Tonight was The Menzingers at Union Transfer in Philly (awesome set, nice venue) with Mewithoutyou (great performance) and two other bands…one I missed because they closed a road in Fairmont Park and put up no signs causing mass chaos and delaying us. Got to hang out with Lizz and Blaine and had a mostly painless night. It was a rough day emotionally, so I’ll take the absence of any kind of pain.
Picture it – 2am, there I was, driving home in the rain, Andy passed out in the passenger’s seat. I was listening to the Jealous Sound, enjoying the dark, wet night, singing (or wailing as some might say) when I notice something that looks like a leaf crossing the road. It bounced 3 times before it I realized it was no leaf, it was a frog. A very brave frog who decided to cross the road. She was just a wee thing. But it reminded me that life is tough and all, but it’s got cute little surprises now and again. A brief bit of joy in the night. AND then I saw a second one. Double happiness. Two tough little buggers.
But because I am me, I immediately thought perhaps this is the apocalypse, and it’s raining frogs? Or does it rain blood? I forget.
In other news, I bought a panda suit today. Because life is too short to not have a panda suit. Really I just wanted the head, but apparently all the available panda heads are just ugly. I can’t wait to sit on the porch and wave to cars.
And I’m thankful.
And now, I’m going to crawl into bed, and watch last season of Vikings again. Goodnight pumpkins, Dr. is Monday, so I’ll be back soon.
Well here it is, Tuesday. I feel like I have slept most of this month away. I am up and awake now, before 10 am, out of bed, which is crazy, because the only reason I was getting out of bed before 10 am for the last three weeks was for dr. appointments and to puke. It feels strange and wonderful, and shaky. I’m craving a mint hot chocolate, but today is shower day, which I can’t take until Andy is awake to do a new bandage on my back.
So what’s new in my world? Lots and nothing. I’ve been down with the sickness pretty much every day. I feel better one day, and think I can actually be social and do things, and then someone is unknowingly carrying a rare virus that is usually defeated quickly by your immune system until it gets to me, and then hello, it’s a human with very little resistance, let’s dance. I am sure I’ve endured the black death the last few days, and probably some extinct pox. I’ve puked more in the last 30 days that I have in my whole entire life. And that’s with using appropriate nausea control techniques. And the things I have puked in and on are countless! Plus let’s not forget that tube in my back that gives me an added thrill every time my automatic nervous system spasms. It’s good times.
The tube in my kidney. What a pleasure source that bad boy is! I did get a mini-reprieve with it, though. When I went in for my tube change, I laid down my case for why it should come out, and almost won. But using logic, my plan was confounded. We agreed to leave a tube in, capping it off, sans the pee bag, for two weeks – if my kidney goes back to doing it’s job without complaint, then they will pull it. In the meantime, I’ve discovered the sweet spot on my hip where I need to place my hand when I need to cough, sneeze or breathe deeply, so I am not thwarted by pain.
But let’s talk about pain. Last Wednesday, I went in to interventional radiology to have the tube change done. I took a couple oxy and some medicinal herbiage before the ride so I’d be more comfortable when I got there. I was. Then they promised me some more medicine, when they did the procedure. Unlike the draining of the cyst, I don’t believe they give you any medication to help you be drowsy. No, they are very kind to you, promising pain relief until they wheel your ass in the procedure room. Then they tell you to get on your stomach, put your arms above your head and trust they will not hurt you. They lie. First they start poking you in the back with needles they claim are local anesthetics. Just a pinch they say. Just a pinch. Just a pinch of the claw of giant crustacean tearing into your flesh like it intends to eat you. I stay surprisingly still for the first two shots. Then the third hits a nerve or something and I elevate three feet from the table and mutter “ouch”. I think the team realizes that they might have hurt me. Now, I am shaking from the pain, and it’s freezing in there, so I shake for the rest of the procedure. They took out the old tubing and put a smaller less cumbersome tube apparatus in there. They did a really good job with the bandage. I get to roll back on my back and go to recovery. I’ve done really well they tell me. I just want to go home. They must have given me fentynal at some point because I’m mostly not in pain now. I get dressed and they even let me walk up to meet Andy.
