#my gp is great but i am starting to suspect that the nurse that does most of his correspondence is an asshole who doesn't check my file eve

[naamahdarling]

.

#life isn't great right now #im angry all the time #im lonely #im bored #im tired #and i don't feel adequately supported which is not my bfs fault or anything it's just that with a full time job he isn't here to help #and most of the inadequate support is on the medical end #my gp is great but i am starting to suspect that the nurse that does most of his correspondence is an asshole who doesn't check my file eve #and just gives me canned answers that often don't make sense

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Side Effects ch.2 (baon)

Summary: An unusual chapter without our boys, but instead for Blue and Papyrus. Could be that Blue has some issues, maybe, possibly. (He absolutely does)

Tags:  Background Spicyhoney, Background Kustard, Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, PTSD, Discussions of Therapy

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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The midtown traffic was slow, caught in the hours between the morning rush and lunchtime. Blue preferred it that way, carefully guiding his little car along the road. Of course he was a perfectly capable driver, but honestly, the way some people on the road acted when a person dared to drive the speed limit was shameful.

On the seat next to him was a colorfully wrapped box, tied with a neat, curly-tailed bow. Blue wasn’t entirely sure about the gift yet, but a few of the young aides at the Embassy assured him that a handheld gaming system would be an excellent gift for someone who couldn’t get up and around like they were used to. He hoped so; it was as much of an apology as it was a gift, and Blue would hate to do poorly with either.

Normally when he drove through Ebott, Blue had the GPS up on his phone, the sedate voice guiding him along. Today, he hadn’t bothered. He was unfortunately very familiar with the route to Ebott hospital.

Back in Underswap whenever Pappy was ill, Blue took care of him on his own, fretting and caring for him and he never took his brother’s occasional snappishness personally. It wasn’t his fault, he was sick, and that tended to make him grumpy, was all. Here in Ebott, there were doctors to back him up who would urge Pappy to stay in bed when he was ill and be taken care of, to eat nutritious meals that were brought to him, and to quit smoking, rather than stubbornly trying to do things his own way.

His HP was delicate, he needed someone to take care of him.

Or so Blue had always thought.

Not all that long ago, it frustrated him beyond words to see Edge simply allowing Pappy to do as he wished, though Blue never said as much, oh, no. Pappy was an adult and he was married. Blue needed to allow them to make their own way, even if that way was terribly wrong and his Pappy was going to end up ill or worse.

He wondered now at his own pettiness back then, cringing at his occasional, secretive daydreams where Edge would call him frantically about his brother being sick or hurt, and Blue would come in, blazing with healing magic to save him.

After getting to live that particular daydream, Blue could firmly say that the reality of it was a great deal less satisfying than he’d hoped.

Even after that, he’d still believed Edge was wrong with the way he handled his brother. But he’d stood back, trying not to cling as his brother drifted further away from him, greedily snatching up any chance that came his way to offer some expertise whenever Pappy was sick and hurt because he knew, he knew that eventually, they’d come to their senses and take his advice, hopefully before it was too late. Every illness or injury made that sick throb of dread start up in Blue’s chest again, that perhaps this was it, this was the time that--it was too horrible to think of and Blue firmly set the thought aside.

All he could do was keep trying to coax Pappy and Edge around to his way of thinking. Blue believed that...right up until his conversation with Embassy counselor, Tiffanye.

It was supposed to have been a simple mental health assessment. Everyone involved with the recent unfortunateness was required to do it and Blue certainly didn’t mind. He liked talking to people and if a quick chat would reassure Asgore that he was up to returning to work, well, Blue wasn’t about to argue about it like some people.

The reality of it wasn’t quite what he’d expected.

Tiffanye listened, certainly, and asked questions, but they weren’t questions that Blue was expecting. Somehow, she’d taken a simple conversation about the events in California and latched on to an idle comment about him being glad that Edge didn’t allow his brother to come along.

How it was she’d picked that word ‘allow’ apart so…intensely, Blue still wasn’t sure, but she had, and suddenly Blue found himself backtracking, trying to explain he didn’t mean it like that, until their hour was up. He supposed they’d talk about it again at his next session, the one she’d scheduled without asking. He very nearly declined, his mouth already open to assure her that he wasn’t the one who needed therapy, except--

Except. One of the things she’d asked in that calm, easy way of hers was why he was so sure he knew the proper way to handle Pappy, and he’d discovered that he couldn’t answer. Pappy was his brother, yes, but could he say now that he knew Pappy better than anyone? Their day to day lives changed so completely when they’d arrived here, and then even more when Pappy moved out. Blue so desperately wanted to say that yes, he knew best, he did and...he couldn’t.

He wondered somewhat sourly what other perceptions Tiffanye was going to pick apart. Somehow, solving puzzles was less fun when he was the puzzle in question.

But yes, he knew the way Ebott General all too well, knew the best place to park, and the path through the hallways to take when he visited Pappy. Today, though, he wasn’t visiting his brother. Today Pappy was doing just fine, he hoped, at home doing a little caretaking of his own and trying to keep what Blue suspected was likely a very surly Edge off his foot to allow for it to heal.

(and oh, the look on Pappy’s face at the airport, that desperate pain when he saw Blue, the way it deepened when they brought Edge down, he never wanted to see that again, never, not for anything in the world, and the smug confidence that carried him home, knowing that Edge was right to leave him behind broke apart as Blue flung himself into his brother’s waiting arms)

No, today he was visiting Papyrus, who was still there despite all the care and rest he was getting.

Blue’s memories of it all were honestly a bit of a jumbled mess. He had a vague recollection of painfully crawling along the pavement afterward, the sound of the explosion still ringing in his skull, the distant screaming, the heat of it coming through even the shield that Papyrus threw out.

He...didn’t like thinking about that.

The only memory that was very clear was of Papyrus pushing both him and Sans to the ground, his lanky body on top of them, and his shield holding, right up to the point where it didn’t. That was when Papyrus had been thrown away from them and Blue very much wished that the sound of his skull impacting with the pavement was one that he had the option to forget.

The nurse in the ward gave Blue a slight smile and waved him on. Blue walked down the hallway to the room number he’d known for the two weeks belonged to Papyrus and never went to, taking a deep breath and knocking on the door.

“Come in!” It was loud even through the closed door; not even an injury could stifle Papyrus’s enthusiasm.

When Blue stepped inside, he found Papyrus sitting up in the bed and his delight at seeing Blue was warming. “Good morning, salutations, and welcome!”

“Good morning,” Blue said with a smile. There was an underlying desperation in that greeting. Poor Papyrus was probably at his wit’s end after so many days lying in bed. It made the guilt already sitting heavily in Blue’s chest give his soul an extra little kick. “I’m so sorry, I wish I’d been here to see you sooner, but--”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Papyrus scoffed. “You’ve been very busy!” He had, but they all had, the entire Embassy. It was hardly an excuse. Already his eye lights were straying to the hairline crack still visible in Papyrus’s skull and he forcibly pulled them away, refocusing.

It was just difficult to see, was all. Papyrus looked a great deal like his brother, the only real difference was Papyrus’s lack of eye lights, and with him sitting here in a hospital bed wearing ridiculous pajamas with pictures of hot dogs and mustard scattered over them, the resemblance was almost eerie.

But that was ridiculous. All Papyrus had to do was open his mouth and the illusion was broken. Blue pushed that silliness aside and held out the box, saying brightly, “I brought you a present!”

“I should say you didn’t need to, but it would be a lie because I love presents!” Papyrus took the box happily, giving it a gentle shake. “Though I’m not sure why because we don’t have birthdays and you already sent me some puzzle books last week.”

“I wanted to--” thank you, was what Blue meant to say. He owed Papyrus his life, no bones about it. But Papyrus interrupted before he could, settling the unopened box in his lap.

“Thank you very much for the present, I’ll open it in a moment. First, I’d like to ask you a favor and hope that it isn’t rude because I wasn’t expecting a present and now it seems like I want two,” Papyrus announced, and Blue smiled, a little helplessly.

“A favor isn’t a present,” Blue pointed out, “because you can’t give it for Gyftmas. I’d be happy to give one, if you tell me what it is.”

