Be Careful What You Ask Your Doctor

I am so zany sometimes.

Case in point: Today I went to the doctor.

That's not the zany part, I promise.

Drunkards, I hate going to the doctor. I have to take time off work, which is a pain because the people there refuse to stop giving me stuff to do just because I'm not there to do it. What the hell, people at work? 

Mostly, though, I hate going to the doctor because I desperately don't want to be sick. I'm terrified of being told that my blood pressure is dangerously high, or my heartbeat sounds wrong, or there's some kind of weird, expensive lump on my body.

Yikes.

If I had my druthers, I simply wouldn't go to the doctor unless I was actively sick or injured. And I haven't been sick - real, go-to-the-doctor sick - since I had shingles in 2014. For all my fears, and for all my chronic disregard for my physical health, I'm a damn healthy person except for one thing: I have mild to moderate asthma.

I'm fortunate in that there's a readily available prescription drug (it comes in a purple disc) that does an amazing job at controlling my asthma. I'm frankly privileged to have health insurance that makes it affordable. The US health system is so fucked. How any medicine that could mean the difference between life and death can cost hundreds of dollars a month without insurance is incomprehensible. But that's a rant for another day.

Homer is funny, but healthcare isn't.

In any event, my doctor prescribes a year's worth of my asthma med. So every year I have to make the pilgrimage to attest that I still enjoy breathing and need a little help to do so. And while I'm there they weigh me and check my blood pressure and listen to my heart and lungs. 

As an aside, I always freak out when they take my bp. There's a lot of high blood pressure and heart problems in my family, and I assume that stuff is going to catch up with me eventually. Yet my bp is fine - today it was 122/70. I don't think I understand how bodies work.

I'm getting to the zany part, I promise.

Every year the doc makes two recommendations: Come in for a complete physical, and get a mammogram. And every year I smile and nod and say "you bet"...and ignore them. Why? Here's my logic. If I do those things, there's a greater than zero chance that they'll find something wrong with me. If I don't do those things, there's a 100% chance that they won't diagnose me with anything scary, life-threatening, or costly.

I do not recommend this approach to personal well-being to anybody reading this. If any of my loved ones adopted this approach to their health, I would be appalled and entreat them to look after themselves, for their sake and mine. Please don't mistake my lack of giving a shit about myself for practical medical advice.

So. 

Today I got the standard spiel: Blood pressure good, heart and lungs sound good, prescription has been called in, you should schedule a physical and a mammogram. But this time they added a brand-new recommendation: You should consider a colonoscopy.

Now, I had to accompany my ex-spouse to several colonoscopies because of his own health issues and a family history of cancer, and I really can't think of anything I'd less like to do than undertake colonoscopy prep and then have a camera shoved up my bum to film my guts. 

I was so gobsmacked by the very idea of subjecting myself to this rectal hellscape that I blurted out:

"Oh my god, can't I just poop in the box?"

Maybe zany isn't the right word. Whimsical? Spontaneous? Completely lacking in adult human filters?

Whatever it is, the doc utterly topped me by saying, "Oh! Really? Sure, I can have a Cologuard mailed out to you today!"

You guys, what have I done? I'll tell you what I've done. I have committed to producing a stool sample that I will place into a cardboard receptacle that will be sent via the US Mail for analysis. I'm going to poop in a box and put it in the mailbox. 

Take that, Louis DeJoy.

I guess I'll let you know how it goes? 

Here's to Normal

I had an anxiety attack today.

This is pretty much how it feels.

I don't suffer from chronic anxiety. Fear, yes. Impotent rage, sure. But anxiety - that formless dread about making it through the next five minutes with my identity intact? Fortunately, not my default.

I completely get those who experience either chronic anxiety or regular anxiety attacks. I know how it feels. It sucks. I offer you all the understanding hugs.

Chimp hugs, even, which are nature's best hugs.

I experience anxiety attacks on an infrequent yet fairly regular basis. They seize me for no good reason, embrace me in a death-grip that is neither pleasant nor productive, and linger until I question every ounce of my carefully curated self-worth.

I hate them, you guys. And I so support those of you who are forced to endure them on a more frequent basis than I do.

My anxiety attack began this afternoon. I had lunch with Drummer Boy, but something wasn't right. Some malevolent bastard voice in my head was trying its best to sabotage my mood.

And it worked.

For the rest of the afternoon, I went through the motions of working and interacting with people. But really I spent the whole time silently battling an invisible foe who wanted me to feel scared, insecure, and inept.

Copyright Toby Allen, who nailed it.

I don't know what triggered my anxiety. I don't understand its grip on me.

I do know that I silently trembled the rest of day until I got home to my Precocious Daughter. We went grocery shopping (she drove, of course), and gradually my anxiety lifted.

She has that effect on me.

I already take Prozac to control my wildly unstable brain chemistry.

I can't imagine what it's like to live with anxiety every freaking day.

I hope it doesn't return tomorrow.

I hope it doesn't return to any of you tomorrow.

Here's to feeling good.

The Bottom of My Heart

Hi, Drunkards.

Today on "Jeopardy," there was a category called "Heart Surgery with Dr. Oz."

First, I think Dr. Oz is a farking hack who shouldn't be allowed on cable access, let alone the most prestigious quiz show in the country.

Would vote Alex Trebek into any office if he weren't a
Canadian bastard.

But today, the category - if not the celebrity doctor-lite friend-of-Oprah presenting it - resonated with me.