I was hungry. I wanted one of those turkey and cranberry sandwiches from Panera. I went in with Andy at first, but realized I needed to be back in the car, so I gave him my order and went outside. He brought out the goods and I ate a cookie and some lemonade. I thought I was going to be fine. Just not really hungry. The sandwich could wait. Then the meds started to wear off. I didn’t bring any with me. In the next ten minutes, my pain went from 2 to 2.4 trillion. Every inch from my waist to my neck on the right side of my body was a fucking minefield of pain. I do not exaggerate when I say that speaking hurt me. Breathing hurt. Coughing was some primitive torture activity. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t talk, I could only whimper like I was hit by a car and left alongside the road to die. I wanted to die. I wanted fucking morphine.
Finally we go home, I thought I was going to be okay. Then I tried to get out of the car and walk into the house. Every fucking step was a new adventure in torment. I got in the house, and faced the steps where my safe bed and vial of oxy were waiting for me just a few hundred steps away. And every step found me crying and moaning and doubting that I would ever get to the bed. But I did. I shoved some oxy in my mouth, and advil, and tried to smoke but couldn’t really inhale. Then I tried to lie down. That was not easy. I literally had to throw myself down on my right side and not move from that position. I told Andy if I didn’t get some relief in an hour, that we would need to call an ambulance. I was having really bad pain in my chest and back and I was scared it was serious. But I also tore cartilage in my chest before and it often would be painful if I was in a position that pulled at it again, so it could have also been that. I was hoping it was that. I nodded off for an hour and when I woke, I wasn’t in as much pain, so that was good. I was still paralyzed and unable to move, but I was no longer in fear of imminent death. Another four hours of sleep and I was almost able to move. By morning, I could actually sit up. A few more hours, and I could walk. Things were improving.
I couldn’t make my appointment with palliative care. Reschedule. I didn’t have the strength or the energy. I had to blow off the Bouncing Souls show that I was so looking forward to. I shouldn’t complain, my kidney was working and I could move and most of the time, breathe. I was still having trouble coughing and sneezing. Then the black wave of depression crept into the space where pain had been hanging out in my brain, and down, down, down, way fucking down, we went. If you don’t have depression, you can’t understand. I try to make it as visual for the untainted as I can, and this was like the La Brea tar pits of depression and I was a fucking woolly mammoth. It was all over except for suffocation. That sucking quicksand of sorrow ate me up, and the crying started. Without belaboring the incessant crying and snot-blowing, let’s just say thoughts during the breakdown run from “I’ve failed as a mother, and Andy will hate me for the rest of his life” to “what the fuck have I done with my life?” to “I’ll never get that PhD, great work dumbass.” Until you really spend a lot of time reflecting on your life and the possibility of a very short future, you can never understand that level of sorrow or failure. People can tell you otherwise for hours, but you can tear any positive self image down to smoldering ash in a matter of minutes when you start to consider things that will most likely never happen because there’s just not enough time. I’m just now starting to realize the psychological impact this disease has on me. I keep it together most days, but when this shit crumbles, it goes down hard and and fast.
I hate to keep harping on this but I feel I have to remind people that I write this to sort through what is in my head more than anything else. If the details of this fucking monster inside me helps someone else, I am thrilled, but writing is always for me. I love that people read it, I love that people comment on it, but I love the way I feel drained and empty when I stop writing, like all the shit that swirls in my head has finally been released or at least organized. Writing also scares me – when I see what I have only been thinking appear on the page it’s like tearing off a scab and wondering if it is ever going to stop bleeding. How raw this gets depends on how much pain I am in when I write – and sometimes I hold back because I can’t face another entry that is just all about my grief, and I know I shouldn’t. I can’t – because there’s no where else I can go with this. I know there are therapists, and I know I have friends, but let’s be honest here, very few people pour out what is really inside to anyone else, because we all want to keep our pain, our shame, our fears hidden. If you don’t, I admire you – I know I have secrets no one will ever know.
