Rock-A-Bye Wiseass

My doctor told me to go home & go to bed. He told me it was critical that I lie down and let my body recooperate. That was over 3 weeks ago.

I wonder when he meant for me to get up?

Sure I get up to go to the bathroom, go to the kitchen to scavenge for anything to eat, and I get up to taxi my daughter to/from school. I also get up to look for the TV remote, the cordless phone and to print off sassy mouthed documents to fax to one or both of my current docs.

The TV remote & the phone are usually in bed with me – and the printer & fax machine are now on a TV tray at the foot of my bed, so I generally don’t have too go far. If I could just get a mini fridge – fully stocked with all the necessary snack foods to fit on my nightstand, AND if I could get either my neighbor or friends to pick up on the hints about taxi-ing my kid all around the neighborhood – I could just lie in bed all the time…..and rot into nothingness.

Since it’s been quite a while since I’ve updated, let me fill you in on lots of bullshit. Grab a Coke or something -- this one is gonna take awhile.

Today's Menu
Unforgettable
Aloha!
Sleep Nazis
Staying Calm
How Clean is Your Chocolate?

Unforgettable
In early July, my best girlfriend’s daughter got married on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. My best friend….we’ll call her “JJ” has been more like a big sister to me over the last 15+/- years. (I don’t want to count up how many years we’ve been really good friends because any number over 15 makes me feel quite old – as in, ‘I can’t possibly be old enough to say that my 20th high school reunion just passed, and again, I was not invited to it…’ I’m much too young to say such things.)

Anyway, because JJ & I have been like sisters, her children have been my honorary neice & nephews. As the honorary aunt, I was certainly very excited that JJ’s daughter, Jen, was going to get married to a fine young man. When I finally met him, he passed the verbal portion of my quiz; and he tolerated am ample amount of embarrassment caused by yours truly at the couple’s shower…and he took it like a man, so I therefore gave him my 2 thumbs up, as if my approval really mattered to anyone at all.

As the day of their nuptials approached, I found myself increasingly excited about the event, and then I was buried under increasing anxiety because it meant that my daughter & I would have to go TO THE DAMN MALL to find some fancy ass wedding clothes, as this was not just your typical Southern cake & punch wedding. NO. These are people from the North – and they KNOW how to throw a decent wedding. This was a $30+ dollar a plate reception dinner with liquor and dancing.

Normally, I would really look forward to the liquor and dancing part as that combination usually appeals to me. However, in my current state of health, I thought at the very most I would raise a glass of champagne to toast the couple and maybe have one slow dance with my husband. I knew that scenario would be just fine for hubby, as it would be a much cheaper scenario for him & because he really doesn’t like to dance anyway.

It was important to me that both my daughter & I look our best for this huge gala event – especially since we’d probably be in photos….and because there would be an old boyfriend (or two)of mine at the wedding, as well as brothers/friends of my old boyfriends. And even though I couldn’t care less about them personally, there’s that part of me that doesn’t want to feel like they were the ‘lucky’ ones. I wanted to think they felt some small sense of regret for letting such a beautiful, vivacious gal go – despite the fact that I was now old, fat, and sicker than your average gal receiving Social Security.

I wanted to look better than they did, and I don’t think that’s an unnatural thought, even if it is something my husband says he can’t understand. Even though they don’t admit to it, you and I all know that men talk – and they’d be more than happy to talk about how old & fat I had become....so I wanted to try to look as sexy & youthful as I could possibly look without looking like an old, fat tramp trying to look young. It was a daunting task.

Shopping for our outfits almost did my ass in. I thought I just might die right there in the JC Penney dressing room one day. But fortunately I had brought another friend to help us through the drama of shopping and to get my ass home & back in bed before the need for paramedics.


For this event, I found this beautiful ruffly pink see thru top – elegant, yet slightly sexy; and this really great black cami to wear underneath. The cami practically had boobs built right in, as well as an underwire to help keep what little boobs I own and my armpit fat pulled up nicely into the bra area. If you didn’t look down past my boobs - - you’d think I was definitely “HOT”. It was a ‘hooray’ for me.

However, if you happened to look down, then you’d also see that a little more girdle type action on the cami would have been preferred – but you can’t have everything. I don’t know why you can’t have everything because it’s not like that idea is rocket science – but most of the clothes out there are for skinny bitches, despite the fact that our American population is literally busting at its seams with slightly overweight people. (“Slightly overweight” equals those of us that weigh about 50 pounds or less over our ideal weight. Of course the ideal weight is to be a skinny ass 100 pound bitch – which is really unreasonable, so I’ll adjust the numbers to account for the ludicrous idea that I would ever weigh under 120 again….so “slightly” overweight is now “70 pounds or less….” ) I digress.

OK – so underneath my boob-age area is fat – and lots of it. And NO, believe me I tried to pull it up and into the bra but my ribs refused to tolerate such nonsense.

But all was OK because I had a great, strong girdle to wear underneath the beautiful black tea-length silk chiffon skirt – a skirt my own mother wore to MY wedding some 13 years ago that has hung in my closet for all these many years - for a reason which both my mother and I have long since forgotten.

I decided to wear it because I wanted to save some cash, and because it was an item that just needed to be worn.

What pissed me off about wearing this skirt is that when I got married, I thought my mother was fat. Of course I was just some skinny little bitch back then so what the hell did I know.

The skirt fit perfectly – except for the waistband. I couldn’t get the zipper to pull all the way up – but if I took in a deep breath, I could get the button to fasten, so all was well. The pink ruffly blouse hung down loosely over my fat area, so it wasn’t quite as obvious to most as to just how damn fat I was. We women that haven’t come to truly accept our fat like to disguise it – even from ourselves.

My daughter & I both were completely decked out from head to toe. We even had jewelry and shoes to match because, in case you haven’t noticed, I have a few anal retentive tendencies. I spent a small fortune on trying to get us to look good, and for the most part – we did. My husband wore whatever just so happened to fit him the day of the wedding….. despite me urging him to try on his old suits before the day of the wedding. I wanted him to ‘match’ us or at least compliment our major outfit colors. Men just don’t understand those sorts of things.

Despite my overwhelming pain and fatigue from just getting ready for the event, I was excited & even emotional at attending Jen’s wedding ceremony.

I urged my family that we would need to leave the house no later than 3:15 pm, as I wanted to get back to the bridal room for a quick hug & picture of Jen before the ceremony. Naturally, we left a little later than that, around 3:25, because my hair & the humidity were working against me. But my hubby managed to get us there in plenty of time for me to throw on my gorgeous pink Austrian crystal shoes (which are really pink rhinestones, but they cost more if you refer to them as Austrian crystal) and my daughter & I hobbled out of the van and slung open the church doors with the mission to find the bridal room while hubby went to park.

Funny, though, upon entering the vestibule of the church, we heard music. ‘What an odd time for the organist to be practicing the bridal ‘exit’ song’, I thought.

I turned the corner to try to peek into the sanctuary and was approached by a heavier-set woman than me, who said, “You’ll have to wait. They’re almost out.”

I was confused and asked for clarification.

“What do you mean, almost OUT?”

“The wedding is over” she announced in a tone that indicated such information should be common knowledge.

I suddenly felt like I was in the twilight zone. “What time is it?’ Are we even in the right building, I wondered? How can it be almost over? Is she screwing with me?

“The wedding started at 3:00pm” the fatter lady told us, almost amused.

I sat down on a nearby bench with my mouth stuck open in the fly-catching position, utterly devastated by this recent attack on my brain. Why did the Lyme bacteria not want me to attend the wedding?

And then the internal thrashing started. “How could I be so F’ing STUPID? How did I get the time so screwed up? I had an invitation, didn’t I READ it? How could I miss Jen’s wedding? I am definitely losing my mind. Are there other things that I screw up this badly and no one has been brave enough to tell me? Are we sure we’re at the right place?” This circular questioning continued inside my head in some strange feedback loop.