“Wonderful! You see, the doctors tell me that they will be letting me go home soon. Luckily, I have a hard skull,” Papyrus mimed knocking on it and Blue struggled not to flinch. “Only they have reasonable expectations that I am not to live on my own yet because sometimes when I stand up, I also fall down.”

“You what…?”

“So they want me to have a caretaker,” Papyrus went on, relentlessly. “My brother is not much for care or taking, either one or both, and he is going to be staying with Red for a while.”

“Red and Sans are taking up housekeeping together?” That was a juicy bit of gossip. Surprising except really not, if anyone paid a hair of attention, or rather, stayed in a room next to them when they were traveling, honestly, they could learn to keep it down.

Papyrus laughed heartily. “No, no, no, there will not be any housekeeping and I’m sure Edge and I will be forced to go shovel their trash collection away at least twice a year to keep it from overtaking the town. No, Sans said they are living together so they can do their sex things there and not in poor, unsuspecting brother’s hospital rooms.” A lack of eye lights did not in any way hinder Papyrus from turning on the puppy dog eyes. “But! I thought perhaps you would be willing to help?”

Oh. “You want me to stay with you?”

Papyrus beamed as if he’d solved a very complex puzzle. “Yes! At least for a little while and mostly at night. You were a very good caretaker, I told them, when AndyJeff stayed with you.”

“I…” I am a very good caretaker. He was. He knew best, he had to know best. He had to.

The little door at the back of his mind where he stuffed things he didn’t want to think about was shaking, the lock weakened by Tiffanye’s questions earlier that week.

He was a good caretaker, he knew best, he had to, and...and if Pappy had come along to California, he might have...he would have…

He would have tried to shield Blue the same way Papyrus had, only without the generous HP to back it. Papyrus, who looked so much like his brother, more than Edge ever could, who went by Pappy’s name and wore Pappy’s face. His Pappy, always the big brother. Even at his worst moments, he never really forgot it. Pappy who only listened to Blue’s scolding at his own whims and he was excellent at sensing Intent, better than Sans, much better than Edge, and he would have known, would have tried to shield them, and he would have…

Blue didn’t notice the warm wetness trickling from his sockets, didn’t know how long he stood there before Papyrus said his name, his exuberance softened with concern, “Blue?”

Not Sans, not anymore, no one called him Sans, not even Pappy. Papyrus wasn’t his brother and Blue pushed past those reaching hands anyway, crushing the gift box between them to bury his face against the soft pajama shirt Papyrus was wearing. His tears soaked through it immediately. A gentle hand settled on the back of his skull, holding him in and maybe Papyrus wasn’t his brother, didn’t sound like him at all as he crooned soft, nonsense words of comfort, didn’t smell like the honey-sweetness he knew so very well.

But he was here and he was kind, and Papyrus let him cry until Blue felt sick with it, his face sticky with used magic. Blue drew away with a hiccuping breath, searching through his pockets for a handkerchief.

Papyrus handed him a tissue before he could, let him mop up his face before he asked, “Are you all right?”

Blue nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Papyrus plucked at the wilted ribbon on the crumpled box still in his lap.

“You didn’t,” Blue managed. His voice was thin and hoarse, but it was there. “I think I was already upset.” He lifted his chin determinedly. “But if you want me to help you, I will.”

Papyrus brightened. “You’ll come stay with me, then? Maybe we can take care of each other.” So very sincere and Blue nodded again.

Yes, that seemed like the right decision. These days Jeff stayed over at Antwan's more often than not, anyway. They could help take care of each other.

But he might mention it to Tiffanye. Just in case.

“Let me know when they’re releasing you and I can bring you home,” Blue told him. Somehow, Papyrus’s smile made it easier to find his own. “Now, open your present.”

-fin-

#underswap sans #undertale papyrus #spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

[braindamageforbeginners]

A New Doctor

Cycle 9, Day 10

So, I now have at least a half-dozen physicians on my case. If you believe the BMJ stat that “medical misadvenure” (which is a broad category that includes, but is not limited to, doctor error, nursing error, pharmacy screw-ups, misdiagnosis, accidental overdose/drug interactions, opportunistic infections - the list goes on) is the third-leading cause of death in America (according to the same study, heart disease is #1 and cancer is #2). So, for those for those of you setting odds on my life expectancy (and, frankly, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t), it’s been an odd, extended game of “Clue,” except I’m Mr. Body, to see if disease, side-effects, or my possibly-insane physicians will get to me first. I hate to say it, but I think I’ve finally figured the odds-on favorite in this one: my GP.

This isn’t a plea for help, or even a serious medical development on my part, it’s a warning for you, the readership, as insurance enrollment comes around. First of all, if you can’t pay, hospitals or physicians can throw you out on the street (this is something able-bodied people are so disbelieving of that took a poor black woman freezing to death on-camera in Baltimore). They are only required to treat you if you in an emergency situation, thanks to some federal laws called “EMTALA.”If you have a disease that drives you to the emergency room, the prognosis gets worse. People tend believe that just because it’s the healthcare industry, the health insurance industry isn’t a corrosive force that has a vested interest in denying care and killing you. Which is odd to me; you don’t get this anywhere else (or I haven’t experienced this sort of self-delusional attitude); you don’t see people defending McDonald’s or Nabisco or RJ Reynolds or Exxon as having their best interests at heart (and, to my friends who think they’re bullet-proof because of their health insurance, read the fine print, very, very carefully; you don’t want to get a nasty shock as you’re being rolled into the OR). So, thanks to my parent’s generosity/desire not to see me die, I rolled in last year with a very expensive PPO (there are a lot of acronyms to keep track of, but PPOs allow the patient to see anyone in a preferred provider network, which tend to be large and give the patient lots of choices, so you can directly get a referral to a neurologist if you hit your head). Unfortunately, because I have pre-existing conditions (and to my bullet-proof friends, read through the list of pre-existing conditions that’ll disqualify you, your jaw will drop)(also, it’s telling that Congressmen and Senators have the option to buy into a separate, federal employee health insurance option that’s not available to us serfs)(it’s also telling that the ACA required Congresscritters, for the first time ever, to tough it out and find health insurance like their constituents)(which is why I assume all the GOP higher-ups had melt-downs over the ACA - a slight removal of privilege to help sick constituents isn’t a part of Congressional ethos, let alone job description), my premiums went from “expensive” to “leasing a sports car” within a few months. I’m extraordinarily grateful to them for providing that financial backing, because it allowed me to continue getting treatment during the crucial 6-10 week GBM post-diagnosis period that might turn this from “Guaranteed doom” to “far too close for comfort.” So, this did give me some time to do my homework (in writing about this, I’m realizing I really should consider applying to law school, because I’ll know more about medical and insurance law and ethics than some lawyers before this is up)(Hell, I probably know more than some of them right now). Anyway, I found that all the specialists I see for cancer, do take medicaid (even the specialized pharmacy I use at the cancer center). Which is good for me, especially since being on disability in California is an automatic qualification for Medicaid. Now for the bad news; although all the specialists there take medicaid, the GPs don’t. AND the specialists only take medicaid if it’s done through an HMO carrier that the state sub-contracts with.

Great Kraken’s Balls.

There are a number of documentaries and documents (including an “Adam Ruins Everything” segment) on why HMO’s are unnecessary and lethally incompetent (like many other aspects of a for-profit medical system), but here’s the most basic deal: They act as a gate-keeper for the entire medical-industrial system. You can get your care at any of a dozen pre-approved hospitals, and nowhere else. Now, if an HMO or their doctors can’t treat you (or refuse to treat you - which is still the case for a lot of GBM patients), they are required to send you to a specialist who can. The economic incentive is to give less care, and keep all the patients in the system for as long as possible.

I suspect that delaying tactic is why heart disease and cancer are considered so deadly - you can’t sit long on either of those.

So, based on the financial folks at the cancer center, I picked one, and promptly forgot about it; because I’m already in the system there (the receptionists and pharmacy staff recognize me on sight)(which is comforting, until you realize it’s a cancer center, and then the panic briefly cuts in until you remember you’ve gone eight months without regowth or metastastis). I only remembered it when I got a call from the medicaid HMO telling me I should schedule an appointment with one of their physicians. This isn’t a big deal, I just need them to sign-off on any further black magic-based treatments with the Warlocks or Radiation Oncologist.