So now it’s evening – I went out for a bit today in the car. Visited work until I started to feel nauseous and then took a ride and spent some time in a cemetery until I felt better. Then I drove and cried and screamed and came home exhausted. Smoked my nausea away, and hoped for sleep, but no, my feet are twitchy and my legs are restless and so is my brain. Part of it is knowing that next Monday we’ll be talking treatment and progression (or hopefully, lack of progression) of this stupid C-monster and the damn pufferfish. And as many of you know, my friends are hosting a benefit for me on November 7th here. Some of my oldest and dearest friends from California are flying in and I am thrilled – it’s going to be amazing to see them all again. And I am sure many of my dear friends that live here will also be there and I am so blessed and grateful that they are doing this for me, but there’s a huge part of me that realized just now that it’s like saying goodbye to my loved ones and I don’t know that I am ready for that. I know that sounds negative, because anything can happen, and I do believe that, but I am also very much a realist who prepares for the worst, and the very thought of maybe never seeing them again after that weekend tears my fucking heart out. Just like every day that I wonder if I have told Andy every thing I want him to know – and hope that he knows that he changed my life and I love him more than I have loved anyone in my life. That, my friends, is my nightly terror – leaving my son alone in this world. I don’t care about anything else. I just want to make sure that my baby is going to be okay and that he knows how sorry I am that all this has landed in his lap during the time of his life when he should be discovering what he loves and who he is and he’s stuck taking care of me. And the tears flow again.
I was trying so hard to keep this light and fucking positive and I can see that that has been a huge fail. So much is undone. And you’ll think to yourself, well get out there and do it! And the reality is that there are somethings you don’t just “go out and do.” When faced with what you are going to do, you have to let go of the dreams you had that can’t possibly fulfill because it’s just not possible. And you grieve for all of them. So much grieving. And even as I type this I’m trying to self-talk myself calm – I want to bolt and stop writing because it hurts so much. But this kind of pain is progress. Unlike the physical pain – which is nothing more than annoying. And at this point, more of an annoyance than a hindrance. There’s that at least.
Well, I am spent for tonight. I’ve tried to enhance this post with some cemetery pictures from today. It didn’t work. Maybe I didn’t save them in the right format. Who knows. The featured image was supposed to be this crazy tree that is way at the back of a pretty hidden entrance to a cemetery I frequent. It always has artificial flowers attached to it. And it’s updated regularly for the season. I like to sneak into the cemetery that way so I can check out the tree. People don’t appreciate the subtle beauty hiding in the places most people ignore. I’m always going to find my happy in an interesting cemetery. It’s like water is to my soul. Maybe Saturday when we go to Philly, I can convince Andy that we need a stop at Laurel Hill…it’s such a beautiful place in the fall. Just so I can take a drive through and enjoy the trees and death and decay. I am going to head to sleep, so I wish you sweet dreams, cupcakes. Thank you and come again.
21 October 15 | Categories: c-monster, Philosophizings, Profound Insights, Random Rambling | Tags: afterlife, anxiety, benefit, cancer, cemetery, chemotherapy, cyst, death, depression, driving, endometrial cancer, fear, flying monkeys, friends, gratitude, pufferfish, sick, sleep, sorrow, tumor | Leave a comment
I made myself get out of bed and shower this morning. Blame the sun, all warm and golden, blasting through the multiple blankets that I use as curtains during the winter (over the real curtains) to block out the delightful breeze that cools my head which comes through these old windows in my bedroom. (also the reason I can hear every dog-damned word that is spoken/yelled/chattered in the street outside which is why I am sitting here typing instead of sleeping because I took two pills to try and sleep and no sooner than I was sliding into blissful opiate dreamland, inconsiderate people arrived home at 11:30 and had to make sure they slammed ever fucking car and house door they could find while merrily chattering all the way, and ruined that attempt.) So here we are.