The bride & groom made their triumphant exit from the sanctuary to find my sappy, confused ass sitting on a bench & crying all my mascara into a cheap, crunchy brown paper towel. (I couldn’t even remember I brought Kleenex in my own purse!) I was literally dazed and so very confused.

I rose to hug the bride & groom and to apologize profusely about my blunder.

Jen was so absolutely stunning that it made me want to weep even louder; it made me want to kick my own ass even harder - but at what price? I felt like my tears of personal condemnation were putting a damper on their moments of joy, and my internal ‘big girl’ said “Shut the hell up now! This is not about me – it’s about them. Don’t ruin their day with your blubbering.”

I decided I would continue through the rest of the afternoon and evening, behaving like the mature woman I was, yet making a promise that I would continue with the blubbering and the inner criticisms at another time. I made my apologies to all the appropriate parties, fixed my makeup, and then mingled with guests until it was time to head for the reception.

As I placed myself in front of old friends/boyfriends, most of them did not recognize me at first. This, of course, pissed me off.

This should be a rule: ‘If you ever kiss someone in a romantic way – they are forever required to recognize you - no matter how old or fat you look in the future.’

I know one old boyfriend just had to recognize me – only he was toying with me – trying to make me feel inferior, as if I weren’t special enough for him to actually remember my damned name. He looked at me with that look of arrogance that I should have slapped off his face about 15+/- years ago. He was taking so-called wild guesses at my name – names that started with my initial – names that were so close it hurt. And it did literally hurt for me to be standing there, insulted by his arrogance as he spit out each so-called ‘guess’. Had his skinny-bitch wife & lovely 2.5 children not been standing there, I would have gladly scolded him, reminding him that he’s just a sorry ass son-of-a-bitch, and he should have enough social grace to take the blame for his piss poor memory, and as a pastor’s son, he should know better than to make people feel like shit by pretending to not remember them – implying the reason is their lack of being important instead of his own lack of common damn sense. Yeah, that’s what I would have liked to say!

The least he could have done was lie and say he had been in some kind of automobile accident and that he has some residual brain damage or something. But no. He did no such honorable thing. So there I stood – the stupid ass fat braud that can’t remember what time weddings start – a woman whose kiss is so unforgettable that old boyfriends can’t be bothered to recognize her even as she stood right in front of their arrogant lying faces...

I forced a smile and did my best to ‘take it’ like a lady. And because his children were standing there too, and because I was in a church, I did not use the “F” word.

When we got to the reception, I told my husband that I wanted a glass of white Zinnfandel, and quickly.

He said, “OK, but didn’t you take a pain pill on the way to the wedding?”

“Yes,” I replied, “but it’s not doing a damn thing for my shame. I’ll take just one glass to calm me down.”

(You see, my wimpy ass pain mediation may work on taking the edge off the pain – but it does NOTHING to reduce the social embarrassment caused by missing a wedding - compounded by not being recognized by someone who had French kissed and groped you some 15 years earlier. I did not give my husband all those details…just emphasized my perceived need for my first glass of wine in almost a whole damn year……).

While I was awaiting my “I hope it numbs the hell out of me” glass of wine to kick in, I juggled our wedding gift in my right hand, as I attempted to sign our names to the wedding card with my left hand. I do not know why I wait until the very last damn minute to sign cards, but I suppose I thought I’d have more time….and I was just trying to roll with the punches since we were running an hour late.

As I stood there, juggling my purse, my cane, the wedding gift, my glass of wine, the pen and the card, wondering where in the hell my helpful hubby was, and wondering why I couldn’t just grow a third hand….I suddenly realized my skirt felt a little looser.

I knew what was happening, a social FEAR manifesting in slow motion, so I started backing up slowly into a corner by the gift table. I must have had a look of horror on my face because ex-boyfriend’s skinny bitch wife looked at me and asked ‘What’s wrong?” -- because we women are good at reading those kinds of facial cues….

As I started, quite LITERALLY, to squat down in the floor in the corner behind the gift table, I found it necessary to provide some kind of explanation. “Oh, my zipper has decided I’m too fat. I’m trying to encourage it to behave.”

I did the best I could, and I pleaded to the females glancing at the gifts on the gift table to come and shield me as I forced my fatty flesh back behind the safety of the zipper & a much needed safety pin. I thanked them for their kindness as strangers, and I took a deep breath of thanks that fortunately no one got that Lucille Ball moment on video.

However, because I feared that particular wardrobe malfunction might happen again, I decided to have another glass of wine…just in case I needed it. That was also my justification for my third & fourth glass of wine too, but at that point, the thought that my skirt could fall down just seemed funny.

As a matter of fact, I used that as an ice-breaker as I mingled through the room, introducing myself at each of the tables.

“The zipper on my skirt isn’t working properly today because my ass is too big for it. So I want you to be on the look-out in case my skit just drops to the floor. You go ahead and get that on video tape because there’s a hole in my girdle and I know I’ll be extremely embarrassed…and then we’ll get lots of money from America’s Funniest Home Video….” and then I would usually fall over to one side laughing hysterically at the thought of it.

Of course there was some variation on the above, depending on the audience to which I was addressing. If I knew them well, and they were all over 18 years old, I spiced up that bit of info with a good deal of profanity, which made it all the more funny….to me.

Fortunately for all of us, my skirt did not drop to the floor, although I did have enough wine to consider staging such an event if I knew I would be guaranteed some kind of prize money. But, no guarantee, no skirt dropping for me! That’s what has always been my motto.

I find it especially embarrassing now to realize that the secret about the hole in my girdle could have remained a secret if it had not been for my inability to keep such a personal bit of information….personal. I would like to blame the inhibition brought on by the wine as the reason for having a big mouth, but I’ve been known to reveal such disturbing, mortifying information about myself without having any drugs or medication at all. I’ve just got one of those personalities. I suppose I should just feel lucky that I didn’t grab the microphone and alert the entire room of 250 guests, saving myself the time and energy of all the personal interactions. But hell, I can’t remember most of them – and apparently I’m totally forgettable too – so screw it. No harm – no foal.


Aloha!
The day after the wedding, my husband, daughter & I piled our fatigued asses into our van and drove 6 hours to my in-laws home. My husband & I were both shocked that I didn’t ride the whole way there with my head hanging out the window like a dog….puking my guts up. But no. This was the first time I can ever remember that wine did not put me in hangover hell! I was perfectly fine. Sure, I sedated myself and slept the whole way, but that is my modus operandi for any travel over an hour….provided I’m not driving.

Our visit with the in-laws was lovely, and basically uneventful. I rested quite a bit, but that’s been the case for several years now – the only difference being that I think my mother-in-law has been under the impression that I was going to eventually drop dead from Lyme disease; so my naps went uninterrupted for the most part. Even my father-in-law behaved quite nicely – and with hindsight I’m sure he had probably been threatened with his own life by my mom-in-law. God bless her!

Shortly after we returned from our trip to Arkansas, my good friend ‘BB’ came for a visit as she must travel from another state to see our LLMD. It is such a wonderful treat for me to have a friend come & stay – to have someone to ‘hang out’ with – someone who can laugh & cry with me – someone who understands my pain & my need to sleep – and someone who can laugh with me about all the absurdities of this disease.

I prayed quite a while for such a friend, and I know through ‘BB’ that prayer is answered every day.

Shortly after BB’s visit, it was time for me to begin preparation for our annual “Luau” party.

Basically, the Luau is a party for my daughter & a dozen of her closest friends. It’s an annual pool party/slumber party - that I conceived of having on an annual basis back when I felt like a regular human being.

Although I knew in advance that the Luau party would basically kick my ass, it was something I really wanted to do. First, I think traditional activities are important in families – and that we should, if possible, create some traditional activities - beyond just the holiday seasons. For me, it’s important that there are times throughout the year where we make a conscious effort to really have fun and to make good memories.

I know that part of this motivation is because I remember so few good events during my own childhood – perhaps because of the brain damage caused by the Lyme; but I also know the kind of ‘fun’ mom that I want to be –and that vision requires that we do some fun shit. And the Luau is part of our annual fun shit - even if it almost kills my ass.