My mom is having heart surgery tomorrow.

She has a leaky heart valve, as I've mentioned before.

Tomorrow she will report to the hospital at f*cking 5:00 a.m., so that she can receive an operation that I hope will save her life.

I hope...and yeah, I pray. I don't fucking pray, but I pray my mom will be OK.

My God looks like this. Your mileage may vary.

In any event. my mom goes into surgery at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow, May 25, 2017.

I need this to go well, you guys.

I don't give a fuck whether she is watched over by Jesus, Christian God, Shiva, Buddha, or anyone the fuck else.

I just want my mom - a good person whom I love with all my heart - to come out of surgery OK.

If you can send some good energy her way, I thank you.

I owe you.

So Long, And Thanks for All the Squid

Oops, I haven't posted in a while. Sorry.

Last week was a little intense.

Turns out it's not OK to not take my meds for three or four days. Turns out that's more than enough time to embark on a downward spiral. And, it turns out, it takes a few days to emerge from the abyss once you've gazed into it and gotten back on the damn meds.

Brain chemistry, you guys. Don't fuck with it.

It leads to feelings of revulsion
and disgust. Eating eggs, I mean.
*yuck*

I'm just now starting to feel slightly more normal after several days of loosey-goosey-where's-the-noosey emotional havoc. Don't worry, I was never in any danger of harming myself. I have a truce with myself on that score, and it is iron-clad. But thoughts...well, thoughts leave no scars but still pack a hell of a wallop.

I am, however, strong like female Russian cow.

I'm udderly indefatigable. Hehe. I kill myself.
NOT literally.

Or, more accurately, German-Polish hybrid cow. Oddly enough, it's mostly made of sausage.

I am from sausage-loving stock.

Anyway, it's been quite a week. I planted beans, you guys. #Bean2017 is on. Photo essays until you want to stab yourself in the eyes are coming. Also, possibly, tomatoes. We'll have to see how brave I feel. At the moment, I'm not so brave.

I discovered I can pay my taxes. I love everything about being single, except being screwed by the IRS because I'm no longer married. Also, I discovered to my chagrin that Precocious Daughter aged out of the child tax credit when she turned 17 in November. So she's just dead weight to me now. But I can handle the unexpected extra tax burden. Because someone, whose name has three letters and ends with "d," is watching over me. (It's my dad, OK?)

I want to write about health care, and the stunning, gripping, historic events of last Friday, when the Republican-led house couldn't pass the bill it's had seven years to perfect.

I want to write about Chuck Berry, whom we lost recently, and how damn much his music means to me.

I want to write about Hamilton, because PDaughter and I have become obsessed with the musical, and it literally runs in a loop in my head all day long. Possibly it saved my sanity, I don't know.

Probably Lin-Manuel Miranda is the hero Gotham deserves,
and also is adorable.

Mostly, I want to write because writing makes me feel normal and gives me hope. And makes me believe that feeling hopeful is normal. 

I've decided that I will be published on McSweeney's Internet Tendency this year, come hell, high water, or several dozen polite rejections. Even if I loathe myself by the time it happens. Because if a writer doesn't loathe herself, who will?

I've decided that being strong is hard, but being weak is like carrying 150 pounds of dead squid on your back for eternity.

For one thing, it stinks.

I'm grateful to everyone who loves me. And to generic Prozac, which keeps me tethered to reality for less than eight bucks a month, so long as I actually get around to refilling my prescription.

And to Drummer Boy, whom I don't deserve.

ANSWER IN THE COMMENTS: To me, weakness feels like 150 pounds of dead squid. How does it feel to you?

Mother's Little Helper

Today's life lesson: Never try to wean yourself off Prozac.

Such a harmless-looking little fella, right?

I've been taking Prozac since 2003 or so, when I noticed that my monthly PMS was lasting weeks instead of days. Every month I experienced long periods of anger, fear, sadness, anxiety, and hopelessness. Then I discovered there's an actual thing called PMDD (pre-menstrual dysmorphic disorder), which is basically PMS with a really bad attitude.

I talked to my doctor, and he wrote me a prescription for Sarafem, which is simply fluoxetine aka Prozac with a manufacturer-approved alter ego.. After I changed doctors (because my insurance changed), I dropped the PMDD pretense and just asked for generic Prozac, please. My doc approved, and I've been taking it ever since.

I started out with a 10 mg daily dose, which later increased to 20 mg and now stands at 40 mg.

Because Prozac does not cure crazy but only controls it. And over time it takes a larger dose even to control it.

And it works.

I know this, because I've tried several times to wean myself off it. None of these attempts has ended well.

The latest attempt happened over the past two weeks.

I've been taking my Prozac once every other day. I thought...hey, if I feel OK on this dosage I can probably quit altogether. I can be free of pharmaceutical support. I can be myself without any drugs.

Yeah, right.

Guess what, you guys? It turns out I need to take Prozac every fucking day.

It turns out I become hopeless and suicidal without it.

It turns out that taking a 40 mg dose every other day does not shield me from depression or suicidal thoughts.

On the one hand, yay Prozac.

On the other hand, I'm completely dependent on pharmaceutical intervention to keep me from slashing my wrists with a cheap pair of scissors.

Not so yay.

Without a reliable 40 mg of Prozac in my system, I can't cope. I can't stop crying. I can't push aside the negative thoughts that my loved ones would be better off without me.

So I'm done with that nonsense.

I'll be making an appointment with my doctor to renew my Prozac prescription.

