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.

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.

The ache of blue anger

Ok, before I start, you need to watch this. I just saw it on TV and it made me laugh heartily:

I want my ringtone to be "THIS IS LIFE ALERT. YOU HAVE BEEN DETECTED. PLEASE GET OUT NOW!"

And now...

The Least Satisfying Break-up Ever

I was prepared. I had typed up a timeline, I had my arguments in bullet points. Sure, I was sitting there in my hospital gown with a paper blanket covering my naked legs, but I had righteousness on my side. I was ready to kick her perky Beaverton ass.

So of course she walks in and the first words out of her mouth are "You know, I really think you should try to find a doctor nearer to where you live."

She fucking broke up with me first! Argh!

I did make my point that partially filling my prescription for 5 days and then taking a fucking week vacation wasn't cool. And when she said she did that so I would make an appointment, I said I would have come in if she'd just left the message with the pharmacist. I'm not 13 (I added in my head). Then I asked her if she would have done that if I needed an insulin refill. And of course she answered "No". I frowned. When I told her the whole story I got an apology, but that left me almost as frustrated as I was last week. well, with slightly less murderous rage, but still. She psychically cock blocked me. All I could do was demand copies of my medical records and she just said "pick up the form at reception." Then came the speculum.

The paperwork said that I would only be getting a Cliff Notes version of the past two years of visits and x-rays and labs. Since the whole reason my doctor blackmailed me into making an appointment was because I hadn't been to see her in 2 years, this was clearly not going to work. Luckily, my attorney had supplied me with a letter that outlined what I was legally entitled to per HIPAA (basically, anything I wanted). I went downstairs to records and was all ready to fight, but when I told them I wanted everything, all the chick behind the counter said was "OK, but you know we'll be charging you for it, right?"

Yeah, I knew that.
An hour later I was at my rheumatologist's office (I took the whole day off so I could see two doctors and a vet) and told him my story. He listened to me with a ponderous look on his face and then moved on without comment. At least he took a copy of my incident time line, which was a little satisfying, but I don't think he knew what it was, exactly. His assistant, who was also his daughter, asked me a bunch of questions and then he came in and poked at my joints and moved my arms around and generally posed me (most respectfully) like a Barbie doll. Then he sat me down and updated me on my physical phailures:

++ Chronic myofascial pain due to poorly controlled blood glucose levels and vitamin D deficency.
++ Vitamin D deficiency.
++ Possible pinched nerve or nerve damage in my left neck and shoulder.
++ Possible anemia.
++ Chronic fatigue (not necessarily the syndrome kind, for all you attorneys who represent The Man in worker's comp cases. Yeah, I'm lookin' at you, Paul).
++ Fibromyalgia, or a close relative, that is contributing to all of the above.

That'll put the balls in your Medicine Balls.

At least I got a new prescription for Vicodin. I could fill it now and be practically swimming in pills, but I'll be a good patient and at least wait until I finish my first bottle. Maybe. It depends on how the next couple of weeks at work go.

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?)
======================================

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.

When the wars came

We are witness to many battles in America right now. Not just Democrat v. Republican, Bush administration v. reality, McCain v. relevance, Congress v. Foresight and Palin v. direct inquiries. Sure, those are important and I'm keeping at least one eye on each of them. But here are the conflicts that have been keeping me too busy to write (no, really!):

The Battle at Alvioli

I have had pneumonia for the past month, but you'd never know it from my work schedule. No, that's not true, I was out about a week (two and a half days one week and four another), but mostly I've been up and out and about, spreading my pathogens, coughing in fits and generally existing in a phlegmy phog. I was given 10 days' worth of antibiotics 10 days ago, and went in for my recheck this afternoon. The lungs sounded clear, my cute brown-eyed doctor told me as he thumped my back with one hand and listened with the stethescope with both ears, though my coughing may stick around a little longer. He thought maybe my asthma was adding some hassle, so I got some free Advair and a prescription for sudafed (which, if I get me chemistry right could score me a meth rock of about .02 mcg. Hot dog). Expected outcome: I think the Alvioli will come out on top, but they may never be completely rid of the terrorism of post-nasal drip.