Four years ago, when my daughter & her friends were 7 & 8 years old, it didn’t take much to impress them. – I bought a cut-out of a hula girl, a box of plastic lais, threw up some outdoor Christmas lights around the pool fence, tossed a pineapple on the table, bought some Luau music and called it a party.

In the following years, my Luau decorations have grown – as did my obsession to turn our back yard into a tropical paradise – even if for just one day. I had lights and seashells and lais everywhere. A couple of years ago I even made a hula skirt for each girl.

I realize when it comes to the details, I usually go overboard, and I tend to obsess about things they are not even aware. For some reason it’s very difficult to have an event that doesn’t measure up to the vision which I had for it. It’s during the preparation of our annual, traditional, fun events that I realize I still need some serious damn psychotherapy - -but it’s during that time that I’m just too damn busy to stop & get emotionally healthy, as I have shit to clean, decorations to hang, and food to prepare. But over the years I’ve at least become aware of it. That’s progress, right?

This year, I did my best to delegate many of the pre-party cleaning & decorating activities to my daughter and her best friend. That decision required that I work even harder to not obsess over the fact that the decorations were not done to my ‘standards’.

I knew my body was just too tired and miserable to even do the party to begin with, but I was determined that my Lyme disease wasn’t going to rob us of that event. This disease has already taken so much from me and my family – there are times where I just have to dig in my heels and say “NO!”

For the record, I usually do have help from my husband and other adults, because without it, I would NOT be able to pull off the party at all. But it is hard for me to delegate, because sometimes it is easier to do something myself - than to take the time to explain to others what I want done - how, where & when.

By the time the party began, my body was ready for bed – but I got a bit of an adrenaline rush as I greeted all of my daughter’s friends and their parents as they poked their head in the backyard long enough to say, “Hi.” Sometimes they stick around long enough to ask if I’m still alive, to which I smile and say, “Sort of…but don’t worry about your kid – I’ve got other adults handling life guard duty!” They are then satisfied, and promptly leave – most likely because they’re afraid I may try to rope them into being of some use to me.

The pool party portion is an absolute blast…..for the girls. For me, it’s running back & forth from the house to the pool as I try to meet the incessant needs of everyone. It’s during those moments that I wonder why in the hell I punish myself so damn much, and then the words: “Get it yourself” start coming out of my mouth. What a liberating phrase: “Get it yourself!” What growth! Maybe I don’t need as much therapy as I think?

Just as in a real Luau, where there is a big focus on food – our Luaus also have a big emphasis on food, even though we do not roast a pig. I did make over 100 pigs in a blanket so I think that must certainly count! And I think it’s the food preparation & the clean up that usually kicks my ass real good.

And then there’s the sleepover. Dear God in heaven – I don’t know how I manage to do that. It’s by the grace of God. But it’s the sleepover that adds another element to the party that helps to ‘bond’ the girls through the tradition, AND most importantly, it helps me to be part of the girls’ “village”.

You know Hillary Clinton’s book, “It Takes a Village to Raise a Child” – I believe that is true; although I have yet to read it as I am too busy being part of several villages. But it’s through some of our traditional activities that I can stay connected to my daughter’s friends. I can keep my eye on who is growing up too quickly, who is adopting a more ‘liberal’ style of dress and self-expression; and who are the ones most likely to get in trouble & why; etc., etc…

I don’t know why, but something really magical happens after we enter the house, exhausted from hours of swimming & eating – but it seems it takes only a matter of minutes for our house to become a little 2,000 square foot Peyton Place. The girls are now at the pre-hormonal stage and they can go from giggling and acting silly to being pissed off or deeply hurt by the each other. And it’s that rollercoaster behavior that pretty much keeps me from sleeping – yet it also allows me the opportunity to ‘mother’ each of them.

It’s during the wee hours of the morning when one or two are crying about something seemingly ridiculous, that I discover, with a little bit of keen detective-like questioning, that somebody’s father has left the family, or that another’s sister was molested, that another is battling depression for various reasons, and that some of them feel very strongly about war.

Behind their sweet sunburned faces, behind the persona they have chosen to present are little girls trying to find their way in this world – eager for a little guidance, and for all the love one can spare.

And it’s for those reasons, that I endure this annual event. It costs me far more than money -- yet the return I get from it is far more than annual.



Sleep Nazis
I think it only takes a few minutes after I get the last girl out of my home before I literally fall into bed with the understanding that the person who dares wake me up is the person just asking for my wrath.

After the Luau, I crawled into bed and began repaying the loan. I think I’m still paying – 3 weeks later.

That next week following the party, I had an appointment with my LLMD. As this was my last LLMD appointment prior to my daughter returning to school, I took her with me, knowing that I would ask if we could get her tested for Lyme.

Naturally, I surprised her with the whole blood-letting idea as I am an experienced mom, and I know the less time to fret, the better. Surprisingly, though, she didn't freak out about the idea AND when they inserted the needle into her arm she just turned her head away and barely winced. Suddenly, I thought: Who is this child? Is this the same child that came from MY womb? Curious. So curious.

As far as physical symptoms - we have fortunately NOT noticed any with her. But mentally/emotionally speaking - she sometimes makes me wonder if I should try to obtain a larger prescription for Xanax.

She can't seem to remember to do certain chores daily without me telling her; she can't seem to stop focusing on whatever task she's consumed in (like being on computer) to stop and LISTEN to instructions of other things to do, and then she'll come back later when I'm ranting because she's yet to MOVE into action...and she will say, "Oh, I didn't know you wanted me to do that."

All this time I thought those behaviors had to do with her AGE and because she's been appropriately labeled as "Gifted & Talented" which means she has a higher IQ than me...even though she can't remember to floss her teeth. I digress…

At the appointment my doc listened to my symptoms and my latest activities and told me that I must go straight home after the appointment and get ‘horizontal’ – which is his way of saying ‘stay in bed.’ I’ve been so damn drained that I had no objection to such an idea, even though my in-laws were planning a trip to our house that very next weekend and my house had yet to fully recover from the Luau. Strangely, I did not care.

So I went home, got in bed, and did my best to use the time to rest and sleep. And it was the sleeping part of that which has proven the most challenging.

Prior to that last doctor visit, I had been experiencing some mild symptoms of ‘insomnia’ – it had been sneaking up on me. At first I just thought it had to do with our summer schedule, as my daughter and I seem to be natural night-owls. However, the time it took for me to get to sleep started to take longer & longer every night. And actually staying asleep the whole night thru – that started to become a distant memory.

I believe I mentioned it during my last doctor visit, but think there were so many other items we discussed, that the topic of ‘insomnia’ got lost in the details along the way.

The very next day after my appointment, Dr. N called. He called to inform me that my daughter had tested low positive for ANA - which is usually the test for Lupus - but we Lymies often test low on that for some complicated reason. Doc assured me that it wasn't Lupus as she is too young, and that from his examination of her fingers & the 'core' temperature behind her neck & back, he told me he believed that: "Something is going on with that little girl."

I wanted to break into tears at that moment.

Meanwhile the doc went on to tell me to go get back in bed for several more days & to relax because my T3 was at a dangerous level of 800 (not supposed to be over 400) and my resting heart rate has been between 105-120 - like a rabbit being chased by a tomcat.

I could not believe what he was saying. Relax? I may drop dead at any moment & my daughter might have this horrible disease and I'm not supposed to worry?

Apparently that was all it took to really concrete the insomnia into my circadian rhythm. I could not sleep….not longer than 45 minutes at time.

As ‘luck’ would have it, my CFS doc had arranged for me to start another medication that is supposed to do wonders for those with CFS and Fibromyalgia symptoms– a medication that has shown to help with RESTORATIVE sleep – which in turn gives the body opportunities to help itself heal…and therefore hurt less.

Because I knew this medication had earned a bad reputation, as it had been misused on the streets, it took me some time before I succumbed to the willingness to experiment with it, even though I’d be under a doctor’s supervision. But the pain has gotten worse over the last few months, and pain tends to make people a little more open & willing to seek out new methods for relief.

