Inappropriate happiness, here I come!

chemical structure of prednisone, from wiki and credited to Bryan Derksen

That's right, folks. It's prednisone time. Devil Pred. Moonface Maker. Instigator of any and all Popcorn Freakouts. That Tricksy Pharmaceutical Which Lures Ye in With Complectional Clearing -- aaand, I'm getting distracted. Which is probably a side effect, though, so even though I've only taken two doses so far, clearly any irregularities in my logic from yesterday on are due to evil, evil, pred.

I do so love that side effects list. It's such an amazing sell for the drug. You go from "headache" and "slight dizziness" to things like:

• changes in the way fat is spread around the body
• bulging eyes
• changes in personality
• extreme changes in mood
• decreased sexual desire

 Also, if you stop taking it too quickly, you can have changes in skin color and major, major salt cravings. Salt. Cravings.

I don't know if I've ever detailed the popcorn incident here for you guys, but let me lay it out for you now. Picture me - well, not yet as the above. Maybe instead as good ol' Nancy Crater, et al.

Captain's log, (star)date 2003-whatever-whatever. I'd recently graduated from undergrad, been diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, and moved up to northern Minnesota to live with A., who was then my boyfriend. It took me a while to find a proper gastro (aka ANY), plus I had some issues with medical records and the effective transfer of such from one Minnesota hospital to another. The biggest issue being that the new hospital system wouldn't take me on without a transfer of record.

(Let's take a moment to appreciate the key lesson learned, everybody: always get a copy of your medical records before moving. God fucking forbid you should have to depend on these whaddyacallits, these telephones and fax machines and other strange newfangled contraptions.)

Finally I got with my new doctor. We had the obligatory drug discussion, and because none of the lower level drugs had done a damn thing, I started taking Imuran. However, Imuran is interesting. It's an immunosuppressant that, yes, suppresses your screwy immune system, and obviously such a drastic thing takes a long time to really kick in: six months, to be exact. So to keep me alive, vertical, and functioning in the meantime, they also gave me a six-month prescription of prednisone.

Months one and two were amazing. The blood disappeared. The constant knifelike ache in my gut - gone, like it had never existed. I could eat real food again. Yay for good and all! Also, my complexion got really nice. I was glowing, and I assure you, I have never glowed before in my life. (I'm not sayin' I ain't Nancy Crater, I just recognize both my good and my non-glowy points.)

In month three, however, I started to show some of the less-than-stellar pred side effects. My effervescent face sank into mooniness. I was less and less able to sleep through the night, and I had some of the most bizarre and vivid dreams ever. I got snappish and emotional, and A. put up with it, probably since the memory of nice-ish me wasn't too far off.

Somewhere in one of those later months I had a bad day at work, and I decided that the best cure for a bad workday was a giant bowl of popcorn. Obviously. So I went home and made a beautiful giant bowl of popcorn with butter and salt, just brimming with deliciousness, and put a movie in and went back to the kitchen to get a glass of water and accidentally knocked the whole delicously-brimming thing off the counter. The bowl was ceramic, so it shattered. And I looked down at that popcorn, and I think in some part of my mind I was all, oops, ha ha, you dumbass, but that part was completely lost in what I actually did, which was that I pitched a fit, had a meltdown malestrom of shrieking/crying/swearing that made no goddamn sense at all outside of, I don't know, a massacre.

Luckily/unluckily for both of us, A. was home. He successfully managed not to freak out at me freaking out, pulled me together with something really blasé like, "Okay. It's popcorn."

Cue me crying, etc., somehow unable to deal with

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's popcorn."

(Reader, I married him.)

Shockingly, it was just popcorn. And probably that loaded phrase "popcorn incident" inspires some lurid imaginings. But really, it was just spilled popcorn.

In any case, post-absolutely ridiculous popcorn non-trauma, this story has a somewhat happy ending. I'm not likely to be on prednisone for that long of a stretch ever again. But the changes to my personality were so sneaky and slow, and so completely interwoven with the heavenly feelings of sweet, relaxed gut relief that I'm incurably wary of the stuff. I'll take it for a month, and try not to laugh at anyone's pain.

I probably will make popcorn, though. And soooon.

Boop-boop, be doop, BOOP! Or, Lung disorders.

Could UCers and Crohnies develop BOOP?

I'm unsure if this is a real problem for IBDers. Here's a possibly more legitimate link for Wiki-waries.

I first got pneumonia the winter after my diagnosis. Nothing like BOOP, it began as a cold and then developed into what felt like an iron patch in my chest, pressing me into a doubled-over position when I tried to climb the five flights of stairs to the apartment. I must've looked like such a smoker! But the whole time, I thought, hey, I should go to the doctor again because the first Cobra-covered CT scan had found nothing. They would believe me now, I could barely walk up the stairs. I could barely ... damn it.

They found an eeny spot on the left lung. They gave me a shot. No BOOP, no COP, no Popcorn Workers Lung (though not for lack of trying, mmm...), just a baby pneumonia with no exit strategy.

Still, the idea of BOOP interests me, and not just because it's fun to say. Boopboopboop. But "Bronchiolitis Obliterans Organising Pneumonia" seems to be a related disease, rather than a result of ulcerative colitis or other inflammatory autoimmune disease (as Wikipedia says). I suppose I shall have to ask a damn doctor.


With the pneumonia scare, I met the first general practitioner I've ever liked. He had one ear. Ours was a short, sweet yet blood-curdlingly tragic tale.

Achy breaky colon

Anything I say about Billy Ray Cyrus could only help his career, so I'll keep my mouth shut.

Last night we cleaned out the fridge and I ended up eating a slab of no-bake oatmeal chocolate cookies. Gutwise, this was a problem anyway, as a slab of anything now equals a giant flashing DANGER, but sadly, the no-bake did not fill me up. So I made a batch of popcorn. With butter. And garlic salt. And shredded cheese.

My gut feels like the bacteria have declared civil war and are duking it out with Uzis.

In completely unrelated news, I seem to be stuck in a weird, inexplicable rut weight-wise.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing, since IBDers can have crap problems with weight gain. But eating slabs of cookie does not a healthy body make, so I'm on the lookout for new, unobtrusive di-er, lifestyles that won't set off the ulcerative colitis but WILL make some of the cookie-slab-chub dwindle away.

This looks interesting. A co-worker of mine owns the book, and lent me it. Invented by a doctor named Peter D'Adamo, (which reads like Adama...waves of trust are flowing into me) it bases your diet on your blood type and, consequently, your ethnic heritage. You get to feel special and singled-out, and you get to eat a certain, special singled-out kind of way. Most of the dietary suggestions seem healthy and balanced, especially if you're a B-, which I am. (Suddenly I feel so safe and classified! Hurrah, I'm special!)

However, Bs are not supposed to eat corn. Corn equals demon seed for Bs.

Oh, Doctor D'Adamo. You almost had me!