Pertaining to organic sun-dried colon cleansers

"You look anemic," A. said as we relaxed in the sack.

"I have dark circles?"

"Oh yeah. You know what's good for that?"

"Having a mutant stick a giant syringe in your ass while you're passed out on the toilet?"

"Nope. Raisins."

According the Sun Maiden, a quarter cup of raisins will give you ten percent of your daily iron requirement. A. bought a few bags, filled little bowls with dark pulpy nuggets and put them around the living room. We ate eight ounces each.

"They're crunching," I said. "Are raisins supposed to crunch?" My tongue felt like it was covered with papercuts.
"Oh, that. It's bits of wood, and grapevine," A. explained, munching with apparent ease. (How does he know so much about shrivelled fruit? Clearly there is some serious study going on while I'm at work.)

By the time Barbara Walters came on I was feeling a bit funny.

"What's wrong?" A. asked. "Too much iron in your blood?"
"Har har," I said as I crashed into the bathroom.

Sadly, there is only one remedy that will stop the California Raisins from rocking out in my intestines...

The Last Medication.

(Of Doom and Incredible Awkwardness on Road Trips)

Fear is the mind-killer, or, Screw the presentation, sir, you'll have to excuse me.

If there is anything good to be said about Ulcerative Colitis, (and those of you who consider "good" to mean any weight loss, sit down.) it would be the relaxation. At moments when the keys and the hamburgers are locked in the running car, which is stuck on the vibrating railroad tracks, when even A. is tearing his hair out or kicking kittens, I am so zen it is disgusting.

I used to have hissy fits over everything. The excitement! The drama! Can I cry or spill something? Hell, yes! And then we'll cry about spilled milk! (or popcorn. Whichever is handy.) I miss throwing things out windows, and having a reasonable excuse to gorge myself on cadbury mini-eggs.

So why have I turned over a new-fallen leaf with edges of infinity and the universe? Because any sort of stress starts the gut a-roiling. So far I'm doing pretty well at irritating A. with my mellowness in high-stress situations.

Tonight I have to give a speech about a well-known library computer system.

Gut: Heh heh.

Me: Er. What're you doing?

Gut: Me? Nothing at all. I don't do anything, you know. I just REACT. Especially to messy immune systems and foolish emotions.

Me: Uhum. But I'm calm. I am so calm I am the tiniest dew drop in the smallest fold of a rose petal.

Gut: Really? Rose petals? What about... The Big Speech? The Five Minute Time Limit? The Glowering Professor with itchy stopwatch thumb? Your Silly Pathetic Notecards?

Me: They are not pathetic. Lots of people use them.

Gut: Uh huh. Wow, things are really moving down here, if you get my gist...

Me: Shuttup! Shutit! I am calm! My mellow is not harshed!

Gut: Liar.

Me: holds belly.

Gut: Better relax, or who knows when I'll make my move?

It is hard to be relaxed all the time when your gut talks to you. Damn distracting.

What? Don't think I've got the minerals?

Nothing like pissing out a bunch of supplements, I always say.

Calcium is to combat bone marrow suppression caused by the Imuran, while the multivitamin serves to keep my urethra full of vitamins C, D and B70jillion.

But the little guy? The one on the right, preening in his modest yellow heap?

He is special.

That's my birth-defect control!

Unfortunately I don't have any documentation on the type of birth defects Imuran causes, except for the exciting warning Walgreen's prints on their Complete Patient Information:

"FOR WOMEN: THIS MEDICINE HAS BEEN SHOWN TO CAUSE HARM to the human fetus. Avoid becoming pregnant while you are taking this medicine. IF YOU THINK YOU MAY BE PREGNANT, contact your doctor immediately. This medicine should not be used to treat rheumatoid arthritis in pregnant women. THIS MEDICINE IS EXCRETED IN BREAST MILK. DO NOT BREAST-FEED while taking this medicine."

CAPSLOCK = We are serious, bitches. (or was it serious bitches?) (or was it triple eyes? Like an eye in the middle of the forehead, how incredible would THAT be?)

According to my esteemed gutwatcher, the above is really just so much overreaction. Sure, Imuran can really fuck up the average fetus, but with the help of the Wondrous Sparklie that is Folic Acid!, there is no problem, because, see, he knows this couple and the father was on Imuran but the mother took Folic Acid! and the baby looks perfect.

"The baby was fine?"

He replied, "No visible defects."

"So there could be internal defects? Or brain damage?"

(mild annoyance) "Well, anything's possible. But the baby looks fine."

Well, sweet ASS.

So I am on Folic Acid! to make sure my [unexpected] [presumed possible] [as yet nonexistent] baby bears all outward signs of cheeky Little Miss Peaches Township, and to prove my gastro-man right in his Imuranic faith. I am also on the Pill so as to crush any Little Miss PTs before they can become a peachy little zygote.