When the pharmaceutical company, which holds the patent for this medication, called to gather my health information, I was so relieved, as I was now not only seeking that promised restorative sleep, I was now seeking any damn sleep at all. I couldn’t wait for my prescription to arrive via Federal Express the next day. I was eager to experience the first truly good night’s sleep in almost three weeks.

While I waited, I realized it might be a good idea for me to get Dr. N’s permission to use this particular medication since my prescribing doctor, Dr. CFS, had left the country for a couple of weeks; and most importantly, because my thyroid and pulse were not in the normal range.

I have come to believe that sometimes the best way to communicate with a doctor – outside of an office visit – is to fax them. Having your thoughts in writing – so they can re-read for clarity usually proves successful, and then they can send their well-thought-out answer to you via their personnel. (Wait. I’m laughing about that ‘well-thought-out answer’ part. Sometimes I crack myself up.)

So I faxed Dr. N the info about the sleep medication and my increasing insomnia, and I waited. I waited and waited.

As mentioned, my in-laws were arriving at our house for the weekend, and I would have preferred to have one good night’s sleep in me before their appearance. However, that was not to be. The day of their arrival came, and I greeted them and interacted with them using what little energy I had left. I think it was the first time I ever greeted them in my pajamas, yet I was so tired I didn’t give a tinker’s damn.

Out of desperation I finally picked up the phone and called Dr. N. His nurse, knowing it was Friday afternoon and that I was desperate decided to put him on the telephone. Dr. N’s response left me (momentarily) speechless:

“You are much too sick to be taking the most addictive drug on the planet. Ask Dr. CFS to prescribe something else for you….I know he’s out of the country…..”

And then there was silence on the phone. I was still reeling from my disappointment that I would not be getting restorative or most likely any sleep at all that night, and was literally so exhausted that I could not think of an adequate response. But I certainly thought Dr. N would offer an alternative of some kind.

Nope.

Silence continued to hang in the air until Dr. N finally concluded our conversation, “I’ll see you in two weeks. Bye.”

And that was it.

I suddenly recalled the episode from the Seinfield series – the one with the ‘Soup Nazis” where the master soup gourmet would deny his own clientel of the coveted soup if he was not happy with their attitude. With that he would bark, “No soup for you!” and order them out of his deli.

I was so tired, I felt like Dr. N had literally cut me off - suddenly turning into a cruel “Sleep Nazis”, snapping, “No Sleep for YOU!”

I wanted to scream; I wanted to cry; I wanted to use the ‘F’ word. But my in-laws were sitting right there. I couldn’t let them see how utterly crazy I was capable of being. They have tolerated much bizarre behavior from me over the years – I was doing my best to hold it together.

‘Holding it together’ was all I accomplished that weekend. The insomnia was the most extreme that I had ever experienced. To have medication that could allow me to experience a peaceful sleep sitting right on my dresser, yet knowing if I used it and Dr. N discovered my disobedience, I knew I would then be in the need of a new LLMD. So the question was no longer about if I wanted to sleep through the night, but it was also about how far I wanted to travel if Dr. N decided I was an unruly, untrustworthy patient. I couldn’t take the risk.

Yet I was so pissed at him. There’s a point in insomnia where your personality starts to change – where you turn into a person you hardly recognize. You become an animal of sorts….just wanting your physical needs met. My body was starving for sleep, and I wondered if I could just drop dead from exhaustion.

It was during some of those moments, though, that I discovered how compassionate a man I married. All those nights when I crawled into bed, so miserable from the pain and the fatigue that just fed off of each other, my husband would scoot next to me and just gently rub my back and my ass, both hurt so terribly. He did it without me even asking him – and he did it for several minutes – not just seconds. He very patiently and gently rubbed up and down my body, talking very sweetly to me, trying to quiet me as if I were a baby, “Shh, honey, just relax….just relax.”

I am a woman blessed with a wonderful husband. This I have no doubt….except for when he acts like a jackass – but those moments pass – and I remember again.

I stayed very angry at Dr. N that weekend, and there were countless times that I thought about calling his service, saying it was a damned emergency that I get some sleep or I just might go berserk and then have to be admitted into a psych ward. And just so you understand my level of desperation – that psych ward’ idea started looking really good.

When Monday rolled around, I was practically a crazed woman. It had been the weekend from hell. I was ready to confront Dr. N with my thoughts regarding his LACK of attention to my physical well-being, but I knew I had to choose my words carefully, as it is not good to piss off the only available LLMD for several hundred miles.

I may be a hot-head, but I know how to play it cool.

I sent the following fax:
***************************************
Dr. N:
I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me on the phone last Friday afternoon; and I’d like to inform you that I followed your advice and did not take the {sleep medication}.

However, I was disappointed that you did not provide me with a prescription for any other kind of sleep medications, knowing that Dr. CFS is out of the country until August 15.

I can only surmise that your unwillingness to do so may have been due to your reluctance in not wanting to interfere in Dr. CFS's treatment of me. However, it would have been kind of you to supply me at least enough sleep medication to tide me over until Dr. CFS returns.

For the record, my weekend was a living HELL because not only was I not able to get any RESTORATIVE sleep, I was now falling more deeply down that slippery slope called: INSOMNIA.

I am now going on about 3 weeks of an INCREASING inability to fall asleep, and then stay asleep.

As a result of the insomnia - my fatigue, my pain, and anxiety have increased hour by hour. As you might expect, my growing misery impacted my family as well, thereby making their weekend a living hell as well. And by the way, my in-laws stayed with us this weekend! Do you have in-laws? If so, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how beautifully we interacted. (Please note the sarcasm.)

The misery of my family, in turn, made me more anxious and further increased my pain, thus establishing a vicious, vicious cycle. Everything got so bad that all I could do was cry and debate whether I should go to the famous {my local shitty hospital} Emergency Room - and not just for the increased PAIN, but because I felt so drained of energy that I feared I might just drop dead from the fatigue alone. Just wondering – can someone die from fatigue and/or insomnia? I remember reading that rats can….!!!

In several of my visits with you I have heard you speak about SELF PRESERVATION – about SURVIVAL. Well, I’m thinking that REAL sleep is going to be necessary in my self-preservation. What do you think? Isn’t sleep an important component in the healing process?

Dr. N, I do not feel like I am experiencing a part of the healing process – I feel like I’m “de-compensating” by the minute!

Just to let you know, I’m getting just about desperate enough to say “Screw IT” and drive myself to {the local shitty hospital} ER, where I will complain of the unbearable pain I’m experiencing, and hope like hell that Dr. Jekyl will not be the ass he is; give me inadequate attention/treatment, and then possibly write: DRUG SEEKER on my chart – only later to be charged out the ass for that kind medical “service”!

I think it is vital for you to know that I have gone from laughing inappropriately because of the sleep deprivation to being extremely ANGRY at inappropriate times about social matters that I could normally handle with just a little bit of grace.

Yesterday, while doing some necessary errands, I encountered an old woman that was extremely rude to me – and I will let you know that it took every ounce of self-control to NOT tell her to “BLOW IT OUT HER ASS!!!” and that would have been the ‘toned-down’ version, as my sweet daughter was with me.

Also, I think I probably shouldn’t be driving at this point, as I almost dozed off while at the wheel yesterday. But, as you must be keenly aware, LIFE does not stop or slow down just because a person is sick, neurotic, angry, sleep-deprived, or ALL.

To speak in your language, my ‘HORSE’ feels like it’s about to drop dead or ignorantly gallop off the edge of a cliff – meanwhile, my frustrated ‘RIDER’ can’t find the damn reins!

I am a desperate woman at this point, and I am BEGGING for your medical assistance in this matter.

FYI: My pharmacy is {my grocery store} & their number is {none of your business}, if you choose to prescribe something. Also, if you choose to call or speak to me, please be aware that my ‘rider’ & ‘horse’ are still not getting along, therefore I can not predict my tone, mood, or choice of language. I hope you are willing to forgive any of my brashness in advance.