Now, before I go further, let’s talk about the people who go into medicine. Like anything in healthcare, we tend to give assume that an entire industry is moral, and just; when people go in for a variety reasons (as recently as 20 years ago, the vast majority of medical students said it was for money), and it’s worth noting that cuts across a vast majority of demographics and motives. And, for better or worse, that cuts across vast swathes of competence - for far too many folks, it’s a job - a rewarding job, but just a job. My father recently inquired about board exams and recertification as a way of guaranteeing some basic level of competence from everyone. He’s right, but the key word there is “basic.” Again, “basic” is fine for first aid and most major medical issues; it’s unacceptable if you have a disease with a 90% fiver-year mortality rate.

I bring this up because I think I chronicled my first appointment with my insurance-appointed GP five or six weeks ago and seemed perfectly satisfactory to my ongoing addiction to experimental chemotherapy. I’m certain it was within that time frame, because I had schedule a six-week follow-up. Which, sadly lands on my “week off” chemo. So, yesterday, after infusion #2 for this cycle (for those of you wondering what I’m doing to stay busy during infusions these days, well, rewriting Christmas carols for cancer patients)(”On the first day of chemo, the nurses gave to me, zofran in an IV”). I also convinced dear old Dad to take me out to lunch, because, again, when the Marizomib side effects hit, you do not fee like eating. This was in the neighborhood of the latest addition to my collection of medical people, so I thought I’d reschedule then. And was told by the receptionist to wait for everyone behind me to check in lest they be late for appointments. That would be fine, but it seems a fundamental misunderstanding of how queus work. And, any time post five-ish hours on infusion day, even though zofran might keep me from puking, it does give me an odd, oily, queasy sensation. I think I deserve some sort of gold star for not puking on this woman right away (again, if you have unconventional problems, feel free to start with an unconventional approach)(my next writing project will be titled, “Life Lessons from Necromancers”). I eventually - using the traditional method of looking down the reception counter, noticed someone not otherwise occupied, and manage to get an appointment more amenable to my schedule. For a physical.

Again, I’d love to use some four-letter words here, but even Finnish fails to meet the requirement. Now, it should be noted that, even though I’m well-aware that I’m physically Adonis-like; I am in chemo and recovering from radiation treatment, Radiation Oncologist implied a few months ago that, even though my scan was clean and looked good for someone with brain cancer, anyone unfamiliar with my case would probably freak out about them. Same thing with my abnormal, uh, “lab sample” I wrote about recently - the nurses agreed, a single abnormal test is hardly unexpected toward the end of chemo, especially since I’m now on a diet consisting mostly of protein, fiber, cafeine, and dangerous, experimental substances. However, I’d prefer not to have to point all that out to a new medical person who has the power to yank the plug on me (sadly, my original GP will be on vacation that week. (I’ll also be on Temodar, so there’s a solid chance my brains will be thoroughly scrambled and incapable of comprehension).

ANYWAY… WEIGHT: 198 lb CONCENTRATION: Pretty good, APPETITE: Normal (but this is 24 hours post-infusion. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Not great; the fatigue side effect definitely caught up with me and chewed me up last night. SLEEP QUALITY: Okay. although I’ve noticed that I definitely thrash around on chemo days. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Lousy. Thank Gods I don’t need the walker, and I don’t even think I need my magic ankle support, but my left leg is definitely unreliable today. MEMORY: Not bad, although I did forget my sheets were in the wash earlier today (although I recall stripping the bed and tossing them into the washer). PHYSICAL: Tired and kind of wobbly, but still a lot better than this time a year ago.. EMOTIONAL: Okay. It might just be that I spent yesterday next to my zofran-and-CDB salt-lick, but I’m starting to think I might make it through all this somewhat intact. Hang on. Am I really starting to believe my own bullshit? SIDE EFFECTS: Tired, somewhat sore (either chemo or increasing the difficulty of that stupid elliptical), and in the wrong time-zone, but, other than that, not much.  CURRENTLY READING (For Donna): Gonzo Girl, and The Explorer’s Guild (A Passage to Tshamballah)

[motiveandthemeans]

Prologue: History Always Repeats Itself

A pair of sea glass green eyes surveyed the London skyline; taking in her sights, smells and sounds. Cataloguing the different bus routes and tube stations, the families pushing prams, the couples holding hands and Rugby players prowling from bar to bar. The oppressively hot afternoon had given way to a gentle summer breeze, teasing her dark auburn locks.

It had been a riotous day, full of celebration and merriment. Her best friend had just graduated medical school and has agreed to take run of Watson & Watson Surgery, the practice her father and mother started together. The rooftop of 221 B Baker Street was a welcomed escape from the downstairs festivities.

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know. I know you’re upset I’ve taken up at surgery.”

Amelia Elizabeth Anne Holmes looked over her shoulder at her blonde counterpart. “Mmmmm, do you now, Watson? How very astute of you. Must be some sort of record.”

“No, no we agreed!” Rosamund replied, walking to stand beside her leggy friend. “I need to hone my practice before we go traipsing across London solving crimes and getting ourselves in sticky situations.”

The brunette scoffed, crossing her arms with a pout. “Where is your sense of adventure, Rosie? You can’t honestly tell me the idea doesn’t appeal to you. We’ve been solving crimes together since we were seven and eight years old.”

“Yes and if it wasn’t for Greg Lestrade, God rest his soul, we’d probably been arrested by 11 and where would we be then?” The good doctor replied triumphantly, downing the rest of her champagne.

Amelia’s bow lips frowned. “That’s completely irrelevant. We cannot entertain hypotheticals, we must examine our lives as they are before us.”

“Mercy you sound like your father.” Rosie laughed, slinging her arms across her brunette friend’s shoulders a bit drunkenly. “Don’t fret, Holmes. It’ll all work out.”

“Ever the optimist, Watson.”

“C’mon, our mothers are drunk and I have a feeling our fathers are eager to get them home.” Rosie laughed, taking her friend by the arm and dragging her away from the rooftop garden.

“I distinctly remember the last time that happened I ended up with a baby brother.” Amelia grumbled, elegant long strides outpacing Rosie’s petite steps.

Rosie Watson groaned, burying her head in her hands. It was 12:05 on her 295th day at Watson & Watson Surgery and she was already weighing the benefits of strangling herself with a stethoscope versus continuing on with the next impending case of strep throat or chlamydia.

“Rosie, dear, your twelve o’clock, Mr. Clarke, is here.” Heather, the medical assistant said in her sing-song tone. “Says he’s got ‘hot pins in his pecker when he pisses.’”

She gave her a tight smile. “Great. Thanks a lot Heather. Be there is a jig.”

Heather shut the door to her office and Rosie let out an exasperated sigh and rested her forehead against the desk. She went into medical school with the notion of excitement and joy at the idea of being a doctor. Her father always gushed about how rewarding it was to be there for a person at their lowest point. She understood paying her dues, but was this all really worth it? Graduated top of her class, with honors. All for the Chlap?

“Ah, Watson.” A new voice interjected into her train of thought. “Love what you’ve done with the office. Very…”

“Quaint?”

“Small.” Amelia scrunched her nose up, settling in the chair across from her. “Or cozy, which ever you prefer.”

“What do you want, Mia?” the young doctor grumbled. “If you’re trying to snag a prescription for morphine, I’d remind you we do them electronically now. So your knack for forgery had now been antiquated.”

“Oh please, like that would stop me.” She replied nonchalantly. “I need your help. I’ve come across a rather curious case that is out of my range of knowledge.”

“Please tell me you didn’t flirt with the pathology students again to gain access to Bart’s morgue? You know your mother hates when you do that.” Rosie admonished, standing to put on her fancy white coat, a gift from her parents upon passing boards.

Her dark haired friend smirked. “Ask no questions, I will tell no lies.”

“Cheeky, Holmes…” Rosie flipped open her iPad, reviewing her patient chart. “Well, what’s the question? And be quick about it. I’m betting Mr. Clarke’s got a nasty case of Trichomonas.”

“Riveting.” Amelia said dismissively. “Suppose a man was found dead on a pool deck in the middle of the hottest summer in 20 years, who upon examination was found to have died of hypothermia. Time of death is around 2 in the afternoon.”

