Collective Musings
This is what happens when a web designer is exhausted and gets fed up with public enemy numero uno: Windows Vista.
And here’s the original, for your viewing pleasure.
This morning I had an appointment for my third B12 shot.
When I got out to my car, unlocked the door and opened it, I was greeted by two friendly bees. They were sitting on my window, just daring me to do something about it. The first thing I thought, of course, was that there might be a nest somewhere in my car. I stood watching them, willing them with my ESP to leave. They, of course, didn’t.
So I did what any self-respecting tough girl would do: called my dad and made him take care of it. One of the bees flew away, and then my dad came out and killed the other one. I figure, why get my hands dirty when my evil henchman is perfectly capable?
He then inspected the car and, finding no nest, sent me on my way. “Just, you know, if you see any more while you’re driving, don’t crash or anything. Just pull over and get out.”
Me, the sissy who squeals and hides when anything buggy and winged comes within a three foot radius of my face? Pull over? Right.
So I went to the doctor’s office, fifteen minutes late, for my third B12 shot. Pam asked if I was feeling any different and since I don’t she said I didn’t have to get another one. I figured for the hell of it I would, but she doesn’t think it’ll make a difference at this point. I told her about last Monday and how my legs hurt so bad I could barely walk, and she said she still really thinks it’s Lyme Disease. She asked if I would mind getting more blood work done. Since I have already been needled a bazillion times, I figure I am a pro at it and one more won’t kill me. I have to wait two weeks since she’s also going to check my B12 levels again and we did three B12 injections over the last three weeks. (She said that the injections would make my levels skyrocket and they wouldn’t get an accurate reading.) I’m supposed to go pick up that B12 oral vitamin prescription, but my bank account isn’t going to have any of that. I guess we’ll see what I’ve got left over after I do my tires this morning. (I’m getting new ones, an alignment, and struts and whatever else goes down there.)
Walking out of the doctor’s office I wanted to cry, and only because these appointments always leave me feeling drained and hopeless. As much as I like Pam and as hard as she is trying, it still doesn’t change the fact that I am getting nowhere. Though I do feel a little more hopeful, I’m kind of wary. Still, the fact that she added an official looking diagnosis to my blood work requisition form kind of gives me a lift: fatigue, myalgia, vitamin deficiency.
Well, I’m off to go see the new tire wizard. They’re buy three, get one free, so keep your fingers crossed that each tire isn’t like a bazillion dollars or something.
PS: I know I absolutely rock at blogging lately, because I can tell by all of the comments I’ve been getting. If I haven’t killed you with all of my boring-ness lately, maybe you could leave a comment and let me know you’re still alive. 
The bus stopped twenty feet from my house. Relieved, I slid out of my seat and started climbing over kids’ legs and backpacks.
“I’m coming over,” this kid, we’ll call him Steven, said. Steven was a shrimpy kid, with a year round farmer’s tan and dirty blond hair. Steven annoyed the crap out of me.
“Um, no, you’re not,” I said, and continued my trek off the bus. I hopped down the steps and started walking to my house, relieved to be done with another stupid school day.
Steven appeared beside me. “We can play Final Fantasy IX and — ”
“You’re not coming over. Get back on the bus,” I said, as the bus drove away.
“I don’t have a ride home.”
I sighed. “Fine, but only for a little while. And then you are leaving.”
“Awesome! I can beat Final Fantasy IX in like, half an hour,” Steven said as we came to my screen door.
“Yeah right,” I said, tossing my backpack down and setting up the PlayStation. I had to see this smack talk get trashed. Vaguely I wondered what my mom would say when she came home and saw that I had a boy over — without her permission and everything. I hoped that she would tell him he had to leave.
The game started, and half an hour later Steven was nowhere near beating it. I rolled my eyes, glancing at the digital clock on the stereo every three seconds. Finally my mom came home. All she said was, “Hi Steven.”
Steven even invited himself to dinner. I offered to set the table so I could tell my mom I had no idea why Steven was ruining my life. “He just invited himself over!” Mom just giggled and shrugged.
Throughout dinner I wanted to stab the kid. He was eating my spaghetti, in my kitchen, and I didn’t even like him! Even better, he had only got about forty-five minutes into the game before calling it quits.
It started to get late.