Because I'm hooked.

Part of me thinks that sucks.

Part of me is grateful for the little capsule that keeps me sane.

I'm torn.

I feel weak. I feel grateful. I feel sad. I feel well.

I don't know how to feel. At least not without Mother's Little Helper.

What do you think, Drunkards?

I really want to know.

The Price of Happy vs. The Price of Smug Douchebag

 The new dose of Prozac is working out great.

The new pills are approximately three inches long,
but it just takes more room to hold the extra sanity.

Although this week hasn't been materially less stressful than any of the past, say, eleventy weeks, I literally have found myself thinking, "You know, last week this would have driven me batshit crazy, but today, not so much" at least once every day.

And that in a nutshell is what the wonder drug fluoxetine does: It lets me not go batshit crazy over things that normal people handle daily.

Sadly, it also doesn't turn me into Christina Ricci,
which is a side effect I could actually  get into.

Now, there is a real cost associated with the increased dose and attendant increased likelihood to not randomly lose my shit in a public place. I had been paying about $6.00 for a 30-day supply of generic Prozac. Now, with my dosage doubled, I'm paying...almost eight bucks for a 30-day supply.

It now costs me 26.6 cents a day to be a functional human.

Probably this would cost a bit more.

That, my friends, is a price I'm so very willing to pay. Just over a quarter a day to not have emotional breakdowns at work? To be capable of choosing confidence over fear at least half the time? To believe the future is something other than a scary black void that will eat me if I dare approach it?

Oh hell yeah. Eight bucks a month for the win.

But of course my personal victory got me thinking about people who rely on the drug Daraprim, a 60-year-old generic formulation that treats the fairly rare but very dangerous condition of toxoplasmosis, a parasitic infection that can infect AIDS patients, cancer sufferers, and pregnant women, among others. It's a very effective drug that costs about $13.50 a dose.

This week, many news outlets reported that the patent to Daraprim was purchased by Turing Pharmaceuticals, a start-up company owned by a guy named Hedgefund McDouchebro.

Or Martin Shkreli, as his grandmother probably still knows him.

Call him whatever you think is appropriate.

Mr. McDouchebro decided that the drug that all the medical professionals think works just great needed to work better.

Hahaha, no really, he just thought he could make a shit-ton of money by gouging the people who need this drug to keep, sort of, living.

And so overnight, the price of Daraprim went from $13.50 a dose to...$750.

Five. Thousand. Percent. Increase.

McDouchebro claims the obscene profits from the price increase will help fund research to create even better drug therapies.

Let me again link to this article, which claims that no one has ever questioned the efficacy of the existing drug.

I'm going to do math here, you guys. It's almost certainly going to be wrong, so call me out on that. But here goes.

If my precious fluoextine suddenly increase in price by 5000%, it would cost me...$14.77 a day?

Seriously, no idea.

I did this equation a number of ways, and ended up with answers that were all over the galaxy. So I don't know what the equivalent of jacking up Daraprim by 5000% is, OK? But it's, like a lot. And if I had to face that kind of price increase, several people I know would be dead by morning. Promise.

So, if you're mathier than I am (NOT difficult, tbh), let me know what 5000% over the price of an eight bucks a month prescription is. Let me know if McDouchebro is at all justified in raising the price of an obscure but important drug. Also, let me know if you think this asshole is an asshole. For the record, I think he's an asshole.

Also, in light of everybody in the world calling him a big fucking jerk, McDouchebro has now announced that Turing Pharmaceuticals will roll back that price increase for "certain customers." He won't say who those customers are, or what price they will pay.

Maybe bloood relatives.

I'm not good at math, you guys. Not even with sweet, sweet Prozac. So I'm trusting that one or more of you will uncover the truth here. Media assholes, millionaire douchebag assholes, or enough assholes to go 'round while innocent people continue to suffer for no good reason.

I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

In the morning I'll take my sunshine in a capsule. Because I need it and I can afford it.

I hope the same applies to all of you.

And let me know if you think Mr. McDouchebro is an asshole. My money says yes.

Feeling Alright

I went to the doctor today and got the dosage on my happy pills upped. Doubled, in fact. My prescription is written six months at a time, and with luck that will be just the right window for my new normal to have kicked in. Not that I'm suddenly pretending to know what the future holds. But I'm pretty certain I'm justified in expecting the turbulence of this year to slop over into the next, at least temporarily.

I prefer happy.

I was also talked into getting a flu shot, something I've never done before. Gonna be honest: The only reason I agreed was that they said it would be free because I was already there for the prescription consult. With money tight, the idea of getting something for free - even a needle in the arm - sounded OK to me. I think I've only had the flu once in the last decade, but, you know, free. And the nurse who administered the shot was so skillful that I barely felt it. Also, she was wise enough to not show me the needle until after she was done.

There's a fine line between professionalism
and insanity. Trust me.

And I was persuaded to make an appointment for a physical, which will take place next week. I haven't had a physical in...well, I don't even know. It's been a ridiculously long time since I've had a Pap smear or a cholesterol test or any of those things that indicate whether Death is stalking me somewhat closer than I'd like.

There are a number of reasons for that. But mostly I think that at some point, and problably longer ago than I realized, I stopped thinking of myself as someone worth taking care of.

