Seizure the Day!

Well, I had my visit with Stosh this afternoon. He deduced that what happened to me last Tuesday morning had to have been a seizure. I don't have diabetes. The glucose tolerance test was relatively normal. My sugar didn't plummet all over the place; in fact, it rose to 152 during hour 2 of the test, which is high. I'm a little anemic right now. Could be because I get 3 periods a month...Otherwise, I'm doing alright, though I was chastised for driving myself to the doctor when I'm not supposed to be driving. Whoops. So the list of possible diagnoses grows: I could have epilepsy, which would be very manageable, MS, which would suck but would be manageable, or cerebral vasculitis (which would suck the most royally of all 3 possibilities). Tatus said "Yeah, YOU on steroids...." Ya'll want to see me turn into a 200 lb stark raving maniac bitch? Put me on steroid therapy. It'll happen, I guarantee. I'd sooner die. Hopefully, MS research and treatment has come farther in the last decade than I was able to discern on the internet.

Patti brought up a valid question. A couple weeks ago, (TMI ALERT) I had diarrhea in my bed sometime overnight. Woke up rolling around in it, which was fucking disgusting. She wonders if I had a seizure during the night that could've caused me to lose control of my bowels. Losing control over bodily functions is another symptom of MS. So is the double vision, black outs, pass outs, double vision, the pain I experience in the morning that was chalked up to fibromyalgia. So all of these symptoms could point to MS.

Tatus and I finally connected via phone. I'm bummed out because he invited me to a museum shindig with a group of people tomorrow (including The Wife and his sister and possibly one of his children and assorted friends) but alas and I can't go because I have to be at band at 4:30, then I have to help out with the (ick) Sweetheart Dance (a fundraiser for Luke's work camp this summer) after church. We were both disappointed at the missed chance to get together, but solidified plans to get together the week of my 4-year sobriety anniversary, though he's having 2nd thoughts about taking me for a tattoo. A) Yes, he's a doctor but squeamish about needles (MAN UP!) and watching a tattoo and B) he's squeamish about ME getting a tattoo. (He sort of flipped out when his daughter came home with one.) So he's giving me the parental "We'll see about that" to that part of the plan. Fuck that. I know he's my father "figure" but I'm 39 years old. Plus, he usually gives in when I want to do something, so I think I can wrangle him into it. If he won't, I know Christa will be happy to go along with me to get inked. And by God, I'm gonna get inked if it's the last thing I do. Anyway, Tatus worked long hours all week and didn't get a chance to call me; I was erroneous in thinking something was awry. As usual.

Tonight is band practice where we'll be practicing 2 new songs. It's something like if you aren't prepared to practice these 2 new songs, you'll have to sit them out during practice. I've listened to each one extensively, but I honestly have been, suffice it to say, a little busy to practice my drums, so I don't know them all that well. I've notated my music, but I never played them physically on my drums. That's always challenging and my guitarist/leader's just going to have to understand that. I have an upset stomach just thinking about practice tonight. So does one of my vocalists, who can't get the opening of one of the new songs down. It'd all be totally worth it if the songs weren't utter and complete shit, but that's just my personal opinion.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

Well, practice went about as well as could be expected. I was having GI issues all evening, which hindered my performance, there was discontent between the singers, the keyboardist got frustrated with everyone for not know knowing their parts on the new songs, and with the exception of continuing to come in late on one of the new songs, I rocked it out, totally improvised with no practice in the month I've had the CD's with the music on them. I do alright making up rhythms as I go along with the band and just pay attention to the breaks in the music. You'd never know I hadn't been at church all month to practice the songs, but it's been a helluva month. I've said it before and I'll say it again--I play by ear. I make up my parts as long as I go along with our band, not the professionally released recording, not even with the guitarist and keyboardist playing the song and giving it to me on CD. My health was simply too messed up to practice drums this month, something that I'd hope my band would understand. Meh, same old band bullshit. Egos, egos and more egos. And it's volunteer work! For God! For Crissakes!

(Pandora perfection: The Beatles' "I Am the Walrus" just as Luke emerges from the bathtub.)

