It’s been two weeks since I took my first happy pill. It’s one of the five drugs that have been prescribed to counteract the havoc that my former arthritis drug, remicade, played on my body.
It’s hard to believe it took me seven months to connect my new health problems (severe acne, memory loss, depression, and on, and on, and on) to that stupid drug (remicade).
Ah well…What are can I do? Someone suggested a lawsuit. I thought about it for a few minutes before deciding against it. I’m not ligitious. Unless, of course, it involves some idiotic, sleazebag trying to screw me out of money just because he thinks he can get away with it. That sort of person forces one to think in those terms, even when one doesn’t want to…Before you ask, I’ll just say, no, I’m not talking about my soon-to-be-ex-husband, Endicott. While we are not compatable, I recognize that Endicott is a good man. He doesn’t purposely hurt others for fun or profit. I’m referring to someone else’s idiot-ex-husband…But that’s another story. Another f*cking story, for another f*cking day.
The good news is that I’m almost out of my depression. I feel joy again. I’m having fun again. I had the occassional day of fun while I was sick. It was always short-lived, followed by the usual dark, hopeless feeling.
Sure, sometimes I feel very upset — idiot a-holes seem to be crawling out of the woodwork these days — but even that passes.
So far, I’ve felt only two side effects: dizziness (it happened once while I was driving) and the jitters.
My doctor said I could expect to feel caffeinated. Sheesh, she wasn’t kidding. It’s exactly like drinking two venti iced cafe americanos on an empty stomach. The first time it happened, I thought, “This is what’s like to be Beavis!”
That was without adding actual coffee into my day. Jeebus help me, if I have a double shot of espresso over ice with a little milk poured on top. Yum…The cool, rich sensation would quickly be replaced by my impression of Beavis as the Great Cornholio, holding my arms in the air, “I need TP! TP for my bunghole!” Okay, I haven’t actually done that…But I imagine it from time to time.
I read online that this feeling is a lot like being on amphetamines…Whoa, I don’t know anything about that! That’s not my bag, Baby! Unless they (you know, those people posting stories on the internet) are right, in which case, it may now be my bag.
I don’t enjoy the shakes, or the slightly agitated state. I’m slowly getting used to it. I’m also coping well with the decreased appetite and slight weight loss. Two pounds in two weeks — not too bad, huh? Not that I care much, but it is nice to think I might finally drop some of my depression weight.
The other widely discussed side effect of this medication is increased sexual drive…Uh, I have nothing to say about that since I have no activity in that area. I could — easily — but I don’t…I’m sooooooooo boring.
Overall, I feel well. Even with a recent setback, I’m more at ease than I was a month ago. Maybe now I can finally relax.
Doubtful, huh?
Flo
May 30th, 2006
(The following is not for the squeamish. Mom, that means you! Please close the browser right now!)
During last month’s cancer scare, I received phone calls from several people, including my soon to be ex-husband, Encdicott.
He called days before I received my test results. I didn’t answer the phone when I saw his name on my caller id. Though I was tense and worried about my health, that didn’t stop my cringing when I realized he was on the line. I listened to his message, then thought, “That was nice. It’s too bad he’s still a jackass.” Even a thoughtful call full of good wishes can’t make up for the anger I feel towards him.
These days, I feel so mixed up and upset, I can’t tell if that’s a rational reaction, or if I need to settle down!
All kidding aside, I have had a tough time recently. I was constantly stressed out and anxious, overly emotional, crying everyday (I’m not normally a crier). Leaning on my friends only helped so much. It was time to get professional help. I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.
During the first hour, we had five pages, front and back, of my medical history to cover. Medical and personal history — a little too personal! She asked me things I never want to hear again. I answered her when I could, then reached for the tissue and held onto it tight.
After all of the formal paperwork was finished, she asked me why I made the appointment. I gave her the abbreviated version of my suck-ass life that I discuss here at IXH all the time.
I separted from my husband seventeen months ago. I’ve had my ups and downs that entire time. Last October, it got a lot worse when several stupid things happened at the same time. I haven’t been able to bounce back since then.
financial -
two people didn’t pay me for jobs (they probably never will) to the tune of two grand; at the same time, I sank four grand into my car repair and a car rental, so I could work three jobs, and only get paid on one. That’s a six thousand dollar loss on top of my regular expenses like rent, utilities, food, medical expenses. That six week period ate up all of my savings, right before Christmas. Nice.
medical -
my arthritis flared up causing me a lot of discomfort from continuous joint and muscle pain; my last round of x-rays showed joint erosion over the last several years. My doctor suggested we begin a new drug, remicade, which had been very successful in suppressing rheumathoid arthritis in a lot of her patients. It bombed on several levels!
First, it didn’t stop my disease activity, though it did slow it down. Second, I had breakouts everywhere. It sounds silly, but I was hideous! Even as a teenager, I didn’t have that much acne. I started to feel like the elephant man! Third, my health insurance didn’t cover the entire cost of remicade — to the tune of three grand! Endicott was kind enough to pay that for me. Later, he said he negotiated the price down to $500, but still! He didn’t tell me about the bill until after he paid it off.
In January 2006, I switched medications again, this time to Enbrel and Methotrexate. My inflammation immediately spiked up; so much so, that a nine day steroid pack couldn’t bring it back down. My arthritis activity eventually slowed down by April 2006, but it feels like I’m back where I started (in October 2005)!
personal -
Fall was the time of year I left my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott. I struggled with the decision for months before I finally did it. To recall that painful period again was just not fun.