One of the biggest long-term problems in my marriage was related to my spouse's laissez-faire attitude toward life. When we met, I was hyper-responsible and obsessed with following the rules - basically a little old lady in a young woman's body. His ability to live in the moment and relax was a revelation to me, not to mention very attractive. On the plus side, he taught me that it's OK to not take life so seriously all the time and to believe that things tend to work out fine in the end. I'm grateful to him for that. But on the flip side, his attitude didn't mature over time, and I grew to resent having to be the responsible one, and I allowed irresponsibility to become the default. Home repairs, car maintenance, financial management...I couldn't manage it all, and his flexible demeanor could turn very rigid when he felt pressured or criticized. So I emotionally retreated to a place where he wouldn't feel that way. As a result, there was never any money in the bank, never a plan to update the house, never a car that didn't die before its time because of neglect.

My health care became another casualty in the war of attitudes. Fortunately, I'm a very healthy person overall. But problems can develop at any time. The thought of that was too scary to contemplate, especially since illness is not simply debilitating but very expensive. And my spouse, unlike me, has had a number of fairly major health issues over the years. Eventually I began to tell myself that, since he was more likely to get sick, it was probably better if I didn't go looking for problems with my health. I stopped having well-woman exams, ignored appointments to have blood work done, and at the age of 47 have yet to have a mammogram.

There's a hereditary component to my lack of self-care, too. I'm not ready to go there. Let's just say I now recognize patterns in my life that didn't seem obvious when I was younger.

In any event, I'm reclaiming the right to take care of myself. (Or possibly claiming it for the first time.) It's not just for me; it's for Precocious Daughter, too, who needs a mother and a positive role model. I want to be both. I want her to be proud of me.

I'm going to take my meds, and safeguard my health, and allow myself to matter enough to make these things a priority.

It feels strange to have these thoughts. But it feels good. I'm all about feeling good.

Patri in Silentio

Yesterday my mom went to the emergency room.

She's home now, with antibiotics and pain meds. She has one more round of tests in a few days, but all the tests they ran at the hospital indicate that she is a very healthy 71-year-old woman. When I talked to her last night, shortly after she and my dad returned home, she said she was already feeling better. I'll talk to her again tomorrow to see how she's doing after a couple of days of antibiotics.

Knock wood, the next test won't uncover any major issues. She'll complete the antibiotics and be fine. Because she's very fit for a woman her age (more fit than me, probably), and she should have many years ahead of her, as long as she takes minimal care of her health.

And there's the rub.

My mom, God love her, is stoic to a fucking fault.

I should stitch her a sampler with the words "Patri in Silentio" on it, because "Suffer in Silence" is her personal motto.

She wouldn't have ended up in the ER if she had mentioned that she wasn't feeling well. If she had admitted to having pain in her side and shortness of breath. If she had simply answered honestly when my dad, noticing that she seemed less than 100%, asked her if she was OK.

But until it became an emergency, she didn't. Because "Suffer in Silence." That's how she's been for as long as I can remember.

And after I stitch those words for her, I should stitch a second one, because she passed that attitude down to me.

Except I'm done with that bullshit. Suffering in silence gets you nothing. It landed my mom in the hospital.

It destroyed my marriage.

If I've learned anything at all in my adult life, it's that communication is always better than silence. No matter how difficult or scary it is, it's always better. Because even if a conversation goes terribly, it gives you the precious gift of information. Maybe not the information you sought or expected, but the information you need to move forward.

Silence lies. Silence has no voice, so all it can convey is a false sense of security that requires you to pretend that the absence of bad news is good news. That a lack of discord is peace. That refusing to express sadness somehow manufactures happiness in the void.

All lies.

Suffering in silence doesn't tell the world you're strong. It tells the world you're afraid to be weak. And once fear has a hold of you, it rules your life and makes your decisions for you.

It endangers your health. Or ruins your relationships.

For no goddamn reason.

So I'm done. No more suffering in silence. And absolutely no teaching Precocious Daughter that toxic lesson by example.

It's difficult. And it's scary. And it will bring some sadness.

But because I want to be a good role model for my mom and my daughter, I'll deal with all that.

And maybe we'll all be stronger for it.

Embracing the Crazy

Conversation between me and Precocious Daughter yesterday:

Me: I need to call in a refill for my crazy pills.

PD: Yes, do that please.

*later, coming home from mall*

Me: Don't let me forget to stop at the drugstore to pick up my crazy pills.

PD: Don't forget to stop at the drugstore to pick up my crazy pills.

Me: Yeah, thanks.

*at the drugstore, picking up pills*

Me: Here, hold these.

PD (reading from label): "Fluoxetine." Is there, like, a brand name these things go by?

Me: Of course. It's Prozac.

PD:

Ohhh-kay.

PD: Oh.....................................................I know what that is.

Me:

So, apparently up to now there's been some disconnect between PDaughter's knowing for years now that Mommy takes "crazy pills" and her perhaps more recent knowledge of what Prozac is and what kind of thing it's taken to treat.

I learn something new every day.

For the record, I'm not in the least ashamed to say that I've taken Prozac for the last dozen years or so. After suffering from cyclical depression since the age of 12, it gave me, at long last, the gift of emotional normalcy. It doesn't make me happy or blissed-out or comfortably numb; it simply lets me live on a level playing field where I can experience the normal range of emotions like a normal person. I have one days and 10 days on fluoxetine, and every number in between days, too. That's how life goes. On the other hand, I don't have months of -10 or manic periods of 40. And for that I'm tremendously grateful to modern medicine.

For just over four bucks a month - that's not even a copay, that's the retail price - I interact with the world more or less like a person whose hormones don't regularly mutiny and try to make her walk the plank.

