doolittle

curious about Fibromyalgia?

   I never considered Fibromyalgia to be a big deal, or humility help me, even necessarily a real disease.  I was too busy having REAL medical problems (life and death, even!) to even care when I was diagnosed with it.  Then I met Sam, who "just" has fibro, and holy hell she and I had the EXACT same symptomology and geez, maybe fibro really WAS a big, hairy, SMELLY deal.  If you've ever wondered what it is, or if it's a real problem, or whether you might have it, check out this slide show I just found in attempting to help explain the condition better to The Patriarch.  Fasicinating, no?  Sounds JUST LIKE ME.

in which I am schooled in the game of risk

*   The old, white-mustached, round-headed hospitalist agreed that it certainly did look like MRSA, my goodness, sure enough, and he'd be right back.  Then he returned immediately, laughing, and said "just how am I supposed to treat you with THAT MANY ALLERGIES???"  I told him that IV Vancomycin had always treated me just fine and that sometimes I lucked out with stuff that was sensitive to doxy, but it usually mutated and needed the Vanc anyway.  He went off to call Dr. Cootie, came back, and said doxycycline it is until the culture comes back!  I said I'll take that with Zofran, Terazol, and a fresh tube of Mupirocin, please, and he smiled and said those were all easily enough done.  I then said that I didn't like to pussyfoot around with doxy with this big THING being, you know, on my FACE,  He said but you hadn't been to your PCP yet, and tried "reasonable outpatient treatment," and therefore  you couldn't be admitted without trying that unless your white count was elevated.  I said so let's do a CBC, he said he didn't think it was necessary, to just take the doxy and see Dr. Cootie in the office on Monday or Tuesday, but you know, if the thing started like taking over the whole side of my head in the meantime to call or come back to the ER sooner.

*   I have had many comments over the intervening little bit about the above, but will not voice any of them here.  I am bummed that while I probably won't like, DIE, I am going to have one HELL of a scar ON MY FACE...if you took and made the outside corner of your mouth your horizontal reference point and the outside corner of your eye the vertical reference point, those lines would intersect right under your cheekbone, if you have high ones like me, in the most visible place on your face except maybe the end of your nose or right between your eyes.  So perhaps it could be worse, but whatever, NOT GOOD.  And MRSA leaves UGLY SCARS.  So mainly I am selfishly sad about my face, and not the money or the HMO or the idiot hospitalist or, you know, life, or some such shit. 

*   The Patriarch very helpfully pointed out that I am a married woman, I don't NEED to be pretty anymore.

*   I'll just sit here with you and marvel at that last one a bit.  Yup.  Uh-huh.  Sho 'nuff.  Damn, right?

*   Upon returning home, I took a Zofran, then ate a TON of mu shu chicken, then took my first doxy.  Ah, ye huge turquoise harbingers of painful thrush to come, how little I missed your magically sticky capsule surfaces, hell-bent on catching SOME part of my throat on the way down long enough to dissolve against it and form an ulcer, causing nausea like the wrath of an angry Old Testament God when the Jews fucked up BIG TIME!  Nay verily.  So far so good, but I am lying here very still in the dark sucking throat drops, not like, doing anything ambitious.  I've had my evening meds, and am chilling for the rest of the night on a hot Bed Buddy. 

*   I don't want to bring down any bolts of lightning, so read this very quietly to just yourself and then forget I said anything at all: I am not currently in any pain.  I have taken all of my drugs as instructed, and perhaps it WAS just a few-day transition period as The Nervous Wrangler mentioned, but if this is the new norm I'm liking it, even if it does take...oh, hell, nearly twenty prescriptions at this point, honestly, but it's working, and for the moment I am comfortable, and that is a WONDERFUL thing.

Houston, we have a plan...now for the execution thereof...

*   The Patriarch of COURSE came home half an hour late, complaining of vomiting and heat exhaustion (like, duh, if you're a white-collar anti-hacker type six hours on a tractor with a heat index in the triple digits will probably HURT YOUR DUMB ARSE) and has parked himself on the couch with no sign of moving.  I am not feeling up to driving, for various reasons from horrible vicious lower back pain to fever-y wavery vision and thought processes (you know when you have a REALLY high fever and it makes you STOOPID?  Yeah, I'm coasting around 102 an hour AFTER Tylenol and feeling kinda giddy, almost HAPPY, which in a Doolittle is generally a sign of impending doom) to general chickenheartedness about carrying all of my STUFF to and from the car given the current fibro flare (OWWWWW) because just the bag of all of the drugs with their prescription containers (remember, fourteen bottles, two boxes of patches, and a tupperware-ish bin of individual-dose eye drops adds up to some HEFT and they all have to be in their original prescription containers depending on how anal the office and/or eventually the hospital is about such things.  Plus you know, I need my toothbrush and hairbrush and PDA and phone and charger and ideally my laptop...

