the ward's main desk in four tries, but that night got a call at home from a nurse Emma, who said they'd been trying to contact me all day to explain there'd been an "incident" the night before which had led to Ms. Rocks being restrained by security and given Haldol. Reportedly, she'd secluded herself in the bathroom and, when nursing staff entered, thrown water from the toilet on them. Bruises from the ankle straps are still visible. A gerontologist called shortly after (about 8PM) to get her mental history and recommend the antipsychotic Risperdal. But it was days later that a niece who works as a kinesiologist first used the term "delirium" to describe her condition. Doctor Google quickly confirmed this no-brainer of a diagnosis, for which restraints are ill advised. Ms. Rocks called after the gerontologist sounding confused, paranoid, terrified, and begging to be picked up and taken home. I somehow convinced her to wait overnight.
Next morning there was a morbidly obese Indian security girl sitting outside her door, whom I told could leave if she liked since I'd be there all day. Shortly after, three beefy Kevlar-wearing men in similar police-like uniforms appeared. I was in the private room and neither of us were wearing masks. One of the Indians (95 percent of this security company are East Indian, it's probably some sort of immigration portal) got in my face and ordered me to put one on. I complied, then said I needed him to back 6 feet off. He (having not been in a grocery store in the past year) replied that this wasn't necessary as we both now wore masks. I asked to speak to his supervisor, who it turned out was right beside him and even stupider and ruder, on an even more serious power trip, and who got my own heart rate up to 120 before parting ways. Nursing staff were all polite, though, and asked me to come back every day, all day if I could, to help her wash and stay grounded (she'd acquired some ugly heat rashes). By Valentine's Day, Ms. Rocks was adamant I take her out for a few hours to see family and friends. Nursing said a doctor would have to okay this, and we could ask when he stopped by on his rounds. Six (long) hours later, Dr. Whoeverthefuck said "No." We would have to self discharge, and the room would not be held. So we signed out, packed, and nursing staff (who struck me as supportive) wheelchaired her and her belongings (including the dozen roses I'd brought) down to the main entrance. Free at last.
We drove back to her restaurant where about a dozen family members were waiting. Happy but addled, she had a good visit. Lots of questions and advice. (I was still thinking Alzheimer's at this point.) That night we slept downstairs in our living room, her in a rocker by the gas fireplace, me on cushions on the floor, where, except for her wanting to put logs in the "woodstove" at about 4:30 AM and hiding some laundry in strange places, went pretty well. Later that morning I helped her bathe, though nearly called the fire department before finally extricating her from the tub (on the 3rd floor). Then back to the restaurant, more family, a part-timer she's fond of, her ex (who's had bypass surgery) and some grandkids. And that afternoon a drive around town, then over to some longtime friends' place. Toward the end of this visit Ms. Rocks complained about her chair hurting her back and had noticeable shakes. At home, after driving around some more, she knelt over a low marble table and complained of more back pain. Unable to get an intelligible response from her, I called 911 and she was taken back to and readmitted into the local hospital. Later I got a call asking if she was DNR, as it might come to that. (We both are.) One of the ambulance drivers had said "Sepsis." Subsequent blood cultures confirmed an infection (undiagnosed in the 12 days she'd spent at the second hospital prior to self discharging against medical advice). She was put on IV antibiotics. Three days later she was stable and returned by ambulance back to the second hospital and the same room we'd left five days prior. A different Indian guard at the door was all. I was still encouraged to spend as much time as possible with her and covid restrictions were again waived.
A CT scan came back negative. Another echo showed nothing new. Numerous cardiologists poked her calves with their fingers. Another gerontologist tried to push antipsychotics on her. I finally got her to agree to the nicotine patch. Her delirium persisted but became less paranoid. The guard disappeared. One cardiologist, a Dr. Chamberlain, actually got to know her a little, and even performed a physical exam, with her lying down and everything. He seemed rather excited about her heart rhythms and sounds, said he didn't think it was rheumatoid, more likely MS (mitral stenosis) and asked her if he could have his medical student also examine her as a teaching exercise, being she was a "textbook case." Covid has made teaching opportunities hard to come by, he said. She agreed, and was reexamined under instruction. Next visit, Dr. Chamberlain suggested she try a low dose of Seroquel at night and in the morning, which he claimed to have had good anecdotal success with in treating delirium. That night she slept "like a log" but the morning dose made her "foggy" and, in my opinion, worse, with more hallucinations ("Is that a monkey down there in the hall?") and delusions ("We're at Wal-mart.") So he agreed to halve the bedtime dose (to 12.5 mg) and cut out the morning one. Next day she was markedly improved, so obviously lucid that the surgeon never bothered to ask her the month, where she was or why on her rounds. The next day we played cribbage without a board, and the next learned Gin Rummy online and played that for a couple days. (I lost.) Aside from some weird delusional dream memories that persist ("I bought these pajama bottoms from the hospital at a lawn sale.") Ms. Rocks is her "normal" fun self.