In truth, I was going to write this entry early. Then I didn’t because I was consumed by a wave of darkness and to avoid contemplating the sucking blackness, I took a nap. However, after showering, I decided I needed to waste half of a tank of gas and get out in that sunshine and try and dispel the gloom that is wrapping itself around me like a blanket with static cling. I tossed on some sweats, a hoodie, and flipflops, because it is spring you know, and was at least 35 degrees, and out I went. I plugged the phone in for music, and then headed out to the valley. Driving around mindlessly while singing loudly always seems to sort things out, one way or another, so drive it was. I decided I wanted a peanut butter milkshake and a hot dog from Sonic, so I headed in that direction. Of course, my music of choice was loud and fast, as it usually is, unless I am trying to enhance a black mood, when we turn to something in the way of Elliott Smith. But today I needed to sing loudly about pain and depression and sorrow, past regrets and hopelessness, which would also be Elliott Smith, but without the painful plaintiff beauty of his chords. When I hit the quarter mile on the Brandonville Road, I laid my foot down on the gas as took it as it was meant to be driven, easing up as I hit the decline. It felt so good to be out, with the sunroof open, and have that minute or so with nothing more on my mind but that feeling of speed and screaming the lyrics to “Keep Falling Down” loudly, frightening the birds and friendly woodland creatures in earshot.
One good thing about winter is that it covers a lot of sins. Like garbage. Now that the snow is melting and everything is still dead dead dead, all the trash so carelessly tossed out the windows of cars is heaped along the roadside in the little streams of melting snow that run along the road, and around dead deer carcasses. Carcasses, carcassi? Whatever. The Ringtown/Brandonville valley roads are beautiful in spring, summer and fall. In winter, they leave something to be desired. Driving them brings up a lot of memories – from trips to the dairy to get milk with my dad and siblings, driving past the first home I ever knew but can’t remember at the #5 damn, picnics at Stauffer’s park when my parents would spend the day arguing and the kids getting splinters from the rickety old wooden merry-go-round, summer vacations “back home” when I was living in California when we would drive all day, cooler in the back, listening to a mix of Springsteen and Led Zeppelin, and top 40 and that new “punk” music I brought with me from California, and late night drives with quarts of beer between our thighs, laughing and carefree. And hours of driving and thinking. It’s my go to to try and sort shit out, just like driving the coast in California was – well not exactly, because well, oceans make everything better, right, whole. But drive I did. To Sonic. Got my milkshake and some popcorn chicken with barbecue sauce because I hadn’t eaten yet to day. And which I later regretted, because it wasn’t really chicken per se, just some chicken like substance with coating. Should have just stuck with the milkshake.
Anyway, as I drove I noticed that many more homes in the area are littered with shit. No other way to describe it, because it’s just like extra stuff that people own that they won’t throw away but have nowhere to store it so it’s just outside their houses in different states of decay. And I started thinking about whether the outside reflects the inside, or if these people don’t care how their house looks, and when did we start being so concerned with collecting so much stuff that we don’t even have enough places to store it. I always used to envy the houses in the valley because they were so neat and tidy, so pretty, and always wished I could live there, to be away from our too small, too old, too mismatched house. To play in a yard with grass. To not be surrounded with ugly black coal banks everywhere (for you young ‘uns, there was a time when our little town was in the midst of gaping scar of strip mining, surrounded by slate banks – much of that is covered with trees and shrubs now). The valley was where all the happy people must live. Now, I’m not so sure.
Anyway, in my critical analysis of what these signs of decay and garbage mean to society as a whole, I realized it was spring. And spring means robins. I must now find a robin. (Fact: Robins, while not seen much in the winter, do not migrate, they just stay huddled together for warmth. When spring comes, they emerge to seek food – robins are individualistic birds. They only get together to mate and survive winters).
This is now a quest. There are crows. Hawks. Geese. Red-winged blackbirds. Sparrows. Chickadees. No robins. (or bluebirds, for that matter) Where are the robins? I am not going home until I find one. As I continue to meander, I drive past places with memories, still trying to deal with all that is going on in my head. I figure that cemeteries, with their vast open spaces, will be a prime source of robin findage. I head in that direction. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spot a red breast, but I am driving way too fast to clearly confirm robin sightage. I am fairly certain that it was one, but until I can definitively confirm that it was robin, we shall continue to drive.