Gosh Darnit, Anyway. And "This Was Spinal Tap"

I woke up at 5am, having missed a call from my Tatus at 10:30 last night, by which time my cell phone and I both petered out. He asked me via text if I'd be up past 10pm and I said yes. I didn't indicate, however, how long after 10pm I'd be up, so I don't take all the blame. He said he'd had a crazy week at work, which I do understand, though I texted him that I'd been feeling decidedly neglected. He didn't sound particularly happy in his voicemail that I didn't answer my phone, so this morning, I just texted him my apologies and to try me again later today. I hate missed connections. That sort of shit happens all the time with my best male friend, and it's very annoying, admittedly. For both parties. Ah, well, we'll connect again soon, I'm sure. I have so much to catch up on with him, the least not being when we're getting together for dinner and my tattoo for my 4 year sobriety anniversary.

I never even made it into my pajamas last night. I slept in my 5 layers of go-outside-and-smoke clothes, instead of my Steven Drozd's face on heroin "Christmas on Mars" t-shirt and little gray shorts that I normally wear. Though sometimes I rotate the Drozd shirt with the Keith Richards' "Too Tough to Die" shirt. It depends.

The spinal tap turned out to be a breeze. I was nervous as hell, but I had this humorous, kind old doctor who wore bow tie doing the procedure. He was a radiologist. I had been in and out of consciousness all morning, having taken a nighttime dose of my anti-anxiety medication before the tap to stay calm, and man, it worked. I lied flat on a table, the doctor looking at my spine and counting "1,2,3,4,5...and BINGO." He marked the site he planned to stab with his 25-gauge needle, which made me jump, and he was like "It's a PEN, Andrea." "Ok, whew." Then he went in with the local anesthetic after cleaning me off with something other than topical iodine, to which I'm allergic, which hurt and burned like an SOB, and I winced in pain. He waited a couple of minutes, wrapped the area in plastic or some other sterile wrapping, and went in with his needle for the tap, which I didn't feel at all. Soon thereafter, he said, "We're all done, Andrea." "You are?" I said. Mazel tov! I was rolled back onto my back and taken to same-day surgery recovery, after having been visited by Pastor Dave in the immediate recovery area. I was in and out of consciousness, but I do remember him being there, which was very nice of him. I totally missed out on the bow-tie wearing radiologist who gave me post-op instructions, such as no bending over for 2 days and lying flat the rest of the day (not a problem--I was so sleepy). My mom kept rudely awakening me all afternoon pushing fluids down my throat. I had some soup in bed and drank some tea, and back to bed I went. All in all, the procedure, though uncomfortable, wasn't scary at all, and I came through like a trooper, not leaking any cerebral-spinal fluid in the process. So we're all good. We should have the results by no later than Tuesday to find out which debilitating disease I have with this no-blood-flow-to-the-brain nonsense.

Oh great. Ma's up and it's 6:30. Evidently, she came into my room at 3:30 am to shut the light off and take my phone and computer off my lap. See, Tatus, I was waiting for your call, but I slept on and off all day and I just conked out before you called, with a critically low phone battery. Sorry, darlin'.

"I wonder if you'll stay awake today," she said. One can hope, as I have to see Stosh at 2pm and pick up Luke and his best friend, Adam, who's coming over to play after school.

Like a dummy, I went and bought Luke a package of Transformers valentines to hand out to the class on Valentine's Day. Apparently, this was a critical Mom error, as he's far too mature to hand out kiddie Valentines. "I'm not handing THOSE out, Mom." he said. I emailed the teacher to find out what the Valentine's Day protocol was, and she said they're not having a party, per se, but I was welcome to send Luke with candy to hand out to the class. Well, I'll have to buy another bag, because between the 3 of us in the family, we've eaten through the entire bag of peanut butter cups. Sorry. And apologies to Luke for potentially causing him great embarrassment in class. How was I supposed to know?

YAWN!

George Michael's "Father Figure" is playing on Pandora. I can never figure out if that song is hella sexy or totally inappropriately perverted. In any event, I gave it a thumbs-up! Wow, they followed it up with Michael Jackson's "Dirty Diana." This must be the "Inappropriate Andrea as a 15-year old song mix." Thumbs up!

Well, apparently I have been commanded to take a shower by Ma because the bathroom remodeling guy is coming over sometime this morning, so I'll close this entry of the Rhythms.

Perfect Pandora send off? Best Coast's "Boyfriend."

Until next time....

Ira Glass on The Creative Spirit and WORK

This is most certainly true. People jokingly complain that I write SO many blogs, and some, to me anyway, turn out to be awesome while others are total shit. I turn out vast volume of "product," I realize that.