Rosie raised a quizzical brow and tried to bite back a grin that for all the world reminded Amelia of her Aunt Mary. “Do you have any other information?”

“Perhaps. Interested?”

“No. I’m perfectly content in learning my chosen trade of medicine but you won’t leave until I give you my opinion so let’s just get on with it.”

Amelia produced a file seemingly out of thin air.

“Hmmmm, hematocrit is increased by five percent, plasma potassium levels are definitely out of range, glucose below 40…all labs point towards hypothermia.” Rosie said. “So how does a person die during the hottest part of the day, on a public pool deck, of cold stress?”

“Still not intrigued, Rosamund?”

Rosie stared down the taunting look in her best friend’s sea green eyes. “No. But if I were you I’d look into blood recently stolen from the blood bank.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s on the transplant list, waiting on a kidney.” She said. “Perhaps there was something haywire with his dialysis.”

“Curious case indeed! But who would want a special education instructor dead?” Amelia mused with morbid glee. “Oh yes, this case in improving by the hour!”

“Improving? The man’s still dead, Mia!”

“Yes well that’s not really the point though is it?” Amelia replied. “Come along, Watson. There’s work to be done.”

“Mia, I have a job. I can’t just drop everything and leave! It’s patient abandonment.”

“As you wish. I’ll keep you informed of my progress.” The brunette said placidly, walking out of the office. “Give my best to Mr. Clarke!”

“You’re welcome!” Rosie called after the closing door. With another angry huff, she gathered her things and prepared for her appointment with Mr. Clarke.

She looked at the clock: 12: 13. The day just wouldn’t end.

Amelia Holmes paced the length of 221 B Baker Street. She knew that the victim, Mr. Halliwell, had been killed by one of the medical professionals he’d come into contact with. Only the nurse who had administered the blood in dialysis swore up and down that she’d warmed the blood before administration. Amelia had seen no lie her eyes.

“I’m sorry, but why am I here?” Her youngest brother, Theodore, asked confusedly from the couch where he was reading a textbook on mammalian anatomy.

“Because I need inspiration.”

“On why someone’s been murdered?”

“Obviously…” She drawled as if it was the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“When was the last time you ate?” He asked off handedly. “Mummy will be terribly cross if you start losing weight again.”

“Your point?”

“Well, I go back to university in the September. I can’t be in three places at once, keeping an eye on you is a full time job in that of itself.”

Mia frowned. “I’m going to miss having you here.”

Teddy gave her a sweet smile. “You’re just saying that because I make better tea than you do.”

“Figured it out, have you?” She smarted back with a wink. “Well, in any case it seems I’m in need of a flatmate.”

“It’s twins!” A new voice said triumphantly. “I know it!”

Amelia looked over at the doorway to see a flushed Rosie, still in the smart clothes she’d worn to surgery. “Don’t you have work? It’s only 4 o’clock. Your last patient isn’t till six.”

“He’s got a twin brother that’s been sleeping with his wife.” Rosie continued. “I went to the school where he works, she’s not exactly bereaved by the loss of her husband of 36 years and she looked awfully cozy with his brother at the funeral. I followed them to a posh French restaurant just down the road. They’d only started on wine when I left.”

“You went to the funeral?” The youngest Holmes asked, bewildered at her audacity.

“It’s never twins, Watson.” Amelia deadpanned. “Have you learned nothing from Sherlock?”

“You can call him Dad, you know.” Teddy said amusedly, setting aside his book and moving to the kitchen to start tea. The apartment looked much the same as it had when Sherlock and John had lived there, except the kitchen table that had once occupied lab equipment now played host to several monitors, CPU’s, laptops and GPS.

“I prefer to call father by his name when working in a professional capacity.” She said retrieving her black Chanel bag and Burberry trench. “Don’t wait up Theodore!”

“I never do!” He called back. Amelia smiled at her brother’s cheek.

“Wait, you’re not suggesting we actually stalk them?” Rosie replied indignantly.

“You followed them to a funeral and you think going to the same restaurant is over stepping bounds?”

“Well, girl’s gotta have a code.” She shrugged.

“Come along, Watson.” The consulting detective smirked. “The game is on.”

“Well, that was quite invigorating!” Amelia announced loudly, an exhausted Rosie dragging her feet into Baker Street at 2 am. “I never would have suspected the wife would be in cahoots with the sister-in-law to kill the husbands for a measly state pension.”

“If I were writing a blog, I’d entitle this case A Study in Fuchsia.” The blond yawned. “I’m beat. I’ll sleep in Granny’s room.”

“It’s too bad we didn’t run into Cedric.” Amelia waggled her brows salaciously.

Rosie rolled her eyes. “I’m over that childhood infatuation.”

“Whatever you say.” Amelia intoned.

They stood quietly in the entryway, the heaviness of the situation palpable.

“Look, Amelia. This doesn’t mean that I’m going to quit surgery. It was a one off.”

Amelia nodded. “Goodnight, Rosie.”

“Night, Mia.”

Amelia walked out of 221 B at 3pm the next afternoon, having not slept for quite some time while on the case. In the chair that had once been occupied by her father, Rosamund Mary Watson sat drinking tea and reading her iPad, dressed in ironed clothes and fresh make-up. She spied several suitcases by the door, though they weren’t Teddy’s luggage.

“Ms. Holmes, I hear you’re in need of a flatmate.” She said, setting the tea cup down.

“Word travels fast.” Mia grinned. “Could be handy having a doctor around.”

“Is there a vacancy?” Rosie teased with a sly grin. “I hear every consulting detective needs a physician with a penchant for writing.”

#sherlock x molly #Sherlolly #sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #molly hooper #parent!lock #rosie watson #mary watson #john watson #should i continue? #tell me what you think

[caraelii-blog]

Ask Dr. NerdLove: Help, My Girlfriend Is An Alcoholic

Hello all you interweb heartbubbles of desire, and welcome to Ask Dr. NerdLove, the official dating advice column of The New Donk Times.

This week, we’re going to be talking about handling the hard questions in a relationship. When your partner is struggling with an addiction that’s out of their control, how long can you continue to support them? At what point are you just enabling their addictions? And when do you reach the point where you have to accept that you have to save yourself first?

It’s time to dig in for some radical self-care.

Let’s do this.

Hey Doc,

First, just want to thank you for all that you do and have written. You provide solid advice and even though I’ve generally not been in similar situations, I’ve gotten a good read and had some introspection from your articles. That’s the only reason I even feel remotely okay about giving this a shot.

I have been dating my current girlfriend just over one year now. We met on a dating site, but things generally moved very fast. Two months into our relationship, and on Christmas night no less, my girlfriend was diagnosed with stage one cervical cancer. It was detected very early and was treatable with a procedure and a little bit of chemo. She moved in about a month and half after the diagnosis, as we were originally about 2 hours apart with me making frequent trips to see her. The cancer definitely sped things up.

I am not normally a fast moving person with relationships, but what can I say... I love the girl.

I’ve always considered myself to be “good” at relationships. Far from being a serial monogamist, I’ve only been in 3 serious relationships in my 32 years and fewer flings or other not-serious things. I value communication, do my best to be very open and honest about things and put a priority on the ‘us’. I hold my temper to make sure that when I speak, it’s not out of anger or bitterness but to always benefit and reach a positive outcome. I consider myself understanding and forgiving and patient, knowing things aren’t going to fix themselves overnight and without work and effort.

Our relationship is great. Except for one glaring problem that threatens everything. She’s an alcoholic.

I didn’t realize it immediately. One day, just after her diagnosis, I picked up on it as she had - and I don’t blame her - got pretty drunk. When I visited, the same conversation happened 6 or 7 times as she kept going in a circle. All things considered, I paid little note of it at the time.

Fast forward, and I see more of it. We go out for our first Valentine’s and she gets trashed at a bar, stumbling through the place, slurred words, unable to stand.

Another night of heavy drinking for her results in some rather harsh and nasty comments and a fight that I bite my tongue through. We talk about it in the morning, she’s apologetic, but doesn’t remember the details but says she’ll do better.

There are two or three more of these, each time we talk in the morning and I bring up the problem of her drinking. She says it’s better than what she used to do. It’s better than what she could be doing. She admits to being an alcoholic. Promises to work on it.