I'm a little bit sorry that I didn't realize PDaughter was ignorant of the connection between Mama's crazy pills and the thing she's heard of called Prozac. I don't like having secrets between us. Because knowledge can be hard, but secrets are so much worse.

I'll revisit the topic with her soon. I want her to understand that I don't take Prozac because I'm crazy, but because it keeps me from getting crazy. I want her to understand that there's a fair chance she's inherited a disposition to depression from me (and from her grandmother), and I don't want her to ever feel ashamed to seek treatment. We are not in control of our brain chemistry. But we can control how if affects us, thank goodness.

I want everyone who takes anti-depressants to own the commitment they've made to wellness. I want to eradicate the dim view society takes of people who rely on science to correct a deficiency of nature. Congenital normalcy should not be valued and celebrated at the expense of those who start in a different place and struggle to achieve what others experience naturally.

Drunkards...no matter where you are or how you feel, your normal is OK. And if it's not OK with you, you totally have my support to make it better for you.

Protip: Prozac is awesome.

This Post About Gun Nuts Contains Salty Language. See What I Did There?

Dear gun nuts:

Can I call you gun nuts?

OK, so I was looking for images to make that illustration there, and I found this:

Does that not totally look like two peanuts getting it on?

Hehehehe.

Anyway.

To answer my own question, gun nuts: Yes, I do need to call you gun nuts, because I want to differentiate you from the gun owners who don't suffer from your particular affliction, which I call Butthurtus ammosexualis.

You think that's not a thing? It's a meme. And memes can't lie.
It is Internet law.

I know a lot of people who own guns. Hell, my own mom has been known to go to the gun range. I know people who collect guns, the way I collect sewing patterns. I'm pretty sure there is zero overlap between those two hobbies, but that doesn't keep some of these people from being dear friends. They don't stick their guns in my face, and I don't make them come over for fittings.

But these people don't suffer from Butthurtus ammosexualis. Or if they do, they're so far in the closet that they end up swapping shooting stories with John Travolta.

Huh. That had some layers of innuendo.

Have you ever noticed that the word innuendo sounds like an Italian guy describing anal sex?

Where was I?

Oh yes, gun nuts. You see, Butthurtus ammosexualis encompasses a specific set of symptoms. If you compare an unafflicted gun enthusiast with a gun nut, the disease becomes easy to diagnose.

Can you tell the difference?

Gun enthusiast: Understands the capabilities and limitations of firearms.
Gun nut: Ascribes magical powers to guns, from granting invulnerability to eliminating all crime.

Gun enthusiast: Exercises the right to own and carry guns responsibly and respectfully.
Gun nut: Demands the right to whip out a gun and publicly fondle it at his/her whim.

Gun enthusiast: Promotes gun safety and education.
Gun nut: Threatens people with opposing opinions.

Gun enthusiast: Realizes that many people feel intimidated by guns, conducts self discreetly.
Gun nut: Gathers with buddies in fast-food restaurants and leaves gun unattended so as to better stuff face with chicken tenders.

Gun enthusiast: Believes in the integrity of the Second Amendment.
Gun nut: Feels the Constitution is so weak that government confiscation of all weapons is imminent despite the Second Amendment expressly prohibiting such a thing.

Gun enthusiast: Feels that women who are comfortable with and properly trained on firearms can be empowered.
Gun nut: Calls women who campaign for common-sense gun laws cunts and whores.

Gun enthusiast: Knows there is room for thoughtful, even passionate debate about gun policy.
Gun nut: Sees literally zero middle ground between "everyone in America walking around fully armed at all times" and "banning every single form of weapon, plus burning old Looney Toons cartoons featuring Elmer Fudd hunting Bugs Bunny."

Gun enthusiast: Is a normal human who happens to pursue an interest I don't share.
Gun nut: Is a troglodyte pretending to be a better patriot than I am, because guns.

Claims of being a better dresser
are demonstrably false.

If you find yourself identifying with the gun nut, you may be suffering from Butthurtus ammosexualis. Don't see your doctor; there's no miracle cure, and your doctor doesn't want your gun-toting ass in his waiting room scaring his patients.

The only known treatment is to stop being an asshole.

That's my advice. Come and take it, won't you?

All About Shingles, Or As I Like to Call Them, Head Herpes

I had to log off Facebook last night because all the positive feedback about the return of the blog was embarrassing the hell out of me. I have a hard time with praise. It's not that I don't think I deserve it, it's just that I think you're all damned liars.

But thank you again from the bottom of my heart. Your words made yesterday a very special day.

And now let's talk about shingles.

Image by artur84 courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Shingles as far as the eye can see.

Shingles is a disease that I suppose is destined to become nearly extinct in the next generation or so. You can only get it if you've had chicken pox, and except for the kids whose parents are crackpots, pretty much everyone gets vaccinated against chicken pox these days. That's probably why the pharmaceutical companies are pimping shingles so hard these days. They missed out on polio, they're not going to miss their chance to milk the shingles cow until the final moo.

Image by satit_srihin courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net
That is a terrible metaphor. Sorry, I'm a bit rusty.

Have you seen this commercial?



My experience with shingles has been exactly like that, except:

1. I'm not an old man.
2. I didn't have curl-up-in-a-fetal-position pain.
3. I didn't have a rash that looked like someone smashed a pomegranate against my stomach.
4. It didn't go away after 30 days. Or 60. And 90 isn't looking too likely.