“Steven, it’s a school night, so you’re going to have to go home now,” my mom told him. (I should remember this every time she gets on my nerves, because she was the hero of this story.)
An hour or so earlier Steven had told me he would walk home, but suddenly he needed a ride. My poor mom had to drive him home, with me in the front seat wishing I could turn around and stab the kid.
I don’t know what ever became of dear old Steven. Last I knew, he was dating this girl I’d been friendly with in high school. I’ll always know him as “that annoying kid who invited himself over to my house.” I think he would have been an all right kid, had he not been so rude and even invited himself to dinner.
Did anything like this ever happen to you? I want to hear your wannabe stalker stories!
I’ve decided that it no longer matters which disease I’m fighting. For so long, I’ve become wrapped up in finding out WHAT it is, rather than focusing on how to fix it. I’ve been focusing on trying to find a pattern, and the only pattern I can seem to find is that it just keeps getting worse. Whatever it is, it’s kicking my ass.
The thoughts in my mind are too loose, and trying to get it all down on paper is like herding kittens. I can’t think straight. All I want to do is cry, but I know that if I start I’ll never be able to stop.
A few months ago I would half-jokingly say, “what’s next, I won’t be able to walk?” I tried to picture the day that might happen. I couldn’t. I refused to. I was convinced that whatever this was, I’d have it all figured out and better before it got to that point. Now? Not so much.
Over the last couple of weeks — and more so the last couple of days — I’ve had a really rude awakening. The person I once was is gone. She’s dead and buried. As much as I’ve tried to come to terms with that, I couldn’t. Now it looks like I’m going to have to.
It started a couple of weeks ago, when I was house sitting. Actually it was the night after the Fourth of July, the night after the party Mike and I went to. (The one I went to wearing wedges, walking gracefully for the first time in my life. See what alcohol does?) That Sunday my right ankle ached a little. I wrote it off as a twisted ankle, considering the previous night’s shoes. I perhaps stupidly ignored the fact that the pain was awfully similar to the pain I get in my arms and sometimes my thighs and toes.
It went away — for a couple of days. Then it came back, and sometimes occurred in my left ankle, too. It came and went, and after a couple days I had to admit to myself that whatever was wrong with me was also now wrong with my ankles. I saw my PA on Friday and told her about it. She checked for pain and swelling, to make sure I really hadn’t twisted it. Nothing hurt when she poked at it or bent it, but she did notice a slight swelling in the tendon next to my ankle — which she said could occur with Lyme Disease.
I’ve been tested for Lyme Disease before, and the blood test results came back negative each time. Pam said that Lyme isn’t always detected in blood tests, and that it’s a great imitator of other autoimmune diseases — which would explain my crazy grocery list of symptoms. She said she might just put me on the treatment anyway, but that she had to check with Dr. Mongelluzzo (the practice’s head doctor) first. I also got my second B12 injection, and we also discussed the possibility of sero-negative arthritis.
At home, I did some research. No other doctor had ever told me that Lyme doesn’t necessarily show up in tests. They had all just written it off and gone on to the next thing. I was pissed. “If it’s been Lyme Disease the whole goddamn time, and I could have had treatment and relief two fucking years ago,” I said to Mike, “I’m going to flip shit.”
Saturday I was supposed to go play miniature golf with Mike, Robbie, and Jaysa. I was excited, but by the time it was time to go my right ankle hurt so bad that I couldn’t walk on it much. I canceled at the last minute, and convinced Mike to go without me. Granted, I got to go see Harry Potter instead, but I still felt bad. Here I was, giving up more because of the Disease With No Name.
Sunday it was a lot better. I felt a little twinge now and then, but in comparison to the day before I felt okay. I spent the afternoon at the beach with my mom and sister and made plans to go to Lake Compounce on Monday with Lauren and Mike.
By the time we got to Lake Compounce, my ankles ached a little but not enough to stop me. We went on a couple water rides and I let them talk me into riding Thunder and Lightening (which was actually cool, even though looking straight down at the ground the first couple of times was a little scary). But by about 8:00, both of my legs were aching, sometimes sharply, with the pain radiating up and down and all over. I could barely walk. In line for rides, I leaned on fences. While walking, I leaned on Mike. I went from amusement park Indiana Jones to feeble old man in less than a couple of hours. As much as I wanted to ride my favorite, Boulder Dash, I could barely stand the thought of standing in line for twenty minutes for it.