People who know me, know that cemeteries are like one of my favorite places in the world. I love the peace and sanctuary of cemeteries. Unfortunately, and in my opinion, oddly, the cemeteries are still mostly snow covered despite the last two days of sun, and their clear open spaces with direct sunlight. Much of the snow elsewhere is melted, but not really in the cemeteries. And no robins. I do notice a tombstone of a friend’s husband – her name is on it too, waiting for her. I think how odd, that your space is already reserved. Not that I don’t have plans for my own death rituals (which some of you will now be please to know, no longer include Andy having to chop up my body for the vultures to eat for a traditional sky burial, but do now include my ashes being made into bottle rockets and other firecrackers that can be launched into the sky). I am also looking for a trash can now as well as robins, to get rid of the evidence that I have been to Sonic. I check three different cemeteries, and nope, no robins. Just crows.
I’ve been driving for a little more than two hours now. I have managed to negotiate the roads well, missing all of the deepest and widest potholes. I feel bad for feeling sorry for myself just because I have cancer, since my drive has reminded me that many of my friends have recently suffered tragic losses in their lives and illnesses in their own families, and that there are people who live in countries that have no electricity or water. Some watch their families slaughter or live in countries at war where their homes could be torn apart by missiles or a tank at any moment. And here I am whining about having cancer. I need to be slapped. Don’t get me wrong, I am still depressed. I still feel hopeless, and scared and angry. But I am starting to see that it’s not as bad as it is for some people in this world. I decided I am going to take one more road to see if I can find robins, and then head home. My world is dark right now, but I’ll get through it. I’ve been through darker and more painful times, I’ve faced fear before. I just wallow a few days and get over it. But first, I need that robin.
I drive past the spring where we’d get water in the summer and wash cars and drink beer alongside the road outside of Brandonville. I remember being very stoned and listening to the Cars debut album over and over. And being very wet. We washed a lot of cars there when we were teenagers. And drank a lot of beer. I cruise through Mahanoy City, remembering a time when it was a pretty town, much like Shenandoah used to be, but now is just old and tired, full of rotting/abandoned/decrepit/burned out buildings, and covered in the grime of the coal region. I drive out towards Frackville, past the prison, and co-gen plants, sad that this is what’s left for this area. And then I see it. A fucking robin. No mistaking it this time. A fucking robin. Mission Accomplished. It’s all hopping around, looking for food on a partially snow covered lawn. Boom.
And I headed home.
Now I’m here. I am not sure how I feel, but I know I’m going to work tomorrow because I already promised to cover intake for someone since it’s Monday and they need to be in court. And I’ll be there Wednesday, because it’s a morale event, and I said I would bring cream cheese. Thursday we are headed to Pittsburgh to see Off With Their Heads play and stay at my brother’s condo. Friday, we are going to the Warhol Museum, and I don’t know what else. Saturday, we are going to see Pennywise in Philadelphia. Now this may seem like an expensive week, but the tickets for OWTH were only $12, and the condo is free. Pennywise tickets were only $25, and Andy is paying for those as well as for the Warhol Museum. We need to do something fun, to get us out of this rut we are both in. Fortunately, we like many of the same bands, so it’s something we can do together. So at least I have something to look forward to this week – and next week is…drum roll….CHEMO and another stretch of being confined to my bed for a week while I try to like the way water tastes. Life could be worse, and that is what I am hanging on to. Because when I lie in bed, tossing, it seems like there’s not but a black hole that’s sucking me in.
My friends, it appears that most of the neighbors have finally gone to bed, and the next sound to wake me up with be newspaper delivery in about 4 hours. Fortunately I had a nap this afternoon. Tomorrow is work, and more blood tests (it’s CA125 test day) and I get two stickers this time, because last time someone was in the sticker room when I was done my blood draw, and I couldn’t get one. I will have to share a pic of my prizes in the “no sticker, no blood” collection. I’ve got all kinds now, and will have to start another sheet soon. Hopefully, blood sucking will be followed by dinner with my shark sister Ashley at this Himalayan restaurant we both want to try. So there are things to look forward too. Life doesn’t suck that hard, I guess.
The itching of my eyes indicates I should rest, particularly since I still don’t know where my glasses are. Hopefully, writing tonight will keep me from too much tossing and turning. Sleep well my loves, and pleasant dreams to you all, and happy Monday. Be a busy worker bee.