The Wars of the Stereotypes

I work with a woman who runs our state's SCA, and you can tell. She dresses like a goth at a temp job: dark but without the boots and black leggings (though I should talk-- I don't dress much better). She is loud and opinionated and, like me, not well-versed in the art of constructive criticism. I get along with her well enough, but she is both annoying and easily annoyed. She is pretty competent at her job, although some of her methods I choose not to emulate.

We recently hired a guy for the open help desk position, and he has the familiar attitude of an IT guy at a new job, meaning he insists on relating everything you are training him to how things used to be at his old job. He is still uncomfortable in his position both as the lowest guy on the totem pole and the only guy in our tiny room. He is easily affronted, but won't take on the affronter directly, so he spends a lot of his time sitting at his desk frowning.

These two don't really get along, and today the sparring started over an incident in training. We are all sitting in on this training this week so we can train on it later, and the trainer is our SCA Baroness. Her hackles were raised at one point when IT guy quietly left the room and didn't come back for 10 minutes. While he was gone I had a coughing fit and left the room to spit up goop and get a cough drop.

At the break, the Baroness summoned us to her shire near the InFocus machine and scolded us for leaving the classroom. I protested that I was coughing uncontrollably and she forgave me. She then turned to IT guy and scolded him even more for not having an obvious reason to leave. He went back to his seat and began to stew. When she went to smoke, he turned to me in a minor fury and proceeded to tell me that he left because something he ate at lunch hadn't agreed with him but, he added, there was no way he was going to tell her that.

So, color me Swiss. I get to hear way too much opinion from both sides. As neither side looks like it will back down, I think I may be in for the passive-aggressive long haul. Yay. Expected outcome: Outlook not so good.

The Attack on Meninges

I just have a headache. Probably related to The War of Stereotypes. Oh, and whatever the doctor's office had floating at the time. Ooh, is it Flu? Sinus infection? Pink eye? Rabies?

Probably all of them. Expected outcome: once the Vicodin division arrives to help the dry eyes squadrons and cyclobenzaprine patrol things should be OK.

I see your bootstraps and raise you an amputated leg

So there's this letter that appeared in this week's Willamette Week:

I am self-employed, and I pay about $140 a month for health insurance. When I hear people say they “can’t afford” health insurance when they have a cigarette habit, a latte habit, and an expensive cellphone, I shake my head in amazement. People, your health is your responsibility; it’s not the job of the rest of society to ante up for your medical costs because you were too cheap to insure yourself. --“Barbara”

Well, allow me to congratulate "Barbara" for thinking ahead and choosing her genes carefully so she could be responsible about her health. If only I had such forward-thinking! If only I hadn't been so careless with my pancreas at nine years old. All my wild parties and late nights back then stuck me with a disease that I will die from if not treated. And if I can't afford to pay for my own mistakes, I have only myself to blame.

But I think "Barbara" may be missing a key part in this whole "everybody deserves health insurance" bug that's sticking in her craw. It's just a little thing, but it's important. She has no fucking idea what she's talking about.

Let's say I lose my job, and am unable to find another job before my COBRA runs out, I will lose my insurance. And given the "pre-existing condition" I recklessly saddled myself with, buying my own insurance could cost as much as $400/month.

And it's very possible that I won't be able to afford that. And that's where things get a little tricky. It's costly to maintain my expensive "must have this medicine or I will die" habit. Allow me to demonstrate (All dollar amounts based on the going rate at my nearby pharmacy in 2007 and the charges incurred at the local medical clinic):

Monthly drug costs: 2 types of insulin, 2 types of syringes: $318.

In order to be a responsible diabetic, I need to be keeping an eye on my blood sugars. I can't expect "Barbara" to ante up for all those complications. This means I will need to buy a glucose monitor ($75) and monthly test strips ($219).

And you can't just walk in and buy some of this stuff. You need a prescription, and prescriptions mean Drs. appointments. If I go just once a year and get all the tests "responsible" citizens should get-- lab works and a pap smear (unless she expects me to bear that burden as well-- after all, I'm the one with the cervix. Half the people on this planet don't need pap smears, what makes me so special?)-- that will cost a little less than $500.

So, let's do some math!

Dr visit + glucose monitor + [(prescriptions + test strips) x 12]

equals

$7019.00 per year. Minimum.