For all intents and purposes, my personal opinion is that the humorous post I wrote about "Escape: The Pina Colada Song" (http://www.theoffbeatdrummer.blogspot.com/2012/01/shouldnt-these-two-people-be-really.html) was a well-written piece of mock criticism; a piece of work of which I was proud. Some of my manic, not-so-lucid transient thoughts strung together in paragraph after paragraph are often at least entertaining, but definitely not prize-worthy.

(Aside: Pandora went from Rush to Van Halen to Cinderella (??) to Dio (???) to Ravi Shankar. It's as manic as I am. Yes, I "thumbs-downed" the Cinderella and Dio, muted Pandora and threw my iTunes on for a while.)

I don't expect all of my readers to keep up with every post I publish. Who on earth would be that interested in my life, other than perhaps some of the 21 brave souls who publicly subscribe, most of whom are very close friends of mine? And the US Senate Sargent at Arms? And the California Fair Political Practices Commission? And my former so-called superior? And my ex-boyfriend? And the friend from college who hates me? And other various curious snoopers? I sure get a gaggle of unusual visitors to Rhythms from the Offbeat Drummer. I find it fascinating and inspiring to write more. More of what, I'm not sure.

Ira Glass himself advocates producing a LOT of product. That's the only way to hone your craft. That's how you grow as an artist. Kate was telling me about the formal methods for producing a painting she learned when she was at RISD (the Rhode Island School of Design). It's sort of like writing multiple drafts of a piece of writing, which I never, ever do. Kate would do a series of sketches, pick from a handful of those sketches that were good, re-sketch them, pick the best one, and replicate that in paint. (I think that was the sequence she told me.) I don't draft my blogs or any papers that I would write for school. Poems, when I was concentrating on them as my specialty in college often got re-worked per the professor's insistence, though sometimes it went against my grain.

Kate asked me recently how long it took me to write the "Pina Colada" blog. I told her about half an hour from start to finish, not counting the time I spent listening to the actual song. But sometimes more difficult blogs take hours, or a whole day, to complete. A lot of that depends on the subject matter. The more difficult the topic, the longer, obviously, it takes to compose something I'm satisfied with.

I hope my readers enjoy what I write. Suffice it to say as of late, I have a lot of time on my hands, so I've been writing more. I re-read the blogs from the recent hospital stay, and they were as manic and disjointed as I've ever seen my writing. Next time I'm an inpatient? Ask for a nicotine patch, for one thing. And typing them took me forever because I was shaking and trembling so badly, for a number of reasons. Yet will I eradicate them from the Annie bio-log? Hell no. I feel bad enough having deleted some very well-crafted pieces of writing from the blog because I was afraid of what my former so-called superior was doing with information from my blog. At this point, I have little, if nothing, to hide, about anyone or anything in my life.

Unlike Glass, I don't give myself a one-piece-a-week deadline. I continue to write whenever an idea strikes. It's up to you, dear readers, to decide which ones to which you pay attention and which ones you ignore and say "that's just Annie rambling." I'm done trying to taunt the powers-at-be at Balderdash & Verities HQ. It's turned into a colossal waste of time and I'm not having fun with it anymore. To some of you (especially Miss Thang II) this may seem disappointing, but my life is raft with other items of interest, so please do stay tuned.

I couldn't have said it better than Ira Glass. If you call yourself a writer, fucking write. A lot. If you're a musician, write and play a shitload of material. If you're an artist, paint and draw and set your spirit free. If you're the US Senate, seriously, you have bigger fish to fry than my personal bullshit.

Peace and love,

Annie

Trapped No More

The following story is a verity, not balderdash. The last several months I spent with my ex-boyfriend, Chris, were miserable. On the one hand, I craved his companionship and attention. I loved having someone to go places with, a pal to hang around with who liked to do mundane shit like going to Target together, to hold hands with and walk around the Lake. Someone to cuddle and watch Doctor Who with. Some place to go that wasn't home a few times a week where he admittedly did keep my favorite seltzer water or whatever I was drinking (non-alcoholic, of course) at the time, and snacks I liked. Someone who would, by virtue of him being unemployed at the time, could accompany me for tests and procedures at the hospital, though it wasn't *his* face I wanted to see when I woke up from anesthesia. When I was a "good girl," I was richly rewarded materialistically. When I was, in his opinion, a "bad girl," I was punished. Badly.

