It was time to celebrate. And it was celebrated, oh boy, was it celebrated. In keeping with tradition and status, lots and lots of my closest friends came together for three days. So, literally written. Manch eine - what is the plural of "manch eine"? "Many a female several"? - just stayed here until yesterday. Which is one of the reasons for my late reappearance on the scene.
I'm not talking about the almost two bottles of fifteen-year-old Gelnmorangie that have once again properly disinfected my PEG. The great thing about the PEG is that you can keep on drinking. If you can't drink any more, you just keep drinking. You don't have to do it yourself. Others do the work for you. But why I, even as today's mosquito weight, can drink everyone under the table and not get a hangover seems somehow illogical. I only drink alcohol on two or three occasions a year. Even I can't have built up a tolerance.
It's just that at a certain point the eye control is, well, let's put it this way, problematic.
Let's face the facts. I am 44 years old. My circle of friends isn't getting any younger. You have to work. Working is the most important thing in our lives anyway. Weekend and night work are no longer the big exception they were in my childhood, even outside of systemically relevant professions. I well remember the drama when my dad had to go out at ungodly hours one weekend. Transferred to today, how many times have I been at the customer's site late into the night at the weekend, documenting system landscapes because it's not possible during the day in business operations? How many times have my colleagues driven to the customer or our data centre at half past three in the morning because some business-critical hardware had to be replaced? In other words, it's the ravages of time.
Getting everyone who doesn't have to work on my birthday around the same table isn't that easy either. Some have small children and can't come in the evening, others have important appointments outside Bavaria because they're among the house builders. Or both. Home builders and children. Or children, but travelling 200km and no babysitter for Sunday. But childcare would be guaranteed for Saturday evening.
Then there's one tiny little thing that's my own fault. I make no secret of how open I am about my relationships. I love my friends and although I can be a bit of an arsehole, my friends love me. My friends love each other... I'm not saying that they don't all love each other. But maybe not all of them are completely green with each other.
And just when your calendar tells you that yes, it could work that way, some arsehole called Corona comes around the corner and lays your two favourite guests. Bomb.
And so it came as it had to. As it had to come and go. A coming and going. I didn't go to bed until five o'clock on Saturday and Sunday. As soon as you open your eyes at midday, the next ones are ringing at the door. We've already put some cleaning stuff in the hallway for Monday morning. When she arrived in the morning, the bathroom was still full of sleeping guests.
I found it very amusing when my speech therapist told me on Monday lunchtime that she had just met the assembled party crowd, including three four-legged friends, as they were leaving the house. "So, long party over?" she asked. She promptly received the answer. "We're just taking a break for you.". A break in favour of my weekly speech therapy lesson, which for me meant swallowing exercises with high-proof alcohol. So I picked up where I'd left off this morning. So that the merry (among other things) party could continue.
This sealed the traditional third of my birthdays.
You will soon find a small selection of photos here.
∞
After my birthday, I fall into a real emotional slump. That's nothing new. Almost all my loved ones were here. We laughed, sang and exchanged physical affection. Which in my case is a pretty one-sided story by now. I can't change that. We have to come to terms with it. In general, we live in an upside-down world. In the past, women couldn't get enough welts. Today, the woman is afraid of hurting me. And yet we lived for three days. And everyone continues to live their lives. And I live mine. Living in parallel worlds.
I'm now having to deal with fucking prescriptions again because my nursing service still hasn't received an IPReG-compliant prescription for out-of-hospital intensive care from my GP from 31 October and unfortunately he hasn't responded to my enquiries either. All those affected have to thank the ruthless creep Mr Spahn and his screwed-up RISG draft law. Is that an insult? Well, here we go. I want to see this media-effective statement of claim. After all, it would be the first reaction from you ever, dear former health minister.
I'll just add Dr Lauterbach, you wimp, to the list. Because you've had your knickers full, because you didn't overturn this nonsense. You cowardly puppet. Finally open your eyes and recognise the cruel reality. People are suffering because of you.
