My winter pallor
Not unlike summer pallor
I am milk on snow
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS, ROUND 3
This morning bright and early I toddled off to Dr. Turban-wearer's office. I waited in the waiting room. I waited in the exam room. When he finally got to me he said straight away, "I am sending you back to your referring physician and releasing you. There is nothing I can do for you."
"Releasing me? After only one visit and only one drug?" I pleaded. No response. "WTF is the matter with you?"
"There is nothing I can do to help you." He looked at the floor.
"So you're just giving up? You're not even going to try? What about the drugs I'm on now? Where am I supposed to get those? You know perfectly well a primary won't prescribe the narcotics I've been taking! What about my panic attacks? Where am I supposed to get Ativan, without which I will soon be hospital-bound?"
Without looking at me even once, he launched into preaching mode, "This is a pain you are just going to have to learn to live with. You have too many things wrong with you. Your heart, your back, your various injuries, your neuro-muscular issues...all of these are sources of pain and there is nothing I can do that will make it better. We all have to live with pain. For instance right now I have a headache and my hip hurts. See how I am standing?"
"I don't give a shit about your headache or your fucking hip. Take some aspirin and go see your referring physician." I left.
I got into my car and sat in the parking lot for about 15 minutes just weeping. I have 24 days to find a drug source or I'm up shit creek. This pain is unendurable. Even with drugs it is barely manageable. I can't just *learn to live with it* since it affects every aspect of my life. It affects how I get out of bed, how I put on clothes, how I comb my hair, what I eat and how I eat it. Goddammit I can't even take a shower since each bead of water that falls on my skin feels like a dagger.
Sheer desperation has made me consider having mastectomies, wondering if I actually cut off my screamy boobs if they'll stop being so urgently screamy. On the other hand, if it's the nerve that is damaged, the nerve will still be there, and so will the pain. I can't win.
Suddenly it all becomes clear, and I understand it completely. This my friends, is exactly how heroin addicts get made -- out of sheer desperation.
"Releasing me? After only one visit and only one drug?" I pleaded. No response. "WTF is the matter with you?"
"There is nothing I can do to help you." He looked at the floor.
"So you're just giving up? You're not even going to try? What about the drugs I'm on now? Where am I supposed to get those? You know perfectly well a primary won't prescribe the narcotics I've been taking! What about my panic attacks? Where am I supposed to get Ativan, without which I will soon be hospital-bound?"
Without looking at me even once, he launched into preaching mode, "This is a pain you are just going to have to learn to live with. You have too many things wrong with you. Your heart, your back, your various injuries, your neuro-muscular issues...all of these are sources of pain and there is nothing I can do that will make it better. We all have to live with pain. For instance right now I have a headache and my hip hurts. See how I am standing?"
"I don't give a shit about your headache or your fucking hip. Take some aspirin and go see your referring physician." I left.
I got into my car and sat in the parking lot for about 15 minutes just weeping. I have 24 days to find a drug source or I'm up shit creek. This pain is unendurable. Even with drugs it is barely manageable. I can't just *learn to live with it* since it affects every aspect of my life. It affects how I get out of bed, how I put on clothes, how I comb my hair, what I eat and how I eat it. Goddammit I can't even take a shower since each bead of water that falls on my skin feels like a dagger.
Sheer desperation has made me consider having mastectomies, wondering if I actually cut off my screamy boobs if they'll stop being so urgently screamy. On the other hand, if it's the nerve that is damaged, the nerve will still be there, and so will the pain. I can't win.
Suddenly it all becomes clear, and I understand it completely. This my friends, is exactly how heroin addicts get made -- out of sheer desperation.
Friday, October 12, 2012
OWW MY IMAGINARY BACON
I had high hopes for the drug, Lyrica. I took it for a total of two weeks. The first week I felt pretty good. The second week I started crying. Not just crying like my eyes were leaking, but crying as in sobbing and wailing in grief. I'm still not over it.