Under such daunting circumstances, any baby created in my womb would clearly be Super. Or at least have an adamantium intestine.

Are you listening, A.? I'm in a pro-mood again.

Mad Hot Bathroom, pt. 1

"Jesus god, strike a match!" A. says as he recoils from our apartment bathroom.

This really works, you know. The sulphury smell covers all hint of evil bad wastes in your toilet.

At work, there is an ongoing debate between everyone about the bathroom situation. As most Colitisites will agree, I'm incredibly fortunate to have a ladies' less than twenty paces from my desk, and the best part is that it's a giant, private single-seater, larger than my office space. The single bit is what most of my colleagues do NOT like.

"Really, it's big enough, we should just set up some stall walls and put in another toilet, because it's so inconvenient," R said.

"Why? Is it that hard to go downstairs? What's the big deal? I think it's nice." I started sweating and tried to slow down. "Um. It's just a bathroom. No problem."

I LOVE this bathroom. Althought there is the wild one, her identity as yet a mystery, who comes in every day about noon and can't seem to tear off toilet paper larger than a shred (which she then deposits on the floor and tries again, till it's a ticker tape parade in there).

There is the woman who, WITHOUT FAIL, comes whilst I am in the middle of a particularly noisy expression; she trips up in her spike heels, raps on the door twice and then without pausing leverages her entire strength and body weight against the frail deadbolt. It faltered yesterday, and I sat frozen with my pants definitely nowhere near my ankles. But she didn't notice her near success, and after heaving a tortured sigh, trip-trapped away again. She sounds light and airy on those heels, but she has the power of a pissed rhino.

There is the mad perfumer, who thinks that if she sprays enough scent no one will know she does what all women do, and there is the avid hand washer who does not lock the door (she's only washing her hands!) and then you rush in undoing your belt while she's lathering up. (Possible porno opener?)

Lately, I've been smelling a whiff of smoke in there. It's not the stale tanginess of cigarettes. Someone, I have not found out who, is Jesus-god-lighting a match to spare us all.

Mad Hot Bathroom, prequel. Or, diversions of the toliet bound

OH GOOD GOD.

Perhaps the sweepstakes will be geared toward IBD kiddos?

And maybe that Crapcake Hotel Heiress will donate all her money to CCFA research.

Ulcerative Colitis and Smoking Tabacky, or, thanks a bunch, HOUSE writers.

Certain moronic cigarette advocates on the web are peeing their pants: there is evidence that nicotine is a helpful treatment for UC sufferers. In other words, "Yay cigarettes! Smoke a lot and your colitis will be okay!" Some of the bullshit facts quoted include:

1. Non-smokers are more likely to develop UC
2. Cigarettes provide relief to all UC sufferers
3. Your overall quality of life will improve if you take up smoking because then your UC won't hurt and cigarettes never add complications to anyone's health, especially folks who are using dysplasia-encouraging immunosuppressors.

I think this is the most oft-wrongly-interpreted information, and I'm about to add my own biased opinion to the mix.

(Just for the record, I've never seen House, I love Hugh Laurie, and I love/d/olove cigarettes. Here's a bucket of salt.)

First, point one oversimplifies what happens when UC first rears its bloody head; smoking causes a suppression of the immune system, much like some of the medications UCers take. I don't think that non-smokers are more likely to develop UC; a non-smoking 21-year-old male and a smoking 21-year-old male may have the same chances genetically speaking. It's just that cigarettes/nicotine act as a treatment, suppressing the outward signs of UC. When smokers quit, the suddenly-deprived bowel freaks the hell out.

This is directly related to point two, because not all UC sufferers are former or current smokers. It's unproven whether or not nicotine gives marked relief to UC patients who have never delighted in the cig funpark.

Third, some drugs such as Imuran (!) have been shown to possibly cause dysplasia, or abnormal growth or development of organs/cells (fingers growing out of legs! Um...all right, I wish), which can lead to cancer. Why, oh, why would one want to increase that possibility by adding carcinogens? Granted, the two may work on very different levels, but because the body is a integrated system I can't imagine the two would avoid each other.

Apparently, on an early episode of House, the good doctor prescribes cigarettes to a patient, saying studies have shown that "cigarette smoking is one of the most effective ways to control inflammatory bowel"... it is not said which specific IBD the patient has (Crohn's is also classed as IBD, and smoking can exacerbate Crohnies' symptoms) and cigarettes are lauded as "most effective?" They are cheap, yes. They will not keep you in remission, so I would not call that most effective. My personal experience is that now I've given up on a regular basis, my UC gets a little squirrelly if I indulge again.

They taste nice, though.

From Vegas Lights (at the bottom, soft pack heaven) to These Tasty Things, I miss them so much.

Even the crappy VL's at 1.69 per pack with their dopey roulette wheel packaging.

I miss them. But I don't delude myself thinking they're good for me.