On the other hand, I was tired of being one of many women in his life, tired of his verbal abuse, his blaming me for any emotional issues I'd had before I became sober, which he took credit for, or before I was medicated for bipolar, when he said I was literally acting "crazy," emotional mindfucking, massive control issues, and physical and sexual abuse and manipulation. I felt like I was being used. Rather, I *knew* I was being used, yet I kept going back. I can't say why I put up with it all as long as I did, but it was obvious to literally everyone else I knew that I HAD to get out of that relationship. The first person who told me to get out was Craig when I told Craig that Chris had slapped me in the face. Yet, I couldn't break away. Intellectually, I knew it was grossly unhealthy. So did Chris. But he kept me strung along as long as he could, which I can only chalk up to the fact that he had a steady supply of getting laid whenever he wanted, which in my psychological opinion, was something *he* was addicted to.

If you look at pictures of the two of us together for the last year of our relationship, we both look uncomfortable. I look apprehensive and he looks obligatory and distant. We didn't look like a couple in love, because, as per a previous blog, Chris said that never was "in love" with me.

I had a fervent hope that he'd change his mind, change his ways, and treat me the way I deserved to be treated and would decide to love only me. I was stupid enough to want to marry the guy. I prayed that he'd leave the other women behind (all of whom I knew about without even having to ask him, and he eventually did tell me). He tried dating other women on the nights he wasn't with me, but after a while, that "wasn't working" for him anymore. I was becoming a dating liability to him, not a loved one.

I remember one memorable night out to dinner when he told me he wanted to see this particular woman on a regular basis, and that they were close to being "in a relationship." (That poor, clueless woman.) I asked what that meant for me, where I stood. "Am I still your best girl?" I asked Chris. And the answer was no. I looked up at him with hollow eyes and what he described, if memory serves, the saddest look on my face he'd ever seen. Even with that reality facing me, I wasn't ready to let go. Even with everything he was putting me through--mentally and physically (I was frequently hospitalized for pancreatitis and GI issues that several doctors believe was my body's response to the abuse I was enduring), I still wanted to be his girlfriend. But I wasn't anymore. I was no longer the most important person in his life. I'd been replaced, abruptly and rudely.

At that point, I'd decided I'd had enough of it all. When I was in the hospital and Aliya (a friend who's a psychiatrist) and her cousin (who's also a doctor), came to visit me, we talked about me finding the strength to walk away from Chris for good, for cutting him and his toxicity out of my life. I wasn't sure I could do it. Aliya knew what Chris had done to me and offered practical advice that was similar if not equal to what other friends and family had told me, but she finally got through to me. Not sure why other than to attribute it to divine intervention. (She had, after all, given me 2 get-well gifts: a Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Awareness hoodie that said "Kindness rocks" on it and a mug that said "With God, all things are possible.")

Soon thereafter, I packed up what I had left at Chris' house (which wasn't much, some clothes, and then he packed that scary box full of unmentionables in polite conversation that he wanted me to keep, that I mentioned in a previous blog, that I had to have a friend dispose of for me, because it sat in my truck for 4 months and I was afraid to even touch it) and we parted company for the last time some time in March or April of 2011, I don't even remember. With lofty ambition to "stay friends," I finally saw the reality of what kind of man he truly is, and wanted nothing to do with him. Nasty, malicious emails were being exchanged. He'd been nitpicking my personal life, asking me questions about my separation and divorce from Craig, and generally harassing me.

I started telling my doctors, closest friends and family what he was doing to me, which is old news to those of you who read my blog regularly, which was when I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result by my psychiatrist and primary care physician, with the help of my psychotherapist.

Why do I drudge this story out of the archives yet again? Because I heard a song on Pandora today. A Bruce Springsteen song that reminded me of the latter part of my relationship with Chris, for about the last year and a half we were together, after he "broke up" with me and told me he wanted to date other women. It's a rather rare song, that I first heard, of all places, on the "We Are The World" album from 1985. It's called "Trapped." It conveys exactly how I felt with Chris all that time. Hearing this song gave me literal chills. I think it's a valid song for anyone who finds herself (or himself) in an abusive relationship.

Today, I'm free. I got away and I'm lucky. I no longer have bite marks and bruises and burns all over my body. He had taken a shitload of pictures of me, that I wanted put on a disc and sent to me, and erased from his computer forever. He claimed that his computer at the apartment in the Loop crashed during a storm and the hard drive fried and he couldn't retrieve the pictures. I'm not sure I believe him, for he's a photo collector. It sickens me that he could verily still have hundreds of photographs of me in his possession. That's one of his idiosyncracies, to put it nicely.