Saturday she was transferred to a private room (that'll cost us) in 3 West, the better, quieter, pre-surgical ward. She's tentatively scheduled for surgery Friday. And I, no longer deemed essential to her care, am back to only 1 hour a week visitation (despite the importance their years old brochures place on family presence in patients' recoveries and combating common post-surgical deliriums).
In reflection, I find it funny that Wal-mart enforces stronger distancing and masking protocols than this hospital. One morning there were at least six nursing students and one nurse crowded around Ms. Rocks and her IV pole in the 6 x 6 "pill room" / vestibule area. The rounds doctor who'd refused our leave wears his mask under his nose. I've been told not to worry about putting my mask on when staff enter the room, though I do, only for their peace of mind, anyway.
It blows my mind that the top cardiac unit in the region failed to diagnose both delirium and a blood infection, and that it's my best friend from university, who's been a physician for over 40 years, that's now providing me the best consultation and advice. E.g., "Find out who the responsible physician is." E.g., "They'll probably administer weeks of antibiotics," and, "A PICC line is a good idea." (She's having one installed tomorrow.)
A sign in one of cardiac floor's public washrooms advising "Do Not Place Hands in Toilet" made me feel like a genius.
Anyway, that's where I've been the past few weeks.
I've learned that cardioplegics are used to stop the heart prior to bypass surgery and that delirium and dementia are very similar except that with delirium you don't play along with the delusions, but with dementia you do. So, Doomey, you're right. We've never named VCs or discussed submissions here. What was I thinking?
I read Marg's SF about a murder on some deep-space medical station while Ms. Rocks was napping last week. Full of sexy, multihued aliens, I found it an apt diversion. It's kind of funny, and so would probably stand a better chance here: scifilampoon.com/submissions/ but am sending it up anyway that clearer heads may prevail. Yes. Yes I am.
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Wk 24
Mar 6, 2021 16:42:28 GMT
Post by deplancher on Mar 6, 2021 16:42:28 GMT
Dear Roxifier,
Oh I have only been slouching here sipping tepid Dream Tea while leaning against the periodically damp stains of past occupants of this dimly lit space. Stinky, but serene. In contrast, you have travelled to the edge of healthcare dis-easy delirium while assisting your dear one in dire discomfort, yet somehow remained mostly standing while lucid.
I humbly namaste you in somewhat amazement at what must be seriously solid balance that it may hold you steady while walking the plank of shock dismay foolish incompetence bizarrebutintriguing unnecessary risk taking and calf tapping. Your journey sounds most dismaying. I have not yet imagined what Ms Rocks' experience looks like. This scene takes effort to consider as it is unlike anything I can claim has breached my own combination of real and delusional parameters.
What what? I am half hoping this is fiction yet knowing it is probably too awful to be anything but true.
May the madness subside and Ms Rocks' heart and mind be soon healed, yours therefore returned to rhythm.
In Ghostdom, watching,
DeP
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Wk 24
Mar 7, 2021 3:14:46 GMT
Post by bulldust on Mar 7, 2021 3:14:46 GMT
Moo? Haldol?
The Bull shakes his head.
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Wk 24
Mar 7, 2021 15:53:40 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Mar 7, 2021 15:53:40 GMT
Thank you for your empathic namaste, ghostly co-worker. I do wish I could laugh and say "Gothca!" now. But alas... and it gets worse. Valve replacement surgery ran longer than expected but, according to the surgeon, went well, good result achieved. Four hours later I was called and told fluid buildup in the lungs had weakened the heart and she was headed back to the OR to be put back on bypass, and later, on a portable bypass machine back in ICU, a measure that's required in only a very small percentage of these surgeries. Next morning another doctor said there were clotting issues and Ms. Rocks was headed back to surgery for a 3rd time, and that her outlook was "poor." Both her sons were in on this call. Siblings were notified and a small, impromptu family pre-funeral was conducted in her restaurant (which put us over covid's 10 person limit). But in the 24 hours since then she's been gradually improving, is now off bypass and on a ventilator, organs all functioning better, and, just now I was told, while still heavily medicated, these meds have been reduced and her eyes flutter in response to to their voices. And so there is hope that the last nine days we spent together in her room was not our last all-inclusive.