In other news, I had some fascinating bathroom experiences yesterday. But they can wait...





House quotes from: House MD Guide: Blogs, Answers
Some medical info from:
Health Reference Center Academic
Hanauer, SB "Medical therapy of ulcerative colitis." The Lancet. v342, n.8868. 14 Aug 1993. p412
Srivastava ED et al. "Smoking, humoral immunity, and ulcerative colitis." Gut. v32, n.9 Sept 1991. p1016
Lashner BA et al. "Testing nicotine gum for ulcerative colitis patients..." Digestive Diseases and Sciences. v35, n.7 July 1990. p827

Can you take my pills? Can you take my big horse pills?

Tumeric! Or Turmeric! Either way, this Yellow Dusty Spice will soon be coming to an intestine near you! (and by you I do mean YOU -insert pointy finger graphic here followed by highfalutin diet advice that no one with a hearty chocolate addiction would deign to follow, much less read past the first "Sure, you can eat _____! In moderation-" and I mean me, of course.)

I would be interested to try this, but as I'm in remission and have been for over two years, I don't think I will wholeheartedly. It's hard to be open to new treatments when you can go to the bathroom and afterwards scream in abject, delirious happiness,
"Honey! Come look! It has shape, and density!" In fact, apart from the potentially mind-numbing side effects, I enjoy taking pills. According to my mom, when I was little I'd divvy up fruit snacks into different doses, take them all at once and make terribly solemn faces about my illness.

(Damn you, Genes. Is this how you get your kicks, or was this an early warning system, telling me that fruit would be a fickle friend in the future?)

My sidekick drug is Colazal. It is a sidekick in every sense. When taken alone, it does absolutely nothing for my gut; the big bad immune system ties it to a chair and dangles it off a skyscraper, waiting for the real shit* to show up. It is also the biggest pill, and doesn't quite know what to do with itself if Imuran dawdles. Unfortunately it does enough punching and kicking to help in the alley fight, so I notice if I forget to take it along. It comes in a giant bag (one that pharmacy workers can never find until I slip them some cash for their trouble) because of my 3-3xday dosing schedule. It's all about size, not stamina, with Colazal.

It also likes to melt in the heat of my hand. Like M&Ms, except disgusting and greasy and not chocolatey at all.

But it lets me eat chocolate on a regular basis, which is good for my stress-free lifestyle. If turmeric can offer a similar compromise, we might be in business.

If not, well, suck it up, liver.



*All off-color puns in this blog are purely unintentional and are sponsored by Baritop.

Generically yours, pt. 2, or Contraband Confetti!

Imuran can be a real pain in the ass, but I'm more comfortable now than I've ever been.

After I was diagnosed via Live! television, my doctor prescribed one of the 5-ASAs (5-Aminosalicylates, mesalamine, usually?): Asacol, which she described to me as a internal topical drug. It worked nicely until I returned to work and my computer screen began dissolving in sparkly waves, much like the Scooby-Doo effect. Exit Asacol.

Next up on the relatively-harmless-for-twenty-or-so-years was Pentasa, a slightly milder, different 5-ASA stuffed in whopping big capsules. I took a dose of about 1500 mgs per day, which I think was three pills taken at varying times. It looked like I was pooping confetti. Or like I'd chugged a bottle of cake decorating dots - sadly, without the party colors.
Even with the party going on four times daily, Dr. K wanted to try Pentasa for a little longer. The cash price for the 500 mg pills was a little steep, so my mom (who works as a tech in a pharmacy) decided that we should try ordering from Canada. So we ordered online and waited, somewhat furtively, for the package to show up.

Pentasa is a pretty reliable drug. When it works, it works well. When it doesn't, you generally get confetti-poop and a whole bucket of gut ache. A few days after my giant Canadian package arrived, Dr. K decided the Pentasa wasn't working (which it wasn't) and that we should try the next level of drug, immunosuppressors. She handed me a info sheet about 6-MP and we talked about the horrendous side effects, and she told me to stop worrying/sniffling/crying. (And fuck YOU, I thought, but she must see that/hear that all the time, for she did not respond to my psychic threats.) I sat on my hands thinking about the Pentasa (illegal? Law-bendy? No problem?). I think doctors have a privacy clause with patients, right? They can't tell the feds that you buy your expensive meds from outside the country, (traitorous hooch) but how else did those busloads of people get caught?

A ha. Ha. Ahem.

So I went home with an unfilled prescription, to some roommates who had Cheetoes, bad romantic comedies, and beer, and to a heavy box of Canadian Pentasa. Because the best thing you can do in these cases is eat bad food and drink alcohol, and bust your gut even more laughing at stupid, pseudo-romantic lines like,

"Because someone once told me that the brown ones have less artificial coloring, because chocolate is already brown."

aaaand cue the strings!

I think that box of pills is still stashed in my old bedroom at my folks' house.