In which my head blows up

Yesterday, I was reading a blog from one of my co-bloggers, Dad Gone Mad. He was talking about his first migraine and how he only thought he knew what they were about until he’d had one himself. I think this is true about many things, including mental illness—the idea that until you experience it first hand, you really have no idea what you are talking about when you write it off as something that someone should be able to pull himself or herself out of or “suck it up.”

I don’t remember my first migraine, but I remember when they started. I was about 6 months pregnant and, like many of my current maladies, all began with the amazing hormone change that was brought about by one of the loves of my life, AJ. AJ just happened to go with me to my last neurologist appointment, which was, incidentally, my first appointment with this particular neurologist. When he asked when they started, and I replied that they occurred when I had AJ, the neurologist showed a wicked sense of humor, turned to AJ and said, “Ah, so it’s all your fault, then?”

Well, yeah, maybe. Or, maybe I was predetermined to have them as I got older. I don’t know half of my medical history, so I’m missing an important link as far as these are concerned. My mom has only had them for the last few years, but I started mine in my early twenties.

It could be because I’m more tightly wound than most. My levels of stress and anxiety tend to be through the roof. I have to moderate myself carefully to keep them at a manageable level. It means that I have to be very self-aware to avoid a meltdown. I’m usually successful. For me, that is. But stress isn’t my only trigger. Rain, stress, not enough sleep, too much sleep, waiting to long to eat, too much sugar, not enough sugar, msg and caffeine are all triggers for me too. Count noise and light in as well. I’m a sensitive little bugger.

I’ve pretty well given up caffeine, except for chocolate. Don’t ask me to give up chocolate. I rarely eat it as it is, but I won’t give it up completely. Since I’ve been eating more healthfully, my migraines have decreased to about once a month when they were at 3-4 per week. I consider that a success.

There is no doubt they are debilitating. When I’ve got one, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sick to my stomach, with an ice pack on my head and in bed with my Duder dog, who is sensitive to my moods and will not leave my side when I have a migraine. I may lay there for 2 days completely awake, but in pain. I have to give up weekends with my family and even work during them, at times, if I can. It’s been termed chronic pain and just like any other chronic pain it doesn’t truly go away for good. It’s always there. Lurking. Like those bad pictures you took in the 8th grade that you know someone will find and put on Access Hollywood if you were to ever become famous.

I’m just learning to manage it. I’m sorry that Dad Gone Mad had to experience what he did. I’m grateful, though, for one more person that truly understands what the experience is like and has more empathy, however.

Because life is all about people proving me right.

Remember less than a week ago, in this post, when I mentioned my doctors were in need of money and there were expressing it in the way of having me come in for stupid reasons? Well, today it happened again. Not even a week after the last time.

I called in regarding a routine prescription question that essentially ended in me saying "I'm not taking your stupid medication anymore" except in more polite terminology. It ended with the doctor wimping out by having her nurse call and say that since our options were now limited that I would have to come in for a consultation.

...

Do I really need to say anything else? I doubt it, but since it's me, I will. Since I've been sicker than tuna on creme cake for the last 4 days, I did a walk-in appointment with her today. It ended with her telling me that I just have a virus and that I need to see a specialist because I have exhausted my options with her. I think she's just tired of dealing with me.

Hrmph. I'm tired of paying her loans. So there.

Jillian and the Terrible, Horrible, Blah Blah Blah Blah Day

Whew. For the third time in two months, my throat is as sore as a sunburn on an albino chicken. The last time it was sore like this was just 2 weeks ago on my spring break when I had an outbreak of bird flu aka strep throat. I'd been denying it, oh, I'd been denying it, since Friday. I hadn't been leaving the house, but I hadn't been bellyaching about it like I did today.

What made it clear that I was in trouble was the awful fatigue that settled my bones. An hour after I woke up, I wanted a nap. Three hours after I woke up, I craved a nap and nothing I did would rid me of the need. AJ lovingly told me that I looked like the Scream mask while I slept. He didn't know it was the "scream mask," he just made the face, scrunched up his eyes and made a large OOOOO with his mouth. Little snot. At least he didn't comment on my snoring.

For our anniversary, one of my gifts was a Nap set. I was dubious as to the use of this item, as when I nap, I enjoy my huge, King size bed and my own pillow, but Husband does a good job with gifts and I was waiting to see how this one fared on a day like today.

When the "nappies" (not a diaper for those of you who use that terminology) came on me, it started slowly. First, my feet were freezing. Then, I slowly lay down on the couch as Husband made room for me amid all of his lawyer-ly work stuff. The blanket came out amid a case of the shivers and the pillow slowly followed. I don't remember much beyond that point. As AJ said, "the scream" was very much in effect.