I'm learning not to be so scared of Chris and retaliation and that he'll harm me ever again. The PTSD is still there; it doesn't just go away. I still have no desire to date anyone and am afraid of strange men I don't know. At least the list of men I'll allow to hug me is expanding, though I have virtually no desire to be intimate with anyone at this point. I am too damaged. Hopefully, someday that'll change and I'll be capable of being in an actually healthy relationship with a man. Not in the foreseeable future, though. Thanks, Chris.

Bruce Springsteen

"Trapped"

---

Well it seems like I'm caught up in your trap again
And it seems like I'll be wearin' the same ol' chains
Good will conquer evil and the truth will set you free
Then I know someday I'll find the key
Then I know somewhere I'll find the key
Well it seem like I've been playin' the game way too long
And it seems the game I played has made you strong
Well when the game is over, I won't walk out a loser
And I know that I'll walk out of here again
And I know that someday I'll walk out of here again

But now I'm trapped...oh yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah!

Now it seems like I've been sleepin' in your bed too long
And it seems like you've been meanin' to do me harm
But I'll teach my eyes to see beyond these walls in front of me
And someday I'll walk out of here again
Yeah I know someday I'll walk out of here again

(chorus)
Well it seem like I've been playin' the game way too long
And it seems the game I played has made you strong

Because I'm trapped...oh yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah!

I'm trapped...oh yeah yeah!
Trapped...oh yeah yeah
Trapped...oh yeahhhhhh
Trapped....oh yeahhhh
I'm trapped.

Watching the Wheels

My mom says I'm a lot more alert this morning. I guess that's a good thing. I'm not on any mind-numbing narcotics, for one thing. Also, I got a solid night's rest after several nights of either too little or too much sleep, and it feels good not to be in a hospital bed under 6 blankets, shivering with a high, inexplicable fever.

The withdrawals are being managed with OTC medications and my anxiety drugs. God only knows why I didn't ask for a nicotine patch while I was in the hospital, for I was going through awful withdrawal from that too. (Yes, I lit up as soon as I got home.) I feel much, much better than I did the last couple of days. WD's, as they're referred to in drug culture, or as Steven always referred to them as to me, are a tricky motherfucker. They don't usually hit until 4-6 days after you stop the drug and it's out of your system. My doctor was skeptical of the Immodium cure--essentially you take about 40 mg of Immodium 3 times a day to ward of the WD's, because Immodium is a morphine-based compound that doesn't cross over into the blood stream, thereby keeping it over-the-counter available, but it a) stops the diarrhea and b) eases up the shakes, the chills and the other uncomfortable symptoms. But he said that as long as it seems to work, it won't harm me and that it was ok to try. He's not real hip to junkies' ways of managing junk, so he had never heard of this solution before himself. But it does indeed work. And it doesn't constipate you at all--rather, it gives you normal bowel movements, instead of constant diarrhea. That being said, my diarrhea as of late was blamed on an intestinal virus, since I'd been running a 102 fever and had a highly elevated white blood cell count, which meant I was fighting an infection somewhere.

Now, with school out of the picture, what the fuck do I do with myself? Yes, take care of getting my health in order. That's the first priority. But everybody's got a fucking opinion of what I should be or could be doing with my time and my life. Everybody. Friends, family, doctors. Taking the course was my chief source of purpose this semester. Something to keep me busy. And more fun and interesting than going from doctor to doctor, certainly. Everyone had an opinion about me going off the narcotics. Some wanted me to medically detox, when they don't DO that for narcotics, or go to rehab, which wasn't necessary because I wasn't addicted to the narcotics, I was simply physically dependent on them, which was natural given I was on them for a year. Your body's response to a substance it's used to is to go into withdrawal when that substance is suddenly taken away. And to be in the hospital on the day my dad died from DT's from withdrawing from alcohol was not a pleasant thought yesterday. I was NOT going to spend February 2nd in Resurrection Hospital.

Christa, my best friend from high school, suggested she and I look into some volunteer work, which is a promising idea. We are signed up with Chicago Cares, and they have hundreds of volunteer opportunities in the Chicago area that would look quite good on my grad school applications, so perhaps we'll do something like that.

