MOTH.ER.FUCK.ER.TWO.POINT.TOO

[Edited to add: it was an error with the nurse who called it in to the pharmacy. They are remedying the situation now. Still, my righteous anger applies to other incidents in the past and, no doubt, in the future. This doctor is still not in the clear yet.]

Just once I would like to have one month without medical drama. No new family illness, no mysterious blood sugar episodes, no bizarre side effects, no prescription refill fuck ups.

Especially no prescription refill fuck ups.

You may not remember, but christ I sure fucking do, why I broke up with my former doctor. When I interviewed for my new doctor, I discussed the whole pain medication history: how I had been on the same doseages for 5 years, how well it has worked for me, how I just needed someone downtown to be my primary care doc so I could continue what was obviously a solid, time-tested pain management regimen. She agreed that I seemed stable and was clearly not a drug addict looking for a patsy to feed her habit. We agreed that I would come in once it came time for my prescription to be filled.

I saw her on Monday and brought in the bottle of my last refill. She made a note in my file and asked if I wanted the refill in hand or just faxed to the pharmacy.

(For future reference: ALWAYS GET THE SCRIP IN HAND.)

I got a call yesterday, saying the refill was ready. I took the bus that went by my pharmacy and picked it up. I didn't bother to check anything. Then I got home and noticed the much smaller bottle than usual.

She shorted me 10 days' worth of pills. And made the pharmacist note specially that I was to "make this last the full 30 days."

OK, maybe it was just a mistake. Still? FUCKING BITCH. I can't help but think this was deliberate, that somehow she thinks that maybe I'm exaggerating just a bit and I really only need six a day, rather than the eight I've been on for 5 motherfucking years. Even if it is a mistake, there'll be 50 million hoops to jump through to get the rest and I'll have to pay full price because the insurance won't pay for it.

Once again, I can't sleep because I've gotten myself all hepped up. It's just so frustrating. I feel like I am constantly having to prove to every doctor I see that I really am in pain and that I really do need this medication. For as much as I joke about how great Vicodin is and how I'm such an addict, this is a real medication for me, like Wellbutrin or Levoxyl or Insulin, and I need it to live my life.

This doctor has known me for all of 1.5 hours. I've known this pain for 20 years. If she gives me shit, I swear I will tell her that I'm not seeing her for her medical expertise. I have other, better doctors for that. She is my means to an end. She is the cheapest way to get the medicine I need.

This pain isn't something that's all in my head. And I've been through enough that I shouldn't have to wait for hours on hold, to beg and plead and justify to some judgmental nurse with no knowledge of my background just so I can talk to the doctor and squeeze out of her a prescription for something that is legitimate and necessary. It's demeaning and embarrassing.

You know, my therapist says that a large part of my depression is fed by my insomnia. I would literally feel better if only I didn't have to deal with all this shit. I swear these doctors will be the death of me.

The day before the day

I have been using these solo nights in hotel rooms to cry myself to sleep. It's an indulgence I can't take at home, with the husband who will try to comfort me when comfort isn't what I need, and the cats, who I can feel judging me. But tonight a combination of a friend's picture and a song by Dido just brought everything tumbling out.

I haven't had many business trips lately. I spent my last one sobbing about my dying cat, and I will sometimes lay in bed thinking about how much more crying I have to do over him, but I'm careful not to think about him too much. My therapist says the biggest issue I have is my inability to grieve appropriately. My eyes will begin to well up for almost any reason: a person near tears for losing weight on a reality show, or a story about someone doing something heroic, or even hearing about other people talking about crying. And I hate that I can't control my emotions about issues that I have no real stake in. My emotional reactions makes me feel weak.

I don't hold others to that standard, but somewhere I picked up this fucked up idea that crying-- just my crying-- is a nearly inexcusable character flaw. I had a horrible day at work a few weeks ago where I felt like my head was being ripped open by the MRSA infection entrenched in my left nostril that ended up with me going in to tell the boss that I wasn't feeling well and I ended up bursting into tears. It was horrible. I felt like the worst stereotype of a weakling girl who cries at the slightest stubbed toe or dropped ice cream cone.

I wasn't planning on sobbing tonight, here in my hotel room in Seattle, but I saw pictures of a friend of mine with his new baby. He was so happy just looking at the baby. He may not even have been aware a picture had been taken.