*   I did have the foresight to call Dr. Cootie who thought it sounded like something best addressed at Club Med and said yes, I was starting to get that feeling too, but could he possibly based on a telephone collaboration with the walk-in clinic doc who will have actually SEEN the wound finagle me a direct-admit or at least fast-track me through the ER so I don't catch anything I may not already have?  And lo, the clouds did part and a rainbow shined down on me, and a deep male voice (Dr. Cootie could do a mean God impression I bet) said "yes, that would be very wise, I will absolutely do that if need be, just have them call me."  Cue choirs of angels!  Wheeeeee fever!

*   Unfortunately I kind of think that the walk-in clinic people are going to look at this and go all "DUDE!" and end up calling Dr. Cootie, who sounds like he is leaning toward admitting me since it's on my face and my temperature is so high.  I'm hoping that best-case scenario they do a quick CBC, my white count is respectable after all, no septicemia here, and they send me home with Doxycycline and Zofran and prescription antifungals, and I maybe lose that last five pounds of apathy weight in the ten days that follow, with nary a complication or resistant bacterium in any culture.  At least I'd be on antibiotics for the endoscopies!  That's a good thing, right?  Um...guys?

*   I doubt that's how it'll go down.  As always, someone will update you should anything get interesting.

what was that again about mocking The Grim Reaper?

   Y'all may or may not remember my mention in the 4th of July post of a certain patch of staphish-ness on my face?  I've been trying not to perseverate on that on here as it's grown from a gigantic stress-pimple that formed over last weekend (I do remember having to use some concealer with benzyl-peroxide while getting pretty for church with the family who hosted The Very Small Animal and me) to a hard, cyst-like Zit From Hell to which I applied much benzyl peroxide and many hot compresses, because it was one of those kind that are so SORE you don't want to squeeze them (even if you would, you know, stoop to such a thing, not that I would, ah ha ha ha ha haaaa), to having burst at some point, relieving the pain and pressure, to then looking rather suspicious so that I gave it some good old Staph-a-septic alternating with the zit-stuff to try and dry it out for a couple of days.  Then last night I took a loooooong hot shower because I didn't feel up to scrubbing the tub (I will NOT bathe in a tube unless I have personally scrubbed and bleached it thoroughly), and when I got out and forcefully towelled off my face OOPS...the whole top that had been looking silvery-yellowish and suspiciously staph-y came OFF and it looked like hamburger underneath, but with some whitish bits that foamed muchly with peroxide but maintained their presence and shape.  I applied a layer of Iodine, let that air-dry, then spread Staph-a-septic on top and put a band-aid on the nickel-sized patch of ugliness, hoping to see it much-improved by this morning.
   Except that it's not.  Now it's the size of a quarter, with a nice quarter-inch wide area of reddish-brownish irritation around the edges of the wound proper, and the skin in that surrounding area is shiny and puckery in the way that tells you it's breaking down, too, and oh fuck y'all, if Iodine and Staph-a-septic didn't slow it down then we all know what THAT probably means.  I scrubbed my face with Hibiclens and then rinsed it thoroughly and appled a sterile absorbent dressing (the wound began to weep down my cheek as I let it air-dry) and spoke to the doctor on call for Dr. Three (who said YOU MUST HAVE THIS LOOKED AT TODAY, THE WALK-IN CLINIC WILL KNOW TO EXPECT YOU BECAUSE I AM HAVING THEM PULL YOUR CHART NOW), and The Patriarch (who finally DID leave) is on his way back to drive me and probably they'll culture it and put me back on the doxycycline--and the Zofran, and the prescription antifungals--and maybe they'll have some ideas on the pulmonary edema and will test my urine for bacteria just for giggles and at least run a recent CBC so we can see what my counts are doing.  And then I should be ALL SET for the GI fiasco on the 11th, no?
   Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, people...I am so over my goddamn health it's not even funny, and was distinctly UNfunnier before my inner Redzils popped up, like a flying, bosom-y fairy, as I dialed the on-call doctor's pager number, and asked if maybe this wouldn't be a GREAT time to take a Xanax, or possibly two, and lo, I should ALWAYS listen to Redzils even when she appears in half-hallucinatory be-winged form, because even a FIGMENT of Redzils has more sense than just about anyone and is ALWAYS right.  I was able to do some deep breathing while I waited for the phone to ring, remember what information would matter to the doctor and what would not, and concisely describe my primary complaint.  That was a WONDERFUL thing, because I have spoken to this doctor on call before (I think it was that time my crotch fell on a rusty nail) and he does not much care for whiny long-windedness, in fact it makes him downright impatient and rude.  This time he took an awww hang in there!-style approach that still comes dangerously close to cause my raging inner feminist to burst out of my forehead like an untimely cuckoo and peck someone's eyes out, but not when I am feeling this crappy and worried  That don't worry little lady, I'll save you brand of unconsciously patronizing sexism has saved my life before, and so when I'm sick I'll allow it.
   May I never cross paths with that doctor while I am healthy (AH HA HA HA HAAAA SHUDDIT!).
   So the current plan is for The Patriarch to come back him in an hour and a half and the Doolittle Family, en masse, to take me to the Walk-in Clinic to get sorted out (or, I fear, turfed to the ER, which unless they can wrangle me a direct admit there will be no Club Med tonight for THIS little black duck!) or...whatever.  Redzils will update you if I can't (and for chrissake, I have a spiffy PDA, why haven't I figured out getting at Typepad through it?  Should work on that...).