So maybe I haven't had a textbook case of shingles. Or maybe Merck realizes that showing a relatively young, semi-cute woman who is inconvenienced but not disabled by the disease won't achieve their marketing goal of scaring the bejeezus out of elderly people with Medicare funds to burn.

Image by ambro courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Let's blow the kids' inheritance on prescription drugs
and oxygen!

Or maybe, you know, I can't do anything the normal way, including this.

I'm a little young to get shingles (under 50). And I got them on my face and scalp, which is only the second most common location, after the torso. This is the girl who liked the second favorite Hardy Boy and the second favorite Duke brother in the 70s, after all. I believe Number 2 tries harder.

Not always successfully, but harder.

The upside of getting shingles on your head instead of your body is that you don't have to go through the hell of having clothing constantly rubbing against them. I've never in my life experienced itching like shingle-itch; I can't imagine how much worse it is when they're being touched by a shirt all day.

The downside of getting shingles on your head is that a) everyone can see your disgusting rash, and b) they get in your eye. And when they get in your eye, you have about 72 hours to start treatment before they do permanent damage.

I barely made it.

Image by photostock courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Missed it by that much.

Hey, I thought I just had a really bad hangover because my head hurt. And then I thought I had pinkeye because my eye got all puffy and red. It turns out I'm not a qualified medical practitioner - who knew? My doctor, on the other hand, immediately diagnosed shingles, and immediately after that referred me to an ophthalmologist to check out my affected eye before "important shit starts rotting off your see-orb." (Note: I may not be remembering that quote 100% accurately.)  The doctor looked pretty concerned. The ophthalmologist (which is the hardest of all medical specialties to spell, because of course I couldn't get a disease that required a podiatrist) looked really concerned, and didn't sound all that convincing when he said we had "probably caught it in time...hopefully...we'll see...do you already own a glass eye, by any chance?"

Again, my memory may be paraphrasing. I was under a lot of stress.

By the way, shingles can totally be triggered by stress. Or an alcohol binge. Especially an alcohol binge triggered by stress.

Fun fact: Before September 1st, I was drinking upwards of 300 ounces of vodka a month. Picture a can of Coke. Now picture it filled with straight vodka instead of Coke. Now picture drinking one of those nearly every single night for months on end. And that was before I switched to tequila the last week of August.

But I digress.

Outwardly, my rash wasn't too bad. I never developed the angry lesions or oozing blisters that can come with the shingles experience. At my worst I appeared to have a moderate case of adult acne on the left side of my face. I was lucky that way.

Also, I was rarely in severe pain. I've certainly had my share of stabbing pains in and around my eye, but nothing that rises - or sinks - to the level of curling up in a ball. I know that many shingles sufferers have it much worse. Again, I'm very fortunate.

But the itching and the extreme fatigue have been pretty spirit-crushing. Especially since they've now continued for months. And although my condition has improved, I'm not all better by any means. As recently as last weekend, I spent almost the whole day in bed. I can't get a haircut until I'm sure my stylist won't have to touch the shingles on my scalp. They're still up there, according to the near-contstant need to scratch. For several weeks I've been telling people I expect to be fully recovered by Thanksgiving. At first that seemed like a ridiculously conservative projection. Now it seems ridiculously optimistic.

I have to say that even this relatively mild case of shingles has been a life-changing experience. It's one I wouldn't wish on anyone. Not even Ted Cruz. Seriously. It sucks that hard. Also, ex-football player and goofball Terry Bradshaw is the celebrity spokesperson for shingles.



If you must get a disease, Drunkards, get one with better representation.

Still, the combination of not drinking and not being awake enough to eat very much has resulted in a fairly substantial weight loss. Another 10 pounds, and I'll be 10 pounds away from only needing to lose another 10 pounds.

Actually, the last time I lost that much weight involved another medical crisis that I wouldn't wish on anyone. It'll all be in the book.

And that's my shingles story.

P.S. I forgot the other main side effect of shingles (for me, anyway): Extreme light sensitivity. In some ways this is the worst one of all. Well, in one way, which is that I've always hated wearing sunglasses. How much is one relatively young, semi-cute woman supposed to endure?

The Story of My Week

It's been a tough week, Drunkards.

I took Robin Williams' death very hard. Am taking it very hard. Like many millions of people, I loved him for his brilliant comedic mind, his generosity, and the joie de vivre he exuded, which turned out to be a much more limited resource than any of us knew. I'm haunted by the thought that this gifted person, with the love and support of so many, still found it more desirable to die alone, and by his own hand, than to live with his demons.

I want to see his death as a cautionary tale, a plea for the rest of us to stay strong and seek help. But the blackest parts of my mind want to dangle it in front of me like a carrot on a stick instead. "With all he had, he couldn't find peace in life," my own demons whisper. "What chance do you have?"

I know they're just heckling me, as they've done for years. My demons are assholes. They know they'll never actually prevail, but for them that just means they can mess with me indefinitely.

And this week my resistance is low. Drummer Boy is away, trying to get closure on some personal matters. I miss him, which is a fairly absurd concept in the age of social media, but there you go. And of course the demons are weighing in on this, too. "He's not coming back. He's coming back, but he's changed his mind about you. He's had time to think about your nonsense, and guess what he's decided?"

My hormones aren't helping. It's PMS week, and they're out of control. I've been yelling at a lot of cars in traffic this week. Everybody seems to drive much worse when I have PMS. How do they know? Bastards.