One night she comes home drunk. Falls more than once. Trips going up the stairs. Falls off the toilet. Falls off the bed. Wets the bed.

We talk in the morning. It’s more productive. She works on it more, trying to balance alcohol without it just taking over. Her job is bad - bartender. But she tries. Still usually a drink after work on the house. Sometimes at 2pm.

She gets a better job. She’s happier. I start a new schedule, working early mornings at 5 AM. We’re each in the food industry. She closes.

Fast forward, she keeps working on it. Yet, after work her habit is to stop at the 711 and pick up 2 or 3 19-22oz beers. They’ll be gone that night. If she’s having a bad day, a ‘tall boy’ is the solution. 10am? Sure.

I’ve pointed all this out - she just wants a beer or two to relax, yet the bad memories of the past fights keep coming back and then the more present issue: at least twice a month she wets the bed. Originally she blamed it on the cancer and the procedure - I understood. I accepted it somehow. But the more it went on the more it became clear that it’s related to drinking. It’s... hard to talk about, to not embarrass her about it when I know she wakes up equally frustrated as I do.

When drinking, she snores hard, frequently waking me up and making it very hard to go back to sleep, even after I go to the couch. This affects my work in the morning, and as a tipped employee it can be noticeable. Ask Girls Questions And then I can’t even nap when I get home because the bed has piss in it. If I were bringing in two or three times the amount of money she does it wouldn’t be as much of an issue but I’m essentially supporting us right now. I don’t even know how much she spends on beer for herself a month.

She says it’s not as bad as months ago when it lead to fights and her stumbling and falling around. But less than a month ago she, at 1am, was out walking in a not good part a neighborhood that is already riddled with crime and drugs. She saw no problem with this when she was drunk and was offended when I came and found her.

When we’ve talked, I’ve told her how it makes me feel - how it makes me worry, not just when she’s out drinking with friends - but for her legitimate health and safety. I’ve done my best to not be a hypocrite - I love a good drink and would say that I drink above average. I may on occasion drink a beer right after work at 1 or 2pm, so when she does it I end up not saying anything because I don’t want to be a hypocritical jackass. I have both a higher tolerance and a disdain for ever getting drunk.

What I do know is that her drinking puts me off. It turns me off, and the numerous sleepless nights and the worries and stresses associated with it have beaten me down. When she starts day drinking I usually end up not saying anything and just defaulting to a defensive mode where I distance myself. We have talked about that and I’ve been working on my reaction to her drinking. But this last month has hit me very emotionally hard with a death in the family and I’ve been having my own struggles.

With her drinking so much I can’t even find it in me to talk to her about my shit let alone her shit, and now there is a noticeable distance forming. I was going to push to talk with her last night but ... Lo and behold, 11:30pm she gets home from work and at 11:31 she has a beer. 3am she comes to bed. Before 5 it’s wet for the 4th time this month.

I don’t know how to communicate to her that she is poisoning both herself and everything in her life. The worst part is that she thinks she’s doing better. But I don’t understand how 60oz of beer 4 or 5 times a week is better. There’s just no fighting now.

I love her. When she’s sober and inspired she shines in a rare and beautiful way. But when she drinks it’s like some mimic has taken her place. I’m angered, tired, frustrated, worried and just not sure how to proceed. I’m afraid that I’m just going to end up doing something bitter or spiteful or mean out of just being so tired and stressed upon her cracking a beer open before I talk to her about it. I don’t want to be bitter towards her. I don’t want this relationship to end because of an addiction. And I don’t want to wake up in her piss anymore.

Sincerely,Getting Pissy

Alright, it’s time for some hard truths, GP. Your relationship isn’t great. Your relationship is, quite frankly, going down hill at a breakneck pace and the only question that’s left is whether someone’s going to hit the emergency brakes or it’s going to go careening into a wall… and whether you’re going to be there when it does.

You set yourself up for dating on nightmare mode difficulty, GP, even before the alcohol came into play. Being in a relationship with someone while they’re dealing with a potentially life-threatening illness, even when it’s been caught early, is going to test even the strongest relationships. But this cropped up when you two had just barely started dating… and that’s where the trouble began. Relationships that begin in dramatic situations are rarely the most stable, and yours began in one of the most dramatic situations possible.

As a result: you and your sweetie rushed through things into commitment and… well, quite frankly, under different circumstances I think this relationship might never have happened at all. If the cancer diagnosis hadn’t cropped up, I suspect that you would’ve discovered her alcoholism far sooner. And if you had? Well, something tells me the result would’ve been hey, peace out cub scout, have a nice life, call me after you get sober.

But you didn’t. And to be quite honest, I think the “my girlfriend had cancer” issue is part of why you’re sticking around, in its way.

At first, it’s an understandable thing: she’s going through an insanely difficult time and yeah, I’d probably drink too. I’ve got several friends who dealt with cancer diagnoses in the last few years and there’s not a one of them I’d begrudge a liquid opportunity to just not think about it for a while.

But then, as you said, you can’t pretend it’s cancer any more. It’s a different disease entirely. But you helped nurse her through cancer. There’s almost certainly that part of you that thinks you can help her through this too. But here’s the thing: you can’t. You aren’t qualified to help her, not in the way she needs. You’re not an addiction specialist. You’re not trained in counseling or recovery assistance. And, to be perfectly blunt, she doesn’t want to get help yet.

I’m not the biggest fan of Alcoholics Anonymous for a multitude of reasons, but there’s one thing that they say that I (kind of) agree with: you can’t force someone to get help before they’re ready. I don’t think she needs to hit rock bottom (and I’d think regularly-drunk-to-the-point-of-incontinence would be near as dammit) but I definitely don’t think she’s ready to admit that this is a problem she needs to deal with.

But then again… neither are you. It’s admirable that you care so much for her. It says a lot about you as a person that you’ve held on this long. But it’s an inescapable fact that she’s not your girlfriend, she’s your anchor and she’s dragging you down with her.

Now, I get it. You love her and when she’s sober, things are great. But not only is she almost never sober from what you’re telling me, but you’re so busy dealing with her messes that your own life is falling apart. You’re the only thing keeping the two of you afloat financially right now; how long can you maintain that with the way things are going?

How many more sleepless nights, how much more unprocessed emotional stress, how many more weeks of not being able to deal with the death in your family can you make it through before you lose that last finger-grip that’s holding everything together? Because that day is coming.

There’s a reason why we’re told to adjust our own oxygen masks before helping others with theirs.

Don’t get me wrong: I know damn good and well how hard it is to acknowledge that your relationship is fucked. I know you don’t want to be the guy who left his Girlfriend With Cancer, his Girlfriend With the Alcohol Problem. You want to hold on to the belief that you can beat this, that you can pull her to sobriety and bring back that amazing, shining woman you catch glimpses of. But you can’t. Only she can do that. And she. Does. Not. Want. To.

She’s sinking, man. And she’s going to take her with you if you don’t let go.

I know. I know already that you don’t want to hear this and that you’re not going to let go yet. I know you’re going to try again. And if you’re going to do that, then you can make it an ultimatum. You can tell her that if she doesn’t go to rehab or get into addiction counseling that you’re breaking up. And she may very well go. For a while.

And then she’s going to be “recovered”. Until the first drink again because hey, she’s got this under control. And then the second because come on, she’s had a bad day. And then the third because well she’s a bartender, she’s got to, you know? And then you’re going to wake up in a bed full of piss again.

Find a support group for spouses and loved ones of alcoholics, because you’re going to need that support. You’re going to need people who can tell you that you can’t be responsible for someone else’s sobriety and recovery.

But I’m not going to sugar-coat it. You need to get out. You can’t save her, dude. What you need to do right now is save yourself. And who knows. Maybe knowing that her drinking drove you away will be the kick in the ass that she needs to get sober.

This doesn’t have to be forever. You can circle back around when she reaches her one year or two year sobriety anniversary. But right now? You need to get the fuck out. To quote the sage: you may love her, yeah. But you need to love you more.

Good luck. And write back to let us know how you’re doing.

Hello Mr. O’Malley,

I really enjoy your love advice and it has helped me through a bunch of heartache. I also have been to one of your seminars in Austin and you were amazing. If I come across a puzzling problem in my relationship I usually turn to your advice and it helps a great deal.