I need work done on my car and I can't drive anywhere. The air in one of my tires is almost flat. How the fuck am I supposed to get my car to the service station to get it fixed? Ma is going to ride with me to the service station tomorrow to at least put air in my tire, which has a nail or something in it that I have to add air every few days for, but now that I got my tax refund, I can afford to have the car fixed. I need stuff from Walgreens and to pick up my heart meds at Osco. I need $$ from the ATM. Ma's hesitant to leave the workers on the bathroom alone in the house for some reason, so I guess the requisite errands will have to wait until tomorrow.

I'm staring at the neurologist's card waiting for his office to open to schedule the spinal tap for next week, which still scares me half to death. I'd be more comfortable with the neurologist if he wasn't so freaking WEIRD. He carries a little medical bag with him that has only the following in it: a pen light, a reflex hammer and an otoscope. And he just looks weird. I'm sure he knows what he's doing and he's on the right course, and he's nicer than the bitchy Polish neuro I saw a few years ago, but sheesh. The guy didn't know what an eyebrow ring was.

(OK, I called the neuro. His uber-bitchy receptionist asked me if the doctor gave me an order for the spinal tap. No, he didn't give me an order. I was IN THE HOSPITAL at the time. They're giving him my name and number and he'll call me back. Argh, red tape! Medicine! This is what I'll be doing with my semester, I guess!) UPDATE: He never called back after I left him a message this morning. He ASKED me to call him this morning to schedule the spinal tap. Assface. I may seek another neurologist and take my MRI results elsewhere if this doctor can't even return a fucking phone call that HE asked for.

As usual, I digress.

It was awfully nice of Pastor Dave to come and visit me twice while I was in the hospital. I really dig the guy. He's got a lot of wisdom for a kid of 32-33, or however young he is. He lets me swear in front of him and doesn't chastise me for it, and says things like "I bet you want to get the hell out of here." Damn straight, Dave. His prayers are honest, to the point, and not lofty or conceited. He speaks from his heart, which I appreciate. I've connected to him, which I honestly didn't expect to, given I really liked Pastor Todd, our interim pastor he replaced. But Dave brings a fresh, modern vibe to St. Paul and is doing a great job as our shepherd.

I listened to John Lennon's "Watching the Wheels" this morning, and the song so aptly describes what people are doing to me right now. Like I said, everyone's got an opinion as to how I should be living my life, what I should be thinking about, how I should progress with my future, etc. As if I don't get a vote. As if I'm not an adult capable of making adult decisions. Whether it's my mom (who will always naturally tell her kid what to do, not her fault), my friends or other loved ones, who I'm sure all care deeply, but really, people. I've got it covered. I need a little space and to draw those in closer who I think will be of the most use and comfort to me now. I don't need chastising and disdain and accusations.

If you're not familiar with Lennon's classic, fucking listen to it. It makes perfect sense to me...

Home.

Stosh released me late this afternoon. THANK GOD. Because I was having the world's worst anxiety attack at the thought of spending the night in the hospital on the night my father died in THAT hospital. Bad vibes all over the place. He was comfortable with me going home--my fever broke finally, he finished all his tests, the exception being the SCARY SPINAL TAP the neurologist needs to do next week.

Having 3 places in my brain where there's no blood flow certainly explains the blackouts/passouts/double vision/depth perception issues/wanting to nod off constantly, etc. I can't be trusted to drive a car, so I'm a no-drive mandate until further notice. Which sucks, because losing my independence really royally blows. I feel like I'm 85 years old and I'm not even 40.

I thoroughly fought staying in the hospital one more minute this afternoon. "STOSH!" I called out the door when I saw my doctor walking down the hall. "GET IN HERE!" I told him. He had the glucose tolerance test completed, the neurologist ran his 50 blood tests, and I was ready to bolt. I went so far as to take out my own IV (which I don't recommend, wow, blood everywhere) and removed my heart monitor out of haste. He agreed that I was stable enough to go home and wrote the discharge orders.

