TMI TMI oh TMI, my TMI

Note the subject, okay? There will be copious amounts of menstruation discussion seeping all throughout this post.

The first day of my most recent period felt like I was being disemboweled with one of those hand-crankin' old fashioned apple peelers.  I've had some beastly days before, sure, but this was the first one in a while where the uterus crampings seemed to be using my large intestine as an amplifier. (One that goes to eleven. At least, mine do.)

I couldn't figure out what to do.  So I slipped into the weird, slow-crawling routine that I generally assume whenever I have a flare: I took my UC meds as ordered. I drank a lot of mint tea and water. I took very small steps when I walked. I took Tylenol - sparingly. I used a heating pad. I chilled after work on the couch.

In fact, nothing really worked. The Tylenol kicked in briefly and wore off quickly. At one point, I was worried that I had some sort of surprise perforation or toxic megacolon or something else horrifying, because my belly was bloating and stiff as a board. In addition to chilling in general, I tried a lot of deep, calming, relaxing breathing, which didn't work too well; at the end of the second day in, my shoulders were stiffer than my belly.

Then, on the afternoon of day three, the pain dwindled and disappeared. The period, of course, continued merrily along with minimal fuss and cramps. At no point did I see any blood out the back door, although it can be hard to tell when you're flaring and menstruating simultaneously. Naturally I was happy to be feeling better, but I'm still frustrated as to how to prepare for such a sudden assault the next time it occurs. That's the thing about having ulcerative colitis - at least, in my case. Even if one is in remission with successful ongoing treatment or medication or what have you, there is always a next time.

So, in the infernal internal equation of hellacious period + ulcerative colitis - riding it out like a champ, what's a lady in pain to do?

...

The Answer: homemade shortbread. Always shortbread, dears. With weak tea.

Scotch Shortbread
From The Fanny Farmer Baking Book, published in 1984.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Beat 2 sticks (1 cup) of butter until smooth and creamy. Add 2/3 cups of confectioner's sugar and 1 tsp vanilla extract, and beat well. Stir and sift together 2 cups flour and 1/4 tsp salt, then add to butter mixture and beat until completely mixed.

On a lightly floured surface, turn out the dough. You can prepare the cookies in multiple ways, by rolling out in a sheet 1/2-inch thick and cutting with a cookie cutter, or by rolling up the dough in a log and slicing 1/2-inch cookies off. Also suggested is to pat the dough into a round pie pan, bake, then cut into wedges like pie pieces when serving. Place cookies about 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheets, prick 3 times with a fork, and bake for about 20 minutes or until cookies have barely browned around the edges. Don't over bake; they should not be completely brown. Remove and cool on a rack.

Enjoy the buttery goodness, perhaps with an episode of Downton Abbey or other Masterpiece Theatre delights. I'm currently watching the looong miniseries The Jewel in the Crown. Shortbread definitely helps. Although Art Malik is quite entrancing, and there are lots of familiar faces sprinkled throughout.

(If you don't know how to make weak tea, well. Try hard.)

It was not this sharp, ever.

Continued from a previous discussion of Incredibly Awkward Remedies for Crazed Bowel, I bring you one and all, the Rowasa Enema!

If I could play introductory music on here, it'd have to be the Star Trek fight music. You know, the da-da-DA!DA!DA! (etc) tune they trotted out every time Bill Shatner needed to trip somebody, or rip his shirt. (By the way, this is just killing me today.) Ah, Star Trek.
Sadly, I do not have photographic evidence of the RE, so the above montage will have to suffice. The RE has been my companion on a few adventures. I particularly recall some contortions in a bachelor pad bathroom, on a floor wet from showers, my face inches from suspiciously curly hairs...but enough romance, let's get back to basics.

The first time I filled an RE prescription, my CNP made sure I had plenty: I walked out of Walgreens lugging two shopping bags loaded with boxes. I got home and ate some mashed potatoes, sat on the toilet a while and read The Corrections to get myself in the mood for later. I ignored the boxes, which was easy as I'd hidden them in the closet in the bin with scarves and hats. A. would never think to look there in August, I chortled to myself. A. came home, we watched a movie, he ate some pizza, I ate some applesauce, and we went to bed. I waited until I felt him twitch a few times, and then I slipped out to the living room.

"Put a towel on the floor the first time you do this," my CNP had said. "It can stain."
Feeling virginal, I spread a nice red towel on the carpet, dragged out the boxes and slit open the foil packaging. It felt like opening a science project, or maybe some freeze-dried spices.

The bottles were small with little caps. I spread the instructions out and tried to position myself in the least vulnerable way the manufacturers suggested. I gritted my teeth, hiked up my nightgown (oh devious!) and inserted.

"What are you doing?" A. asked.

It may have been obvious.

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.