shell-game

   Well, crap, y'all.  My health is, as I fully predicted but had soooo hoped to be wrong about, going completely APESHIT, for lack of a better word, in the aftermath of that accursed ACTH Stimulation Test.  Initially, the Lasix did a totally awesome job of taking down the swelling and restoring me to my svelte normal self from the rotund, distinctly unjolly mess I had become.  Now, not so much, and I'm wheezing and coughing up lots of wet clear ookyness, which the inhaler does not affect one whit so likely I am using my lungs as a dumping-ground for some of that extra steroid-induced FLUID RETENTION.  I finally consulted with my nurse mother yesterday evening (o shut-up, to put it the way Black Hockey Jesus does, because he's way cooler than I am; I know that my kee-razy mother is far from the best source of medical advice even if she DOES have a Master's in Nursing, because she is old and crazy and hasn't been licensed in years and did I mention that she is CRAZY?  But it was the 4th of July and apparently that is what I do when I am truly circling the drain, I CALL MY CRAZY MOTHER FOR MEDICAL ADVICE--it doesn't actually say so in that post but I called her, gasping, BEFORE I called the paramedics, because calling 911 just seemed so DRAMATIC, and I didn't want to be a bother, and then she informed me after telling me when to start and stop counting that my pulse was in the 120s, I sounded like shit, and if I didn't call some paramedics she WOULD, because SHE KNOWS WHERE I LIVE) and was informed that the dosage of Lasix Dr. UberEndo had called in was rather mild for my bodyweight and could safely be doubled, if not tripled, if necessary.  So after consulting with Dr. Google (again, o shut-up, crazy mom+Dr. Google=one competent expert agreeing to whatever the current hare-brained scheme might be in my book, just as 4 oz applesauce=1 egg if you are baking vegan; might not be EXACTLY the same, but close enough that nobody is going to die over it), who concurred, I took a second Lasix and whooooo boy did I ever do some champion pissing!  Not to brag or anything but, well, I don't gots much, y'know?  So that was last night.
   This morning I woke up very fat again after what was apparently a couple of hours of attempts at waking me on The Patriarch's part (yes, he slept over last night due to this malfeasance on the part of my lungs and I left the Door Club off the bedroom door because he very rationally and politely pointed out that if I was having breathing trouble I might not want to make it impossible for ANYONE to get into the room with me, should the need arise); he wanted me to be awake when Chicken Jane arrived since she knows he's not supposed to be here overnight, and because Chicken Jane doesn't know (even WITH her reading glasses on) which of the sixteen or so bottles currently in my pill trough is the Synthroid and when to shove that down my throat, and which is the generic Lasix and just far from my normal figure I might be and how many of THOSE to shove down my throat accordingly, and to remind me to put my ADD patch on and alternate sites since I am allergic to the adhesive and the skin will break down after more than one day of THAT, etc.  Y'know, that is the kind of thing that gives me pause and makes me think very carefully when I contemplate dashing off into the sunset like a free bloody bird because of the negatives--no matter how manic or poorly-medicated that man is, he remembers to take care of me and will do so despite my every effort to thwart him, just as no matter how sick I am (unless I'm in a coma) I will get up and limp down the stairs to make the baby's formula, add the right amount of Miralax, and push it through the g-tube whether thon is crying and smacking at my hands in a fit of pique or not.  Whatever the drawbacks, however loud and FUCKING INCESSANT the shrieking may be in either example, that's a whole lotta love to turn one's back on, no?  But hey, we were talking about ME and my fucking lame-arsed lungs...
   So yes, very fat this morning and constantly coughing up/clearing my throat of secretions, and while the "inspiratory" wheeze improved (temporarily) after a couple of hits off the old inhaler, the "expiratory" one did not, and that generally speaks poorly as to your lung function overall, so...crap.  Here is where the shell-game comes in (because weekend medicine is good enough to stabilize you in an acute crisis but otherwise useless and sometimes even downright detrimental and a waste of time, money, and exposure to hospital pathogens).  Do I:

*  Stop drinking so damn much (water, Gator-ade, etc., not alcohol, just so we're clear)!  Then my body wouldn't have all of that extra fluid to be dumping in stupid places like my lungs.  Chart my I/Os, and don't be drinking even if I AM thirsty (because that's just Satan's Steroids talking, not REAL thirst) unless the Os are keeping up with the Is.  Sounds like a plan!  Except!  Then my blood pressure might crash again (seems SLIGHTLY less likely given that steroid exposure jacks my BP waaaaay up into the normal and even high-normal range, but you never know), resulting in another Very Mean Paramedic experience and trip to Club Med (plus if you look at that Wikipedia article, low blood pressure will actually make you pee LESS, which I do NOT want).  Which is exactly what I am trying to AVOID. 
*  Take a third Lasix.  This might just jump-start things and get rid of the pesky pulmonary edema!  If I take a Potassium supplement and drink Gator-ade instead of water, I might avoid the predictable electrolyte-imbalance issues and get away with it!  TEMPTING!  Except, you know, strictly speaking one shouldn't act on the advice of one's crazy mother and/or Dr. Google without checking with a trained professional.  Who would want to have an actual LOOK at me.  CURSES!
*  Take a Mucinex; maybe this would help break up the junk in my lungs?  Or maybe it would just mix spectacularly badly with at least half of my current prescriptions and up and kill me dead.  Would require further research, to say the least...
*  Actually consult a trained medical professional (i.e. suck it up and go to the acute-care walk-in clinic with my big box o'drugs and my bizarre medical history and most recent ER labs in-hand, and hope I don't get some total moron who starts spouting some kinda crap about asthma and inhaled steroids--that could end me in PRISON Club Med on the taxpayer's dime, because I think if anyone did that right now I'd brain them with my big box o'drugs).  Pros would involve, well, actual pros calling the shots (in theory) and at least doing a white count (which since there is fluid in my lungs and my temperature hasn't been below a hundred in...days...might not be such a bad idea).  Cons would involve the fact that very few doctors seem to understand the way my body reacts to steroids, the possibility if I was to become unresponsive of some IDIOT actually GIVING me steroids (because I am chickenshit and still haven't sorted out that damn Advanced Directive, I know, I KNOW), and having to have the "you DO know that painkillers are DEPRESSANTS and your lungs can't function optimally blahblahblah NO MORPHINE FOR YOU" talk, which yes, I have considered that perhaps the pain drugs are contributing to the problem, but people I just can't bear the pain without them.  With them I am not pain-FREE (far from it!), but I can COPE.  Without them, I dunno that I'm that interested in being here, so...yeah.  The Nervous Wrangler knew about the respiratory issue when he prescribed the morphine, and said that as long as the Lasix was keeping that at bay don't worry TOO much, but...