Recently though I have hit a wall with my current boyfriend. We have been dating for two years and things have been going great, he is a very ambitious, supportive and we make a good team. But earlier this year he had to experience the trauma of one of his siblings passing away in a tragic way. Understandably he became distant and tried as I might I could not comfort him. He told me that there wasn’t any way I could understand him and he was right, what could I do?

Any kind of positive talks from me only made him upset, so I left him alone for a while. Not long after he became close with a former “friend” (they used to mess around before we dated) and they started hanging out quite a bit. I don’t have a problem with him hanging with his female friends and I’m usually involved, but he would seem to go out of his way to exclude me when they hung out which isn’t like him, and it rubbed me the wrong way.

When I confronted him about it he admitted that she had a similar incident happen recently and he feels that she can actually relate to him. He doesn’t tell me about their meetings because he knows I’ll be uncomfortable. Hearing this felt awful.

I feel the problem is me and my insecurities ,which I am working through,are getting the better of me, she gives him comfort where I have failed. He says he loves me and loves her also but only as a friend and that he can be trusted. He now lets me know if they are hanging out when I ask but still sketchy things happen from time to time. The grieving process is a long painful journey and I can’t imagine what he is going through, but I am afraid of something more than a friendship blossoming between them. I love him but is there nothing more I can do? Or am I hurting our relationship by looking way too much into their intentions?

-Anxious and Uncertain

One of the things that nobody tells you about death is how much it fucks with the living. When someone you love dies, it completely upends your life in ways you never expected. Things that were important to you are suddenly meaningless and things that you neglected become the most important thing in your world. I’ve had two relationships self-destruct because my girlfriend had a death in the family that made her reprioritize how badly she wanted to be in a relationship at that moment.

Grief is a motherfucker too. You will find yourself thinking and feeling the most fucked up thoughts in the lead up to someone dying and in the aftermath. You will get unbelievably pissed at people for the most innocuous and innocent of reasons. You will get fed up with the condolences, the “I’m so sorries”, the “you’re in my prayers” and “sending healing thoughts your way”. You will yell at people who really just want to try to comfort you but they can’t because we as a culture are so uncomfortable with death that we hide it away and don’t know how to handle it.

Here’s what’s going on with your boyfriend: he’s grieving. And there really is no roadmap for grief because nobody will ever be honest with you about just how much it’s going to fuck you over. Nobody warns you that you that the only truly honest moment about grief comes from a 20 year old television show about goddamn vampires. He’s frustrated and he’s angry with God and the universe and there is literally nowhere for his anger to go right now because there’s nothing to be done about it but let it pass in it’s own time. And as soon as he thinks he’s feeling ok, the loss of his sibling is going to hit him like a hammer and it’s all going to start over again.

And as much as you want to comfort him, you can’t. Not because of anything you’re doing wrong, but because there is no comfort to be had here. There’s just commiseration at how fucking unfair it is. And that’s where his ex-fuckbuddy comes in. She’s been there. She knows just how much this sucks and how he can’t really express how he’s feeling because how the in pluperfect hell are you supposed to tell your girlfriend about all the fucked up thoughts and emotions you’re feeling right now when you don’t fully understand them and you feel like the worst person in the world?

So yeah. He’s spending time with her because they’ve got this shared trauma and right now, he needs someone who gets it. There’s something akin to comfort to be had there, that knowledge of just how unfair the universe is now that it has this hole in it where their loved one used to be.

You can’t prevent him from developing feelings for someone - even if grief wasn’t a factor right now - but trying to monitor and regulate his relationships? That’s going to be a great way to blow up the relationship while you’re trying to save it.

If you love your boyfriend and you trust him, then you need to trust him. It sounds like he’s been pretty up and up with you, especially after you told him your concerns.

Just as importantly: be there. You may not have the same understanding he’s looking for but that doesn’t mean that you can’t be there for him. Be the person he can go to without needing to say anything because I can tell you from experience: there will be many, many times when the last thing he wants is more words.

He’s going to need someone who can just hold him and who he can finally just let it all out when he’s ready. He’s going to need someone who can listen when all that grief comes pouring out of him and who, without saying a word, can wrap him in her arms until the sobbing stops.

That’s what you can do for him right now. Good luck.

Dear Dr. NerdLove,

Long time follower of your column here. You’re the love expert in my book, so maybe you can help me figure out my non-existent love life.

You see, I’m a girl and ever since I was a kid, I figured I was gay. As a 6-year-old, I loved to be dressed as a boy, I was a tomboy and I wanted to hold hands with girls and hang out with the other guys. At that age, you might file it under ‘just a tomboy phase’ and I certainly didn’t think much of it as a young person because I didn’t understand the technicalities of being gay back then and it certainly didn’t affect my life, what with being in school and stuff.

As I got older, I realized I was physically attracted to girls. I am ok looking, I’d say, so whenever I got some sort of attention from guys, I felt repulsed and a bit offended. I always figured I’d be interested in a guy if he was incredibly good looking and incredibly interesting. Super shallow stuff, I know.

But in the meantime, I kept ogling girls in secret. My mother has low-key commented that being gay is not something she’d be absolutely fine with but she’d understand. My father, though, would absolutely hate it with a deep passion. So I’ve been “in the closet” my entire life.

I’m entering my 30s now and I’ve never kissed, dated or interacted with another human being in a romantic way. Mostly because I’m insecure as to what I want and how it would affect my life and mostly my family. I do get lonely from time to time but I think as of today, I am perfectly comfortable being alone and I’m used to it to the point where I NEED to be by myself at least for a few hours of the day to feel ok.

Here’s my dilemma though: As of late, I have trouble differentiating between attraction and friendship with girls. I hate to ruin the way I interact with a friend because I can’t tell the difference.

Guys? I see them as equals and while, hate to admit it, I would love to get laid, I’m not sure if be comfortable with a guy because I’ve never ever been attracted to one! And how would it work with a girl? I mean, I know HOW but I’m not sure if that’s the route I want to take?

I’m very confused, if you haven’t gathered, and I don’t know what to do. This causes me to go into depressive moods every now and then but I’ve learned to live with them. I guess I do need help but I don’t know what kind of help if be looking for. Help me, please?

Sincerely,No Love, No life

On occasion, I’ll get a question that isn’t quite in my wheelhouse and I like to get advice from some friends of mine. In this case, I reached out to my friend and actual doctor, coach and psychologist Dr. Liz Powell of Sex-Positive Psych.

Here’s what she had to say:

It seems like there are a couple distinct issues here - insecurity/costs of being closeted and how to do dating/read signals. As to the former, it sounds like part of what might have been getting in the way of you dating, NLNL, is that part of you knows that serious dating will likely lead to a situation where you either a) pull the classic “she’s my roommate and best friend” trick or b) come clean and possibly have a big family blow up.

Being in the closet is really really taxing on the brain and heart because in essence, it requires that you pretend to be someone you’re not. That’s unlikely to ever get easier and as long as the possible family blow up is in the back of your mind it’s going to make opening yourself up to someone and sharing your heart with them much much harder. I would ask you to consider what it is that’s leading you to continue being closeted at this point in your life. Are you reliant on your dad for financial support? Could his anger/upset with you lead to violence or serious harm? Is there something significant that makes coming out unsafe for you?

I’m asking these questions because I know how scary this kind of situation can be. I first came out as bisexual/queer when I was 17. I told my mother shortly after I started the process of coming out and she threw a big screaming crying fit and then, the next day, it was like nothing had happened. I came out to her several times over the next few years before it finally stuck. The time it stuck, my mom threatened to disown me AND to divorce my dad if he didn’t do the same. 13 years later, my mom wished me a happy pride when I marched in the parade with my then partner who was genderqueer and AFAB. All this to say that people change. Even people who throw big fits and ask you if you have sex with trees or animals. So is staying closeted worth the stress it’s causing you?

As to the latter portion of your question, of COURSE it’s easier to interact with guys - there’s nothing at risk there. You talk about how to figure out if someone is a friend or if they want to date you, and I have a really challenging thing to recommend: ask. The thing I’ve noticed in communities of queer women (or people socialized as women) is that lots of people want to date, but no one wants to make the first move. I’ve heard this referred to as “lesbian sheep syndrome,” based off of the fable that when actual literal sheep are lesbians, they just stand there presenting themselves to each other and expecting the other to mount them. I’ve been back on OKCupid a week and while every cisgender guy and masculine of center person I’ve talked to has asked me for a meetup, none of the women or femme of center folks have. None. And I haven’t asked them for a meetup. We’re just chatting and flirting and waiting for someone else to broach the subject.