My thoughts, exactly, oh moo-filled one. I even said to the nurse who told me about the Haldol, "What? You used Karla's drug? Who prescribed it?" She was unable to say. My guess: security.
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Wk 24
Mar 13, 2021 18:28:03 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Mar 13, 2021 18:28:03 GMT
Except for the VC having used in the very first sentence the verb "peaked" instead of peeked to describe what the sun does "through the thick, dancing mists that rose and swayed in and around the swamp," thus far not bad. And while by the end of the first paragraph I am hungry for more than the sun rising over a peaceful swamp, I can tolerate a little literary scene setting or throat clearing or whatever. But when by mid-cap, still nothing of any interest has transpired, I grow restless, impatient. So lest I be lulled into unconsciousness, as in the sort of bleary-eyed semi-waking coma-like state that Ms. Rocks has been enjoying for eight days now, even if not exacerbated by an Enterobacter cloacae blood infection so common to ICUs and their copious IV and arterial lines' pokes and jabs followed by a new round of stronger antibiotics than the Penicillin used for the Strep C infection contracted one floor up in Cardiology, I begin to skim. But alas, by the time the excitement begins, I am lost. And so it's difficult to say whether all that happens is that a vacationing couple's swamp boat captain throws a few plucked chickens to one or more alligators to no real harm (save to the already dead chickens) or I have missed something clever and important, but which even if I have the answer, as in the verdict, is still No.
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Wk 24
Mar 18, 2021 0:20:54 GMT
Post by doomey on Mar 18, 2021 0:20:54 GMT
[doomey shoves the ass-end of his Pall Mall into the triangular marble ashtray and twists it, killing the fire. he sighs and taps his pursed lips with his index and middle fingertips. he glances over at Carol, twitches his nostrils and angles his noggin. he nods]
you know, crafting has really gone all the fuck downhill, sister. steve bates' the bubble is riding that sled, all the way down.
[doomey tosses the capital out the Porthole]
and wow, rock, you are one longwinded motherfucker.
[doomey smears a new capital across the cherrywood's desktop, and he leans in. rock, across the Floor, rambles on about yet another capital, and doomey examines his capital. and he examines. he licks his finger tip, turns the page]
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Wk 24
Mar 19, 2021 17:58:05 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Mar 19, 2021 17:58:05 GMT
You're probably right, Doom. I do tend to ramble. It's just I like to give some indication that I at least tried to read any cap tossed my way, and to say something if not helpful then at least specific about it. But I'll practice shorter windedness with this Tyn thing. See how it goes.
The first few pages move pretty slow and have almost nothing to do with the story. Seemed awfully coincidental that this little slave urchin, Tyn, just happened to have found the rare alien artifact that's able to protect only her. More an idea-come-lately that then took over the as yet undecided plot. A typo in "We have a painless was [sic] of extracting your . . . seed." Overuse of ellipses (25 times). Nonetheless, I think this one could make an okay children's bedtime story, something to entertain the little suckers while putting them to sleep. But The Monkey isn't really into YA fiction. So, no.
Better?
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Wk 24
Mar 30, 2021 1:02:05 GMT
Post by doomey on Mar 30, 2021 1:02:05 GMT
[doomey leans back in his pilot's chair, sucks in some sweet smoke, blah, blah, blah]
better? dude, don't let anybody crimp your penis. first off, do not listen to me. talk all you want. just know when you do talk a lot i will mention the longevity of the diatribe, but, 100%, fuck me. you be you, compadre. i'll be me, but venture capitalists don't enjoy me in their grill, i am the bad guy.
[doomey leans forward, lords over the capital spread out over the cherrywood's desktop]
except for certain little time capitulates like this particular one.
[he grabs up the capital and straightens it, and he rises and and saunters toward the Porthole]
Osborne's Boss Babe has been-
[he throws the capital up into the rafters, the rotating mirrorball makes the pages really twirl]
-Terminaled.