   BUT NOTHING!  HA!  In the time it has taken me to write this, two Lasix have brought me down to a smooshy-bellied but able-to-fit-into-Apple-Bottoms semblance of my normal self, and with hair and makeup I could probably pass for healthy, even!  Nice try, Mr. Reaper, but WRONG SHELL.  I'm sure we'll play again soon, since steroid-induced mayhem tends to peak around ten days (tomorrow should be FUN!) and not subside until it's been about two weeks, per TNW and my own personal (painful) experience.  Tomorrow will, of COURSE, be a Sunday, which pardon my saying so but I do prefer a Sunday to a Saturday in the ER because you tend to get more non-Christian doctors and something in my Ashkenazic roots IS tempted to in fact scream "GET ME A JEW!" when wheeled into the ER, although my WASP half beats it into submission and my superego will take a Muslim or a Hindu or WHATEVER, even a Christian if they seem to have half a clue or ESPECIALLY if they are black.  Nothing against the white Christians, just that I still hold the reverse-prejudice that in the American South, a Jewish or brown-of-any-extraction doctor is likely to be like, THREE TIMES as good as their WASP counterparts, simply because they HAVE to be to get past all of the inherent prejudice within The System, and probably much cooler to boot because they know better than to sweat the small stuff.  If I open my eyes in the ER and see a black woman with "M.D." on her lab coat standing over my gurney I immediately breathe a sigh of relief and feel like things are going to be OKAY.  Weird, fucked-up, illogical, and full of more fallacies than I am of syndromes, possibly, but true.
   As always, I or Redzils or Wonder Woman or SOMEONE will keep you posted...oh and hey it's still very early and no viability scan yet but here at Doolittle we're ALL ABOUT the small victories...my sub-fertile friend Wonder Woman is, like, SEVEN AND A HALF WEEKS PREGNANT!  GO WONDER WOMAN, GIT DOWN WID YER BAD OVULATING SELF, AND GO MR. WONDER WOMAN FOR POPPING OUT AT LEAST ONE SWIMMER WITH THE CORRECT NUMBER OF HEADS AND THAT ALL-IMPORTANT SENSE OF DIRECTION!  WHOO, TITS!  And now we ALL worry until she gets that scan next week (I THINK it's next week--if I'm wrong, dear WW, please don't hold it against me, I don't know when my own appointments are without checking the PDA and I didn't put yours in there because there's a fine line between close friendship and WEIRDNESS, y'know?)...In fact, today, #100, the final thing I am grateful for is my friend's good news; sure it could still go tits-up at any point, but isn't that true of pretty much anything?  Congratulations, my friend.

   Also, I posted something in the password-protected area last night; I would have said so then but wanted my N.B. to stand out for a bit...if you don't have the password then so far it's only because you haven't asked for it--feel free to e-mail Redzils and ask for it; I suck at keeping up with my e-mails but returned all of the ones from up until last night then and am going to go and check again now...after I pee again...ciao

N.B.

   That's nota bene, abbreviated.  According to Wikipedia (and I know some of y'all are so lazy you won't click so I'm quoting the really pertinent part):

Nota bene is a Latin phrase meaning "Note Well," coming from notāre—to note.^[1] It is in the singular imperative mood, instructing one individual to note well the matter at hand. (The pluralis form is notate bene.)

In present day English, it is used to draw the attention of the reader to a certain (side) aspect or detail of the subject on hand, translating it as "pay attention" or "take notice". It is often written in the abbreviated form: N.B.