If what you want is to date, at some point you’re going to have to let the person you want to date KNOW that you want to date them. In a way, that involves coming out, at least to them, because otherwise all the queer hotties you’re talking to will have no idea that you want to date them. Sometimes we can’t know whether we want to date someone or be their friend until we give the dating a shot, so I would recommend that you go the route of just asking someone out. In the worst case scenario, they say no, you thank them, and then you go back to hanging out. If they say yes, then you can go on some dates with them. It sounds like you already have some important self-knowledge about what you need in a relationship when it comes to space and alone time, so keep that in mind if/when dating becomes more serious, but right now, you’re just going on a date. I know that the joke is that a lesbian brings a U-Haul to her second date, but really your relationship can move at whatever pace and with whatever kinds of commitment and time fits for you.

So go out there! Take some chances!

There you go, NLNL. Best thing you can do when it comes to figuring out if someone’s into you and wants a date: take your shot and see.

Good luck.

Have you had a relationship with someone with an addiction? Have you helped a partner going through a major loss or trauma? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments. We’ll be back with more of your questions in two weeks.

Ask Dr. Nerdlove is Kotaku’s bi-weekly dating column, hosted by the one and only Harris O’Malley, AKA Dr. NerdLove. Got a question you’d like answered? [email protected] and put “Kotaku” in the subject line.

Harris O’Malley is a writer and dating coach who provides geek dating advice at his blogPaging Dr. NerdLove and the Dr. NerdLove podcast. His new dating guide New Game+: The Geek’s Guide to Love, Sex and Dating is out now from Amazon, iTunes and everywhere fine books are sold He is also a regular guest at One Of Us

[kyreniacommentator]

By Tina King ….

For those of you who may remember my previous article regarding health care here in the TRNC, I have been on quite a journey since writing about general health screening to try and help provide some clarity of what do we really need to be tested for and why we should take time to research hospitals here.

Health screening – GET INFORMED, GET TESTED, LIVE HEALTHY

Tina King

My partner in crime who has helped me on this road to discover more about health screening is an ex paramedic from Australia, and the UK, having worked in London for the past 10 years. I guess I should also explain that I worked in the Cancer Research sector for many years and for the last 10 years worked in Cancer Services in Cambridge. (Special mention to my hubby who was a Rapid Response Paramedic and a Jet2 GP in the UK who has helped us as well)

I was delighted that quite a few readers of CyprusScene gave some really good feedback for me on my previous article and gave me the encouragement to find out more information where possible.  This was also supported by comments on recent experiences in and around some of the hospitals based here in Kyrenia.  Some obviously were very good and unfortunately some bad. I would like to just emphasize I am not a specialist, I am just curious as to why we don’t investigate health care more for ourselves here in the TRNC, this is just an account of my findings and my own opinions.

There is a lot of good and bad across the board, but what I have noticed here in the TRNC in particular is that many people here research a symptom and self diagnose themselves.  Get into a panic then go and get unnecessary and sometimes expensive tests. 

Which led me to ask why do so many people go and have loads of blood tests?  Unless you know what you are looking for, a blood test may be completely irrelevant, or for example one test could be elevated through an infection how would you know.  Doctors take years to learn every possible cause and diagnosis, so why do we think we can do it all ourselves in 20 minutes off YouTube?

On researching hospitals we are faced with a barrage of private health checks all in beautiful glossy brochures and have results in less than 3 hours.  They all come with differing options and in particular the staggering varied costs from 200TL to over 1800TL plus, needless to say I got completely bamboozled myself. 

With this all in mind, I thought why on earth are people having blood cancer tests in Wellness clinics especially as over here they happen to be very expensive.  These tests are usually completed in conjunction with a biopsy, imaging and diagnosis of a suspected, recurrent or cancer spread? So on asking a very senior consultant specialist here in the TRNC he said with a smile ”it’s just what we Turkish do”.  I rest my case.

So why do we practice self diagnosis here? In the UK the first thing we did was contact a GP; discuss the symptoms with them directly.  Any tests were jointly arranged, bloods, imaging all to aid a diagnosis, then a treatment plan, if referral to a specialist was required, and further investigations and tests were necessary our GP would organise this for us. 

When I started to research hospitals here I found that we can arrange to attend a general medical health clinic, but that does appear again to have varying costs attached.  So where do you start…

On my travels I found the Kolan GP Medical Centre where there is a GP/ Paramedic on duty 24 hours, and support nursing staff, and an A&E Ambulance.  I went to visit and try to find out why we don’t appear to be utilising them more, especially as a GP can pre diagnose a symptom, provide diagnostics, treat  and/or if applicable refer you to a specialist directly (again you could do your research and seek your own specialist). 

Gűncha Dervış GP – Kolan Medical Centre Girne

The practice Manager of the Kolan GP Medical Centre is Dr Gűnçha Dervış, and she is supported by a great team that speak English. The clinic has the capacity to deal with any minor ailment and has its own small 2 bed day ward.  The clinic has an A&E assessment room run by a paramedic team and nursing staff with an ambulance on 24 hour standby in the event a more serious condition is diagnosed. There is also a resident phlebotomist / Anti-coag laboratory and X-ray department.  Several specialist outpatient clinics are also supported here including Radiology, Podiatry, and Orthopaedics.

Interestingly the GP, the Podiatrist (Who is English and fully qualified ex NHS) and the Physiotherapist all work in the community as well as run clinics in both the GP Medical Centre in Girne and the Kolan British Hospital in Lefkoşa.  So if you are unwell, or have difficulty getting to Girne give them a call and they can arrange to make a home visit.  I also understand from Dr Gűncha they can provide transport if needed.

Following on from my visit to Girne I met with the Medical Director of the Kolan British Hospital, Harun Gűlmez, Cardiovascular Surgeon in Lefkoşa and subsequently met the extensive team of specialist consultants, who I have to say have been very supportive of my desire to get the Wellness Clinics revised. 

They were very honest about some of the comments I had received from readers stating that language was an issue not just for English patients, but Russian, French, German all of whom speak English but the majority of staff and consultants in the Kolan don’t, which is rather ironic when it’s called the Kolan British Hospital.  However, they are on the case with a tutor who will be providing English lessons twice a week for all the staff.

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Dr. Zehra Onar ŞEKERCİ Gynaecologist, Obstetrics & IVF Specialist

Harun Gülmez Medical Director of Kolan British Hospital

Ufuk Özbaş International Patient Coordinator

Having made several visits now and with the full support of Gynaecology and Urology I am pleased to say we are now just waiting for the clinical investigations to be costed.  I am very excited that we are nearly there and will be launching these wellness clinics for both men and women of all ages within the next couple of weeks. 

In order to help you assess wellness clinics I have put a small explanation together regarding all the individual tests and why they are necessary, so if you would like a copy of this please contact me on the details below and I will send it out to you along with details of the wellness clinics on completion.

In addition to the wellness clinics, the Kolan’s Dermatologist Aysel Őzenergűn Bittaci suggested that a Skin Cancer Screening clinic would commence on Friday 20th September at the Girne Medical Centre. Depending on the popularity of this clinic it will run every two weeks or once per month.  The actual skin examination only takes about 10 minutes of your time to be screened but ultimately it really can be life saving. I thought this was a great idea as now on researching I cannot find any such clinic being run here in TRNC.

If you would like to attend a skin screen clinic, I have also prepared a self examination form where using a map you can list any moles that you have concerns with or have noticed any recent changes.  Bring this along to the clinic with you and the Dermatologist can take a closer look for you.  So again if you would like a copy of this form please contact me. It just helps you to be a bit more thorough when looking at your skin, perhaps in some places you hadn’t thought of.

Hopefully, the information and forms I have put together will help you make more informed choices or at least help you ask more questions, something I don’t think that a lot of us are very good at.

