I was digging through my older entries and realized that most of my flares happen in fall - August or September, to be specific. Since I'm feeling crabby, I'm tempted to blame them on my inability to deal with (or warm to, heh) the Texas heat, but it's a phenomenon that started before A. and I moved here. It's possible I don't deal well with any heat? Or perhaps there's something about fall that sets my gut a-squirming. Season of change? Forgotten back-to-school jitters? The harvest moon?
Things have gotten quieter on the intestinal front, but there's still some delightful cramping and blood going on. In addition, my thinking is getting typically insular, my vision is tunneling, and my fingers are dried out and wrinkly from too many trips to the bathroom and the subsequent required handwashings. I am eating homemade chicken soup (the real kind, not my cheap-ass speciality). I am throwing all my meds down the hatch. I am contemplating calling the damn doctor, who will be sure to put me the Devil Pred. This is all eerily reminiscent of last year, when I finally finished the damn taper at the end of October.
Hmph. Stupid flare. Stupid Pred. Stupid everything.
Showing posts with label woe is I. Show all posts
Showing posts with label woe is I. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Urgh, the sequel
New mini-flare occurred this weekend, predictably, I suppose, after a week-to-month's buildup of too many consecutive baked beans, beers, mildly spicy stuff, popcorn, cheese puffs, Indian food, and two glasses of dark cola. I should be grateful it's not a flare-flare, a flare with teeth. But it's still kicking my ass into this week.
One of the hardest parts is eating. In addition to the emergency I'm on a self-imposed bland diet to shut down the crazy intestinal spasming, and what gets me irate about it is how difficult it is to do. And I'm not talking about the delicious food cravings that start after a few days in. It's really hard to cover your daily caloric requirements with applesauce, yogurt, rice, bananas, etc. Two dubious internet resources and a calculator show me I'd have to eat over ten servings of applesauce to make it. And forget about nutritional requirements, because they are not the priority.
In any case. After a couple of meals it feels like you're stuffing pillowfuls of glop down your throat, because bland diets are, by nature, bland bland bland. And you start to feel adverse to eating, and then because you're eating less anyway you start to feel weak and hopeless, and bland bland bland - er, blah blah blah.
Why yes, I am a ball of delight in times like these. Come back any time! Here, have a dog picture:
Luckily I have some good books on hand. After watching the Mark Gatiss BBC Horror thingie, I was reminded by Google that he'd also written some books, so I picked up The Vesuvius Club. So far it's ridiculous, scandalous, silly, exciting, mysterious, and almost exhausting to read -- but in a compelling way. I'm only 70 pages in, but I can recommend it that far wholeheartedly.
One of the hardest parts is eating. In addition to the emergency I'm on a self-imposed bland diet to shut down the crazy intestinal spasming, and what gets me irate about it is how difficult it is to do. And I'm not talking about the delicious food cravings that start after a few days in. It's really hard to cover your daily caloric requirements with applesauce, yogurt, rice, bananas, etc. Two dubious internet resources and a calculator show me I'd have to eat over ten servings of applesauce to make it. And forget about nutritional requirements, because they are not the priority.
In any case. After a couple of meals it feels like you're stuffing pillowfuls of glop down your throat, because bland diets are, by nature, bland bland bland. And you start to feel adverse to eating, and then because you're eating less anyway you start to feel weak and hopeless, and bland bland bland - er, blah blah blah.
Why yes, I am a ball of delight in times like these. Come back any time! Here, have a dog picture:
 |
| Puppydog would gladly eat all that applesauce for me. Yep, uh huh. |
Luckily I have some good books on hand. After watching the Mark Gatiss BBC Horror thingie, I was reminded by Google that he'd also written some books, so I picked up The Vesuvius Club. So far it's ridiculous, scandalous, silly, exciting, mysterious, and almost exhausting to read -- but in a compelling way. I'm only 70 pages in, but I can recommend it that far wholeheartedly.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The head, it explodes
The dog has fleas. The dog has fleas. Consequently A. and I also have fleas - or at least A. did last night, on his leg. Don't get me wrong, I grew up reading Ranger Rick and World and various books about critters, even some of my folks and grandparents' National Geographics (none of which inured me to spiders, but what can you do?) but I was still unprepared for how far these bad boys can jump. It was unreal.
So we gave her a quick bath just to scare the little bastards, and today A.'s hitting up the vet and I'm hitting up the store for some weird electrostatic powder thingie that will hopefully clean the carpets and finally we're both shunning the sweet little fleabag until she can be dipped with effective! Prescription! Fleabag cream! And bathed again. At least she doesn't sleep in our bed. (Though not for lack of hopeful brown-eyed attempts.)
She'll get over it.
In brighter news, A. and I finally paid off our car. Conversely this makes me want to drive it less than ever. Since it's probably infested with fleas at the moment, this is likely a good thing.
So we gave her a quick bath just to scare the little bastards, and today A.'s hitting up the vet and I'm hitting up the store for some weird electrostatic powder thingie that will hopefully clean the carpets and finally we're both shunning the sweet little fleabag until she can be dipped with effective! Prescription! Fleabag cream! And bathed again. At least she doesn't sleep in our bed. (Though not for lack of hopeful brown-eyed attempts.)
She'll get over it.
In brighter news, A. and I finally paid off our car. Conversely this makes me want to drive it less than ever. Since it's probably infested with fleas at the moment, this is likely a good thing.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Welcome to paranoia land
I am continually struck dumb with fear over the most unthreatening things. For example:
(Gee, I was totally going to shave/hydrate/channel Anne Shirley's oft-mentioned trim ankles before I took this photo. Whoops. Isn't it weird how every heroine in L.M. Montgomery's books have delicate yet strong, slender ankles? I feel like someone must have told Lucy Maud to mind her ankles didn't get fat or no one would ever, ever love her. Or maybe I'm crazy and there were no ankles, and it's my delusion. Hahaha, right, me deluded? Anyway.)
Anyway. This ... thing has graced my delicate yet strong, slender ankle for going on eight years now. I have no idea what it is, and I suspect it's related to Ye Olde Bludy Colon, since it popped into being after my diagnosis. I've since thrust it under every one of my subsequent gastroenterologist's noses, and they all say the same thing:
"Eh."
Followed by some further variant of "Well, it's not oozing or bleeding or horrifically painful - what more do you want?"
To which I guess I have to concede, not too much. It's pretty much the definition of First World Problem. It's probably just a strange spontaneous mole that will develop into melanoma. Big deal.
Gosh, I'm cheery. Happy September! My gut feels delightful yet strong, sort of like my ankles. Here, have a dog pic:
Also, mwahahahahah.
(Gee, I was totally going to shave/hydrate/channel Anne Shirley's oft-mentioned trim ankles before I took this photo. Whoops. Isn't it weird how every heroine in L.M. Montgomery's books have delicate yet strong, slender ankles? I feel like someone must have told Lucy Maud to mind her ankles didn't get fat or no one would ever, ever love her. Or maybe I'm crazy and there were no ankles, and it's my delusion. Hahaha, right, me deluded? Anyway.)
Anyway. This ... thing has graced my delicate yet strong, slender ankle for going on eight years now. I have no idea what it is, and I suspect it's related to Ye Olde Bludy Colon, since it popped into being after my diagnosis. I've since thrust it under every one of my subsequent gastroenterologist's noses, and they all say the same thing:
"Eh."
Followed by some further variant of "Well, it's not oozing or bleeding or horrifically painful - what more do you want?"
To which I guess I have to concede, not too much. It's pretty much the definition of First World Problem. It's probably just a strange spontaneous mole that will develop into melanoma. Big deal.
Gosh, I'm cheery. Happy September! My gut feels delightful yet strong, sort of like my ankles. Here, have a dog pic:
Also, mwahahahahah.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Pineapple pie in the sky hopes.
A couple of weekends ago, I decided to make a pie.
This was of course in spite of the heat. Hanging out inside with an oven baking pastry at 400 degrees for an hour while it's 100+ outside: totally worth it when there's fruit pie at the end.