   Got that?  Great!  If you're wondering why I felt the need to ask everyone's SPECIAL attention here, it is because I have sensed a disturbance in Teh Blogosphere, have heard through a friend a certain distant rumbling and the use of the word "drama" in a non-theatric sense, and wanted to make it perfectly clear to anyone without access (and if you don't have it but would like to, please e-mail the lovely Redzils) why I created the password-protected area.  That is because I have some difficult stuff going on, and I really do like to try and keep Doolittle, proper, my HAPPY place (or at least my temple to baaaad fun).  So certain terrible, horrible, awful, no good, very bad things may from time to time get aired separately, so that I know only friendly folk who genuinely care about me and my little family, people with a certain amount of sense, people who can understand the full complexity of certain dilemmas, and not inadvertently leave a perfectly well-meaning comment and come off like an arse.  Or, you know, do it on purpose just to be hateful.  You never know, right?  So far, if you don't have the password it is only because you haven't asked for it--one "name"/e-mail I did not recognize and told Redzils to just say no, but that person later identified thonself as the writer of a blog I read, and I was all "ohhh" and thon was all "yeah I'm anon too--waaaaay anon" and I was all "my bad!  Now I know who you are!"  Not saying I won't still turn you down if you strike me as some kind of arsehole or I just really can't place you, but just CLARIFYING (N.B.) that the only purpose of the password-protected area is to avoid being vulnerable to well-meaning strangers or deliberate shitheels who may have hurtful things to say about something I just can't be any more hurt over right this very moment.  It is not to talk about any other bloggers AT ALL (unless it is to mention their sage advice on X, or my frank admiration of Y), even if they've got it coming.  The only time I've ever all-out roasted another blogger on here it was because I had a HUGE personal bone to pick with their handling of a friend-dump (not like I've ever had a PLEASANT one, but it is not necessary to involve other parties, and to anyone else who may have friend-dumped me, maybe you're not above it BUT I AM)(unless you're not above it AND start actively bringing it to the blogosphere, in which case you know I know where your bodies are buried and HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?  Now THAT would be self-destructive, even more so than you claim continuing to be my friend and "having to worry" about me and my children would be--besides, if you DID lose your mind and it came to that I would NOT password-protect it, I'd put it here and keep it as the top post for at least a month). 
   So.  Say it with me, class: "The password-protected area is for the airing of Eliza's dirty laundry only.  It is not a place for gossip.  Eliza no likey the blog-gossip, wasn't totally proud of having showed her temper once, and has no plans to do so again, but if she did it would be because she was pissed-off enough to want to do anything BUT password-protect it."
   Thank you and I hope you all have a lovely 4th of July!  I myself have gained a ton of water weight, started having breathing issues, and just took a double dose of Lasix, so no going to the fireworks for me without a leg-bag.  Alas.

Happy farking 4th of July

*   "__4__" day/s without police presence in the Doolittle household!  Despite yesterday's total randomness, which turned out to be nothing.  Apparently a bunch of letters and phone calls started coming for "The Patriarch Ex-Wife's Lastname," culminating in the arrival of a bona fide CHECK for a large sum of money addressed to same, which given that The Patriarch's actual name seems to apply to roughly 60% of men born between 1950 and 1980, and that he never changed his last name to hers (nor she to his), meant that, DUH, it wasn't anything to do with him.  Apparently some of the phone calls were very rude, and the former Mrs. Patriarch's new husband (whose last name, interestingly, she DID take--I think this irks The Patriarch but he is trying not to let it show, although if I were in his shoes it would irk me too and honestly I wouldn't care--he doesn't give me ANY credit for higher reason this days, though. so oh well he can keep his irk to himself) was getting VERY annoyed.  But The Patriarch spoke to her and assured her it was nothing to do with him, offered to give a statement, etc., and she chilled out.  I woulda been kind of funny though if our streak of police-free days had been interrupted for something that was NOT Unbloggable, though...or am I just sick in the head?  Don't answer that!

*   My health can tell it's the Friday of a holiday weekend.  I am: running a fever of 99-103, achy, bloated, a little short of breath (I think from fluid in my lungs, but just a BIT), exhausted, and have a nickel-sized patch of yellowy-gray (maybe I finally DO have leprosy?) deteriorated flesh surrounding what had appeared to be so embarrassing a pimple as to warrant nondisclosure on the blog, and y'all know I've described and even SHARED some truly NASTY stuff in the past (if you're new try last April I think for the staph boils and oh I dunno do a search for "let's play doctor" UNDER GOOGLE BLOGS' SEARCH WITHIN MY SITE, but...ew.  It's not wet or swollen; and after numerous applications of Staph-a-septic (which kept making me tear up because the fumes would hit my freshly-cauterized punctal duncts and OW and also sometimes with Fibromyalgia one of your eyes will leak ceaselessly and with no relation to your mood for HOURS, and at least in my anecdotal case can seem to be "triggered")I am scrubbing it out thoroughly twice a day with Hibiclens and applying a benzyl peroxide "mask"-type goop to it between washings.  Thing is, IT'S NOT GOING AWAY.  Grr...

