Friday, December 9, 2011

Honey Badgers and a Nasty Drug Habit aka Health Update

I'm incredibly confused.

This past week, I finished up a course of prednisone.  The prednisone that my doctor only gave to me because I got so pissy with him at the last visit.  You know how I can be.  All, "I want to be able to have the strength to eat a meal with utensils at the end of the day...blah blah blah..." The drug which wasn't supposed to work, because my doctor says my pain is fibro, rather than Rheumatoid Arthritis. So, taking the prednisone was supposed to be a test, and I was supposed to fail.  But I passed.  Yay?  No, Boo.  Or something.  I don't even know whether to be happy. See how confusing that all is?  It's no wonder I forget to tape possible beat-downs on the sidewalk....

So, after the drugs made my pain go away and gave me enough energy to plan a week of meals as well as the shopping lists, decorate for Christmas, shop for just about everyone in the world both in person and online, go to work for several days including one day where I was there 8 whole hours, make two batches of holiday candy, plan a bunch of other shit, clean, wash some clothes, put away laundry, and manage to summon enough energy to have sex with my wonderful husband (which all my meds make me not want to do---I know, TMI, but you should know better by now...), and a bunch of other shit I can't remember I did but really did do, I sent a message to my Rheumy.

Me: Hey, Dr. W!  Funny thing--this shit is gold!  Gold, baby!  I feel like a crazed coked-up Studio 54  lunatic, and it's awesome!  It's like I'm Leonardo DiCaprio at the front of the ship, and I am QUEEN OF THE MOTHERFUCKING WORLD!  Gimme more, more, more, NOW! (or something like that.  I'm limited to 500 characters on the message-sender thing-y)
Dr. W: That's odd. Because your blood work definitely says it should not have worked. Now I'm terribly confused. And I still have that annoyingly nasal voice. I hope that comes through in text.
ME:  Ummm, no, I'm the one that is supposed to be confused.  You get the play the role of miraculous science-y person.
Dr. W:  I have no idea who you are, stop writing me. I've contacted my attornies.

That last part didn't happen. Well, it did, but only in my head. And here.

On Thursday, I went to therapy. I discussed this all with her, and I told her that Sky King and I were considering going off on our own, and paying out of pocket for doctors that might not piss me off as much.  You know, doctors that will, I dunno, listen to me.  Run lots of tests.  Listen more, do more tests.  Get to the nitty gritty of it, find out what is really wrong with me.  Cause frankly, I am sick of people telling me what they think things are, and that there is nothing they can do. And when medications work, I don't want to hear that that wasn't supposed to happen, and I don't want to hear that my blood work shows nothing wrong, and that my primary problem is depression!

I'm depressed, because I hurt, not the other way around.  So, like any lousy relationship where you say, OK, I will take you back, but if you screw the neighbor one more time, it's over, I'm going to break up with Dr. W. 
We will begin interviewing new doctors soon, and I'm going to take an active role in getting well. Instead of buying new boots for a body that may never get to enjoy them, I'm going to take my boot money (gasp!) and buy some better health.  (That's how serious this shit is-I'm willing to deny myself kick-ass boots, to get better! I know, right?  Seriously.)  I really have nothing much to lose. Except money.  Which I do get I am very fortunate to have-most people these days don't have that resource. Thankfully, that is one thing I have enough of to eat, have a roof, and piss away on vitamins, prescriptions, co-pays and other crap.

The confusion got worse later this week, when the pain returned.  It was slow at first with Today, I am in full-blown pain mode.  And all I want to do is curl up into a ball, and cry.  Or sleep til the pain is over. SO, I came home from working at my son's school, and I popped a pain pill.  Later, I will go to dinner with friends and enjoy a lovely meal. And I will probably get through the weekend hopped up on meds.  I can't figure out how else to cope with the pain, but the pain pills don't work for daily use. They are horrid for my liver, and I can't drive, or make rational decisions.  I just bought some crap I didn't need, because it was shiny and new.  This is not good for me.  Once in a while, fine. But daily, running around all "Honey Badger and are are soul sisters" might get me locked up.

But I certainly do some of my best writing when I'm tanked on hydrocodone.

See? Confused. And now my head is getting clear, which means I will be in pain again, soon.  Fuckity fuck.

Hopefully, the coming weeks will give me a clearer picture of what we can do to get this shit under control. Wish me luck.  Or wish the next doctor who pisses me off good luck.  He will need it....

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