Also - I, unfortunately, must step out for awhile this morning/early afternoon and go meet my daughter’s new teachers at her new school. Therefore, I must now contact some friends/family to start a prayer chain on my behalf, so that I do not mortify my daughter with my behavior -- since I really should not be interacting with people at this point.

Thank you.

************************
Now, you would think after a fax like that, someone from his office would jump on the phone with me, just to make sure I wasn’t about to drive my car off a bridge or something.

No. I waited all damn day in vain. I tried to relax while waiting for him to dial my damned number…and nothing. So, right before closing time I dialed his number and I got lucky, as I was allowed to speak with His Highness Dr. N – the King of Lyme.

He told me he was uncomfortable with the idea of giving me something for sleep, as I am already on an ample amount of medications.

He did, however, realize that my tachycardia was out of control and decided to call in a prescription (a beta blocker) for that. He didn’t seem as concerned about my lack of sleep as he was about my tachycardia; but I was glad he was finally concerned with that because I had been trying for 2 damn years to get a doctor interested in that particular feature of my health.

As for my insomnia, he said he would refill my pain medication and that I should take it more often, and also try a small amount of Melatonin at night.

(Attention Lymies – There is a potential connection between Melatonin & Lyme disease, and you should NOT take large doses of Melatonin, as it may, just may, provide some action that causes the Lyme bacteria to die. This info comes from research based on the Western Fence Lizard. Therefore, as this research is still inconclusive, I must really WARN you to NOT take Melatonin without discussing it with your doctor first. If your doctor is an idiot, you will probably already know that by now, so if he just blows it off and says take all you want – DON’T! If Melatonin causes die-off of the bacteria, it could cause die-off that is TOO QUICK for your body to handle it. And if you are just joining the Lyme drama now, you must know that die-off causes TOXINS to be released in your body. If too many toxins are in your body at once, it will be BUILT-UP in your system, and YOUR BODY CAN NOT HANDLE TOO MANY TOXINS AT ONCE. Look at that word carefully: TOXINS. It’s not something you screw with. Melatonin is a natural substance produced in the body. You should NOT supplement it, unless you &/or your doctor know what the piss you are doing. I have now absolved myself of any responsibility if you are a stupid ass and take too much Melatonin and go into a freaking coma or drop dead – don’t come crying to my sick ass cause I just got thru telling you….!!! Remember, I’m not a damn doctor. Just a wiseass with the initials DR!)

Anyway, so I hung up with Dr. N, still not fully satisfied about my sleep issues, but relieved to some degree that I might live a few more days if we could get my damn pulse to slow down.

You see, (and here comes an educational moment so take a deep breath and concentrate) when a person’s pulse is really fast, it doesn’t give the oxygenated blood time to enter into the capillaries and tissues. Because it is BETWEEN your heart beats that the oxygen has enough time to take the little ‘detours’ through the capillaries, which in turn nourish your body’s tissues & organs. So if your heart is continually beating too quickly, the body is not getting the oxygen supply it needs to all of its tissues and organs. This is not good for the body. So if you have a resting heart rate over 95 – and it’s not getting any better – CALL YOUR DOCTOR. If that doctor doesn’t listen to you – CALL A DIFFERENT DOCTOR.

(And by the way, I even went to an F’ing CARDIOLOGIST AND A PULMONARY doc with my tachycardia as a main problem. Did they help me? Well, what do you think? HELL No! They performed their expensive battery of test and then scooted me on my way telling me my tests were normal – despite my thinking – and even KNOWING otherwise.)

Back to my long ass story…

Staying Calm
Before I had hung up with Dr. N, he said one of the most important things to remember was for me to “Stay Calm”. I’m guessing he didn’t want me to having an F’ing heart attack by becoming anxious. So I listened to his advice and thought that would be easy to do as I just felt too exhausted to be anything else.

HA!

As I was on the phone with Dr. N, dear hubby came home from work, nodded a greeting towards me, and began to open the mail. As I was talking to Dr. N, I noticed my husband’s body language as he opened yet more (medical) bills, and then he started looking around our bedroom for something.

When I got off the phone I asked him what he was doing. He said he was looking for the Best Buy bill.

(Did I tell you I got fed up with my piece of shit laptop the Sony Vaio because it would not stay on unless I literally held the damn power cord in a special position and had the surrounding air temperature at an impractical 40 degrees….so I went out and bought a new Toshiba laptop, and I know it will bring me years of good service or I’ll talk badly about them too.) So I told you all of that so you know that now, the Wiseass family has a big computer expense on their Best Buy account.

Anyway, dear hubby was searching through all my various stacks of bullshit that I have piled around the bedroom. He was searching in that passive-aggressive way that tends to piss me off. I told him more than once that I had NOT SEEN the Best Buy bill, and that I did not think it had even come in the mail yet. But he kept searching, thinking that he knew better, and that I must have certainly gotten it and promptly lost it. Either that, or maybe he thought I shoved it up my ass. I just don’t know.

Well, his passive aggressive behavior, looking for that bill as if I were a damned lunatic AND a liar really pissed me off in a way that only a wife can really understand. So I got out of bed and started looking too so he would stop with the bullshit and then I could go back to my calm relaxing act.

He said, “What are you doing?”

I said, “Looking for the @#$% @#$% ^&*$$# BEST BUY BILL!!!!!!”

Hubby said, “Why are you so angry?”

I said, “Because I have @#$%ing told you about @#$% ing 10 @#$%$ %$#@! TIMES THAT IT HAS NOT COME IN YET. BUT APPARENTLY I’M JUST A @#$%ING IDIOT IN YOUR MIND, SO I GUESS IT MUST BE IN HERE SOMEWHERE!”

Hubby said, “You don’t need to be out of bed. Get back in bed, honey.”

I said, “NO! I’M GOING TO FIND THIS @#$%^& % ^&*&ING BILL SO YOU WILL STOP WITH ALL YOUR DRAMATICS!”

In typical male fashion, he donned the face of ignorance and said, “What did I do?’

In typical female fashion, I kept my pissed off face on & said, “Just leave me the hell alone – because I’m LOOKING FOR THE @#$% ing BEST BUY BILL SO YOU CAN BE @#$%ing HAPPY!!”

At this point, my husband’s male wisdom kicked in and he left the room for his own safety, and I continued to look through my various stacks of paper – often forgetting what it was I was looking for – but having faith that I would know it if I saw it.

It only took a couple of minutes, and then all of a sudden: WHAM!

My upper left arm started hurting like someone came over and punched the hell out of me! My breathing felt more labored, and I was feeling a little dizzy. I decided I needed to stop my searching & get in bed.

I was afraid that I was starting to have a heart attack; and of course, the little trouble maker voice in my head kept saying: “Heart disease is one of the number one killers of women in America” AND this one: “Heart disease is a silent killer…”.

After about a minute of the pain, I called for my daughter to come & find the aspirin, and told her to tell her dad to go get that heart medicine from the pharmacy right away!

I lied in bed, trying to slow my breathing, trying to calm down – and then it finally dawned on me that Dr. N was still in his office, and that I should call him. When I spoke with him he basically interviewed me about the pain, its location, its quality, etc. I confessed to him about the verbal interaction between my husband and me, and that naturally made him think I was probably just having an old-fashioned anxiety attack. (Well, I’ve had plenty of those and this one didn’t feel like it, but I wasn’t about to argue.)

He told me to have my daughter go get a sack for me to breathe in as I was probably hyperventilating.

My daughter brought back a plastic grocery sack. For years I had instructed my daughter: NEVER EVER EVER put your head in a plastic grocery bag – NEVER breathe into it, etc. And there I was breathing in & out – with the phone up to my ear, and my eyes on the clock.

After about 45 seconds, I stopped and said, “OK, now what? I feel the same.”

He thought for a minute – asked me some of the same questions he already asked me – like it was a quiz I needed to pass and maybe if he re-worded it, my answers would be different.

Then he said very calmly: “When your husband returns from the pharmacy, you need to take one of those pills immediately….and then you need him to take you to the ER. OR if you’d prefer, maybe you could call an ambulance.”