"  The Patriarch is maintaining the peace MOSTLY, which is to say that he simply is not in a state to willfully resist bickering and has also cunningly managed to come in late every day since we agreed he was leaving, so late that I am already asleep and then sleep downstairs, citing that since my room's door was Clubbed (you bet your arse it was) he couldn't get his toothbrush etc. and needed it in the morning.  I think I'll pack them FOR him today, seeing as how he's UTTERLY USELESS at it, but maybe not in the NICEST of ways.  Anybody out there good on photoshop?  Maybe we could make a picture of said toothbrush appearing to protrude from a random male arse off the innernet that I would tell him was somone's gardner I paid $20 I stole out of his pants.  Then I'd also have $20.  I like this idea.  I like it a LOT.

*   I am inexpressibly disappointed in The Nervous Wrangler and his pussy-footing around with The Patriarch's meds and his precious, precious feelings.  The Patriarch revealed that one shrink in his homestate HAD put him on Lithium, but that he didn't take it "because of the stigma of taking Lithium."  Now, here is where I think TNW shoulda bitch-slapped his boy and been like "if you need it it's like a diabetic refusing insulin, you're just being stupid and maybe need some therapy to work on accepting your 'new level of wellness,' since that's something you're so good at suggesting for your wife, but this is NOT an optional drug for you!"  If we had been on some well-written TV that is EXACTLY what would have happened, but alas.  I don't know that even a higher dose of the current drug minus the extra SSRI plus more sleeping meds is going to do the trick.  Unfortunately I grew up with a bipolar in the house for the first fifteen years of my life.  I know the patterns.  There is this little alarm that goes off at certain times in the back of my head that screams "RUN!  GRAB EVERYTHING YOU CARE ABOUT AND RUN LIKE HELL!"  TNW's job as The Patriarch's psychopharmacologist is to keep that from happening for BOTH our sake.  So far I am not impressed.

*  Also hell to the yeah to the time-released morphine, cuz I think it's helping the sacroiliitis.  The muscle pain, not so much, but the sacroiliitis is s BITCH.and overall I am a happy girl.  But whiskey to the tango to the foxtrot on giving me Skelaxin to take FOUR TIMES A DAY?  I'm tired enough!  And the Xanax four times a day, while nice when needed, just seems like it wouldn't be so necessary if he just treated the primary cause of my anxiety and the primary complain of his OTHER patient a little more seriously.  Although what the fuck do I know I'm just the adult child of a bipolar parent with a terminal degree in my field who has researched this copiously since she could read.  Yes, with the risk for more aggressive treatment on a patient this reluctant to accept the diagnosis there's a flight risk, but uh, having The Patriarch go away for seventy-two hours wouldn't kill anyone if it came to that.  I think healing is more important than customer service.  And I'd rather think that's what it was than that TNW's balls had dropped clean off or only worked around FEMALE patients.  Then I don't think my inner feminist would tolerate him at all any longer.

*  I am going to go back to peeing copiously (oh Lasix how I loathe thee) and singlehandedly eating half a blueberry pie and then maybe take a nap.  SHUT UP.  I think this is warranted.

and then came a random flyball from another game out of left field *clunk*

Eliza: (blithely dials own phone number plus star and access code, then 1 to listen to her messages)
Female Voice:  Hello?  Pat?  Listen Pat, The Patriarch, whatevah, I'm onto you and you know what you're doing and tomorrow I am getting the police involved, so don't be surprised if the police pay you a visit!"
Eliza: (stumbles weakler to pill box, takes Xanax, calls husband and advises him to check voicemail, stumbles weakly to computer).

   The really odd thing is that The Patriarch has NO contact with his ex-wife, NONE--she needed to drop off some things she'd found in preparing to move out of her post-divorce apartment one time very early in our marriage, possibly during the two weeks during which we officially Lived In Sin due to lease timing BEFORE the wedding, even, and he wouldn't let me come out and meet her AT ALL.  I of COURSE peeked through the blinds but got the impression only of one of those women who starve the curves out of their bodies, with an exceeding flat and singularly unimpressive ass, and then I was satisfied and sat on my own lush lady lump and flipped channels while he hurriedly carried some boxes of childhood photos inside.
   Naturally I will keep you posted, although further information may for obvious reasons have to go Behind The Password, so if you haven't already e-mailed Redzils and let her know you want in on the inside dirt then now would be an excellent time to do it.  I will repeat my warning that if I simply don't know you from Adam's housecat, have no blog to check out, and no comments to reference, I might not give you the password just, you know, because.  But if someone on my blogroll can vouch for you you're probably aight with me--just ask them to e-mail redzils with your info instead and maybe a word or two on your general excellence.
   If I may?  Whiskey!  Tango!  Foxtrot!

