With a Twist of Lyme

Self-FLAGYL-lation

2007-01-23T13:15:00.000-06:00

Well, hell!

Well, HELL!!

WELL, HELL!

I’m glad I took the dates off of here so new people coming to browse won’t know how long its been since I’ve posted. This IS a record for moi!

Today is some day in January of 2007. I could probably find the actual date, but I personally consider that unimportant – especially if it takes me several days to write a bunch of crap worthy of being posted to my most excellent blog. I laugh at that statement on the inside. Too tired to laugh aloud just yet. Just waking up. Need a coffee IV.

The last time I updated this damn thing was in June of 2006. JUNE!

Yes, this is Dr. Wiseass’ Bi-Annual Blog! Hot Damn! If I’m only going to blog twice a year, the pressure is really on for me to write some good shit. But hell if I have that kind of time these days.

Once again, I’m going to give the excuse that I have not written because I’ve simply been too sick & too busy. I can use this excuse over & over as this is my blog and it’s the only really good excuse I have.

The truth of the matter is this: I’ve delved a little more deeply into the public eye of the Lyme world using my REAL damn name, along with embarrassing photos of me & my lazy eye and triple chins. Therefore, on the days when I give a damn – I wonder if my little blog of sarcasm & raw personal truth will somehow come back to bite me on my fat ass? Then there are the days that I welcome that thought: FINE! Let the whole world know that Dr. Wiseass is really….”WONDERWOMAN…..la la la lalaa la!” (Sing with me now!)

OK, before you start fantasizing about me being someone gorgeous and famous…allow me to gently remind you: NO WAY DUMB ASS!

I’ve just become a little more “out there”, possibly in every sense of the phrase, most especially the “mental” part; and I’ve invested a lot of my time and energy trying to gain some kind of credibility. Can you imagine how hard that is for ME? I’m a raving lunatic on my best days. Do you know the kind of self-control it takes not to crack an inappropriate joke or sing the “WONDERWONAN.,..la la la lalalaa la!” when I get a wild hair up my ass?

Having said all of that – I just ask that if you do know, or discover my secret Wonderwoman identity (I used to use the Batman as my analogy, but Wonderwoman has bigger boobs. I aspire to having those one day) – just please keep your big trap shut if you know my real name. It would spoil the fun.

I think another, more important reason I’ve been avoiding the blog world is that I used to be able to ramble on and on about how I fill my days with mindless noodling. (noodling is perhaps a made-up word meaning daydreaming, contemplation, and sometimes even wasting away again in Margaritaville…)

Anyhoo – what was I talking about? Oh yes – I can’t talk about how I fill my days because that would help blow my cover…as if anyone in the world gave a flying rat’s ass about that, other than yours truly!

Speaking of giving a flying rat’s ass….some of you are rude, self-centered, and just downright hurtful! I freely give out my DR. Wiseass email address….somewhere on this blog. But do you write and say, “Dear DR. Wiseass – You dear sweet thang, how are you doing? Are you still alive?”

HELL NO! Oh sure, there’s a couple of you that are sweet & thoughtful, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my mother for checking in on me from time to time. Thanks Mom.

But the rest of you should be ashamed! Do I not come on here and spill my ever-loving guts to you for your commiseration and your bed-ridden entertainment? Is it not too much to ask that once in a while you take the time to email my ass and say, “Dear DR. Wiseass – how IS your ass?”

Well, my ass is still 60+ lbs overweight, thank you very much… as if you give a damn ---- but on the lighter side I’m starting to feel better!

Pain in the ASS
This summer, I went to a Lyme practitioner practicing in some undisclosed location in the Midwest. Actually, the location is not undisclosed for his patients; just that I’m not disclosing it for you bunch of narcissistic asses that can’t seem to send a little “How are you doing?” email. You should be ashamed.

And let me preface by saying that the reason I went out searching for a new Lyme doc is that my previous doc – not naming names – seems to have a crapload of issues that I don’t want to have to deal with; and that’s all I should probably put here in writing because I’m sure my attorney friend would not even approve of that little statement. But as he told me – TRUTH is the ultimate defense against slander &/ or libel, or as I like to say, “lander” or “slibel” because my brain and tongue do not get along very much anymore.

Back to the Midwest --- this new Lyme doc came widely recommended so we loaded up the van and drove for hours on end until we finally reached this little Hee Haw kind of town where we shacked up in a two-bit pink motel and pretended we were on a rare, “We’re not even in Arkansas” family vacation. We actually went to places of entertainment and we were actually mildly entertained. In all honesty, I was probably the one that was in more of a “vacation-mode” than dear hubby or daughter because at the time I felt like I had been chained to my bed for months - so we could have gone to a flea market and I would have felt like we were at damned Disneyland; besides I was the only one with (FDA-approved) narcotics. Sometimes that helps.

When the blessed day arrived that we could pile our asses back in our vehicle to travel another hour or so to the doc’s undisclosed location, I found myself in our van in a far-too-lucid state of panic (didn’t take my pain pills as I wanted him to see the REAL me) and I was feverishly trying to type up the rest of my long-ass medical history and update the 3-page Excel spreadsheet that contained the list of my current meds & supplements. Yes, I’m a procrastinator. Big surprise there. I’m just thankful that I had purchased one of those do-hickies that allow you to plug up electrical devices via your cigarette lighter, otherwise my printer would not have worked very well. Yes, I took my laptop & inket printer on our Hew Haw adventure…and damn glad that I did.

I was pleasantly surprised that this particular doc actually paid attention to the documentation I provided. I mean – don’t you hate it when most docs practically ignore what you have laboriously prepared and carefully encased in sheet protectors, and instead spend time asking you the same damn questions you’ve already taken the time to thoroughly answer in writing….with key features high-lighted for their convenience? In fact, this doc was so intent on reading all of my bullshit that the exam room was uncomfortably quiet. Without being medicated, this of course, made me nervous.

I began to banter and point out key features of my narrative & medication history as if he were too stupid to read. He would politely say, “Uh huh” as if to acknowledge that he, too, could read in spite of his Hee Haw heritage. “Hee Haw Heritage” -- that would make a damn good book title for someone like Dolly Parton, wouldn’t it? As if Dolly hasn’t already written her memoirs…but she could write them again, put on a new title and sell it like hotcakes at Dollywood.

But no – we were NOT in Dollywood. Didn’t mean to confuse you precious Lymebrains. We were still in that undisclosed location in the Midwest.

Finally, the doc spoke and damn if I can remember anything he said. It was standard stuff, and I felt he was going to make a good doc for me, especially considering that I didn’t have to visit him all that often because of the traveling distance.

And allow me to interject something here for just a moment.

I know that you guys/dolls know at this point that I’m probably very involved with at least a support group in or around my place of residence. That much I will give you credit for having discerned. I mean – you just have Lyme – that doesn’t make you utter morons.

With that in mind, I would like to secretly disclose to you, my private group of adoring, yet uncommunicative fans, that one of my pet peeves is when folks that have been in the group in a half-ass kind of way occasionally wake up and write me an email after a few months and ask if there aren’t some new Lyme docs practicing within their zip code. Whhhhhhaaaaaaaaat?!!

Hell – we don’t even officially “git” Lyme in Texas…why the hell would anyone think that in the course of 3 months all the Lyme literate docs in the US would pick up and MOVE to the great Republic of Yee Haw (not to be confused with Hee Haw) where we… “don’t git no Lyme?”

My inner smartass bitch wants to ask, “Well, honey what is your actual address – let me input it into my magical Wonderwoman computer here…..ah, you lucky gal – we have a Lyme doc practicing out of his home just two doors down from you! You could literally crawl there if you wanted! Or would you like me to drive my Wonderwoman-mobile across several counties and drive your ass there?”

Shit! Some people can’t seem to wrap there head around the fact that IF they are to receive adequate medical care for the bacterial infection wreaking havoc in their body (along with all the other bullshit coursing through their bloodstream) – they may have to pile their miserable ass in a plane, train, or automobile and t-r-a-v-e-l to see someone!

Yes, it’s an unfortunate reality; and I don’t mean to sound harsh, but months and months of the same kind of magical thinking from people who think there should be a Lyme practitioner pitching a pup-tent in their backyard because damnit they’re sick….well, that’s getting kind of old.

Here’s a very freeing attitude: THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX. YOU CAN TRAVEL. You most likely MUST travel if you want to see someone that is going to do little more than prescribe antidepressants, refer you to a shrink, and collect your damn co-pay. That’s the awful reality.

I know most people think: “But I can’t drive that far!” And they are probably right. I generally can’t drive longer than 45 minutes at a time without being hypnotized by the road and wanting to fall fast asleep…which might be an answer to my bouts of insomnia at 4 am, albeit a potentially dangerous solution.

Now hear this: GET A FAMILY MEMBER OR A FRIEND (remember those? friends? hahahaha) and BEG them to drive you to Hee Haw land, or put your ass on a plane and head East to the great land of ticks and Borrelia where when asked about your ailments, folks don’t ask ridiculous questions such as:

“Lyme disease? Well, what the hell is that? Ain’t that something you get from dogs or ticks or sumthin’?? ”

OR if you’d rather go to a land where Lyme practitioners are less likely to be persecuted by dim-witted humans, also surprisingly in the medical field – head on out to the West coast. California is beautiful this time of year, because California is beautiful just about any time of year….the lucky bastards.

Call it a vacation if that helps you with your mindset, but if you live in Texas or somewhere similar – I say: “Get thee out of the Republic of Yee Haw because….our state medical boards need SOMETHING to do, and apparently their chosen activity is to persecute any doctor that dares admit to the ultimate truth that we DO F’ing get Lyme here, there, or anywhere for that matter!

Thank you for allowing that little divergence on my part….now where was I? Oh yes..in the Midwest.

As my official appointment time was drawing to a satisfying close, I decided that I would spontaneously ask the good doc if he wouldn’t mind performing some quick prolotherapy on my ass. Not exactly how I asked this question, but that’s the short of it.

You see – of all my muscles, I think my ass muscles are the ones that have, historically, been in competition with my shoulder & neck muscles for the “Most Painful Muscles in History” award. And while it’s quite a simple request to ask your husband, daughter, or complete stranger to rub your shoulders or neck – it’s quite another to ask someone to rub your ass. Yes, we live in confusing times. Kids are freaked out – as they probably should be – by such a request; and anyone with a penis thinks of that as an invitation of sorts; and your women friends, if you’re lucky enough to still have any, start to wonder if you are a closet Les-bo. My apologies to all of my lesbian readers if “Les-Bo” is not an acceptable term.

HOWEVER, the other day I was listening to NPR (National Public Radio) and a lesbian woman author actually used the word…..DYKE! (Question: Is ‘dyke’ an acceptable term for ALL people to use? I thought ‘dyke’ was equivalent to the word ‘fag’, is it not? Or are the words just OK for homosexual people to use, just like the dreaded ‘n’ word has been considered socially acceptable for the boys in the ‘hood to utilize between themselves & in rap songs - but if “white-y” uses it – he’s gonna get his ass kicked ?!!)

Proper word usage can be so confusing, especially for those of us with spirochetes dancing through the ol’ frontal lobe. I would really like an answer to these burning questions because I don’t want to find myself giving a speech one day, and for whatever reason, in case I need to address the homosexual segment of the audience say something like: “For my friends whom are dykes and fags….” and then all of a sudden get shot….or worse, get “boo-ed” off the stage ?!!! And by the way - did you know most people fear public speaking more than death? That is funny, don’t you think? OK – so I would really like an answer to the acceptable homosexual terminology thing…and please be nice to me…I’ve had my head under a rock for about 3 years or more…I don’t watch the news and I’m not very well socialized or cultured….and can ‘cultured’ be a verb like that even when you’re not talking about dairy products or bacteria?

Back in the Midwest….
I asked Dr. Whats-his-name to perform prolotherapy on my glutteal muscles because they hurt so damned bad all the damn time. He said he did, indeed, have time to do such; then asked if I had taken any pain medication that morning – to which I replied with an honest “NO”.

He asked: “How is your pain tolerance?”

I found this to be a curious question because honestly, how does one ever really know their own pain tolerance, right? I mean – I gave birth to an 8 ½ pound baby without benefit of drugs or an effective epidural because the damn anesthesiologist couldn’t tell that the needle wasn’t properly IN my back and the shit ran DOWN my back instead of IN my freaking spine where it would have been most useful! Naturally I screamed like a crazy-ass banshee – but I don’t think that’s indicative of a low pain tolerance, especially after 2 ½ hours of pushing and the impatient ob/gyn, probably eager to get to his tee-off time at the golf course, decided it was time to go in with the damned forceps…which are like huge metal tongs, except not for spaghetti but baby heads.

So in all honesty – I don’t think I’m such a big titty-baby when it comes to pain…but then again, maybe I am – how can I possibly know? I’ve never experienced the pain in another woman’s vagina when giving birth – never want to either - so honestly how does one make that comparison?

So I gave Dr. Whats-his-name an honest: “How does one ever know?’ Sure I could have said, “OH, I’m like the biggest titty-baby you’ve ever seen, will you really dope me up? OR an“Are you kidding? I’m one tough bitch. Most people call me Wonderwoman!” But Nooooooooo – I did not claim either status.

I assume that answer was not sufficient for Dr. Whats-his-name, as he turned to my hubby sitting in the exam room with me and asked him: “What do you think? Do you think she has a high or low pain tolerance?”

Without missing a beat, my husband said, “Oh I think she probably has a low pain tolerance.”

I whipped my head around like I was Linda Blair and I was just about to projectile vomit some pea soup for my opening act. I gave my husband one of those wifely ‘go to hell’ looks that would have made him crap his pants if he could only read my mind at that moment.

The good doc knew my husband was in imminent danger and suggested to my husband that he thought women actually had a higher pain tolerance than men because, after all, God chose women to give birth.

Husband was momentarily saved by Dr. Whats-his-name…but Wonderwoman AND DR. Wiseass was NOT finished with dear hubby & that remark…not by a long-shot!!!!

Dr. Whats-his-name suggested that I take some of my regular pain medication as prolotherapy can be rather “uncomfortable”. And yes, I had indeed heard from my good friend BB (STILL not a stripper, although she could probably use the money…) who also had prolo done from this doc that it was a bit painful. However, what I did not know in those moments, but was about to discover is …. my listening skills SUCK!

Before my xanax and percocet could reach my digestive tract, Dr. Whats-his-name had ushered me to the room of pain, and invited me to drop my drawers, lie on the exam table with my ass shining under the bright, hot lights. I was already not liking the experience. I wasn’t even in a gown. I felt like it was almost a drive-through medical procedure; and I was completely and totally lucid…enduring my everyday kind of pain with nary a word of complaint and I knew he was about to inflict some additional pain – pain that I had, IRONICALLY, asked for by name…and all in the name of better health!

For those of you unfamiliar with prolotherapy (much like I was when I had my ass in the air) – the object is to make a series of injections into the painful muscle sites with a solution of saline & some type of sugar that would set up an inflammatory reaction that would ultimately cause the body’s natural healing to occur. Yes, its far more complicated scientifically speaking, but that’s all you’re getting from me here. Google it.

Here’s where I should have listened to my friend, BB, a bit more. ..
In my mind, it was going to be just a couple of quick shots that I would hold my breath and be done with.

But NOoooo!!!!

First of all, a key aspect of prolotherapy is the fact that this magic syrup injected into the body must go ALL the way down to where muscles & ligaments…meet the freaking BONE! YES! DAMNIT! The longass needle must STOP on BONE!

I think I’m going to have to stop and take some medication just to re-tell this damn part of the story…..pardon me for a moment….

AND again, part of my misunderstanding about this is the fact that it was NOT a couple or even a few damn shots….but more like 30 or more shots given over the course of about 45-minutes!

I thought I was going to die. And honestly, it wasn’t just the needle causing the pain. Actually, the needles weren’t my biggest complaint. NO.

In order to FIND my ass bones buried underneath all my layers of ass fat and my rope-y knotted up ass muscles, Dr. Whats-his-name had to use his knuckles to KNEAD THROUGH AND DIG until he reached BONE! Then he’d inject that damned solution and sometimes the pain would radiate all the way down to my toes, and sometimes I swear it would radiate up to my forehead where I had broken out into a cold sweat. There were moments I thought I’d faint; and moments I thought I would vomit; and yes, moments I even had to clench my ass muscles, making it far worse on me, because I was determined I was not going to fart on this new doctor despite me having a momentary urge to choke him half to death.

I was determined NOT to scream, cry, or curse like a drunken sailor because my dear hubby and child were sitting out in the lobby waiting on my ass. I didn’t want to scare my child; and I didn’t want to give hubby the sweet satisfaction in thinking that I do, indeed, have some kind of low pain tolerance.

Dr. Whats-his-face had kindly given me one of those squishy balls that feel like a balloon filled with sand to hold and squeeze so that I guess I could have some “appropriate” way to react to the horrifying pain he was inflicting upon me. And I think my fingernails could have quite easily ripped through that little sissy-ball of sand but again, I was trying to be a big big girl. So as I manipulated the little sand ball, and gritted my teeth, and concentrated on not passing out or throwing up….I also fantasized about piercing my husband’s scrotum with a ball-point pen in the middle of the night while asking: “Who’s got the low tolerance now, sissy-boy?”

I have a rich fantasy life…yes?

One of the things that went flying through my mind during that near-hour-long-horrifying-beyond-comprehension-kind-of-experience is: “Why the F does Western medicine have to be so damned barbaric?” At that moment, I would have GLADLY traded in the longass needles and the manly knuckles burrowing down to my ass bone for some good old fashioned leeches or maggot therapy if I thought that would have given me any type of pain relief.

And before I forget….I’d like to say that if you ever find yourself sober & lucid, getting a prolotherapy shot in the deepest crack of your ass and you don’t yell out the F word and bitch-slap the practitioner performing such a grevious act…YOU HAVE AN F’ING HIGH TOLERANCE TO PAIN! HIGH HIGH HIGH damnit!

Western Medicine – Barbarism at its Finest!
Fast forward a bit, and I returned home to endure the staggering heat wave to which we Texans are supposedly accustomed. But honestly, thanks to my sickness, I’m no longer accustomed to any temp other than the 75 degree range – give or take a generous 2 degrees. I’m flexible that way.

One of the meds Dr. What’s-his-name wanted me to incorporate into my antibiotic regimen was the dreaded Flagyl – a class of medication known to break up the cyst form of the Borrelia. I had been so reluctant to take this medication because I had heard far too many horror stories about how much misery it added to patients’ already miserable lives.

Again, I had to ask myself – “WHY does Western medicine have to be so barbaric & cruel?”

That reminds me of an unrelated story which I’ll tell now, lest I forget it.

Several years ago I got some kind of acute gastrointestinal bug which caused me to start vomiting non-stop for HOURS in the middle of the night. I don’t know about you – but when your vomiting up the contents of your body – it can be a rather agonizing experience, not to mention completely melodramatic.

After a couple hours of non-stop vomit, when all I could vomit was bile & foam – I decided hubby needed to call my doctor. She very graciously prescribed some phenergan suppositories to help me stop all the retching. While hubby went to fetch the magical butt meds, I was so weak & delirious from it all, I knew I had to do something to “switch off” that constant heaving mechanism; I needed my brain to focus its attention on something else …so I crawled into the shower hoping cold water or hot water would serve to break my gagging cycle in some way. Don’t ask me why, I just felt like I was working on instinct at that point, and I was desperate. So there I was naked in the shower, waiting for my husband to return from the pharmacy, and hoping like hell the vomiting would stop. But it didn’t. I found myself on all fours vomiting in the shower, feeling like such a naked, vulnerable animal that was about to die. I could envision the headlines:
“Naked Woman Found Dead in Shower – Cause of Death: Continuous Barfing!”

I wonder if anyone has ever died from barfing too much? That would be an interesting thing to Google – not that I have the time or desire.

Anyhoo – when husband returned a few minutes later & I was shoving the suppository up my ass, I remember telling myself that despite my desire to live on several acres in the country - I also never wanted move more than 1 mile away from a 24-hour pharmacy.

Needless to say, the suppository didn’t work. I shoved another one in. Didn’t work either. My doc was called again and she insisted that hubby take me to the emergency room. Shit! That was not my preference, although I may have done just about anything to stop the vomiting. I thought – “Well, they’ll just give me some kind of miraculous IV, and I’ll stop the puking and be able to go home.” I’m so stupid sometimes,

Instead, they made me wait in the waiting room with all the other whiners & migraine people while I continued to vomit in some flimsy plastic bag they generously supplied. Finally when I started making loud noises while puking and started puking on the floor….my name was called. It was like a fairytale.

I can’t remember if they gave me a “stop vomiting” shot or not – they probably did. BUT THEN, because they are no doubt sado-massochistic assholes, they made me drink a whole bunch of barium so they could do some kind of x-ray that would help them see WHY I had been vomiting so violently.

I explained that I was sick to my stomach and that I didn’t think drinking that nasty white, chalky bullshit was going to improve my upset stomach status. Yet, they did not care.

Between the drowsiness caused by the 2 suppositories at home; the drowsiness of whatever shots they gave me; the lateness of the hour; and the total exhaustion experienced from all that heaving – I was ready to just curl up in a ball and go to sleep. But my husband was delegated the job of keeping me awake long enough to drink all that nasty shit. I was pissed. What barbarian came up with drinking that bullshit for patients that are clearly, and quite obviously human puke factories?

Then came the diarrhea. I honestly don’t know if it was Part II of whatever vicious pathogen was trying to hijack my body, or if it was just a side-effect from the bullshit milkshake….a drink that seemed to contain neither milk nor shake! So there I was – hooked up to IV poles & monitors, wearing ONLY a gown for which I didn’t give a shit whether it was tied or not, and I had to walk down a longass hallway to get to the john. I made several trips – each time falling asleep while on the toilet, only to be awakened by dear hubby who was afraid I was going to fall & hurt myself. And while I’m thinking about it….bathrooms are the #1 dangerous room in the house – more accidental deaths occur there than any other place in the house. Why? I think it’s because of all the metal & hard porcelain crap – so my question is why can’t the plumber type people come up with a way to add foam & plastic over all the hard shit that people crack their heads on? Just a thought. I’m a visionary, you know.

Anyhoo – so by the time the hospital bastards thought I finished my barium milkshake (Shh! I poured much of it down the drain…you know, by accident)., someone came to get me so I could be introduced to more radiation.

I don’t recall anything about the upper GI series…except that I’m sure I was still extremely miserable in a general sense.,.,…then moments later, I realized they had even MORE methods of barbaric medical torture as the lab gal said she had to insert a small device…up my rectum.

Yes, it was like she was shoving a damn dildo up my ass!

Needless to say – I broke out into a cold sweat and didn’t know if I wanted to puke more or shit more. Besides, I was completely horrified at the procedure. I wanted to tell that bitch, who was very rude by the way, that if I had wanted a dildo up my ass, I would become a lesbian, or like a female gay man. (Dear homosexuals – was that terminology OK? SEE? It would have been nice to know proper terminology. I’m so insecure about being politically incorrect.)

Turns out – I had puked so hard that I tore something somewhere…can’t remember. I just remember it was called a Mallory-Weis tear. Isn’t that stupid that I can’t remember WHAT tore inside my body, but I can remember the medical name – even though I’m quite sure I’ve misspelled it.

I can’t remember the point of that whole story…..oh yes, the barbaric nature of Western medicine. Honestly – when you’re puking, do you really want to make yourself drink the most nasty tasting crap? And when you’ve got the runs – should you really be required to allow someone to show a large object up your ass? Barbaric, I say! Pure barbaricism! Barbaricy? Barbaricisity? Barbarism? Yes, Barbarism ! That’s the word!

Sliver of Hope

Hmmm….so what else was I going to drone on about? Ah yes, the cyst-busting medication: Flagyl. (Please note – we are no longer flashing back to my puke story – we’ve fast-forwarded back to summer 2006, even though I write this now in Winter 2007 making even the Flagyl story even in the past tense, but it’s more up to date than the puke story. Hope that didn’t confuse you too much!)

Knowing full well about the horror stories of Flagyl, I decided it would be most prudent if I started off with the smallest of doses. So I started off with one SLIVER (about 1/8) of this very small tablet. If memory serves me correctly, the tablet is even smaller than a regular Tylenol tablet….just to give some of you newbies an idea of what size I’m talking about.,

I took that first Flagyl sliver on a Sunday night. On Monday I didn’t feel so well, but since I had been expecting it – I was surprised that I actually didn’t feel worse. On Tuesday, I recall thinking that “Flagyl ain’t that bad. Maybe I can tolerate it.” Honestly, I thought I might have actually been feeling….better. HOWEVER, by Wednesday, I was totally miserable. Unfortunately I can’t remember my symptoms, but I do remember that I was pretty much bed-ridden for a couple of days. Then as the weekend approached, I started to feel a bit better. So when Sunday rolled around, I thought that I should tough it out and taken another sliver of Flagyl (I was ‘pulsing’ just once a week).

When I experience moments where I think I need to be brave, I always think of the GI Jane movie starring the incomparable Demi Moore. There’s a scene in there where she looks like total shit and you think she’s just about to drop dead, when a female doc (who was, ironically, a lesbian in the movie..) said something to her like: “Way to gut it out, soldier!”

Ah, what inspiration! So there I was swallowing my sliver of Flagyl feeling just like GI Jane.
As expected, Monday was quite uncomfortable for me; Tuesday was OK; and then Wednesday knocked me on my ass. I developed such a migraine that I was threatening to pluck out my eyes with an ice cream scoop or a melon-baller. I was so miserable with it that I started…puking, which always brings up bad memories for me (as detailed above.) I think I may have Post-Traumatic-Stress when it comes to vomit now.

On that Thursday, I finally decided that I would have to go to the ER because I had not slept; I couldn’t eat; and I had taken the maximum doses of all my pain-relieving narcotics. I was afraid that because of the ghastly pain, my human judgment would become impaired and that I would just open up my pain pill botttless and pour them all down my throat in a last-ditch attempt to MAKE IT STOP! MAKE THE F’ING PAIN STOP!

Fortunately, my spirit was stronger than my flesh as it overruled that idea and made me call my neighbor to tote me to the ER, where no doubt they would take excellent care of me – taking mercy upon me and my sick body – knowing exactly what to do.

I was delusional.

I insisted that my neighbor just drop me off because she had been in the middle of mowing & weed-eating and she looked absolutely dreadful. I didn’t want to publicly associate with her at that moment, although in truth I probably had some puke in my hair and I did look odd as I had tied one of my migraine “tourniquets” around my eyes to try to ease the pressure.

I went it – had to jump through the registration hoops, which just irritates the hell outta me that they can’t seem to find someone that speaks the English language worth a flip. And I know that the people working the admission desk at the ER have seen lots of crazy ass people come & go – but can’t they use a bit of discernment to know when they’ve got a regular, needy, sick person in front of them versus a “crazy” person?? The registration asshole didn’t even make eye contact with me – as if I weren’t important enough. He just went through his little verbal schpill about “Living Wills” and HIPPA bullshit, and who I would allow to know about my medical status while there. Total pain in the ass. I’d been there about 20 F’ing times – couldn’t they look in the F’ing computer?

To irritate me further, I was taken into the triage room where I just knew the triage nurse would discover I had a fever & really high blood pressure because I felt like my head was about to explode off of my neck. BUT Nooooooo. Temp & blood pressure were fine. (But I think they need to consider that the blood pressure in my arm does not reflect the damned blood pressure in my head at all! Perhaps the blood pressure in my arm was within normal limits because all the extra freaking pressure was…in my F’ING HEAD!)

I explained my symptoms to the triage nurse, giving her detailed descriptions of the pain I was enduring with the headache and saying the pain was even causing me to vomit. She gave me a thin fancy plastic bag…just in case; and then she wanted to know why I had put down on my triage form the word “herx’ (BECAUSE I WAS THINKING I WAS SO MISERABLE I SHOULD PROBABLY BE IMMEDIATELY USHERED TO I.C.U.). To my utter shock, the triage nurse had never heard of the word “herx” before. So I did my best to explain it to her. She just shook her head as if she thought I was making up the term; as if I was just another crazy drug-seeking fool willing to spend my entire day sitting in a waiting room with sick & crazy people-- all so I could get a shot of Demorol because I’m so pathetic. What a bitch.

I left the triage room and ambled back to my waiting room chair, just KNOWING that if she didn’t know what a herx was – then she wouldn’t know how potentially serious it was and therefore would not triage me correctly.

Meanwhile, I was sitting in front of this loud-mouthed son of a bitch that kept belly-aching about people being taken back to the ER before him because…he was there first! I literally had to force myself on NOT turning around and telling him to shut up while enlightening him to the obvious fact that he wasn’t in a damned deli where it’s first-come first-service….stupidass moron!

Then, while I held my ice pack at the back of my head and leaned forward with my head practically in my own stainless steel mixing / puke bowl I had brought from home (screw the flimsy hospital bag – that’s for amateurs…) I was trying so hard to concentrate on NOT puking, and NOT scratching my own eyes out.

I could not find a position I was comfortable in. I even put two chairs together to try to make myself a bed. At one point, I even once got down on the floor and put my head on a chair. As a professional sick person, I knew to bring my own pillow too. (I lovingly call it my biohazard pillow). Please note: At no time did my head touch the bacteria/virus laden ER waiting room floor! Remember, I’m a wiseass…so there’s a bit of WISE in there somewhere!

During my SIX HOUR WAITING PERIOD, while patiently sitting in front of Mr. I-think-this-is-a-deli , I think I showed amazing restraint in the fact that I did not jump over my chair and choke the living shit out of him. In between his bitching like a cantankerous old woman, he would sing to the carpet-cleaning commercials on the waiting room TV. Then, he’d get up about twice an hour to go outside and take a smoke break. He’d come back in wreaking of cigarette smoke.

Now don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against smokers. I used to be one, and I whole-heartedly believe that smokers have rights too. What bothered me about this man is that he bitched & moaned like he should have some sort of priority in getting back to see the docs, despite the fact that he felt well enough to get up and take about 12 smoke breaks and he felt good enough to sing along with the F’ing TV commercials. Give me a damned break! He was there just because he needed to see a doc, not because he was experiencing any kind of emergency or health crisis.

And each time he came in smelling of intense ciggy smoke, I thought I would puke some more. As a former smoker, I think the smell actually repulses me a bit (which is good in a sense, so that I don’t go back to it) – unless I’ve had a couple of mixed drinks and then I wouldn’t mind smoking a cig. But I was not in a party mood with my head in one of my best mixing bowls. NOPE. Not wanting to throw back any bourbon at that moment and because he was therefore, just pissing the shit outta me because of his incessant need to hear his own damned voice, I was just about ready to turn around and offer to write him a blank damned check if he’s just sit there and shut the F up !

However, I did not say that, as the triage personnel were already pissed off at me because I was completely ignoring the sign that said, “If you plan on seeing a doctor, please do not eat or drink.” Despite the personal warning from one of the triage underlings informing me that THE triage nurse advised me not to eat or drink, I informed the underling that I had been sitting there for hours at that point and I was going to do whatever it took to get rid of my headache and to keep from puking – even if that meant nibbling on crackers and sipping on 7-up! What bullshit!

I don’t know if my defiance is what got me kicked to the back of the triage line, or if it was the fact the triage nurse didn’t understand the seriousness of a badass herx reaction, because it was over 6 hours before I got back to see any doc…AND Mr. “I-think-this-is-a-deli got to see a doc BEFORE ME! So it’s not how much pain you’re in, it’s about how much of a pain in the ass you are!! Hmmm…. Note to self: Next time I’m gonna tell them I feel like it’s hard to breathe…or maybe that my chest hurts. Hell, my chest always hurts, with all those spirochetes weaving in & out of my chest muscle – so that ain’t no lie!

When I finally was allowed back to the sacred ground where all the god-like physicians blessed mankind by walking around like mere mortals, I was astonished to find that my assigned nurse AND the wet-behind-the-ears doctor didn’t know what a herxheimer reaction was! It was at that moment I started thinking: “They’re going to kill me!”

Naturally they shoved an IV thingy into my arm, did all the regular bullshit, asked lots of questions, and I just shoved my black notebook of highly organized medical history in their faces offering to explain whatever it was they didn’t understand – and perhaps that was the wrong choice of words.

Despite me telling them about the >24 hour migraine that I thought might kill me, they gave me a shot of….compazine (stomach medicine) and….Benadryl. Huh? I had better meds at home! Were they kidding me with that bullshit? I wanted my headache to go away, and I had taken my fair share of Benadryl in the past but it had never improved one of my headaches – at least not to my knowledge.

I questioned the nurse about this, and she said it’s a new combination that works together synergistically. What bullshit. Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!

All that F’ing combination did was make me jittery and anxious. Had my husband not shown up about that time, I think I might have pulled out my IV and put my clothes on telling them all to go F themselves. Clearly, they gave me that sissy-ass combo because they thought I was a damned drug-seeker. I was livid and terrified simultaneously. Here I thought I was in bad enough shape to merit a bed in the Intensive Care Unit, and they were dicking me around with over-the-counter meds!

