|Where's my damn medal?
||[Dec. 4th, 2013|10:04 am]
So, reading with interest the new plan Amazon’s got to eventually deliver packages with drones. Please oh, please, let this plan not ever come to fruition while I still walk the earth. I’d have to wear a helmet every time I left the house. Avoidance subroutines, schmubroutines, have you MET me? Or read this blog? I do a daily dance of death with my cats in the kitchen, hallways and living room as both of our avoidance subroutines clash and conflict. My brain and spotty synapses can circumvent any logical and effective avoidance programming on this earth. Let me show you the scars on my ankles from the Roomba. I’d come out of the house and there’d be the drone headed for my door, all peaceably like. And we’d be fine. Except then while I was looking at the drone, I’d accidentally step into MommaCat’s water bowl, lose my balance and lurch to the side, which the drone would niftily dodge. Except nothing in its programming could possibly anticipate that I’d over-compensate for falling, and come lurching back in the other direction, which the drone would just barely adjust for…but then be doomed when I bounced off the railing (do everything with maximum force is my motto) and came back again and then, well, it’s hair full of rotors, isn’t it?
I’m just bummed that it’s in the news now. Because if this were right before Halloween, I’d have drones caught in the giant spiderweb, being eaten by carnivorous plants, being grabbed by the giant Chicken man, a heap of them smouldering, courtesy of dry ice, in the birdbath, carefully watched by bird skeletons, impaled on tombstones, caught in ghost tendrils….and I, of course, would be dressed as a this decade’s Tippi Hedren. (Look it up children, Tippi Birds Hitchcock)
I am no more competent when it comes to passwords. For starters, my fingertips have some property that not only makes them pretty non-reactive to touch screens – seriously, my future will include surgery to insert conductive chips in my fingertips so that I can continue to function in a touchscreen world – but also eats away at the letters on a keyboard. M, N, V, and B are particularly vulnerable. And you can probably tell right away, that any temporary password I’m going to get includes….MNVB in some combination. As a touch typist, albeit one that yes, can type without looking at the keyboard, but engages the backspace key and retypes probably half the letters struck, I suppose that would be the idiot-savant version of touch typist – I can mistype and retype words very quickly. Typing them correctly in the first place? Not likely. So, to address this password problem, where you really can’t engage your touch typist brain. (Well, I can’t. I type words, not letters and have no idea what my fingers are doing really.) But when I look down to hunt and peck, hmm, all of these blank keys….but hey, I engaged the big brain and viola! I printed out an image of a keyboard and keep that tucked underneath the real one. Ha! So, there.
(Please note, viola, as opposed to voila, is purposeful. Because it’s funny. Typed. Not spoken. Trust me on this one.)
So, you can totally send me a medal. Or hand it over next time you see me. Remember when I said that one more diagnosis that consisted of shrugged shoulders, and I dunno, and you can try this useless medication/physical therapy/voodoo and see if it works from snapping, punching a doctor right in the face and going to jail?
Well, I didn’t! (That’s me with my arms crossed, and that smug so-where’s-my-cookie look on my face.)
But here, here, combine this with the ladybit story earlier, and never, ever again, will you even THINK to ask why the hell don’t I go to a doctor about whatever the hell’s going on now.
So, crazy pounding headache for four days finally drove me to make an appointment. And I’m secretly a little thrilled because the only open time slot was 1pm, and the office was closing at 2pm, so that meant that I wouldn’t be tempted to stay later, and that I’d already be close to home and could knock off the rest of the Thanksgiving shopping and have plenty of time to cook off a bunch of things.
I know, does not every horrible story of mine begin with something finally going right/working out? Shouldn’t I learn? Why am I not morose and gloomy ALL OF THE TIME? Danish. When not suicidal, my heritage belches optimism. You try to suppress it, but you lose focus for a moment and then BURRR-RAP, there’s the glee.