(Note: This of course does not take into consideration anything else that is considered "responsible" health maintenence: Eye care, dental appointments, drugs for other conditions that come with diabetes like glaucoma, neuropathy, gastroparesis, thyroid disease, depression, anxiety. And let us not speak of emergency medical care; anything I would do that would require such extravagance would surely be my fault. C'mon, dressed like that? I would be asking for it.)

Honestly, how could I possibly expect my government to allocate "Barbara's" precious tax dollars to fund my corporeal inadequacies? How reckless and selfish! Jesus, here I've made this whole entry about me, me, me. I mean, what about "Barbara"?

Well, here's what about "Barbara": I think she needs to try that old "walk in someone else's moccasins" for a while. I think any diabetic would be happy to hand over the shoes they can't wear anymore, what with those pesky feet they just had amputated.

I continue to fail in new and ingenious ways

Seriously, it shouldn't be this difficult.

The alternatives include taking him on the bus to a vet appointment every other day, or hiring a tech to come over administer the fluids. Or putting him down, which my mother a bit too enthusiastically recommended.

But I can't get the fucking fluids into the dying cat. What. The Fuck. Is. My. Problem.

I has a happy

All seems to be going well on the health front for the family, and it's about goddamn time. We are cancer free and continuing to improve and I can't tell you how happy it makes me to type that.

K still has to take that gazillion-dollar medicine apparently made of lutetium and magic, and J is still in hospital* and not 100% but it's so nice getting good news. We've been a little low on that this past year.

* if Canada says it that way, then that's good enough for me. Plus, I save all that time not saying 'the'. Efficiency, people!

Hot flashes, check it and see

Art shamelessly stolen from Paper and Threads.

For the past several nights I have woken up bathed in sweat. Since that is a symptom of Insulin Emily at Night*, I have been dutifully getting up and checking my blood sugar. But it's been normal (well, high - but that's normal for me). So, what gives? Is it the great ceasening? The big halt? The bloody conk-out?

I don't know. What say you, Wikipedia?

"Rarely the ovaries stop working at a very early age, anywhere from the age of puberty to age 40, and this is known as premature ovarian failure (POF), also commonly referred to as "premature menopause" or "early menopause." 1% of women experience POF, and this is not considered to be due to the normal effects of aging. Some known causes of premature menopause include autoimmune disorders, thyroid disease, diabetes mellitus, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy, however, in the majority of spontaneous cases, the cause is unknown. "

[Family members: stop reading here] A six foot tall douchebag once told me that I "wasn't sporadic enough", by which he meant I wasn't spontaneous enough for him because I refused him a hummer whilst he was driving across the Bay fucking Bridge in a two-seater convertible. So, clearly, spontaneous occasions like this are not for me. Oddly enough, though, my issue does qualify as sporadic... spooky.

[Family members may resume reading now]

So anyway, I'm two for five. Is it enough to push me prematurely into cotton ponylessness? Kick Aunt Flo to the curb? Finally stop this litany of painful euphemisms?

Of course not. And yes.

*She's not as fun as the daytime IE since everyone is asleep. The dreams that precede her appearances aren't even any weirder than normal. Nighttime IE is just a pain in the ass.

I drink to stay warm, and to kill selected memories...

"And yet I can recall in great detail all of the really
embarrassing things that happened to me in the same time period. Not just the things, but the awful feelings that caused or were caused by those embarrassing things." -me, last night

I realized just now that this is a very good description of depression, at least the kind that I have. I haven't talked much here about why I am depressed, only that I am.

My secondary depression-- that is, the one that is relatively new-- is because of the medical issues my siblings have been suffering through in the past several months. In addition to me not being able to cope with my grief (which I seem unable to handle. I have unresolved grief issues from 1982), I also feel helpless. Helpless and useless. Both siblings have been diagnosed recently with serious conditions. Life-threatening conditions. And here I am with my nebulous sadness and intermittent back pain, and I feel like everything I think or write or feel is either petty or inappropriately self-centered.

You know, like that last paragraph.