23 March 15 | Categories: c-monster, Philosophizings, Profound Insights, Random Rambling | Tags: amusement, annoyances, anxiety, bald, blackness, cancer, carnivorous kangaroo, chemo, chemotherapy, death, doctors, dreams, driving, fear, flying monkeys, hope, life, road trip, robin, sadness, sick, sleep, snow., sorrow, spring, sun | Leave a comment
Today was Dr. Day. Most people think that Hershey is the sweetest place on Earth. That is true. It is also a site of untold torture. Most people don’t know that. I am reminded of that on Dr. Day. But, before we dive into today’s adventure in the dark chambers of pain at HMC – let’s talk about Raptors.
Raptors. The bird, not the dino kind. Hawks in particular. Over the last 15 years, I have driven along the stretch of interstate 81 from Frackville to Hershey at least a thousand times. It’s how I get to the Dr, how I took Andy back and forth to the Milt, and how I commuted every day for 4 years to Penn State Harrisburg to finish my BA and MA degrees. Not to mention, sometimes I drove it for fun. And to work, when I worked at the shelter. Over the last few years, I’ve begun noticing hawks. In fact, before I was laid off at the shelter, I used to see this one hawk every day. So I looked up what seeing hawks meant: Harbingers of Change. And change they brought. Without rehashing that whole period of my life, things changed and radically, and while it was all ultimately for the better, it didn’t come without a whole lot of pain.
As you might guess, I have become less of a fan of hawks than I used to be. In fact, on my travels along 81, I kind of try not to see any hawks. Not that I am afraid of change, because I’m okay with it – it’s just that I don’t need any cataclysmic change at the moment. So, no hawk=no change. So there I am, cruising along 81, in the Subee, ipod blasting its way through all my music alphabetically, my delightful singing accompanying most of the it, my lead foot motivated by the music to travel well about the speed limit, only slowing at known state police hidey spots. (side note: two days of listening to the ipod and I am only at I in my alphabetic quest) I am consciously trying NOT to see hawks. It may seem simple to you, but dearlings, I have to pass an area near the location known as HAWK MOUNTAIN. Which, as the name implies, is lush with hawks. But clear the danger area I do. I slip off at my exit and head along the country road that takes me to Hershey. Of course there’s a 114 year old person in the car ahead of me, thus crushing my ETA. So as I try desperately to not stress over the fact that the ancient ahead of me is driving the actual speed limit, I look out the window. There on my right, in this otherwise naked field is what? A pterodactyl? A mangalista? A komodo dragon? No, of course not! It’s a damn hawk. Standing in the field, its cold empty eyes drilling into my very soul, is a giant hawk. Not in the air, not in a tree, not on a branch, just staring at me! HAWK! And at that moment I know what it is feasting on is the peace in my life. Monster. So when my life goes belly up in a few weeks, remember that we all knew this was coming. The soul eater stood in that field and laughed at me as if to say “haha bitch, there’s no escape.” Way to go Mr. Hawk…way to turn my happy morning into a trip down anxiety avenue.
(Interlude: It is fucking midnight…why are people blowing their fucking horns out in front of my house? The vampire babies are silent, let’s not rile them up.)
Anyway, before you get to hear all about my Dr. Day, let’s learn about the Mangalista. Is this a cocktail? A foreign dance? A game show on the Spanish channel? No! It’s a sheep pig. See…here’s pictures:
A mangalista is a curly haired pig. They come in blonde and red. Piglets are striped. They were originally bred for their lard, but since lard is not used as much (and that’s a damn shame), they kind of became forgotten…but are making a comeback because they are rather tasty…their meat is tasty like beef and according to some sources, their fat is the tastiest pig fat EVAH! They are now being bred for more and more eating…so cute as they are, they are equally tasty! But since I am going to try to eat healthier, I guess I won’t be enjoying a mangalista sandwich anytime soon.
And talking about health provides an ideal segue into Dr. Day. Yes, I spent ALL of Friday at Hershey Medical Center. First in radiology for a good boobie mashing mammogram and chest xray, then a super awesome ride in my favorite CT meatslicers with that mean pink toy story bear sticker on it, and a nice flush of dye, then onto the lab for blood work.
