Kloey's blog: "Memoirs of a Bored Kloey."

Okay. I've only just now processed the fact that I'm hungry. I was at work for approximately fourteen hours today, which isn't really a great deal of time, but I was so busy that I never got around to eating anything. I didn't even have breakfast or a snack. It didn't even dawn on me during the day, as I've been so terribly busy. Of course, I've been a mindless bit of baggage, going on auto pilot, taking call after call after call after call. I even managed to take several calls at once steadily throughout the day, alternately placing each on hold to collect more information and to assure 'em that I had not forgotten about their respective concerns. Then there's the Judge's office. It seems as if the staff is completely incapable of rescinding a warrant before hit confirmations and the like. I don't even want to think about the amount of teletypes I sent to various agencies. Seriously. I spent hours pouring over teletypes while maintaining at least five forms of traffic (incoming calls via phone and radio). I'll have to finish this bit at a later date. I'm too tired, cold, and hungry to bother picking my brain at the moment. I'm going to listen to the sweetly lilting strains of the cello and soak in hot water delicately scented with almond oil until my skin glows red.

Okay. I have officially decided that I wish to attend a USMC ball. I know, I'm terrible, but think about it! A ball... I'm a girl. I'm allowed to wish to attend a ball. In fact, it's almost expected. Marines look all kinds of charming in their dress uniforms. Of course, attending a ball would require an actual gown. I know I dress nicely now, but it's difficult not to feel overdressed when most girls in the area abhor dresses/skirts. I'm not sure what this kick is about not dressing as a lady, but too many females are on it. I cannot fathom why girls don't like to dress in feminine clothing. When I went over the road with my older brother, I cannot tell you how many times fellows stared at me as if I was something truly rare. It was even worse when my hair was unbound. I just don't know. I'm too old-fashioned or something. I enjoy my femininity. I enjoy knowing that people simply cannot confuse my gender. But back to my original thought. I want to attend a ball and thus I shall. I don't know when or by whom I'll be escorted, but I'm going to have an enchanting evening whenever I get around to it.

Wow. I just read something that I wrote to one of my friends reference my annoyance during the rioting and shootings way back when. I'm horribly mean. I stated that though I didn't wish for violence, if they insisted on killing each other, stabbing would be so much more convenient, as it doesn't make as much noise as shooting does... Maybe I am heartless.

I'm slightly miffed with my insurance company. They've decided that my lab work was not medically necessary despite the fact that my doctor deemed it so. They've also decided that the eminent threat of mastoiditis isn't really all that threatening and my doctor is asking entirely too much by referring me to a specialist. Seriously... What's the point in having insurance if it's not useful? Well, I can't say that it's totally useless. My blood pressure usually runs a bit low and it does wonders for bringing that up to par.

I'm possibly having a recurrence of mastoiditis. I had an appointment with my doctor today, so naturally, my family advised me this morning that they can not take me. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue. However, my equilibrium is, well, not equalizing. Sadly enough, I cannot muster an ounce of surprise. I have no idea what prompted me to believe that they'd actually take me. I'm just going to claim it as a stupid tax and pay up. No worries, eh? By virtue of being an awesome ninja, I have resolved my issue. I have rescheduled my appointment. Not that I need to wait, but what can an unable-to-drive-now girl do? On a positive note, my ear is not bleeding today.

911. Caller: You need to get here now! I need protection! He's going to kill me! What's your address and who's going to kill you? caller: *** ** **** **. My dad. He's on his way home to kill me. Madison to 309. Go ahead, Madison. I've got a caller on the line who advised her father is 51 to the residence to kill her. How old is she, Madison? How old are you? Caller: I'm 16. Please hurry! I need protection! He's going to kill me. Madison to 309. Go ahead, Madison. Caller advised she's 16. I'll be 51. So, why do you feel your father is going to kill you? I mean, what's going on? Caller: My mother found me in my room. Okay...and the significance..? Caller: Well, she found me with someone. Who'd she find you with? Caller: Well, she found me with my boyfriend. Oh, so, you don't actually believe your father is going to kill you, right? Caller: He's mad! You don't understand. I need protection. I have an officer en route to your residence at this time. Caller: Well, he isn't actually going to kill me, but he's very mad. I need protection. I need someone to give me a ride somewhere to get away. So, you don't actually fear that he's going to kill you. You merely fear that he's going to discipline you, right? Caller: Yes! He's very mad! I need protection. Madison to 309. Go ahead, Madison. Caller has just advised that she no longer fears her father is going to kill her, but advised he is extremely upset and she fears he's going to discipline her. 10-4, Madison. I'll be 97. 10-4, 309. Several minutes go by... 309 to Madison. Go ahead, 309. I'll be 10-98. For the log, the father is going to handle this one. 10-4.