This is a silly point, but there’s also the matter of my non-existant love life. Last August, with my introduction to a funny, charming man, it looked like that might finally turn around. But that didn’t work out either.
“So, yeah,” I said, “October sucked!”
My doctor was compassionate, non-judgmental. Maybe that’s why I said this out of nowhere:
“You know, people ask me all the time, ‘What happened?’ I really think we were just incompatable. From the moment we were engaged, I knew it wouldn’t work out. I knew what he was like. I knew what I was like. I was sure that after several years together we wouldn’t be able to work these differences out. It would probably end in divorce. Even though I knew that, I married him anyway. I wanted to be with him as long as I could, even if that was just a few more years…I really wanted to be wrong about this. I didn’t think I would be, but I sure wanted to be wrong…” My voice cracked, I reached for another tissue.
“It sounds like you really loved him.”
I sniffled and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Did! Did.”
She left the room, then returned minutes later with her attending physician. The three of us went over the low points. Each time, he asked me, “When did this begin?…When did that begin?…When do you think the depression began?” The answer was always October. “When did you begin this drug, remicade?” October.
In that moment, I understood where these hormonal changes began, and why I experienced these physical and emotional pains over the last several months. The flare-ups, the elephant man sized acne, the memory loss, the depression — all came from that funky drug. Sure, October would have been a bad month with or without it. But the following seven months, November, December, January, February, March, April and May didn’t have to be miserable. Imagine how bad it would be if I didn’t stop taking it in January! I’d probably be suicidal in a month!
Sweet Jeebus, I hadn’t felt this bad since I lived with Endicott. Truthfully, this experience was worse than living with him, but not by much.
My doctors and I decided on a new medication to get me through this period. It’s been a week now — so far, so good. (Except Saturday afternoon, when I felt vertigo while waiting at the left turn signal. It cleared up after four seconds, just in time for me to turn left. After the turn, it happened again. Yes, I phoned the doctor. I promise to do whatever she advises.) Everyday was less stressful, less tearful, less painful. It’s getting better all the time.
I told my best bud, Jean Luc, “Dude, it really feels like I’m coming out of a fog. I think I’m going to be okay.”
Happy pills or not, I’m almost certain my struggles with my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, will remain the same. He will continue to infuriate, frustrate, aggitate, and just plain get on my nerves. Then, he’ll do something sweet, thoughful and heartfelt that touches me; only to f*ck it up by returning to his usual jackass ways.
I guess some things never change.
Adios,
Flo
May 23rd, 2006
If you read my last April post, you know I had been freaking out.
My latest health scare had me more worried than I’ve been in awhile. That says a lot, given that’s all I seem to do these days.
When I spoke to my best bud, Jean Luc, one afternoon, I must have been worked up again because he said, “You need to settle down!”
Yes, I do.
“You think you have an eating disorder? You don’t!” He sighed. “What you’re experiencing is called neurolinguistic programming. NLP — look it up on the ‘net. It’s a very powerful tool for training your brain to blah, blah, blah.”
He didn’t actually say blah, blah, blah. I’m not exactly sure what he said for the next five seconds because my brain stopped working. I have trouble staying focused, my short term memory doesn’t work so well; it is constant.
When I tuned back in, I replied, “You know, the same sort of thing happened when I was a vegetarian. The thought of eating meat brought up these ugly images from slaughterhouses films, recalling animals in pain. It was so repulsive, I didn’t eat meat for four years after that…But that was different. I wasn’t afraid back then. Now I imagine everything I eat will give me cancer. I think, ‘That double-double will kill me quickly. But this bowl of blueberries won’t kill me quite as quickly.’ ”
Jean Luc replied, “Now you’re thinking like a healthy person.”
“Uh, I’m not sure healthy people are convinced EVERTHING they eat will kill them…I just hope this paranoia passes soon…I don’t know, dude.”
After several days I did finally settle down. The organic fruits and veggies on my plate stopped looking evil.
When I returned to the dermatology office to have my sutures removed (which literally took two seconds to do), my biopsy results still weren’t in. The lab’s turn around time was longer than expected, so the results wouldn’t be in for another five days.
As I groaned at that news, my doctor looked up from my new teeny tiny scar and smiled. “I’m sure it is nothing to worry about. We’ll give you a call when your results are in.”
On my way to my car, I thought, “I bet she sees these things every day, and knows what to expect. If she says it’s nothing, I’m going to believe her!”
And I did. I forgot about it for the next five days…until sometime around 4 p.m.. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I called the office.
I was told the results were in, but the doctor had not yet reviewed them. She would probably do so when she returned the next morning. That’s when she would call.
“Ohhhhhhhh, but I really want my results nooooooooooooooow.” I whined, ” I’ve waited two weeks now for these results. Everyone says its nothing, but I’m gonna keep freaking out until I hear definitively I’m cancer free…Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan…Can’t someone call the doctor?”
Apparently, my little crybaby bit worked because I got a call back twenty minutes later saying everything was fine.
That’s when I started making the “Hey, drop what you’re doing so I can tell you I don’t have cancer!” calls. That was fun! So I moved onto the “Hey, this is a silly reason to write — just want you to know I don’t have cancer! Yea!” emails.
I got lots of sweet, supportive responses. One of them turned into a very nice dinner date. Well, interesting, friendly dinner between two new friends. (His treat.)
I’m glad this situation turned out as well as it could: I’m cancer free. I have good new eating habits that will keep me that way longer. I felt lots of care and concern from family and friends. Best of all, I have a cool new scar to show off!
Adios,
Flo
May 21st, 2006