Finally, the doc in all his mercy gave me a bit of ativan to calm my nerves – for what little good that did. I got a short nap out of it, but still woke up with a damned excruciating migraine….so I told my hubby I wanted to go home. I felt that if I stayed there in THAT hospital, they were going to accidentally kill my ass because of their overwhelming ignorance about my body & the wide assortment of diseases coursing through it.

Back at home, I continued on with my own personal migraine protocol, which included a prayer to God to either rid me of the pain or to have enough mercy to let me die. Over the next few hours, my headache finally lessened and my will to live returned.

While I lied there in my bed waiting for my headache to mysteriously disappear, or for God to call me home…I thought again about how barbaric Western medicine is. We in the US claim we are on the leading edge of medicine. And God help us, we probably are. But somewhere along the way, we have managed to devalue the patient – especially the intelligence & feelings of the patients.

Doctors today seem to be so concerned about keeping a professional distance, that they don’t realize that the patient is crying because they are afraid their child is about to become an orphan, but instead are led to believe the patient is suffering from a severe case of depression which can be fixed with some expensive antidepressants….or perhaps they need a large dildo shoved up their ass – that will solve their problem.

While thinking about all of that, I suddenly remembered the scenes from the DaVinci code where the Albino killer would take off all of his clothes and flog himself so hard that he had deep, bleeding wounds on his back. That’s called self-flagellation – a morbid form of self-punishment, usually performed by an extremely fundamental religious person who believes that God is pleased by such.

But the God I know. or choose to believe in, certainly wouldn’t find joy in the pain & misery of others, which is why I was so confused (and still so) as to why those of us whom are sick with a variety of ailments – not just Lyme or tick-borne disease – but ALL who are suffering – WHY MUST WE SUFFER MORE IN AN EFFORT TO GET BETTER?

Just like the religious zealots who perform self-flagellation in order to “better” themselves in their own eyes, and seemingly in the eyes of their Maker, it seems that the ill are also required to inflict pain upon themselves, or at least allow it – all in the name of becoming “better”.

To me, that’s so ludicrous. It’s beyond my comprehension.

During my Flagyl days, I can’t really reiterate how strongly I felt that I was going to die - immediately before, during, and after my hospital experience. I know people overuse that terminology now to the point where the meaning is watered down “I thought I would die!” even when someone is just talking about something trivial like wearing the same dress worn by another at some grand, superficial social event; or walking around with toilet paper hanging out of their pantyhose. While embarrassing moments may make you think you want to die…momentarily – deep down you really don’t want to die or even think you’re about to die.

When you truly feel like you’re going to die – there’s a true flight-or-flight response that happens. It’s both a psychological & physical response. It’s like your personality switches from the delightful being you are, to a desperate needy soul looking for help & mercy wherever you can find it; and if you can’t find help – you can become emotionally or physically vicious – just as I was ready to tell all the ER folks to go F themselves….not a normal, rational method for building a good working relationship with the medical people, but I didn’t think they were working with or for me, rather they seemed to be working against me because of their stupidity – and I couldn’t handle it.

The next day at home I cried until I was almost dehydrated. It’s quite a lonely feeling to feel so completely miserable and to think that real help is a long road trip or plane ride away. And yet that is the case for so many Lyme patients. We suffer so much – most in relative silence – because we know there’s no one locally that really knows how to help us. It’s quite scary to realize that if in a life/death situation with this disease, you might die at the hands of an incompetent moron. I’m not saying that to scare the beejezus out of anyone. That’s just the reality we “lymies” encounter on a daily basis. So we have to find our courage & our faith in order to get out of bed and face each day with a positive “I’m not going to drop dead today” attitude.

So that’s one of the things I’ve struggled with over the last several months….while looking for a way to improve & ‘better” my health without taking any more Flagyl; without feeling like I’m engaged in a form of medical self-flagellation. Every day I have to operate with the belief that I will get better – that I AM healing…even if all I can muster on some days is a sliver of hope….cuz a sliver of hope ALWAYS BEATS the hell out of a sliver of Flagyl!

Until next time…be good to you!

Hugs & Kisses,

DR. Wiseass
-not a real doc, just a real wise ASS!

Teaching New Dogs Old Tricks

2006-06-21T16:11:00.000-05:00

We have a new dog. He’s supposedly a puppy but he’s so big that the word puppy is really a misnomer. Our new little bundle of dog joy is about 4 months old & weighs about 50 pounds by now. Sounds real cuddly, doesn’t he? He’s half Boxer and half Pit Bull. Yeah, real cuddly.

Prior to the arrival of “Radar” – and we named him that because we can pretty much predict where the other pets are – or rather, are NOT based on where Radar IS. But prior to his arrival, we were just a one dog kind of family. Yes, we currently have 5 cats and 3 kittens, but that’s not the point. Prior to Radar, Sunny – our Pomeranian – was the reigning alpha male around our backyard – although in truth – Sunny no longer retains all of his doggie ‘maleness’ – if you know what I mean.

Prior to Radar – we thought Sunny was kind of a stupid dog. Sure, we were able to teach him some of the basic standard ‘tricks’ such as ‘sit’ and ‘down’ – but we couldn’t teach him to come in out of the rain. Literally. This dog would nervously pace the perimeter of our back yard during a rainstorm. Once I actually chained him, and blocked him INSIDE his dog house during a bad lightning storm, hoping that he would catch on to the fact that he wasn’t getting wet, nor was he as cold when he wasn’t pacing around like a fool. But Sunny showed me that I was the fool as no sooner had I gotten back inside and taken off my drenched clothing, but that damn dog was standing back outside in the rain. At that moment, standing cold and naked looking out my back door I decided to just give up on teaching that dog to get out of the rain. I decided that if lightning struck and killed his stupid ass, that was just nature’s way of trimming the dog population. It was God’s way of fulfilling Darwin’s little theory about survival of the fittest – or at least survival of the damn smartest.

Enter Radar. Suddenly we thought Sunny is a damned genius.

We got Radar from my brother as he was moving out of state.

Word of advice: If your wayward brother swings by your house on his way out of state and offers to give you a puppy out of the back of his moving van….say NO.

Oh sure, at first we were big suckers for this cute little fella. He was so adorable….for about 2 weeks. For 2 weeks we tried to be understanding about the fact that he wanted to bite everything in sight – plastic, metal, human hands, Pomeranian tails, & cat heads. But when pain is involved – cuteness wears off mighty damn quick.

Logically we’ve understood that he just wants to play with others in the same manner he was accustomed to playing with his litter mates. But knowing that did not pardon the dog from his continuous efforts to engulf my favorite cat’s head in his mouth. Sure, he was gentle with her and didn’t “play” as hard with her as he did with my Pomeranian, but this is the cat that already has brain damage. This is the cat that I nursed back to health a few months ago when the vet suggested that I put her down before giving her adequate time to recover. You can still tell just by looking in her eyes that she’s got problems, but she can eat, sleep, drink, poop, chase mice, and give & receive love. And that’s enough for me.

She really is the sweetest little cat, and to watch her just sit there and allow this monster dog to playfully bite on her head was just emotionally traumatizing for me. I have tried every way imaginable to correct this dog – to keep him from tormenting the other animals; yet he refuses to learn.

My husband and his buddy even devised a dog beating tool – which worked in the beginning. It’s a Bud Light box rolled up & duct taped into a cylinder shape, much like the ol rolled up newspaper kind of dog beating tool. Thanks to my hubby & buddy’s affinity for Bud Light – we’ve got lots of dog beaters strategically placed around the back porch and yard. At this point, however, it no longer holds its once sacred power and we might as well be beating him with a roll of toilet paper.

Right after we got the dog and I started feeling all puppy love-ish towards him, there was a news report about how a Pit Bull turned on its owner and the police were called and the owner begged the policeman to shoot his dog because he was basically eating his damn arm. It’s news stories like that that make you think: “We must not allow our dog to ever behave in that manner!” We thought: “Good training will prevent that.”

In the last couple of months since we’ve gotten this dog, I’ve been enlightened with many a Pit Bull anecdote, & received just enough dog advice to realize that…. we are dumb asses.

My neighbor and friend, also a former police officer, informed me that it was her understanding that when Pit Bulls get angry they bite down and it’s like their jaws get locked. I tried to console myself with the thought that the dog IS half Boxer, and perhaps that is the part of him that will reign as his chief personality.

But then the meter reader man happened by one day and said “He looks like he has the frame of a Boxer,” then he pried open his jaws and said, “but he has the jaws and teeth of a Pit Bull.”

Well shit.

Then the air conditioner repairman commented that Pit Bulls are part psycho, further rubbing in the fact that….we are dumb asses.

Are you keeping score? I am. I have a part psycho dog whose Pit Bull shark-like teeth tend to lock up in the event he gets good and pissed off. Yes, training was going to be essential. Training, and perhaps a gun – just in case.

One of the first things in training a dog, of course, is leash training.

Hahahahahaha!

I’ve had better experiences leash training my (now dead) bunny rabbit and one of my more pissed off tom cats! ((For clarity, I tried to leash train my bunny while she was alive – not while she was dead. I know some of you get easily confused.))

Initially I would just start walking and pull Radar along with the leash while he worked tirelessly at trying to bite the leash off of him, or while he just tried to wiggle and flop out of his collar. As a 15 pound puppy, this was a bit of a tiring exercise for me – a SICK person – but it was do-able. Now at 50 damn pounds, I think I would rather try to break a Bronco, or go 8 minutes on a pissed off bull.

This morning while I was just holding Radar’s collar and staring him down while he flopped around trying to break my hold, I thought about how challenging it is to teach this new dog some little old tricks like "sit" or "stay"…or hell, just not to bite me damnit!

And being the deep thinker I am – I realized how similar it is with teaching some people. For instance – journalists. Teaching this dumb ass new half Pit Bull is sorta like teaching new journalists old tricks like: Get ALL the damn facts.

Yesterday I read a fluff piece of so-called journalism in the on-line version of Newsweek written by some wet-behind-the-ears writer that must have missed some of her journalism classes.

The story is called “Health: Bitten by the Bug”, http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13249565/site/newsweek/ and it’s basically a 9 sentence article full of an array of misleading shortcomings about Lyme disease.

First of all - how do I know that the writer of the story, Karen Springen, is still wet-behind-the-ears? Because she was assigned a 9 sentence article for the on-line e-zine; and because she’s clearly already forgotten the first rule of journalism which is: GET ALL THE FACTS!

OK, truthfully, I do not know if that is the first rule of journalism because I never even took one day of journalism in college - BUT I think the American public is under the impression that the media, in general, are supposed to present information in an unbiased manner. In order to do that – I think logic would tell us that they need to GET ALL THE FACTS.

I’m not trying to be mean-spirited to Ms. Springen. Dr. Wiseass is not a mean-spirited person, although admittedly she can be a bitch when absolutely necessary.

No, I actually don’t completely blame Ms. Springen for this fluffy piece of written garbage because I imagine that the editors of Newsweek actually hold some culpability for this as they apparently only gave this wet-behind-the ears writer a limited amount of space to report on a very complicated subject. I don’t know WHY they only gave her a limited amount of space because web-space is actually quite limitless. Hell, I can write bullshit for pages and pages and it doesn’t cost me a damn dime! So I ask:

“Why the limitation?”

The limitation put on this “health” piece is actually a public disservice because it communicates a lot of misinformation, most especially the implication that one round of antibiotics is a cure-all for Lyme disease. That is actually pure bullshit.

To be fair to Ms. Springen – let’s take a look at this 9 sentence masterpiece, and some of the gaping holes or downright misinformation presented therein:

Sentence #1:
“June 19, 2006 issue - At least 20,000 Americans a year are afflicted with Lyme disease, a bacterial infection caused by ticks."

Actually, according to the CDC – this number is not accurate as Lyme disease is highly UNDER-reported in the USA. The CDC believes that this number is possibly 10 times higher – which according to MY math would be 200,000 Americans YEARLY. Again, 200,000 EACH freaking year!

In April 2000, even the CDC reported the following:

In North America, Lyme disease and endemic relapsing fever
pose the greatest threat to human health and have received the most attention of the borrelial diseases. Approximately 14,000 cases of Lyme disease are reported in the United States each year; however, the actual number of cases may be 10-fold higher. http://www.cdc.gov/ncidod/eid/vol6no2/roberts.htm

Also, if you consult other sources for information – it is speculated that other critters such as mosquitoes can spread this bacterial infection too!

“The spirochete that causes Lyme Disease has also been
found in at least 6 species of mosquitoes, 13 species of mites, 15 species of flies, 2 species of fleas, and numerous wild and domestic mammals including rabbits, rodents, and birds." (from “Lyme Time You Knew” http://flash.lymenet.org/ubb/Forum1/HTML/008359.html

Also, go here: http://www.geocities.com/HotSprings/Oasis/6455/insects-biblio.html
Have fun.

And if you want to really freak the hell outta people and present them with truth – it is speculated by actual researchers that Lyme disease can be sexually transmitted! EEEK!

In fact…

“…although it was first thought the disease couldn't be transmitted directly from human to human, the live spirochetes have now also been found in blood, urine, tears, semen, breast milk, cord blood, and vaginal secretions. Doctors who specialise in treating the disease are convinced it can be passed from one infected person to another by several means, particularly through repeated sexual contact and passage through the placenta in the womb."
(Rheum Dis Clin North Am 89; 15(4):657-77) http://www.health4youonline.com/article

Sentence #2
"If left untreated, the infection can spread to the heart, joints and nervous system."

If left untreated, the infection can spread to every organ system in the body. In fact, it only takes less than 12 hours from the time of infection for the bacteria to reach the central nervous system.

I would love to be able to site some kind of source for this information, but damnit, I have neurological Lyme and I can’t remember where the hell I read it. Besides, I’m not a journalist and therefore do not feel ethically obliged to spend all day looking for the source of this information. ((HAHA! As if journalists these days actually feel obliged to point to their sources of factual information. They’re journalists, after all! We’re supposed to believe them… regardless!!))

Sentence #3
"Later this year, the Infectious Diseases Society of America is expected to recommend that doctors prescribe a single dose of antibiotics to people whose tick bites put them at high risk for the disease."

The Infectious Disease Society of America (IDSA) is only ONE viewpoint as to how to treat Lyme disease. There is also a society of medical professionals that are DEVOTED to specifically treating Lyme disease, and that professional organization is called ILADS (International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society).

ILADS has a very different approach to treating both new & CHRONIC cases of Lyme disease. For example, ILADS doctors would suggest far more than a single damn dose of antibiotics!

"The article entitled “Duration of Antibiotic Therapy for Early Lyme Disease“ recently published in the Annals of Internal Medicine is flawed in its methodology and in its findings. The collective experience of ILADS physicians has shown that 10 days of therapy has consistently proven insufficient in preventing the development of systemic manifestations of Lyme disease. Our experience proves most patients who are treated with short duration antibiotics return for repeat therapy when their symptoms do not improve."

http://www.ilads.org/gaito.html

((FYI – The article mentioned above, “Duration of Antibiotic Therapy for Early Lyme Disease” was co-authored by none other than Dr. Gary P. Wormser, mentioned elsewhere in the delightful Newsweek article. http://www.annals.org/cgi/content/summary/138/9/697 ))

Those infected with the Lyme bacterium that have gone undiagnosed for any amount of time will most likely develop tertiary Lyme disease, which is called late stage disease. This article does NOT cover this specific phase of the disease, which is quite a critical omission because those that do not receive PROMPT and EFFECTIVE treatment – which ILADS feels is MORE than a damned single dose of antibiotics, may definitely go on to suffer from tertiary, late-stage CHRONIC Lyme disease which will cause great pain & suffering, any manner of disability, and possibly even death. Yes, death. Still want to gamble with that ‘single’ dose of antibiotics?

"A preponderance of evidence indicates that active ongoing spirochetal infection with or without other tick-borne coinfections is the cause of the persistent symptoms in chronic Lyme disease. There has never been a study demonstrating that 30 days of antibiotic treatment cures chronic Lyme disease. However there is a plethora of documentation in the US and European medical literature demonstrating by histology and culture techniques that short courses of antibiotic treatment fail to eradicate the Lyme spirochete. Short treatment courses have resulted in upwards of a 40% relapse rate, especially if treatment is delayed.
Most cases of chronic Lyme disease require an extended course of antibiotic therapy to achieve symptomatic relief. The return of symptoms and evidence of the continued presence of Borrelia burgdorferi indicates the need for further treatment. The very real consequences of untreated chronic persistent Lyme infection far outweigh the potential consequences of long-term antibiotic therapy.
Many patients with chronic Lyme disease require treatment for 1–4 years, or until the patient is symptom-free. Relapses occur and maintenance antibiotics may be required. There are no tests currently available to prove that the organism is eradicated or that the patient with chronic Lyme disease is cured." http://www.ilads.org/basic2.html

In addition, this article does not address who the Infections Disease Society of America considers as “high risk” for the disease.

If you ask anyone suffering from Lyme disease, those at ‘high risk’ are any being with blood coursing through their body…except for, strangely enough, the Western Fence Lizard. Lucky little bastards.

Sentence #4
"Here's how to lessen your odds of getting infected: Insect repellent should contain DEET, which wards off ticks with its smell.

There’s actually some new research that suggests that DEET, and other insect repellents are not really effective to ward off ticks. This information, of course, will not make any extra money for the big corporations producing such products and wishing to advertise thru various media – so I can see why the media wouldn’t want to reveal this info…..potentially cutting into their own advertising budget, so it wouldn’t be a good business decision.

Sentence #5

"Dress in light colors so it's easier to spot ticks."

As far as dressing in light colors – BRAVO! Good piece of advice. Kudos to Newsweek! Now, might I also add that tucking your pants into your socks will make it less likely that the little nasty buggers can crawl up your pant legs. Just a suggestion, of course!

Sentence #6
"They feed on humans for at least 72 to 96 hours; use tweezers to remove them."

Yes indeed – they can feed for that long because they are often the size of the tip of a pencil, therefore MANY times victims don’t even realize they are being infected by this tiny malicious creature. Ticks anesthetize their victims so they don’t feel the bite, which keeps people from even thinking about doing a tick search after being outdoors or playing with Rover…or Radar.

Many times people may see the tick on their skin and think it’s just a speck of dirt, not realizing this ‘dirt’ is forever changing their life. Many times, ticks may attach themselves to a person’s head, in which case, finding them and removing them become quite unlikely.

"Fewer than 50% of patients with Lyme disease recall a tick bite. In some studies this number is as low as 15% in culture-proven infection with the Lyme spirochete."

http://www.ilads.org/basic.html

Even though ticks can & will feed for 72 to 96 hours if left to their own will, that does not and should NOT imply that it takes that long for the tick to infect its’ victim with the Borrelia bacteria…or other pathogens such as Babesia, Erchlichia, Bartonella, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, blah, blah, blah.

Often, Lyme disease (Borrelia Burgdorferi) does NOT travel alone. The above mentioned pathogens are called co-infections and they can make eradicating Lyme disease all the more difficult.

As for using tweezers to remove the tick…YES! Newsweek wins that prize for effective reporting! However, what was not mentioned in that article is that you need to pull the tick straight out; and do NOT do anything that would tick off the tick – such as holding a match flame to its ass. Ticking off a tick causes them to spew their nasty toxins back into the victim’s bloodstream. More toxins are not good. Keep that in mind.

Sentence #7
"Favorite areas are under the armpits and in your groin," says Dr. Gary Wormser of New York Medical College."

This might actually be true, but honestly I wouldn’t take Dr. Gary Wormser’s opinion about anything Lyme-related as fact. I say this not because I personally know Dr. Wormser, nor would I want to know him; but because of the *professional* company he keeps.

Dr. Wormser is part of the group of physicians which would like the American public to believe that Lyme disease is hard to catch, yet easy to treat.

As a woman who has had Lyme coursing through her body for well over 20 years, I certainly object to such a philosophy.

If I am not mistaken, Dr. Wormser is of the faction that believes a short course of antibiotic therapy is all that is necessary to wipe out a Lyme disease infection. Because I have received approximately 39 2-week courses of various antibiotic therapies – actually it’s just been a continuous course of therapy, but I’m being dramatic here – I object to such bullshit because I still have this damn disease.

If I am not mistaken, Dr. Wormser is of the faction that believes that after that short course of antibiotic therapy, if the patient still has symptoms – then it is magically no longer an actual infection, but suddenly it is an auto-immune disorder of sorts, and then we’re supposed to refer to it as Post-Lyme Syndrome. Sort of like if a patient received a round of chemo and radiation and s/he still had cancer symptoms, perhaps we should just say they have Post-Cancer Syndrome? See the logic these good ol’ boys are trying to shove down the throats of the American public?

What is fascinating to me is that just a few weeks ago – after let’s say my 37th 2-week short course of antibiotic therapy, I had my blood tested & FILMED underneath a dark-field microscope. Guess what? There were Borrelia spirochetes swimming in that small sample of blood. And the real scary part for me is the fact that spirochetes are said to be rarely found in the blood because they like to go to areas of fat, tissues, tendons, and of course all major organs. So that implies I am LOADED with spirochetes. I also saw several freaking COLONIES of Borrelia cysts!

(For the uninformed, Borrelia can take on 3 forms: spirochete; cell-wall deficient, where they shed their cell wall and go hide in the host’s own cells, even the immune cells; and the cyst form where they join together to form a hard protective little ball in an effort to protect themselves. Borrelia are little genius bastards and like to play hide ‘n seek, especially if they know they are under attack from the immune system or from pharmaceutical or nutraceutical agents meant to kill their little bacterial asses!)

So anybody that wants to tell me I no longer have Lyme disease because I’ve had enough antibiotics can kiss my sick fat ass because they are either stupid sons-of-bitches, or just sons-of-bitches period – no matter how many academic letters they’ve got behind their filthy name.

What I think others need to know about Dr. Wormser is that he has been studying various bioterrorism agents for years. http://www.mipt.org/nymc/program.asp

As we know, Lyme has been *studied* as a biowarfare agent for DECADES. So anything these insidious researchers have to publicly say about Lyme disease I consider to be quite suspect, because let’s face it – they wouldn’t want to throw DECADES worth of “secret” research down the drain by actually telling the TRUTH, the whole truth and nothing but, to the American people! This is supposed to be like a secret weapon. Shhhh! Besides – if the American people were to know the truth about this bacteria – there might be panic in the streets because we certainly do not have enough antibiotics to go around. Hell, we didn’t even have enough Cipro for the big Anthrax scare – we certainly don’t have enough antibiotics for everyone that is already infected with this bacteria, short course or otherwise. Most people don’t know they’re infected. That’s part of the secret.

Most people that have symptoms think they have something else like Multiple Sclerosis, Lupus, Alzheimers, Parkinson’s Disease, ALS, Chrohn’s disease, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Fibromyalgia, and hundreds of other things because the beauty of Lyme is that it can mimic over 350 other diseases! It, like it’s spirochetal cousin, Syphilis, is also called the ‘Great Imitator’.

Like syphilis in the 19th century, Lyme disease has been called the great imitator and should be considered in the differential diagnosis of rheumatologic and neurologic conditions, as well as chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia, somatization disorder and any difficult-to-diagnose multi-system illness. http://www.ilads.org/basic2.html

Our government (CDC, NIH, & the military, of course) KNOWS all of this but chooses not to inform American physicians because, again, Shhhh! damnit! It’s a secret weapon! Besides, it’s much more cost effective for the nation and the pharmaceutical industry, and perhaps even the insurance industry, to keep the misdiagnoses going because there’s just too much money invested in these other diseases to overturn the apple cart.

((OK - so now that any of you journalists reading this know that much – let's keep it a secret like good loyal media. Oh wait – you already are! Hmmmm…… ))

Sentence #8

"If you show symptoms of Lyme—fever, headache, fatigue and a rash at least the size of a half dollar—see a doctor."

First of all, less than 50% of patients ever notice a rash, which is technically called an EM rash (Erythema Migrans).

"Fewer than 50% of patients with Lyme disease recall any rash. Although the erythema migrans (EM) or “bull’s-eye” rash is considered classic, it is not the most common dermatologic manifestation of early-localized Lyme infection. Atypical forms of this rash are seen far more commonly. It is important to know that the EM rash is pathognomonic of Lyme disease and requires no further verification prior to starting an appropriate course of antibiotic therapy."

http://www.ilads.org/basic.html

Second of all, fever, headache, and fatigue are my symptoms on a damn good day. Allow me to list some of the other symptoms associated with a Lyme infection:

Symptomatic Presentations of Lyme Disease include:
Fatigue
Low grade fevers, “hot flashes” or chills
Night sweats
Sore throat
Swollen glands
Stiff neck
Migrating arthralgias, stiffness and frank
arthritis
Myalgia
Chest pain and palpitations
Abdominal pain, nausea
Diarrhea
Sleep disturbance
Poor concentration and memory loss
Irritability and mood swings
Depression
Back pain
Blurred vision and eye pain
Jaw pain
Testicular/pelvic pain
Tinnitus
Vertigo
Cranial nerve disturbance ( facial
numbness, pain, tingling, palsy or optic neuritis)
Headaches
Lightheadedness
Dizziness
http://www.ilads.org/guidelines_summary.html

True, this is actually a short list as there are numerous other symptoms, but I’m feeling rather fatigued at this point – so this is all you’re getting for now. Don’t be sad. If you’d like to see a really long ass list, go here: http://www.lymeinfo.net/medical/LDSymptoms.pdf I believe it is 51 pages long. Settle in, put your feet up; have some coffee.

Sentence #9
"He'll probably prescribe a two-week course of medication."

This, unfortunately, is probably true; and often times 2 weeks is not long enough. In which case you too can be the happy recipient of tertiary Lyme disease, or excuse me – “Post Lyme Syndrome”. But believe me, no matter what you call it – the suffering & the disability will be the same, unless you are misdiagnosed with another disease or syndrome, whereby some of those treatments, such as steroid use, could exacerbate the progression of the disease or even prove to be fatal.

—Karen Springen
© 2006 Newsweek, Inc.

--DR. Wiseass
Not a real doc – just a real wise ass
© 2006 http://www.twistoflyme.blogspot.com/

That was fun, wasn’t it?

I should do that more often, only it is exhausting and I feel rather mean to show out like that. But someone needed to let Ms. Springen know her reporting skills are going South. Actually, as a Southern gal, I don’t know if I like that phrase.

Anyhoo – Ms. Springen – if I have managed to hold your attention this long, please accept my apology if you feel I have publicly ridiculed you.

Honestly, my intention was more to call attention to the fact that this shit of misreporting and under-reporting about Lyme disease is an on-going practice and it needs to STOP! I actually blame the media giants because I think they have some vested interest in keeping some things on the ‘down low’. I think that too many people in the government and the media have become secret bedfellows, and I’m not talking about reporters; I’m talking about the decision makers. I’m talking about the ‘powers that be’ that decide what is newsworthy and just how much of the truth to report on any given subject.

I think the American people should be rather disturbed by that – about the overall corruption that has infiltrated our national media as a whole. But, we, the people are too busy seeking our American dreams and trying to keep up with the Jones’ by purchasing everything we are told we need by advertisers – those people that help PAY the media.

Other than that little dirty circle of nonsense – I happen to be privy to the notion that there is a subset of individuals – doctors and researchers who are inducted into a good ol’ boys club / quasi-military section of the Centers for Disease Control, called the Epidemic Intelligence Service (EIS). http://www.cdc.gov/eis/ It’s sort of like the CIA for epidemics.

Lyme is an epidemic. It’s actually the #1 epidemic in the United States, even surpassing AIDs. Did you know that? I read that somewhere….damnit though, I can’t remember where.

EIS officers are trained to be quite loyal. They even have an alumni association http://www.cdc.gov/eis/alumni/alumni.htm so they can stay in touch with each other after their service as EIS officers has officially ‘concluded’.

After their service, former EIS officers go on to seek employment in places of high influence, with their loyalty to the EIS and the CDC firmly intact. One such former EIS officer works for the New York Times Science edition. Lucky for him, I don’t recall his name right now. But suffice it to say, any articles pertaining to Lyme disease or any other disease which the CDC finds *interesting* will be creatively edited to corroborate the official position. So don’t be looking for the New York Times to be revealing great truths about Lyme disease any time soon.

Because of my knowledge about this former EIS officer turned Science editor, it makes me wonder if other EIS alumni have infiltrated other media outlets. If I was a betting woman – and I am – I would bet big bucks that they have.

That’s why it just disturbs me a great deal when I see such flimsy reporting about our nation’s #1 epidemic in such prestigious magazines such as Newsweek! Their association with MSNBC only makes me wonder how many and how high EIS alumni have managed to climb in the corporate media world.

I know what I have revealed in the above paragraphs may make me sound like one of those conspiracy kooks. Hell, maybe I am – so what.

But what if I am right?

And what if I am wrong? All that means is that new & old journalists alike, along with their editors, are clearly having a difficult time with GETTING ALL THE FACTS and reporting the TRUTH.

IF that is the case – that is truly a sad set of facts because part of the reason our country has flourished in the past is become of our free speech, and because the media originally had high standards for reporting the truth; an unbiased reporting of facts.

But maybe those standards are just a thing of the past – like an old trick I can’t get my new dog to learn.

Oh…that reminds me of yet another dog story. But this is more about my OLD dog learning NEW tricks.

When Radar, the new alpha-male came to live with us, Sunny the Pomeranian suddenly learned how to become a great escape artist. Sunny has now learned how to leave the yard & return at his leisure. It’s like he’s learned how to contort his body so he can squeeze through the smallest hole in the fence – almost like he’s become a cat or a rat or something.

He even knows how to sneak over to the pool side of our yard which is fenced off from the rest of the yard for safety.

Late Spring, not too long after Radar came to live with us – I noticed that Sunny was missing. I looked all over the yard and only thought to look on the pool side out of a sense of intuition. I had been calling for Sunny but he had not barked or anything. I reluctantly walked across the yard, opened the pool gate and there he was…at the bottom of the pool. Yes, my senior citizen Pomeranian was sitting at the bottom of our recently painted pool. Fortunately, the paint was dry – but Sunny was still stuck. The paint made the bottom surface too slick for him to climb up out of the steep hill of deep end.

I had to send my daughter in and she had to drag him out by his leash. It was one of the funniest things I have seen in a long time.

While a dog stuck at the bottom of an empty pool is funny – journalists unable to navigate the deep waters that is Lyme medicine & politics combined -- is NOT. I suppose that is why so many choose to stick with the shallow, and present their information as if it is the ALL of the subject, which is certainly a lie. It is not funny or even slightly humorous that so few these days are brave enough to tread through the deep waters to get to the truth.

For journalist to present only one side of a story is like presenting one side of a dog as the whole dog. I can lift my dog’s tail and present to you his ass, but that is not the whole dog. True, while I call Radar a dumb ass several times a day – he is still a whole dog, with a head, and teeth and everything. I have the bite marks to prove it.

So as I close today’s long ass blog entry, I would like to invite any journalist that happen by here, to quit showing your ass. Show the world you have a damn brain and GET ALL THE FACTS about a disease epidemic before you put your fingers to the keyboard to type up your award-winning article. Now go out & fetch the truth, even if you have to take a bite at our great governmental bureaucracies to get it.

Hugs & Kisses,

DR. Wiseass

-not a real doc - just a real wise ASS

dr-wiseass@sbcglobal.net

Crappy But Happy!

2006-05-15T11:44:00.000-05:00

Yes, it’s been quite a while since I’ve posted last. Give me a break please – I feel like crap.

I know you most likely feel like crap too, therefore you understand and are now having great compassion for me. Right? This is my blog and my fantasy world and in it you all like me and understand and don’t give a rip how long it’s been – you’re just pleased as punch that I’ve taken the time to write today.

I feel like one of those people that you ‘think’ you know – but then they drop off the radar for awhile - not making any attempt at communication with you so you start to think, “Maybe they didn’t truly like me to begin with…maybe our sweet relationship was really just a farce – a fantasy after all??”

Yes, we Lymies are quite the paranoid bunch when it comes to wondering whether people will like us, or if people are talking behind our backs or conspiring against us for some reason.

Paranoia takes up a LOT of time. This would partially explain my absence from the blog world since the end of January.

I should feel great shame right now – but damnit so few of you emailed to ask, “DR. Wiseass – Are you OK? We miss you!” For those of you that did I’d like to extend my gratitude. “Thanks, Mom.”

WHAT? Is it because during my last post I got on my political soapbox that you decided to just ignore moi? How rude.

And yes, I know I totally missed the opportunity to blog during the month of February, March, and April, which probably means I basically suck. Again, thank you for your understanding and compassion – my readers are the BEST!

I don’t quite know where to begin, and I’m not exactly in one of my FUN, more MANIC phases so I worry about how entertaining this particular blog post will be for you. I’m such a people pleaser you know, that I am reluctant to write unless I think you will receive it with great joy and lightness of spirit.

But this morning I thought: “Ah screw it. Screw you. I need to BLOG!” So here I am…ready to drone on for a few pages. Are you ready?

TODAY’S MENU
Just say “AAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!”
Sharing My Thimble Full of “WISE”
Sore Winner Cry-Babies
“Madam, Would You Care for Some Wine with that PAP?”
Aerobic Knitting & Cardiac Herxing
"Lifestyles of the Rich, Famous, & Frequent Urinaters & Defecaters"
Living in the Now

Just say “AAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!”
When last I posted - I encouraged you lazy asses to write/fax the federal Health Sub-Committee members? Did you do it? Probably not! Because if you did I’m sure you would have written me to rub my nose in the fact that there were errors in the contact info.