   Thank you.  Now I feel just a little bit better.

the public version of the visit with the psychiatrist

   It went about as I had expected it would, although The Patriarch was actually LESS wildly unpleasant than I had been prepared for (still enough so for the doctor to be "very, very worried") and I think the guy got a pretty good look at what I'm dealing with on a daily basis.  Based on our (hour and twenty-minute!) visit with The Nervous Wrangler today he:

 * raised the dose of The Patriarch's sleeping potion by half a gram, in hopes that this will knock his ass OUT rather than just make him ornery
 * taken him OFF of the Lexapro (cue choirs of angels!  Even if it doesn't take some of the edge off of his temperament as intended this will once more make him a slave to his baser urges, which gives me the upper hand, er, so to speak)
 * raised the dose of his current (wimpy, inadequate--BUT I WAS TOLD TO REMEMBER THAT WE WERE TALKING ABOUT NOT JUST WHAT I WANT BUT ALSO THE PATRIARCH'S HEALTH--I corrected TNW and said that given the Unbloggability we were talking about MY health, too) mood stabilizer by half-again the amount he WAS taking

   All of those things are supposed to make him less confrontational, antsy, angry, paranoid, suspicious, belligerent, etc.  TNW also had a very frank talk with The Patriarch to the effect of "your wife has Asperger's Syndrome.  Who she is is who she always has been and always will be.  You are NOT going to 'draw her out of her shell' or whatever--there is nothing WRONG with her, she good-looking, smart, loves the hell outta your kids and MUST love YOU to still be sitting here, but she's not going to change and you're gonna have to love her or leave her sooner or later.  You. can. not. change. her.  You can make her CRAZY, very EASILY, by exploiting her triggers and torturing her psychologically, but that won't change her--she'll go back to normal after she recovers."  I thought that was very well-put.  Also, TNW:

 * is switching me from Valium three times a day and a double dose at bedtime to Xanax, same, as it kicks in faster and is better for anxiety/terror caused by someone scary playing you central nervous system weaknesses like a harpsichord.  Fair enough, and about time if you ask me!
 * is putting me Skelaxin four times a day (or as needed) since Valium is a muscle relaxer and Xanax is not--this should keep the TMJ at bay without the evening dose of Valium, because apparently mixing benzos is a no-no
 * and wants to see us both back, in one week's time, to see how things are going.  He actually scheduled us for the afternoon after my GI procedures, but since I'm having those early in the morning I figure I'll just be nice and mellow still from the anesthesia, and if listening to The Patriarch try to justify The Unbloggable is anywhere near as sickening next time as it was this time around, I'm going to need all the drugs I can get in my system (you know, over and above the new usual of time-release morphine, Xanax, and Skelaxin--sheesh!  I oughta do another drug post.  But not tonight).

   The version of this post NOT fit for the general public is on the password-protected site (see the previous entry to this one for details on where that is and how to get the sign-in information if you would like it).

password-protected post up *and corrected*

   I am just starting to wade through the tons of e-mails Redzils continues to forward me, so slowly but surely the chosen ones you should start getting the user-name and password to view the very first password-protected post.  If you want to be able to read these, e-mail Redzils with your name/the name you blog under and your URL if you have one (or else a brief introduction).  If I don't "know" you I might not send you the info, but please don't take it personally; I just wanted the die-hard faithful readers who have become like an extended online family to me to know What Is Really Going On.  If I don't know you from Adam's housecat then someone from my blogroll can vouch for you if they do.  Otherwise, don't fret its nothing fascinating really (am still getting accustomed to MORPHINE...can't believe I'm on actual morphine as a daily thing now...have utterly failed so far to write masterwork in manner of The Wasteland, Kubla Khan, etc.), and I'm not going to put MUCH behind the password, just some stuff the friend-dumpers and random wingnuts of the innernet need not have if they're just looking to wank to some good Tragedy Porn.

*corrected to add* oh yeah you probably want to know where it is, don't you?  It's over at www.doolittle.typepad.com/passwordprotected (I know, I am SO!  ORIGINAL!).  I'm e-mailing out usernames and passwords now, so if you e-mailed Redzils but don't have your login info yet that's MY fault not hers :)