I am, if nothing else, slightly resourceful. I am out of vaseline and my nose is raw. I have grown tired of the burning, painful sensation and thus I have liberally applied some Dove conditioner. Guess what! It works! So, I'm proud of myself. I not only managed to eat (mmmm...steamed carrots mildly flavored with nutmeg), but I also managed to dress. Of course, I didn't dress until about ten minutes ago, but that does little to diminish my buoyant mood at having accomplished so much. Whatever these drugs are, they seem to be working some. I can even walk around a bit without setting my lungs on fire. I thought about doing some situps and whatnot, but I'm not actually dumb enough to put my weak, aching body through that just yet. I'm going to try to get my stomach accustomed to eating solid food again. My doctor is probably going to flip out like a ninja when he learns that I've lost fifteen pounds in less than a week. He can't actually chew me out, though. My body is adjusting to the medicine and then there's the liquid-only diet the hospital had me on. I can honestly advise him that I haven't even set foot in a gym within the last week. I'm glad to have a doctor who cares enough to give me whatfor, though. It's nice. Not that he's overly nice. In fact, he can be down right mean, but he's ten days older than dirt. He's mean. We all know it, but just as we adore Shirley MacLaine's caustic characters, Ol' DB is a fixture in our hearts. Well, I think I'm going to get naked again and let my body soak in a steaming hot tub of water. I know, I know... I wasted all that energy getting dressed just so I can waste more energy getting undressed. Doesn't make sense, but neither does the combination of medicines I'm taking... I'm on some steroids to help me breathe, but it lowers my immune system. I'm taking the ZPak and some other antibiotics to help with the inflamation, the strep, and whatever other infections I have in my body, but these pills cause difficulty breathing... Clear as mud, right?

I've been off of work since Friday morning. I'm sick and feel as if I'm dying, but that does nothing to alleviate my boredom. Being that I really don't have the energy to actually do anything, I've been listening to music today. Yo-Yo Ma soothes me. It's as if each note he brings forth to life caresses my soul and makes love to my senses. The man is brilliant. Paired with Williams for Memoirs of a Geisha, I find myself listening to a fusion of two of the greatest musicians!

Someone please explain how in the world I deemed introducing food, of any kind, to my stomach to be a brilliant idea! Honestly, what maggot infested my brain to make me think that it would be a good thing? I suppose there is a reason I've been on a liquid diet, but dude, I was hungry. I normally get anywhere from 1200 to 1500 calories a day; only imagine the deficit that a broth-only diet was creating. That's right. My little tummy was protesting something fierce. My fuzzy slippers didn't even work this time. I made my way to my kitchen, sliced some carrots, grilled some chicken breast, shredded the chicken breast, sliced a wee bit of celery, adding corn and sweet peas to the mix. To that, I added a few herbs, some egg noodles and that's right-you guessed it!-broth and let it simmer in it's goodness. I added a bit of milk to make it a bit more creamy. It was ever so nice, but it pained my stomach to have food in it after several days of nothing but broth. I thought I was going to be sick several times over, but fortunately, my greedy tummy was able to keep it down. If I could muster the energy to actually worry, I'd be mortified by my appearance. My nude body is stretched out on my bed, covered in this awful rash, its redness a vivid contrast to the creamy whiteness of my flesh. My hair is not-so-artfully tied back in a knot of messy curls. I just flat out look sick. My poor little eyeballs are flooding over, making me look like I'm weeping without ceasing. I sound awful. When I do manage to form a word, my voice is raspy and it sounds more like I'm croaking, as opposed to speaking. I sound as if I'm having an asthma attack after running all out for entirely too many miles. I suppose it's a good thing I live alone. I just don't think I'd be able to work myself into a rage if someone came in and decided to stare, overlooking the scarlet fever and whatnot.