Here are the corrections:

Rep. Ted Strickland’s correct fax number: (202) 225-5907

Rep. John Dingell’s correct fax number (202) 226-0371

Now as an admonishment to all you lazy asses – “GET THEE TO FAXING!” (You know, after you read all this blathering on I’m about to do for 16 pages.)

Just to let you know, only MY representative bothered to respond to me and it was some pathetic little form letter written by some wet-behind-the-ears intern. Actually I was sent two pieces of correspondence from my Rep’s office which arrived on the same day. One was a fully stuffed envelope which I naturally opened first.

Do you know what those Capitol Hill staffers sent me? A bunch of shit about my Congressman’s involvement with the Medicare reform stuff. Now if I had written anything at all about Medicare – this would seem appropriate. However, I did not so much as mention Medicare in my letter – NOT AT ALL.

Meanwhile, the second, skinny ass little letter was just bullshit. I could have written a better damned “thank- you-for-writing-me-I-value-your-opinion-but-will-value-it-more-if-I-were-currently-up-for-re-election-but-I’m-not-so-let-me-just-say-that-I’ll-take-your-input-under-advisement-and-if-you-believe-that-you’re-a-bigass-sucker” letter.

Now, honestly I DID expect a form letter – what I didn’t expect was that the body of the letter would consist of informing ME what HR3427 covered!

SHIT! I faxed them! I told THEM what the bill would do and how it would benefit me, Congressman Dumbasses’ other sick lymie constituents, and the sick lymie citizens of America. Yet the response I get was to tell me what I already knew?

I hate it when people do that – don’t you?

I mean – it’s kinda like those people that have seen the SAME movie as you and they know you’ve seen the movie but they go on the EXPLAIN what happened in it to you anyway as if to imply that you are too stupid for words and clearly you need someone to EXPLAIN what it was that you just heard AND saw with your very own ears and eyes?!! As if to say you are too dumb to understand the basic plot or understand who all the characters were? ARGH!

(“ARGH!” That’s an interesting exclamation now, isn’t it? Does anyone other than Popeye really say “ARGH!” in real life? For me, I use it because it’s a more concise kind of word that semi-represents me screaming: “AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” over and over. And because I am such a concise writer, I skip the more verbose, yet accurate AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” and go for the pithy, but inaccurate “ARGH!” expression. Just thought you’d like to know.)

Anyway, I just don’t understand how someone could have legitimately READ my letter and then sent me such a stupid-ass follow-up letter.

So I picked up the phone and called my dear Congressman’s office. I can’t remember exactly y what I said, but I was indeed trying to be nice and explain, once again, the IMPORTANCE of the actual bill.

The little girl that answered the phone turned rather snotty on me. I wonder – do they just hire them that way, or is there special training involved to answer the phone and behave all snotty to U.S. taxpayers?

I tried to turn a deaf ear to snotty intern girl’s tone of voice and continued on, urging her to forward my needs & the needs of my fellow Lyme patients on to the ‘good’ Congressman. She then informed me that the Congressman is also a doctor and therefore knows all about Lyme disease.

First of all, I already knew that my Congressman is a damned doctor which is WHY I was really concerned with the fact that he has yet to sign onto this bill. No doubt he is a doctor on the wrong side of the political Lyme fence, and I was gently trying to explain that there were issues with regards to Lyme that many doctors are not trained to understand.

But the fact that snotty intern girl indicated that the Congressman ‘knew all about Lyme’ really tempted my DR. Wiseass voice to emerge and to set her straight…and quickly so. However, as I was operating under my everyday identity – I did not. I did not laugh at the ludicrousness of her bizarre statement; I only pressed on to find out if the dear Congressman SUPPORTED the bill.

Unfortunately, snotty intern girl was not privy to that as she is not his ‘health advisor’ or healthy staff member or whatever. So I asked to speak with the staffer in dear Congressman’s office that deals with the health issues. Surprisingly this other pipsqueak was also too busy to take my call. Hmph!

(I also like to use the expression “Hmph” quite a bit too….along with “Hmmmm…” Have you noticed? However, I think these spellings are more accurate to how these guttural semi-words really sound – don’t you think? None of this here is really important – just a useless observation to side-track my long discourse about my interaction with the political idiots, and a little test to see if you are still awake.)

I asked if snotty, intern girl would forward my desire to speak with the health pipsqueak and she indicated that she would.

What bullshit! That has been some time ago and I have yet to receive any more correspondence from Washington DC – at least not from that office.

Meanwhile, I have gained the health pipsqueak’s email and I fully intend to use it. I think I shall email the crap outta him. How much Lyme stuff should I send him? Should the regular me email him first – giving him the chance to pull his head outta his healthy pipsqueaking ass and go run & tell the good Dr. Congressman that chronic Lyme is a real disease? OR should I just allow Dr. Wiseass to deal with him?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

OK, in all honesty – I will have to have the ‘real’ me deal with him as I know that angry letters/emails, etc. will only end up in the trash…just like petitions and such.

A little bird on the Hill, and my friend BB (former Hill staffer) told me that most petitions are not taken seriously at all! In fact, because Congressional stuffed-shirts only care about where their constituents stand on certain issues (and hell, let’s face it – they only care about that when re-election is their main concern…) BUT that petitions usually include signatures from several districts. Because of that – it is too difficult for them to weed through the petitions searching for how many voters from their own district give a damn about a certain issue AND because anyone can sign a petition and even sign their neighbor’s name, or their dog’s full name on a petition – petitions to most Capitol Hill offices find themselves quickly in the trash can….”with coffee poured over them.” (Thus saith a secret DC source!)

I refuse to reveal my source for that information. I know you petition-toting advocates are now rather pissed that you have spent a great portion of your life gathering signatures for petitions…but at least now you know. Move on. Write a letter. They’re quite effective. Better yet – CALL your elected ones.

Ask to speak with the snotty intern girl. It’s a blast!

Sharing My Thimble Full of “WISE”
These past 3 months have been rather busy – wouldn’t it be lovely if I could now remember them and blog away about all my great experiences – sharing with you the daily minutia that makes my writing so damned effusive…I mean ‘entertaining’??

(Definition: EFFUSIVE – giving or involving an extravagant and sometimes excessive expression of feelings in writing or speech)

(Just so you know - I originally used the word ‘verbose’ – but while proof-reading this blog entry for the 3rd time because I MUST proofread over & over in order to allow myself to post shit because I have Lyme in my brain and sometimes I use entirely WRONG words which would make my blog so much more confusing than it already is….I discovered that I had already used the word ‘verbose’ in an earlier paragraph. You probably didn’t notice because you have a Lyme brain too and I imagine that you are doing good just to read thru all this bullshit even once! BUT I couldn’t, with good conscience, allow myself to post such a unique word TWICE within such a short amount of time/space. What kind of writer would I be? So I pushed “Shift F7” on my keyboard and the MS Word Thesaurus came up and I chose a word that sounded good: “Effusive” Did you like it? Naturally, I didn’t know what the hell ‘effusive’ really meant so I somehow found the way to get to the Encarta Dictionary thingy and then graciously provided you with the above definition because that’s the kinda gal I am! BTW, did you know I used to be an English teacher? God bless those children. Yes, I taught Language Arts for TWO of the longest damn traumatic years of my life! Those middle school kids sent me into early retirement! Actually I went out on maternity leave and never came back. My kid is twelve. All of that was just some extra goodies too. I’m in a giving mood today.)

OK, so one of the main BIG things that have kept me away from blogging is that I went from being a mostly ‘inactive’ member of my local support group to becoming EXCESSIVELY active.

Prior to January, I never really went to my local support group meetings because it seemed like a once-a-month-bitch-a-thon and frankly, I stay home and do that every day in my pajamas. Why would I need to put on make up, do my hair, and drive across town to bitch? What a waste of energy & gas, you know?

BUT some stuff happened with the support group leader and I was basically asked by my doctor if I’d be willing to take over.

STOP LAUGHING!

My doctor has no idea that my secret lyme-fighting identity is DR. Wiseass – at least not that I know of…or maybe he DOES know and just hasn’t told me? Hmmmm…..

Anyway – I said I’d have to give it some prayer and a lot of thought and discuss it with hubby as I know me well enough to know that I generally THROW myself into various projects, thus ignoring all of the other aspects of my life.

But after about 10 minutes of solid prayer and careful consideration, I said,
“Yea. OK. Whatever. I’ll do it.”

It’s a bit of a lengthy semi-dramatic story about how I came to really take over -- but it would make this blog entry just too long and you know I care about your opinion so I’ll keep it brief today.

((While proofreading, I notice that I’ve written 16 pages. Yes, I’m being brief today. Hahahahaha! And don’t you prefer “Hahahahaha! to the more inaccurate and overused “LOL”?? I mean – do people really “LOL” as much as they indicate that they are “LOL-ing”?? Honestly, I think “Hahahaha!” is underused and it is more honest – more indicative of your emotion – while not revealing too much. Is it an inner ‘hahaha’ ? OR is it a full blown effusive & very verbal belly jiggling kind of “HAHAHAHAHA!” Who knows!? I think people need to keep some things, such as their true feelings of joy – to themselves. We are sick people here…too much “LOL-ing” from others makes those of us who rarely “LOL” feel bad – like we’re more depressed than we really are!))

Now, back to my verbose story…

I would like to take a mini-moment to brag about some of the improvements that have occurred under my leadership – yet I can not remember what they are. But I DO have vision, and my desire to lead & support IS sincere, despite my tacky, tongue-n-cheek persona that I represent here on the blog.

See – my blog is my own private, yet ironically voyeuristic little world where I can come and basically regurgitate some of the bullshit that is really getting on my nerves about this disease and life because of this disease.

So far there have been some really interesting experiences I have already faced as support group leader in the last 5 months which would, indeed, make for great reading. HOWEVER, I really must think carefully before I start spinning support group tales because I do NOT want to ever give the impression that my desire and efforts on behalf of the group are not from my most sincere intentions. (Dr. Wiseass, does indeed, have a marshmallow side. I’m a softy. Yep. That’s me. I’m kinda like that bigass marshmallow man from Ghostbusters…only I’m a bigass marshmallow gal…and oh, so friendly!)

Truly, my heart is to do right by the group. Despite a few potentially Looney Tune characters in the group – most of them are sweet, wonderful people who just need information and support…and by serving as support group leader, it gives me the opportunity to feel like I’m doing SOMETHING rather than NOTHING while I’m in the middle of suffering. It somehow gives value to my suffering because I can magically remember all of my suffering (as opposed to remembering all of the good times in my life) and when I can use it to help a fellow brother or sister lymie make it through their own personal hardships with this damn disease – it makes my suffering more ‘constructive’. See? It’s all about re-framing your experiences. To give love, compassion & support to another person who is suffering somehow gives meaning to your own experiences with the same; and I think by sharing those moments – allowing yourself to open up and be vulnerable and to share & validate that mutual experience of pain - it allows both an opportunity to begin to heal psychologically.

YES, you morons Dr. Wiseass has a heart! I’m not just an ASS – I’ve also got a thimble full of WISE that creeps into my mind upon rare occasion.

Just because I can cuss a drunken sailor into a corner doesn’t mean that I am not full of compassion damnit so kindly leave me the hell alone! See? I’m full of heart. See how I used the word ‘kindly’ and resisted using the ‘F’ word? That alone should speak volumes about my true character!

Alas, I think that sharing some of my personal experiences with the support group would taste like a betrayal on my part. I won’t do that. I am trying to develop of sense of trust between all the members – so I can’t come on here and betray that trust…what kind of leader would I be?

Therefore, for now – you know, on my FREE blog site – I shall not retell any of my Peyton Place kind of experiences surrounding some of my more interesting, paranoid, Lyme-raging support group members – no matter how entertaining it might be for all of us. But just out of curiosity – would you, my dear readers, be willing to pay $19.95 for a hardcover book? Just let me know. Medical bills are expensive – gotta look out for #1!

((All that kinda makes you want to relocate to my town so you can be in my support group, doesn’t it? Well don’t! Anyone who reads my blog is probably a true pain in the ass. I’ve got enough on my plate damnint!))

Sore Winner Cry-Babies
In other news, although potentially a boring subject matter for you - the extra-curricular academic team that I’ve been coaching for the last 5 years placed 2nd in a Regional tournament back in February.

I have successfully whittled the team down from 7 co-ed members to 4 girls – one of which, is my daughter, otherwise I would not have any desire whatsoever to serve as team manager because damnit I have Lyme disease and I’m tired.

Allow me to supply you with more info than you care to read:

The tournament is for creative/critical problem solving types of challenges that teams work on about 6 long ass MONTHS! Finally, after 5 years of competing in this competition - I thought we had a chance at 1st place. It seemed that the team had all the required elements in place. I tried to motivate them by letting them know they DID, indeed, have what it took to win 1st place – yet they just needed to push through.

You see – my team, historically, has a roller-coaster waxing/waning approach to their efforts. The bulk of their effort is usually seen in the last 3 anxiety-filled weeks prior to the competition. I swear – I had diarrhea that whole time – despite my personal pledge to not get emotionally involved in whether they won or lost.

But as a mom & team manager – I just couldn’t help it because I think that academic competitions are a little unfair in the sense that there are so few of them – so few opportunities to taste that thrill of victory.

For the kids that are into sports – there are competitions all the time; many chances for a kid to feel like a WINNER…unless the kid really isn’t gifted in sports and is constantly getting placed on teams that suck. BUT for the most part, kids usually have that occasion at least once - to know what it feels like to win – to be TOP dog, even if just for a few days or a few minutes!

Academic competitions, on the other hand, are much more rigorous – and they are limited in opportunity. Spelling Bees & Geography Bees only come around once a year; the creative problem solving team challenge competition only comes around once a year (I don’t want to mention the name of the competition because I don’t want some poor kid Googling for more info about the competition and land their little minor ass here on my web page of foul-mouthed commentary…because I’m that kind of gal! YES, I’m a mom!)

Needless to say – my little team of 4 girls were all psyched to win! They were confident – except for dress rehearsal the night before when their backdrop started to fall apart and their technical element (which consisted of using the rotational movement of a fan to convert the movement of an object into vertical motion)….well, it fell apart too. We broke every old fan we had stored in the garage – about 5 to be exact! Hubby was not pleased. Fortunately I had purchased a NEW fan to replace one of our favorite personal fans…so that one ended up saving our ass.

Alas, our creative asses STILL did not win first place.

Our team came in a respectable 2nd place. Considering the competition, I was pleased enough – although honestly I was disappointed this was not the year for them to jump up and down victoriously screaming at the awards ceremony. Secretly though, part of me was relieved they didn’t win 1st place because that would have meant that our team & team manager(s) (ME!) would have to load their asses, their luggage, and all their theatrical sets and crap onto a damn bus and drive for about 10 hours to go to the state tournament. Hell, I can’t drive to my doctor’s office without feeling like I need sedation – so I was a little more than relieved that I got outta that one….again.

But at the awards ceremony – instead of the girls acknowledging with gratitude their 2nd place win – they sulked up to the stage to receive their medals; and then they started crying like a bunch of sissy babies!

The team picture – the one where they are supposed to be happily displaying their medals – every one of those girls had tears in their eyes. They were NOT tears of joy.

The principal of the school would like for me to supply the school with the plaque and the team picture so he can proudly post it in the school’s trophy case – but I’m having a hard time finding someone who knows how to edit tears & scowls out of the photo. Got any suggestions?

I just remember sitting on that hard gym floor at the awards ceremony – feeling like I had been severely beaten and left for dead by a bunch of hateful punks because after all, it had been one long-ass day and I have Lyme….and I was just so embarrassed that my girls were acting like a bunch of sore 2nd place winners.

I tried to console them and remind them they needed to feel grateful and consider how those teams that didn’t medal at all felt. They didn’t give a rat’s ass what I was saying. They were disappointed and they were going to sit there and cry. Finally I thought, "Well screw it! I can’t exactly stop their tears now can I?"

When we managed to drag my body and the rest of the team members back to the van after the ceremony and shut the doors, I began wailing….LOUDLY. Then I began bemoaning in my most whiny voice about the fact that it wasn’t fair that we only won 2nd place and that life stinks and that 1st place team surely must have cheated and Wah! Wah! Wah! I wailed until they started laughing because they finally saw how stupid they were behaving.

Once I stopped wailing and we talked about it – drove through McDonalds and got ‘celebratory’ ice cream – they started crying AGAIN!

Finally I gave up. Clearly I suck at being a manager. I decided to eat my (forbidden) ice cream and ignore them. Yes, ignoring your team – my new managerial style. We’ll see if that’s effective next year!

“Madam, Would You Care for Some Wine with that PAP?”
Speaking of sucking….as mentioned ad nauseum, I have this little disease we like to call Lyme Disease - therefore, my memory sucks. When you have Lyme disease, a lot of your life starts to suck too. Sure – parts of my life seemed to suck before my Lyme disease diagnosis, but now that I have this great label, I can practically wear the words SUCKS across my forehead…only it would probably give the wrong idea to most people and would attract unneeded attention.

And speaking of unwanted attention – who ARE you people that are reading my blog? Are you normal people with Lyme – or are you a bunch of weirdos? I really should make you people sign in – so I know exactly who’s reading this crap. BUT lucky for you I have no real techno-skills as I’m doing good to type, proofread 11 times, and post; so for now – I guess even the perverts will still be reading. What can I do?

To keep the perverts away from my site, I should probably not report to you about this year’s “well woman” visit….if you know what I mean. But there are some of you that would feel slighted if I don’t publicly share some of my more embarrassing, personal moments. After all – why else are you reading?

So – since I freely told you about last year’s appointment with a GYN that was a true Lyme basher - you remember him, Dr. SOB (I think that was his name….I can’t keep up with my own naming system.) – I should probably just be brave and tell you this year’s story too.

Here goes…

After last year’s awful confrontation with Dr. SOB, I decided life is too short to see docs that I refer to as SOBs and the like, so I found me a new doc.

((BTW, for my newbie readers - Dr. SOB - I think that's what I named him -- was a gynecologist that told me, while my feet were in the stirrups that there's no way that I have Lyme disease and that he could send wallpaper samples to the lab I used - and it would come back positive for Lyme disease. As I was in a vulnerable position about to be probed - I decided to refrain from expressing the anger I was feeling towards him; I also refrained from debating the issue at all, again only because of the vulnerability issue. NOW you understand my need for a new gyn????))

As far as gyn’s are concerned – they’re a dime a dozen – but I was quite fortunate, as FINALLY after 3 years, I found me another uro-gynecologist! YEE HAW! Uro-gyn’s are quite the rarity.

For those of you that have no idea what a uro-gyn is – it’s usually a gynecologist that has also had some additional training in female urology. A uro-gyn is best for those women who would prefer to actually see a doctor that is familiar with the workings of the female anatomy – as opposed to going to a urologist whose big business is handing out prescriptions for Viagra.

As a reminder, I am one of the lucky gals that suffer with interstitial cystitis – a most painful bladder disease that sometimes feels like your bladder lining is being etched out by acidic shards of glass….and then sometimes while that pain is present – things start to spasm so hard that you become convinced you’re about to give birth to your own bladder. That’s when I start wondering if I should be picking out names or hunting for a surgeon to shove it back in and tie it in there. Of course – IF my bladder chooses to exit my body, I’m thinking I need to ask for a bladder transplant or something.

If I’ve got to have a surgery – I think I’d like to have a bigger, better bladder. Bigger, Better, Bladder. No, not quite as entertaining as ‘rubber baby buggy bumpers’ but if you try to say it quickly and often, it could merit a chuckle. Bigger, better, bladder. Bigger, better, bladder, Bigger, better, bladder.

I think the word ‘bladder’ itself is usually funny…unless of course when it’s trying to exit my body at which point there’s nothing in the world that is funny. NOTHING. NO thing!

I digress.

My first appoint with Dr. UroGyn was back in December. (Hey, have I told you this story already?) When most people go to the docs these days, they are accustomed to being seen and examined from day one. Not me. At least NOT in December, and especially not with this particular type of doc. (FYI – For those of you not “ in the know” – December is the BUSIEST time of year….for WOMEN, since we are generally the ones responsible for spreading all the merriment. Making merry is time consuming and exhausting and I didn’t want a damn gyn-induced bladder infection slowing my ass down! I’m sick as hell, but I’m still smart!)

No, back in December I decided I was much too important and already in a moderate amount of daily pain, that I did NOT need to allow another idiot hiding behind medical letters to go poking and prodding around the hidden areas of my body unless they knew what the hell they were doing. So I did the unthinknable….I INTERVIEWED HIM!

Yes, I know, I know – WHO DOES THAT? I announced that I would NOT be disrobing and that I would NOT be examined on that day – that I just came to chat. Although a bit shocked, Dr. UroGyn was willing and quite cordial.

I recall interviewing docs when I was looking for the right pediatrician for my daughter when I was still pregnant. Did my hoo-ha not deserve the same careful interview process?

I questioned Dr. UroGyn about his knowledge & experience with interstitial cystitis and was moderately satisfied – although I’m sure I could offer him some additional education & insight – he seemed ‘teachable’. ALSO I asked him what he knew about Lyme disease – which he admitted he didn’t know a lot about, but he did NOT ‘poo poo’ my chronic Lyme diagnosis, AND he seemed quite eager to learn more - so he got some extra interview points right there.

At one point in my interview I set a boundary and made it quite clear that while he was allowed to disagree with me on medical matters since he did go to medical school – he was NOT allowed to argue with me while I was practically unclothed and/or while I had my feet in the stirrups….not unless he wanted to even the playing field and just drop his drawers while he was doing all the arguing.

Are you sure I haven’t told you this story before? ((How embarrassing if I have because you know every time a story gets re-told – even by the owner of the story – some detail either gets added or dropped due to failing and flailing memory…but I shall continue on anyway….))

Dr. UroGyn was only silent for about a split second and then he did what every self-respecting doctor should do when a patient makes such an awkward, off-the-wall remark, and that was to LAUGH. Yes, he laughed. I decided then I would give him a try.

SO – I scheduled an appointment for January. Had to cancel it. Rescheduled for February – twice; had to cancel those too. FINALLY – in March I went for the dreaded exam.

As I was getting ready for my appointment, I did as I had been doing daily for the two weeks prior and I massaged a homemade crème into my feet because I swear there are Lyme bugs in my feet eating away at joints, muscles and tendons and whatever it is they do to make my feet feel like I want to cut them off – they were doing it in double time! (I am now convinced I have Bartonella – but that’s another story.)

Anyway – I had made a crème using some BenGay and then adding a prescription anti-inflammatory and the prescription Neurontin – an Rx which is used for neuropathy pain, which is exactly what the foot pain felt like to me.

I was originally going to make my crème completely from scratch – trying to find a good base to make my homemade lotion – something that has penetrating properties that would take the medication and allow it to absorb through my skin deep into my foot where I needed it. But it occurred to me at some point that re-inventing the wheel was a stupidass waste of time, so I just dumped the meds in the BenGay and voila! I have now created my own foot crème formula.

If you have not experienced BenGay – it can be quite intense, especially for the tender skin on top of the foot. Intense but effective.

It wasn’t until I was signing in at the uro-gyn’s office that I realized I could still smell the unmistakable STRONG menthol aroma of the BenGay concotion on my feet – even though my nose was far away from my feet since I was upright, walking into the office. At that moment I realized that some women like to spray down with lots of perfume, perhaps even slathering on a lot of fru-fru lotion – in order to feel more comfortable with idea of a doc hanging around the second half of her body.

Not me. I went for the BenGay….which is an interesting name for a crème by the way…kinda curious don’t you think?

I must admit that I was a little embarrassed that the smell of my feet could open up the sinuses of anyone within a 40 foot radius of them, but part of me thought it was another Lucille Ball type thing that I did, so I just chose to laugh about it. (And I was laughing on the inside, as in ‘hahahaha’ not “HAHAHAHA!” and definitely not “LOL!” )

I apologized to the doc that my feet were making his eyes water; and he took it like a man which only further solidified my feelings of warmth for him; that and he DID, in fact, use the small speculum per my request.

As with all well-run exams of this nature, a nurse was also present in the room because when you’re in a most ‘ill at ease’ kind of position - being probed with instruments & such – you just can’t have enough people in the room. It’s like a special kind of gathering. I personally think they should serve wine & cheese with the experience, but no one generally asks for my opinion on how to improve the world, so me, being meek & stuff, I usually keep my brilliant ideas to myself.

((Watch – months from now there will be uro-gyn clinics popping up all over Beverly Hills and they’ll be serving wine & cheese and doing manicures during the exam. It will be all the craze….just because little ol’ me made the suggestion and some entrepreneurial spirit decided to go with it because you just can’t knock a good idea!))

Anyway – so here I was being probed and chatted up by the doc and the nurse, and I can’t for the life of me remember why the conversation turned from the delightful topic of my menthol feet to the topic of ‘cosmetic procedures’. And honey, we weren’t talking about the kind done on the face.

Now, I have never had the desire to have any kind of cosmetic procedure of any kind – and prior to that moment I did not realize that cosmetic procedures of THAT kind were performed, other than for some kind of gender reassignment surgery or something.

So there I was, feet in the stirrups, smelling like BenGay, craving some cheese and the doc is starting to tell me about how many um, “unusual” cosmetic procedures he has performed. At that moment is when the craving for wine really hit me. I wanted quite a lot - any flavor – from any vineyard – any year – and I didn’t even need a glass, just the bottle.

Being a good conversationalist, I had to send out those active listening cues by doing such things as ---asking questions. Granted, I was somewhat fascinated by the topic, but the timing of the topic was a bit awkward – at least for me. And when I feel awkward, I sometimes try to fill in any awkward silence with nervous awkward banter.

Without going into far too many details & by placing the words of the conversation here that would only bring more perverts to my site – let’s just say that the doc was telling me that apparently there are certain kinds of film ‘stars’ that like to have certain kinds of cosmetic surgery – as apparently there is a standard of, um, “beauty” within that particular industry.

First of all, WHO KNEW? I was fascinated and horrified simultaneously.

Since no one was pouring me any wine or painting my nails, I just kept filling in those small gaps of silence with more questions. Finally – I just asked it.

And I would like to preface this by saying it is quite natural for we ‘lymies’ to feel a bit paranoid about a multitude of things – so I can’t really be blamed for asking such an innocent – yet stupid & unnecessary kind of question. But I just had to know if I would be a likely candidate for the type of surgery for which he was discussing. And he said, to my shock & great relief –

“Relax . You can go home and tell your husband you have the [insert medical term here] of a [insert name of film genre here] star.”

There are moments in your life when someone says something so shocking to you that you just don’t know how to respond. Even the nurse took a moment – looked at me all wide-eyed, waiting for my reaction…and I did what every self-respecting patient should do when a doctor makes such an awkward, off-the-wall remark while your feet are in the stirrups, and that was to LAUGH. I laughed - and it was full 'LOL' and a "HAHAHAHAHA!" Besides, how else should I have reacted? I needed to 'lighten' the moment. So I laughted; the nurse laughed; and even Dr. UroGyn laughed.

Yes, it was just like a party – minus the wine & cheese.

Aerobic Knitting & Cardiac Herxing
Make no mistake, however, the last few months have NOT felt like a party for me personally. Overall, I have felt rather crappy.

I’m up to ½ tablet of Ketek a day in an effort to kill off my borrelia infection and whatever else is tagging along. Basically, the Ketek is kicking my ass.

One time I was lying on the couch watching a movie & knitting – and please don’t misunderstand it was not the soon-to-be popular aerobic-knitting – which will shortly be all the craze in Beverly Hills (along with the wine & cheese PAP smears) – just some mild-mannered knitting.

All of a sudden I felt horrible – MORE horrible than normal. I broke out into a cold clammy sweat and my breathing felt more labored. I became dizzy and nauseated and was really afraid I was about to vomit and/or lose consciousness. I got up – determined to take my blood pressure so I could ascertain whether I needed to wake up my husband or just dial 911 or both. I melodramatically made it to my blood pressure machine and then back to the couch. My BP was only slightly elevated, but my heart rate had soared to near 100. Remember – I had been lying down and knitting. Again, not aerobic knitting – just knitting.

I decided I was probably in some kind of new trouble as this was new…and it felt like trouble. So I used what energy I had to beckon my husband to the living room. Naturally he was snoring in the bedroom so I had to continuously yell as loud as I could muster. I knew I didn’t have the energy to get up.

By the time my sleeping Prince Charming rode his white horse into the living room to rescue me, a damned damsel in distress, the symptoms were beginning to subside. He just stood there for a minute like a proverbial deer paralyzed by the mesmerizing effect of headlights…then asked if he should call 911.

Hell – I didn’t feel like going to the ER (a/k/a “Duck Motel”) so I said: “NO – not unless I faint and then you can do whatever you want to.”

Hubby helped me to the bed and I relaxed and the main symptoms finally subsided. Meanwhile I had to recover from the subsequent anxiety attack that came along with them – but I finally drifted off to sleep hoping that I wasn’t going to kick the bucket while in dreamland – although if given my dithers that’s probably the preferred method to die – while sleeping. I don’t really want to die while suffering – do you? I mean, sure, it’s more dramatic that way – and drama can be fun; but I say “NO THANK YOU” to the whole suffering scenario.

The next day, I did indeed, awake. Fortunately, I had an appointment with my LLMD and told him all about my experience. He said it sounded like a cardiac herx.

Naturally this was the first time I had heard about such a thing and wondered if he was just making the term up. And shit – he’s a doc – he’s probably allowed to do that sort of crap, right? A cardiac herx.

Sounds rather scary, doesn’t it? But when I thought about it – about the fact that the spirochetes like to live in fat, tissue, and muscle – then it made sense that as the bacteria die in the heart muscle that the rest of the body might feel the effects of it since the heart seems to play a central role in the whole functioning of the body – so I logically accepted the term.

Emotionally, however, the thought of having another one scared the bejeezus outta me! And I had asked the doc what I should do if I had another one – go to the ER?

Doc said “NO” – just come to my office.

At the time of the doc’s comment I was experiencing some brain fog so that comment didn’t seem quite as ridiculous as it did hours later when I recalled it.

Go to his office? What – is he gonna be there at 10pm at night? And even if I was having a cardiac herx in the middle of the damned day – did he really want me driving? I mean – I DID feel like I could lose consciousness at any point so why would I want to involve myself and other vehiclists?

A Dr. Wiseass DEFINITION: Vehiclists = “people who drive or ride in vehicles.”

((Hey - If my doc can make up medical terminology I can make up new words when I can’t find the regular word I want to use. But look – I kindly supplied a definition, so stop your bitching about it!)).

Anyway, why would I want to get in the car, pass my ass out and take out a bunch of other people with me? That would be as smart a move as getting really drunk with Dick Cheney and then going quail hunting together with a bunch of our good friends! (Well, I don’t really have a lot of friends right now – so I would just want to go with Cheney’s friends.)

Finally, after my brain fog cleared - I just decided I would have to take each incidence on a case by case basis.

Fortunately, I have only had a few more instances where I have felt like I was having what I would classify as a cardiac herx. Naturally those moment occurred when I was out running errands because they’re more dramatic that way. Both times I was inside a store and not in my vehicle endangering the lives of my fellow “vehiclists” .

(WAIT! The word is MOTORISTS. But honestly – doesn’t VEHICLIST seem more accurate than MOTORIST? Let’s look at it – a vehicle is usually something that can be driven on a road. My lawn mower has a MOTOR in it; my blender has a MOTOR in it, as does my bedside fan – but just by using those pieces of equipment does not make me a MOTORIST, nor can I drive them on a road. Using a vehicle, however, would make me a VEHICLIST. AND the added plus with my new word is that a VEHICLIST does NOT have to be in or on a vehicle with a MOTOR. In my opinion, bicycles are types of vehicles – yet they do NOT generally have MOTORS. Would you call a bicyclist a MOTORIST? If you do – you would be INCORRECT! Bicyclists are VEHICLSTS just by virtue of the fact that a bicycle is a vehicle that does NOT have a MOTOR!. Gosh! Don’t you wish you were my neighbor and we could have these enlightening exchanges all the damn time!)

Back to my cardiac herxes – I would usually just stop what I was doing and find a place to sit down and just focus on my breathing…and try to send the message to my body that my heart needed to slow down and the excessive clammy sweat was basically unnecessary. And you know, during those times when I was wondering if I was about to die – I have had the most unique opportunities to talk with some very kind people – people who just may need to hear about why I’m having a cardiac herx.

The people who have come up to me out of a sense of compassion (some of whom were store employees afraid I would faint or start bleeding or convulsing or whatever would make them have to add more to their job descriptions ) have been given the opportunity to learn about the TRUE picture of Lyme disease. Naturally, neither one of us really wanted to be at that place dealing with the situation of me sitting there with my head between my legs, talking slowly, breathing deeply, sipping on water & holding a cold wet compress to my head. But damnit sometimes that’s life – at least life as a Lymie. And you know that saying when life hands you lemons make lemonade. Sometimes you gotta make that Lymeaid – although bitter – it’s better than nuthin’!