So I made us leave. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.
The walk from the park exit to my car was beyond excruciating. I’ve always been good with words but the closest I can come to describing it is saying that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I literally look teeny, tiny baby steps, shuffling at Mike’s side while Lauren tried to slow down and stay with us. People kept going around me. I think the old people were even moving faster than me. I kept joking about maybe stealing someone’s stroller, or where was that security van when we needed it, but I honestly don’t know how I did it. I remember thinking at one point, “wow, this really fucking hurts.”
My only consolation was that it’s probably going to get a lot worse.
Meanwhile, I’m not noticing any difference from the B12 shots. Pam says if it’s going to work, I’ll feel a difference by the third shot. If anything, she said it would make me feel less lethargic. I think, if anything, I’m feeling more fatigued — even on the days when I get a lot of sleep.
Today I’m having a hard time smiling. Because now, to me, “what’s next” is not a joke. It’s a nightmare and my reality. Am I going to be in a wheelchair? Will I lose yet more of my independence — my self? I used to be able to carry things, play with my friends’ kids and little cousins, go hiking. I’m losing more and more of who I used to be.
On a totally different note, I will be blogging during Blogathon 2009 (July 25th) with Donnie of Voice the Silence to raise money for RAINN. Please read my blog post about this over at Scars Can Speak, and thank you for your support.
I step closer, my skin feeling electric with anticipation and anxiety. I rub at my lips with my fingers, pulling at them a little, trying not to fidget. I don’t want to show that I’m scared. Hell, I’m not scared. Just excited. I’ve done this before. I can’t be scared.
I shiver a little, but I don’t think it’s because I’m cold. I mean, we’re in the shade and the sun is on it’s way down, but I’m not cold. I’m scared.
“I’ve got that, like, jittery feeling, even though I’ve done this before,” I say to my sister and her friend. I don’t want to be a chicken, but part of me wants to bolt.
The next car comes flying back in, clattering against the tracks. One of the girls’ hair stands straight out behind her as they come to a halt. My eyes widen and I start to shiver again. The guy in front of me gets into the now empty car with a little boy who almost looks too small to ride. His daughters get into the car behind them.
“We’re next,” I say, and I’m not sure whether I’m excited or terrified.
“I’m actually a little scared now,” Lauren, my sister, says. Her friend Gaby is silent.
“Me too,” I say. “But I’m also excited!” I bounce on the balls of my feet a little, faking the excitement and confidence until I almost believe it.
The next car pulls up, jolting to a stop.
“How was your ride?” The ride attendant on the microphone says. The riders cheer, and I start to feel even more anxious. I wonder whether anyone has ever had a panic attack on a roller coaster before. I think I might.
The tension is so thick and I am certain I’m going to faint; my knees feel like rubber. I want to kick myself. You’ve done this twice before, I remind myself. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
The gates open and I pause before I step onto the platform. Lauren and Gaby slip into the car behind me, and suddenly it hits me full on that I’m going to ride alone. There will be no one beside me for me to think about as we bullet through the lake woods. There will be no one next to me to grin at when it’s all over. If it ever ends.
I strap myself in and adjust my sunglasses. I’m wearing them over my regular glasses, and no one can tell I’m wearing those glasses at all. The sunglasses are tight, but suddenly I’m not sure that they are going to stay on. If they fall off, they’re going to hit my sister and Gaby, probably knock them out, maybe kill them.
There’s no time to change my mind or put my glasses in the cubby hole; the car is moving. My heart tries to crawl into my throat and I wrap my fingers around the bar. The car begins its climb. Should I hold onto the safety bar or should I hold onto the bar further away? Could I put my hands up? What if I need to hold my glasses on? The car rolls down the slope, heading for the first drop.
“This one’s the absolute worst,” I hear Lauren say behind me. “It scares me the most.”