My days of taking Norco for pain are over. It helped serve a legitimate purpose for a great, long time, but I became physically dependent on it, which is only natural given the nature of a narcotic. There's a delineation between addicted and physically dependent on a drug, and Stosh knew that. He knew this would happen and promised me he wouldn't leave me high and dry, and while tapering me off the drug would've been safer and certainly more comfortable, we went cold ass turkey. That's part of why I was such a physical wreck the last few days, shaky, nauseated, cold, all the signature withdrawal symptoms. It was helped a little by some infrequent Lorazepam, but I'm much better now that I'm home and can regulate my medications on my own. They didn't give me my anti-psychotic this morning because I was fasting, which threw me into a psychotic tail spin as well. It was just a BAD DAY in general. I feel good being clean again and I'm not getting fucked into dealing with narcotics again, though I don't know what's going to happen when I have my hysterectomy. We'll cross that bridge when we hit it in May, I suppose. I managed the pain from my c-section just on ibuprofen, so we'll see how I do when I have the surgery.

I made the very difficult but necessary decision today to drop my Abnormal Psych class for the semester. I can't rely on Ma to drive me out for a 3 hour class at night, and the class is uber-demanding, and if I have shit going on with my brain, I'd prefer my brain to be fully functional at the time, because I want to excel at school. It breaks my heart to miss this semester of school, but I have to get my health back on track. Whether I have MS or vasculitis, no one knows yet. That's what the spinal tap is for. And we'll deal with that when it happens. I might opt to have the hysterectomy sooner than May 14th since I now have a plethora of free time, though it's not a good time for Craig to have Luke as he is looking for apartments with his girlfriend for her, Craig and Luke.

I'm getting Luke for half the weekend this weekend (Sat and Sun) and it feels like I haven't spent any time with him in like 2 weeks with all the hospitalization and the bathroom remodeling (which still isn't done, Jesus). I just want to see my little boy and reassure him that I'm ok and I will be ok. Like I said before, he doesn't like to show his fear when I'm sick, but he had to be freaking out. And thank GOD he wasn't home when the paramedics came and I was unresponsive. And thank God Ma was home to call the paramedics, or God knows what would've happened to me.

I thank all of you for your continued good thoughts and prayers. I thank Pastor Dave for his visits, for Kate calming me down and sending me roses which are beautiful and being the best friend I could ask for. I thank my mom for helping me out and keeping it all together given the circumstances. I thank TOC for making me laugh yesterday. Thanks to Christa for her wisdom and honesty and for not abandoning me when she found out I was dependent on the pills. I could honestly care less if my blog stalker reads all these things that are wrong with me. If nothing else, it'll help explain that I wasn't in a drug-induced fog the last several months--for I was found with no narcotics in my system...I have a brain condition. So there!

I'll still have 4 years clean of alcohol on Feb. 21st, and I'm going out to celebrate that. Nothing and no one can take that away from me. I worked fucking hard to accomplish that though the road's been bumpier than I'd have liked it to be, but I'm human and prone to making mistakes.

Ok, it's rounding closer ever to 9:30, when we received the phone call that my dad had his massive heart attack and died from DT's in alcohol rehab. Glad to be home with Ma but feeling melancholy and weepy all of a sudden. I promised my son years ago that I'd never leave him like Grandpa did and I will hold true to that promise. If my fucking brain cooperates......

Peace, love and the serenity prayer to all of you.

Everyone I Know Goes Away in the End...

It's 10:40 at night and I'm lying in bed in Resurrection hospital, watching an inpatient channel, a show on the 40 yr old BABY BOOMER WOMAN's body changes. I may be turning 40 in a few months, and I'm certainly no spring chicken, but a Boomer, I'm NOT. I have body piercings for Christ's sake!

I think I've been here since Tuesday morning, when my mom says I was "unresponsive" and she had a gaggle of beefy Park Ridge paramedics hoist me to the hospital in the way only they can and not mess up anything in my room. She didn't know if I was in a diabetic coma, if I OD'd, what the fuck happened to me. I did NOT want to come here. Coming to the hospital was made to feel like punishment; in fact, it was called as much when I asked my mom to bring my laptop and psychology book for school. "No, you're being punished. You just sit there." 'Cause that's real fuckin' productive, Ma.

Amidst the infectious disease specialists (fever? elevated white count? chills? elevated blood sugar? unable to rouse? You must have a virus. Bye!), the shrink who everyone hates because he never calls anyone back, his nurse practitioner who I snowed in intelligence in about 5 minutes (it sure sounds to me like you OD'd!"and I'm like "Duh, my tox screen was clear!"), the fruity neurologist ("She wears an earring, just not on her ear, it on her eyebrow! And she needs an MRI. and we all in unison, the nurse on the phone and I say "TAPE IT DOWN!") , everybody's had a fucking opinion about what's wrong with me, and NO ONE KNOWS.