I arrived at the empty lab with my IV port still in my arm so the vampires could just fill up their little snack tubes without having to stick me all over again. Public Service Announcement: It is far less painful to be stuck a second time than to have them have to pull the tape off the IV port to remove it from your arm. I would have preferred having my skin peeled away instead of the tape. And since I still have good veins, it would have been pretty quick and painless to just poke into my arm again but noooo, I thought leaving the port in was a good idea. Not so. However, it was amusing to see the blood shoot out of my arm with such force that it blew one of the snack tubes right off the little tube that fills it with blood and to watch the phlebotomistvampire have to try and catch it before it hit the ground.
After the lab, I had a two hour break which I used to go to Books-a-Million. It was delightful to see both Ann Coulter’s and Sarah Palin’s books in the dollar bin. I fought back the urge to buy them just to burn them. As is common, I spent far too much time getting lost in a bookstore that I had to dash back to the Med Center as so not to be late for my appointment with Dr. Doogette. Of course I tried singing loudly to calm myself down before I got there…but alas, even though I was early, when the nice nurse took my blood pressure it was ludicrously high (I just realized I used Ludicrous and High in the same sentence, hahaha) like..162/86 or something, and I knew the battle would be on. I also gained five pounds. Like I needed that. But after cookiepalooza, what could I expect? In comes Dr. Doogette – and we do a little dance around the obvious reason I am here…she wants to medicate me and I don’t want it. She makes a good case, and says she needs to talk to her attending first, but I throw down the gauntlet. Send me a new nurse and take it again, and if it is still high, I will concede, but if not, we will not speak of meds again! In comes the nurse and I tell her why she is taking it again, and I tell her what numbers we are shooting for…I tell her we would like a 130/80 or even a 137/over 80ish. She seems stunned when she reads the numbers…132/80. NORMAL. Not even slightly high. Normal. I win. I send her off to tell Dr. Doogette before she comes back with her prescription pad.
When Dr. Doogette returns, she brings her attending with her, Dr. Reilly. He says…I think the problem is when you walk in here, and not with your heart. So we’ll ask you to come back in a month, and in the mean time, take your own blood pressure at home. We’re sorry for causing you stress and we promise not to speak of the pills anymore in range of your heart. And I am pleased, and give them my forgiveness. But I still have to go back in a month. So when I go to my oncology check-up. I also have to go to the PCP.
In other medical news, I did get the results of my blood work back. My thyroid is horribly low which explains my desire to hibernate daily, and the fact that my skin is so dry you would think I am a mummy. Everything else looks pretty normal despite the fact that I have enough blubber to provide heat and light to a small village of Eskimos for a winter. No high blood sugars, no high cholesterol, nada. I am sure there will be another visit to the vampire’s nest in February, and probably another chest x-ray. I won’t get any of the scan reports until I see Dr. Kesterson, so in the meantime, we should all hope that the little alien that still resides in the cavern where my breeding apparatus once lived has not grown at all in the last four months. Since it’s there, and no one is quite sure what it is at this point, there’s no reason to poke at it unless it grows. I want my unknown mass to stay the way it is. I only hope it’s not a watch or engagement ring or sponge that was left behind. Or a tumor. I’d definitely prefer it to not be a tumor.
I hope my lack of having anything to do on a Saturday night besides make myself sick eating pizza and blogging has kept you entertained. I did get myself a new sexy pair of green crocodile/snake reading glasses so I can actually see what I am typing. Tomorrow I’m spending the day in bed with my new book, and the Sunday morning news shows. At this time I would like to warn you that I am going to work much harder at eating healthy in the next few weeks, and as often happens when one does this, you will probably be subject to my new zeal for foods I would normally avoid and/or be forced to view pictures of my awesome salads. My goal is to reduce my blubber stores from walrus to manatee before the next winter sets in. And now, I need to rest some more, because an object at rest tends to stay at rest…dog forbid, I set myself into motion.
Dobranoc kochanie przyjaciele, spać mocno i nie daj pluskwy gryzą! (hint: it’s polish) xo
19 January 14 | Categories: Picture Perfect, Profound Insights, Random Rambling | Tags: blood pressure, books, cancer, ct scans, diagnosis, doctors, driving, flying monkeys, hawks, komodo dragon, mangalista, pterodactyl, zero to hero blog, zerotohero | Leave a comment