Berry pie is not so stellar on the inflamed intestine, in case you were wondering. But I think that my weeble-wobble faux flare is finally, finally on its way out.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mixed bag
Am finally limping toward recovery from the weebling/wobbling/whatever the hell this fake flare-up was. On the bright side for my liver, my alcohol consumption has diminished considerably so as to be nonexistent. So that's something.
What's in the sinny-ma these days, har har?
With promises of Junior Mints I managed to entice A. into seeing the final Harry Potter installment with me. I liked it fine (great dragon!) but I've come to accept that when it comes to these movies? Honestly? The trailer does it for me:
It's kind of sad, I know. But then I've always been a books-first kind of girl, and Daniel Radcliffe (while certainly masterful, heh) is not my mind's Harry Potter.
TV, TV, TV
Am watching Torchwood. It's all right (Gwen is kicking ass and we had our nice lewd Captain Jack gets laid scene) but I keep waiting/hoping for the Doctor to show up. Speaking of!
(YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY)
Finally:
While I find it funny, I also object to the above, because it reminds of something Kermode and Mayo were talking about - the current trend in apologies for bad movies, such as Sam Worthington talking about how bad Clash of the Titans was and how he would do better, and Michael Bay's apology for the shit that was Transformers 2. And then they/whoever go on and make another shitty movie. NOTHING IS LEARNED! So while this made me laugh and enjoy their (Cuse and Lindelhof, Lindelhof and Cuse?) ability to poke fun at themselves, it also irritated me because perhaps, with enough editing/unbiased crit they could have addressed some of these issues while the show was going on? So we didn't have the dippy ending? Bah.
But still. Funny.
And now for intellectual pursuits, aka books
I'm editing a friend's novel! It's fun.
Also, I'm trying to read Robopocalypse. It's got some good parts, but it's not holding my attention.
What's in the sinny-ma these days, har har?
With promises of Junior Mints I managed to entice A. into seeing the final Harry Potter installment with me. I liked it fine (great dragon!) but I've come to accept that when it comes to these movies? Honestly? The trailer does it for me:
It's kind of sad, I know. But then I've always been a books-first kind of girl, and Daniel Radcliffe (while certainly masterful, heh) is not my mind's Harry Potter.
TV, TV, TV
Am watching Torchwood. It's all right (Gwen is kicking ass and we had our nice lewd Captain Jack gets laid scene) but I keep waiting/hoping for the Doctor to show up. Speaking of!
(YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY)
Finally:
While I find it funny, I also object to the above, because it reminds of something Kermode and Mayo were talking about - the current trend in apologies for bad movies, such as Sam Worthington talking about how bad Clash of the Titans was and how he would do better, and Michael Bay's apology for the shit that was Transformers 2. And then they/whoever go on and make another shitty movie. NOTHING IS LEARNED! So while this made me laugh and enjoy their (Cuse and Lindelhof, Lindelhof and Cuse?) ability to poke fun at themselves, it also irritated me because perhaps, with enough editing/unbiased crit they could have addressed some of these issues while the show was going on? So we didn't have the dippy ending? Bah.
But still. Funny.
And now for intellectual pursuits, aka books
I'm editing a friend's novel! It's fun.
Also, I'm trying to read Robopocalypse. It's got some good parts, but it's not holding my attention.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Weebles wobble!
Am wobbling on the cusp of a flare, undoubtedly due to all the celebratory Fourth of July beer and a bad stressy week at work. I'm consistently amazed by how my body does this insta-collapse thing at the first due-south twitch of unruliness: roiling gut pain? Trouble concentrating? Unsanctioned and unorthodox liquidity in the bathroom? Get thee back to bed, my brain shrieks. Stay there till 2 p.m. Then, and only then, weakling, you may have some pudding. And I meekly comply, because at this point in the process my brain is usually still functioning decently.
But overall, a wobbly weekend means I postpone all my planned day activities in favor of sleeping/eating peanut butter with crackers/reading comfort books like A College of Magics and The Princess Bride, cancel my evening activities in favor of the above, or keep my activities and soldier through them with a grim face and many, many trips to my host's/the restaurant's/etc.'s bathroom. I am sure this is very endearing. Wobbly interludes are not nearly as bad as true flares, but they still suck.
To which you should all rightfully respond well, that's what you get when you poison yourself with booze, dear.
Yes, I know. Luckily, though, my gas is back, which usually means my gut is wobbling in the direction of recovery. Yay for me, but too bad for poor A.
It is 102 out right now. I don't know what the heat index is, and I'm staying inside with a toilet and an icepack. Hurrah for air conditioning, refrigeration, and the Internet.
But overall, a wobbly weekend means I postpone all my planned day activities in favor of sleeping/eating peanut butter with crackers/reading comfort books like A College of Magics and The Princess Bride, cancel my evening activities in favor of the above, or keep my activities and soldier through them with a grim face and many, many trips to my host's/the restaurant's/etc.'s bathroom. I am sure this is very endearing. Wobbly interludes are not nearly as bad as true flares, but they still suck.
To which you should all rightfully respond well, that's what you get when you poison yourself with booze, dear.
Yes, I know. Luckily, though, my gas is back, which usually means my gut is wobbling in the direction of recovery. Yay for me, but too bad for poor A.
It is 102 out right now. I don't know what the heat index is, and I'm staying inside with a toilet and an icepack. Hurrah for air conditioning, refrigeration, and the Internet.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Hilarious? Odd? Nah, just more of the same.
Hey, CNN! Why don't you just blow it out your ass?
(You have to wait for the end of the segment for the UC tidbit.)
*edited to add: Thanks to Cinematical for the info and video.
Apparently, no one at CNN with any pull has Ulcerative Colitis - at least, no one willing to admit it, which is perfectly understandable, guys, if you're out there. I had no desire to let any of my coworkers know about my UC, either. Unfortunately, during my last flare-up I was requesting some sick time from a supervisor, and that supervisor requested some symptomatic information so he/she could "have an idea" of what the problem was.
A) Yes, I think that's illegal. I don't think Supervisor intended that; he/she was probably just worried about possible contagion for the rest of the staff. So I could've just stated that it was a chronic, non-communicable illness and I wasn't comfortable giving out details, as they were personal. HOWEVER,
B) I had just lost somewhere around five-ten pounds in a week, I was just starting to eat again, and I was still having painful gut cramps and/or running to the bathroom every ten minutes. I wasn't in the most equivocal or evasive mood. So I stated my symptoms quite baldly. I'm not happy about the fact that she knows my health problems, but that's the situation.
Anyway, I feel you, closet-UC sufferers at CNN!
Right, now back to the point. I've become resigned to the fact that there are two ways to represent my disease in mass media. The first: the drug commercial. Some earnest, farmer's-son white guy in a plaid shirt tells the cameraman that Lialda saved his life. I change the channel.
The second: wait, there IS no second. No one on any sitcom ever has UC or Crohns or IBS; they have shit emergencies because someone took too much of a laxative or some wonky hilarious colon product (because it's for the ASS, it's funny!), a la the above video or Cheryl David at the Glen Rock Car Wash. No one sits on toilet crying because they can't eat and their body's betrayed them, or worrying about whether or not their personality, lifestyle, or fertility will be affected by their meds. They might live in a cardboard box after work hours. But none of that depressing shit stuff, networks! People want escapism.
(Just to clarify? I want escapism, too. I don't really want to watch a TV show about someone's IBD. That's my life. But I think it's pretty clear that people don't know how to deal with hearing I occasionally shit blood. They're inclined to giggle at butts, ass, poop, shit, farts - and really, so am I. Except when I'm unable to eat. Then I don't think anything's funny, because it's hard to think anything but water. broth. TV.)
(Also, It probably doesn't help that I think Dumb and Dumber is a stupid, boring movie. (Except for the Mockingbird singing. Yeah.) A. loves it. A. also loves Kingpin. We wrangle occasionally, but we can agree on things like Team America: World Police.*)
This got a lot longer and less coherent than I planned. But I hate being embarrassed about my disease. HATE IT. I hate that I'm embarrassed with some cause, since the CNN folks and a shit-ton of their viewers obviously thought it was hilarious to put this clip before a segment about a guy with UC. I hate that they are considered the NEWS and they are doing it. I want to respect news organizations, not feel like a target of their stupidity and insensitivity.