Lifestyles of the Rich, Famous, & Frequent Urinaters & Defecaters
Finally, some very happy news to report…an addition to our home…

My husband – after 11 years in this house and 11 years of continued effort to get this – hubby finally installed a TV in our bathroom!

I mean – I’ve got bathroom ‘issues’ – you know? That doesn’t mean I should have to miss all my shows, though! You know what I mean, right?

And when I am in lots of pain from my various bathroom-related issues, a little distraction is nice to have and you can only read Gardening magazines so many times before they tend to make you angry. Angry that I’m on the toilet instead of gardening; and angry that it was probably my love of gardening that invited more bacterial-infested bugs into my health picture.

So TV in the bathroom – what a treat! It kinda makes me feel like I’m living the life of the rich & famous – although hubby has yet to hook up the satellite in there. I wonder if Robin Leach would like to come & bring a camera crew to my bathroom? (Hey, is Robin Leach even still alive?)

Anyway, now I can sit there like some richass princess or celebrity and watch the stupidass commercials for IBS medication that is clearly not showing the TRUE horrific pain that can accompany irritable bowel syndrome.

Seeing a bunch of men & women with FLAT stomachs standing around with IBS symptoms written on their little tummies…give me a freaking break! True IBS pain will make you bloat up like you’re in your 6th month of pregnancy; true IBS pain makes you feel like you have a kink in your intestines and that kink is about to cause a leak – just like the water hose in the back yard gets all kinked up and all that pressure on the hose causes the hose to bust a leak. THAT, my friends, is the kind of pain IBS can really cause!

The double-me-over-if-I-don’t-get-some-relief-soon-I-wish-someone-would-come-in-and-either-sedate-me-or-kill-me-as-I-do-not-prefer-to-suffer kind of pain – now THAT’s IBS! They should bring a camera crew in my bathroom! I’ll give you a damn commercial for IBS medication!

So yeah, TV in the bathroom is great. It makes me happy to be able divert my attention away from my overwhelming suffering to watch the melodramatic suffering of soap opera stars and all those women standing in a line with acronyms scrawled across their bellies.

Yep. Life can be crappy.

Living in the Now
Despite all that crappiness that finds its way into my life – I realize I am happy because I have been blessed with a family that loves me. And I’m happy, too, because I’ve come to truly realize that life is short and offers no guarantees (dammnit) so each moment should be lived in the NOW.

I know this will sound strange to some of you, but I think that all this suffering has made me more grateful of those moments when I don’t feel like I’m dying in slow motion. People that have never experienced pain won’t understand that. But if you’ve ever had a really bad tooth infection – you know the pain can be quite excruciating and can occupy your entire attention. BUT – when the pain stops – you notice it…and most people, I surmise, are quite grateful for that lack of pain. All of a sudden, having a lack of pain is something to count as a blessing. Those whom have never experienced real pain usually don’t think to count ‘lack of pain’ as a blessing. Those of us who have, usually do…provided we remember! (ha!)

This stupidass disease has actually blessed me with a gift, as it has made me stop from time to time & just observe LIFE – and caused me to savor those sweet precious moments that are usually taken for granted by healthy people that stay so busy because that’s what our culture demands.

As a sick person, I’m “allowed” to slow down (although sometimes I don’t, even when I should…) and by slowing down I can more fully experience those moments – moments that are truly magnificent, just because of their simplicity.

Don’t get me wrong – I hate this damn disease and I would be elated beyond words to rid my body of this infection. But barring some miraculous event or cure – I know that healing is going to take awhile. I know I come on my blog and bitch a lot because that’s why I created the blog….after all – isn’t that what blog stands for? Bitching Log ? BLog?

I can be happy because I allow myself to bitch about my maladies and get them out of my body and out of my mind – which having a screwed up short-term memory really helps with the getting shit ‘out of my mind’ part.

I purge my emotional toxins so I can be relieved…and happy. It’s sorta like vomiting, or having a bad case of diarrhea. It’s gross, nasty, and generally a miserable experience – but afterwards – aren’t you relieved and genuinely happy that its over?

Yep. Life can sometimes be really crappy….but by the grace of God, I’m still happy.

DON’T MISS MY NEXT BLOG POSTS where I will write effusively about:
My daughter’s over-the-top annual birthday extravaganza; my new back porch, my new half-pit bull puppy that’s a pain in the ass but part of our multi-modal security system because we’re getting a crapload of new neighbors which will destroy my illusion that we’re living in the country; my recent TIA-like (mini-stroke) experience; my attendance at the ACAM medical conference where I virtually pounced on doctors from my state – questioning them about if they would treat chronic Lyme paitnets; and my horrific trigeminal neuralgia caused by the infection in my jaw bone, which may cause me to spend mega-bucks to have a freaking cavitation procedure. (Yes, I should include all that shit here today, so I could feel like I’m ‘caught up’ – but you are tired of reading and I am tired of typing. That’s life.)

Until next time….

Hugs & Kisses,

DR Wiseass
-not a real doc – just a real wise ass
drwiseass@sbcglobal.net

Tis the Season for Poly-Tickin'

2006-01-28T18:11:00.000-06:00

I can’t believe January is almost over. I have accomplished nothing. NADA. Zip. Zero. Zilch.
It’s such a relief that I had no real expectations – no aspirations, really.

I’ve come to believe that if I totally lower my expectations of what I can do – then if I do happen to do SOMETHING – then I’m ahead of the game instead of being disappointed that I did not achieve all my goals. I think that is rather WISE, don’t you agree? Of course you do because you are most likely a pathetic sicko, too, which is why you are reading this!

TODAY’S MENU
Toilet Typing
High Significance
Repeat Chorus
The Following Stuff
Poly-Ticks Gives Me Diarrhea

Toilet Typing
OK, all that above was just a bunch of rambling bullshit. I’m making stuff up now just to entertain myself as I am really quite sick today and I’m only typing because it beats the hell out of having one or more parts of me hanging in or near the toilet.

Yes – in addition to my Lyme toxicity, I’ve apparently latched onto some delightful gastrointestinal virus, or rather, it has latched onto ME!

I’m trying to think of what part of me that is not miserable. My fingernails. Yes, my fingernails …no wait – they are actually not happy as I had ripped off the press-on nails that I felt compelled to glue on the other day because I was having a moment of vanity. So - scratch that. ((Oh look, fingernail humor…))

What doesn’t hurt…..hmmm…

If I don’t move, my hair doesn’t hurt. But my head aches so badly now that it’s hard to really differentiate however.

FYI - I am currently typing with sunglasses because I am an ultra cool wiseass diva and because this migraine is making my eyes sensitive to the light of the computer screen. Actually there are moments wheeeen I have my eyes closed because I was smart and took typing in high school so I at least have some marketable skill and can type with my eyes closed.

I don’t see lots of want ads from employers needing people who can type with their eyes closed, but then again, I’m not looking because that would take away from all the time I lounge around in bed with sunglasses – and from all the time I spend with parts of me hanging in or near toilets. When I see the ad that reads:

“Lyme-diseased Light-sensitive Toilet Typers WANTED”

– I am making the call!

I can’t recall why I started blogging today of all days other than out of boredom, the need for a happy diversion from my misery, and because I had intended to post AT MINIMUM two blog posts per month; and as I announced earlier – January is almost over. But see – that means I DID have an EXPECTATION of sorts – so you see – I am a liar.

Anyway, I thought I’d spend the next few minutes perhaps typing about nothing of significance – implying that all of my other blog posts are of very high significance.

High Significance
Speaking of high significance – let’s talk about politics – or as we say here in Texas: poly-ticks.

For those of you that are just now joining my little stupid blog – I have previously spent some time spinning my wheels preaching to the choir about how we need to become more politically active with regards to advocating for ourselves and this damn disease.

Well….Repeat Chorus!

I have recently had a brief dialogue with my high-ranking friend that works at the federal Congressional level. Wait. Was that good sentence construction? I did not mean to imply that my friendly Congressional staff person was either high or rank. Is that what you thought I meant?

Let’s try that again: I recently exchanged email with my friend who is a high staff member working at the federal level. OK, so that clears that up, right? Or, maybe that further confuses some of you because I know some of you cynical people are thinking: “Well shit – a high staff member – that could be just about anybody on Capitol Hill!”

Yeah, I hear you! But I assure you this fella… or gal – not wanting to divulge any info – is very well grounded and has info that I would like to pass on to you, my fellow Lymebrains and Friends of Lymebrains.

First – do we not ALL agree that it is indeed impressive that Dr. Wiseass actually knows some people in high places instead of merely knowing lots of people whom are just ‘high’??? Yes, I am feeling rather impressed with that myself.

Before moving along – I think it is fair to interject that I currently have a moderate fever.

No, not the low ever-present, brewing in the background fever that we are accustomed to having…but a more moderate “I have a virus that wants to kick my ass” kind of fever…which is not to be confused with the really high “I think I’m gonna die because I have a new bacterial infection that is not being addressed” kind of fever that would take me to the doctor’s office.

Lucky for me, I have a shitload of nutraceuticals that I could be taking, if only I could remember what I should be taking for these particular symptoms.

What is wrong with me? Oh yes, I am sick and I have fever and laughter gives me heart palpitations –so laughter is OUT. O-U-T !!

Second, I think it is important for you to know that I am having one of those manic kinds of days where the spirochetes are literally dancing thru the brain tissues - bouncing from synapse to synapse trying to keep you confused and deranged….and by the way, the spirochetes are keeping me rather confused and deranged too!

I think the Lyme bacteria in all its forms are running chicken-shit scared away from the areas in my body that are currently occupied by the mystery virus. The little genius bastards realize that my body is trying to expunge the virus by pooping and puking it out and so it has run to my brain and most likely to my cardiac muscle as evidenced by the laughter-induced palpitations.

My LLMD would definitely say that today I am …..oh shit, what would he say?

Ah yes, today I am experiencing a little frontal lobe disinhibition. The keets & the fever and the possible DEHYDRATION are causing my brain to feel a little drunk. SO – I know you’ll pardon me if this post does not read like the fine literature which you have come to expect from me…but sometimes a gal has an ‘off’ day.

Actually my momma says my writing is better when I am really sick or pissed off or even better – both. I don’t know what that says about me, my writing, or my momma – but damnit I’m too sick to care today. I have a purpose. Now what was it?

Repeat Chorus
My whole reason for posting today – other than for the finger exercises and the rambling value is to tell you what my high political friend said:

“CALL PEOPLE.”

But who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters?

Hell NO! They’re not gonna be much help. But you CAN call the guys/dolls that we, for whatever stupidass reason, elected into political office. We SHOULD call the people that are sitting around in the sub-committees that will determine if the current Lyme legislation will either make it out of sub-committee or die right there.

Granted – by calling those people we won’t actually be talking to those people because they are usually far too busy to talk to ‘WE, the People’. BUT – who we WILL be talking to is the people who tell the higher people who tell the highest people that ‘WE, the People’ have been calling and we want them to pass the current Lyme legislation.

For those of you that are clueless – which usually includes me – the current Lyme legislation basically calls for a Lyme Task Force to be created – to look at ways/means to go about solving this whole Lyme ‘problem’. The task force would be made up of doctors, researchers, and YES, unbelievable as it may sound – actual Lyme patients and/or their competent family members!!

Yes, I’m oversimplifying the whole Lyme bill because….did I mention I am sick today? I mean sicker than normal? And don’t you feel sorry for me?

If you’d like to actually READ the bill in question, go here: http://thomas.loc.gov/ and then type in HR 3427 in the SEARCH box.

My high ranking friend wanted me to appeal to you – the masses – all ten of you AND YOUR FRIENDS – to please get off your Lymie asses long enough to do SOMETHING. This of course, is one of those dreaded EXPECTATIONS – but hell, how else are you spending your time?

OK, so the following is more or less the message from my friend. I have changed up some of his/her wording so that it makes more sense to me. I hope it makes sense to you. And please note – despite today’s feelings of utter lunacy, this is quite the serious topic. So – put your serious face on as you read the following stuff.

The Following Stuff
To: Lyme Advocates
2005 saw some significant progress on advancing important research and funding issues in Congress on Lyme disease, however NOW is the time to act to assure real progress before the end of this session of Congress.

Everyone who cares at all about this disease or simply wants to help out someone who does can make an important difference. Below are some simple, but effective steps you can take to advance this issue, listed in order of importance. If you have the time to do them all, that's great. If not, do what you can and pass this along to others.

The two most important tools that the Lyme community has are:

1. The fact that everyone we talk to seems to know someone who has suffered from Lyme Disease

AND

2. A large email & personal rolodex of people from many different Congressional districts.

So please make your appeals personal, and please enlist as many people as you possibly can to CALL their own member of Congress for help.

A note about contacting a Congressional office:
Snail mail is very slow due to security measures, but a personal note - however brief - is still primarily, the most effective. Second would be a phone call (with a request for a response) or fax of a note, followed by an email.

No matter what, it's important that your appeal for action be personal, and you ask for a response.

The main bill to advocate is H.R. 3427, the Lyme and Tick-borne Disease Prevention, Education, and Research Act of 2005. This is a bill introduced jointly by Rep. Chris Smith of New Jersey and Rep. Sue Kelly of New York - the most recognized advocates for Lyme.

In Summary:
#1 People should CALL THEIR OWN FEDERAL CONGRESSMAN AND ASK THAT HE OR SHE CO-SPONSOR H.R. 3427, the Lyme and Tick-borne Disease Prevention, Education, and Research Act of 2005.

If you don't know who your Representative is, you can look that up with your zip code at http://www.house.gov/ . This page will also give you their contact info, or you can call the main switchboard for Congress at 202-224-3121 and ask for that office.

#2 You should forward this to everyone you know and ask them to do the action above

#3 H.R. 3427 was referred to the House Committee on Energy & Commerce, and within that, the Subcommittee on Health. The Chairman of the Health Subcommittee is Rep. Nathan Deal (GA).

Therefore, people should call or write Rep. Nathan Deal asking for a favorable hearing on this bill. His Capitol Hill address is:

2133 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515-1009.
Phone: (202) 225-5211
Fax: 202-225-8272.

#4 If this is really important to you, you can start contacting the individual members of the Health subcommittee and ask them to co-sponsor the bill.

If you see your own Congressman on this committee, you get a two-for-one which is great. And while members of Congress are much less responsive to people from outside their district, it is a huge boost to get members of the actual committee of jurisdiction to co-sponsor a bill. This is something the Chairman will look at when deciding whether or not to bring it up for consideration.

The list of Heath Committee members will follow at the bottom.

Remember, the more people you get into this fight, the wider net we can cast for co-sponsors. If you know anyone who may do this for you as a personal favor, just forward this to them. Contacts don't have to be sophisticated, just personal and sincere.

HEALTH SUB-COMMITTEE MEMBERS:
Nathan Deal, Georgia (10th), Chairman
2437 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5211 FAX: (202)-225-8272

Ralph M. Hall, Texas (14th)
2405 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-6673 FAX :( 202)-225-3332

Michael Bilirakis, Florida (9th)
2269 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5755 FAX: (202)-225-4085

Fred Upton, Michigan (6th)
2161 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-3761 Fax: (202) 225-4986

Paul E. Gillmor, Ohio (5th)
1203 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-6405 FAX: (202)-225-1985

Charlie Norwood, Georgia (9th)
1707 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4101 Fax: (202)-226-0776

Barbara Cubin, Wyoming
1114 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-2311 Fax: (202) 225-3057

John Shimkus, Illinois (19th)
513 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5271 Fax: (202) 225-5880

John B. Shadegg, Arizona (3rd)
306 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-3361 FAX: (202) 225-3462

Charles "Chip" Pickering, MS (3rd)
229 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5031 FAX: (202)-225-5797

Steve Buyer, Indiana (4th)
2230 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5037 FAX: (202)-225-2267

Joseph R. Pitts, Pennsylvania (16th)
204 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-2411 FAX: (202)- 225-2013

Mary Bono, California (45th)
404 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5330 Fax: (202) 225-2961

Mike Ferguson, New Jersey (7th)
214 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5361 FAX: (202) 225-9460

Mike Rogers, Michigan (8th)
133 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4872 Fax: (202) 225-5820

Sue Myrick, North Carolina (9th)
230 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-1976 Fax:( 202) 225-3389

Michael Burgess, Texas (26th)
1721 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-7772 FAX: (202)-225- 2919

Joe Barton, Texas (6th)
2109 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-2002 Fax-(202) 225-3052

Sherrod Brown, Ohio (13th), Ranking Member
2332 Rayburn HOB House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-3401 FAX-(202) 225-2266

Henry A. Waxman, California (30th)
2204 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-3976 FAX- (202)-225-4099

Edolphus Towns, New York (10th)
2232 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5936 Fax: (202) 225-1018

Frank Pallone Jr., New Jersey (6th)
420 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4671 FAX: (202) 225-9665

Bart Gordon, Tennessee (6th)
2368 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4231 FAX: (202)-225-4231

Bobby L. Rush, Illinois (1st)
2416 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4372 FAX: (202)-226-0333

Anna G. Eshoo, California (14th)
205 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-8104 FAX: (202)-225-8890

Gene Green, Texas (6th)
2335 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-1688 FAX: (202)-225-9903

Ted Strickland, Ohio (6th)
336 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-5705 FAX: (202)-225-9507

Diana DeGette, Colorado (1st)
1530 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4431 FAX: (202)-225-5657

Lois Capps, California (23rd)
1118 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-3601 FAX: (202)-225-5632

Tom Allen, Maine (1st)
1717 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-6116 FAX: (202)-225-5590

Jim Davis, Florida (11th)
409 Cannon HOB House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-3376 FAX: (202)-225-5652

Tammy Baldwin, Wisconsin (2nd)
1022 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202)-225-2906 FAX: (202)-225-6942

John D. Dingell, Michigan (15th)
2328 Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515
(202) 225-4071 FAX: (202)-225-4671

Poly-Ticks Gives Me Diarrhea

I’ve always claimed that politics tends to give me diarrhea, and I’ll bet that many of you feel the same way.

I know that MANY of you in the Lyme community have grown rather cynical when it comes to politics and our government’s interest in our health – especially the health of those inflicted with a bacterial (bio-warfare) agent that was most likely released or propagated by some governmental agencies in the first place!

Well I think it is important for you to know that all those above listed people – they do NOT work for the idiots at the CDC. They do NOT work for the folks at the NIH. THEY work for you & me and WE, the People.

It is up to you & me and WE, the People to tell the above representatives that we are sick and tired of being sick and tired and that there have been some nasty-ass foxes in the bureaucratic hen-houses for way too long!

I don’t suggest you use that terminology when you make your personal calls, faxes, or emails – as even I, Dr. Wiseass, will (gulp) be on her best behavior so that I can be taken seriously! EEeek! (Best behavior? Do I HAVE best behavior????) I, will actually be using my REAL NAME!

So clearly – I won’t be calling, faxing, or emailing any of the above people TODAY because today ain’t a good day for me & “best behavior”. I shall wait until my fever comes back down to the 99 range and the spirochetes have stopped holding drunk-fests, & other types of lascivious bacterial parties in my frontal lobe.

I shall wait until I can, once again, string together a few words that create a SERIOUS sentence which does not contain the word ASS in it. I hope that I can do that on Monday. If not, I’m sure I’ll be up for the challenge by next Friday.

Until then, I trust that YOU, my dear, refined ones will pick up your phones, or computers (unless it’s a desktop computer at which point actually picking it up would be stupid…) and that YOU can tell your personal story & make a serious appeal for this serious ass disease.

And just remember – if you already happen to have a case of diarrhea (like me) – what have you got to lose? Oh wait…..

OK, just remember – diarrhea is just one way to de-tox! So y’all get to poly-ticking, now – ya hear?!!

Until next time…..

Hugs & distant Kisses (because I’m SICK SICK SICK),

DR. Wiseass
-not a real doc – just a real wise ass
dr-wiseass@sbcglobal.net

Happy Toxic Holidays

2006-01-05T22:11:00.000-06:00

Are they over yet?

Someone PLEASE tell me if the holidays are over yet…I’m hanging on by my short hairs at this point. (Oooh, not a pretty image – hope no one was eating …)

If you’ve wondered where the hell Dr. Wiseass has been lately – I’ve been hanging on by above mentioned hair and trying to make all sorts of ‘merry’ from Thanksgiving to New Years Eve.

In the past, the holidays have been stressful for a variety of reasons – mostly because I have this dysfunctional idea that I must do my damndest to make everything as ‘Norman Rockwell’ as possible – which, by the way, has always been impossible for me anyway, yet I continue to do it nonetheless!

The fact that I am a perfectionist of sorts only compounds this problem because the stress of not having perfection only makes me more uptight and unable to complete my tasks because I’ve given lots of energy over to being stressed out about stupid imperfections. That, my friends, is an example of insanity!

Combine with that above insanity with my chronic, active Lyme infection and you’ve got the recipe for a great toxic holiday experience!

TODAY’S MENU
NOW ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS
COUNTIN’ MY BLESSINGS
SANDY FEET – SANDY ASS
WHERE THERE’S A WILL…

NOW ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS
First of all, when I say “Happy Holidays” – I am generally referring to all the holidays from Thanksgiving to New Years – even though I don’t celebrate Kwanza (don’t know much about it and I don’t have energy to do it anyway) and I don’t celebrate Hanukah, although I have been known to give a nod to that holiday as Jesus was indeed Jewish, you know. Jesus celebrated Hanukah you can be sure!

Anyhoo – I have been fascinated this year by the whole controversy of whether people should say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” and all the implications of both, blah blah blah. I understand the reasoning behind both camps, and yes, my good friend BB and I had a healthy debate over it and neither one of us got mad for being on so-called opposite sides – although I don’t really consider myself on a ‘side’.

You see, I started signing “Happy Holidays” on my Christmas cards YEARS ago because, quite frankly, I was and still am a big lazy ass. In case you haven’t counted – “Happy Holidays” has fewer letters in it than “Merry Christmas & Happy New Year”.

By doing that, I never had any intention of disrespecting Christmas – and I have no problem saying “Merry Christmas” to anyone. I probably wouldn’t say it to a Jewish friend – just as I wouldn’t expect my Jewish friend to say “Happy Hanukah” to me –although I certainly wouldn’t be pissed off if he/she did --- I’d just say “And a Merry Christmas to you” back to them, and then we’d laugh.

BUT it’s really a moot point as I currently, to my knowledge, have no Jewish friends.

Would someone out there in the internet world like to be my Jewish friend? And while we’re at it, I also have no Kwanza celebrating friend either – so that position is open as well.

Now back to the controversy….why did I even bring this up?

Oh yes, I think I was wanting to say that the holiday season – not to be confused with just the Christmas holiday – well, I think it almost killed my fat ass.

COUNTIN’ MY BLESSINGS
At Thanksgiving, my little nuclear family & I drove to a suburb of New Orleans – which is a whole other blog post since Katrina came blowing thru back in September – but that’s not the point of me telling this…hang with me…

We drove to New Orleans, which any drive over 30 minutes really kinda whips my ass, so that 9 hour experience felt like it almost did me in despite the fact that I was doing my damn level best to just sedate myself and snooze through the whole drive!

We stayed overnight with my bro & sis-in-law – you remember them – the ones that like to go to the damn gym ALL the time -- even when hurricanes are approaching?

Walking into their New Orleans home was like walking into a page from Southern Living magazine. Sis-in-law is a genius at the whole home-decorating thing and she’s an immaculate house keeper, too. If I didn’t love her – I’d hate her. I immediately felt like a pathetic slob. Not a cheery feeling by the way – but I struggled not to let my low self-esteem and my overwhelming fatigue and pain from the long ass drive spoil my special holiday time with family.

The next day – after all the healthy people went and worked out at the damn gym for over 2 freaking HOURS – we piled our asses back in the car and drove to bro & sis-in-law’s new beach house in Florida.

I can’t remember what damn beach we were on, but I was told it’s where the hoity-toity come to play. Yippee.

That drive took another 3 or 4 hours, I think – and we got to see lots of damage caused from Katrina, which was actually more of a ‘had to see’ rather than a ‘got to see’ because it was quite depressing to see all the destruction. I didn’t really want to be reminded of it, but I did recognize what a blessing it was for me because I did not have to personally deal with all of it. Hey, it was Thanksgiving and I was trying to count my blessings….and that’s a big one right there!

Instead of dealing with the continuous hell of the Katrina aftermath, I was dealing with some pain & fatigue and the frustration of not feeling good enough to be vacationing over Thanksgiving -- although I was certainly WILLING myself and doing it anyway; and I was also dealing with the frustration that comes from the slap in the face realization that I am a pathetic slob.

My inner, pathetic slob was not shocked, but just sucker punched again when we walked into their new, IMMACULATE beach house – which I could find no sand in. (Oops – ending that sentence with a preposition…yet another New Year’s resolution broken within only days! Damn!)

If I had a beach house, there would be sand everywhere. I would be a little unnerved by it because I know my housekeeping skills would hinder me from keeping all the sand out of every damn nook & cranny available despite my conscientious efforts. I realize I’m physically & psychologically incapable of dealing with that kind of stress now, so I suppose that it is also a blessing that I do not currently own a beach house. (Honey – sometimes you really need to LOOK to find those blessings!)

Naturally their beach house was beautiful, too – and larger than our one ‘regular’ pathetic slob home. It was like Southern Living at the Beach, only it wasn’t really Southern looking as it had a different decorative motif, which was fun….but it was still far too immaculate.

I watched my sis-in-law – who is MUCH older than me which automatically makes her an OLD woman – bounce around cleaning up after people; waiting on people; cooking delicious meals; orchestrating fun outings for the ‘healthy ones’ and then working out at one of their gyms for 2 damn hours each and every day.

(Interesting side note: Bro & Sis-in-law are members of not just 2…but 5 different gyms. FIVE! I do not understand that and really must resist the urge to judge them, hoping in turn that they resist the urge to judge me….the FAT, pathetic slob, & BLOB of a person that breaks out into a sweat just hearing the word ‘gym’.)

I honestly can’t tell you how many times over that week that I heard the phrase,

“Wanna go do some ‘cardio’ ??”

Bro-in-law sarcastically asked me once if I wanted to go to the gym with them, almost laughing while he said it. I wanted to get up and bitch-slap him but realized that might be considered rude and that I would probably sweat from the exertion. I think I suggested I wouldn't mind going to the gym, provided he wouldn't be embarassed when the paramedics had to be called.

He didn't ask again.

But I heard that damn phrase over and over - possibly even in my sleep:

"Wanna go do some 'cardio'??"

I finally just had to make it my own private buzz phrase and I tried to use it in sentences as often as possible, just to entertain myself.

I made up my bed daily (which certainly doesn’t happen at home) and I would loudly declare:

“Look, I’m doing my cardio!!!”

I don’t know if the ‘healthy people’ thought it was all that damn funny, but it made me laugh and that was important. I had to laugh myself out of that dark hole of depression that was trying to suck me in because of all the things I don’t have and all the things I can’t do – all the visions of who I can’t “BE” right now.

Yes, laughter, too, is a HUGE blessing for me. I definitely count it – do you?

SANDY FEET – SANDY ASS
We were at the beach for 4 days; and of those 4 days I could only make it to the beach 2 times and for limited time periods. This made me a little sad at times as it was a freaking ordeal for me to make it to the beach and back without wanting to pass my ass out!

But I was so thankful to be able to do it those 2 times because I know there are so many that even if given the opportunity – would not physically be able to do it.

There’s something very spiritual about the ocean for me – sitting on the beach watching tides, digging my toes in the sand, thinking of all the metaphors of life that can be applied thru nature.

During that first beach experience, I tried to walk along the beach with my healthy kin and only made it a few hundred feet. Part of me was frustrated by this, but realized that I couldn’t do anything about it and that I shouldn’t allow my current ‘handicap’ rob me of the joy of the experience. So I sat my fat ass down in the cold wet sand and just sat. I sat and sat. I sat and watched alone, telling my hubby to go on without me.

The solitude there was actually a very good experience for me….working through issues of bitterness about what I could and couldn’t do, collecting metaphors instead of sea shells because I didn’t have the energy for the physical digging – thankful than I can at least dig for the emotional gems, provided I’m willing to stop throwing my inner tantrums.

Now don’t get me wrong – Dr. Wiseass doesn’t always embrace and wear the emotional gems she discovers because she is forgetful. And why is she talking in 3rd person right now? I feel like the George Costanza character from Seinfeld. Talking about yourself in 3rd person is stupid, but fun at times so I shall continue to do so at spontaneous intervals. I will jump back and forth so as to confuse and entertain myself and you, provided you are willing to be entertained as opposed to just being annoyed.

The healthy people really took a long ass walk on the beach and part of me got impatient with all that solitude, so I just started taking digital pictures with my camera that doesn’t belong near water and sand but that I took anyway because I have been known to make stupid choices……

I just took pictures until my batteries were about dead. I took pictures of wave after wave, of seagulls that happened by, or those cute busy little birdies that walk really fast & would accidentally get close to me because I was sitting so still….you know, allowing my joints to almost glue themselves together… I don’t know why. I guess I was just in awe of the beauty and I wanted to capture it and use it to remember my metaphors that were streaming in, offering me a chance to grasp onto them, embrace them & use them to improve my stinky ass attitude.

The pictures were OK considering I’m not a camera buff – but I swear – for the life of me I can’t remember any of my great epiphanies. Normally I’d say, “Well maybe my epiphanies weren’t that damn great after all.” No. I was just too tired to remember shit.

If we ever get invited back again – I’m taking my laptop to the beach so I can capture my thoughts on electronic ‘paper’. Yes, taking a laptop to the beach – a supremely splendid idea! Hmmm… Note to self: Check conditions of warranty.

The second trip to the beach occurred when I was just dog tired, but I was determined that I was going to go build a damn good sand castle. I don’t think you’re ever too old to play in the sand. I think you can FEEL too damn old to do it – but I think the creative, playful act itself should never seem taboo to anyone of any age.

I think there’s something potentially spiritual about sand too – unless of course it is in every nook and cranny of your home, and then it’s just a pain in the ass. But I digress.

I basically WILLED myself to get to the beach, which by the way, is NOT generally handicap friendly.

Have you ever tried to walk on the beach with a cane? I know people were looking at me; some even seemed to glare (of course my eyesight is starting to fail a bit so I could be wrong about that.) And thankfully I was in a ‘good’ place emotionally then because I didn’t yell at or flip off ANYONE despite their apparent rudeness.

I was kina pissed though because I couldn’t see how anyone in a wheelchair could enjoy the beach. The beach is not really handicap accessible and I think people should make the effort to make it so – don’t you agree?

If hotels can build big ass boardwalks for the ‘healthy people’ (hereinafter referred to as the “HP’s” because typing ‘healthy people’ all the time is annoying…) why can’t they go ahead and make a little wheelchair ramp that would allow those in wheelchairs an opportunity to get a little closer to the water and the good, wet sand that you can just sink your feet into???? Cheap, greedy corporate bastards.

I should write them a letter, but damnit, that’s a fight I don’t have the energy to fight – so I’m gonna let it go…in just a second here….just one more time: “Cheap, greedy, corporate narcissistic healthy ass bastards!” Hey, my laptop didn’t underline the word: ‘narcissistic’ which means I spelled it correctly! THAT is a first! What a damn hoot.

Anyway, my actual hands-on sand castle building was limited, so I had to content myself with just watching my HP’s do it, occasionally offering some direction, resisting the urge to be controlling. Besides, we didn’t have all the right tools.

Yes, Dr. Wiseass can take her sand castle building quite seriously. A few years ago, on a vacation when I felt healthier, my daughter & I took lessons from a real sand castle builder – a professional. It was only an hour or so – but we learned quite a bit. I’d tell you all I know about that right now, but I don’t feel like it. So for those of you that really ‘dig’ the (w)hole sand castle scene - go here for more info:

http://www.sandcastlecentral.com/ ;
http://www.sandyfeet.com/ ; or
http://www.amazinwalter.com/

I believe when I took my lessons it was either from Lucinda Sandyfeet or someone that was sort of her competitor. I basically interviewed her because I’m such a good conversationalist (hahha) and she told me about some ‘dirt’ in the sand castle community. Although a great conversationalist - apparently I’m a lousy listener and can not recall even the name of the gal that taught us. Hmmmph.

And all that was just a little sandy rabbit trail for you … aren’t I just a wealth of useful info???

Back to my long ass story…

I generally had a really good time with my family at the beach, even though I spent a lot of time in bed and just had to enjoy the experience vicariously. I spent a lot of time just listening to them interact with each other and did my best to find the joy and contentment in being able to do that.

I was literally so exhausted on Thanksgiving day that, after I got myself all ‘dolled up’ for dinner, I became so dizzy I couldn’t stand, had to lie down and not move an inch because I was just sure I was going to puke all over those high thread-count sheets and all over that immaculate, expensive rug that had absolutely no sand in it whatsoever!

Dr. Wiseass missed Thanksgiving dinner!!!

My father-in-law accused me of being rude, to which I informed him I thought it might be considerably ruder if I puked all over the Thanksgiving table. My f-i-l (father-in-law) then got off my ass and left me alone about that…for awhile.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip and I hope that despite my ‘rude’ Thanksgiving behavior that bro & sis-in-law will invite us back some day –hopefully during a time when I don’t feel like I’m dying in slow motion…you know, so I can get sand all over my feet – even all over my ass, and then track it into their beach home and then sit back and see how sis-in-law handles THAT! HA!

