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Talking to Doreen Dementia communicably,
It has never been or will be very easy.
Cognitive Impairment Iris is another problem for me,
Avoiding things depreciatory or derogatory…
They both warp my limited etymology,
It annoys them when I get stuttery…
Why? When I’m communicating mentally,
I appreciate that I stutter verbally,
Especially when I talk aguishly nervously…
I’ve disabilities in physical & mental functionality,
This is just a barely-bearable reality,
A by-product of Peripheral Neuropathy,
And having the stroke, regretfully,
The brain moves between agony, self-hatred & complacency,
It seems my neurotransmitters have lost choreography.
When the Neurosurgeon hacks in cerebrumly…
In my brain, what will he see? An electric melee?
My surviving nerve ends, as confused as me?
Or Doreen & Rita, having a cup of tea, bizarrerie,
Deciding how they can attack me… bloodcurdlingly,
Can he drag them out using keyhole surgery?
Maybe they got in when I had my appendectomy?
They’re illegal immigrants; they didn’t ask Inchy!
Annoyingly, my pre-op emotion is one of apathy…
They get pleasure from Mind-Mangling, you see…
But how did they get at me? Serendipity?
I have to suffer their Satanophany, frustratingly,
If this op fails, will I be brokenhearted? Hardly!
I’ll show no displeasure or recalcitrancy, 
I’ll be in cloud-cuckoo-land, & thankfully… 
To the surgeons, nurses, & staff at the QMC,
And go back to my life’s mental hurly-burly,
Where my own thoughts lack authenticity,
My memory is beyond any help or assistance,
Self-worth and good luck show imperceptibility,
To my struggle with mental mobility,
My ailments gift of physical disability,
Glaucoma Gladys makes my vision foggy,
Shaking Shaun keeps me feeling groggy,
Anne Gyna, currently the epitome of agony,
Catheter leaks, leaving my leg & slippers soggy!
The morning ritual of cleaning things that are bloody,
Little Inchies Fungal Lesion; he’s also sticky,
Eye drops & sprays, lip balm, cream the piles, that’s dodgy!
Yes, back to the flat of milk and honey,
Computer, mobile, and TV troubles, not funny…
Where I’m perceived unsympathetically,
The mini seizures, Leg dances, Twitching-neck-Ali,
Where I’m assured of being ignored & querimony,
And of Fauxpas & Whoopsiedangleploppery!
And await my Glaucoma op, & retinopathy…
And the everyday hassle from Arthur Itis, Not Askey!
The terrible twins, Catheter right, Carol, left, Chloe,
When they go, at best, you’ll fall on one knee…
Which always sets off a reaction from the FND…
Arthur Itis, Cartilages Carol and/or Chloe,
Sometimes, the Catheter pouch will blow!
The tube in Little Inchie yanks; you will never know…
The pain entailed cleaning & medicating with Opzeluro,
My right testicle swells to the size of a baking potato!
Still, I don’t like to complain, though!
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I had a lot of bother in the morning trying to get this blog started. I’m starting to get all het-up now.

I got 3 hours kip in, though. Ye-Haaa!

It’s now Saturday, and it’s 19:00hrs! So this will be short.
Otherwise, Saturdays will never get started. Arghh!
Sorry about this. Not coping well.

The new ailment that I thought was the Cartilages… now I don’t think it was. Several times when the knees gave way today, both went together. Terrible sensations. From the ankles, knees and up to the thigh. Everything wobbled, and the instant weakness and balance loss all but had me over a few times. Actually, it did have me over once. But I crumpled conveniently onto the second-hand, c1968, eyesorely-horrendously grungy beige-coloured, £300, charity shop bought, crumb-retaining, microorganism-microbe producing, gungy, moth-eaten, beige-coloured, non-working, bacillus encouraging, incommodious, Haemorrhoid Harold testing, c1968 recliner.

The nocturnal Catheter Pouch was classed as a No. 8 on the NHS Richter Scale Card. Hehe!

Carer Sherida called. She kindly removed the socks that were not done earlier and suggested I ask the next carer to put the fresh ones on. She checked to ensure that they were diabetic ones for me. This way, I could get a proper shower and medicalisationing session early.

I struggled to finish the show and was dubious about my weak legs. Constipation: Conrad was still in control of the Porcelain Throne duties. There was a smidgeon of blood, but it was hardly worth mentioning. The shaving: I thought I had done a good bloodless job. I got under the shower and used the shower chair for the shower session, which was well over an hour. Then, I ensured all the needed treatment areas of my magnificent, muscular, youthful body were well dried, drying the Catheter bag and tubing simultaneously.

Then, as I was getting on the dressing gown, I felt all the hairs I’d missed on my neck hole when shaving. I was a midge annoyed as I got the tackle out and gave the neck a go over again. The bleeding took me ages of time and half a bottle of Brut aftershave to stem the flow. Humph!

Carer Sherida took the laundry bag down for me. Pound to a penny, the bag gets stolen, or the clothes disappear again.

Carer Sam did the midday spot.

Carer Precious Called. I mentioned the low quantity of the Anne Gyna medications, and they told me they had been delivered.

I feel I’m going to go through pain like never before after the tablets run out on Monday.

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TTFNski!
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