But who am I kidding? No doubt I should just grow a sense of humor and laugh about it!
HA! HA! HA! HA! HILARIOUS!
Even though there's hardly any comparison between Harry's shit attack and a UC flare up - it's possible that the amount of laxative Lloyd gave him made his ass bleed, sure!
Even funnier? The "story" about the they're reporting on is pretty damn old. Even I've posted about it. Catch up, major news media! And, hey, keep me laughing! I mean, as long as I have an optimistic outlook, I'll probably get better soon, right?**
HA! HA! HA! I better stop laughing before I really do bust a gut; remember, folks, it's fragile.
* FUCK YEAH. Obviously.
** Lots of people ask me when my UC will get better/go away/heal. Oh, you big silly sweeties.
(You have to wait for the end of the segment for the UC tidbit.)
*edited to add: Thanks to Cinematical for the info and video.
Apparently, no one at CNN with any pull has Ulcerative Colitis - at least, no one willing to admit it, which is perfectly understandable, guys, if you're out there. I had no desire to let any of my coworkers know about my UC, either. Unfortunately, during my last flare-up I was requesting some sick time from a supervisor, and that supervisor requested some symptomatic information so he/she could "have an idea" of what the problem was.
A) Yes, I think that's illegal. I don't think Supervisor intended that; he/she was probably just worried about possible contagion for the rest of the staff. So I could've just stated that it was a chronic, non-communicable illness and I wasn't comfortable giving out details, as they were personal. HOWEVER,
B) I had just lost somewhere around five-ten pounds in a week, I was just starting to eat again, and I was still having painful gut cramps and/or running to the bathroom every ten minutes. I wasn't in the most equivocal or evasive mood. So I stated my symptoms quite baldly. I'm not happy about the fact that she knows my health problems, but that's the situation.
Anyway, I feel you, closet-UC sufferers at CNN!
Right, now back to the point. I've become resigned to the fact that there are two ways to represent my disease in mass media. The first: the drug commercial. Some earnest, farmer's-son white guy in a plaid shirt tells the cameraman that Lialda saved his life. I change the channel.
The second: wait, there IS no second. No one on any sitcom ever has UC or Crohns or IBS; they have shit emergencies because someone took too much of a laxative or some wonky hilarious colon product (because it's for the ASS, it's funny!), a la the above video or Cheryl David at the Glen Rock Car Wash. No one sits on toilet crying because they can't eat and their body's betrayed them, or worrying about whether or not their personality, lifestyle, or fertility will be affected by their meds. They might live in a cardboard box after work hours. But none of that depressing shit stuff, networks! People want escapism.
(Just to clarify? I want escapism, too. I don't really want to watch a TV show about someone's IBD. That's my life. But I think it's pretty clear that people don't know how to deal with hearing I occasionally shit blood. They're inclined to giggle at butts, ass, poop, shit, farts - and really, so am I. Except when I'm unable to eat. Then I don't think anything's funny, because it's hard to think anything but water. broth. TV.)
(Also, It probably doesn't help that I think Dumb and Dumber is a stupid, boring movie. (Except for the Mockingbird singing. Yeah.) A. loves it. A. also loves Kingpin. We wrangle occasionally, but we can agree on things like Team America: World Police.*)
This got a lot longer and less coherent than I planned. But I hate being embarrassed about my disease. HATE IT. I hate that I'm embarrassed with some cause, since the CNN folks and a shit-ton of their viewers obviously thought it was hilarious to put this clip before a segment about a guy with UC. I hate that they are considered the NEWS and they are doing it. I want to respect news organizations, not feel like a target of their stupidity and insensitivity.
But who am I kidding? No doubt I should just grow a sense of humor and laugh about it!
HA! HA! HA! HA! HILARIOUS!
Even though there's hardly any comparison between Harry's shit attack and a UC flare up - it's possible that the amount of laxative Lloyd gave him made his ass bleed, sure!
Even funnier? The "story" about the they're reporting on is pretty damn old. Even I've posted about it. Catch up, major news media! And, hey, keep me laughing! I mean, as long as I have an optimistic outlook, I'll probably get better soon, right?**
HA! HA! HA! I better stop laughing before I really do bust a gut; remember, folks, it's fragile.
* FUCK YEAH. Obviously.
** Lots of people ask me when my UC will get better/go away/heal. Oh, you big silly sweeties.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Survival of the fastidious
One of the first things I mentally filed in the Ooh, that's different folder upon moving to Texas was the universal presence of hand sanitizer dispensers. I'm not talking about the stuff in bathrooms; I'm talking about the walk-up dispenser I see every morning just inside the front doors of my workplace. Then there are the same dispensers next to the grocery carts (for quick cart handle cleaning) and standing by pharmacy counters. Pharmacy counters are especially attentive - if they don't have a standing dispenser, they have a communal pump bottle by the register.
I see people pump the dispensers with a fierce absentmindedness, similar to the way other people slap the button for the automatic door. ("BITCH," they say when it doesn't work immediately.*)
One of the first things my boss gave me at work? A bottle of pink hand sanitizing goop. Purell Instant Hand Sanitizer, Spring Bloom (Spring Bloom equals pink, I guess. It still smells terrible), Kills 99.99% of Germs, Moisturizers & Vitamin E Leave Hands Feeling Soft & Refreshed. Sometimes I use it to clean my desk. I don't like the stuff; I hate the feel of it, the smell drives me mad, and I don't like the idea of it, although I have no clue whether there's any hard science on that last part to back me up. But even if it does lower your immune system's ability to fight germs** I should probably still use it. Why?
1) I have no immune system anyway. My body needs every line of defense it can get, mostly because:
2) Things don't die here. I'm not referring to our country's retirees, and anyway, everyone knows they all live in Florida. Germs, molds, shit like that - it thrives down here because of the year-round warm temperatures. My part of the state is a haven for allergens and crap because of its particular geological features. But basically? Here's an example: I'd never heard of cellulitis until my mom contracted it during a short hospital stay. Here you can pick it up on the bus (as I did, unfortunately. It was part of my summer's Infection-and-Antibiotic-Injection-a-Month schedule) or at the gym or at work. You can also pick up staph infections at the gym and other public places; one of my coworkers was out a week. Naturally I plugged my nose and broke out the Purell.
Maybe I'm just sheltered and this happens everywhere. Perhaps with the last few years' panicky preparations for a Killer Flu Pandemic, the public hand sanitizer has become more prevalent in the rest of the nation, as opposed to where I'm used to seeing it: campgrounds, some bathrooms, and outdoor concerts. You really can get a staph infection anywhere, probably, and antibiotics are fast losing their potency as bacteria mutate. Look at MRSA. Gah. Don't. My immune system cringes just clicking on that link, and there aren't even any pictures. But now I miss the cold and snow from my home state for more reasons.
I guess I don't have much of a point, apart from the inveterate (I want to move back north) but I do think my disease is a lot more apparent down here. I don't have multitudes of dirty habits, but I touch my face, I pick my nose,*** I rub my eyes, and I cover my mouth when I yawn or snigger at someone. Okay, I wash my hands a lot, but I'm not the poster child for Germ Free Living, and I should be if I don't want a ass-shot of anniebiotics every time I sniffle.
So I'll give in. I'll try not to touch my face so much - and, um, that other stuff. I'll keep Spring Bloom by my desk and use it more often.
But it stinks and I hate it.
* Multiple occasions! It's a serious insult, apparently.
** Again. No links to hard science here, folks, I'm manifesting an old wives' tale.
*** THAT'S GROSS. And anyway I only did it once, before I knew better and became an adult who is able to cook and drive and think. ONLY ONCE. WOULD I LIE?
I see people pump the dispensers with a fierce absentmindedness, similar to the way other people slap the button for the automatic door. ("BITCH," they say when it doesn't work immediately.*)
One of the first things my boss gave me at work? A bottle of pink hand sanitizing goop. Purell Instant Hand Sanitizer, Spring Bloom (Spring Bloom equals pink, I guess. It still smells terrible), Kills 99.99% of Germs, Moisturizers & Vitamin E Leave Hands Feeling Soft & Refreshed. Sometimes I use it to clean my desk. I don't like the stuff; I hate the feel of it, the smell drives me mad, and I don't like the idea of it, although I have no clue whether there's any hard science on that last part to back me up. But even if it does lower your immune system's ability to fight germs** I should probably still use it. Why?