WHERE THERE’S A WILL…
Upon arriving back at our filthy house, we discovered a plumbing leak. I do not have to tell you how stressful it is to live without running water for a couple of days. We thought about hooking up a hose from our neighbor’s house to ours – with their permission, of course – as we were convinced that collectively we’d have the acre of garden hose it would take to do it. But, hubby decided to schlup some buckets for toilet flushing from their house and we bought lots of bottled water until we found a plumber that had a skinny enough ass to crawl under our tiny crawl space which I think is the upper layer of hell. Crawl spaces freak the shit outta me. Is that normal? And should I care?

While hubby dealt with the plumbing crisis, I decided to further exhaust myself by cleaning up my house to the best of my ability because, after all, Thanksgiving ushers in the Christmas holiday SEASON (because that’s all you experience for well over a month because people are occupied getting ready for it and stores are busy making you feel like you’re already behind in your Christmas shopping because they’ve had their Christmas decorations up since Halloween!)

I decided that I just HAD to take some time to clean our filthy house before decorating it; otherwise it would be the equivalent to putting a pretty red bow on a pile of dog shit. Any one of you fellow pathetic slobs out there know what I mean?

Instead of doing what my body was begging me to do, which was go to bed and recover from my Thanksgiving trip – I cleaned. It was another one of those things that I had to literally WILL myself to do. And it was a miracle I could do it and not land my ass in the I.C.U. – because I DID mention that I’m apparently a pathetic slob, right?

After I cleaned, I had hubby drag out those decorations so I could spend over 3 weeks trying to get them all up. It took 3 weeks, not because we have that many decorations (a point on which my hubby would disagree), but because it takes a lot of damn energy to get it up. Geez - there’s a ‘get it up’ joke in there, but I’m too tired to go in after it.

Most of my Christmas shopping occurred at good ol’ Target because they have those motorized carts.

Thank GOD for motorized carts!

Sears needs to have motorized carts too – because I did have to force myself – WILL myself to going there to get some MANly Craftsman shit for my hubby to open on Christmas day only to return half of it a couple of days later because he already had it and I didn’t know it. Or if I knew he had it, I had apparently forgotten it or thought he had returned it some previous year --- so damnit I just got him some more!

But I don’t think you can ever have too many flashlights or laser levels, do you?

My good friend BB came to visit just prior to Christmas and I had such a lovely time visiting with her. I always enjoy her company, despite her being an OLD woman and all.

(FYI – I enjoy calling any woman older than me an OLD woman because it makes me feel young. Yes, it’s kinda rude – but I have a body that feels like I should have signed up for AARP DECADES ago – so I need all the help I can get. Besides – there’s nothing wrong with being OLD. I think that we, as a society, should not think of the word OLD as a bad thing. We should quit worshipping and idolizing YOUTH! I mean HELL! I’m a YOUTH relatively speaking, and yet, I feel quite OLD – so what’s the point? I don’t know. I believe I’m just rambling now. Or have I just been rambling all along?)

During BB’s visit she gently encouraged and then practically strong-armed me into declaring that I would NOT even TRY to cook Christmas dinner as I was not in the health to add that on my plate. I knew she was right, but my inner Martha Stewart was really having a problem with that.

BB insisted that I call and order Christmas dinner from a grocery store and have the rest of my family bring something with them. Hmmm. What an odd concept…but it had appeal.

When I told this plan to my former step-mother, who still comes to our family events because I love her dearly and still consider her part of the family because I didn’t divorce her and she & my father get along amazingly…you know, for divorced spouses. Anyway – SHE OFFERED TO COOK AND BRING IT TO MY HOUSE!

Actually she offered to host dinner at her house, but I selfishly insisted I wanted our Christmas dinner at my house because I had already spent all those damn weeks decorating my house – which it kinda looked like someone just vomited all things RED all over the place. So – GOD BLESS HER – she ended up cooking this wonderful meal and transported it to my house on Christmas day!

But I’m getting ahead of myself here…

Mere HOURS after BB left my house to go back home, my mother & father-in-law came into town. A quick change of the bed linens and that was pretty much all the special preparation I made for them. I would have gladly done more provided I had the energy, as I really do love my in-laws. I am blessed they are so loving and accepting of me – the poor sickly pathetic slob that I currently am!

My in-laws stayed until the early morning hours of Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve afternoon, my mom’s side of the family came to my house. And yes, even Mamma suggested that we ‘do Christmas’ over at her place this year. But NOoooooooooo! Little crazy ass Martha Wanna-be INSISTED they come to my house because as previously mentioned – I had already invested all that time vomiting all things red all over my house. It was just a place of Christmas magic…a Christmas Wonderland…except my hubby decided he wasn’t in the mood to put up outdoor lights this year. So I made damn sure to make up for it by putting lights everywhere indoors – over doorway arches, the mantle, over the dinner table. I even thought about putting some in the bathroom, but realized that might be a little much…you think? Of course a toilet outlined in flashing red lights – that might look AWESOME!!! hahahha

This year, I bought this 4 foot tall Santa that sings and dances – as if I had the room for more crap! I also bought a rotating Christmas tree stand which only put more pressure on ‘yours truly’ to now decorate ALL sides of the tree! “Why do I do such dumb ass things?” Dr. Wiseass asks herself, once again switching briefly to 3rd person…”I have no damn idea!” she answers back, now wondering if that is just an ADDITIONAL sign of insanity.

((Hey – I just heard – don’t know if it is true – that people with 4 positives on the 31st band of the Western Blot – those people can really have some serious psychological issues. When I heard that, I scrambled to find my test results – quite convinced that I would find 4 stars on that band and therefore have my valid excuse for being the crazy ass pathetic slob that I feel like most days. Alas, my ass only has one positive. Hmmm. Must be another reason? ))

The week between Christmas & New Years was sort of a blur. I honestly can’t remember what I did. I know I did something instead of resting, but I’m really getting nothing in my brain. Hmmm…again.

My neighbor, which I refer to now as my ‘freighbor’ because she’s not just a neighbor but also a friend – invited us over for New Years Eve. This sounded nice to me because we NEVER go out on what I consider to be ‘amateur night’ when all the people that never drink decide to toss back waaay too much to drink and then attempt to operate a motor vehicle…stupid, stupid, stupid….so we usually just stay safely tucked away at home and are usually ready for bed before the ball even drops on the Big Apple.

((By the way, what the hell is so damn exciting about watching a lit up ball drop? I mean – it’s fine to watch on TV – but can you imagine being in Time Square on New Year’s Eve? And for what? You know they are squished in their like a freaking bunch of stinking sardines! What if someone has LD and needs to lie down? What if someone gets sick from throwing back too much of the liquor they have stashed away in their purse or backpack? Where do they puke…or rather on whom do they puke? What if the puker really pisses off the pukee because of it?? I mean – I’d been a little pissed if a stinking damn stranger puked all over my New Year’s Eve hairdoo! And also - what if someone just needs to pee? I can imagine most men just whip it out and pee where they stand because men are generally uncouth when in comes to calls of nature, and simply because I think men enjoy pissing in a variety of places.

But what about the women? Do they just hunker back and squat? Do they pee in their pants because it’s more convenient? Do they test-drive some Depends?? Yeah, I’m sure they have those porta-potties somewhere – but you KNOW that whoever planned the event underestimated how many were needed – and God forbid they divvy it up between “Men” and “Women” as you KNOW they ALWAYS underestimate how many are needed for the women! And that’s some just of the kinds of bullshit you don’t see or hear spoken of on the TV broadcast…because it’s not ‘pretty’. And sure – having all that damn confetti rain down on your puked on pissed on self ‘looks’ fun – but is it really? Did you notice how much confetti there was in the air this year? Is that one of New York City’s attempts to soaking up all the urine and vomit – with the confetti paper? And how many people do you wonder had some kind of choking experience because they accidentally sucked it into their mouth or up their nose? Can someone please explain the appeal of being in Times Square on New Years Eve? I just don’t understand!))

Anyway, I used the party as an excuse to declare a ‘Beauty Day’ with my daughter and we did our own home mani’s and pedi’s (that’s manicures and pedicures for those of you ‘not-in-the-know’) and did facials and even plucked our eyebrows. The eyebrow plucking wasn’t a big deal for me – but my poor little 11 year old that looks like she’s around 14 did not enjoy that experience because she’s got a damn unibrow growing and it was a highly dramatic marathon session to be sure!

By the time I had done all that, taken a long bath - where I somehow PULLED A DAMN GROIN MUSCLE and don’t ask me how I did it; then crimped my hair just for the fun of it; smeared glitter lotion on all my visible parts just because I had it and usually have no other occasion to put glitter on me; and then found my official New Years Eve black feather boa – I was ready for bed.

But I WILLED myself to limp next door and have fun….DAMNIT!

And I actually DID have a blast with all of her friends. We played Guesstures – which is basically a fast-paced game of charades that some clever company came up with so they could make about $30 off of people who are too lazy to come up with their own charade categories. But I laughed so damn hard that my back, my chest, and my stomach all hurt. I had to start shoving pillows all around me for support.

Who knew that laughing could be so damn exhausting??! I know that laughter is good medicine, and I’ve always thought that laughter is superior to antibiotics because it doesn’t make you herx….but little did I know at the time - I was soon to think differently.

About 5 minutes after midnight, hubby dear was walking my fatigued, limping ass home. Yes, Dr. Wiseass was the FIRST to leave a good party….and THAT, ladies and gentlemen, was a FIRST! But I did have to WILL myself to stay that long because I knew I was fading fast. Actually I was a wilted little glitter-covered flower when I arrived, but I did my best to fake it.

The next morning, I woke up with my usual pain & stiffness and my headache that cried out for a cup of coffee, along with some chest wall pain that made me think I was starting the New Year off with a good ol’ heart attack. But then I remembered I laughed too hard, and just tried to relax until that particular pain subsided. I finally hobbled out of bed, still in extreme pain from the groin pull, and I was otherwise quite fine for awhile….for at least a couple of hours. And then…it hit me.

I crashed like I’ve never crashed before. I lied down for a nap, and that was it. My joints all tightened up like the springs on a cheap-ass $5 watch. EVERY inch of me hurt. EVERY-F’ING-INCH OF ME HURT LIKE HELL!

I could barely move. If I did move, I was hit with a wave of nausea from the pain and then I had to lie so still because I knew I was going to start blowing big chunks on MY NEW 500 thread count sheets that I got for Christmas.

Lying there – incapable of moving – thinking very dramatically that ‘this is what it feels like to die…’ I recalled sitting on the beach at Thanksgiving; I recalled that solitude and how I had to transform it from a negative into a positive.

Occasionally rolling from side to side, moaning about my pain and feeling quite sorry for myself I did my best to re-frame that experience into something positive. Initially – I got squat. Zip. Zilch. Nada damn thing. I felt like I was on the verge of death and I was just about to go insane because of it.

I was feeling quite sorry for myself – starting off a new year in that much misery.

Hubby very kindly suggested that this was the ‘crash’ that I had been postponing since Thanksgiving – that everything had caught up with me and that I just needed to rest. And I thought that was a reasonable explanation because that one glass of sparkling wine I had for New Years Eve couldn’t cause anyone this much agony…OK, OK, it was more like two glasses – so bite me! But I knew I wasn’t experiencing a hangover, and what I didn’t initially understand was that I was experiencing not only a ‘crash’ but a toxic overload too.

I finally was able to move enough to dial BB’s number so I could cry into the phone and she could tell me what was happening with me and make suggestions as to what I could do on that fine, New Year’s Day (as we both KNEW I wasn’t going to get help from the ER or my LLMD on that day unless I was actually dying).

What was funny was I told BB that I felt like I was dying. And she said, “You are”. Yes, even BB has a lymebrain, as what I THINK she meant to do was validate that feeling by saying, “Yes, you DO feel like you are dying when you crash hard and suffer from toxic overload.” It’s good that I can read between the lines. And I wanted to laugh about what she said, but I was too busy crying about it first.

I believe I was really in toxic overload, not just because of my New Year’s Eve libations, but because for well over a month I had been over-indulging in activities and sugary desserts. For two months, I had been pushing myself – WILLING myself to take beach vacations, deck my damn halls, and shop til I LITERALLY dropped; along with baking & decorating like a damn Suzy Homemaker regular person…like an HP!!!!

So for the last several days I have been doing Glutathione swishes, drinking drops of Burbur in my water (Burbur is a homeopathic remedy that should never be confused with bourbon, by the way!); drinking lots of lemon water; drinking green teen; taking loads of anti-oxidants; eating bland food that wouldn’t make me puke; and WILLING myself up out of bed to take SHOWERS while sitting on a stool (because I’m apparently too feeble to take baths these days as I might just pull an F’ing muscle!).

During those times when I just couldn’t move, I decided that I should go back and re-count all the blessings that the past 6+ weeks had given to me – allowing me to experience a variety of things – and most importantly, knowing that sometimes I CAN literally WILL myself into enjoying life – into enjoying my family, even if I’m enjoying them from another room – enjoying life even vicariously through the experiences of the people I love.

I reminded myself that there are so many of you out there in the Lyme community who are not at a place physically where you can even WILL yourself to get up and vomit up red holiday decorations all over your home, no matter how enticing that may sound. So I apologize to you, and I want you to know that although I do not know most of your names or stories – I understand some of your pain.

I know there are so many that are in both physical & emotional pain; those without the support of family or friends; those overcoming larger obstacles than even I can wrap my feeble, groin-pulled slob assed lymebrain around…and to you all - I apologize for a year spent wallowing in my own self-pity. GOD WILLING – 2006 will bring YOU greater health, more mobility and freedom, more love, insight, money, strength, and even a sandy beach house if you want one that damn bad.

For those of you who are my fellow pity-party goers, I thank you for sharing this year with me. Thank you for making me feel that my little pity-party was not just a table for one – for making me feel that my written regurgitation made some small difference in your life because it helped you laugh a bit, and it helped you to realize you are NOT alone. Thank you for giving my stupid ass ramblings some kind of purpose.

So I will close this long-ass post today by saying
“Happy New Year to You,
and Happy Anniversary to Me”

Today is January 5th, 2006 – and this is the ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY of this, my stupid-ass blog.

As for today - I think I shall live. Granted, I still officially feel like shit, but I trust I’m gonna live, as I am WILLING myself so!

Because this is the beginning of a New Year, I suppose I should make some grand resolution about my writing – to declare that I will WILL myself to write more “consistently” this next year – but shit – I’m feeling grateful that I have enough energy right now to keep a firm grasp on my own damn will to live – so once again my fellow tick-bitten ones – if you don’t like that - then you can just BITE ME!

Hugs & Kisses,
DR Wiseass

PS – If you’d like to leave comments, please note that I am now making it mandatory for you to ‘sign in’. I personally don’t give a shit if you give a real name – I am just fed up with salespeople electronically spamming my damn blog. Have you noticed that shit? That’s ridiculous!

If any of you people want to advertise shit on my blog site then you’re gonna have to pay my ass cause I’m saving up for a beach laptop!

PPS - I know you have all been so curious about how damn beautiful I am - so here I am in all my wiseass glory, flipping my Lyme support group leader off merely because I wanted to hide my triple chins! Try not to drool over me!

Weeping Wiseass

2005-10-23T07:11:00.000-05:00

Well, shit! It’s hard to believe that it has been 2 freaking months since I have posted. This is a new record for me.

I’d apologize to you, but I’m not really blogging for you – I’m blogging for me. It’s therapy. And the reason I write publicly is still a mystery to me, other than I must have some inherent need to expose myself. And since I don’t look very good naked – I must expose my naked emotions instead.

I must say, these last couple months have been rather traumatic for me; although I know there are thousands whom have experienced far more trauma than me and I really have no right to even claim such a word.

My trauma has been mostly sympathetic trauma….sort of like a man experiencing sympathetic birth pains. And from my own personal dramas to national catastrophes, I want you to know I have actually come close to having a damned nervous breakdown on a few occasions.

I wish I were just kidding.

TODAY’S MENU
Drowning In My Own Damn Tears
Getting the Hell Outta Dodge!
“Annie Get Your Gun – Lulu Get One, Too!”
Losing My Damn Mind
A Thin Line
Crazy Ass – Wise Body
Migratory Worry
Florida Or Bust

Drowning In My Own Damn Tears
A couple of months ago, I literally dragged my mom to my LLMD’s office to get her tested for Lyme disease.

I don’t like to brag, but I diagnosed the woman with Lyme disease at least 5 or 6 damn months ago, when she started telling me that she has quite LITERALLY been crawling her big 58 year old ass UNDER HER DESK for a nap at lunch time because she’s just so damned tired. But she, being my hard-headed mother, did not have faith in my ability to diagnose Lyme in other people – most especially her.

Because I know that my LLMD is very busy – and assumed he probably even has a waiting list –I decided to write him a sweet little fax, telling him all about Momma’s symptoms and that if they couldn’t fit her in sooner – that I would just bring her with me during MY appointment time. And so I did.

It didn’t take long for Dr. N to figure out that mom is sick. Hell, he could probably have just diagnosed part of her problem while we were still in the waiting room. My sweet mother has the most disgusting smoker’s cough – a cough she developed over the last 45 years of her life. So I know he KNEW we were in trouble before we even walked into his damn office.

But he looked her up & down a bit and asked her lots of questions – some of which I had to interpret for her because Dr. N often speaks in metaphors.

He has yet to come out and say: “You have Lyme” but he did take about half her body’s blood so he could run a shit-load of tests.

At the time of the appointment I, too, had a sweet little gurgle-ly cough myself. I had conveniently come down with some snot-based illness just prior to my appointment and thought it convenient that I would be there so he could look down my throat and give me the sympathy that I was due.

But hell, next to mom’s cough my cough was like the difference between a bomb and a fart. Dr. N didn’t seem to care about my little mucous as he went over my blood lab results from my visit one MONTH earlier. He said, “It looks good”.

I told him, “Well I’m glad LAST month was good – but I’m just a little worried about THIS month, man!”

Again – he just stayed stuck in the past telling me I was doing better while I’m sitting there sick as a damned dog. I love that man, but SHIT!

My mother returned to the room and I thought it was safe for me to go ahead and ask to see my daughter’s Igenex test results. I’m so glad Momma was there with me. I needed her to be there with me that day.

It only took me seconds of looking at it:

IgG – Positive; CDC Positive
IgM – Positive

I began to weep as my poor mother just stood there for a second saying, “Well, what is it?”

Dr. N came over and hugged me and told me that my daughter would never get as bad as me. I think I made him promise. And then I made him promise that he would not retire any time soon. He agreed, which gave me a small sense of relief. In hindsight, I should have also made him promise me that he would never die…at least not until we were all better.

My husband & I told our daughter about her test results over the weekend, so she could process the information before returning to school. She cried a few times, even though we tried to keep it all very positive as we spoke to her.

We told her that her immune system is strong – which it IS.

We told her that her body has already been fighting the bug since before she was born – and it HAS.

We told her that we are just going to be proactive with her health – continue to build upon her already strong immune system so that she can rid her body of this beast – and she WILL.

Meanwhile, I’ve been engaged in trying to discover: Has she been showing symptoms to me all along, but I just didn’t SEE them?

When it comes to state and national school testing, my daughter has always tested in the 97th percentile or higher. For those of you that don’t know what the hell that means – it means that on all the damn standardized tests she’s taken – she has scored higher than 97% of everyone else (within a certain age bracket) who has taken the test.

I remember trying to understand her very first test scores back when she was in 1st grade. I read it and thought,

“Oh, that’s nice – she made a 98% on this one test, and a 99% on the other test. My sweet little girl is very smart – just like I thought.”

And then when I actually read all the complicated jargon-filled fine print, it finally occurred to me that my then 6 year old daughter was actually eligible for Mensa – the society for all the damned geniuses. That realization actually scared the shit out of me at the time, as I was feeling barely equipped as it was to raise a smart child while enduring all the mental & physical bullshit I was at the time – but to realize that I had a budding genius on my hands – I was scared shitless that I would not raise her well enough.

I remember around this time I started collecting information on Gifted & Talented children, and on how to raise them, and how they are ‘different’ from others in the fact that they are at different levels emotionally and intellectually which makes life rather challenging for them at times.

Meanwhile, my smart little Mensa candidate, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up went from wanting to be an astronaut to wanting to be a taxi cab driver because her older cousin told her they made lots of money.

And at that point it hit me. I realized I could totally stress me & her out about doing everything ‘right’ with regards to her education – constantly coaxing her to rise up and meet her potential…and in her heart, her greatest desire may be to grow up and work and Sonic Drive-in because they deliver food on rollerskates.

So occasionally I try to remember that, ultimately, I have only a limited amount of influence on the course & direction of my daughter’s life – and that in the final analysis – all I really want is for her to be happy & healthy.

To learn, however, that she has Borrrelia Burgdorferri bacteria (the Lyme bacteria) swimming around in her brain too is very upsetting for me because I know how much it has screwed up my brain.

She’s such a bright kid and I just cried & cried about what might happen to her brain – her beautiful brain - if we treated her with antibiotics and she started to have extreme herxheimer reactions, which my LLMD likes to call: “healing crises”.

And I also cried about my fear of what may happen if we didn’t treat her with antibiotics and the bacteria was allowed to proliferate unchecked. What would happen to her beautiful brain in that scenario? How does a parent know what to do?

Hell, I still don’t know what the ‘perfect’ answer is - even though I’ve asked dozens & dozens of questions, seeking advice from all my good friends at the Lymenet message board – as well as some of my other message groups.

The funny thing about seeking the advice of others for your CHILD, is that suddenly there are so many others out there that are now willing to talk to your wiseass – or at least MY wise ass.

When I approached my on-line support groups with the info about my daughter, I was amazed at how many responses I received – especially from people that previously may not have had anything to do with me because I do tend to be foul-mouth & rude & shit like that.

I guess when it comes to children – people are more willing to look past differences in the spirit of helping the child – and for that – I owe so many a debt of gratitude that I shall never be able to repay.

To those of you whom reached out to me during my time of need – not knowing what to do about my ‘baby’ girl – I THANK YOU with ALL OF MY HEART! Your generosity of spirit has brought me to tears many, many times.

And amidst all of my tears – yes, of course, I’ve been crying for my Momma too - because she’s my Momma! No sane person wants their Momma to be sick…especially knowing that once Momma gets MUCH older, I know she’ll become my responsibility. This naturally makes me NEED to get my daughter in tip-top health so that she can then turn around and take care of my sickly-ass when I become of ancient age, too!

I think what finally convinced Momma to go see the good doc with me is that I told her it would be cheaper now to get her all fixed up – cause if we wait until later – she’s just gonna be crazy as hell – and guess who’s gonna have to be the one chasing her down while she walks barefoot and naked through the city streets? Yeah, that’s right: ME! And I’ll be crying the whole damn time, too, because you know what they say:

“To see what a woman will look like when she gets old – just look at her mother.”

And the thought of people knowing what I would look like both old AND naked just depressed the piss outta me! (No offense, Momma. Hugs & kisses!)

So I cried on & off through that weekend, while trying to figure out what we should do for our daughter. So many have suggested that we consult with THEIR doctor; and many have insisted that we take her to the ONLY Lyme Pediatrician in the US.

And while I would be happy to consult with a Lyme Pediatrician, right now that is such an impractical thought as this dear, dedicated man is about 100 years old and he practices THOUSANDS of miles away. Just not practical….so I cried about that too.

Getting the Hell Outta Dodge!
On the Sunday before Hurricane Katrina came rolling through our great Southern states, I learned that my brother and sister-in-law were not planning on evacuating their family until THAT AFTERNOON.

This did not sit well with me, as I have a very high regard for Mother Nature and Her abilities to completely wipe shit out.

So I called my sister-in-law to inquire as to WHY they were not getting the hell out of Dodge until the afternoon. And do you know where they were? At the @#$%ing damn gym! Now can you believe that shit?

It seems they assumed it would be quite some time before they could work out again in their gym and they wanted to have a good workout before they left.

Hmmm. Now, I think it’s good that people want to be in shape, but I think brother and sister-in-law have seen far too many “mild” hurricanes, which would therefore explain their laidback approach to evacuation prior to a freaking damn Level 5 hurricane – although I could not understand or appreciate that fact at the time!

Now I know it will shock you, dear readers, that I am usually a very respectful person; but for the first time ever – I told my sister-in-law that I thought that both she & brother-in-law were dumb asses and to get their damn dumb asses out of the dumb ass gym, into their dumb ass car and out of the dumb ass city!

For a moment, I could hear by her silence that sister-in-law was quite shocked for me to react with such passion and profanity. And then she said, once again, they would be leaving at 3 pm…right after they finished working out! (yes, I have GREAT influence on my ‘people’…HA!)

I hung up the phone, called her a dumb ass in my head, and then threw my face in a pillow and CRIED a little bit more.

I suppose I don’t have to tell you that on that Monday, when Katrina blew through our great Southern states -- I cried. And I also cried on that Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Hell, I can still cry if I allow myself to think about it too much.

I think it was on that Tuesday after the hurricane that I finally heard from sister-in-law again and she said they were staying with a friend in Jackson, Mississippi and only had partial cell phone service. They had no electricity & no land lines - but they were safe. And I cried with a sense of relief about that too.

My sister-in-law, let’s call her ‘Lulu’, asked me to get on the internet and see if I could find out what happened in their neighborhood and see if I could find out what happened to two of her friends who had chosen to stay behind.

She gave me the names of her friends and told me the last time she talked to one of them was as the hurricane was starting to arrive in their neighborhood. Lulu said the last words she heard before the phone lines went down was her friend saying,

“I can hear the trees snapping in two now….”

And yes damnit, I cried about that too.

Lulu gave me the names of specific websites and ideas of who to track down for info.

I did as she suggested not just because I wanted to help – but because I genuinely wanted to find out what happened to their home. I needed to finally rid myself of the small amount of guilt I have felt over the years about the small amount of envy I’ve had because they are the ones living in the $1,000,000 home….and we’re the ones living in the house from HUD!

When Katrina came blasting through town, I prayed and prayed that their house would be OK…because it IS their home and I love them, and I only want their best & highest good. I certainly didn’t want them to suffer devastation!

And I FINALLY realized that despite all the flaws of my own home – I love it – because it IS home. Everyone loves their home, no matter where it is or how much it costs.

((OK, maybe I should restate that. Everyone should love the home they have – especially now, as there are so many that have no home at all!))

As I went to the online community message boards, I decided to do more investigative work with regards to the area so that I could give them the best picture of what was occurring. In order to do this, I had to read all the different posts.

Of course people were asking questions about their homes, but more than anything were the questions of –

“Has anyone seen Chris S?” “Has anyone heard from Sue V?’ “What about the pets – do you think the pets are OK?”

And yes, DR. Wiseass would sometimes just sit and read, and cry like a baby about people I don’t even know.

As for my sister & brother-in-law’s community – I think they were the ‘lucky’ ones as it turns out, although some did receive substantial damage, it wasn’t the severity of damage that has devastated so many throughout the South.

They were, and are, indeed the fortunate ones – and I hope they continue to know that.

“Annie Get Your Gun – Lulu Get One, Too!”
A couple of days later, my brother & sister-in-law decided to go back to their community – to return home for a few days – to do some cleaning up & packing up - before leaving their community for several weeks.

I was out of my damn mind with worry.

“Are they just crazy as hell? How do crazy as hell people become so damn affluent?” I wondered. “Do they not know that poor people go to rich people’s houses to steal shit?”

I practically begged Lulu not to return home, but the decision was not mine to make – and it had already made.

I asked her if they had weapons and explained what I was seeing on TV with the long ass gas lines and some people reporting that it was like a damn war zone in some parishes.

At first she said, ‘NO’. And then a few minutes later she called back to say that the friend they were staying with loaned them a 357 magnum and a sawed off shotgun, and she asked me if that made me feel better.

First, I asked her if she knew how to use the damn guns, and she assured me she could figure it out! She informed me that she used to shoot at cans when she was a teenager….implying that shooting a gun was like riding a bike.

Needless to say, I was a nervous damn wreck, worrying about their safety, and yes crying quite often because, at that point, it was starting to become a new way of life:

CRY, CRY, CRY!

As they were virtually in a ‘black hole’ I couldn’t call to check up on them and so I had to wait for them to make contact with us when they could.

The following day, my mother-in-law called me to say that she had heard from Lulu, and that both Lulu & brother-in-law had already gone jogging in the neighborhood.

AGAIN with the exercise? SHIT! I wish they would have called me, because I would have asked them,

“How does one go jogging with a sawed off shotgun? Can you shove it down your shorts?”

After several days they finally got their shit packed up to leave their community and return to the ‘civilized’ world where there are things like electricity, gas, and food; however before leaving their little black hole city, do you know what they did?

Yes, that’s right! They went and worked out at the dumb ass gym!

Now can you believe that shit?

Losing My Damn Mind
In addition to my family drama, you know, worrying about how and where my in-laws would exercise and whether or not it would include weapons – I couldn’t keep my eyes off the television.

I quickly became addicted to watching the drama of the Katrina aftermath unfold day after day.

At some point I realized that watching all that devastation and despair was not good for my immune system as I just stayed completely stressed out about it. I seriously wondered if I was developing some kind of passive, sympathetic post-traumatic stress disorder myself, and knew that I needed to turn off any media coverage to give my mind & body some time away from the stress that comes from watching such overwhelming destruction 24/7.

But – before I could put that self-imposed rule into play – I decided that I MUST watch just one more episode of Dateline NBC.

I remember clearly that it was the Thursday following the hurricane – and the episode focused on the fact that people were just stranded there, most specifically in New Orleans – dying in slow motion with seemingly no help from anyone!

At the time I remember being so angry that our government had not air dropped supplies down to them – that they had left them like that for so long.

During that hour I became totally outraged and thought I would write letters to ALL my elected officials telling them how vile and evil they were for their seeming lack of regard for those poor dying souls...and I had planned to use the F word quite a bit.

I emailed Momma, telling her what all I was going to say – admitting that I was even going to write the President too, and that I had no intention whatsoever of cleaning up any of my language. And for awhile, I think Momma was genuinely concerned about that.

But I put a rest to Momma’s worries as I told her I would not be signing my real name to any of the letters – but instead I would be signing my brother Bubba’s name on them. This allowed her to breathe a sigh of relief as we both know he is eventually headed for jail anyway - why not speed it up for him - and land him in federal prison. It would have been an act of kindness on my part.

That night, after I took my great sleeping medication, my mind & body refused to go to sleep because I was just still so LIVID AND WIRED, so I decided to write my DC friend to ask him WHAT I COULD DO and to see if he could help me better understand WHY our government was made up of dim-witted people that didn’t know how to make it to New Orleans???

What you should understand is that at that point I was just crazy from all the crying; from watching people DIE in front of the TV camera; and from the very good sleeping medication - AND my best idea at that point was that on Friday I would load up our van and try to entice as many people and organizations as I could, and that we, “the people” would just drive the damned water & food in by ourselves because I knew I could find SOMEONE that knew how to read a damn map so that we could make it into New Orleans!!!!!

At the point I that I was writing my crazy ass letter to my DC friend, my eyes were literally CROSSING while I was attempting to type because that’s one of the more delightful effects of the sleeping medication…if you refuse to ‘go with it’ and just sleep like a good girl.

Yet, I persevered because to me – that was a perfectly logical idea. It was a logical idea at both 11 PM when I actually typed most of the letter and then again at 2 AM when I woke back up to finish the letter & push the SEND button.

At one point, I woke my husband up and told him that all I wanted for my upcoming birthday was to take the New Orleans people some damn water and maybe some soup and sandwiches too. And bless his heart, he didn’t poo-poo my idea at the time or even seem angry that I woke him from his sound sleep.

Of course, he might have been afraid to say or show any reaction at all as I was literally weeping and whining my request. I can honestly say that I was teetering on the edge of sanity at that moment – and I think hubby’s decision to postpone any criticism of my idea at that moment shows just how much innate wisdom he possesses!

That following morning, my ‘plan’ still seemed to be a very reasonable idea in my mind - until hubby began to cite all the LOGICAL reasons that it was quite unreasonable & unwise. (DR. Wiseass unwise? Nooooooooooooooooooo. Never! Not ME?!!!!)

Hubby very gently reminded me that it would be a VERY long drive (17 hours) and that we wouldn't have the gas to get back, and that I was so sick it was even too hard for me to plan a trip to the grocery store, which is just down the damn street.

Logically, I knew he was right – even though emotionally it pissed me off! How could I just sit around in my air conditioning and continue to watch these people die without doing anything?

I couldn’t. I was still a women obsessed with a mission to find a way to get those people some damn food & water because it seemed our government got lost on their way to New Orleans.

One of the first things I did that Friday morning was pose a few questions with the local media, hoping to find out when or IF the National Guard would be arriving in New Orleans on that very day.

The only response came later that day from my local NBC affiliate. It was a freaking form letter, which didn’t even address my question.

Meanwhile, I spent almost my entire day as I wrote emails to major grocery store chains, fast food chains, and all 72 members of the International Bottled Water Association PLEADING with them to send their 18-wheelers filled with food & water to New Orleans.