[doomey staggers back to the cherrywood and he collapses into the pilot's chair, pall mall betwixt lips, hand on crotch, lips curled in a smile]
rock, don't let anyone tell what to do. MLK, bro. be a black messiah.
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Wk 24
Apr 6, 2021 18:15:14 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Apr 6, 2021 18:15:14 GMT
I read Cario's hunting cap a couple weeks ago, but then got wrapped up in Ms. Rocks' recovery. Since her first admission almost three months ago, in no particular order, she's enjoyed 5 echocardiograms (one of which was transesophageal), 4 bronchoscopies (2 with sampling), 2 PICC line installations, 1 nasogastric feeding tube, 1 month on a ventilator, 1 tracheostomy (with regular maintenance), a zillion suctionings, 1 angiogram, 4 "art" line (arterial IV) installations, 2 infections (Strep C and Enterobacter cloacae) compliments of the hospital, 2 bouts of delirium, 1 ankle and multiple wrist restraints, 1 pressure sore on her heel (how the fuck does someone who can't stand get a bedsore on their heel?), 3 open-chest surgeries, 1 urinary catheterization, 12 hours on an ECMO (bypass machine), at least 4 COVID tests (WTF?), 1 vac dressing, 100s of IV sticks and blood draws, 1 chest tube, a dozen or so X-rays and 5 CT scans w/ contrast dye. Lots of drugs, of course, too. But now she's on the mend. Off the ventilator for 3 days. Just talked to her on the phone (no visiting but once a week for one hour now that COVID's back) for the first time in a month. She thought the trake's speech valve made her sound like Donald Duck. I said I thought it made her sound younger. She said we should have phone sex. Anyway, I've been distracted and unmotivated of late. Which is why I had to re-skim this shapeshifting story to see why, besides being unmotivated and distracted, I couldn't get into it. And I still don't know. Nothing wrong with the grammar or description. I suppose the characters are okay. Even reflects some research, which is unusual for fantasy. I wish I could help the VC with his craft by imparting some writerly insight into its shortcomings. But I can't. Maybe there aren't any. Maybe it's just fantasy is my least favorite genre, especially when nothing seems to rise to metaphor. Or maybe it's just me. If it weren't just me, it'd be a close call, I think. Maybe I'll just set it on the Porthole's sill, wait for Boligard or Dep to open it for some not-quite of their own to commit to the Deluge.
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Wk 24
Apr 11, 2021 1:15:25 GMT
Post by carol on Apr 11, 2021 1:15:25 GMT
[Carol leans her hip against the edge of the cherrywood. She pulls her mask down and plants a grapefruit fiesta joint twixt her lips and she in-the-fuck-hales, and she holds it, holds it, holds it, holds it, and she thumbs the Bose, Public Enemy Lost at Birth, and she pushes the volume up. And she leans off the desk edge. She pulls her mask up, and she nods her head, and she shakes her ass, and she waves her hands in the air like she just don't care. She twirls. And she glides left, stomps her right boot, slides right and stomps her left boot. She plants her palms on her cheeks (facial) and she back steps to the beat, and then she slaps her ass (her ass), and she twirls again. Carol perches the joint on her bottom lip, collapses her upper lip on that shit and she inhales. She whirls and ends up with her hip leaned against the cherrywood as she once had done previously]
God damn.
[Carol wags her ass to the sassy beat of Public Enemy, and then she leans back to the desk]
We examined Kat Devitt's To Own Her Body. It sounded real, for seconds. But there were mistakes, and we nod our heads to mistakes, but we only nod our heads to mistakes twice, cousins. Twice.
[Carol scratches TLA into the floorboards]
Devitt's capital has been Portholed, bitches.
[Carol folds the current capital into a triangle and tosses it into the deluge, and she slams the window shut]
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Wk 24
Apr 12, 2021 19:13:32 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Apr 12, 2021 19:13:32 GMT
Been into lucid dreaming my whole life. Even as a little kid I knew how to wake myself by jumping from high places. Lately, though, I've come to realize that lucid dreams are less interesting than the ones you believe are real. Your characters become self conscious, your abilities and imagination somehow hamstrung. Now, since Covid usurped our collective consciousness, nearly all my dreams are lucid. Soon as I see faces, I know it ain't real. So fuck you for that, too, Covid.