1) I have no immune system anyway. My body needs every line of defense it can get, mostly because:
2) Things don't die here. I'm not referring to our country's retirees, and anyway, everyone knows they all live in Florida. Germs, molds, shit like that - it thrives down here because of the year-round warm temperatures. My part of the state is a haven for allergens and crap because of its particular geological features. But basically? Here's an example: I'd never heard of cellulitis until my mom contracted it during a short hospital stay. Here you can pick it up on the bus (as I did, unfortunately. It was part of my summer's Infection-and-Antibiotic-Injection-a-Month schedule) or at the gym or at work. You can also pick up staph infections at the gym and other public places; one of my coworkers was out a week. Naturally I plugged my nose and broke out the Purell.
Maybe I'm just sheltered and this happens everywhere. Perhaps with the last few years' panicky preparations for a Killer Flu Pandemic, the public hand sanitizer has become more prevalent in the rest of the nation, as opposed to where I'm used to seeing it: campgrounds, some bathrooms, and outdoor concerts. You really can get a staph infection anywhere, probably, and antibiotics are fast losing their potency as bacteria mutate. Look at MRSA. Gah. Don't. My immune system cringes just clicking on that link, and there aren't even any pictures. But now I miss the cold and snow from my home state for more reasons.
I guess I don't have much of a point, apart from the inveterate (I want to move back north) but I do think my disease is a lot more apparent down here. I don't have multitudes of dirty habits, but I touch my face, I pick my nose,*** I rub my eyes, and I cover my mouth when I yawn or snigger at someone. Okay, I wash my hands a lot, but I'm not the poster child for Germ Free Living, and I should be if I don't want a ass-shot of anniebiotics every time I sniffle.
So I'll give in. I'll try not to touch my face so much - and, um, that other stuff. I'll keep Spring Bloom by my desk and use it more often.
But it stinks and I hate it.
* Multiple occasions! It's a serious insult, apparently.
** Again. No links to hard science here, folks, I'm manifesting an old wives' tale.
*** THAT'S GROSS. And anyway I only did it once, before I knew better and became an adult who is able to cook and drive and think. ONLY ONCE. WOULD I LIE?
Friday, October 22, 2010
If you don't want advice, don't bitch?
From the very beginning of my diagnosis with ulcerative colitis, I've noticed a consistent reaction from many people. It comes in many different forms, but the following are the most common examples.
"Can't you eat more fiber? That's good for your colon, isn't it?"
"I read in All-Organic Colonics Weekly* that psyllium seed can help with ulcerative colitis. Why don't you try that?"
"Your medication makes you feel tired? Why don't you try drinking coffee? Or caffeinated tea? Or soda? Or Red Bull?"
"You forget to take your pills? Why don't you try a weekly/daily/hourly pill box? Why don't you take them with meals? Why don't you tie your pill bottle around your neck?"
People like to give advice. I put this down to that they want to help, or to their desire to better understand the disease. It's their way of whistling in the dark. Funnily, I (usually) only hear or see this type of reaction from people who are physically healthy. They try to imagine what they would do were they in the same situation. The only problem is, they can't. You really do have to live with a chronic disease to understand how it affects every facet of your life, because it becomes part of your life and part of you. It's hard to effectively and truly imagine that kind of thing. (Maybe Dustin Hoffman could help, but I think he still might miss it a bit.)**
My problem with this? Is that in most cases, when I get this advice, I'm not looking for it. I am bitching. I'm whining. I'm complaining about how this stupid UC screws with my life and how I haven't adapted to it as cleanly as I'd like. I don't do this often, I promise. But when I do, I'm not looking for a session with a nutritionist or my gastro - I'm gagging for sympathy and hugs and humor, damn it! And most of all, I resent the implication of the advice, the You haven't thought of this, have you? It's the unspoken, quicksilver judgment that I'm not doing everything to help myself and am therefore somehow culpable.
Listen. This might be particular to me. But I READ ABOUT MY DISEASE. I do all the research I can. I try new things when I can. I think about trying new things or finding loopholes for problems when it's not possible to do them. I experiment with my diet and medications, sometimes at detriment to my health, so that I don't get too accepting, too complacent with my limitations. The things you suggest? The ones that seem so obvious to you? Guess what? They're obvious to me, too! I have thought of these things because I'm not a mindless, apathetic sack of tapioca. Sure, you might come up with something I haven't; I can accept that. But it smacks of some serious arrogance to know nearly nothing about a disease yourself and then give health advice to someone who's been living with it for seven years.
I suppose I should mention what pushed me into writing this.
Loren Berlin writes columns at the NYT about ulcerative colitis. For the most part I enjoy them; they can be short, but she talks about stuff that I think about, like giving blood or eating at Mexican restaurants. But while this column inspired my sympathies and interest, it also made me think about advice and the way we shower it on people:
Seeking hope from a support group
For one thing, my experience with online IBD support groups*** has shown me that they are usually populated with some really sick people: people whose UC or Crohns will not calm the hell down, or people who have to take some hardcore med like Remicade, or people who end up in the emergency room every other weekend. In Berlin's columns she talks about her UC being in remission and controlled with azathioprine. (Yes, I bitch about azathioprine all the time. But honestly. There are worse medications you can be reduced to taking.) These are the people she describes:
There was a gaunt, hobbled man in his late 20s who had recently filed for disability status because he was too sick to work. There was a high school girl who sat silently, her eyes glued to the floor, her jeans hanging from her hips like gunnysacks, while her mother explained the many and varied treatments that had failed to induce remission in her daughter. There was a woman seated beside me whose intestine had perforated during a layover in an airport while on a business trip.
Ouch. Very visceral. (Heh. Visceral. I'm sooo funny.) When Berlin offers exercise advice to the first man, he reacts negatively and shoots her down. She writes: He looked at me as he spoke, simultaneously resigned and defiant, challenging me to suggest something else so that he could tell me why it wouldn’t work.
Up till this point in the article, I was very sympathetic to Berlin's state. The first flush of UC is such a shitty time; it's depressing, you're in pain, there's blood everywhere, your life is upside down, you're never going to be able to eat or walk or travel normally again, you're going to die of colon cancer sooner than anyone you know, and really, a black bean and cheese burrito with hot sauce and jalapenos would be so comforting, if you could eat it without bloody craps and cramps. It sucks. But when I got to that paragraph, I thought, Huh? This isn't a problem to solve. It's a support group of people who should understand. He's bitching. Let him bitch a little. I wondered if maybe Berlin felt that in comparison to him, she was healthy. Probably not. But I know I feel downright healthy and lucky sometimes when I read posts on curecrohns at livejournal.
For the record, I don't think Berlin's a jerk or without empathy. I love that she's writing about UC in the New York Times. Yay, publicity for commercially-unpopular diseases! Here are some links to her other columns I've read:
- Surgery for Ulcerative Colitis Is a Difficult Choice
- In Fleeting Health, Moments to Savor (This one really reminds me of the way I felt following my most recent flare)
- When the Body Decides to Stop Following the Rules
- Never Able to Forget a Chronic Disease
So to get back to it, what can I say here, without coming across as resigned/defiant/overly sensitive/bitchy(too late)? Think before you advise, folks. Sure, I might be overly sensitive, and you might just be trying to help. But think about what you're saying and how your advice can come across as condescending or patronizing. As a lady with UC, I need a good bitch about it every now and again. If you've got any particular personal problems that you want to bitch about - ones that I couldn't understand since I don't live with them - then maybe you do understand how I feel. Let's get together and have a margarita. I'll try to think twice before I regale you with my personal opinion on how best to treat your bipolar disorder.
In Devil Pred news: I'm down to 20 mg of prednisone! So far, no flare relapse. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
* Not a real magazine. Sorry.
** If you don't accept that, then there's always The Spoon Theory. I think that still works as an excellent visualization technique for someone who doesn't have a chronic disease.
*** Which might be different from RL ones, I accept.
"Can't you eat more fiber? That's good for your colon, isn't it?"
