Of Robitussin and Mad Men

I tempted fate last week.  Someone was in my office and they coughed their dreaded Ebola cough and they backed up, saying they didn't want me to become any sicker than I already was.  I joked that I was on so many meds, I could lick a hooker.

Turns out, I CAN get sick.  Just not with anything massive amounts of Azithromyicin or Amoxicillin cures. Apparently, that still leaves quite a few germs.

It started Friday, with a massive sore throat, and some sinus issues.  I assumed the yellow pollen sheen on the car windshield was to blame, and went through the day, popping allergy pills.

By 9 pm on the day of my Big Event at work, I was done. DONE done.  As in, holy-shit-bring-the-car-to-me-and-I-may-need-a-hand-never-mind-that-a-forklift done. I knew Saturday would be Sofa City, so I braced for the worst.

I managed to hack, sputter, and cough my way through Saturday, and Sunday (Mother's Day).  Still, no relief. By Monday, I was officially on the injured-reserve list.

Tuesday, I realized the Lyme symptoms were at their worst, and accepted that I was herxing on top of whatever virus was using my immune system as a flophouse.   Or my body was just plain rebelling against my desire to be old-me instead of new-and-improved-do-nothing me.  I was 2/3 of the way through a bottle of cough suppressant (New! Non-Drowsy Formula, Same Toilet Bowl Taste!) and every time I coughed I screamed obscenities. But if you add in the glorious dizziness about 1/2 hour into a swig, things could not be brighter.  Except that I was running into stair banisters and doorways, not unlike high school but without the perky boobs.

To top it off, every time I would cough, Monkey Boy give me the I'm-worried-about-my-mom look.  So I keep reassuring him it's just a virus, I'm getting better, it's a tickle in my throat.  And Princess?  She's running around being Princess, which is plenty for us all, but in overdrive.  At my work fundraiser, she spent most of the night selling things that didn't belong to her as well as some that did, all for "charity".  When she ran out of merchandise, she went for the straight beg, telling people she was collecting money for "people who don't have any" and "people with Lyme Disease, because they could DIE!!!".

I pulled her aside and told her I was not dying, and we talked for a while about her fears and my health a bit.  It broke my heart just a little. But back to the sit-com that is my life.

On the upside, my DVR has never been clearer.  And I'm finally getting my money's worth on Netflix. Also I am pretty certain oatmeal isn't fattening.So there's that.

Still in the deep in the dark recesses of me, there is a little bit of old me left.  The one that wants to do, over-do, re-do.  She lurks, waiting for a moment to peek her little overcompensating head out, assess the situation, and over-work it to death.  She got her moment late Tuesday, as I perused the offerings of Netflix.

:::cue angels singing their joyous chorus:::

There it was.

5 seasons of Mad Men.

What?  You know not of Mad Men?  Well, gather up a bunch of lying distasteful drunks, play horns in the background, add drama, and there you have it. Except make it addicting to watch, regardless of how hateful everyone is. It's like Desperate Housewives, with an education.

:::me, swooning over Don Draper:::

I had heard about the show, heard about the awards, the accolades. So I jumped in, and old Aimee saw her opening. Her opportunity to work something to death. catching up on the series is a full-time job. I think I will need 3 more days of illness to finish off what's left of the series.  But then I will have to detox. Maybe a fat farm.

As it is, they smoke and drink so much in the show, I'm afraid my cirrhosis is acting up, and I am sure I now have emphysema. But it's worth it.

So tell me--when did it become inappropriate to have your children mixing drinks for you on bridge night?

My First Herx

I'm going to be MIA for a few days-extended field trip to Ashland's Shakespeare Festival with Monkey Boy.

Not much is happening anyways, except I am paying dearly for the energy I expended yesterday for Princess' birthday party. (And I can't wait to dish on all the crazy gifts she got, including one that needs a magnifying glass to be used, and one that is horrifyingly racist. Thank you, Blip Toys, for perpetuating inaccurate race depictions.)