Now – I’ve done the ambulance thing a couple of times and it’s really not as glamorous as it may seem. Sure, you’re generally surrounded by some men that you just know are fashion models or male strippers on the side – but it’s just not worth it. They’re expensive, they’re high maintenance with all of their questions they want answered, only to turn around and answer the same damn ones at the hospital. And they do things to embarrass you – like take portions of your clothes off – and they bumble around putting an IV line in before they even leave your damn driveway.

I thought about that for a second and decided: Hell NO!

So we had a nice family drive up to the damned ER.

I can’t remember if I took a pain pill or a xanax before getting there – but I just knew I needed to be calm if they were going to take me seriously, so I'm quite sure I took something.

Magically, there were very few people in the waiting room and I got called in rather quickly. (The secret to being seen quickly in the ER is to put: “Chest Pain” and/or “Can’t Breathe” on the triage form – just so you guys know the score...)

I went immediately back into a room and they began all the poking, prodding, and blood-robbing as soon as I changed into a gown. (And BTW, I had the foresight to change my panties before I went…and I just left my bra at home so no one would see how dirty the straps were. I HAVE learned from the past!)

Another magical moment occurred when Dr. Salt-N-Pepper Hair came to interview me. He was youngish – in his late 30’s or early 40’s I imagine – but I could tell the long hours of practicing medicine gave him more gray hairs than he might ordinarily be due.

Dr. Pepper (for short) seemed fairly nice and did not seem to possess the arrogance that is apparently required for most of the hospital’s other docs; and I therefore felt quite lucky to have drawn him – as if I had won the doctor lotto.

Then Dr. Pepper decided to demonstrate his version of a bedside manner when he said to me (and I quote):

“Well, I may not be able to find out what is wrong with you, but
hopefully I’ll be able to determine if it will kill you or not.”

Now I ask you, dear readers, what the piss is an appropriate response to that statement, especially when you are experiencing pain that suggests you could be enjoying your last few minutes of earthly life?

My response was a forced grin. Yes, I am a smart-ass deluxe and I can trade barbs with the best of them…but NOT when I think I’m about to freaking DIE in front of my husband and daughter!

Before long, they released the quiet patient that had occupied the area behind our shared curtain….and within a matter of moments they brought in someone that I think may have needed a priest – not to give her last rites – but to exorcize whatever damned demon that had taken over her vocal chords!

This woman very dramatically groaned with EACH and EVERY exhale! Every one of her breaths was drama pure and simple. Now, I do not say that without also having some sense of compassion for her – I just believe that if anyone was having a damned anxiety attack in our room – it wasn’t ME, my friends! It wasn’t ME!

For awhile it gave my daughter & me a form of entertainment to listen in to the nurses trying to calm her down, and trying to find out just what happened to her. (She had been mixing pool chemicals and something spilled, yada, yada, and she was having a hard time breathing – or so she thought.) She seemed to be breathing just fine to me – because if you can breathe and make that much damn noise – you are getting oxygen to your brain. That is my non-medical opinion, but I think it is valid.

Then she entertained us by the fact that every time the nurse just looked like she was going to touch her with a needle, she freaked completely out with more of the moaning, and then would say, “No. I just wanna go home.” And then her family would have to calm her down.

It seems that my ER neighbor had been a former IV drug user and finding a vein in her arm was going to be an act of the supernatural.

Because I am such a good mother, I used that as an opportunity to have a spontaneous, although very quiet,“Just Say NO to Drugs” talk with my daughter who was visibly distressed from the whole damn side-show. The dramatics were so bad that hubby had to get up and supposedly go to the restroom – but I know he just had to get out of our room before HE started having an anxiety attack.

Watching my daughter, I think she was worried that the lady next door was gonna die or something, so I felt like I needed to say or do something funny just to cut the tension that had floated over to our side of the curtain. I think I managed to fart for the pure entertainment value that brings - which it caused my heart rate to soar a bit more, but you can be sure no one came rushing to check on my farting ass! But the important thing was that my daughter & I had a couple of good, relaxing giggles and she was then OK.

When my arm pain started spreading out to my chest, back, and hands, I thought it might be a good idea to tell someone that actually worked at the hospital…someone who might give a damn.

My nurse was still working with Linda Blair behind the curtain, so I didn’t want to take his attention away from her – but I thought someone should know about my pain. I kept trying to get people’s attention as they’d scurry into the room for medical supplies & right back out before I could say, “Excuse me..,”

Finally, my nurse came & listened to my little complaints, gave me a sissy’s dose of Morphine, and a big ass dose of IV Toprol to try to get my heart rate down to that of a relaxed human being. The IV Toprol worked for about 30 minutes, and there would be 2 more doses of it to come, in an attempt to control my pulse. The Morphine, however, seemed to work for about 5 damn minutes, and I received yet another sissie's dose of it as well, even though the first dose of it broke me out in a systemic histamine reaction, and I had to be given Benadryl. (Next time I'm asking for the Demerol!)

I hated to have to call their attention away from whatever else they were doing to complain again about my little pain and the systemic itching, rash I had developed because of the damned morphine, but I thought: “Shit! I’m gonna pay out the ass – they NEED to know if my pain is coming back – that’s why I’m here, dammit!”

My only problem with that is that I’m always thinking that if I keep complaining about the pain, they will think I’m seeking DRUGS. You know, as in: “Gimme drugs, Gimme drugs, Gimme drugs.”

So the next time, I thought, I would just tell him that. So I did, and I felt better about speaking up....more often. So I did.

I let him know that I deal with pain all the damned time, and just because I was telling him I was in pain, I didn’t want them to think that I was asking for the hard stuff – and because frankly, the ‘hard stuff’ was overrated in my opinion. In fact, it was at that time that I asked if it would be alright to take some of my own pain medication because, although it was not as potent as Morpine, it certainly lasted LONGER, and it sure as hell didn't break me out in red, itching welps!

Because I was unprepared for that hospital visit, I did not have an up-to-date list of all my current medications so I had just dumped them in that plastic grocery sack and took them with me. I know the nurse must have thought me nuts to practically say, “I don’t need your wimpy ass Morphine” and he said he’d talk to the doctor about it.

Meanwhile, because I am an experienced patient, I knew that my stay at the “Duck Motel” (think: Quack-Quack) would be rather lengthy, so I sent hubby and child home, as I certainly did not need dear hubby pacing the floor and sighing rather loudly as he likes to do when I am on a gurney of any type. I do not think he can hear himself sigh, as I don’t know if he is even consciously aware of it….but I AM!

After they went home, I lied in bed praying that Linda Blair’s morphine dose would kick in so she would shut the piss up. She did for a little while – and then they came and transferred me to the “Clinical Decision Unit” (CDU) where they would watch me for several hours – jut to make sure I wasn’t in the middle of a serious cardiac event.

For the novice reader, when someone goes to the ER with chest pains, quite often the doctors will take SEVERAL blood tests checking the level of your cardiac enzymes. I can’t remember what the hell they’re looking for, I just know that sometimes the wait is well over 6 hours between some tests…and that is why I could send my family home with the confidence that I wouldn’t be returning home any time soon.

As far as the ER goes, I’m rather fond of the CDU, as it is more private, and generally more quiet. Plus, there is a TV that you can pull right down in front of your face. The damn hospital won’t buy new sheets for their gurneys – the sheets are like old t-shirt material with HOLES in them – but by golly, we’ve got CABLE TV in front of our faces!

The doctor gave me permission to take my own night time medication, because it was indeed night time, and I was really eager to attempt sleep if possible. The only problem was that it was 12:30 AM and I had yet to eat anything since noon. I kindly asked my nurse if I could perhaps have something to eat in order for me to take my evening meds. She said ‘yes – that someone was on their way to bring me something’ so I leaned back in the bed and started channel surfing during my wait period.