At the time it seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to spend my day. Typing & crying. Crying & typing. I tried to carefully craft my words in an effort to elicit some kind of sympathetic response on their part. In my mind, I thought someone needed to urge them to help. It never occurred to me they had already been attempting to help for days – and it was something that was certainly not evident from the media coverage I had been watching.

Although the following letter is now rather embarrassing to me – I will not deny you to privilege of witnessing my temporary descent into insanity.

***********************************************************
Dear *****,

I have been weeping for days. I can not continue to watch all these people in New Orleans DIE in slow motion.

I have no idea when FEMA will get their ASSES to the area with the damned food & water.

Last night, while MEDICATED so that I can actually sleep at this point, I thought, “I’ll just load up my van – and invite my church, and any other organization I can think of, and we could just have a big ass caravan drive the damn water & food out there.

My husband did not consider this a sane idea, as I am much too sick for us to get stuck out there with no water & food ourselves – and we are quite a distance from New Orleans.

I need to know if you have any stores (OR TRUCKS) within a reasonable radius that currently has some damn water (& food) that you can send out there via your 18-wheelers.

I know that it may be an inconvenience to some of your consumers if this causes you a shortage of supplies – but they’ll SURVIVE! I JUST DON’T KNOW ABOUT THOSE PEOPLE IN NEW ORLEANS, THOUGH!

I am pleading with you – not to your smart businessman/woman side – but to the side of you that has ANY HUMAN COMPASSION AT ALL.

PLEASE! Find some way to send your trucks loaded with food & water to New Orleans.

You’ll be able to make up the financial loss you might feel today – because the people that receive aid from YOU will not soon forget it.

And if you choose not to do so, it may very well be a kind of loss you’ll never personally recover from – not just because dead people make bad consumers – but because you’ll know you helped them die by doing nothing. And that seems like a pretty big loss to me!

Sincerely,

(And can you believe I signed my REAL name and even gave my home phone number????? CRAZY, CRAZY, CRAZY!)

**************************************************

HOWEVER, to my surprise, I received MANY personal emails assuring me they were helping...and of course, I cried.

A gentleman from Mrs. Baird’s Bread called me to let me know they had already sent 50,000 loaves of bread...and I cried some more.

Then a man named Eric from Ozarka Spring Water called mere seconds later and informed me with great passion in his voice that he had his employees working double shifts 24/7 to send ALLLLL of their products - 100% - to Louisiana....and I wept so fiercely that I barely had the breath to utter the words ‘thank you’.

After dedicating several hours emailing all of those ‘water’ people – the National Guard finally showed up on stage! It was almost like a damn magic trick. Watching them caravan into the city…well damnit - I cried and cried and cried!

At the end of the day, I realized I was utterly exhausted because it takes so much energy to cry all day every day. And I also realized that my whole day had actually been a complete waste of time.

It was like I had been having one long ass Lyme rage - only with not as much temper tantrum -- and a helluva lot more tears! I had just felt so out of control -- out of control of my words & tears - so I just allowed them to be. It was a day of great gushing.

I know my letter writing campaign didn't really change anything, because people were already doing what they knew to do. The only thing my letter writing campaign accomplished was it kept me from having a nervous breakdown while driving 17 hours with a van full of bottled water….and it made ME feel (at the time) like I was at least doing SOMETHING rather than NOTHING.

A Thin Line
I’m sure most people have heard that expression about there being a fine line between love & hate? Well, there’s also a fine line between laughter & tears.

For the past several months I have been prone to bouts of inappropriate laughter. But suddenly during this catastrophic time period, I was becoming more prone to bouts of inappropriate tears. Granted, many of my tears were quite appropriate as I am a compassionate person despite my inclination towards profanity. and the bitchy persona I project.

And during this time period, I was blessed to make a new friend. We shall call her Ali-Mae, as she lives in Californ-i-a and although she is not wealthy, her down-to-earth personality makes me think of the Beverly Hillbillies. I know she will be flattered by the comparison.

Ali-Mae & I started emailing each other after she signed my guestbook. (Something many of the rest of my dear readers have YET to do! Hint. Hint.)

Anyway, it didn’t take long to see that Ali-Mae & I had much in common – which I’m sure I’ll detail later – but I suppose it was our bantering about bathroom humor that really helped me cope during the Katrina aftermath.

Because we both have Lyme we naturally discussed all things Lyme related, which included the importance of good bowel health.

And by the way – do you people know that the majority of serotonin is produced in the guts? This is a factual tidbit I picked up from Ali-Mae. Notice I can’t remember the actual percentage, nor did I say precisely where in the guts as I can not remember and I am currently too tired and lazy to find out.

Suffice it to say, our emails about bowel health became rather comical – provided you’re the type of person that finds bathroom humor humorous. Some of our bantering was so disgusting that if read by a stranger – they’d most certainly think it was a communication between two witty men – instead of two witty, refined ladies such as us.

But women crap too, and we also get constipated, have diarrhea, and often fart loud enough to alarm our own dogs.

I don’t know why I find bathroom humor so damn funny. Perhaps if the spirochetes were not in my frontal lobe I would not laugh quite so loudly and for such a sustained length of time. But damnit – they ARE in my frontal lobe and sometimes shit is just funny as shit! You know what I’m talking about – don’t you?

During this time period Ali-Mae became fascinated with the wonderful world of colonics, and I became more curious about the fascinating world of colonics – so here’s just a little excerpt from one of our long ass email threads. (FYI - I received Ali-Mae’s permission to share this – so don’t think I’m divulging any secrets between us!) Enjoy.
*******************************************
Dear Ali-Mae --

Tell me about the colonic. Not really details about how your ass is sticking in the air and your colonic lady is actually making you feel bad while your ass is in air - I think that is rude -- at least bad timing on her part.

I experience IBS from time to time AND I also experience that wicked bladder disease Satan (whom I don't believe in) would be too chickenshit to endure: Interstitial Cystitis.

I have often wanted & believed I NEED a damn colonic - but feel like it might stir up the IBS (which I get the spasms that make me think Jesus is comin' for me because people aren't supposed to endure that much pain) and then the IC pain is equally horrifying -only different - when it flares, I think I might just give birth to it -- to my bladder - and if I do give birth to my own bladder, can they put it back or do I need to name it?

So any after effects after having the ass tube suck out all your shit? How often does colonic lady want you to return with your checkbook and your stinky putrid shit?

Don't get me wrong, I DO believe in colonics. My friend, Sherrie (recently passed from this life after long battle with cancer) survived almost 5 years or so after being told she had a 1/2% chance of living. But SHE SHOWED THOSE DOC! Her tumors even disappeared for awhile, and she really considered colonics (along with her strong faith) were part of the reason for her longevity. She had them religiously. I can still hear her voice in my head...God, I miss her and I don't want to cry, as I've been doing that all week -- but she really believed in them - in getting all the toxins out. I agree too - I just haven't felt brave enough to fork over the $80 bucks - stick my ass in the air, and await my IBS and my IC to piss me off later.

How much did your colonic cost? How much did it cost for you to have someone shove a tube up your rectum? California is high, isn't it? Wait. I know many Californians are 'high' as it 'Hey dude, do you remember where I put my car?" I meant 'high' as in prices. Didn't mean to confuse...

And more importantly, did it hurt? I is chicken for pain!

OK, hubby getting pissed that the light from my laptop is keeping him awake. Sissy boy.

Hugs,
DR
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dear DR:

So, you wanna get a colonic, eh? I am a huge fan. Up until about a year ago, I was like "hell no, my butt is strictly exit-only". But, as usual, I did my research and found out what a tremendous benefit they can be. Also, the NP I saw, she cured herself of metastatic cancer (took me 15 seconds to figure out how to type that word - good thing I don't have to say it). She's been an RN since like 1966.

Now that my parents are paying, and supportive, I can go and get them. Last time I just didn't have the money for it. Here in California it costs between $75 and $95 a session. Although many places will have packages where if you purchase a series they are way cheaper. I am definitely of the mind that a series is absolutely crucial, i.e. having several done over the course of however long they say depending on how you do each session. And yes, Calidonia (I meant to type Claifonia....California...there we go) tends to be more expensive for alternative treatments.

Just make sure that the person you go to is certified by the board of colon hydrotherapy. Also you want someone who won't just leave the room - they need to stay with you, at least I think that is better, I have heard of people just sort of getting stranded.

So, the procedure is actually not that bad. You just lie on your side (which isn't as funny as with your legs in the air as you said and I was picturing but much more comfortable), and they gently insert the tube. Yes, it feels quite uncomfortable but only for just about less than one second. Then it's totally fine. I thought I would feel like I had a big poop stuck in me or something, but it's not like that at all.

Then you roll over on your back with your knees bent and that's how you stay. They will pump in warm water and then release it out. If you're really brave they might have a setup where you can see what comes out through a clear tube. Don't scoff, it's mesmerizing!!!!

The first woman I went to I didn't like because she didn't ask how I was feeling and if what she put in was too much and she was hollering about having been an ashram for 20 years which I guess makes you an expert on everything.

Being comfortable and trusting the person giving them is sooooo important because if you feel uncomfortable with them then you will be tense and not able to relax your intestines and let all the gunky goop out.

After the procedure, make sure to be careful, maybe don't drive if you feel woozy. It can be very draining energetically to do this when we're so sick. (As they progress, you are supposed to feel energized afterwards so there is a light at the end of the tunnel) My legs were shaking a bit. You know the drill, drink lots of water, some probiotics to replace your intestinal flora, etc.

One thing about being so sick is that sometimes the stuff just doesn't want to come out. That's what happened to me at this latest session. Stuff came out at first but then nada. This is why it's so important to do a series of them. Get those little buggy neurotoxins OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From what you've told me with your IBS I would tell you to do that *** intestinal cleanse and then on the last day get a colonic. (That) cleanse is GREAT for IBS and all the stuff you talked about.

And your poor little bladder, that just sucks eggs. I know (that company) has an awesome kidney/bladder formula - I would HIGHLY recommend you get this. It is not that expensive. You may also want to get (their) kidney bladder tea. VERY powerful.

I think your lovely friend with cancer was on to something with these colonics. We are very toxic and congested because of this disease. By eliminating the toxic load, we give our bodies a chance to breathe and heal on their own. ALL our toxic waste ends up in the bowel, and if that gets backed up, look out!

Also, if it sits there it just gets RE-ABSORBED into our bloodstream, and who the hell needs THAT? Also it may very well really help your bladder issues. We NEED to have our waste elimination working properly or we'll never get well.

I'm going back on Friday for another one - it will be interesting to see if I've made any progress and see how it helps. I really feel in my bones that this is the way to go. Screw her $600 test, I'll just bend her to my will. I'm getting scarily good at that.

Big Hugs,
Ali-Mae
**************************************************
Now wasn’t that just delightfully educational? And liberating?

Bowel health is so important – especially for people that are chronically ill, as it is likely that their bowel health is not healthy at all. And I think it is sad that something so important is such a hush-hush topic.

And isn’t it odd that we live in a society where it’s OK for men to be sexual conquerors and the only gender socially permitted to discuss all manner of disgusting subjects – yet for women those same subjects are supposed to be taboo? Unladylike?

I think that is especially true for us women in the South. I don’t know about Northern gals – but most of us gals in the South have been raised like we are supposed to behave like Southern Belles. SCREW THAT!

NEWS FLASH: Even Southern Belles crap & fart. Sure, they may not crap & fart at their Junior League functions – at least not if they can help it. But crap & fart they do!

I would like to say this now concludes the topic of crapping…but alas, being such an open, honest blogger – I can not. Just wait – there’s MORE!

I can not believe I am about to divulge such a dirty horrifying little secret – but what the hell! I know that by doing so, there will be at least one person out there – one dear reader – that will be so happy that I did, because they will feel less ‘alone’ in their own shame. And I say the following to that one dear shameful reader:

“Will you be so kind as to write me back & make ME feel better about MY shameful moment? Thank you.”

Now, before I divulge my dirty little embarrassing secret – allow me to set the scene.

After Hurricane Katrina and before Hurricane Rita, I was delighted to have my friend BB come and stay at our house for about a week.

I always enjoy her company, even when we’re just sitting around watching our favorite reality TV shows like Big Brother – or reading & discussing books that suggest that the real “Big Brother” has been up to no good in years gone by, especially with regard to issues of health.

BB & I started reading my copy of Lab 257 while she was here. We would take turns reading it – both knowing that we could only read just a little bit at a time since it is so damn disturbing. And I’m not necessarily recommending the book as I have yet to even read HALF of it because I just can’t stomach it.

I will, however, say this much:

“If you have a bit of an open mind about the potential liability the American government has with regard to the outbreak & spread of the Lyme epidemic …and the West Nile Virus – go ahead and buy it. However, if you’d prefer to believe the US government is totally trustworthy in every thing they do – save your money – or go buy an Uncle Sam figurine or something cause this book ain’t for you!!”

So BB & I enjoyed talking about all the various things two women can talk about – and we also had some very interesting discussions about potential governmental ‘conspiracy’ theories, upsetting as it was.

Now - I’m of the opinion that LIFE gives you many opportunities – many ‘paths’ you can explore during your life on this planet, and sometimes exploring a new ‘path’ can make a person a little bit nervous – especially if in doing so you must revise certain parts of your belief system. And if during that revision process you come to the conclusion that you’re a little less trusting of your own government….it can really wreak havoc on your nervous system.

After witnessing all the bullshit from Katrina’s aftermath – seeing the government totally F up in their ability to render aid in a timely manner, and then following that up with a book that suggests our government might hold some culpability with the very disease that is currently oppressing my ass – well, I suddenly came down with a bad case of diarrhea. (I’ve always said, “Politics gives me diarrhea.”)

The only real problem was that bad case of diarrhea started in the middle of the night….while I was still under the influence of my very good sleeping medication that is usually prescribed only to narcoleptic people…a sleeping medication that pretty much knocks your ass out and keeps it knocked out until the sedation wears off. Apparently it doesn’t LITERALLY knock the ass part of you out because one fateful night after a disturbing political discussion – parts of my ass were very busy – while I was sleeping --- and ON MY SILK SHEETS TOO!

Enough said? Or would you like more detail? Thought so.
OH yes – one more thing --about that "thin line" -- did you know you can both laugh & cry AT THE SAME TIME? There are some moments in life when your mind & body can’t decide what emotion to stick with – so you just experience the outpouring of both at once! Ain’t it grand?

(And wasn’t that just so brave of Dr. Wiseass to admit such an embarrassing detail? You should write her a little note of thanks – telling her how much you admire her courage – you know, for positive reinforcement – so you can continue receiving such sordid information as it becomes available….and with Dr. Wiseass you can bet your bottom dollar it will become available again! )

Crazy Ass – Wise Body
Speaking of asses – that’s a perfect transition into my next topic.

I, Dr. Wiseass, am officially a crazy ass. Yes, I freely admit it – I think I’m just about as crazy as normal people come. Despite my limited mobility; despite my pain and fatigue; despite my cognitive challenges – I’ve decided to start my very own home-based business.

I’m going to run my own business, mostly, from the comfort of my own bed.

And NO, you filthy filthy minded ones, it’s not that kind of business. REALLY! I thought you knew me better than that!

NO NO NO! I am starting my own nutraceutical company.

What the hell is a ‘nutraceutical’ you ask? Well, I should really make you google the word so you’ll remember it better – but I’m feeling generous today so I shall tell you.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Nutraceutical is a combination of "nutritional" and "pharmaceutical" and refers to foods thought to have a beneficial effect on human health.
Dr. Stephen DeFelice coined the term "Nutraceutical" from "Nutrition" and "Pharmaceutical" in 1989. The term nutraceutical is being commonly used in marketing but has no regulatory definition.
Nutraceuticals are often used in Nutrient Premixes or Nutrient Systems in the food and pharmaceutical industries.
Basically, in my looser definition of the word - a nutraceutical is really vitamins, minerals, herbs, and other natural products & supplements that have medicinal benefits. But Shhhh! Don’t tell the FDA, as they are rather asinine when it comes to the natural product industry.

Again, I think there are very political reasons for this – and it mostly has to do with money more than it does their concern for the safety and well-being of our American citizens…of course that’s just my new pissed-off opinion.

Every time you turn around it seems the government is considering putting some kind of restrictions on the natural product industry…and God forbid you even so much as suggest that a natural product could produce a medical benefit, or even cure a damn sore thumb! NO! The FDA wants the American people to believe that only DRUGS (you know those synthetic things that are essentially DERIVED from natural products – yet are chemically altered and have multiple side effects that could kill your ass or at the VERY LEAST make your ass INCONTINENT during your SLEEP!) only DRUGS can CURE you! HAHAHAHAHAHA! What damn ignorance!

But then again, if the FDA allows people to fully understand the true power of Nature and how beautifully it can work with the innate wisdom of the body – then our pharmaceutical companies are in danger of losing some mighty big bucks to the little herb farmers – and then the pharmaceutical giants couldn’t pay their expensive ass lobbyists who ‘contribute’ to all the various political campaigns….and before you know it….the government would just freaking collapse! So you see – as far as the FDA is concerned – ignorance for the American people is pure bliss!

The big problem is that you can’t put a monopoly on nature – at least not yet. But I’ll give all the various world governments an “A” for effort – and if you wonder what the hell that means – I’m going to let you take some initiative and search the term: CODEX ALIMENTARIUS and see if you can discover what all the big alpha dogs are up to. Look waaaaay below the surface. Have fun.

Migratory Worry
Now – before I can even get adequately excited about my new venture or take a sigh of relief about hurricane season being over – cuz it AIN’T – now in the middle of trying to start my little business I must divert my attention and begin to worry obsessively about the damn scary ass bird flu. I have an obsessive need to prepare. Hell – I have an obsessive need for YOU to prepare – but how do I force you to do it?

It’s difficult being a controlling person. I think more people should have sympathy or empathy on us – as most of us just want the world to be a better, happier place. And those of us who are control-ish just happen to think that we could do a better job at making it so, than the control-ish people that are currently in charge.

Last night I heard they found some sick ass bird in Great Britain….which I’m no Geography Whiz – but that seems a helluva lot closer to me than China & Indonesia, etc. I’m trying not to be nervous….just trying to “procure” (which is a nicer word than “stockpile”) the necessary items for survival.

In this case, what I’m referring to is: Vitamin C. What I’m reading – and I’d share it with you now but this damn blog entry is already 26 pages long – is that we all need to up our dosages of Vitamin C. Here – let me give you a link: http://www.alacer.com/info.asp Now sure – I’ll be selling those products as soon as I pull my head out of my ass and figure out how to build a website WHILE I continue to obsessively compulse (look – I’m using compulse as a VERB – as in the act of compulsing. My MS Word program indicates that is not a word. Screw my MS Word program – it doesn’t know ME and my ability to obsessively compulse………..)

As I was saying – I will be selling the Alacer products – which the drink mixes are like a light flavored Kool-Aide that fizzes. I like it and my daughter tolerates it – but she’s usually a big chicken when it comes to trying new things.

Speaking of chickens – buy them NOW. Freeze them. Do the same with pork – if you eat pork – as pigs can be carriers of the damn scary ass bird flu, too!

Anyway – don’t wait for my obsessive compulsive ass to get my web-store going (although it is so very sweet of you all to want to give me your business) – go NOW to your health food store & “procure” items that will help you fight a viral infection. Start building up your immune system NOW. Consult with your doctor – AND really check in to whether you should get that flu shot or not. I’ve read conflicting reports and since most of you dear readers have Lyme – getting the flu shot could be potentially dangerous for you.

But remember – I am not a REAL doctor – and none of what I have said or will say will ever be evaluated by the FDA or any other 3 lettered governmental organization – or any government organization which I would refer to with a 4 (or more) letter adjective. (How many letters are in ‘sonsofbitches’?? Oh wait – that’s a noun…nevermind.)

And don’t get me wrong. I still love this country and my blood still runs red, white, and blue. I just don’t necessarily trust the motives and actions of select individuals … and some (evil and/or stupid-ass) collective individuals who just so happen to be connected to the US government in various ways. And no, I’m not some weird ass stocking up arms to overthrow the government. SHIT! I’m just wanting to survive the freaking scary ass bird flu and I’m a little pissed cause I realize our government ain’t gonna be ‘here’ to save my ass.

Do you people understand? YOU ARE ON YOUR OWN. PREPARE NOW.

And NOooooooooo, I’m not going to start preaching end of the world scripture – if you’re into that – start your own blog and knock yourself out. I’m just trying to help me & my house survive the scary ass bird flu!

Additionally – you people might want to look into the beneficial effects of Collodial Silver, Wild Oregano Oil – and when I say ‘wild’ – I MEAN IT!

Not all OREGANO OIL is actually OREGANO OIL. Get it from North American Herb & Spice. Go to this website: http://www.nutritionworld.com/oreganol/index.html

This is the place where you want to get it. And YES, my intention is to sell that stuff, too. BUT you don’t want to wait for my ass – protect yours NOW.

While you’re at that site, you might want to listen to some of those radio programs. Very interesting. It’ll help you know what else to “procure”. Self-preservation. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m talking about SURVIVAL people.

Is Dr.Wiseass a little freaked out about the scary ass bird flu………”Gee, whatever gave it away?”

Florida Or Bust
Now for a little more news about the in-laws….

Prior to Hurriane Rita coming to slap around bits of my great home state of Texas, my brother & sister-in-law – you remember them – they had to evacuate from the New Orleans area? Can you guess where they evacuated TO?

You guessed right! HOUSTON.

Now sister-in-law evacuated Houston ahead of time because she had had ENOUGH! She & my nephew went back home to…..the New Orleans area where she proceeded to further pack up some shit so they could keep on going…

Brother-in-law – who, by the way, is a very powerful man in the company he works for – he didn’t find it necessary to evacuate until the last hours. Well – I’ll bet you saw the pictures on TV. Yes, he was in that mess.

The ‘funny’ part is – which it wasn’t funny at the time – is that Mr. CEO climbed into his fancy ass expensive damn car to make the trip from Houston to New Orleans….and he did so without any freaking food or WATER! BUT he DID have his blackberry so that I could send him MULTIPLE email messages – checking up on his progress as he inched along the freeway – and to give him grief about how stupid you have to be to get in a car for a long trip without any freaking water.

At first, I wasn’t as worried – but as the hours went on and the sun was so hot – I was really upset. I worked myself into a little tizzy as I, Madam Control Freak, could do nothing to help him.

I talked to sister-in-law a few times and could tell she was almost at her breaking point – which only made both of us tear up and cry a bit. She was naturally very worried….which only fed on my worry.

Long, drawn-out story – but brother-in-law finally made it home – and then sister-in-law shoved the family into the bigger vehicle – the one with the food and WATER and then they drove to………………………………….. their new beach house in FLORIDA.

Can you believe that shit?

And now as Hurricane Wilma is slowly barreling towards the coast of Florida – can you take ONE FREAKING GUESS as to where my in-laws decided to spend the weekend? (Honey, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried…)

And also last night on the news I heard that Hurricane season is not officially over until the end of November. And can you take ONE FREAKING GUESS as to where we all agreed to have Thanksgiving dinner this year?

Now – can you believe that shit?

Until next time -- PLAN AHEAD!

Hugs & Kisses,

DR. Wiseass

-not a real doc -- just a real WISE ass!

Rock-A-Bye Wiseass

2005-08-19T16:11:00.000-05:00

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!

Dark Nights of My Soul

2005-07-22T15:11:00.000-05:00

I don’t really feel like writing right now. I know I must, however, if I’m not going to fall more deeply into this depressive state I have found myself in. Oh look, ending my first sentence with a preposition. How noticeable. And exactly where is this depressive state some of you may be wondering? Is it Texas? Washington? California? Iowa? Florida? New York? Yes.

Right now the depressive state is wherever I am. Enter the violins.
I feel like Eyeore from Winnie the Pooh, and the dark rain cloud is hovering over my tail-less ass right now.

I know I’m not the only person on earth suffering right now --- I’m just being melodramatic because that’s what you people expect and that’s the tone of writing that keeps my fingers typing -- so deal with it.

I’m experiencing a “dark night of the soul” right now. We all go through them at times, even if we don’t realize it. My definition of that term is -- when things beyond our control start happening and it really shakes us up – makes us wrestle with the more substantial matters of this existence we have here on planet Earth – that’s what I call a ‘dark night of the soul’ anyway. Ironically, the main happenings that have recently occurred are actually secondary to me. These are not things that have directly happened to me – but to people that I love.

Yesterday morning I awoke to a telephone call from a friend that I hadn’t spoken to for some time. Naturally, when I first heard her sweet voice I thought: “Shit. I was supposed to call her back a long time ago. I suck. I need coffee for this.”

I immediately went into making my apologies, talking about how there are 37 old messages on my answering machine that I need to go back & listen to & delete…but because the number keeps getting bigger that it’s an easy thing to procrastinate….yada, yada.

My friend on the telephone – we’ll name her ‘Dora’ today – because I currently have no friends named Dora – and so the next time I write about her I’ll probably call her a different name because I won’t be able to remember such a name as ‘Dora’ and I’ll write a bunch of shit and you’ll be confused because you read my blog and I don’t. Besides, this writing technique will make you people think I have more than 3 friends. Brilliant, yes?

I can’t remember if Dora bothered to do any preliminary chit-chatting or not, as I was scrambling for the coffee. Yes, I realize that coffee is a big bad ‘no no’ for we Lymies – but screw it. I only have a dozen or so dietary vices – cut a gal some slack!

I can’t remember where I was when she said it – I think maybe I had climbed back into bed, awaiting the percolation to finish. She said, “Well I just wanted to make sure you knew about Sherrie….”

Prior to that second, I hadn’t known – but before she got the sentence out of her mouth – I knew.

Honestly, I think I knew it in my soul a few days prior, but I was just too stupid to put the clues together. Come to think about it, I think my soul had been dropping hints to call Sherrie for some time, but again, ‘stupid’ may not be a strong enough word – or even the right word. Maybe ‘self-absorbed’ would more accurately describe WHY I hadn’t called Sherrie for weeks.

No. I think it had more to do with pure bury- my-head-in-the-sand-ostrich-that-I-am FEAR.

I knew that Sherrie’s tumors had started to grow again; but when we last talked she sounded like the same pleasant, upbeat Sherrie that she’s always been.

Sherrie & I were supposed to ‘do lunch’ a couple of months ago. When the day arrived, I felt like shit, and called to beg off – to postpone to another day, with the agreement that we’d stay in touch better – that we wouldn’t wait so long before calling each other again. That we would ‘do lunch’ soon.

When I look back on it now, I wonder if I really felt all that bad at the time. What if I was just tired – or lazy? What if I was just allowing myself a physical excuse so that I wouldn’t have to face the fear of loss that quietly rested right in front of me.

I think I knew she was dying – and I didn’t want to accept it. I wasn’t in the mood for her to die – after all, it wasn’t convenient for me. If she were dying, it would mean that I needed to get up off my fat lazy ass & do something - - to go to her & sit with her & minister to her in whatever way that I could. But something kept me from it. And without beating myself up to a bloody damned pulp, I can’t honestly say what that was.

Sherrie & I had met about 6 years ago when we were both in therapy. We actually met at a woman’s retreat in the Fall of 1999, only a few short months after I had lost another dear friend, Jo-Ellen, to breast cancer that had metastasized to her brain.

At that retreat, Sherrie was in my little ‘group’ that the facilitator (our therapist) had put us in. It was a strange little group – as it was me, Sherrie, a couple of other nameless faceless totally forgettable women, …and my doctor! Initially that whole ‘doctor’ factor made me a little nervous – as I was still under the illusion that doctors fell just below God Almighty, Jesus, & all the major prophets, on the supreme hierarchy of BEINGS.

Anyway, Sherrie had such a magnetism about her, that she just drew me in, and made me feel so comfortable with myself that I was able to deal with the whole ‘doctor as pseudo-friend’ thing.

Sherrie was open, and refreshingly honest; had an infectious laugh; and she thought I was funny - and even intellectually ‘gifted’! So what was NOT to like about her?

We learned a lot about each other that weekend – and became instant friends. Because I was going through massage therapy school, I had brought my massage table to the retreat, knowing that I would make instant friends with some people just because of that.

I had decided to go into massage therapy almost immediately after my friend Jo-Ellen’s death because I found that massage was one of the only things I could do to ease a bit of her suffering. So I entered massage therapy thinking that it would be my ‘ministry’ to the world. I would help heal the world one stressed-out body at a time – because as we know, STRESS is the root of all evil. It really is – STRESS makes your immune system go on vacation somewhere – only it doesn’t take you – and you end up becoming sick with some disease, or find yourself as the instigator of daily road rage.

I was really interested in giving Sherrie a massage because she said she had multiple sclerosis. Me, not knowing what the hell I was doing, thought that giving her a massage would be good for her and educational for me. And it was, despite my ignorance.

Prior to the massage, I asked about her other health history – as that is what we were taught to do – although sometimes we didn’t know what the hell to do with most of the information other than to write it down on our little health info cards! And that’s when I found out that Sherrie had already battled breast cancer, and had seemingly won. She also told me that she had a substantial amount of lymph nodes removed as well, which scared me, but I did my best to conceal that fear.

I guess it was at that moment that there was a part of me that wondered why my therapist thought that putting me & Sherrie together in the same group was a good idea. No doubt my therapist was pushing me toward this woman because of her health issues. Did she think I needed to befriend one that had overcome cancer – to take away my fear?

On the heels of my friend Jo-Ellen’s death, feeling literally drawn to another & even befriending another who had battled cancer so recently… it felt a little ‘odd’ in that way that some things feel spiritually odd – as if it wasn’t really a coincidence.

My relationship with Sherrie grew as time went by; and as many friendships, our time together & our ‘closeness’ waxed and waned. Sherrie was blessed with a loving family, and hundreds and hundreds of friends. I think that was something I always envied about Sherrie – that she could establish and maintain so many close relationships.

That next summer I got a disturbing call from my therapist, ‘Mona’ (I’m giving her that name because the nature of her job is to listen to people moan & groan about all their damned problems & issues….and it sounds better than ‘Groana’). Mona called to tell me that Sherrie’s cancer had come back – that it had metastasized to her liver and stomach and that her oncologists had given her a ½ of one percent chance of living. It was like hearing that she had been given a death sentence.

Mona called me because she knew that I would have a hard time dealing with it and she wanted me to ‘handle’ my feelings before I heard it from Sherrie. She knew that I would break down. Mona knew that I would be consumed with it; that I would feel helpless and angry and confused. Mona was right.

I screamed at God and cried how it was unfair for Him to take another friend from me. Unlike Sherrie, I did NOT have hundreds of friends. I prayed and pleaded that He would leave her here with us longer. I prayed for a miracle.

Several times I went to Sherrie’s house with my massage table, attempting to do whatever I could to ease her suffering. I tried to keep a professional attitude while I was working on here, but to my recollection, every time I worked on her back and I gently glided over the areas where the cancer was, I prayed for that miracle – and I often couldn’t hold back my tears. I did my best to conceal my tears, because I didn’t want to ruin the experience for Sherrie. I wanted her to relax & to maintain her faith that she could overcome this ‘obstacle’. But each time I ‘ministered’ to her – I agonized over the realization that it might be my last time to touch her – to ease her pain – to express my love for her in that way. I always left her house with a warm smile on my face as I told her goodbye, and then I’d get in my car and weep all the way home.

During that summer, I observed Sherrie ‘getting her house in order’ while simultaneously holding on to her faith that she would overcome that damned disease. She pulled out 40+ years of photographs with the intent of organizing them – remembering the experience – being thankful for it – and perhaps having closure with those involved in all of those experiences.

I remember sitting at her dining room table surrounded by boxes and boxes of various photos. She shared with me a few of her fondest collections – revealing more and more about the fascinating life she had lived, and all the people she had loved.

One of my favorite things she told me – which I know had been a bit of a sore spot for her – was an incident surrounding her first marriage. Back when she was young, healthy & fresh out of college, she had married an idiot. She married a man that played some kind of guitar for the incomparable vocal artist: Cher. Yes, you read that correctly.

It seems Sherrie did not hold a high opinion of Cher, as she was one of the primary reasons that her marriage to the idiot broke up. It seems that Cher had an attraction toward idiot guitarists. I trust, dear readers, you can fill in the blanks from here. I wouldn’t want to say anything at this point that could endanger me of being sued by the incomparable vocal artist herself – although the attempt of getting blood out of this rock might be entertaining to me, and I’m sure I’d get more than my fair share of that 15 minutes of fame --- because damn it – I’d see to it.

Anyway – I just though that was a fascinating story, and it also just validates that whole six-degrees of separation theory….because you know that Cher at least knows someone who knows Kevin Bacon. (If you don’t get that – google: “six degrees of separation Kevin Bacon” and see what you find. I’m actually combining the ‘six degrees of separation theory’ and the ‘six degrees of Kevin Bacon’ game idea all in one because I want to.)

Back to Sherrie’s dining room….

I think that was the first time that we actually talked about her impending departure from this earth in a face to face conversation. Most of the time we talked on the phone and I held back my emotions because I required it. But sitting at her dining room table that day, looking at the photos that represented the experiences of her life up to that moment – it just tore me up inside.