I realized I don't have any pictures of my dad and me like that. I have a few of us posing and his smile seems genuine enough, but I there aren't any like the picture of my friend and his son. Even worse, I'm starting to lose my memory of Dad altogether. I have a few real memories-- like the time at the campfire girl performance when I was six or seven. I was emceeing some sort of talent show where I had to pull a volunteer out of the audience and Dad just stood up, as if there was no one else who could do it (and he was right. I was planning on picking him).

I remember, sitting downstairs every day after preschool, keeping an eye on the polyester mustard curtains for his silhouette, and then running upstairs to jump into his arms. But I have very few of those memories I know I really experienced where it was just us two interacting. And even fewer that were happy.

My more specific memories are things like him yelling at me because he thought I stole his cigarettes and smoked them, when really I flushed them down the toilet because I knew they were bad for him. I remember him admonishing me for urine or blood tests with sugar levels that were too high. And I remember standing outside the sliding glass doors of his hospital room the day before he died, not allowed to go in because he was in ICU and I was only 12.

I do have one very vivid memory where the look on his face showed me that he really did love me. We were staying at my grandmother's house one night and during a particularly bad nightmare, I ended up sleepwalking down the street, waking up several blocks away from the house, on a street that was completely foreign to me. I was nine and it was dark. I sat on the curb and burst into tears. A man heard me and came out of his house and called my grandma's house after figuring out exactly where I should have been (not an easy thing when I only knew her as "Nonnie," which was not her given name and helped him not at all when he tried looking her up in the phonebook). He walked me out to his front porch and we watched as my entire family came running around the corner (I had only gotten a few blocks away). Probably the only look on my Dad's face I know I can remember accurately was the one he had at that moment. He was so worried and so happy to get me back. I don't remember if he carried me back to Nonnie's house, but he probably did.

I wish I had a picture of him to post for this entry, but as I mentioned earlier I am in a hotel room on a work laptop, and the single picture I have of him with me as a baby sits on my old desktop at home. Maybe I'll update it when I get back. Maybe this incident will have passed by then and I won't feel the need to be dramtically melancholy. I was supposed to go to bed an hour and a half ago, but that one Dido song made me get up to write this. It hasn't gone through much of a filter (I usually re-read each post 50 times before actually publishing), so I apologize for any run on sentences or incomplete thoughts.

And I'm sorry for getting you involved in this selfishly dramatic post. I'm posting this and going to bed without even reading it. I'm supposed to be at work at seven tomorrow.

Ever have one of those immune systems?

It lives on my nose, on the tip and back to the left. It has settled also in the bag underneath my eye, which dries out my eye enough for it to hang out there as well.

No, I'm not talking about an adorable tiny wombat named Benson (He moved to Newman's right ear. They get along pretty well, except for the fights about the phone bills). I'm talking about another MRSA blossom that, like all lumps worth their salt, hurts like a mothefucker and makes everything that happens throughout the day more irritating, more painful and more "I'm going to rip the head off the next person who makes eye contact with me".

I'm sure you've had days like that.

So I'm on honkin' antibiotics and taking 16 vicodin a day (what am I - an amateur?), and I have to stick a Q-tip covered with goop up my nose three times a day. As you might imagine, I am a joy to be around.

Oh, and I passed a kidney stone this morning.

So, I've been out of the office for the past two days, writhing in pain and cursing the day I was born, and I show up at work this morning and the boss expects me to prepare for the complicated training I'll be giving tomorrow, and get the handouts rewritten, and rewrite the curriculum. And answer the phones. And respond to emails. And babysit the douchbag coworker who I used to think might be useful until it became apparent that (a) he thinks he's smarter than everyone else [this is an IT guy, you're thinking, how shocking! Yeah, I know] and 2. he hates being told what to do by women.

Anyway, I think my boss is punishing me for being out sick 4 days out the past four weeks. We're all a little passive-aggressive in our loverly little group, but pulling this "get stuff that takes three days done in roughly 5 hours, so you can stand in front of a class of high-maintenence bone-headed computer users who want to learn more about downloading jebus quote screensavers and couldn't give a hooter's tip how Outlook works" thing is fucked up, even for her.

And? On top of that? She sends me an email and says "Oh, don't forget to wander around with a candy basket harrassing people into coming up with questions for you to answer." Sweet.

So today's been a pretty "everything is sucky" day for me. I hope you enjoyed my whining. Be sure to tune in next time for a one-woman play about missing the bus and the new shoes that don't fit.

MOTH.ER.FUCK.ER.