Anyone with a bit of common sense and a sense of what is socially acceptable thinks your law is shit. When I think about it, no matter where, I've never read anything positive about your law.
Sick people, doctors, health insurance companies, courts. Everyone thinks it sucks. Apart from your Ministry of Health, Mr Lauterbach, of course. Common sense and an understanding of social compatibility and all that, you know. I'm not saying you and your ministry have no common sense and no understanding of social justice. But maybe you and your ministry have no common sense and no sense of social justice. What do I know? I'm not an expert.
My carer now takes care of it. One less thing to worry about. Even if it's unpleasant for me. They had and have enough stress because of me. Find competent intensive care nurses who are up for an ALS patient. And it's not as if I could have asked the FBI for a new prescription. Or to my neurologist. I offered. Several times. It wasn't wanted, the practice said. What I was so upset about anyway. It was all done long ago. Yeah, no. It just isn't, dear GPs. As of today, I have to pay around 35,000 euros a month myself in twelve days. Someone has to pay for my care. Someone always pays. Since Spahn and Lauterbach at the latest, it's always the patient.
After all, I've done everything I can do. Now others will take care of it. There's more time for blaspheming, inhaling, coughing, laxatives, foot baths for my ingrown toenail, wound care for the bedsore behind my ear, which has got worse again. Just the usual aches and pains. Everyday life has got me back. And firmly under control.
∞
There's no time for the finer things in life. It's the motivation that's missing.
I don't have the opportunity to do the really nice things. Nothing that is within my power. A situation that I obviously don't know how to deal with, even at 44 years of age. After-birthday slump and all that.
And yet they do exist, the beautiful things. Even in my life.
You are great. So many people took part in my birthday fundraising campaign. I didn't expect that. And I had high expectations. I told my family that I had expected a whopping €2,480 and was prepared to double that amount. Who would have thought that it would end up being 50% more. I'm not an expert. That was the fundraiser I set up on my own from scratch. I didn't want to use any well-known donation platforms so that your donation would end up where it was intended. And it will. I will report. Transparency is the magic word. A point of honour.
By the way, you don't have to be sad if it didn't work out for you. The PayPal payment was cancelled for three donations. The donation was not made. I did not receive the transfer for two donations. The donation was not made. What a pity. But oh well. The next opportunity is sure to come.
∞
From me personally, the next funds will go to Peta and Paul Whatson. But that's not very socially acceptable. Even if the fight against specialism is at least as important to me as the preservation of habitats, it won't win you a flower pot. For years, I have been grappling with the question of why we look our dog in the eye and stroke it. While we look at the pig on the Peta poster and think "God, how horrible!". And happily pack the next piece of slaughtered dead animal in the supermarket for our narcissistic gourmet feast.
And although I have been working on this for so long, it has taken me decades to consistently change my life. So who am I to accuse anyone of not having recognised this yet. No, it's not yet socially acceptable. The general public already thinks climate stickers are shit. What do you think of me when I tell you that I think cheese is worse than a steak from pasture-fed cattle? At least the steak animal has had it. The dairy animal mourns its calf until the end of its miserable life. It was torn away after birth so that the living milk factory could keep producing. There is no such thing as species-appropriate husbandry. There never was. The term "species-appropriate" excludes any form of "husbandry".
No living being on this planet is meant to be "kept". Well, according to the AFD's basic programme, it should be possible to put delinquent children from the age of twelve behind bars instead of rehabilitating them. Anti-social pack from the right. Might as well take a cosy room together with Jens. They'll get on well together.
But that's really a story for another time. I'd better not mess things up with you while we can still do so much good together.
Have a good time. Spread a little love.
Hugh. Your eco-terrorist.
Did you know that the Apaches didn't even know the exclamation "Hugh!"? It's a Sioux greeting. Someone's making a fuss about racism in Karl May's masterpieces. It's a topsy-turvy world.