"I read in All-Organic Colonics Weekly* that psyllium seed can help with ulcerative colitis. Why don't you try that?"
"Your medication makes you feel tired? Why don't you try drinking coffee? Or caffeinated tea? Or soda? Or Red Bull?"
"You forget to take your pills? Why don't you try a weekly/daily/hourly pill box? Why don't you take them with meals? Why don't you tie your pill bottle around your neck?"
People like to give advice. I put this down to that they want to help, or to their desire to better understand the disease. It's their way of whistling in the dark. Funnily, I (usually) only hear or see this type of reaction from people who are physically healthy. They try to imagine what they would do were they in the same situation. The only problem is, they can't. You really do have to live with a chronic disease to understand how it affects every facet of your life, because it becomes part of your life and part of you. It's hard to effectively and truly imagine that kind of thing. (Maybe Dustin Hoffman could help, but I think he still might miss it a bit.)**
My problem with this? Is that in most cases, when I get this advice, I'm not looking for it. I am bitching. I'm whining. I'm complaining about how this stupid UC screws with my life and how I haven't adapted to it as cleanly as I'd like. I don't do this often, I promise. But when I do, I'm not looking for a session with a nutritionist or my gastro - I'm gagging for sympathy and hugs and humor, damn it! And most of all, I resent the implication of the advice, the You haven't thought of this, have you? It's the unspoken, quicksilver judgment that I'm not doing everything to help myself and am therefore somehow culpable.
Listen. This might be particular to me. But I READ ABOUT MY DISEASE. I do all the research I can. I try new things when I can. I think about trying new things or finding loopholes for problems when it's not possible to do them. I experiment with my diet and medications, sometimes at detriment to my health, so that I don't get too accepting, too complacent with my limitations. The things you suggest? The ones that seem so obvious to you? Guess what? They're obvious to me, too! I have thought of these things because I'm not a mindless, apathetic sack of tapioca. Sure, you might come up with something I haven't; I can accept that. But it smacks of some serious arrogance to know nearly nothing about a disease yourself and then give health advice to someone who's been living with it for seven years.
I suppose I should mention what pushed me into writing this.
Loren Berlin writes columns at the NYT about ulcerative colitis. For the most part I enjoy them; they can be short, but she talks about stuff that I think about, like giving blood or eating at Mexican restaurants. But while this column inspired my sympathies and interest, it also made me think about advice and the way we shower it on people:
Seeking hope from a support group
For one thing, my experience with online IBD support groups*** has shown me that they are usually populated with some really sick people: people whose UC or Crohns will not calm the hell down, or people who have to take some hardcore med like Remicade, or people who end up in the emergency room every other weekend. In Berlin's columns she talks about her UC being in remission and controlled with azathioprine. (Yes, I bitch about azathioprine all the time. But honestly. There are worse medications you can be reduced to taking.) These are the people she describes:
There was a gaunt, hobbled man in his late 20s who had recently filed for disability status because he was too sick to work. There was a high school girl who sat silently, her eyes glued to the floor, her jeans hanging from her hips like gunnysacks, while her mother explained the many and varied treatments that had failed to induce remission in her daughter. There was a woman seated beside me whose intestine had perforated during a layover in an airport while on a business trip.
Ouch. Very visceral. (Heh. Visceral. I'm sooo funny.) When Berlin offers exercise advice to the first man, he reacts negatively and shoots her down. She writes: He looked at me as he spoke, simultaneously resigned and defiant, challenging me to suggest something else so that he could tell me why it wouldn’t work.
Up till this point in the article, I was very sympathetic to Berlin's state. The first flush of UC is such a shitty time; it's depressing, you're in pain, there's blood everywhere, your life is upside down, you're never going to be able to eat or walk or travel normally again, you're going to die of colon cancer sooner than anyone you know, and really, a black bean and cheese burrito with hot sauce and jalapenos would be so comforting, if you could eat it without bloody craps and cramps. It sucks. But when I got to that paragraph, I thought, Huh? This isn't a problem to solve. It's a support group of people who should understand. He's bitching. Let him bitch a little. I wondered if maybe Berlin felt that in comparison to him, she was healthy. Probably not. But I know I feel downright healthy and lucky sometimes when I read posts on curecrohns at livejournal.
For the record, I don't think Berlin's a jerk or without empathy. I love that she's writing about UC in the New York Times. Yay, publicity for commercially-unpopular diseases! Here are some links to her other columns I've read:
- Surgery for Ulcerative Colitis Is a Difficult Choice
- In Fleeting Health, Moments to Savor (This one really reminds me of the way I felt following my most recent flare)
- When the Body Decides to Stop Following the Rules
- Never Able to Forget a Chronic Disease
So to get back to it, what can I say here, without coming across as resigned/defiant/overly sensitive/bitchy(too late)? Think before you advise, folks. Sure, I might be overly sensitive, and you might just be trying to help. But think about what you're saying and how your advice can come across as condescending or patronizing. As a lady with UC, I need a good bitch about it every now and again. If you've got any particular personal problems that you want to bitch about - ones that I couldn't understand since I don't live with them - then maybe you do understand how I feel. Let's get together and have a margarita. I'll try to think twice before I regale you with my personal opinion on how best to treat your bipolar disorder.
In Devil Pred news: I'm down to 20 mg of prednisone! So far, no flare relapse. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
* Not a real magazine. Sorry.
** If you don't accept that, then there's always The Spoon Theory. I think that still works as an excellent visualization technique for someone who doesn't have a chronic disease.
*** Which might be different from RL ones, I accept.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Effects on the side
It's passed more quickly than I'd thought possible, but I'm almost finished with my three-week Colon Blast of 40 mg prednisone. Three weeks doesn't really compare to my last swing on the Devil Pred tire (long, long ago in ye olde 2007), but I've been noticing some similarities and differences, some good, some bad.
So!
Happy Things
Pure, unfettered euphoria.
That high exuberance I remember from the last course of this medication? My god. Generally, I like to think I'm a content, happy person with a range of moods and emotions. Within a week of starting the pred, I realized that in actuality I am normally a sad self-centered sack of nervous paranoid anxiety who walks around certain that random passersby are thinking she walks funny or wears stupid clothing or maybe is a threat to society so when we laugh we're laughing at her.
Ahem. In any case, that's how stark the contrast feels. I'm beginning to come down from it now (which in my experience is what happens with pred) but the euphoria served to wipe away any and all anxiety regarding health and my everyday surroundings. Part of it is probably mental in a freaky What The Hell is This Drug Doing to My Brain Waves way. And part of it is mental in a different way; the pred kills most of my gut pain and has stopped the ass bleeding, so since I'm not bombarded with cramps or urgency, I'm less worried about immediate painkiller or toilet access. But overall it feels amazing: I'm relaxed and comfortable in my skin, I'm mellower than yellow, and blissed out at the smell of mown grass or the sight of the sky. Also I'm providing entertainment for others, as I look like I'm stoned all the time.
According to MedlinePlus, which also lists much of the fun I'm going to describe here, one of prednisone's unfortunate side effects is "inappropriate happiness." I wonder if this qualifies? I'm not laughing at little kids falling down. But then, I would probably laugh at that if I wasn't on the pred, so. Inappropriate is all a state of mind, man.
Mobility.
I can get to a toilet in time. I can also move around without going, "Ow ow ow." Don't knock it.
The Food is Back.
No longer am I torturing myself with sloppy, sebaceously delicious imaginary dinner plates. Thanks to Devil Pred, I can eat again! In seriousness, A. and I had pasta with tomato-pepper-zucchini sauce and garlic bread and lots of mozzarella cheese last night. It was an Italian party in my mouth and my gut. While I'm still lusting after fresh greens, salads, salad bars, aaaagh, and crunchy green beans, I did manage to eat some peas this week. Soon the roughage may be back, too!
Bad, Annoying Things
Weird pains
Occasionally my hips ache like someone drove a metal pin through them. I asked A. if there was any funny business going on since I'm sleeping more heavily. He said no, this marriage is built on trust, damn it. I said, fine, I'll just set up the video camera - okay, okay, just kidding. Trust. We're trusty. Yep.
To Sleep...