So, I wake up Wednesday with a bit of a sore throat. No big deal, right? Half the population woke up with a sore throat Wednesday. My temperature begins to rise. 102.7? That's not too bad. Extra water and maybe some Ibuprofen should do the trick. My fever subsides, which is cool, but now I can't really talk, as my voice is dead except for a few manly grunts here and there, but hey, I'm Communicator Girl and it's what I do. So, I do my rounds, but I have to confess that there's a definitive lack of pep in my step. I don't get around to sleeping until Thursday morning and when I do sleep, I sleep for a good three hours, waking up every fifteen minutes or so. At this point, life is grand if you overlook the fact that I'm having difficulty breathing. I can actually talk a bit, though my speech is somewhat stilted, what with the lack of oxygen and all. I call to see if I can get an appointment. There's nothing available which fits my schedule. *insert sigh here* I get dressed for work in attire which is slightly inappropriate for the office, but let's face it...fuzzy slippers have healing powers. I drive to work without overly exerting myself, which is fairly easy to do, as I don't even have to keep my foot on the pedal. Let's all give thanks for cruise control! It's time to work. I'm having difficulty breathing again, but that's just going to have to wait until I finish these reports and whatnot. I'll get around to stressing in a few minutes. I finish my reports and I begin to realize that I'm slightly weak. I haven't eaten since Tuesday, but it's highly dubious that I'll be able to slip anything down my swollen, raw throat. That's when I get the brilliant idea of "eating" broth, which, believe it or not, I had some in my car from my grocery shopping earlier in the week. I prepare the broth. It's hot. I spoon the liquid fire into my mouth, taking it like a man as it scalds the flesh of my throat. A little cauterization isn't going to kill me. Fortified with all the sodium I'll need for the next three years, I get back to work. The night passes so slowly and my relief arrives late, but the minute she steps in, I very briefly brief her, and I make my way, rather quickly, out of the door. Driving home is just as easy as driving to work. I'm freezing, but I can't breathe so much with the heat on. Shucks. I can't really breathe without the heat on, but even as silly as I am, I know it's easier to breathe in a cooler environment. The war within begins! I can't decide which evil to choose. Freeze and have a better chance of breathing or let warmth seep into my being and limit my chances of breathing even more? Breathing it is! Dude! I'm home. I promptly collapse onto my bed. I sleep, but I'm deliriously fitful, in and out. My alarm hammers at my brain, cruel in its relentlessness. I pop tall, shower, dress (Oh, yeah! I'm sportin' the fuzzy slippers to the Sheriff's Office!), and drive to work. Work isn't too bad. The girl I work with has blood which seems to be thicker and more heated than molten lava. She keeps the temp in the sixties. We have a party turned riot, with a stabbing or two. Someone removes the victim, refusing to let EMS stabilize him. We receive threats because we haven't captured the suspects, but right now, it's all we can do to herd the rioting mass of stupid people out of harm's way. I can't breathe and I'm having to scream to be heard, though it still sounds as if I'm whispering, but I'm taking 911 calls left and right because stupid people do stupid stuff. Yay! My shift is finally almost over. My relief is here, but she steps outside to smoke. She was only fifteen minutes late and she'd already been 10-8 for shift for three minutes. Of course she needed a smoke break! The radio crackles to life! Harper's voice is loud and clear, letting the three hundred units know that we've had twenty shots fired in close proximity to my home. That's not cool. How am I supposed to sleep with such a racket? I'm stubborn, so I go home and TRY to sleep. I can't. Stupid people won't stop shooting. The streets are teeming with cops, lights and sirens only adding to the noise. I'm still having difficulty breathing, deprived of sleep, and cross because I don't feel like listening to gun shots and sirens. I keep an overnight bag packed, so I grab it, advise my Mother that I'm 51 to her residence, and out the door I go. As I pull onto the street, this black car pulls out behind me. At first, I don't think anything of it, as I'm pretty much raging against the world. I don't want to be driving for the next thirty minutes. I want to be sleeping, but I can't because stupid people do stupid stuff. I start to pay attention to this vehicle as it takes every turn I take and starts to ride my bumper. As I study it in my mirror, I