Fortunately for me, “Dog, the Bounty Hunter” was on at that time – and I managed to stay entertained through almost two shows – when I finally decided to dig through my purse, because I was going to walk my almost bare ass out to the lobby vending machines (with or without permission) because I was tired of being hungry and it shouldn’t take anyone a @#$% @#$%ing HOUR to fetch a sandwich and a soda!

By the time I found the money, pulled myself out of bed and unplugged my cardiac monitor, my supper arrived like it was a magic trick. I know my independent nature did not sit well with my new CDU nurse who had to come and make sure all my shit was plugged back in appropriately, but I did not care. I was hungry & tired and I did not care who I pissed off, or even on.

After the very plain sandwich, for which I was grateful, I swallowed my pills, turned off the TV and my light, and closed my eyes. Less than five minutes later, someone came in and turned on my lights and started reaching for my arm: time to take more blood. I told her to take it and to leave me out of the process. I also told her when she needed more to come in my room and just take it – I didn’t need her to wake me up. (Now folks, that’s tired – if you are so tired you’re wiling for someone to inject you for whatever reason – without your knowledge…you are just damn pooped!)

That process, of course, happened several times, because people don’t get rest at the hospital. But I did manage to get real good and groggy and even just so sleepy I was sleepy ‘stupid’.

At one point I remember hearing Dr. Pepper talking to another patient. I can’t remember now what the hell any of them were saying, I just remember being half asleep thinking: “She’s got Lyme disease. That poor woman has Lyme and Dr. Pepper is still naïve or too stupid to read the signs and symptoms. Someone has got to tell her.”

With that, I sat up in bed, looked around for my purse & then dug and dug to find a pen that worked, and a piece of paper that didn’t have some kind of personal information on it.

I had decided that it was my responsibility to inform the mystery woman behind curtain #3 about Lyme - that I must write her a little note suggesting she research Lyme disease and contact Igenex labs in California. And while I was writing that note, I was hoping that none of the staff found out because I just knew they’d want to throw my ass out into the street at 3 o’clock in the morning for interfering with their other patients.

After I finished the note, I got up, tried to tie my gown a little better, tried to untangle myself from all the cardiac shit that was all over me….and after doing some gymnastic type movements around my IV poles, I managed to throw open my curtain to see that mystery woman behind curtain #3 was GONE! I had done all that damn work for nothing!

I slipped the note back into my purse, and slipped my body back into bed so that I could be awoken again 30 minutes later. (Is ‘awoken’ a word?)

Around 5:00AM the CDU nurse came to dismiss me. She threw open my curtain, turned on the lights and said, “All your tests are normal. It’s time for you to go home.”

My first thought was that 5:00 AM seemed like an unreasonable time to dismiss a person – namely, me. So I asked her: “Can’t we wait until 6:00am? I mean is anyone lined up to take this room?”

CDU nurse said, ‘Yes” as if it were an irritating question.

I realized that at 5:00 AM my husband and child would still be sound asleep and I didn’t want to call and wake them up that early to come pick my ass up, especially since it was my husband’s birthday - so I decided that I would leave the CDU in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n. I was still so damn tired that I knew it would be easy, and quite natural to move very slowly!

I then asked my nurse, “Well, what did my tests show?’

CDU nurse said, “Which ones?”

I thought, “Shit – is that such a hard damn question for her. She’s the one who KNOWS which tests they ran – not me!” I thought it – didn’t say it. It was too early for my sarcasm to kick in, so I just asked if I could see my test results, as I would be reporting to my doctor that same day and would like to have the information for him.

CDU nurse said, “OH, NO. I can’t let you see these.”

Wiseass voice started waking up: “Why the hell not?’ (And I still think that’s a valid question.)

CDU nurse informed me it had something to do with HIPPA laws or whatever the hell they’re called. She did try to pacify me by saying she could tell me what they said, as if she were doing me a huge favor by revealing such information.

Again, we were back to that. So I just started throwing out names of possible tests.

“What did my CBC say?’

“Normal” she said.

“Really?” I said with much doubt in my voice & on my face – because my CBC has yet to be normal in the doctor’s office over the last several months.

I stepped in closer to her and was trying to read it upside down, noticing that there were, indeed, items in the ‘out of range’ column. She noticed me looking and pulled the tests up closer to her face and began reading off the scores to all of the components of the CBC as if I had the @#$ @#$%ing normal ranges memorized – as if I knew what half that bullshit was!!

I then asked her about my thyroid, as I knew my thyroid – my T3 component – had been extremely high a few days prior.

Again, the bitch started reading things off so quickly while I continued to try reading upside down.

After that she announced that I was entitled to a copy of my records, but that I must “obtain it from their business office during normal business hours Monday thru Friday.” (What that means is that the nurse doesn’t want to have to make a copy of it, and by getting it from the business office it means the greedy blood-sucking hospital bastards can gorge some more damned money out of me by requiring a stupid ass copying fee!)

I thought, “Piss on that, I’m seeing Dr. N later – he’ll get them.”

I told her not to sweat it -- that my doctor would be DEMANDING that they fax the records to his office TODAY. And I just walked on to the bathroom, trying not to look defeated – or even ‘ruffled’ from the experience with the CDU bitch.

When I got out of the bathroom, she was on the phone with someone, and I could tell she was telling someone about her side of our little early morning “interaction”, but I didn’t really give a rat’s ass. I just walked on up to her and said, “Where do I sign?’

When she was giving me my discharge papers, she told me the doctor had diagnosed me with "Chest Pain".

And he had to go to medical school for that one?

She then told me that he was giving me a prescription for 15 tablets of Ultram for the pain.

At that point, it took some self-control on my part not to laugh out very loudly, as I told her he might as well have given me a prescripton for Chicklets or Tic Tacs!

Geez! I came into the hospital with both Vicodin and Percocet in my little grocery bag of drugs, and the good doctor is writing me a prescription for Ultram?

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! I wanted to rip it up into little pieces and blow it into her face; but once again, I showed just how mature I am capable of behaving when I try really really hard!

After that, for some odd reason, she was nice to me. I think she was nice just because I was going to walk out where other people were and maybe she didn’t want them to know that I thought she was ‘Bitch of the Day’.

After I left the ER, I walked very slowly to the cafeteria and got some kind of breakfast pastry out of the vending machine and some coffee. I ate it slow. It was good. Then I got another one and ate it slow too. It was just as good as the first one. I regretted that I had no more currency, and that the vending machine didn’t take credit cards.

Finally, I went to the hospital’s courtesy phone, called my husband and said, “Happy Birthday, honey. Your wife is still alive.”


How Clean is Your Chocolate?
I ended my last blog post with the tantalizing information that I woke up one morning with chocolate on my ass.

For those of you starting to fantasize about me and my chocolate ass, I would like to suggest that you are either a real sicko or perhaps you’ve been on that Atkins diet way too long!

I can already tell that this particular blog entry will be one that is visited by many perverted people just because of the possible key word combinations.

Just so you know, thru my statistics program, I can tell what people ‘Google’ in order to get to this site – and some of you people need some serious therapy. For the uninformed - a search engine just looks for key words and doesn’t understand the nature of content – so I know that the words ‘chocolate on my ass’ will definitely bring some of the more disgusting members of our culture to this page. And if you demented ones can actually read, allow me to assure you - there will not be photos. I urge you to ‘Google’ again, my dear deviant ones.

With that said, I thought I’d better end with this simple, pointless story, so as to fulfill my promise to you – because I would not dream of disappointing you!


First of all, those of you that spend a great amount of time in the horizontal position realize that it is necessary to keep all your important stuff around you while you do all that lounging in bed. For me, the important stuff is office supplies and food & beverage products. If I could just fit a mini refrigerator on top of my night stand, my bedroom would be paradise.

First of all – let me tell you about my silk sheets. Last year I bought these cream colored silk sheets when they were deeply on sale, and I was having a weak moment because I had just enough extra money to buy them, because I returned a couple of pairs of jeans that didn’t fit my husband -- and I rationalized that he had enough jeans, but that we didn’t have enough silk sheets – because prior to that moment we had no silk sheets whatsoever.