I called Dr. Turban-wearer's office to report my symptoms. After taking a ration of shit from his secretary, my phone call was returned later that day. She had the gall to say to me, "Well, are you a patient of Dr. Turban-wearer's? I just don't know why you would be calling here to tell me you're having symptoms." I was stunned. I said, "No, lady. I just picked a random phone number to call out of the phone book. YES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I AM A PATIENT. Do you have a pen in your hand? Yes? Great, write this down..."
Last night I dreamt I was eating a bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, of all things. I was crying while I was eating it. I woke up crying in actuality. This is how fuckered my brain has become in only two short weeks of Lyrica. I can't sleep worth a damn. Not sleeping is nothing new, but I certainly don't need dreams that make me cry when I finally do manage to fall into a deep enough sleep to conjure up a dream.
If you engage me in conversation, you might not get answers you're expecting. Consider this fair warning: I am not my usual "ray of sunshine" self. The fact that I can recognize that I am slightly off is a good thing, I suppose. Now, I'm just hoping it passes quickly. I don't need to be a total uber-depressed nutjob in addition to my *regular* ailments.
My next appointment with Dr. Turban-wearer is October 24, when I suppose he will move onto the next drug. I'm running out of possibilities and time both, FFS. Since the recent news of contaminated steroid shots and the resulting outbreak of meningitis, I am ever so glad I didn't jump on the shot bandwagon right away. I'm desperate, but not desperate enough for meningitis.
I called Dr. Turban-wearer's office to report my symptoms. After taking a ration of shit from his secretary, my phone call was returned later that day. She had the gall to say to me, "Well, are you a patient of Dr. Turban-wearer's? I just don't know why you would be calling here to tell me you're having symptoms." I was stunned. I said, "No, lady. I just picked a random phone number to call out of the phone book. YES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I AM A PATIENT. Do you have a pen in your hand? Yes? Great, write this down..."
Last night I dreamt I was eating a bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, of all things. I was crying while I was eating it. I woke up crying in actuality. This is how fuckered my brain has become in only two short weeks of Lyrica. I can't sleep worth a damn. Not sleeping is nothing new, but I certainly don't need dreams that make me cry when I finally do manage to fall into a deep enough sleep to conjure up a dream.
If you engage me in conversation, you might not get answers you're expecting. Consider this fair warning: I am not my usual "ray of sunshine" self. The fact that I can recognize that I am slightly off is a good thing, I suppose. Now, I'm just hoping it passes quickly. I don't need to be a total uber-depressed nutjob in addition to my *regular* ailments.
My next appointment with Dr. Turban-wearer is October 24, when I suppose he will move onto the next drug. I'm running out of possibilities and time both, FFS. Since the recent news of contaminated steroid shots and the resulting outbreak of meningitis, I am ever so glad I didn't jump on the shot bandwagon right away. I'm desperate, but not desperate enough for meningitis.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
THE HOARD OF PAIN
Dammit, I started a gout attack yesterday. Just what I needed, another pain. Incidentally, let's talk about SCREAMY FRIGGIN PAINS...Gout is a very urgent, acute type of stabbing pain. I don't know if it's connected to the change in meds or not. It is on the opposite side from where my previous attacks have occurred. I guess I'll find out, won't I? The only bonus in having a gout attack is that it makes my other pains seem less urgent. Yay for the brain, which has a way of addressing the most hideous pain first, and kind of shoving the other pains into the background. UGH!
It occurred to me today while watching TLC, that I have become a collector of pains-- a pain hoarder, if you will. Honest-to-goodness *stuff* hoarders will collect things and not even notice it's a problem until they are positively inundated by their items, or killed when a pile collapses on them. They rarely seek help unless until their horrible secret is discovered by loved ones, or the stench alerts authorities. My hoard of various pains is slowly killing me, smothering me under their weight, looming over me in a great, teetering pile, affecting every aspect of my life. Where did I put that snorkel?
Monday, September 24, 2012
2ND OPINION: OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS
I just got back from seeing a new pain specialist, hereafter to be known as *Dr. Turban-wearer,* and I have a new plan of attack. I had been hoping for injections, but he said since my pain is neuralgic/ neuropathic in nature, injections would probably not help and might even make me worse. He gave me three new drugs to try, one of which is Lyrica.