She told me she wasn’t ready to die – that she wanted to live – that she didn’t want to leave her family (the second & much, much better husband – and her two sons), but that she was at peace about it if it was her time to go. Her attitude was that she was going to be with her Lord, and that was what gave her the most peace. But she had also determined that whatever time she had left, she would live it to its best.

I continued to pray for that miracle, and apparently those hundreds of friends were praying for that miracle too - because she got it.

I can’t vividly remember the first time she called to say the tumor had shrunk; but I clearly remember when she called and said that they COULD NOT FIND the tumors! I wanted to dance with joy, but I couldn’t at the moment because I was inside the rabbit’s pen cleaning out the best organic garden fertilizer (& earthworm food) and if I stood up to dance I would have hit my head on the low ceiling, possibly knocking myself out in a pile of animal shit.

Before I knew it, Sherrie was planning trips to Australia, Sweeden, Germany – all of which they stayed with friends or family – because when I said she had hundreds of friends – I meant it.

Unlike most of us, Sherrie really LIVED. Even though she was a woman that could no longer actually walk because of the ravages of the multiple sclerosis (which I later thought might be Lyme) – she drove herself all over the place in her modified van….and when she was in Switzerland, she skied! Sherrie was such a courageous woman.

At one point, Sherrie & I really got into scrapbooking. Every third Friday we’d meet at her church and the Creative Memories gal would lug up all of her goodies and we’d spend the entire day scrapbooking and sharing stories and giggling and snacking on food that was not part of our diets. I loved scrapbooking Friday. I’m gonna miss scrapbooking Friday. But more than anything, I’m gonna miss her.

As I said earlier, our times we shared together sort of waxed & waned because she was constantly having company visit from out of town – mostly friends – sometimes family. And then I started getting sick with all my various damned ailments, and it just made it harder to get together.

We’d sometimes go for months without talking – but when we would, it wouldn’t take us long at all to catch up and it was like we hadn’t missed a thing.

So it was earlier this year that we caught up again, when I called to tell her that I was now about to get a wheelchair – making some kind of stupid joke about us going places together in our wheelchairs – that we’d need to bring more people along because I was too damned weak to push mine.

As I recall, it was early in my diagnosis of Lyme (the diagnosis that only took 30 years to get) and I was feeling rather sorry for myself. I think I called Sherrie because I knew she could cheer my dreary ass up; and she definitely tried – but she told me about how the tumors were back and the drugs weren’t working anymore.

She talked about what the next steps were – another round of chemo – and then they’d have to see what happened after that.

I told her how sorry I was – and how sorry I felt that I couldn’t grab my massage table and scurry on over to her house and give her a massage. (And as I recall, I even owed her a massage because she paid for me to have this foot detox bath done a couple of months immediately before I got ‘sicker’ …)

She assured me it was ‘OK’ and told me in such a serious tone: “Donna, you’re going to be OK.” She said it with such a sense of reassurance in her voice, as if she had an inside tip on the matter. What I didn’t hear was that same sense of reassurance about her own health.

As I mentioned earlier – we scheduled that lunch date for the following week – trying to work around her doctor appointments, my doctor appointments, and her chemotherapy. She said she probably wouldn’t be able to do lunch during the period of time of the chemo treatments – so when I called to reschedule – we talked about how it would have to be several weeks later.

That was the last time I spoke with her. That was the last time I heard the sound of her voice – her laughter – even her smile. I could always tell by the sound of her voice when she was smiling.

Apparently she started to go downhill rather quickly. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to call her – to see how she was doing. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to face my fear about her health. I will have to do some serious work to forgive myself about that. I know that I shouldn’t blame myself – after all, how could I have known that she would go downhill so quickly. After all – this was Sherrie – she would bounce back. She would be OK. She beat those unbeatable odds before, she would certainly do it again.

But if I’m really honest with myself – I think a deep part of me knew. I think my soul knew that it was getting near the end of her stay here – and I just couldn’t cope with it – not this time.

When I was talking to my friend --- what did I call her – oh yes, ‘Dora’, I found out that Sherrie had passed away almost a week prior and that I had missed the funeral.

I’m so pissed that I missed the chance to be there with her – to get the chance to say goodbye – to get the chance for closure at her memorial service. But I’m not pissed at anyone other than me for not doing a better job at staying in touch.

I found out from her neighbor (a woman that goes to my church) that Sherrie had been in the hospital during her last week – and her two sons had gone on a mission trip to Mexico. At first they didn’t think they could get her sons back home before her death – but Sherrie refused pain medication until they got home. She got to spend 36 more hours with them before her death. I think it speaks of her incredible strength that she held out for them – as if she refused to ‘let go’ until she had a chance to tell them goodbye. For some reason, knowing that makes me weep. I guess part of me is weeping with a strange sense of joy that she found such strength & determination amidst all of her pain – to somehow say: “Hell NO I won’t go – not without saying goodbye to my children.” Not only did Sherrie know how to live well – she knew how to die, too. God, I really love that woman!

Her neighbor also informed me that there had been about 30 people holding a vigil up at the hospital prior to her death. She called them in one by one – saying she really didn’t have the strength to speak – but that she just wanted one final hug and kiss. Part of me regrets that I wasn’t there – and part of me thinks maybe I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

I heard the church sanctuary was filled to over-flowing. I do regret that I wasn’t in that multitude of those that love her too. It’s so hard to say good-bye when you don’t have a chance to actually say it. I suppose that’s why I had to write about this today – writing is one of the ways I process my emotions.

At the conclusion of my phone call with ‘Dora’ – my friend that had called to tell me about Sherrie -
‘Dora’ informed me that she too had missed the funeral, as she had just had a surgical procedure done herself. It seems Dora had a lump in her breast that needed to be removed. It was cancer.

We’re waiting to hear whether she’ll start chemo or radiation next.

Dear readers, I know I usually cast aspersions your way because it is fun and I am playing with you. But I know you handful of people like me, otherwise, you wouldn’t keep coming back. So I ask that you please say a prayer for Sherrie’s family – to help them as they endure the grieving process; and I ask that you pray for ‘Dora’s healing (God knows her real name); and you pray that I have the strength and intelligence and commitment to be a better friend to Dora, than I was to Sherrie.

I know this is really long, but I have some other shit that has been weighing on my heart – so if you’re depressed right now – you might want to stop reading.

Back during the July 4th holiday – my little nuclear family & I went to visit my in-laws in Arkansas. It was a good visit and I enjoyed being at someone else’s home where I don’t have any major projects that called for my attention, and I also enjoyed the fact that in Arkansas you don’t have to wear shoes, and my toenails looked great for a change!

The drive home was difficult on me, but it usually always is, so I try to sedate myself and just literally ride it out…asleep, if possible.

When I returned home, I was informed that a member of my extended family was ‘assaulted’ – assaulted in a way that will forever change her life – in a way that really REQUIRES serious, long-term counseling if she is to regain a sense of normalcy and to mature into a healthy woman capable of healthy relationships.

This family member is not even 12 years old yet. She was in the home of one of her so-called ‘trusted’ family friends. I’ve not heard all the details from her, as I have not asked – but somehow she got out of the house and went across the street to be protected by strangers until her mother arrived.

Hearing this news devastated me. I was in shock; angry; and sickened.

I talked to her a few hours later, and I realized while talking to her that she had ‘numbed out’ to the experience. When I first heard her voice on the phone (she called me), I started to cry. And she said to me, “Don’t cry. It’s OK.”

For some reason, her attempt at consoling ME really pushed a button and I very sternly told her that it was definitely NOT OK for ANYONE to do what they did to her! I, of course, was not angry at her at all – I just couldn’t stand for her to stuff down all the pain she was feeling – because I know that stuffed down pain only takes up residence in the body’s cells --- and I can’t stand around and allow her to do that!

I have stressed numerous times about the necessity of this dear child to get into some serious counseling, and hope that her mother is diligently working on that. Meanwhile, this precious child has spent some time over at my house - mostly because I’m a good listener….and I have a pool. But I know she really really likes me, and I guess I can give her a more cuddly kind of love than her mother gives her.

Don’t get me wrong – she has a good mom – but not all moms are the gushy kind of moms like me – and that’s OK. But sometimes we need more than what our moms can give us – and I think that’s why God places other people in our lives – because we all have love to give, and different ways of sharing it.

While she was here, I got down my old punching bag that I used while I was in therapy – working through my anger. I knew that she had to be angry about the ‘assault’ although she wasn’t really showing it to me.

I told her she could use any word she wanted – and that I wanted her to punch all of her anger out & into that punching bag.

At first she took a couple of swipes at it, called the perpetrator a name, and then nervously giggled.
I let her get away with that a few times, but then could no longer stand for it.

I don’t know where it came from – other than those many YEARS of individual and group therapy – but I started yelling – “You don’t have the right to touch me!” And then I made her yell it too.

“You’re a filthy son-of-a-bitch and you have no right to touch me! I hate you! You’re a sick bastard! You had no right!” And then she yelled it too. And her punches got harder and harder and the nervous giggling vanished completely.

I could see on her face that it was working – that she was finding her anger – and that’s all I was going for.

I just know that if you don’t even acknowledge your anger – there’s virtually no way you can work through it. I know that it is of vital importance that you let it OUT and you call it what it is and you don’t shrink from it or it will eat you up inside until it becomes like a cancer….until it does become cancer, literally.

I was hesitant to post this story about this sweet, precious little girl because I know she is at the stage where she is feeling shame – shame that is not hears to feel or wear. But I’m trusting that she is not allowed or even privy to my blog at this point in her young life.

But the reason I share it with you is because the kind of assault of which I write – is rampant in our country – in this crazy-ass world – and if people don’t start talking about it and start yelling “NO!” - that it will only continue.

I know there are people reading this blog that have experienced such an assault – not only because they’ve told me some of their story –but because it is STATISTICALLY impossible for there not to be.

What is important for all to know is that molestation runs in families. I come from a long line of females that have been molested. As for my straight line – it stops with me. I know I’m probably hyper-vigilant when it comes to my daughter, but I have my eyes open…and I REFUSE to let it happen to her.

When she was little – she did not spend the night at very many people’s houses. Now that she is older – even though it makes her uncomfortable to hear about it – she IS hearing about it. When families DON’T talk about it – as if it were some dirty little secret – then it only allows it to be perpetuated, because our little girls find themselves in situations where it can easily occur. Our little girls have their eyes closed and are far too trusting and too scared to fight and scream “NO!” They haven’t been prepared – told what to do in these circumstances.

So I share some of this story with you today as an attempt to communicate with all the moms and dads out there with your precious daughters – please don’t close your eyes. Even your most trusted ‘friends’ or even family members can be sick, sick, sick filthy bastards. Don’t be afraid to talk about it. You NEED to talk about it – no matter how hard it is to speak it --- it’s so much harder to deal with after the fact.

I know it’s been a long damned time since I updated the blog last, and I know that today’s subject matter hasn’t really been all that funny like you probably came here expecting. Well my dear readers, kindly get over it.

Next time, if you’re nice, I’ll tell you how I managed to sleep with melted chocolate on my ass the other night, forever marring my pretty semi-expensive sheets. Yeah…you’ll be coming back for that one….

Blessings,
DR Wiseass
-not a real doc – just a real wise ass

Life's Little Lessons

2005-06-10T13:11:00.000-05:00

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!

I know I’ve been away for quite awhile this time. I’ve missed you! Have you missed me?
I’ve got the same excuses as last time: sick & busy…but now I can add – having some miraculously good days, so I’m trying to get more accomplished here at this pig sty I call home.

TODAY'S MENU
FACING MY FEAR
ENTER DR. BITCH
DANCE, DANCE, DANCE
GIMME DRUGS, GIMME DRUGS, GIMME DRUGS & GIMME A BREAK!
DR. SHIT-FOR-BRAINS
I DIGRESS
SPINNING MY WHEELS

FACING MY FEAR
My daughter recently left for a trip to Australia. She went with an ambassador group which is highly respected and has 49 years of experience. I’d mention the name of the group – but I don’t want some kid Googling the name of the group and land their poor little minor ass here on this page. Hey, despite my truck driver mouth – I’m a mom, too! (On another aside, my friend BB – you know the one that still ain’t a stripper -- she sent me a list of her friends – her emergency contact numbers - in case I can’t get a hold of her – and she sent her very conservative friends a note telling them about me -in case I called - and she told them how nice I was – despite having the vocabulary of a drunken sailor. Hahahaha! I’m sure they’re eager to talk to my ass!)

Anyway – it was really difficult packing my mature, yet ELEVEN year old daughter to go on this trip with 39 other kids and 4 adult chaperones…but I knew it would be an opportunity of a lifetime, and I felt very secure sending her with this particular group of leaders – which are all teachers.

I KNOW, though, that this is a definite point of growth for me. The longest she’s been away from home has been at Girl Scout camp for 10 days, which is only about 45 minutes from our house. As a matter of fact, last year it started flooding around our area while she was away – so my husband & I drove out & picked her up a couple of days early as we couldn’t predict if it would keep raining – and we didn’t want to see her on the news clinging to a damned tree waiting to be evacuated by helicopter. Needless to say, she was a bit pissed off at us. But then I told some melodramatic stories about flooding; quoted the fact that most accidental deaths are caused by flooding (Is that even true?); and then she saw areas that were flooded out, so she straightened up a bit – stopped pouting after about an hour or so.

But now – I can’t evacuate my child. I can’t do anything. I have absolutely NO CONTROL. In case some of you are just joining this little blog – my handful of dedicated readers have already figured out that I’m one of the biggest damned control freaks on the planet!

When we first got the letter saying she was invited to go on the trip – I first tossed it with the junk mail thinking, there’s no way in hell I’m gonna let my kid go to Australia without me! And then another mom called and said they got the invitation too and were all excited about it. And then I thought:

“PISS! PISS! PISS! Now I have to evaluate WHY I wouldn’t be willing to send my daughter on this trip of a lifetime! And yes, money was a bit of a factor – but not the REAL one. The REAL demon I was wrestling with was my FEAR of what might happen to her without me there with her. Australia is full of dangerous animals & snakes & insects, right? She’d have to fly OVER THE OCEAN for crying out loud! I can’t let her go there…not without me!

And then I had to stop and think…it was all about me NOT being with her. And then I had to realize there are hours and hours in the day when I’m not with her – when she’s at school – or when she’s with a friend. I can’t control everything. DAMN IT!

So the real question was: Am I willing to allow my FEAR to keep my daughter from experiencing this life-changing adventure? Am I going to pass FEAR on to my child? Is that what I really want to impart?

Don’t you hate it when you see something about yourself – some TRUTH – that you have to face? It’s scary as SHIT!!!!!

But I looked into the program, and just sat & cried while reading their website. I was coming to the realization that it would be so selfish of me to keep her from it just because I’m not willing to stand up and face my fear. Meanwhile, my mother was at work looking at the website, crying, and then wrote me a letter about some of the fears she had to face as a mother.

It’s not that the emotion of fear is wrong…it’s just what you do with it that is critical. And don’t get me wrong – there’s a difference between fear & caution – cause when my daughter gets back from this trip – she’s STILL not walking to the park by herself – and that’s only 1/8 mile down the road! (CHILDREN DO NOT BELONG AT PARKS BY THEMSELVES. That’s where pedophiles hang out…at least that’s where they hang out on all the cop shows!)

So hubby & I talked about it – and decided to take one step at a time. Over the course of 9 months we had multiple informational/protocol type meetings with the leaders & fellow group members; we did a fundraiser; and the group did a community service project; and also had a fun day at a local water park.

As far as being comfortable with my daughter’s maturity level to go; comfortable with the group & the leaders; and comfortable with the program – I was. There was, still, of course that FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN. FEAR OF THE ‘WHAT IFS…’ And despite me logically knowing that is a fear that is always potentially with us – I still had it deep down.

At one point I remembered when my daughter was about 3 or 4 and learning to swim, she was very afraid to swim from my arms to her father’s arms just a few feet away. Every day of the summer we’d get in the pool and try to encourage her, reassuring her she’d be OK. Finally one day, she stood up & looked me in the eyes and said: “I’m gonna face my fear.” And then she did it. What an inspiration she’s been to me through these few years of her young life.

Out of the mouths of babes…..

ENTER DR. BITCH
When we were at the water park one week prior to their departure, I had the opportunity to talk with other moms, and they had similar reservations about sending their children to Austraila, too – which made me realize I’m not alone in facing this fear. There was something rather comforting about that. I also learned that many mothers asked their pediatricians for a round of antibiotics – just in case the kids were somewhere where a doctor wasn’t conveniently found. I thought that was a good idea so I called my daughter’s pediatrician the next morning & left my request on the answering machine. What a bad move.

I got a call back from my pediatrician’s partner, Dr. Bitch, as my pediatrician was out of the country. First of all, this bitch asked me where my daughter was going and how old she was. And then she said: “OH, well, I WOULDN’T do it. That’s just too far for someone her age. That’s on the other side of the world!”
(Really? Did she think that I don’t own a map, a globe, or even have internet access?? Stupid, condescending bitch!)

Before I could explain to her about the program, she started saying shit about how she backpacked through Europe (goody for her!) and has traveled the world, and that one day she wants her children to be able to do that too, but now they’re just too young. That would just be ‘irresponsible’. (Yes, that’s the word: IRRESPONSIBLE.)

Dr. Bitch went on to say that it would also be irresponsible for her to give us antibiotics because it could mask something more serious…that she could ‘get meningitis and die’.

Yeah, that’s what she told me as I stood there, trying to cook dinner, with my mouth open – my tongue sending out multiple SOS messages to my brain: “Help! What can I say to this f’ing bitch? C’mon, can I say it? Can I say what we’re thinking?”

Brain says: “NO. We’re going to remain calm. If we piss her off she’s just enough of a lunatic bitch she might call the child welfare people & they’d probably show up the day of the trip while we’re trying to leave for the airport.”

Tongue says: “Shit! I never get to say what I want. It’s not fair!”

My chest interrupts: “Excuse me, but I think we might be having a heart attack.”

My nose says: “And I think the house is on fire.”

Brain says: “No you idiots. It’s just an anxiety attack and you’re burning the okra. Turn down the burner & sit down.”

At some point I tried to explain about the program, and I reassured her that, as a mother, I, too had initially had my own reservations but had months to get comfortable with it….

And then Dr. Bitch cut me off (no doubt she was too busy backpacking through Europe to take that course in phone etiquette…) She said, “I’m not just saying this as a mother – but as a doctor, too.”

I wanted to scream. She was now using her medical degree as a weapon – using it to call into question my abilities as a mother. That F’ING BITCH. I, of course, did not say this.

I very calmly said, “I understand your opinion. Thank you for returning my call. Bye.”

AND THEN I SCREAMED. I don’t think I’ve been that LIVID in a long damn time! I wanted to throw my fist through a wall, only my hands are delicate and my nails are finally growing – so I didn’t.

I wanted to sit down immediately and type up a ‘you’re the dumbest bitch in the world’ letter…but I was busy burning supper. So I called a few maternal people so they could help calm me down, and reassure me that that particular doctor was possibly the dumbest bitch in the world…and it helped a bit…but it’s hard to get rid of that much anger with just a few pep talks.

I think the reason I was so angry was because she woke up that FEAR that I thought I had worked so hard to squash. But apparently it had been there the whole time – still hiding underneath the surface – waiting to spring out and choke me to death.

It was when I talked to my friend BB – and she told me that this woman had really served a purpose – and that was to get me to the point where I was certain again – that sending my daughter overseas is an OK thing to do. That it was right for her – right for us. And BB was correct. I had to reevaluate all my reasons and reexamine all of my fears. I had to be certain again. I had to be peaceful about it again.

DANCE, DANCE, DANCE
The next day after returning home from some last minute shopping, I decided I wanted to hear some comforting music, so I inserted my Lee Ann Womack CD into the CD player. My daughter & I were putting some things away when the music started. And then the second song came on – that one was my favorite. It’s called: “I Hope You Dance.”

My daughter was standing next to me in the kitchen, and I just grabbed her and held her close and said, “Let’s dance for a minute.” So we held each other and I sang along with Lee Ann :

I HOPE YOU DANCE
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance…I hope you dance
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances but they’re worth takin’
Loving’ might be a mistake but it’s worth makin’
Don’t let some *-bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance…I hope you dance

I mostly didn’t sing. I mostly cried. And she cried too. I knew there was a part of her that was frightened about going – even though the rest of her was excited to go. I think it’s natural to have mixed emotions about something like that. But I asked her again: “Are you sure you want to go?” And she said “yes”.

I asked her that question every day before her departure – even the day of her departure – giving her the chance to say ‘I can’t’ or “I don’t want to go”. I was willing to throw all that money out the window if I thought there was something inside HER telling her not to go. But despite her little fear…she went.

So for the next couple of weeks, she & I (and I’m sure her daddy, too) – we are all facing some fear. We’re growing a bit. And for those of us stuck at home…it mostly sucks. But I’m trying to use what energy I have to distract myself by cleaning up the house – instead of lying in bed counting minutes. And surprisingly, I have a great sense of peace….a peace that really passes MY understanding. Of course this peace didn’t really settle in with me until AFTER they landed safely.

Since she’s been gone – she’s emailed once – also sent us a picture of her holding a koala bear via email; and then she called us at 2:30 in the morning the other day. I was so happy just to hear her sweet voice – I have no damn idea what we talked about. I think I asked her if she had done her laundry. What the hell? She calls long distance and I think about pulling out the motherly nag voice? But I don’t want her walking around Australian in dirty undies, you know!

GIMME DRUGS, GIMME DRUGS, GIMME DRUGS & GIMME A BREAK!

(I think I have another section entitled ‘GIMME DRUGS….’ somewhere else on my blog, but give me a break already, I’m getting tired!)

Just prior to Memorial Day weekend, I went to see my LLMD again. Naturally I went with my typed agenda, but I left my jovial, frontal lobe “disinhibited” attitude at home. I felt like shit.

I talked to Dr. N about my pain level & the various manifestations of pain. I brought up the subject of getting a different – stronger pain medication, as the Norco I’ve been on for YEARS is starting to not be very effective. I mean – I can take 2 Norco (which is equivalent to 3 regular Vicodin – minus some of the acetaminophen) and it feels like I’ve taken 1 aspirin.

I told him that I experiment with my meds, wondering if that was a good confession. Sometimes I take the 2 Norco with a couple of Xanax…or sometimes with a couple of muscle relaxers, sometime with a Xanax AND a muscle relaxer. And I’m thinking experimenting isn’t exactly GOOD…but I’m usually not in the mood to go to the ER for adequate pain control every afternoon, you know?

And for the record – there’s a difference between addiction and tolerance. An addiction causes you to crave the drug – to spend your waking hours seeking after it, and if you don’t get it – you just might go crazy. I used to smoke cigarettes – so I can at least speak about the nature of addiction in that regard.

As for drug tolerance – your body just becomes used to a certain drug so much so that you need more of the drug to achieve the same chemical effects that occurred during its initial use.

Now – to make matters confusing for the easily confused, many drug addicts have a high drug tolerance, which makes their drug seeking behavior that much more pronounced because they needs LOTS of drugs to satisfy their craving.

However, many people with drug tolerance do NOT have a drug addiction problem. You do understand the difference now, right?

Anyway – so I was telling Dr. N that taking 2 Norco now is kinda like taking a couple of tic tacs for my pain, although it does nothing for my breath. He then said that he would be glad to refer me downstairs to a doctor that is the “King of Pain Control”. However, I had previously explained to Dr. N, and now needed to remind him, that I would NOT under ANY circumstances go back to Dr. Shit-for-Brains (the so-called ‘King of Pain Control’) – as I had seen him a few years ago and he did NOT listen to me, and he had me OVER-medicated.

So Dr. N’s solution was to tell me that we’d have to talk about it later because he was getting ready to go on a 3 week vacation.

A 3 WEEK VACATION? I WAS TELLING HIM THAT I’M MISERABLE, AND HE’S GOING ON VACATION?

He did end our brief visit with the instructions to take a 3 day antibiotic vacation and then to start back on my Zithromax & Mepron slowly. He instructed me to start back with only 1 drop of the Mepron a day. He thinks most of my pain is caused by herxing. Hmmm. Interesting theory – only I was miserable even BEFORE I was on antibiotics, so I’m not putting a whole lot of stock into that one.

He told me to stay on a low dose of the Mepron while he’s away – as he didn’t want me ending up in the ER because of herxing…although I was thinking I might end up in the ER because of the damned pain! Regardless, I thought that was good advice, because I already know they’re a bunch of idiots in the ER.

DR. SHIT-FOR-BRAINS
For your reading entertainment, I thought I’d pull out something embarrassing from my past, which will further explain my refusal to ever darken the doorstep of Dr. Shit-for-Brains.

I first saw Dr. Shit-for-Brains about 3 years ago (prior to my diagnosis of Lyme) – when I went to see him on referral from my urologist. My interstitial cystitis was trying to kill me slowly – or at least that’s what I thought. I was in daily unending excruciating pain.

In addition to the feeling that I had burning shards of acidic glass wedged into my bladder – my bladder and all of the surrounding pelvic muscles were in a CONSTANT spasm. (All that spasming is called ‘Pelvic Floor Dysfunction’) I was in hell. Pure & simple.

There were moments where I felt I was certainly about to give birth to my own bladder.
So I eagerly sought relief from this pain management ‘specialist’ – not realizing that his name is Dr. Shit-for-Brains for a good reason. As a pain management physician, he had an entire novella of pain management rules, and being in extreme pain, I didn’t want to break any damned one of them. I was a desperate woman.

So Dr. Shit-for-Brains took me off the Hydrocodone and put me on Norco. In addition he put me on an anti-convulsant drug, Gabitral, although to my knowledge I had never had a convulsion. He also put me on a new anti-depressant, and switched me to a couple of different muscle relaxers and some other shit to make me sleep – although the sleep medication was really overkill, because at the time, the pain med, the anti-convulsant, the new anti-depressant, and the muscle relaxers pretty much made me catatonic. Either that….or extremely MANIC. I was hyper as hell in the morning, and then by afternoon I crashed. I knew something was wrong – but my brain was so fried with all the new drugs I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on.

In Dr. Shit-for-Brain’s novella of ‘RULES’ – it said for his patients to contact his office IMMEDIATELY if we had any new symptoms or side-effects. Well, I, being the good patient, took that request seriously.

I tried to call, but they put me on hold – or the nurse was away – and the receptionist wanted to know if I wanted to leave a message. Hell no – I had too much to say! In addition to the drugs screwing with my brain – my life started falling apart. (You know how sometimes you feel like you’re going through a ‘negative spiral’ and just one damn thing after another keeps happening? That’s what started happening to me. And in my f’ed up brain – I thought Dr. Shit-for-Brains needed to be aware of it, too.)

It may help you to know that two of the biggest stressor for me during that time was that my uncle had a motorcycle wreck and was transported via helicopter to the trauma unit of the hospital – where he struggled to survive for 6 weeks in intensive care. At the time of the letter below, I did not know that he would eventually die. Although there was a part of me that was afraid that would be his fate.

Also, my dog had run away the day before my uncle’s wreck, and my dog had been attacked by another animal. So when we found him we had to spend money out the ass to save him, not knowing if he would survive…and then we took him home a little ‘early’ so we could save on the vet bills.

There were other things happening – friends calling me with all of their crises – one of them even talking about committing suicide. It was a crazy time. Even my damned therapist was having a crisis of her own, and she couldn’t see me! Thanks to my pain, and the drugs, I think I was just crazy as shit myself! And the fact that people were calling me for my drug-induced advice?? Sure I gave it – and it was ironically pretty good. But still….it was insane!

The thing about the letter below is – Dr. Shit-for-Brains SHOULD have taken the time to realize that all the NEW symptoms I was describing was pointing to something else (the undiagnosed Lyme) and all the crazy-ass shit I was writing was because he had me over-medicated with something – I don’t know what – but I don’t want to ever feel that damned crazy again!

Yet – Dr. Shit-for-Brains at the next appointment after my faxed letter told me he didn’t have time for all my crap. And he did NOT listen to any of my NEW symptoms, such as the CHEST pain I was having at that very moment – and then I ended up in the ER that afternoon because I was convinced I was having a heart attack! I do not like Dr. Shit-for-Brains because any idiot could see from the letter below that I was SCREWED UP…AND whatever he had me on was only screwing with my brain – and not taking care of the pain – the old and the new. I therefore have no use for Dr. Shit-for-Brains. Besides, after a couple of more visits with him…I told him I was weening myself off some of the meds he prescribed, & I fired his ass!

So, at the cost of embarrassing myself, I am allowing you to read the following fax that I sent to Dr. Shit-for-Brain’s office. Just remember – this was me when I was totally out of my mind…unlike now, when I’m totally in my mind. Enjoy.

I DIGRESS
Dear. Dr. Shit-for-Brains (not his real name) / Dr. Shit-for-Brains’ nurse / Anyone who cares:

Thought I’d check in with you, as I thought that’s what I read in your mini-novel of pain management rules. Keep in mind that I now say/write just about everything with my tongue implanted firmly in my cheek, as that is my new chronic pain, narcotic-induced personality. I know I must not be the only one of your patients that copes with their pain in this manner, so I am giving you the benefit of the doubt that you can handle it, and won’t call my husband just yet to have me committed into a mental institution, although as I’ve probably mentioned before – I could use the rest & I do like to do crafts.

My appointment in your office was Tuesday, April 16th. If you recall, that was also ‘tornado day’ – which was probably stressor #36 or #37 on my growing list of ‘Thing that Stress Me Out”. I digress.

After doing the duck & cover drill with my hysterical daughter at our vet’s office – while we were visiting our dog that is now being quaranteened for rabies (and I did tell you that because we cleaned up his dog body fluids, now we - mainly ME - are at risk for rabies too – because apparently you don’t have to be bitten by the animal to get rabies?) All that was just FYI. Anyway – I took my medicine that evening, after my husband braved the storm to go fetch it from the pharmacy. As I recall, I believe it made me a little sick to my stomach and maybe a little light-headed – so I made a mental note to take it with food the next evening.

Wednesday – Woke up with a headache & had quite a time actually ‘waking up’. I managed fairly well during the day and did not find it necessary to take all the meds available to me as evidenced by the fact that some pills remain in the “Wednesday Morn & Wednesday Noon” containers. (Yes, I’ve now had to start using those little pill ‘reminders’ that senior citizens have to use, because as you know – being in pain and taking medicine that ‘will cause drowsiness’ – I have occasionally in the past taken a med & then 30 minutes later asked myself: “Did I take that medicine?” I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.)

We then went out to eat that night, because that’s what we do on Wednesday nights because we are a highly ‘structured’ family. (Know that I am laughing on the inside about that one – but you might not get it – it’s an inside joke. I digress again.) While we were out to eat – it seemed every muscle I had from under my rib cage to my anus was in a very tight spasm – naturally I did NOT have my medicine with me at the time, because apparently I’m now turning into an idiot. It felt like my rib cage was trying to fuse with all of my pelvic bones and/or the ribs were doing their best to find their way out of my butt-hole. I could not stay seated. I tried to get up and walk it off as I made my way to the bathroom. I did not have to urinate as much as I needed to just weep because of the damned pain. As I sat in that bathroom – which needed a little attention from the janitorial staff – I suddenly realized why some of the women on the internet say there have been times they have thought about suicide because of the pain. Let me say right here & now that NO – I am NOT suicidal! It never crossed my mind – but I had a better understanding & compassion for those that have. I have a daughter & I would NEVER dream of etching a scar that deep into her! In addition, I have a husband whom I love too…& besides, we probably wouldn’t have the money to bury my ass. In addition, I have spent far too much time, money, and energy on YEARS of therapy & just quite frankly – I’m too damn smart to do it.

When we came home from our evening meal, I took my handful of bedtime medicine because I was just about ready for bed. (This was after I made a call to a ‘friend’ who is also a massage therapist BEGGING her to call me back so that she could give me a massage – because my pain level as at least an 8.5! I am still waiting for her to call me back – and she’d better be out on vacation right now, because if she’s not – then I won’t be referring to her as a friend in quotes or otherwise – I’ll be calling her a BITCH in big bold letters and right in her face.)

The meds started to kick in just enough that I decided I might check my email because sometimes writing to people helps me to get my mind off of my pain – because I am so ‘wordy’ and have so much to explain and I want everyone to know just how damned miserable I am. I digress. I started getting nauseous, so I tried to eat the rest of my dinner that I couldn’t eat at the restaurant because I was waiting for one of my ribs to start poking out of my ass.

Needless to say, while I was on the internet & eating…I fell asleep. I woke up as my head started to drop and I realized that I was falling asleep while TYPING and WITH FOOD IN MY MOUTH – and I don’t think that was a good thing. And this happened several times. It took my husband several tries to get me up & off the Lazy-Boy I was lounging in. Then it took him about 30 minutes to convince me to get off the toilet & come to bed, because I kept falling asleep on the toilet too – before I could convince my muscles it was OK to pee. While I was there, I kept waking up as my head started propelling towards the floor. And some rational part in me finally woke up enough to get me off the pot because I thought the last damned thing I needed was to go sit in the ER for 7 hours because I gave myself a damned concussion by falling off the toilet head-first!