Ma even summoned the Pastor, for surely there were evil addicted demons inside me that had to be exorcised. God bless her, she tried everything. Pastor Dave had some words of comfort but i was more interested in hearing if he had a functioning car that would get me the hell out of there.

At least the most humorous, if not the most productive visit was by way of TOC, who at least made me smile, and made an honest and fervent offer to go to my house and get my laptop from the clutches of my mom who refused to give it over. I've got homework to do, professors to email, blogs to write!! Shittttt. He said she'd let me back in the house sometime after the new bathroom was done being installed, which at this point is close to never, so we'll see about that. If I had shoes, or a coat, I'd probably sign out AMA, and walk home. I'd stop at Walgreens for some fucking cigarettes first but by golly I'd get home.

I received very beautiful roses from Kate and Tim yesterday.Yellow roses. They're already starting to open up.

I've deduced that the reason I can't sleep for shit is that I don't have my Curious George. I have nothing to clutch in my arms, in the crook of my neck, when I sleep, and it's causing me to wake up at 1, 3, 4, 5 and 7 am, usually when they're bothering me to do something anyway but still. I MISS GEORGE. I should've sent TOC home to my house to get George in addition to my fucking laptop and homework.

Fast forward to 6:25 am on...Thursday, I think. I'm still running a fever on/off and am presently sweaty with horrible chills. Meh, I don't really care. They were kind enough to give me 625 mg of Tylenol instead of my pain pills w/APAP in them, so we'll see if they work.

Anyway, I hate this day. This is the day Dad died here in this hospital with TOC's dad pronouncing him dead, and here I lie, with nobody having a fucking clue as to what's wrong with me, but goddamnit, I want to get out of here today, if for no other reason than to have like 3/4 of a pack of cigarettes in my dad's honor. Because that's healthy. Well, at least I ain't drinking, so cut me some goddamn slack.

I'm sure I'll have more to say as the day progresses, but now at least my blog stalker can know we're in the same building! If she looks at my records on the hospital computer, I'll have a shitfit. Which goes along nicely given the US Senate Sergeant at Arms checked out my page a couple days ago, Lord only knows why. What the hell does the Senate want with an apolitical apathetic anarchist? I get the craziest motherfuckers following me around on here, like worse than Arlene. As long as I have the US Senate's attention: Be kind to struggling single moms, I vote Democratic, thanks for the Medicaid and give Obama another chance.

Stosh came by and ordered a 5 hour glucose tolerance test on me today, after which he thinks I may be able to go home. He said it's unlikely the paramedics were wrong in their sugar count of me at my house, I have all these crazy sugar issues w/passing out from hypoglycemia, let's see what happens with a massive sugar rush for the whole fucking day. He said today's the 1st day I haven't had a fever, my blood tests are all coming back more normal, and despite the fact I slept like shit and am freezing and want to doze off uncontrollably.

So pray I get to go home after all this happy hoohah is done today and that the fever stays away.

Well, Pastor made another appearance, remarking how hot it is in my room. I have the thermostat set to 80 and I'm freezing. Hello, drug and nicotine withdrawal (I should've asked for a patch). I can't wait to get home and work through getting over my junk with OTC things that I know work, and my benzos, and lots of Immodium, and smokes, because right now I'm pretty fucking miserable. At least Pastor didn't come during the Hindu Indian Ragas portion of my Pandora rotation.

The MRI is back and there's some if not bad, disconcerting news on it. I have 3 areas on my brain, 2 on the left and one on the right, that aren't getting any blood flow. Call me coconuts, but that can't be good. Even the faggoty but decent neurologist was worried about that, saying that I need a spinal tap asap. I told him bluntly that there was no fucking way he was doing it today, and that I was going home today. Period. Plus, it was inconvenient to the neurologist to disturb the spinal tap by having to have my blood drawn once an hour for the glucose test. I need to fucking deal with the grief of it being Dad's day, and work through the junk and get closer to taking an actual shower at home. The neuro thinks I either have cerebral vasculitis or multiple sclerosis, hence the need for the spinal tap.

Perfect Pandora Send off for this juncture of the morning: Eric Clapton's "Cocaine." No, I'm not, never have been, and don't plan on being on cocaine, but a song about narcotics only seemed apropos. Again, no opiates were found in my blood or urine when I got to the ER. I was clean except for the benzos I take to sleep and chill.

She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie...