No no no no no no no no no no!!!

OK, I guess I'm back after a very long hiatus to rant here, in my wordy medical cabinet full of balls, because they're trying to kill me. An FDA recommendation to outlaw vicodin?!? I heard that and my immediate reaction was "Jesus Christ, it's a good thing I've already taken my meds for tonight so I don't fucking freak out and throw myself off a cliff."

Fucking FDA. If they want to take away my vicodin, they better supply the fucking heroin.

Who is backing this? I bet it's the Aleve motherfuckers. Gah!
Where do I picket?! Where are the petitions?!?! Where are the addresses of the people on this FDA panel???!??!

Maybe I shouldn't have said that last one. But still, who are these people? They haven't walked a mile in my fucked up hip moccasins. I dream of stuffing a stone in their collective kidney. Let us drill holes in their teeth too close to the nerves, then give them ice cream and no root canal. I want to put pure glucose in their IV and watch them scream.

I honestly don't know what I would do without my vicodin. It scares me. A lot.

If they do take away the only thing that helps me walk like normal person, the thing that allows me to sleep on my horribly fucked up hip bursae, the drug that keeps me from stabbing my legs repeatedly in an effort to somehow relieve the horrible aching of petrified muscles, the thing that keeps me from screaming and punching walls, I will explode. And write terrible run on sentences. If I thought becoming a survivalist and barricading myself in a one room cabin with hordes of prescriptions and paintball guns would work, I would do it.

But I realize that eventually I would run out of pills and paintballs.

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 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.

Safeway sells crack

There exists in my sister's cookbook a recipe for what she calls "crack cookies". They are small sugar cookies with a taste that compels you to eat more of them. The secret, apparently, is cream of tartar.

Well, sorry K, I've found the real crack cookies: Mother's Iced Lemonade cookies.

Unlike the picture above, our local grocery establishments only carry the mini-crack cookie bags. This, like a big-8 in a glad bag, just makes them easier to traffic from kitchen to TV room. They are small enough to ferret away in your hoodie pocket or under your sweater vest, to be eaten in the bathroom, in the dark, after sweetly delivering two small circles of tart citrus crunch & munch to your simple and ignorant husband. Oh, there is so much they don't know.

But the crack cookie is a hard mistress. Once the bag is opened, the drive to go all Cookie Monster is impossible to restrain. In five minutes, you come to; a shredded bag of purple and red at your feet, crumbs stuck to your chin, mingling with the cat fust on your sweatshirt and hanging from your hair. And you will start to cry.

You can't say I didn't warn you.

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 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.

Way beyond the Valley of the Dolls

(that's me on the right. No, left! Wait...)

I finally saw the therapist again, and she re-evaluated taking me off the deadly rash pills that were also crushing my heart, because she determined that it was not crushing my heart, just maybe possibly making my chest muscles sore.

I'm not sure what part of "my chest muscles are sore" she misconstrued when I told her that over the phone. She knows I don't keep my mussels on my chest, they'll eat through the wood and ruin the doubloons.

They say all good comedians, deep down, are really depressed. I have just proven the reverse. You're welcome.

In addition, because this killer rash pill has to be ramped--

Hang on, I'd just like to interrupt this anecdote with a question: How can a rash in and of itself be deadly? Isn't a rash usually an indicator of something wrong, but not the sole cause of it? Am I wrong? What part of it actually kills? Beware, the Hives of destruction!!!

up before it will really take effect, I needed something to pop when I'm freaking out (oh, it happens more than you think. I just don't really show it. It stays locked away in my pancreas. It's not like I was using that for anything else anyway). So what does she give me?

Anti-pychotics! Oooooh, scary. I'm hoping it will cause the crazy googly eyes you see in cartoons. You know, the Judge Doom-y kind.

It won't, though. I'm on a miniscule amount (25mg. Really crazy people take 400mg four times a day), so all it will do is calm me down.

And increase the strength of my vicodin by 75%, apparently. I can sell what I don't use and use the money for other nefarious activities. Sweet!

Pep boys pills, Beverly sills...oh boy. Oh boy. Uh-oh. Uh-oh.

When last we spoke, I was rambling about being depressed about my diagnosis of being depressed. After the neuro-psych diagnosed me as *really* depressed, my therapist suggested I try a mood stabilizer. At first I was optimistic, and then I was angry, then confused, then sleepy, then all the other dwarves and finally, after another 30 seconds, I figured it may be a good idea.

“I have a great mood stabilizer that I have many patients on,” she said. “It’s cheap and it has no side effects. Well, except for the possible deadly skin rash.”

But who’s ever said I’m not a risk taker? I decided to give it a try.

Because of this possible deadly skin rash, they start you out real slow, with 2 weeks at 12.5 mg, then two weeks at 25mg, then two weeks at 50mg, etc etc. After 3 days, I noticed that my chest felt like I had slept with 2 tons of something really heavy on it. I calmly called my therapist, on the off-chance that this was a bad sign. She called back and said that it sounded like it was affecting my heart in a bad way and that yes, it was most likely a really bad sign. She suggested that I stop taking it to see if the chest pain went away.

So now I am for all intents and purposes unmedicated and that is making me even more depressed and anxious. I’ve left 3 messages for her to call me back and get me something STAT. I’m freaking out enough that I’m using my vicodin as my anxiety drug. Not cool.

I am just about ready to demand Xanax by name. work is stressful enough that I don’t have time to ramp up to something. I need drugs. I need them NOW.