I'm also doing myself no favors. I let myself run out of Prozac just as the hormones started to put on their monthly show. I can go two, maybe three days without my happy pills before I start to spiral. I ended up missing five days. I've been back on them for two days, and it takes about two days for them to regain control of the crazy train. Today, about mid-morning, I could actually feel sanity returning. It's a very distinct feeling. Which itself is a fairly crazy thing to say. But I'm sure some of you understand, and the rest of you are fortunate to not have to understand.

So it's been a conspiracy of circumstances working to disrupt my equilibrium. And it's done a good job. I've been pretty messed up this week.

But I'm back on my meds, the PMS will sort itself out in a few days, Drummer Boy will be home soon, and my personal demons will get bored with harassing me and go harass gun nuts on Twitter, which is more fun for everyone.

Robin Williams is still gone. And that's still very difficult for me.

Life is full of stories. Sometimes there aren't enough happy endings to go around.

Chapter 12: In Which I Do Something Stupid Because It Might Make a Good Blog Post

9:00 p.m.: What's this? Oh yeah, it's that box of laxatives you bought last week when you were backed up, but then that passed (so to speak), so you didn't take any. Here they are. I wonder what happens if you take a laxative when you don't actually need one? I mean, you know what happens, from your brief, long-ago laxatives-abusing phase. Hmmm.  Well, it's cheaper than a colonic. Maybe I can get rid of some of that five pounds of waste they say we're all carrying around in our intestines.

Everyone's got intestines, even ol' Sparky here.

10:30 p.m.: Awww, Simon Pegg is on Conan, but I'm really tired. Night-night.

6:15 a.m.: Turn off the alarm, get out of bed, grab a towel, head to the bathroom. Hey, I took a laxative last night, didn't I? It's been...about nine hours. The box says it works in 8-12 hours. So, something should happen...soon? I don't feel anything. OK, well, hop in the shower, put on makeup, get dressed, feed the pets. Ho-hum.

7:00 a.m.: Oh, shit.

See what I did there?



7:15 a.m.: At least I get to use that new air freshener Precocious Daughter and I bought at Bath & Body Works. By the time we found one we liked we had sprayed so much sweet-smelling goop on ourselves that I really couldn't tell exactly what this Sandalwood Citrus smelled like. Here goes...OMG, it smells exactly like Calvin Klein Eternity for Men!

Which smells nothing like duckface, in case you're wondering.

8:00 a.m.: Get to the office, turn on computer, make coffee.  You know, coffee usually has a stimulant effect on me. That is to say, it makes me go. I wonder what will happen after I have my first cup of coffee?

8:10 a.m.: Uh-oh, looks like I'm stimulated without the coffee. Yikes. Sorry, very important e-mails, you'll have to wait.

10:30 a.m.: OK, the morning has been...uneventful since 8:10. The laxative has done its thing and moved on.

11:45 a.m.:  Time for lunch.

12:15 p.m.: Ooooooh boy. Lunch was a...moving experience. On the upside, that is one effective product. Maybe I should write a letter to the company. I could be their new spokescolon.

Sharp as a thistle, clean as a whistle!

5:30 p.m.: Wow, what a day. Lots of fires to put out. Glad it's over. And glad that stuff finally worked its way through my system. Now to go home and have dinner.

6:30 p.m.: Dinner was good, and no sign of internal distress. Yay!

7:15 p.m.: All systems functioning normally, Captain. Let's walk the dog.

7:45 p.m.: Captain's Log: Exercise appears to have a...stimulating effect. Fascinating.

7:55 p.m.: Really, insides? Really? Good thing we've got this air freshener. Mmmm...Eternity for Men. :)

Don't abuse laxatives, children. They are not a toy. But I do feel surprisingly light and clean. Still...no. Remember, I'm a professional blogger. Don't try this at home.

Unless you have some really, really nice air freshener.

The World Is Full of Nuts and Peters

I'm a little tired of just posting my daily A to Z Swearing Challenge word. I admit it's been a good way to ease back into blogging since my marriage evaporated and sucked up my writing mojo with it. But now I want more. MORE, I tell you.

So here's today's swear with some topical commentary.

N is for NUMBNUTS.

And by numbnuts I specifically refer to Mr. Peter Ahern of Princeton, Texas, who has written an astoundingly numbnuttish Letter to the Editor of my local deadwood paper. Here's the link, and here's what Peter Ahole wrote. Pardon me; Ahern.

We have ongoing scandals involving Benghazi, the IRS, Kermit Gosnell and the Department of Justice improperly monitoring The Associated Press.

So when I opened my paper yesterday morning, what story was at the center top of page 1A? Angelina Jolie’s decision to have an elective surgery, that’s what.

While I’m sure adolescent males of all ages throughout the free world are now hopelessly traumatized by that news, there really are more important things that demand the attention of responsible citizens.

Really.

INDEED?

Thank you for your input, Mr. Ahole. Thank you for pulling out your deadened genitalia and waving them for all to see.

Numbnuts.