I'm really fucking tired all the time now. It's especially annoying because I miss things like Patrick Stewart being all military and bloody on PBS. (Which also makes me think of this, what a great show.) So I go to bed at eight or nine-ish, and am still tired upon waking. Big surprise. Moving on.
...Perchance to Dream
God, the dreams on prednisone are still super strange. Last night I was in Minnesota and Texas at the same time, and my mom was trying to visit me while still recovering from her chemo treatment because she'd told me she'd come visit, and then my sister and I were suddenly sleeping in the pullout couch downstairs at my folks' house and I was trying to get a night photo of my car parked in the backyard because the moonlight was hitting the red paint just. Right. And I think our new dog was there. Of course, this all contributes to the feeling that I'm not getting enough sleep. Maybe prednisone causes your brain to skip a crucial two-second segment of the REM cycle?
Worry/Decisions
Technically, pred doesn't cause this. It's more a result of waiting to see what will happen this Saturday when I start the tapering off to 30 mg. Has the Imuran stopped working completely? Will I have to find a different, stronger drug with harsher side effects than even prednisone? Will the blood come back? Will the pain come back? Will I have to be on Pred longer? Will I catch a damn cold in the meantime? Should I get a flu shot or wait? It's been so long since my last flare-up that I've forgotten how to - and that I probably should worry or at least think about a lot of these things.
Anyway. 30 mg on Saturday. I'm looking forward to it. I also have some nice peppermint tea with peppermint-mocha creamer, and my euphoria is sweetly in place. Thanks, prednisone! Er. No. But still. Thanks, somewhat.
So!
Happy Things
Pure, unfettered euphoria.
That high exuberance I remember from the last course of this medication? My god. Generally, I like to think I'm a content, happy person with a range of moods and emotions. Within a week of starting the pred, I realized that in actuality I am normally a sad self-centered sack of nervous paranoid anxiety who walks around certain that random passersby are thinking she walks funny or wears stupid clothing or maybe is a threat to society so when we laugh we're laughing at her.
Ahem. In any case, that's how stark the contrast feels. I'm beginning to come down from it now (which in my experience is what happens with pred) but the euphoria served to wipe away any and all anxiety regarding health and my everyday surroundings. Part of it is probably mental in a freaky What The Hell is This Drug Doing to My Brain Waves way. And part of it is mental in a different way; the pred kills most of my gut pain and has stopped the ass bleeding, so since I'm not bombarded with cramps or urgency, I'm less worried about immediate painkiller or toilet access. But overall it feels amazing: I'm relaxed and comfortable in my skin, I'm mellower than yellow, and blissed out at the smell of mown grass or the sight of the sky. Also I'm providing entertainment for others, as I look like I'm stoned all the time.
According to MedlinePlus, which also lists much of the fun I'm going to describe here, one of prednisone's unfortunate side effects is "inappropriate happiness." I wonder if this qualifies? I'm not laughing at little kids falling down. But then, I would probably laugh at that if I wasn't on the pred, so. Inappropriate is all a state of mind, man.
Mobility.
I can get to a toilet in time. I can also move around without going, "Ow ow ow." Don't knock it.
The Food is Back.
No longer am I torturing myself with sloppy, sebaceously delicious imaginary dinner plates. Thanks to Devil Pred, I can eat again! In seriousness, A. and I had pasta with tomato-pepper-zucchini sauce and garlic bread and lots of mozzarella cheese last night. It was an Italian party in my mouth and my gut. While I'm still lusting after fresh greens, salads, salad bars, aaaagh, and crunchy green beans, I did manage to eat some peas this week. Soon the roughage may be back, too!
Bad, Annoying Things
Weird pains
Occasionally my hips ache like someone drove a metal pin through them. I asked A. if there was any funny business going on since I'm sleeping more heavily. He said no, this marriage is built on trust, damn it. I said, fine, I'll just set up the video camera - okay, okay, just kidding. Trust. We're trusty. Yep.
To Sleep...
I'm really fucking tired all the time now. It's especially annoying because I miss things like Patrick Stewart being all military and bloody on PBS. (Which also makes me think of this, what a great show.) So I go to bed at eight or nine-ish, and am still tired upon waking. Big surprise. Moving on.
...Perchance to Dream
God, the dreams on prednisone are still super strange. Last night I was in Minnesota and Texas at the same time, and my mom was trying to visit me while still recovering from her chemo treatment because she'd told me she'd come visit, and then my sister and I were suddenly sleeping in the pullout couch downstairs at my folks' house and I was trying to get a night photo of my car parked in the backyard because the moonlight was hitting the red paint just. Right. And I think our new dog was there. Of course, this all contributes to the feeling that I'm not getting enough sleep. Maybe prednisone causes your brain to skip a crucial two-second segment of the REM cycle?
Worry/Decisions
Technically, pred doesn't cause this. It's more a result of waiting to see what will happen this Saturday when I start the tapering off to 30 mg. Has the Imuran stopped working completely? Will I have to find a different, stronger drug with harsher side effects than even prednisone? Will the blood come back? Will the pain come back? Will I have to be on Pred longer? Will I catch a damn cold in the meantime? Should I get a flu shot or wait? It's been so long since my last flare-up that I've forgotten how to - and that I probably should worry or at least think about a lot of these things.
Anyway. 30 mg on Saturday. I'm looking forward to it. I also have some nice peppermint tea with peppermint-mocha creamer, and my euphoria is sweetly in place. Thanks, prednisone! Er. No. But still. Thanks, somewhat.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Good, the Bad, and the Shitty
Why yes, I do regularly go through my movie collection and make poop puns out of the titles. It takes a lot of time and effort, which explains why I haven't posted since April.
In actuality, this year is turning out kind of shitty. My mom got diagnosed with breast cancer early in the year; my dad is still recovering from his cancer surgery from last year (so technically I suppose that doesn't count, since last year was in its own special category of Shit In A Bag); I still haven't landed a nearby librarian job, and there have been damn few available in a two-hour radius from our present city (our present city has nothing available either, awesomely enough); at my work, we found out that layoffs are probably imminent; I'm still living in Texas (cue any number of comments - ha, from all the Asian porn spammers who comment here, hahahah - telling me to GTFO if I don't like the Best State in the Union. Would that I could, guys, would that I could. Thanks for the tip, though!); and finally, I've been having one bizarre illness after the other.
Some good has come out of this Wallach-worthy pile: in May I got to go home and have a lengthy visit with my family. I still have a job, one that pays me an okay amount and health benefits for desk work. It's hard to knock that. A. and I moved to a new, nicer apartment in a quieter neighborhood. We have a teeny yard! And an upstairs! A real home at last! I also found a primary care doctor who is hilarious, and knows my gastro personally - what a happy coincidence. And finally, A. and I got an amazing mutt from the local animal shelter.
So there is some Clint mixed in with the Eli. I can take that.
Everyone knows Eli's the best, anyway.
Most of these things I can't control. So I'll pick on the least important and most personal one, since the others are hard to discuss.
Texas! My personal feelings aside, it's been interesting so far living here. I'm a northern girl by nature, and my blood likes the cold. I like the feel of sharp, freezing wind against my face, I like wearing windbreakers and hoodies and scarves in the fall, I like bundling into a heavy wool coat and boots in the winter, and I love breaking out the rain boots for the spring. (I also like seasons. Go figure.) I don't know whether my northern heritage makes me more susceptible to certain bacteria or viruses down here; it's possible. More possible, I think, is that the winter up north knocks out a lot of stuff, whereas down here it thrives.
FOR EXAMPLE.
After I visited my folks at the end of May, I flew back to TX with A. and we began packing up to move. We took a load of stuff over to the new place, and then returned to the old crappy apartment to make dinner and watch Larry David die and go to heaven.
"Wow," I said as I chopped up veggies for burritos. (Note: I was chopping a lot of stuff. There was a lot of knife slicing and cutting and banging going on.) "It's really hot in here. I should have a beer."
"Or some water," A. suggested.
So I had water and a beer, and by the time I finished the beer I had to kneel down on the kitchen floor because my legs were very, very shaky.
"Maybe I have to go to the bathroom!" I said.