First off, I'm sorry I had to lock this shit down for a bit, but I foolishly put this URL in my Twitter profile, and That Woman has started to follow me. Because she's crazy nosy. I guess it's possible she didn't click on the link because she didn't know what URL meant, but there was a sharp increase in hits on the day she started to follow me.

I don't know why I'm so freaked about this, but I don't want her knowing stuff about me. I'm less concerned about her finding the stuff I wrote about her, but I really don't want her to give her fuel for her ridiculous snotty remarks about things like my stupid health or all the embarrassing moments I've been posting.

If it turns out I'm being paranoid, I'll reopen it. I just like thinking that she'll try to come back to read it and find that she's been locked out. It seems sufficiently passive-aggressive.

[ETA: Obviously, the lock has been lifted. Who the fuck really cares, I thought?)
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Second off, and what I really need to talk about, is how much I despise my Primary Care physician (PCP) and everyone in her office. She decided that, because I haven't been to see her lately, that she would more or less cut me off from my vicodin until I made an appointment.

She filled a partial prescription that would last 5 days. That ran out smack dab in the middle of a three day weekend. Thanks for that, you jerk. I had to wait to refill my prescription until Tuesday, day 2 of having NO PAIN MEDICATION. That's so awesome since my leg and hip pain has gotten significantly worse and I have been officially diagnosed with Fibromyalgia.

I hate my PCP.

She couldn't have done this when she refilled my thyroid medicine the week before? Of course not. She could have had a lawsuit if she did this with my insulin, because that's good medicine. No insulin would kill me. No vicodin just makes everything extremely painful, thus punishing me for being on a drug that some people use recreationally.

I really hate my PCP.

I spent Tuesday on three marathon phone calls, telling my story to three different people who all gave me wrong information. Yes, the doctor is here-- have your drug store fax the info. Then? No, the doctor isn't here after all, but they see the info from the drug store and it's "In her queue". Lastly, I got an on call nurse, who told me there was nothing she could do and I'd have to wait until tomorrow, because even if I left a message for the on-call doctor, he wouldn't be filling any prescription for me. They don't do that sort of thing.

I really hate my PCP and her nurses and assistants.

I spent the night tossing and turning physically and mentally. I spent my sleep time angrily reliving the days interactions, adding even more to my stress and my anxiety.

My god, I hate my PCP.

I woke this morning determined to get this shit out of the way. I called at 10:00 AM and was told it "was in her queue" and she'd get to it in the afternoon, after she saw her patients. I asked that they try to expedite it, since this was day three of my not having my legitimate medicine for a legitimate disease. She reluctantly said she would.

I hate the nurses and assistants in Internal Medicine.

I called again at 3:00 PM to remind them again. It's in the queue, yeah yeah yeah. It was in the queue yesterday and we know how that worked out. I called again at five minutes before their office closed and was lectured that she would get to it.

I really really hate my PCP's office and everyone in it.

It's almost seven now, she is not in her office and there is no prescription at Walgreen's.

I will hitch a ride with my husband tomorrow to Beaverton so I can throttle every god damn person in Internal Medicine, grab my medical records-- built over 9 years and roughly the size of the OED-- and hightail it to my rheumatologist to take over everything. I swear I'll even get my pap smears from him.

That's how much I hate my PCP.

It is finished

At about 3:15 PM on Thursday, October 23, I agreed that it was for the best that the vet should sedate him and then administer the euthanizing agents. I had to do it over the phone, I don't think I could bear being there. The husband had said his goodbyes before I drove Phlyd to the vet, and I took a few minutes while they were pulling his file to try to say goodbye without wailing uncontrollably.

I know he was surrounded by people who loved him-- he was always treated like a rockstar. I am sure he felt safe and loved.

But I am always anthropomorphizing everything-- especially my own cats-- and I can't shake that I should have been there. I should have been sitting with him, cradling his head and scritching his ears. I didn't because I can't even think of him without bawling, and I really really didn't want to break down in front of the vets and techs.

I let my cat die alone because I didn't want to cause a scene.

I know it's all for the best: he was old and he lived a good life, once where he was loved and fed and lavished with anything he wanted.

But I let my cat die thinking I had abandoned him.

I tear up every time his name is brought up. I don't feel smushed enough when the cats sit on my lap. 2 cats seems too few.

I thought I would feel better once this whole thing was over. I thought I would be relieved finally knowing that he was out of pain.

But I let my cat die wondering where I went.

And this continues to break my already broken heart. It feels like I won't ever stop crying.

Jesus, I miss him.