Silk sheets – they are one of those guilty pleasures – and I love love love my silk sheets – especially if I’ve just shaved my legs. Nothing feels smoother, and…well, silker than silk!

A few months ago when I was still had the energy to be a Sunday school teacher, it wasn’t uncommon to find me lounging in bed surrounded by books, pens, glue, markers, scissors – pretty much the contents of your average desk – trying to prepare more of a lesson than I’d actually be able to present – but at least I would be prepared. I always had all necessary supplies right there in bed real ‘handy’ so as not to have to waste energy on things like walking around the house.

One night in the midst of a lesson preparation, I fell asleep with some Sharpies in the bed. First, I’d like to announce that I adore Sharpies – I don’t know why I prefer them over regular markers –but I do. They make crisp, dependable lines and they come in all those various widths and delicious, vibrant colors.

The next morning I woke up to an alarming sight - a rather large silver dollar sized black Sharpie ink spot on my otherwise PERFECT silk sheets. I was in such a state of disbelief that I think I gave myself a temporary arrhythmia. I was so angry at myself!

What an idiotic thing to do! After all, who falls asleep with office supplies in the bed? It was like a commercial for stain removal – the King of Stain Removal, for which I did NOT have.

I tried everything: greasy stain remover, liquid stain remover, carpet stain remover, bar soap, liquid dish detergent…. As I was running out of options, I finally got the great idea of using just the smallest amount of….bleach. (Some of you may be able to tell how this is going to end...) I thought if I just very gently rubbed the black blot with some bleach on an old toothbrush, that it would be better to have a white spot on my cream colored sheets than a black spot. So I confidently dipped that old toothbrush in some bleach and gently rubbed in small circles. It really only took a couple of seconds…..

Did you know that bleach EATS silk sheets? So there it was. My black mark had now become a freaking HOLE!

I actually sat down and cried.

Naturally I attempted to patch the hole, but repeated washings confirmed that theory that patching silk sheets is not all that easy.

I appealed to my husband for his help – as he has some genetic predisposition to seamstress skills. His mother is a master seamstress and he can sew on shit far better than I can –that is certain.

As wonderful as my hubby is, he really wasn’t all that motivated to help with my cause, as he doesn’t really like the silk sheets. I can not understand why. He likes the plain cotton sheets that came along with our denim comforter. I don’t know what the thread count is on that particular pair of sheets – I’m guessing about 50 or so.

It’s hard for me to understand why he prefers the regular shitty sheets to the silk sheets. All I can speculate is that perhaps he likes to be exfoliated while he sleeps. I’ve thought about sewing tiny little SOS pads to his side of the sheets so he’d be happy…but again, he’s the one with the superior sewing skills.

I’m wondering, though, if an SOS pad could make a good patch?

Because of the wholy silk sheets, we’ve been sleeping on those plain damn cotton ones. I think I referred to them as ‘expensive’ in my last post. That was certainly an error on my part. The only reason I would consider them ‘expensive’ is because they are King size sheets…and I know that any department store would want far more money for them than for what they are truly worth.

Back to the story…

A couple of weeks ago, hubby was trying to lay down the law about how much noise I’m allowed to make in the bedroom while he’s trying to sleep, and while I’m engaging in my insomnia activities. Now, I don’t think I’ve been inconsiderate of his sleeping requirements…after all, I’m allowing him to sleep on the exfoliating sheets….but apparently he likes some level of quiet and darkness in the room.

I understand that, and usually the quiet part isn’t a problem for me because his snoring is so damned loud I could be belting out an opera next to him and he wouldn’t be the wiser.

But as he goes thru his sleep cycles, he sometimes enters lighter stages of sleep where he is more aware of the fact that I am watching another Lifetime movie, chomping on some form of noisy food, and typing on the computer. He makes me aware that I have disturbed his sleep by making his loud passive-aggressive sighing noises, and occasionally wakes enough to say things like: “You’re still awake?”

I always feel guilty for waking him, even though I’m sure he doesn’t feel guilty for SNORING so loudly that I couldn’t go to sleep if someone drugged me. And believe me – I try every night to drug myself to sleep. It doesn’t seem to work much.

One night not too long ago, I had a hankering for a big chunk of dark chocolate. It just so happened that I had a large dark chocolate Hershey bar stashed away in my nightstand for such an occasion.

Have you ever noticed how much noise it makes to unwrap a Hershey bar when no one is snoring?

I was trying to be quick about it – so I got a big chunk of it out and laid it on the outside part of the wrapper. Yeah, I know, thousands of germy hands have touched the outside of the candy wrapper – but who’s to say that my chocolate bar did not fall victim to the Hershey company’s 5 second rule anyway? And you know a chocolate bar factory has to have insects and/or rodents. (I know I’m just ruining chocolate for a few queasy souls. Sorry.)

For several minutes I sat quietly next to my chocolate bar, only occasionally breaking off a small piece to slowly savor. And then….my back decided to spasm, so I found it necessary for me & all my accoutrements to shift a bit. As I did my best to wiggle in the bed without waking up the master of the house, all the shit that was to the left and right of me decided to roll underneath me. On the left of me, that meant that I had some office supplies trying to find their way up my ass; and on the right of me, that meant that I had a chocolate bar trying to find its way up my ass.

I got the office supplies quickly out of the way as they tend to be sharp, and then I leaned up just enough to realize that prior to the big shift, part of that chocolate bar had been making contact with…my heating pad.

I can’t remember what kind of noise I made in response to finding my chocolate on my own ass, but I know I did have some kind of verbal response as I did not have a 5 second or even a 5 minute rule for edible things on my ass and I was in some state of shock as I temporarily did not know what to do. To my knowledge, I’ve never eaten anything off my ass, even if I was just out of the shower clean!

I got up as quietly as I could to go wipe off my candy coated ass (there’s a good ‘Google’ term…”candy coated ass”) trying desperately not to laugh at my own stupidity, because I knew that Ricky wouldn’t think Lucy’s midnight candy antics would be all that damned funny.

I walked all the way to the other side of the house to go to that bathroom – hoping my daughter would still be awake so I could gross her out and make her guess what was on my ass. I do so love a good gross-out….but sadly, she was already asleep. I’m such a good mom that I thought about waking her up, but felt for certain that she wouldn’t think it nearly as funny as I did at that hour.

After my little spit-bath, I tip-toed back to our room, and did my best to hurl myself back onto our two-story bed without waking up Mr. Grizzly Bear. Somehow I managed to only cause a minor stir and I just laid there in the dark trying to slow down my breathing, trying to keep from laughing my formerly chocolate ass off, and to finally just go to sleep!

The next morning I rose to discover that the chocolate had not just found its way on that one portion of my ass, but that it had actually melted onto the exfoliating sheets…and then I rolled all over the exfoliating sheets. For a few moments I just lied awake in bed - wondering how I could sleep in melted chocolate, and yet, not be aware of it. What other food stuff could I sleep in, and yet remain unaware? Has my ass gone completely numb? What about my arms & legs – did they not notice – or were they just too tired to care?

I realized when my husband ventured around to my side of our bed to kiss me goodbye that morning, that he certainly must have seen something mysterious on the sheets. Was he afraid to ask me what it was? What must he have thought? Did he see the rest of the chocolate bar on the night stand – and put two and two together? Did he notice the foraging ants that found their way to the rest of the chocolate bar on the nightstand? Will he give me some lecture about ants in the bedroom…again?

So I called him at work, laughing almost hysterically about our chocolate covered sheets, ready to tell him about my adventure last night with my chocolate covered ass and my dilemma about whether one eats chocolate off their own ass or not….and to my shock, he had not even NOTICED the chocolate on the sheets that morning!!

So the whole point to this stupid damn story is that my husband doesn’t even look at me, my ass, or even our exfoliating sheets anymore. Apparently my husband would not notice me even if I were naked, dipped in chocolate, and covered in ants! So the real point to the story is, if you happen to find chocolate on your own ass – go ahead and eat it – ‘cause nobody else is gonna give a damn – no one else is even watching!