Dr. Turban-wearer told me today that when they opened my chest and spread the ribs apart, the nerves to T5 and T6 were damaged, which certainly explains the screamy boobs and the rib pain. It does not explain the continuing sternum pain. It does not explain my screamy xiphoid process. So, I got some answers, but not all. I am supposed to call him after five consecutive days on the drugs he issued today, to say if I am better or the same. WOW, he expects a result in only 5 days. That alone makes me a little hopeful.
He said, "I know you are in terrible pain, but I also think you are a little mad." I asked if he meant *mad* as in bat-shit crazy, or *mad* as in angry? He laughed. I admitted to both. Being in pain this long without help has made me crazy. Being in pain this long and having doctors who do nothing has certainly made me angry.
I have completely stopped taking Neurontin/Gabapentin, the drug which was responsible for turning me into a floppy rag doll. All along it had not been helping my pain, and Dr. Whackadoo's solution was to increase the doseage, which only made me more clumsy and more floppy. The last thing any myasthenic needs is additional help at being weak (the point Dr. No-Fly, the neurologist, had been trying to make from the get-go).
I have an appointment with Dr. Whackadoo tomorrow. It will most likely be my last visit with him, unless he has received some profound revelation in the past several days, or has miraculously grown wings and stigmata since the last time I saw him.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
DUELING DOCS - A TALE OF TWO TITTIES
At this very moment Dr. Whackadoo and Dr. No-Fly are duking it out over my medications. I wish I could get them in the same room and mediate. No-Fly says Whackadoo's meds are poison. Whackadoo says I must take the crap he's prescribed AS prescribed. I am inclined to agree with
Dr. No-Fly, unfortunately I just can't stop taking these drugs, as much as I'd like to do it.
The subject of today's battle in particular is Neurontin, aka Gabapentin, which has turned me into a rag doll. I'm weak, short of breath with any movement, unable to walk more than 20 feet - plus...THE KNIFE IN MY CHEST IS KILLING ME. How many times do I have to tell them that before someone hears? This drug is obviously not helping my pain. The whole reason Whackadoo exists is to treat pain. Nothing else, just pain.
Let me give you today's pain example: This morning in the bathtub, gingerly wiping *Lefty* with a soapy washrag caused me to scream and gasp for breath. WTF?
Dr. Whackadoo is a small, scrawny man. I could easily crush him with one blow, even in my weakened state. I think constantly about crushing Whackadoo. I think about grinding my heel into his adam's apple after he's hit the floor. Of course, this crushing and grinding does not happen until I've fastened a bulldog binder clip to each of his nipples and given them several twists, so he has a slight inkling of how my chest feels. I'd have to tie him up first because I know he'd never hold still. He's the type that would go all squirmy and piss himself in the face of any threat. That, and I can't run him down due to having the legs of a rag doll. Well-played, Dr. Whackadoo--incapacitate the linebacker-sized woman with drugs BEFORE she does you great bodily harm. Pfft.
I can lay on my couch. I can walk to my bathroom. I can walk into my garage and get in the car. I can feed my dogs and let them out. If it's not boiling hot outside, I can even stand on my patio while the dogs are doing their dog things. I really can't do much else, other than watch life go on around me without being a part of it. So, if some tragic event happens to befall Dr. Whackadoo, I have a perfect alibi. Unless the Memphis PD has a Jedi Mind Trick or Voodoo Department I figure I'm safe. Oh, but a girl can dream...
Dr. No-Fly, unfortunately I just can't stop taking these drugs, as much as I'd like to do it.
The subject of today's battle in particular is Neurontin, aka Gabapentin, which has turned me into a rag doll. I'm weak, short of breath with any movement, unable to walk more than 20 feet - plus...THE KNIFE IN MY CHEST IS KILLING ME. How many times do I have to tell them that before someone hears? This drug is obviously not helping my pain. The whole reason Whackadoo exists is to treat pain. Nothing else, just pain.
Let me give you today's pain example: This morning in the bathtub, gingerly wiping *Lefty* with a soapy washrag caused me to scream and gasp for breath. WTF?