Lucid dreaming is a theme, even a learnable, in Plohr's Oneironautics cap, but that once abandoned saw me begin to lose interest. The writing is technically good, seems well edited. All I noticed was a missing "down" in "she was crawling upside and backwards", although, because I was reading pretty fast by then, I might've missed other nits. But wordcraftery isn't this cap's problem. The problem is garrulousness. One could, I'm fairly sure, condense this yarn by half without loss of clarity or interest. Actually, it'd be a lot more engaging because you wouldn't be slogging through utterly unnecessary narrative like, "There was a blockage arm dropped to prevent entry until one had taken a ticket, which I did, and when the arm lifted I drove to the furthest end of the lot and parked there." Like who cares how the parking lot operates? Now if it were in any way integral to the tale, like say how last Thursday, after inserting my ticket into the St. Mary's parking lot's exit terminal's slot, and then my credit card from which a $12.50 payment was extracted, the fucking bar never went up. I got out and tried lifting it, but it was stuck. See?
There's an old Simpson's episode where Homer's dad and a bunch of other oldsters break up a strike by telling the strikers long rambling stories: "...I wore an onion on my belt, as was the fashion of the times..." Don't be Homer's dad. Keep it sharp. Stick to what's relevant. That's my advice. And maybe don't drink absinthe. The ending was surprising in a non-foreshadowed sort of way, with some cool imagery. But by then the damage was done. So out the Porthole it goes. Hey Carol, while you got it open...
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Wk 24
Apr 21, 2021 0:57:16 GMT
Post by doomey on Apr 21, 2021 0:57:16 GMT
[boligard kicks a pez batman to the glass tiles, and he leans back in the pilot chair, and he gnashes his teeth, and he seriously frowns, sucking on a pall mall, inhaling and then exhaling]
what we are going to do here is allow this particular narrative to rise upward, Terminaled. and we spoke to the VC to let him/her (them) know we're sending it up, though we did let him/her know we were experimenting, wandering around the artsy courtyard. dancing, right? but, yeah, we are shoving Ali LaForce's (is that your real...) up to the Terminal.
[doomey shoves the butt end of his pall mall into the marvelously large triangular ashtray sitting upstage right]
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Wk 24
Apr 28, 2021 15:31:04 GMT
Post by deplancher on Apr 28, 2021 15:31:04 GMT
There's a lazy old dog who comes by every day at around 7:00 am. He takes me for a walk in the woods. Yeah, I know the woods are a long way from these halls but, see, this is what imagination is for. Take it. Let go your leash. Let your true dog run wild.
You do not need any of those green plastic poop bags in the woods. Dogs know what dogs know. Dogs know when and where to go.
For sure I have a cat. He is loyal without loyalty. Learn from that. The world is full of mystery. Buy a djembe. Thump it good but gently. You'll find your rhythm eventually.
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Wk 24
Apr 29, 2021 1:07:50 GMT
Post by carol on Apr 29, 2021 1:07:50 GMT
[Carol shoves Doomey violently, they laugh, sparks fly and they (the sparks) fall to the colored glass tiles, bouncing. Carol shoves her hips up against the cherrywood's edge and focuses on the capital spread out before/below her]
This.
[She points the lit joint tip at the capital laid out on the desktop]
This is not fucking going up to the Terminal.
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Wk 24
Apr 29, 2021 1:20:28 GMT
Post by doomey on Apr 29, 2021 1:20:28 GMT
[doomey picks himself off the tiles where Carol playfully shoved him. he kneads his knee]
you're a fucking total cunt. and i love you.
[he straightens and shakes his head]
try and remember our plan, girl. we were going to send every capital up to the Terminal. make them examine the dog shit capital we examine every day. make them feel our fucking pain, sister.
[doomey taps a pall mall out of the pack and swan vestas it, sucks some sweet smoke from that motherfucking tube of joy. he exhales]
or maybe you got balls now?
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Wk 24
Apr 29, 2021 1:27:05 GMT
Post by carol on Apr 29, 2021 1:27:05 GMT
[Carol crumples up the current capital]
Dooms, this capital is so amazingly bad, you would not believe, cousin. It's Portholed for fucking sure.