process the fact that it matches the vehicle in which the suspects fled in. Great. Because I'm a goober I purchased a Police Interceptor and people tend to think I'm a cop. I'm guessing these nerds figured I was a cop due to my car and since they were on the prowl to make the "pigs pay", I seemed like a good target. Anyway, I send up a silent prayer and suddenly, several squad cars show up, causing those fellows to abandon their pursuit of my non-cop police car. I was fully prepared to reason with these guys, using logic and my fuzzy slippers to convince them that I'm not a cop. Anyway, I make my way to my Mother's house where it is blessedly quiet. I sleep for four and a half hours. That's a great deal of sleep for me. I only woke up because I couldn't breathe again. I lounge around, hoping that if I take it easy, the pain in my chest and lungs will go away. It doesn't. I can't go back to sleep, so I might as well drive home. Driving home, I begin to seriously hurt. My lungs feel like they're on fire. My throat is so tender and raw that the cool air I'm trying to draw into my lungs makes my throat feel as if someone has just scraped it with a metal spatula. I haven't been able to breathe properly since Wednesday and it's Saturday evening. My heart is racing, but it's to be expected with the pain and the lack of oxygen. I figure I'm in a mild state of tachycardia. I call my Mother so I can tell her that my lungs are hurting and that I'm going to the ER, but I end up dropping the phone as I drop to my knees, my body racked by a violent attack of coughing. I pull up my huggies, grab my phone, advise my Mother and my supervisor of the situation, grab my insurance card, and head out. I'm hurting so badly that I begin to drive it like a stole it. I finally make my way to the ER. Great! I'm the only person in the waiting area. The receptionist, however, ignores my attempts to tell her that my lungs are hurting and that I can't breathe. She's too engrossed in the football game to notice little ol' me. Gasping for air, I finally get her attention. She shoves some forms my way and tells me to fill 'em out. As I'm filling these forms out, my body is yet again racked with violent coughing. I feel like I'm dying and all I can think about is thumping the receptionist's left eyeball because all she can say is, "If you're going to be sick, don't do it here. Wait for a pan." If I could induce vomiting, I'm afraid I would do it out of spite, but it's just not one of my many talents. Anyway, I try to give this woman my insurance card and my DL, but she won't take it. She's watching the game again. She's a lost cause. She doesn't even seem to understand that slam dunkin' is reserved for basketball. Now I'm just waiting. I'm still having a difficult time breathing. Each ragged breath I take leaves me feeling weak and as if someone has beaten the mess out of my lungs. I don't even want to describe the coughing. Some nice little nurse with curly hair comes out, takes me to a room, and starts taking my vitals. I tell her that my pulse is going to be high, that I'm mostly likely in tachycardia and that my blood pressure normally runs relatively low. I am one smart cookie. My heart rate was 148 beats per minute and my blood pressure was 83/63. She thinks maybe the machine messed up with my reading, so she takes my blood pressure again. Same result. Suddenly, five women descend upon me, each bearing some little sticky pad thing and wires. I'm being hooked up to a heart monitor and they're getting me ready for an EKG. This older man, stick-thin and kind of creepy lookin' walks in with a big machine on wheels. I have to sign a waiver stating that I'm not pregnant. I sign it, they start me on an IV, and this guy x-rays my chest. It's time for a urine sample. I do my best, but it doesn't work out so well, as I'm behind on my water consumption and I had recently visited the ladies' room. Now it's time for another x-ray, one without my bra on. Fortunately, I know how to remove a bra with one hand, but getting it over my IV is a whole 'nother ball game. Tests. More tests. Even more tests. Pain medication for my lungs, breathing treatments, and Ativan to bring me out of tachycardia. I can breathe a bit easier, my lungs still hurt, and my body is covered in a rash. It's Sunday morning and I can't go to work until at least Wednesday. The basics? I have Strep throat/Scarlet fever, pneumonia, and like my lungs, the muscles surrounding my rib cage are inflamed due to the strain of those violent fits of coughing. Now that I've blogged, I'm going to attempt to sleep. It seems to be the best choice, as they've doped me up. It's really hard to concentrate and even more difficult to walk without slamming myself into a wall or the floor. Have a lovely day!