A. suggested that, instead, we take my temperature. I had a fever of 101. So I drank a lot of fluids, went to urgent care and got misdiagnosed with Random Viral Syndrome (also known as doctor slang for "ha ha, just fucking with you!", drank more fluids, dreamed that I was burning in hell for all the bad things I've done, realized that there was a giant spreading purplish-red mark on the back of my leg, went back to urgent care with a temp of 103, and got properly diagnosed with cellulitis.
Cellu-fricking-litis. Which I have never heard of outside of hospitals (aka infections for those who are around sick people all the time, aka a breeding ground for germs germs germs), and the urgent care Doc no. 2 assured me, "Oh no, it's all over the place down here. People get it in locker rooms, public showers, places like that." (Aaaand overnight I turned into Bob Wiley.) They shot me full of antibiotics and gave me sulfa drugs and a tube of medicinal cream and I got better after about a week.
Then last week, I found little dry-patchy sores under my arms. Slowly, they've spread to my belly, my back, and my legs. So I went to see Hilarious Primary Care Physician, who said, "It's a fungal infection!" and gave me a scripp for another cream. The cream is turning the patchy spots white and crusty, which I hope is evidence of their little fungus-y death throes as they rot, rot, rot. Die, fungal parasites!
Naturally, all these little illnesses are stellar for A.'s and my marital relations. Luckily, he doesn't read this blog, so he isn't subjected to my descriptions of them, just the actual physical proof. In sickness and in health, baby! MAHAHAHAHAHAHA
When you look at the rash of horrible ulcerative colitis-related illnesses like skin lesions/sores and liver trouble and more, these don't stack up. They're annoyances, momentary mosquitos. I shouldn't be such a crabass, because there are people who are a lot worse off than I am. Nor should I blame it all on Texas or warm climate in general. But then I wouldn't have any fun at all.
Up next: comfort foods for the colon-challenged. What to eat when you feel like shit, and you can't eat shit (aka junk food, jerks) because you'll shit yourself to death. Coming soon! And by soon, I mean sooner than three months from now. Sheesh.
-
In other news:
Local PBS is doing a best of the Met thing, and damn if the bullfighter guy from Carmen (it's the knife fight scene!*) isn't hot hot hot.
*Opera knife fighting is really freaking funny. Whoa, the lady singing Carmen is also quite a babe.
In actuality, this year is turning out kind of shitty. My mom got diagnosed with breast cancer early in the year; my dad is still recovering from his cancer surgery from last year (so technically I suppose that doesn't count, since last year was in its own special category of Shit In A Bag); I still haven't landed a nearby librarian job, and there have been damn few available in a two-hour radius from our present city (our present city has nothing available either, awesomely enough); at my work, we found out that layoffs are probably imminent; I'm still living in Texas (cue any number of comments - ha, from all the Asian porn spammers who comment here, hahahah - telling me to GTFO if I don't like the Best State in the Union. Would that I could, guys, would that I could. Thanks for the tip, though!); and finally, I've been having one bizarre illness after the other.
Some good has come out of this Wallach-worthy pile: in May I got to go home and have a lengthy visit with my family. I still have a job, one that pays me an okay amount and health benefits for desk work. It's hard to knock that. A. and I moved to a new, nicer apartment in a quieter neighborhood. We have a teeny yard! And an upstairs! A real home at last! I also found a primary care doctor who is hilarious, and knows my gastro personally - what a happy coincidence. And finally, A. and I got an amazing mutt from the local animal shelter.
So there is some Clint mixed in with the Eli. I can take that.
Everyone knows Eli's the best, anyway.
Most of these things I can't control. So I'll pick on the least important and most personal one, since the others are hard to discuss.
Texas! My personal feelings aside, it's been interesting so far living here. I'm a northern girl by nature, and my blood likes the cold. I like the feel of sharp, freezing wind against my face, I like wearing windbreakers and hoodies and scarves in the fall, I like bundling into a heavy wool coat and boots in the winter, and I love breaking out the rain boots for the spring. (I also like seasons. Go figure.) I don't know whether my northern heritage makes me more susceptible to certain bacteria or viruses down here; it's possible. More possible, I think, is that the winter up north knocks out a lot of stuff, whereas down here it thrives.
FOR EXAMPLE.
After I visited my folks at the end of May, I flew back to TX with A. and we began packing up to move. We took a load of stuff over to the new place, and then returned to the old crappy apartment to make dinner and watch Larry David die and go to heaven.
"Wow," I said as I chopped up veggies for burritos. (Note: I was chopping a lot of stuff. There was a lot of knife slicing and cutting and banging going on.) "It's really hot in here. I should have a beer."
"Or some water," A. suggested.
So I had water and a beer, and by the time I finished the beer I had to kneel down on the kitchen floor because my legs were very, very shaky.
"Maybe I have to go to the bathroom!" I said.
A. suggested that, instead, we take my temperature. I had a fever of 101. So I drank a lot of fluids, went to urgent care and got misdiagnosed with Random Viral Syndrome (also known as doctor slang for "ha ha, just fucking with you!", drank more fluids, dreamed that I was burning in hell for all the bad things I've done, realized that there was a giant spreading purplish-red mark on the back of my leg, went back to urgent care with a temp of 103, and got properly diagnosed with cellulitis.
Cellu-fricking-litis. Which I have never heard of outside of hospitals (aka infections for those who are around sick people all the time, aka a breeding ground for germs germs germs), and the urgent care Doc no. 2 assured me, "Oh no, it's all over the place down here. People get it in locker rooms, public showers, places like that." (Aaaand overnight I turned into Bob Wiley.) They shot me full of antibiotics and gave me sulfa drugs and a tube of medicinal cream and I got better after about a week.
Then last week, I found little dry-patchy sores under my arms. Slowly, they've spread to my belly, my back, and my legs. So I went to see Hilarious Primary Care Physician, who said, "It's a fungal infection!" and gave me a scripp for another cream. The cream is turning the patchy spots white and crusty, which I hope is evidence of their little fungus-y death throes as they rot, rot, rot. Die, fungal parasites!
Naturally, all these little illnesses are stellar for A.'s and my marital relations. Luckily, he doesn't read this blog, so he isn't subjected to my descriptions of them, just the actual physical proof. In sickness and in health, baby! MAHAHAHAHAHAHA
When you look at the rash of horrible ulcerative colitis-related illnesses like skin lesions/sores and liver trouble and more, these don't stack up. They're annoyances, momentary mosquitos. I shouldn't be such a crabass, because there are people who are a lot worse off than I am. Nor should I blame it all on Texas or warm climate in general. But then I wouldn't have any fun at all.
Up next: comfort foods for the colon-challenged. What to eat when you feel like shit, and you can't eat shit (aka junk food, jerks) because you'll shit yourself to death. Coming soon! And by soon, I mean sooner than three months from now. Sheesh.
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In other news:
Local PBS is doing a best of the Met thing, and damn if the bullfighter guy from Carmen (it's the knife fight scene!*) isn't hot hot hot.
*Opera knife fighting is really freaking funny. Whoa, the lady singing Carmen is also quite a babe.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Shut up, reactive mind, just shut up! It's all your faaaaaaaaaault.
Do any of you fellow UC or Crohns' folks out there indulge in the occasional self-deception? I mean, occasionally I'll forget I have ulcerative colitis for part of a day, usually due to the following factors:
1. It's oh-so-quiet on the bowel front. No pain, no flare ups, no rumbly noises while sitting in the quiet study areas.
2. Usually I run about eight-ten hours between pill-popping sessions.
3. My memory is getting reeeeally bad.
This can result in me forgetting to take my pills, which can be bad. That's pretty good for self-deception, isn't it? That after living with this disease for seven years, I still occasionally forget I'm sick. I don't think this is the same as faking it; it's probably just my brain's defense mechanism against what it recognizes as my natural Why-Me Emo Tendencies.
But sometimes I do it on purpose. "Hmmm, I need some caffeine!" I announce loudly. (To no one, because the break room should be empty if you're going to do this.) "But there's no tea left. Yet I must stay awake, whatever shall I do? Too bad coffee gives me the boiling shits! Whatever shall I do - " etc., while pouring a bit of coffee into my powdered hot chocolate mix. Success! Until, of course, two hours later when my colon is woken from its drugged slumber with a bath of fresh Local City(tm) Volcanic Acid Blend and I have to hightail it to the toilet, but that's beside the point. Or maybe that is the point. I'm not sure.