[Carol throws the crumpled capital at the Porthole and makes a swish]
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Wk 24
Apr 29, 2021 20:21:31 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Apr 29, 2021 20:21:31 GMT
Weird. The sub's title is The Indigo Forrest, but the document's entitled Vector. Ah, I see. The former was too short, and so supplanted by the latter. I read it last night while meds drizzled into Ms. Rock's PICC line's purple port. Every 6 hours (for at least the next 3 months) I must sterilize one of the ports with an alcohol swab, flag said line for blood and step-flush two saline syringes, connect exorbitantly expensive bottle of broad spectrum antibiotic (paid for by OHIP), wait about 1/2 hour for bottle to empty, disconnect then plunge two more saline, ever mindful of sterility while connecting, opening and closing all clips and lines as necessary to prevent Ms. Rocks bleeding to death or suffering the sort of infection bequeathed her twice by St. Mary's Hospital staff sweltering and foggy behind frocks, masks and shields. Though, in fairness, they never gave her Covid. And she did, to their professed delight and surprise, make it home. I digress, only to offer some inkling of this readership's headspace, a thing probably more important than quality of writing when it comes to vetting. I liked this cap and I appreciated the VC's care and ability in editing. Saw only one nit via "and it seemed liked I'd found the perfect opportunity. But I found it a rather static piece, more of an essay than a story. It convinced me that our big "humanitarian" organizations are steeped in conflicting agendas and corruption, but I was never made to care. A real challenge for writers today, making readers care about the fuckedupedness of the World, but one that must nonetheless be surmounted in order to ascend here. So, a grateful "No." Out the Porthole it goes. I hope it's biodegradable... Well, actually, I don't care. What's a few soggy pages in a sea of cloth masks, plastic syringes and rubber gloves? I was only virtue signaling.
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Wk 24
Apr 30, 2021 0:32:36 GMT
Post by carol on Apr 30, 2021 0:32:36 GMT
[Carol grabs up the current capital and taps it straight and neat on the corner of Doomey's cherrywood. She looks over at DePlancher and nods]
Sister.
[Carol folds the current capital in thirds, and she shoves it into an envelope, and she addresses the envelope TERMINAL BITCHES, and then she slides the envelope into her pants. She wiggles a bit, gets things right, simpatico. She quivers, and her upper lip curls. She sighs]
Delivered. Tyler's The Absence of Laughter has been Terminaled. And I have somehow achieved orgasm during the process. Pretty sure that's a first, folks.
[Carol cinches her pants up, seeing as how they'd levered down, and she glares at Doomey]
Give me a cigarette or I will tear your throat out.
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Wk 24
Apr 30, 2021 1:00:29 GMT
Post by doomey on Apr 30, 2021 1:00:29 GMT
[doomey tosses his pack of pall malls at Carol. it hits her in the face and lands at her feet. she shakes her head, like she just got sucker punched, and she blinks so many times]
you're welcome.
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Wk 24
May 2, 2021 14:24:12 GMT
Post by rockefeller on May 2, 2021 14:24:12 GMT
It seems to me that instead of providing "safe injection" sites (because, really, how safe is repetitive self-IV needling under the best of conditions?) addicts should have PICC lines installed. A PICC line can stay in for years. Some minor port maintenance, but no more hunting for and destroying workable veins. I even suggested this at the hospital a few times to less than enthusiastic responses.
It also seems to me that most of the VC's subbing here have a good handle on prose and even voice, but a disproportionately poor grasp of pacing, like in this Angels cap which takes three or four pages to move the MC from his dreary machine shop's gainful employment to the quaint bar he frequents to avoid returning to his lonely abode. A tad heavy on the adjectives and adverbs mayhaps. The first time I encountered "hustle and bustle" I cringed; the second time this cliche saw me shake oddly misshapen head. But, overall, readable. Except that the words-to-plot ratio is way too high. It's not enough to inform this reader what a sadsack case our protag is, what with his shitty job, dead wife, burgeoning alcoholism and all. His easily hooking up with some needy woman, his angel, in the bar, whom it is assumed will solve all his problems, isn't enough story. Stories need conflict, decisions, risk taking, consequence reaping. I was kind of hoping he'd turn out to be the titular angel. But no. And no. Another for the deluge.
[Rocks picks up a roach smoldering on the Porthole sill, brings it to his lips, then balks. Not because of Covid, just a lot of personal baggage. Either he'd dig it or hate it. Either way, it's a lose lose. But that neither he nor Ms. Rocks have been at all tempted to tie into the 30 hydromorphone tabs prescribed PRN as a perk of her discharge perhaps suggests progress of sorts.]
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