So, I recite my symptoms to the doctor, and emphasize that I have had this gruesome coughing up lungs thing for a month now, and it could be that I’ve bruised my brain with violent coughing or have an ear or sinus infection. But she decides to take my blood pressure, which was a little high when I arrived, and now crazy high. So, she makes me do all the impairment stuff, and I PASS, equal strength on both sides, equal reactions, no, no trouble with vision, no trouble with speech. And she leaves the room for a few minutes, comes back and says “okay, you might be having a stroke, so I’m sending to the ER.” Wait. What? No, I’ve got stuff to do, my white-coated little friend. Just give me some antibiotics, I’ll stop stressing out, and everything will be normal. But no – and hey, you know what’s even better? Did I pick a good day to leave my cell phone at home on the nightstand or what?
(Here. Right now. I know, you’re way more competent than I am and would NEVER leave the house without your cell phone. Or leave it on your desk at work, or drop it and have it break. No, wait, I’ve watched you all do that last one. Find and old fashioned slip of paper and write down all of the important phone numbers on it and put it in your wallet. By important, I mean, people who need to know you’re in the hospital. Or could pick you up from the hospital when you’re done, or feed your cats if you get stuck in there overnight. Because otherwise, you find yourself in the emergency room and freaking STUCK there because your blood pressure is high because you’re stressing out trying to work out a plan of communication/phone tag that will somehow get you to the right people without revealing to your parents – the only number you’re likely to have memorized – that you’re in the hospital. Stop reading, DO IT NOW. Maybe you will carry it around, and chuckle at it years from now. Or maybe it will be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.)
So, whatever, HOURS. Poked, prodded, cat-scanned, EKG’d, getting things stuck on me, in me. Being told, no, no sign of stroke, but maybe brain bleeding, then nope, not that. But your blood pressure is still high and you were running a slight temperature when you got in here. And I’m thinking, um, okay, because I went from “here’s how my afternoon will go down” to “okay, don’t panic, but you could die here. I mean, probably not, but let’s be sure.” And I get ushered in and stripped and pee in a cup and sticky things and leads, and being wheeled past crazy people and when I get into the room someone points a gun at my forehead. Admittedly, a temperature gun, but my brain was pretty much in overdrive, so sure, a slight temperature.
Mostly though, it was bored, bored, bored, bored. The novelty of being pushed around on a bed for the first time in my life was counterbalanced by embarrassment – I can WALK, people. Even the drama of two involuntary committals was too brief. It was sad, but interesting to watch a boy get wheeled in, all sorts of activity and then this older, hospital employee, clearly not a doctor comes down and is checking out the board, and the whole floor gets quiet and there’s lots of behind the hand talking, and frowny faces and I was sort of pleased with myself to guess – especially when I saw him begin to talk to what seemed to be the parents – that he was the organ donor guy. And sure enough an hour later, people started showing up with coolers. Which then made me even madder to be sitting there in that bed, because there were real emergencies and sick people laying on beds in the damn hallway and I’d already been told “nope, no sign of stroke. Nope not brain bleeding. Yup, high blood pressure, but that’s coming down.” And then, finally, after six expletive hours…drumroll, please….”Well, I don’t know really, what’s going on.” DING! “It could be that all of that was just a reaction to the headache.” DING! “Or not.” DING! “And the headache, well that could be a lot of things.” DING! “Probably nothing serious, maybe a mild infection, maybe all the coughing caused some inflammation, so I’m going to give you some Vicodin with Advil” Useless medicine that won’t address the problem DING! And your doctor that sent you here is insisting on blood pressure meds, so let’s start you on that, although I don’t think that’s a long term issue for you” DING! “But you’re good to go. Just medicate the headache with the vicodin if you need to.”
So, all that time, to rule out all sorts of things, only to wind up home, with THE SAME HEADACHE I had going in, medication that at best won't help (and that's what I found to be true) and at worst will give me side effects that are worse the the original problem and absolutely NO diagnosis.
THIS, my friends, is the story of my relationship with medicine. The headache faded, came back, left, and now occasionally makes a dampened appearance when I get stressed out, and who cares, because the coughing/sinus infection has come back with a vengeance, I haven't slept but fitfully in days and what the hell, at this point, I don’t even REMEMBER what feeling good feels like.
But at least I have a follow up appointment with my regular doctor at the end of the this week. Heh. You’d better send that medal fast, because no promises this next time…