I've done this with coffee, Cheetoes, and beer; sometimes it works for when I know a meal's too big but I want to finish it because it's chocolate-based or cheese-based or just wonderfully fried in wonderful deep fat. Every time, I manage to convince myself that this time, my colon might not react. I justify this by dragging out some variation of:
a. If you do the same thing over and over and expect different results, you're insane. (Not quite how the statement goes. Also serves to prove that my self-deception will NOT work and is evidence of my insanity. Hrm.)
b. Who knows when my body may spontaneously decide to accept coffee again? I gotta be ready. With some coffee on hand.
c. What ulcerative colitis? What colon? Lalalalalaalalalalalalalalaaaaaaaaaaaa
So what is this? Some sort of infinite self-delusional recursion? Convenient amnesia? (Heh. "Who am I, where am I and, Jesus, why is my ass bleeding?") Or the obvious answer: self-indulgence? I'm gonna go with that last one. While I enjoy this lovely mug of powdered hot chocolate and coffee.
To relax all painful guts everywhere, here's a funny:
Good Show Sir: only the worst scifi/fantasy book covers, which I saw today via The Daily Dish.
After all, as good old Father L. Ron would say, "Laughter is definitely the relief of painful emotion." Right on, L. Ron. Right on.
1. It's oh-so-quiet on the bowel front. No pain, no flare ups, no rumbly noises while sitting in the quiet study areas.
2. Usually I run about eight-ten hours between pill-popping sessions.
3. My memory is getting reeeeally bad.
This can result in me forgetting to take my pills, which can be bad. That's pretty good for self-deception, isn't it? That after living with this disease for seven years, I still occasionally forget I'm sick. I don't think this is the same as faking it; it's probably just my brain's defense mechanism against what it recognizes as my natural Why-Me Emo Tendencies.
But sometimes I do it on purpose. "Hmmm, I need some caffeine!" I announce loudly. (To no one, because the break room should be empty if you're going to do this.) "But there's no tea left. Yet I must stay awake, whatever shall I do? Too bad coffee gives me the boiling shits! Whatever shall I do - " etc., while pouring a bit of coffee into my powdered hot chocolate mix. Success! Until, of course, two hours later when my colon is woken from its drugged slumber with a bath of fresh Local City(tm) Volcanic Acid Blend and I have to hightail it to the toilet, but that's beside the point. Or maybe that is the point. I'm not sure.
I've done this with coffee, Cheetoes, and beer; sometimes it works for when I know a meal's too big but I want to finish it because it's chocolate-based or cheese-based or just wonderfully fried in wonderful deep fat. Every time, I manage to convince myself that this time, my colon might not react. I justify this by dragging out some variation of:
a. If you do the same thing over and over and expect different results, you're insane. (Not quite how the statement goes. Also serves to prove that my self-deception will NOT work and is evidence of my insanity. Hrm.)
b. Who knows when my body may spontaneously decide to accept coffee again? I gotta be ready. With some coffee on hand.
c. What ulcerative colitis? What colon? Lalalalalaalalalalalalalalaaaaaaaaaaaa
So what is this? Some sort of infinite self-delusional recursion? Convenient amnesia? (Heh. "Who am I, where am I and, Jesus, why is my ass bleeding?") Or the obvious answer: self-indulgence? I'm gonna go with that last one. While I enjoy this lovely mug of powdered hot chocolate and coffee.
To relax all painful guts everywhere, here's a funny:
Good Show Sir: only the worst scifi/fantasy book covers, which I saw today via The Daily Dish.
After all, as good old Father L. Ron would say, "Laughter is definitely the relief of painful emotion." Right on, L. Ron. Right on.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
New York, New York
A. pulled up to the car rental entrance at the terminal. I dashed in and waited while the counter guy swiped my credit card and paged through his papers."Would you like a Chevy Trailblazer or a Ford Edge?" he asked.
Trailblazer... I thought. SUV. I requested a economy size. Ford Edge. That sounds kinda smaller. Edge. Edgy. "The Edge," I said. He passed me a couple of fat keys. "Row X, 78."
I ducked into the garage and hurried down row X. The cars seemed awfully...big. But no, there was an Alero parked here, a Sebring there....and there was space 78.
I ran back inside and waited for the counter guy to finish helping two girls squealing over their Trailblazer. "I reserved an economy size?"
"I'm all out," he said.
We got in about midnight to find our friends playing the Roxanne game with Coors Light, Grolsch and one sadly wasted six-pack of Newcastle. Must be one of those NYC things, A. said, and we joined in.
The beer and my gut did not get along.
We went to Central Park anyway. The bathrooms had no toilet paper. But there was this...
...to admire.
We got to Washington Square Park and my gut finally wheezed defeat, so I ran for what looked like a bathroom. Inside a short, spindly cleaning woman stood between the stalls, holding the doors shut and rasping away at an occupied stall.
"It's Mother's Day. You think I want to be here? I can't leave until I clean this place up."
"Christ Jesus," came the voice from the stall. "What a world. Can't even shit in peace."
"Are you closed?" I asked, once I was safely inside my own stall with the door braced shut.
"No, honey," the cleaning woman said. "You go ahead and go. Mother's day." She muttered to herself for a few more minutes. And try as I might, the moment was over and the urgency back up somewhere behind my liver.
It took some serious pizza and one of the smallest bathrooms I've ever braved to regain equilibrium. I filled my purse up with napkins and waited for the next attack. It never came.
So I had some of this.
It was a very long ride home in the Edge. At least we had cherry slices.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Not last night but the night before.
Day one:
I seem to be losing some necessary function of my right leg. It feels like something stretched, or that I slept on it wrong. When I hobble around a bit to accommodate it, I appear to have an ever-lovin' stick up my ass.
The hobble makes for some Cherry Darling comparisons. (I could take that as a compliment, I guess. Hot Rose McGowan! Zombie-smashing abilities!) The pain itself begins with a dull ache in the morning, high in the pelvis and inner thigh and then worsens steadily throughout the day, whether I sit or walk.
By late evening, the ache spreads down to my calf and I start thinking about Shadowlands and horrible virulent bone-eating cancers. Hot water does not help. Elevating it or reclining does not help. Stretching the leg produces varied results between uncomfortable and relaxing, but ultimately does nothing for the pain.
It is not anywhere near excruciating or anything like that; it is just constant. Since I don't have a machine gun or Anthony Hopkin's pursed chilly affections, I'd rather have my leg back.
Day two:
Maybe I am just getting old?
Day three: (today)
It's baaaaaaaaack.
Side effect of medication, poor sleeping position, or maybe end-of-semester insanity?
I seem to be losing some necessary function of my right leg. It feels like something stretched, or that I slept on it wrong. When I hobble around a bit to accommodate it, I appear to have an ever-lovin' stick up my ass.
The hobble makes for some Cherry Darling comparisons. (I could take that as a compliment, I guess. Hot Rose McGowan! Zombie-smashing abilities!) The pain itself begins with a dull ache in the morning, high in the pelvis and inner thigh and then worsens steadily throughout the day, whether I sit or walk.
By late evening, the ache spreads down to my calf and I start thinking about Shadowlands and horrible virulent bone-eating cancers. Hot water does not help. Elevating it or reclining does not help. Stretching the leg produces varied results between uncomfortable and relaxing, but ultimately does nothing for the pain.
It is not anywhere near excruciating or anything like that; it is just constant. Since I don't have a machine gun or Anthony Hopkin's pursed chilly affections, I'd rather have my leg back.
Day two:
Maybe I am just getting old?
Day three: (today)
It's baaaaaaaaack.
Side effect of medication, poor sleeping position, or maybe end-of-semester insanity?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Cataloging woes
The blog will be on temporary hiatus (read: through Wednesday) as I scramble to finish the Peppery Bitesoffmorethanshecanchew Cataloging Side Project by Wednesday. If only Sunday had not been lost to the mists! If only I didn't have a real job! If only...wait, the U.C. has been surprisingly quiet. This means something...but what?
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