My overlying depression, the one I think I've had since forever, is the one where I can't stop thinking about stupid things in my past. Any stupid thing-- it's not limited to stupid things I've done or stupid things I've said. Just stupid things. All of them. I think of stupid questions I've asked help desk people. I remember all the stupid things I've thought about people. I focus on stupid things I've written and stupid things I've sung. Stupid places I've gone and the stupid things I've done there. There are so many that I don't have room in my head for good things. I have to be prompted to think about times where I've done things right or I've done things I liked.

Is this a poem?

A haiku (or an haiku?)

Or just some complaints?

OK, that's enough of that. I'm getting depressed talking about depressed I am.

Hellmouth has closed

Well, poke my eye and call me Jesus! I am healed! The pit in my pit-- which at one point took about 4 inches of stringy gauze-- has officially closed! I was told it would take from 10 to 14 days, but my body decided to pool its resources and focus those proteins and red blood cells on fixing that hole carved out o' me last Wednesday and got it all sewn up (so to speak) in 6.5 days.

Yay, me!

The twice-a-day packings were a pain (literally), certainly, but the best part of the healing? I don't have to wear a monogrammed maxi-pad in my armpit anymore!

Superbug

A new sing along written to commemorate the test results of the culture done on the pus that was extracted from the gigantic abscess that was residing until recently in my right armpit.

(to the tune of "YMCA")



Uh-oh, what's that bump on my arm?
Why's it hurting, giving cause for alarm?
Jesus, more crap causing me harm.
Off I go back to the doctor.

Oh crap, it sucks I've got M-R-S-A!
They've just confirmed I've got the M-R-S-A!

Man that's just what I need,
Another illness to feed!
Once again I lash out - why me?

No sir, we don't get to share clothes.
I said, too bad - I just spent lots of dough
On new towels and Purel on-the-go.
Now I've got to go wash my hands

That's what you do when you're M-R-S-A
Been diagnosed with fucking M-R-S-A

It's infectious you see,
You do not want a hug.
It's a classified super-bug!

(fading out)

M-R-S-A
It's not so fun when you've got M-R-S-A

I haven't seen the movie and I haven't drunk anyone's milkshake, but believe them when they say There Will Be Blood

Image borrowed from Roman Dirge

So, here's a tip: If you ever find yourself with, say, an abscess and someone suggests that you can "just get that lanced", please note that yes, while you can get that lanced, you should remember that what no one will tell you is that it's fucking PAINFUL and will take more than a MONTH for you to completely recover.

And? Also? You may have to have your spouse--or a roommate or a loved one or just someone you pull off the streets-- stuff your open wound with a thin string of gauze twice daily for two weeks.

Yes, it's as gruesome as it sounds, and you do NOT want to click here to see what it's like.

It's called "packing a wound" and the point is to have the wound heal from the inside out, otherwise you will heal with a big hole ready to be filled with more pus. And while I understand the importance of healing right, it's still blechy and creepy and even though I don't consider myself very sqeamish and I don't have a fear of blood, it's HORRIBLE.

Twice a day-- 6 AM and 9 PM. For two weeks. And next time you see the husband, that'll be DOCTOR husband to you.

I win again

It's not like I had big plans for this weekend. I was going to go to K's house to see an old friend and watch The Six Wives of Henry VIII. And then my armpit mutinied.

Based on my research, I think I may have another chronic thingy. Another syndrome. I got no sleep Friday or Saturday. I had a lump in my right armpit the size of two gumballs melted together and reformed into something that would show up in my armpit.

I have gotten these things before, but this was above and beyond my past experience with painful bumps. My entire right arm was aching (spoiler alert: still is!). My lymph node felt like it was the size of a mid-size rental car. It was excruciating to lie down. I could not be in any position more than 15 seconds before it became unbearable. I finally got to sleep after taking nine vicodin over a two-hour period.

Having just watched that guy on Survivor leave the game with warnings of lymph nodic issues, I decided to go to the emergency room at seven this morning.

And? Even though I was the only one there at the time? It still took 4 hours have the thing drained painfully (though without any noticible change in size, and the four hours included three hours of just waiting). I'm now on frequent doses of extra-strength anitbiotics and I get to figure out exactly when I'm going to apply the warm compress I've been instructed to do 6-8 times a day whilst training a new lawyer for the next two days.

And I don't really feel any better. It's still painful to lie down. The lump is still the size of two gumballs, etc. etc.

My brow may stay permanently furrowed. Hmph.