I swallow hard, try to mentally prepare myself for what I know is coming. I decide to wrap one hand around the bar furthest away, and the other around the one closest to me. It’s coming closer and closer — and then we drop we’re flying we’re going to fly off of the fucking track oh my fucking god my glasses they’re going to hold on to them no they’re okay oh fuck we’re going to fly off the track oh no I’m okay you’re okay we’re okay whoa whoa whoa oh oh no no make it stop don’t let it stop holy shit we are not even touching the track anymore we just flew right off of it ooh whoa we’re back on oh my fucking god make it stop make it stop you’re okay it’s calming down wait don’t let it stop big drop oh wow that wasn’t so bad big drop oh oh oh they just took my picture shit we’re going to go off the track little drop it’s calming down little i think i might cry aww dammit we’re stopping
We jolt to a stop. I inhale and check my two pairs of glasses. They’re right where they were when I first strapped myself in. Good to know.
I turn around, words stumbling out of my mouth, describing how it felt. We start to chatter as we realize that we survived yet another roller coaster ride. “I was so scared!” “I thought we were going to go off the track!” “I know!” “That was great!”
As the car pulls up and we get off, the conversation continues. “I kept telling myself ‘you’re okay, you’re okay,’” I say, laughing. I sigh. “I love rollercoasters.”
We exit the ride and stop at the Boulder Dash photo booth to see how our pictures came out. Gaby has her hands up in the air, Lauren is holding onto the bar, and they both look fearless. I wonder for a second if I look terrified or if I am crying.
“Check out your poker face with those sunglasses,” Gaby says.
I look like I’ve ridden twenty million coasters, like it doesn’t even faze me anymore.
I’m a rock star.
Apparently making cards for the Letters of Love Greeting Card Chain Letter kits is aggravating where I got my first B12 injection this morning, so I figured I’d take a break and actually update my blog.
Not that I really want to. There’s a lot I could write about, yeah, but everything I’m actually feeling doesn’t make enough sense for me to try and translate it to the blogosphere. So I’ve been avoiding any blogging, any thinking, any feeling. And now I’ve gone too far, so on to some bullets!
If I don’t find an ENG-112, I guess I’ll just take Italian or something. Meh.I’ll try to post something actually interesting and less — insert word here, because “depressing” or “bipolar” just doesn’t seem to fit — later.
When I think America, the first thing to come to my mind is rock and roll.
Happy birthday, America.
Most people use some form of entertainment when sitting on the potty. My two-year-old cousin Kat likes to be read to. Mike reads whatever magazine or newspaper is available (sometimes even video game inserts). I’ll read whatever novel I’m currently reading, or sometimes I’ll even journal.
But what if you want to work those arm muscles while working those sphincter muscles? Playing sports is a great way to relax and work out, so it’s easy to see why one might want to play a few holes while spending time on the john.
Move over, Strong As Steel. Ladies, gentlemen, fellow bloggers, and people of the internets, I give you the Potty Putter:
No. Seriously. I saw this commercial yesterday, just before I went to Mike’s softball game. And I giggled uncontrollably while he and his mom looked on.
I’m just waiting for Potty Hockey to come out, because I think golf is lame and that way I can feel athletic (we all know that sports and clumsy, awkward nerds don’t mix well).
I only get out of control with shopping if there are two variables involved: Target and Staples. I went into Staples yesterday planning on spending a max of $10. I planned on getting a couple binders and some pens (I keep losing pens). I walked out with a laptop cart, an ergonomic plastic bean filled wrist rest, a pocket size dictionary, a pocket size thesaurus, two binders, a box of pens, a copy holder (so that you can stand paper up when you have to type something up)… You get the picture.
The thing is, I couldn’t not buy the desk, wrist rest, and copy holder because I’ve been saying for months that I need these things. Obviously, they could very well help decrease the amount of pain I experience day to day. So I was totally justified when I broke into my savings account to help cover the cost. This time.
At any rate, I had a lot of fun putting it together.
The box. Before the cat and I destroyed it.
«You and I both know that I have to lay down on anything new that you bring into this house, so I might as well get it over with now.»
All the parts, spread out and ready for me to not ignore the directions.
My dad took video of me putting together some of this because he thought it might end up being really amusing, but I have to get it from him. To be fair, he did help me a little, and if it weren’t for him I would have put it together backward. Heh.
All set up and Twittering in a much more comfortable - and stylish! - manner.
More leg room than a TV tray!
This spring-loaded knob? Adjusts the tilt of the laptop table. Goodbye, wrist cramps!
I’ll add that video whenever Dad gets to uploading it to Facebook.