It strikes me how, when we're sick, we lose all the facade that we put out there on a regular day. Life goes back to basic things: sleep, food, bathroom breaks, and cuddling on demand. There was no disagreement as to what we were doing over the weekend because I didn't care what they did. I was silent on the couch. My husband probably cherished that silence, as it is rare. AJ got to go to a friend's house without having to do chores first and stay much longer than usual. I slept the sleep of unknowing, uncaring and just wanting to feel better. What I ate was no longer important and frankly, I didn't care if I ate. How I looked was not in the slightest important, though was funny to my 8 year old. The dogs were caring and concerned and stayed beside me, as did my Husband. He checked on me every little bit with ibuprofen and making sure I didn't need anything.

Maybe it wasn't such a bad day, after all.

For real? Even them?

Yes, it's true. Even doctors are feeling the crunch of the economy. No, my doctors are not breaking ethics, social norms or common etiquette to tell me that their clientele have fallen off. I have been able to deduce this by the number of times I've been asked to come in for a follow up visit for something that could have been taken care of in the last 3 months with a simple phone call (aka test results or a prescription tweak).

A clear example of this occurred when I went to my dermatologist today. My dermatologist is, hands down, one of the prettiest women I've ever seen in my life. She's like doctor Barbie, but in a down to earth package. If she weren't so stinking nice, I might dislike her in my shallow "but you're way too pretty to be really nice, you must be faking it" kind of way. Yes, I have growing to do, too. This isn't the case with Doctor Barbie (I'm not calling her that in a demeaning way, but I'm giving you her name, either. She's mine. Not yours. You can't have her. I like getting in to see her quickly.)

I'm a pale, pale woman. A friend of mine used to lovingly refer to me as a "china doll." This is great in many ways unless I want to 1/tan or 2/avoid skin cancer. I'm also a moley person. Blame awful genes, but you could play a mean game of connect the dots on my torso. As such, I had surgery about 3 weeks ago and they took a nice hunk out of my abdomen. All is well and the cells ended up non-cancerous. Just ugly. I'm glad they are gone. I was to go back today to have my stitches removed.

When I arrived, the medical assistant looked at the stitches and, even though I'd popped one of them nicely thanks to my determination to do well at physical therapy this week, overall, they looked good and are healing. I nodded and asked if Dr. Barbie would be coming in to remove them and the medical assistant replied "No, these are dissolve-able stitches. We're just making sure everything looks ok today." Hrm. Because she'd initially told me I would use dissolve-able stitches, then told me last time I'd have to have them removed, and now they are dissolve-able again. So, I decided to use it to my advantage and have her address my other moles and skin issues while I was there. I'm not coming back for yet another appointment in 2 weeks. But I'll see her in 6 months for a mole check up...

If it were only Dr. Barbie, I wouldn't question it, but hands down I have seen my doctors more this year than any other year. I've had more lab tests ordered and have wasted more hours in waiting rooms than I'd like to count. It's not because I'm more ill than usual, though I have felt better in my life, it's because the follow up appointments are being required more and more often. The only difference I can see is that, when I'm in the waiting room, it's more empty than usual and the phones aren't ringing. Someone has to pay for the doctor's education. Looks like it's going to be me.

McDonalds' feeble attempt at making me fat

Since I jumped on the semi-health mobile back in November, I've avoided McDonalds like the plague. Well, for the most part. The Reduced fat ice cream cone is a delightful use of 150 calories and if I send my husband to get it, I can avoid the big, glaring pictures of tempting McNuggets. They are really all that tempt me from that particular fast food place, anymore.

Today, however, between physical therapy and teaching my undergrads, I was in a hurry. Normally, I get my grilled chicken sandwich from Wendys but I made the assumption that McDonalds would be faster. I pulled in the line and waited. And waited. And waited some more.

While I sat there, I pondered how much of my obesity was due to McDonalds. No, no, no, McDonalds did not put the food into me. I'm not a foolish person and I don't blame McDonalds for making me fat. Yet, with that thought in my mind, they aren't doing much to help me stay healthy, either. They aren't as "side" friendly as Wendys or Chick-Fil-A. I continued to think about this and chided myself for laying the blame at the feet of a conglomerate instead of myself. As I was doing so, I inched a car length forward and saw a HUGE red and white sign that said "FREE PIE WITH ANY LARGE SIZED MEAL."

Excuse me, please stop the boat. Wait, what? If I UP SIZE my meal, which is in larger portion already, you will GIVE ME A FREE PIE? So, you will reward me for eating more with more food? Specifically, a dessert food that most people find hard to resist?

Screw you, McDonalds. Screw you. You deserve some of the blame for this!

I got my grilled chicken sandwich and left. Next time, I'm going to Wendys.