On Thursday, I again woke up with a headache. I managed to get through most of the day without taking all of the meds at my disposal because I am having so many damned mini-dramas that I really need to stay as rational as possible. That was NOT a good decision. By that evening, all my muscles were doing their spasm thing & my ribs were again searching for my butt-hole. Cried. Cussed about my so called massage therapist ‘friend’. Took my meds, at something that I couldn’t choke on (ice cream), got on the internet; fell asleep.

Friday was a little better for the most part because I was determined that I would stay on top of my pain and take everything at my disposal. Because I didn’t want to stay in bed all day (because I must continue to put out all my “fires” and apparently the “fires” of every other person that calls me with a crisis) -- I wouldn’t take all of my morning pills at once – but I’d take a couple – then wait a couple of hours and then take the others. (I’ve started handing out lots of great drug-induced advice, if I do say so myself, that I think that could make me a bone fine ‘arm-chair’ psychologist – so I’m thinking about changing my name to Dr. Wiseass! I realize it might take you a second to get that one.)

I don’t know if you’ve noticed – but many of my medications say things like ‘take 3 times a day as needed for pain, spasm, etc…” WELL – these all make me sleepy & probably a little bit neurotic, or maybe that’s the pain making me neurotic. I digress. But it’s difficult to determine what I should be taking when, so that I don’t fall asleep – yet I am taking what I need, at the time I need it, so that I won’t go stick my head in the toilet & flush several times to see if I can, indeed, drown myself.

Friday evening – I starting getting this very annoying nerve pain shooting down my legs – which being a massage therapist didn’t exactly surprise me – as I have experienced it before AND I’m pretty sure that the fact that my muscles STAY in a CONSTANT spasm that they are clamping down & compressing on one or more of my leg nerves. Hey – sometimes it ain’t rocket science.

Saturday went pretty much like Friday as far as meds are concerned, and yes, I believe I woke up with a headache that day too. During the morning & early afternoon I entertained myself by writing a bunch of crap that I am being kind enough not to tell you about. By the late afternoon – my ribs started doing their thing again and the pain down my leg was intensifying. I cussed about my ‘friend’ who has yet to call me and then called a massage therapy ‘acquaintance’ – at this point being willing to pay out the ass for a decent damned massage to get me out of pain. She too has yet to call back. Is it ME??? Are people AFRAID of me? Do they think they can catch it or something? Or am I just annoying as hell?

My husband did his best to rub on me, and he must have been feeling extremely compassionate at that time, because this massage of his did indeed last longer than his normal 30 seconds. He actually spent about 20 minutes ‘working’ on me – although I had to tell him what to do & where to do it. (And that’s about as close to having sex that we’ve come to in the last couple of months, and I know it did nothing to gratify him. I digress again.) I then got in the hot tub (the hot tub I should just be living in – but I can’t get on the internet while I’m in there & being on so many drugs, I should probably have some COMPETENT adult supervision – and that’s hard to find at my house right now.)

So, the pseudo-massage & the hot tub & the meds helped a little. Later that night, more of the same pain. Took my bedtime meds, ate something soft, fell asleep on the internet. (I’m glad I’m not paying for my internet by the hourly usage anymore.) WOKE up at 2:45 am with a very intense pain shooting down my right leg and causing this burning sensation at the heel of my foot. Naturally, I’m thinking, “Oh Great! NOW I have NEUROPATHY!” (When you have a lot of ‘people’ and they just stay sick – you pick up on things & get to the point where sometimes you can just diagnose yourself!) So I got up and walked around on it – not knowing if that was a good idea or not. Still don’t know. Also thought I was experiencing a burning sensation at the tip of my tongue – couldn’t diagnose that one – so I assume I was just really drugged from my evening meds and just a little bit crazy with the pain at that point. I really wanted to take another Norco & an Ultram to ease the pain but thought: “Well, I know I took my 3 Norco & 3 Ultram during Saturday and wondered about how I define my 24 hour day – and that if I did take another Norco & Ultram – would I be breaking one of your damn ‘rules’ about taking more than what was prescribed OR would I be taking the first of Sunday’s rationing of pain meds because it WAS after midnight – BUT what if I did, and then Sunday daytime was even worse than the middle of the night - & then I’d only have 2 Norco & Ultram to dole out to myself???

I was just so confused because I didn’t want to break any of your damn rules because quite frankly, my dear doc – I need you to help me. And even though I could have taken one, two, or even three of the meds that I hadn’t taken earlier in the week – which you wouldn’t have ever known about – unless I opened my big mouth and confessed – I chose not to, because I figured with my current luck, that would be the pill that would make me go into a seizure or a coma or something and then you would discontinue being my doctor and then not only would I be a little farther up that ‘shit creek without a paddle’ – but I’d be farther up it with a hole in my boat!

I was just so pissed because between the pain and the fact that my body wanted so badly to go back to sleep, I decided to put all my heating elements around my mid-section, placed an ice pack on my foot and went to bed to think about it. I determined that if that didn’t work & if I couldn’t solve this pill dilemma, I was just going to call whomever was ‘on call’ and wake his/her butt up to answer the question. That ‘on-call’ person was very lucky because apparently that ice pack helped a little & I went back to sleep.

Sunday – woke up in pain, and yes, with a headache too. Still in pain as I type this. I now have ‘areas’ in my body that are experiencing different levels of pain and am feeling rather frustrated about it all. In addition to the ribs, the pelvic muscles, my burning bladder, the nerve pain in my legs & the burning in my feet – I also feel like I might be ready to pass another kidney stone (don’t ask me how I know this – I’m just listening to my body.) I am also on my period which is adding additional miscellaneous cramping and I’m sure my hormones are really helping this situation out right now. (Please note my sarcasm.) AND in addition to all of that, I now feel like the muscles/and or nerves running under my shoulder blade are becoming irritated because of the fact that my ribs seem determined to make their way down to my ass and drill me out a NEW butt-hole! And now, I’ve developed a cough. I won’t even comment about what that adds – because I know you must certainly ‘get it’ because you are the smart medical people.

I’m going to try to make it through the day taking my meds like I have been – resisting the urge to call you and say, “Hey! This crap ain’t working!” So if no one from your office hears from me today – I will be sending this fax tomorrow.

I apologize that this is such a long fax – but believe me – I am being brief compared to the true potential I possess with regards to writing long-ass letters. Count yourself lucky that I didn’t call to speak to a nurse and then keep her tied up on the phone for 20 minutes while another one of your cranky pain patients sits practically naked in the exam room waiting to be poked & prodded. So see – it’s much better this way – don’t you think?

And I can pretty much imagine that after you read this letter – you’ll pull out that PDR and start looking for some magic pill to make me become more brief and concise. And if you find one – and if it’ll take me out of pain, but won’t completely kill me, my pharmacy A number is: 123-456-7890. And for your convenience, if you’re brave enough to call me, my number is 123-456-7789. If I’m distracting myself on the internet or taking a field trip to visit my uncle who is on life support at the hospital because of his tendency to run his motorcycle through trees, then you can call me on my cell phone and you can just pray that it’s off so all you have to do is leave me a voice mail. That number is: 123-456-7778.

And don’t worry, I’m still not driving myself anywhere – which, by the way, is making my life that much more complicated – because I know it’s one of your ‘rules’! Besides, I’m not that damn stupid anyway. I’m also not operating any heavy dangerous machinery either. And since my washing machine is a heavy machine, and potentially dangerous – because yes, I am in enough pain and on enough medication to fantasize about sticking my head into it during the spin cycle – I’m just staying away from it altogether.
So I conclude this letter by letting you know I’m sitting here in the last clean pair of panties I own. And if you know very much about my bladder disease – you KNOW that’s not a good thing.

Thanks.

Have a good day. I’m settling for “tolerable”

DR

P.S. – If I have offended you with my foul language, please accept this, my most sincere apology. “I’m sorry.” I’m glad you can not hear the sound of my voice right now, because I’m hurting quite a bit & its hard to muster up a whole lot of sincerity right now, and I AM sincerely sorry about that. And just so that it is clear, the fact that I can write/say things that may sound funny – it does NOT indicate in any way that I am not in substantial pain,. You know that phrase, “If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry” and that famous Reader’s Digest column, “Laughter is the Best Medicine” – that’s where I’m at. In all sincerity, though, I am doing the best I can to cope with all the pain and stress I have in my life right now & I constantly try to ‘zoom out’ just enough so that I can find something – anything – humorous about this predicament I find myself in – just so I won’t cry. My body can’t afford for me to become depressed at this point. So I’m fighting it with every ounce of wit, wisdom, and sarcasm I can find., This is my attempt at being ‘positive’ – no matter how demented it may seem to others. And if my language does offend you, just tell me, and the next time I sit down to write you another long-ass letter, I will just put *** every time I feel the need for an expletive – and then you can fill in the blanks with any Walt Disney rated word you want. And if you ARE offended by my foul language, then might I suggest that you seek therapy too, so you won’t be so easily offended. See – I just can’t help myself. I must give advice. And if you have any advice for me, I’ll either be on the phone or sitting right by one.

PPS – Monday (4/22) – still in all that same pain mentioned earlier. Just heard a loud sound & thought my elderly Godmother had fallen or something. She didn’t. She didn’t even hear it – but maybe she’s not wearing her hearing aids…..or maybe I’m just starting to HALLUCINATE now? Please advise!

SPINNING MY WHEELS
I think I wanted to 'unveil' my new website in June. It's June now.

So, NO. Ain't gonna happen.

You've waited this long...you can wait some more. I realize this must be very upsetting for you - but for me - it's a total pain in the ass. I have this drive to get the little bastard up & running & I'm just spinning my wheels like a partially labotomized hamster on a wheel. Spin a little. Get off and look around: "Are we there yet? No?" Spin a little more.

Before I close, I'd like to add you to my 'Blog Update' mailing list. I'll send an email out on the RARE occasions when I actually do update the blog, so you won't have to keep checking in to see if I've gotten off my ass and written anything.

Send me your email addy, and I'll add you to the list: dr-wiseass@sbcglobal.net. (Also, I'd love to know what area you live in...if it's not 'top secret'.)

I must return to my spinning now.

Hugs & Kisses,
DR Wiseass

Living with Lyme Disease - A Real Roller-Coaster Ride!

2005-05-05T14:11:00.000-05:00

Living with Lyme disease is like waking up with a different disease every day.

They say, variety is the spice of life - but this is ridiculous. My body feels like an amusement park for all my nasty uninvited microorganisms. However, I’m definitely not the one being amused.

Living with Lyme Disease is like being strapped in a roller coaster that doesn’t stop. I used to love roller coasters. I’d be the one sitting in the front seat or the back seat – hands up, screaming at the top of my lungs – just to scare some of the first-time riders.

I can’t even ride the sissy rides anymore. Extreme motion sickness. Vertigo and vomit ensues.

I say experiencing Lyme disease is like a roller coaster because I’ve actually had a few semi-good days lately. You know the ones where you think: Ah, the worst must be over. I can accomplish a few goals today – and then you bravely, and stupidly, set out to do just that.

That’s the ‘up’ side of things. Later you realize you are a real dumb ass, as you plummet at great speeds, thinking you will certainly ‘crash’ and die this time!

Good mornings come, and I just piss all that energy away, only to find myself in bed in the fetal position by late afternoon swearing never to do housework or errands again. (Actually, my husband thinks I swore these activities off years ago….so, shhh! Let’s not confuse him.)

TODAY’S MENU
Kazoontite!
Crystal Mud
A Drop of Madness
Giddyup!
Losing My Mind
2-4-6-8
The Mepron Diet

Kazoontite!
I went to see my LLMD for my 4th visit last week.

The first item on my list was to discuss all my twitching and tremors which have increased and then subsided a bit, and then increased some more, and then subsided a bit…you get the picture. (Roller coaster – waxing & waning)

I was worried that this indicted I might have some permanent Central Nervous System (brain & spinal column) damage, or even Peripheral Nervous system (arms, legs, etc.) damage. He said, “No. They’re nothing to worry about, saying that the twitching was a malfunction of one of the systems, and the tremors were a malfunction of the other one. Naturally I can’t remember which was which because he seemed like he was in a hurry, not wanting to educate little ol’ me on the mysterious world of the nervous system. He just reminded me that it was ‘par for the course’, and that was the end of that discussion.

We then discussed my hallucinations, which I felt had diminished, but wasn’t 100% certain as most of my weird experiences happen while I’m home alone during the day or while I lie awake at night trying to sleep. He asked me what kind of sounds, and I couldn’t really think of examples. My mind went semi-blank. Finally, I said: “Boots. People are walking on my roof!”

He then asked, “Do you hear voices?” And at the time, I couldn’t remember that I had heard the Chinese children singing….so I said ‘No’.

So apparently he concluded that I was no longer having hallucinations, and therefore we could move on with my treatment.

Although I was eager to ‘move on’ with treatment – I was still not satisfied with that lack of a conclusion about the sounds. So I asked: “Does that imply then that the sounds are REAL, and I am now hearing things that I didn’t hear before because now my senses are heightened?”

He said, to my surprise: “Yes. That is not uncommon.”

Great! Now if I could just have some super-human strength, I’d be like the Bionic Woman. I can almost hear the ‘music’ from the Bionic Woman in my head…you know the ‘da-da-da-da-da-da’ mechanical sound as she was hearing people conspiring to overthrow the government from miles away? Or when she was ripping a cyclone fence apart with one of her arms? Or was that the Bionic Man?

Either way – I think I shall make that my theme song. Ally McBeal had a theme song, and look how screwed up she was. I think all screwed up people deserve a theme song. Don’t you agree – my fellow screw ups?

((Interesting note: Today I heard someone sneeze. No one else was around, and I’m quite sure that it wasn’t me as I was not wearing any mucous. Now YOU tell me…was that a hallucination; was it my neighbor who lives almost an acre away from me; or am I so damned crazy that I can’t even remember when I expel my own body fluids?))

Crystal Mud
My LLMD is an interesting man. First of all, I love this man. I think I would publicly profess love for any human being devoted to saving my ass. I love Dr. N! I really do.

This love, of course, does not blind me to the fact that he is a little bit kooky. That’s OK. I’ve been to so many doctors that seemed to fit within the social ‘norm’ – yet they were complete idiots. So I’ll take a kooky genius any day of the week!

I also see Dr. N as being a very spiritual man, and he loves to use analogies to explain medical concepts. So I wasn’t quite as intimidated at sharing my ‘hippocampus’ dream with him as I might have been with an average doctor. (See my last post to learn more about my oh-so-very-exciting ‘hippocampus’ dream, and to learn what the hell a hippocampus is.)

I told him my dream, and he just looked at me for a minute. Appointments with Dr. N always seem to provide ample opportunities where silence just sits in the air, daring me to fill it with mindless banter. When I do – he usually shushes me because he is thinking, and then for a moment I feel like a very little girl reprimanded by the tall parent figure.

I asked him if my dream meant that I’m not supposed to appeal the whole power wheelchair thing with my blood-sucking insurance company, or if that meant there is something seriously wrong with my hippocampus.

More silence.

And then he finally spoke. I had waited a couple of weeks to hear the wisdom pour from my medical guru’s mouth…and he said: “I don’t know.”

WHERE DOES ONE FIND A KNOW-IT-ALL GURU THESE DAYS? He doesn’t know? You mean I have to interpret my own damn dreams?

He gently said, “I’ll have to give it some more consideration.” I translated that to mean, he would forget about it and so should I, unless of course I start having some kind of serious seizure activity, which then would bring us back to --- my hippocampus.

Because we had already talked about my hallucinations, which seem to have almost disappeared, him said: Perhaps your Godmother was alerting you to the fact that your hippocampus was involved in your symptoms, and now that has settled down.

OKaaaayyy. It’s all becoming crystal clear now….

Nope. That’s a lie. Still very muddy. Sludge, even!

A Drop of Madness

With that in mind, I then asked: "Does that mean we can start treatment for my Babesiosis?"

Now – for those of you that have never been treated for this infection which is like the cousin of MALARIA….asking that question is like asking to be slowly tortured - only I was blissfully ignorant of that fact when the words were coming off of my unruly tongue.

He looked at me again. More silence.

“Yes” he said. “You will start on Mepron. And you must follow my instructions very closely. I must write a different dosage on the prescription so the pharmacist won’t be confused. But you can not start on this dosage, or you will be critically ill. You are to start off with one drop only. ONE drop.” Dr. N was practically stern, and very step-father-like.

I knew intellectually that he was giving me these instructions for my own good, but emotionally I felt like he was a step-father threatening to get the belt.

He said: “If one drop makes you sick, then cut it back to half a drop.”

Suddenly the sarcastic voice emerged and I couldn’t stop her from hi-jacking my vocal chords:
“Well, how the piss do you take just ½ a damn drop?”

((What the hell was wrong with me? Why did sarcastic teenager voice surface to embarrass me so? Dr. N is not my belt-toting ex-step-father, now very much dead, may he rest in peace…)

Dr. N looked at me with his disappointed face. You know the one that all fathers know how to give their grown daughters: the “I’m disappointed in your behavior, because I know you have a better vocabulary, and you shouldn’t sass your elders – and I really don’t know what to do with you because I can’t ground you anymore ” look.

More silence. And then he calmly, and quietly said: You put ONE drop in a small glass of water. Mix it up. Then drink half a glass.

((What BRILLIANCE!))

“Then if that is too much, you only drink ½ of ½ - so that you’re only getting ¼ a drop. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir”, I chirped - realizing I’m sitting before BRILLANCE incarnated!

He thought my energized response was more sarcasm. “Let’s go over the instructions again” this time pointing at me briefly and then writing the instructions down on a separate prescription pad.

“Do you understand?” almost quizzing me now.

I repeated the instructions, trying to keep my vocal chords vibrating at the same monotone level, so as not to appear to be the sassy bitch that I have apparently morphed into!

((And by the way – if you are a sassy mouth bitch, too – and you happen to have Lyme disease – this can easily be explained away by the spirochetes swimming in your brain tissue. You mustn’t feel guilty. Embrace it. Use it for good. Explain to your in-laws that you are no longer in full control of your arms & legs a lot of times, nevertheless such a small organ as your tongue! Remind them the ‘real’ you would never have said those things…in church…in front of their pastor!))

Again, he thought I was not being serious enough. “You will get deathly ill, if you start off with a high dosage.”

“Yes sir, I understand.” I mustered all the sincerity I could so that we could move on to the next topic, which I had typed up on my agenda – of which I had given him a copy.

I tried to move on to the next topic: “Losing My Mind” – but he stopped me. I think he, being the one with the advanced degrees doesn’t like it when I try to run the show. He likes to take things at his own pace. This, naturally, frustrates the hell out of ‘Madam Control Freak’ – another one of my personalities.

Dr. N said: “Let’s talk more about the Mepron. It is expensive. Do you have insurance?”

“Yes.”

“Good. This medicine costs around $500.”

I suddenly tried to perform advanced math in my head – trying to determine what my pharmacy co-pay would be, while simultaneously trying to figure out how I would break this news to my husband. I don’t know why I attempted the whole math feat, as I still have to count on my fingers to add any numbers greater than 4.

Dr. N interrupted my silence with more of his words. “Mepron can tend to make one a little emotionally unstable. This is when the rider really must be in control of the horse.”

(Rider? Horse? I’ll bet I’ve missed something….damn the Lyme brain!)

“The rider & horse?” I asked this, faking a sense of humble timidity, so as not to wake his stern belt-toting step-father voice.

Giddyup!
As I’ve mentioned, Dr. N loves a good analogy. I think he’s mentioned something before about my horse being out of control – around the time he was telling me that I had “frontal lobe disinhibition” which is the medical term that excuses me from being that sassy mouthed bitch.

Dr. N turned my agenda over and on the back of the paper started drawing little pictures of a stick ‘rider’, and a little horsey – which I informed him looked more like a moose, and to keep his day job. He forced a smile. It was a pity smile – just like my husband gives me pity laughs when I try to turn any situation into a reason to laugh. (Why am I the only one that thinks I’m funny around here?)

He said, “The body is like the horse. This is the physical – your genetics, your (ego) personality, etc.; and the rider is like your soul.

This medication may make your horse feel ‘out of control’. Therefore, your rider must be in charge.”

Naturally I’m seriously paraphrasing here. No one can certainly expect ME to remember anything word for word anymore. Besides, I was too busy trying to keep up with the abstract conversation.

I, too, am a lover of metaphors – but thanks to the spirochetes and the protozoa (babesiosis) – it’s difficult for me to switch from a “concrete” type conversation to an “abstract” one, and then back again. It’s similar to me driving my husband’s stick shift truck. Sometimes I get so frustrated trying to keep from grinding the shit out of the gears that it’s hard to pay attention to the dumb ass pedestrian that has darted out in front of me! (God is merciful.)

He asked me if I understood the metaphor. Although I said, “Uh-huh” (which is an affirmative, for those of you that don’t speak ‘gutteral.’), apparently the glazed over appearance of my eyes conveyed to him that I was having trouble keeping up.

So – we went over it again. FINALLY, I understood. I said, “Oh, so you want me to find my inner jockey?!”

He said, “YES” with much relief, and just the tiniest hint of excitement.

But then, I leaned in a little closer to him and said,: “Fine. But what do you do when your horse is crazy as shit?”

A little exasperated, Dr N replied: “Reign it in.”

AH HAH! I understood clearly. This is the ultimate task – our basic human endeavor – to allow our spiritual nature to conquer our bodies. This is the ultimate goal – to realize & understand that “We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” This is opposite to how most of us perceive our lives, isn’t it?

Wow. I was feeling very spiritual about my shitty physical experience. I felt like my minister, herself, had just delivered a powerful sermon.

I was then sucked back into the physical concrete realm as he said: “Next subject?”

Losing My Mind
Yes, that is a subject that many people should bring up with their doctors – the feeling of losing one’s mind. But they don’t, and that is why we live in such a crazy ass world. Unfortunately, those people that are brave enough to say it are usually given ample amounts of anti-depressants and told to go home and rest.

But this wasn’t about me being depressed, although that is definitely an emotion that I have been grappling with the last few weeks…..okay, I hear you –“Tell the truth, wiseass!” I’ve been battling depression for MONTHS. Happy now?

One of the things that concerned me the most was the fact that that very morning, while attempting to give myself my heparin shot in my stomach, I caught myself just in time before I injected myself with a syringe of air. Yes, a whole syringe of air.

I am getting so accustomed to the process of the shot, I decided to multitask and read my email while preparing it. The only problem was that I forget to pull the medication into the syringe. I had almost pierced the skin of the bruised flab I call my stomach when I noticed it. It scared me to death.

We’ve all seen the movies where the evil person comes into a patient’s room they inject a syringe full of air into the IV tube of the unconscious victim….killing their poor ass. I thought for sure that I had almost killed myself. Like, whoops! Didn’t mean for that to happen!

But Dr. N did his best to calm my fears by telling me that I’m using the small insulin needles and that it would have to be a bigger needle to get through the layers of skin and fat & do any real damage.

I think I would have been offended about the whole ‘fat’ comment if it had been uttered by anyone else, and for a different purpose. But it was true. I do have quite a lovely layer of protective fat. God bless my fat.

That reassurance did not solve the whole ‘losing my mind’ problem. No, not at all.

I explained to Dr. N that I just can’t keep up with things. I’m constantly misplacing things; forgetting what I’m looking for; wondering if I’ve just taken my medications, and if so, which ones…my fellow Lymies understand, don’t you?

I told him how I kept forgetting that all those books from the library were not mine. I confessed that my library fines are now in the triple digits – that I am most certainly the “Queen of Library Fines” and I don’t like it one bit!

((I have had some books & cassette tapes checked out since…last JUNE!!! It is now May….HELLO?!! How does library book amnesia happen…and was this information perhaps locked away in my hippocampus? And why doesn’t the library have a special policy for the mentally challenged? They should excuse my fines. I shall write them a letter….subtly suggesting that they should have more compassion for the disabled…and perhaps I should take this matter up with the mayor, the city council, and our local newspaper with a circulation in the mega-thousands… NO. If I make a stink out of it – then my husband might surely get wind of it and find out just how high my fines are. It was a lot of books. Damn the Lyme brain!))

Dr. N suggested that I write things down in a notebook.

I broke out into an inappropriate amount of laughter. “I DO write things down, Dr. N! I literally have dozens of notebooks! I just can’t seem to remember what I write in which notebook, and forget that I actually need to consult them from time to time!”

Dr. N, in his fatherly wisdom said, “Use just one notebook.”

What a simple solution.

I decided I had taken up enough of my appointment time by being a pain in the ass (I mean there’s only so much a man can take) and I just said, “OK”.

Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself: “Yes, and then what the shit happens when I lose the notebook? Then I’m really screwed!”

We were almost to the end of my agenda, as we only had a couple more topics to cover, but I’m intuitive enough to realize that he was getting a little ‘antsy’ – knowing he had more high-maintenance patients waiting to be seen and needing to get the lunatic woman out of his office.

I quickly begged for a prescription for Diflucan for the yeast infection for which I KNOW that I KNOW that I KNOW I am definitely NOT hallucinating! (And for those of you that are eating lunch while reading this – I will be very kind and not go into any details about that! See how nice I am to you people?)

On my way out the door, I asked him about advocacy – about if he had opinions on what needed to happen politically for Lyme to be taken more seriously in the medical community, etc.

And he kindly said that he really didn’t have time to discuss it. But as he was walking me to the Vampire room – the room where my blood is (willingly) stolen from my veins, I asked him for just a quick opinion.

Instead he started talking about peace, and that politics is about adversity, and he wasn’t really about adversity, and suggested that I talk to others instead.

I realize if I pushed the subject with him, that my 'horse' was going to get really confused, so I just shook the flies away from my head and whinnied out: “OK. Thanks. ”

2-4-6-8
“2-4-6-8- C’mon Y’all Let’s Advocate!”

I came up with that cheer. Really creative & inspiring, don’t you think?

I think I shall take pom-poms to my next doctor’s appointment and try it out on Dr. N. Do you dare me? I do so love a good dare.

For those of you that have been following the melodrama of my blog – I will remind you that I am quite serious about this whole advocacy business.

I told you I have found a friend with much Capitol Hill experience – my friend “BB” – who is still NOT a stripper, despite the nickname I’ve given her. She & I have become such good friends lately. It really shocks me how well we get along & how much we’ve come to support each other – especially when I start to think: Since when did I start having friends? This is so unusual. I mean this is really an odd experience for me.

Sure, I have lots of friendly acquaintances that I speak to occasionally and would definitely support them emotionally if I knew they had a problem – but it’s the type of relationship that we don’t really do that because we don’t talk or see each other enough to realize that all our lives are filled with moments of crap for which we could be supportive of one another…because Geez – that’s a lot of damned effort!

So my budding friendship with BB is really a nice change for me, especially considering she is a nice conservative lady with strong ties to the political community, and I’m a sassy mouth bitch that looks at most politicians as being either as shady as a 50-year old elm tree; or more of a good ol’ boy goober than, well,…Goober from the Andy Griffith show.

“Shazaam!” Oh wait, that was Gomer’s line.

Now, have I told you the news? It’s so hard for me to keep up with things I’ve thought about saying or writing versus things I have actually said or written.

I’m starting a new website.

Yes, that’s right. DR Wiseass is a fool.

As indicated previously, I know next to nothing about HTML which is the language of websites – but I push forward – bravely conquering new worlds…..(insert Star Trek music here….)

For the past several weeks, I’ve been playing around with the free websites – which, for the most part, are OK if you want to keep things simple – but if you’re a complicated anal-retentive Virgo like me – those websites suck. Therefore, you move on to the websites that require money.

Yes, that’s right. DR Wiseass is a fool willing to easily part with her money. My hubby isn’t quite as willing to part with money, so let’s just keep this our little secret. Shhh!

And yes, I hear you. You ask: “DR Wiseass, you are a very sick & busy woman that can not keep up with the laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, or even updating your stupid-ass blog on a regular basis….why on earth would you devote so much of your valuable time & talent (hahahahaha) to trying to learn how to develop a new website?

WHY? Well, what a good question! You people are smarter than I give you credit for!

It’s all about the advocacy, silly! I can’t write letters to politicians and the media and use my DR Wiseass name or my DR Wiseass sassy-mouth bitch voice, now can I? I can’t send them to my damn BLOG for more information, now can I?

WELL, actually I can – and have upon an occasion or two – but I’m thinking a new website will give me more of a sense of credibility – at least for those who have not experienced my blog.

Naturally in the main website I will most definitely attempt to keep the following words omitted: piss, damn, shit, hell, ass, bitch, bastard, and F! Did I leave anything out? (AND NO! I try not to type the genitalia words…I DO have SOME boundaries, you know!)

And I hear you – weeping – getting all riled up thinking I’m leaving you….

But NO, no no! Don’t worry precious ones, I wouldn’t do that….even though I’ve put blog updates on the back burner a lot – it’s not that I’m gone….just sick & busy.

(Ah, I remember when my therapist told me she was going to be a real estate agent, hoping to make enough money to actually pay her bills. I started weeping – thinking she was ABANDONING ME!! I couldn’t take it at the time – had too many transference issues … Just remembering - it still makes me shake! Oh wait, those are just my fasciculations! (I believe that’s the fancy ass medical term that means all of my body parts are trembling. I could be wrong, though. It’s not in my dictionary.)

Hopefully before too long, I will announce the grand opening of my website, where YES, I will include my vulager blog as a separate page for those that must get their semi-regular dose of piss & vinegar.

Dry your tears, precious ones, it’ll be OK.

The Mepron Diet
As mentioned above, I got my prescription for Mepron last week. And Dr. N was wrong. Mepron doesn’t cost $500 – not around these parts. The retail price for Mepron at my pharmacy was a whopping $750 – which means my portion was $207. I do not know the complicated mathematical formula used to arrive at this $207 number, and at this point prefer to just stay ignorant. I just handed them my debit card, the one that has been used so much lately that the numbers have almost completely rubbed off, and did my best to fight the tears. And of course the Zithromax, which is like Mepron’s required riding buddy cost me another $60.

((Note to self: Talk to financial advisor about investing in pharmaceutical companies.))

On the first night, I took one drop. WOW! It was only a matter of minutes before the burning, spasming, and nausea started. I was thankful that I actually took Dr. N’s advice. It was a miserable evening.

I started taking the Mepron & my antibiotics at night because I’m under the impression that it’s best to do most of my herxing in my sleep. I’m real clever that way.

I stayed on the 1 drop for a few days, until I realized I wasn’t having hardly any herx at all. So I went up to 2 drops….and then finally to 3! My friend BB was truly amazed at how quickly I had ramped up my dosage because so many people just can not tolerate it.

I was just glad that I wasn’t puking my guts up, even though the nausea was starting to become more of a problem on 3 drops. But it was all happening at night – and by the morning – I usually didn’t feel too bad – almost ‘good’ even!

And then it happened: The nausea hit me the other day BEFORE I took my next dose. I was sick as a dog. Major food aversion. Inability to move a muscle without feeling like I would get an invitation to the white porcelain-bowl – an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

I calmly called BB’s number: “What’s wrong with me?”

She concluded that the Mepron had finally caught up with me. “Perhaps it was a delayed reaction, and now you’re paying for it” she said. She suggested I drop my dosage back down to two drops. I agreed.

The last couple of days I’ve been on two drops. Sugar-Free Jello and pretzels are now my main diet staples.

Since I started my Biaxin several weeks ago, I’ve experience some severe nausea from time to time – even had a couple of days where I camped out at the Porcelain Bowl Hotel. (Why is it when you want to puke, that lying naked on the bathroom floor is so comforting….you know, until you realize how filthy your bathroom floor is because not only do you ‘not do windows’ but you haven’t been doing bathroom floors either!)

I’ve been getting used to nausea – but I’ll tell you – Mepron is in a class all by itself.

But there is an “UP” side to the $750 liquid gold puke-maker.

Yesterday, before taking my shower I was standing around naked waiting for the water to warm up and I thought: “Hell, I’ll just step on these scales and see what magic number comes up now.”

I had no expectations. I just did it mostly out of boredom. I’ve come to accept my layers of fat as a way my body protects my major organs from spirochete damage – since the spirochetes love fat. And I’ve generally tried to avoid the scales, as to keep my depression at a stable level.

Thanks to this whole disease process, I had been an astonishing 180 lbs – and I know some of you out there weigh more, and just because I sometimes refer to myself as a fat ass, doesn’t in any way mean that I’m passing judgment on your fat ass. You must know that I’m a gal that freaked out when I gained that ‘freshman 15’ pounds in college, which brought me up to a whopping 125 lbs. Gee – those were the days, weren’t they?

So I hoisted my ass onto the scales. To my astonishment it read: “167.”

167? Are you kidding me? I first started to wonder if one could suddenly become dyslexic. I got off, then back on. “167” again!

I wanted to throw a damned parade. It seems that the antibiotics and the Mepron are like some magical diet plan for Lymies with malarial-type infections. Sure, I’m miserable most of the damn time – but I’m only 167!

Who ever thought I’d see the day where 167 would make me smile.

Who ever thought there’d be a day where I publicly posted the fact that my current weight is 167??

Yes, it was a good day….despite the chunks of vomit in the back of my throat.

Hugs & Kisses,
DR