Please take some time to go and register with a clinic or hospital, and make sure you ask questions. Look at what the hospital specialises in, for example the Kolan British Hospital has Assc. Prof Murat Uğraş, Urologist who I would consider to be an extremely qualified and experienced consultant.  Ask for a tour around the hospitals, go and see an inpatient room, what is the food like? you wouldn’t buy a car without looking under the bonnet!  Don’t accept that just because someone recommends you to a consultant because they are so nice and speak good English that they are competent, you don’t want nice you want that person to be an accredited, experienced consultant.

It’s your life! In their hands….Get informed !!!

Get Tested, Live Healthy

So thank you to everyone who has supported me on this journey (you know who you are) and I look forward to hearing from you with any comments or information. Don’t forget to email me should you want the skin mapping form or list of diagnostic tests and reasons, or just more information on some of the other clinics such as Podiatry.

Finally, Stay Active

(You can always come to try a dive with me at Cyprus Underwater Explorers!………? just a thought)

Best regards

Tina

Email: [email protected]

Health screening in the TRNC, guidance you have been looking for By Tina King .... For those of you who may remember my previous article regarding health care here in the TRNC, I have been on quite a journey since writing about general health screening to try and help provide some clarity of what do we really need to be tested for and why we should take time to research hospitals here.

#Girne #Health screening #Kolan British Hospital #Kolan GP Medical Centre #Lefkosa #Northern Cyprus

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A Few Thoughts on Writing

Cycle 8, Day 2

The good news - from my pespective, is my new GP (who may or may not make guest appearances in this journal as “GP”) immediately realized I was out of her medical jurisdiction, although she did insist I get an updated Tetanus vaccine before leaving the office, and she wants to see me every few months. Which is less than ideal, just from a time-commitment issue on my part, because it’s literally a full-time job staying healthy (it took me 3 hours today to get a prescription filled, pick it up, and see a doctor - I didn’t even go to the gym because my left side was being temperamental)(that seems to happen with Marizomib and Temodar together). So, although she seems bright and competent enough to treat me for a broken leg, her office does need a more complete set of records than releases of information, and I doubt her office will be happy with my filling out the checklist of conditions with just, “Brain cancer,” but she (GP) does get bonus points for asking me if I had my pain issues under control. It’s odd, but she’s the first person who’s asked that since Radiation Oncologist. She also advised me that I should probably get my teeth and vision checked in the near future (SIGH, yes, Mom), and I should come see her when I’m ready to deal with my genetic predisposition for colorectal cancer (4 more cycles/2 more clean scans, and it’s a date). I’m starting to realize why the glioma death rate is so high; most doctors aren’t equipped to diagnose/test it, or have the connections/references to send patients quickly to the folks who can provide needed expertise. It’s not a slam against GP individually (again, anyone who asks if I’m physically comfortable these days gets instant karma), just your local doctor’s office. If I had headaches or nausea (okay, so I get those all the time these days, but that’s the chemo) and just walked in off the street, the amount of time it’d take to diagnose me would kill me before even dealing with the problems associated with.... y’know, cancer.

And I did figure out how to identify good doctors; they aren’t motivated by money. I mean, everyone wants a pay-check and it’s hard to earn a decent living today, but, even in medicine, the highest-paid jobs are in administration or CEO roles.  And of course everyone wants doctors who will work out of a sense of generosity or humanitarianism’ and I’m not going to say my oncology team is lacking for that. What I did realize recently is, great people, in any field, but especially the medical world, are more ambitious than filthy lucre. Or if they are, anything less than a 10-digit sum doesn’t interest them. I honestly think Mad Scientist has a blazing curiosity to figure out how/why cells that usually don’t grow much suddenly uncontrollably reproduce and regrow. I think that butcher of a neurosurgeon is the consummate watchmaker, and wants to perfect neurosugery (again, he gets points for being competent and compassionate, but, dude, if the patient’s blood is on your pants, change out of that shit before the patient comes to) I think Warlock Senior wants to go down in medical texts as the next Jonas Salk; given his - and Warlock Junior’s unapologetic commitment to unconventional measures (pumping me full of an experimental toxin might count), I’d put even odds that he just went out and found the biggest, baddest, scariest disease we know of, and assumed Ebola virus and heart disease would be relatively easy afterward), I’d bet that Radiation Oncologist wants to figure a completely safe form of radiotherapy (okay, that would net her a gabillion dollars in one go). And I think Shrink wants to know what it takes to give people the psychological strength to slog through Hell (again, there’s a potential money-maker there, but it’d be an obscene amount of it). And most of the nursing staff I’ve encountered are highly competent, but, sadly, I doubt they’re paid enough to be motivated by money (or they’re not paid enough to be solely motivated by money). I did get one nurse at the infusion center that was clearly just working for the meager paycheck, and although the experience wasn’t awful, it was extraordinarily unpleasant. This is not to say that we should pay medical personnel less (although I’d be entirely in favor of marching the hospital administration and insurance creatures to the guillotine), but I know that a lot of patients use doctor pay or earnings or number of patients as a measure of quality; I’m just noting that didn’t work out so well for concierge doctors. and it really didn’t work out well for their patients.

This might seem like an odd train of thought for the guy who usually just kind of jabs and pokes at his situation while shouting, “Hey, this is screwed up, right? It’s not just me.” But I’ve been reading Cheryl Della Pietra’s “Gonzo Girl.” So, full context, C.D. Pietra wanted to be a writer, and actually worked more ambitiously (and effectively) than I clearly am (she learned at age 20 that social connections/references are more important to success than a degree or skillset). Due to a combination of talent, luck, and connections (she’s very up-front about this in the book), she wound up as Hunter S. Thompson’s personal assistant/editor for almost a year in 1992. Which entailed living in his guest house. Now, I realize that Thompson isn’t everyone’s literary cup of tea, and his quality is pretty choppy, but I won’t deny that the man had one of the clearest, and most unique voices you’ll encounter in all of literature, to the point of inventing his own genre - gonzo journalism; without which there is no experiential journalism, which is what I’m trying to write, Having said that, half the appeal of Thompson’s stuff is that he was a total maniac (his preferred breakfast involved margaritas and cocaine)(that’s a direct quote), and, though you get a bit of that in his writing or from other accounts, we never had the viewpoint of a long-term houseguest. And, based on Pietra’s book (which is under fiction, but marketed and described as a roman a clef), the word “maniac” doesn’t even come close. According to Pietra, her chief job was to help provide the sort of atmosphere Thompson found conducive to writing. Which largely entailed being a facilitator/co-dependent. To be fair, a day involving manic binge-eating, high-grade drugs (apparently, the street drugs mere mortals are familiar with are far below Thompson’s personal stash)(as someone who has had access - at various points - to the full might of the pharmaceutical industry, street drugs are relatively tame, so I get it that Thompson’s acid tabs were terrifyingly potent), blasting “The Loss of Innocence” at 900 decibels at Don Henley’s summer house, and shooting massive guns off in the backyard would be entertaining (and terrifying) and would probably give most of us enough to write for a lifetime (or maybe a nervous breakdown)(also, bear in mind; that’s Day 2 of a job that lasted eight months). What’s odd about all this - and what kind of got me thinking about Thompson in relation to my physicians - is that, according to Pietra, Thompson’s self-professed favorite high was writing, but getting Thompson to sit down and write something even semi-coherent involved lots of cajoling, negotiating, bargaining, and, one suspects, a cheer-leading costume (usually aimed at getting his publishers’ to release more advance money). Whereas you can’t keep me away from the keyboard these days, even if it’s blathering on about nothing (especially if it’s blathering on about nothing)(which reminds me, it’s a Temodar week, so expect more spelling errors, rambling half-thoughts, and incoherence). And even though I have a tough time seeing my oncology team sprint into the office each morning, I think they’d still work if there was a significant pay-cut.

Speaking of which, I know there are a few folks who read this for advice on what to do in my situation, and I recently heard of Toca 5 (look it up), which is entering testing as an immunotherapy treatment for recurrent, high-grade gliomas (mine hasn’t recurred - yet). Traditionally, immunotherapy has a better long-term outcome than traditional treatments, but you do have to inject it at the site (according to the FDA’s clinical proposal). Which sounds beyond horrible, but it’s still comforting to think medicine might have something closer to a long-term cure if/when this thing comes back. And, hey, I know a surgeon just crazy enough to do it.