Dr. Whackadoo is a small, scrawny man. I could easily crush him with one blow, even in my weakened state. I think constantly about crushing Whackadoo. I think about grinding my heel into his adam's apple after he's hit the floor. Of course, this crushing and grinding does not happen until I've fastened a bulldog binder clip to each of his nipples and given them several twists, so he has a slight inkling of how my chest feels. I'd have to tie him up first because I know he'd never hold still. He's the type that would go all squirmy and piss himself in the face of any threat. That, and I can't run him down due to having the legs of a rag doll. Well-played, Dr. Whackadoo--incapacitate the linebacker-sized woman with drugs BEFORE she does you great bodily harm. Pfft.
I can lay on my couch. I can walk to my bathroom. I can walk into my garage and get in the car. I can feed my dogs and let them out. If it's not boiling hot outside, I can even stand on my patio while the dogs are doing their dog things. I really can't do much else, other than watch life go on around me without being a part of it. So, if some tragic event happens to befall Dr. Whackadoo, I have a perfect alibi. Unless the Memphis PD has a Jedi Mind Trick or Voodoo Department I figure I'm safe. Oh, but a girl can dream...
Friday, August 24, 2012
Turtling
I've been reminded that it has been some time since I made a post. Permanently losing more than half my entries kind of took the wind out of my blog sail.
I am living day to day, sometimes hour to hour, trying to kick the benny habit. I have made it to half the original dose. I can barely function. I can't sleep. I am ravenously hungry. I am so stressed I can do little other than make short forays away from my house for necessities, not to mention the stupefying heat that is keeping me indoors. My weak little grinch heart cannot take the heat and humidity. I have not unpacked anything and my lawn looks like shit.
Speaking of shit, I have managed to keep the back yard relatively shit free for the simple reason that the super werewolf smelling powers I have developed will not let me tolerate the stink of "barnyard."
I still feel like I have a knife in my chest. My boobs are still killing me. My doctors are still idiots. I am playing the mindless Facebook game, CastleVille, just so I won't kill anyone. Life turtles onward.
I am living day to day, sometimes hour to hour, trying to kick the benny habit. I have made it to half the original dose. I can barely function. I can't sleep. I am ravenously hungry. I am so stressed I can do little other than make short forays away from my house for necessities, not to mention the stupefying heat that is keeping me indoors. My weak little grinch heart cannot take the heat and humidity. I have not unpacked anything and my lawn looks like shit.
Speaking of shit, I have managed to keep the back yard relatively shit free for the simple reason that the super werewolf smelling powers I have developed will not let me tolerate the stink of "barnyard."
I still feel like I have a knife in my chest. My boobs are still killing me. My doctors are still idiots. I am playing the mindless Facebook game, CastleVille, just so I won't kill anyone. Life turtles onward.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Photophobia
At Whackadoo's office today I was straining my dim eyes to see what the hell he was typing into my file while trying not to be noticed at the same time. The only word I could see--get this-- was "photophobic." Har Har! I guess that explains the extreme vitamin D deficiency, the skin whiter than milk (I make milk look gray), and the Transitions lenses in my glasses. Hrmph.
I have the lorazepam thing ironed out for the next 60 days, at which time I'll get a small reduction in the doseage, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
He has quadrupled one of the other drugs I take, Gabapentin, in the meantime. Quadrupled!!! WTF?Gabapentin is the drug responsible for my clumsiness. Great. Just fucking great. I can't wait to fall so often that I just choose to lay on the floor to roll and scoot around the damned house, channelling Eddie Murphy in *Trading Places.* He actually said, "Aww come on, just TRY it. You can always stop taking it." I rolled my photophobic eyes at him. Bastard. I could almost see demon horns sprouting from his forehead.
I'm going to TRY these doseages - I've got nothing to lose. I do have a wheelchair if I need it. It took me a long time to get out of it the last time I got REALLY sick. I'd like to stay out of it. I'd rather shove the Gabapentin up Whackadoo's ass, if need be, than get back in the damned chair. I promised to badger him on the phone if it wasn't working, and I reminded him the neurologist told me to be very careful with Gabapentin.
::drums fingers on desk and dreams of some kind of fluffy, pink, girly, froo-froo drink and a menthol cigarette:: (Mind you, I don't drink or smoke. Shit.)