Full disclosure: I admit to having mixed emotions about Angelina's preventive double mastectomy. I admire the courage it took to undergo major surgery. I empathize with her desire to increase the odds that she will see her children and her children's children grow up. And I certainly appreciate not wanting to live in fear of suffering the ravages of breast cancer, especially knowing her risk level was much higher than normal

Still, I feel some misgivings about Ms. Jolie's being held up as an inspiration and a role model. Simply put, the vast majority of women in this country lack the resources to even be tested for the genetic mutation that may put them at risk for developing breast and ovarian cancer, let alone to go ahead with the very time-consuming and costly procedures she had done. As much as I marvel over the medical advances that enabled Angelina to proactively have her breasts removed, I fail to see how this demonstrates to most women that they have "options." A double mastectomy and breast reconstruction just isn't an option for women who don't have deep pockets, plenty of unencumbered time, and an extensive support system. If you're a woman without health insurance, Angelina Jolie may as well have had her brain removed and placed in a jar for safekeeping, for all the opportunity you're likely to have to follow in her footsteps.

That said, what Angelina Jolie has done - not simply undergoing the procedure but publicly chronicling it - is significant. It's important in that it's generating discussion that may lead to greater availability of such treatment to poor and middle-class women in the future. It's certainly newsworthy.

It is NOT, Mr. Penis Ahole - excuse me, Peter Ahern - simply an item about the latest celebrity surgery. And to reduce Angelina's story to such a tasteless and tone-deaf sound bite as "teenage boys must be sad because a chick cut off her boobies" is not only grossly insensitive but completely ignorant.

I suspect you come by your knowledge of adolescent male thought patterns honestly, Mr. Ahole. And I cannot imagine to whom you are referring in your letter as "responsible citizens."

You are not a responsible citizen. You are a numbnuts.

I sincerely hope you are aware that men can get cancer down there, and die of it. And I can promise you that, should that fate befall you, I will neither trivialize nor mock your plight.

Not even if "important" things are happening in the world that day.

The Price of Sanity

With a new job comes new insurance. And new co-pays.

But it still doesn't cover this.

I went to the pharmacy the other day to get my meds refilled and update my insurance information. My Advair - which keeps me from not breathing - now costs $50 for a 60-day supply. I'm grateful it's covered at all, since the cash price is something like a car payment (not exaggerating, unfortunately), but if the co-pay goes much higher I may have to choose between breathing and drinking.

One is essential to my well-being,
and the other involves filling my lungs with air.

On the other hand, my generic Prozac is down to four bucks for 30 pills. I can't think of anything that makes me that happy and is that cheap. Hell, Netflix costs twice that, and it doesn't have "Fawlty Towers." Bottle o' fluoxetine for the win.

So I told Beloved Spouse the new prices for my monthly drugs. He was somewhat flabbbergasted. "You mean," he said, "it's almost a dollar a day for your breathing medicine?"

"Well yeah, but I do enjoy a good breath."

"And your Prozac is only...*does math*...thirteen cents a day?"

I nodded. "Pretty good, huh?"

"Thirteen cents a day to keep you from being crazy?"

"Well, is it worth it? Can I have thirteen cents a day for sanity?" I asked.

He thought about it a moment, looked me in the eye, and said, "Hell, I'll give you a quarter."

...

...

...

Hell, I'll take it.

All Kinds of Crazy

For the record, I don't enjoy being crazy.

I've worked damn hard for this. Also, penguin.

That's why I take Prozac. It keeps my brain chemistry from forming volatile compounds.

This is my brain on lack of drugs.

Here's how Prozac works: It doesn't make me happy, or relaxed, or euphoric, or confident, or put a song in my heart.

That's why we have alcohol.

Prozac makes me not crazy. It keeps the dark places in my brain safely locked away so I can function at the baseline of normal. It strings bright-yellow caution tape across the rickety pathways that lead to irrational thoughts and bad choices. By protecting myself from myself, it keeps me from having to warn everyone I meet that they're walking into the nutso zone.

Although this would also not be a bad idea.

But here's the funny thing about Prozac: When it's working, I sort of forget why I need it to work. And so maybe I start to skip a dose here and there. Or, say, for a month. And then, out of the blue, I remember why I take it.

Right, right, the exploding-head thing.

So I don't do that very often. I've learned my lesson from the times I've ridden the crazy spiral after a few weeks off my meds. Hint: It's not as fun as it sounds.

But there's one other rule about me and Prozac, and that is: I absolutely, positively must take it right after my monthly visit from Aunt Flo. I'm not 100% sure of the clinical explanation, but basically I'm freaking apeshit at that point in my cycle.

Perhaps this scientific diagram will help.

And if don't take my Prozac during those few days when my hormones and chemicals and other noxious fluids are running amok in my system, then...well, let's say that bad ideas can take hold.



Not a real thing, unfortunately.

Thoughts and feelings that are best kept to oneself - that normal people keep to oneself - find their way out of my head and into the glaring light of day where, cranky and disoriented, they proceed to make a ruckus.

This is what they look like.

Like, say, the notion that the Eagles' "Peaceful Easy Feeling" should be eradicated from the Earth and its creators punished. That whole blog post was just unmedicated free-floating neurosis made manifest. Uncontrolled impulse on the loose. On Prozac, I never would have written such a thing.

I would have said "Lyin' Eyes" instead. Totally.

Also, I get a little paranoid and lash out at people I love dearly for not (I imagine) loving me back.

You know who you are. Uh...sorry about that. That was the voice of the Prozac void speaking.

It sounds sort of like one hand clapping, only more apeshit.

Anyway, I picked up a fresh bottle of happy pills last night and took more than the recommended dose. Just playing catch-up. I feel a lot better now. Yes, it happens that quickly. If there's one thing I know, it's how to manage my personal brand of crazy.

It's funny because it's not my problem.

And that whole thing about kicking Don Henley's ass? Oh, that's still on. Maybe next month.