Health-wise, I'm herxing which is giving me an itchy blistery rash and tingling in my extremities. (Thanks to Julie at julieslymediseasefight.blogspot.com who mentioned the blisters on her blog as a herx reaction, and Sky King for throwing the idea into the mix.  NO thanks to Monkey Boy who heard, "Herpe-ing" when I said "herxing".  You giggle like a little girl, brat.)

The good news is, herxing means I have a bunch of germies dying off, and leaving me the hell alone.

I'm about to call it a night, I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.  Ahhhh, 6 hours in a car with half a dozen teens=Mommy bliss.

Pray for me. Or them.

Inspiration and the Leg of Doom

So that you can justify reading my blog at work, I am going to teach you some stuff.  (Being a teacher by trade, I WILL expect payment-I can't do this shit for free, folks).  That way, when your boss hears you laughing and spewing Diet Coke out your nose at work, you can be all, "I was learning some medical terms for my next project", and she'll be all, "Oh yeah, what did you learn, Mr. (or Ms.) I-Know-You're-Really-Just-Looking-Up-Midget-Porn?"  And you can be all, "Blah blah blah, big words, blah blah blah, smart words..." And inside your head, you can say, "Told you so, you unreasonable bitch".

I have been hearing about Herxing.  It is NOT the new planking.  It is NOT the sound you make when you dry-heave.  Well, actually it is, but the name was already taken, which is why we call it dry-heaving.

Herxing is when you have a big toxic build-up in your body, and your body is trying to get rid of it.  For a more precise definition, see this link.  Just know that I do NOT have Syphillis. 

I can tell you that, right now, it feels as if there is a migraine building.  In my left leg.  It radiates down to my foot, and it began as I was completing my 40 minute commute to work.  You know work, right? It's that place I go, where I reprint the paycheck I lost, wander around chatting up my staff until I figure out something productive to do, and then schlep home when I can't figure out something I can do that I can't screw up too badly.

Because in addition to the pain, I almost forgot to brush my hair (Thank you, Monkey Boy) and then I put my tank top on before my bra this morning. I pretty much have the cognitive function of a piece of burnt toast.  Or Snooki.

I can't speak very well, I'm tripping over my words like I'm slightly drunk, and stupid things make me giggle. (Like most Fridays and Saturdays in college.  Best 5 1/2 years of my life). Except that I don't want to giggle with my left leg throbbing.  Frankly, it could be my right leg, I can't quite remember which one is which.  It's entirely possible I will label them later, with a Sharpie.

So I'm sucking down water to get rid of the toxins.  And each time something throbs, I am reminded of that stupid movie we used to watch where the antibiotics are guards, and the germs are all angry and attack the guards, and the guards totally kick ass.  The throbbing is the shrapnel from the ass-kicking.  It helps me to not hate the throbbing quite so much.

Oh, and inspiration?  I have an Aunt, who is totally amazing.  She was just given a clean bill of health from her Oncologist regarding her breast cancer.  Today is her birthday----hell, EVERY day is her birthday these days.  The reason I mention her here is this:
When Cancer tried to fuck with her, to knock her down, to tell her it was winning, she crammed her fingers in her ears, and told Cancer, "Lalalalalalalalala I can't hear you", and she went about all the awful things that go with cancer with a big-ass smile on her face.  She was amazingly strong when she had every right to be weak, every right to throw a big-ass pity party.

So when I'm pissy about my body, and my fight, I have her to think of.  If you are fighting and don't know anyone as bad-ass as my Aunt, you can borrow her for inspiration. I'm sure she won't mind.


As any good teacher would, I am providing you with a succinct recap:

• Herxing-bad
• Me-Left, or Right, leg throbbing
• My brain-working at 10% capacity
• Cancer-shitty
• Aunt-Badass

Now, go back to work.