I have the lorazepam thing ironed out for the next 60 days, at which time I'll get a small reduction in the doseage, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
He has quadrupled one of the other drugs I take, Gabapentin, in the meantime. Quadrupled!!! WTF?Gabapentin is the drug responsible for my clumsiness. Great. Just fucking great. I can't wait to fall so often that I just choose to lay on the floor to roll and scoot around the damned house, channelling Eddie Murphy in *Trading Places.* He actually said, "Aww come on, just TRY it. You can always stop taking it." I rolled my photophobic eyes at him. Bastard. I could almost see demon horns sprouting from his forehead.
I'm going to TRY these doseages - I've got nothing to lose. I do have a wheelchair if I need it. It took me a long time to get out of it the last time I got REALLY sick. I'd like to stay out of it. I'd rather shove the Gabapentin up Whackadoo's ass, if need be, than get back in the damned chair. I promised to badger him on the phone if it wasn't working, and I reminded him the neurologist told me to be very careful with Gabapentin.
::drums fingers on desk and dreams of some kind of fluffy, pink, girly, froo-froo drink and a menthol cigarette:: (Mind you, I don't drink or smoke. Shit.)
Monday, June 11, 2012
Hooked on Bennies
Almost anyone with an ongoing serious illness knows that contracting an infection of some sort, will make the symptoms of the existing condition much worse. The same is true for an extreme allergy attack. What this means for me, in my weakened state, is that a common cold can very easily kill me without the proper intervention and treatment. Over the past month I got a double whammy.
The massive eye infections I was having turned out to be a drug reaction. During the Queen's flotilla I started with giant hives. MISERABLE! The first call I made was to Dr. Whackadoo regarding the hives, since he had dispensed the most recent prescriptions I have, PLUS I know I should not just stop taking all the heart meds I take. The orders were to stop everything and take Benedryl, so I stopped taking Whackadoo's scripts. Yes, my allergic reactions stopped, but what ensued was massive drug withdrawal. I wound up in the ER last Wednesday, since I was certain I was dying. I was absolutely frantic.
I had never before had a problem just stopping opiates/opioids. The problem, by process of elimination, turned out to be lorazepam, AKA "bennies"... apparently one should never just STOP taking this drug. I am going to have to wean off over a period of months. I have been taking it for more than a year. Many of my so called *physical symptoms* are actually side effects of lorazepam. To my horror, I read that withdrawal from this drug can last up to a year and some are never able to successfully stop taking it. I also read that withdrawal symptoms can be life threatening, especially if the individual is not basically healthy. ::sniff:: The hospital sent me home with a script for lorazepam in a higher dose.
I was originally prescribed this drug by the cardiologist who stopped saying "You're going to be OK," quite some time ago. I have a death sentence hanging over my head--an agonizing one. Wound pain has returned....oh probably threefold (on a scale of 1-10 I am at 27.) Can't take a breath without wanting to scream. I wonder how long I can last like this? This is the first day I have been fully lucid. I am not certain lucidity is the best option.
The massive eye infections I was having turned out to be a drug reaction. During the Queen's flotilla I started with giant hives. MISERABLE! The first call I made was to Dr. Whackadoo regarding the hives, since he had dispensed the most recent prescriptions I have, PLUS I know I should not just stop taking all the heart meds I take. The orders were to stop everything and take Benedryl, so I stopped taking Whackadoo's scripts. Yes, my allergic reactions stopped, but what ensued was massive drug withdrawal. I wound up in the ER last Wednesday, since I was certain I was dying. I was absolutely frantic.
I had never before had a problem just stopping opiates/opioids. The problem, by process of elimination, turned out to be lorazepam, AKA "bennies"... apparently one should never just STOP taking this drug. I am going to have to wean off over a period of months. I have been taking it for more than a year. Many of my so called *physical symptoms* are actually side effects of lorazepam. To my horror, I read that withdrawal from this drug can last up to a year and some are never able to successfully stop taking it. I also read that withdrawal symptoms can be life threatening, especially if the individual is not basically healthy. ::sniff:: The hospital sent me home with a script for lorazepam in a higher dose.
I was originally prescribed this drug by the cardiologist who stopped saying "You're going to be OK," quite some time ago. I have a death sentence hanging over my head--an agonizing one. Wound pain has returned....oh probably threefold (on a scale of 1-10 I am at 27.) Can't take a breath without wanting to scream. I wonder how long I can last like this? This is the first day I have been fully lucid. I am not certain lucidity is the best option.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Purple Martin
Wow, I saw my first ever purple martin today on my patio. There are at least a pair of them flitting around my house, and they seem to like my roof for some reason. For the past couple weeks, I'd see them dart out of the corner of my eye, but they wouldn't hold still long enough for me to identify. When the male landed on the patio, I finally realized what it was. I've seen many a purple martin house, but never a purple martin.
I know this might not seem like such a big deal, but it kind of IS a big deal. They are becoming scarce, apparently. Whole flocks will migrate to Brazil for the winter and not return. They're suspected of being poisoned, or somehow killed when they overwinter because fewer and fewer are returning each year.
I know this might not seem like such a big deal, but it kind of IS a big deal. They are becoming scarce, apparently. Whole flocks will migrate to Brazil for the winter and not return. They're suspected of being poisoned, or somehow killed when they overwinter because fewer and fewer are returning each year.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Shaking in my Imaginary Boots
I'm afraid. Constantly. Like shaking in my boots afraid (I can't get my boots on since my legs are too swollen). I have mostly resigned myself to pain. Unless I can totally sedate myself the pain never goes away - not with the measly pills I get. It has been a whole year and I'm not any better. The only thing that IS going to lessen is the amount and type of pills I get.
What I haven't resigned myself to is the lack of breath that goes along with the pain. For instance, walk to the car = chest pain + gasping for breath + leg pain, and all this combined = huge fear.
I am going to try to scrape some poop out of the yard before it gets too hot. I have been told to not go outside when the temp is 80 or above. Apparently heat puts added stress on my tiny black grinch heart. So as soon as it gets light outside, I'll be out there with my shovel and rake. I pretend they are diamonds and I'm prospecting. (I have to pretend SOMETHING or this little yard would overflow in no time.
I try to plan to do one thing a day. It's hell when that one thing involves crap. Maybe someday I'll work up to two things.
What I haven't resigned myself to is the lack of breath that goes along with the pain. For instance, walk to the car = chest pain + gasping for breath + leg pain, and all this combined = huge fear.
I am going to try to scrape some poop out of the yard before it gets too hot. I have been told to not go outside when the temp is 80 or above. Apparently heat puts added stress on my tiny black grinch heart. So as soon as it gets light outside, I'll be out there with my shovel and rake. I pretend they are diamonds and I'm prospecting. (I have to pretend SOMETHING or this little yard would overflow in no time.
I try to plan to do one thing a day. It's hell when that one thing involves crap. Maybe someday I'll work up to two things.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Dammit
Everything I have written from December 12, 2011 to May 25,2012 is missing. I don't know how it happened - it just happened. Shit. It was massive amounts of stuff... an ass-load of bad haiku and gut spillage just out the window with the bathwater AND the baby.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Another Crappy Day in Paradise
I have have developed clumsiness. Not the ordinary bump into someone in the hallway clumsiness, or drop your fork at the lunch counter restaurant. This is drop your entire place setting, manage to fall in someones lap while spilling his fishbowl margarita all over the women next to him, just as the waiter comes with lava-hot plates of fajitas and flings them at random people in my general vicinity
I either fill my coffee, tea, or soda too full outright, or sometimes I just don't wait to dribble it over to my chair -- sometimes I just throw it into my lap immediately. Did I mention I've been falling down a lot? I mean a lot. So much so that I wish I had my own personal chiropractor? My stupid legs look like overripe bananas.
I either fill my coffee, tea, or soda too full outright, or sometimes I just don't wait to dribble it over to my chair -- sometimes I just throw it into my lap immediately. Did I mention I've been falling down a lot? I mean a lot. So much so that I wish I had my own personal chiropractor? My stupid legs look like overripe bananas.
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