...'My Left Foot'...Continued

Just a head's up, if you didn't read the last entry...this one may not make a whole lot of sense to you. Cutting to the chase ( & in referendum to the previous post) this is what I have learned thus far:

Remedies: When one starts to suffer from an obscure ailment (i.e. Drug Induced Lupus), it is sometimes humorous what one does in an attempt to feel better. For example, 'Icy Hot.' Its available in all sorts of consistencies; a lotion, a patch, a vapor gel (isn't that an oxymoron?). I went for the balm. I rubbed 'Icy Hot' balm on every joint - shoulders to ankles. It felt a little warm at first and I thought, "This is bull shit!" Within ten minutes I was convulsively spasmodic with chills. Henceforth, the 'Icy Hot' went into the trash can. Then there was the electrocution. Upon a Neurologist's urging, I underwent an Electromyogram (EMG) test. My legs were hooked up to electrodes and pulsated with little waves of electrical current. It wasn't as bad as it sounds and as a result the doctor was able to see actual damage to both the outer & inner parts of the nerves in my two feet. And lest I forget to mention the current pain reliever of choice: Paraffin wax. A friend let me borrow her "ParaSpa Plus," a small plastic tub that plugs into the wall & heats up. It can be used as a spa treatment or as a soother for sore joints. Who hasn't dripped wax on themselves or stuck their finger in a mushy burning candle? I know you have. It feels good.

Doctors: Suddenly I'm that person....who's contact list under "D" is dominated by "Dr." The kind of person that can start of a sentence by saying, "My Neurologist said..." The days of yore consisted of visiting a clinic when I had a cold that I couldn't kick. Now I travel to see specialists & the local lab technician called me a "frequent-flyer." I've entered a whole new world that is made up of abbreviated conversations, clear apothecary jars and waiting rooms with uncomfortable chairs & outdated 'People' magazines. By the way, when a doctor's office says; "We'll have your records faxed to Dr.So&So for your upcoming appointment" they are telling a bold-faced lie. And when you limp out of the examination room with bags under your eyes that sink halfway down your cheeks from sleep deprivation, only to whip out your checkbook while the receptionist says: "Have a nice day!" You should vehemently respond by saying: "Really?!" Also, sometimes doctors ask incredibly incendiary questions, such as: "Are you still taking the Minocycline?" I suppose if I was dumb enough to take it for ten years, I could be dumb enough to still be taking it.

Prescriptions: If I were presently ingesting all of the prescriptions that were given and/or suggested to me by doctors; I would be a poster child for the pharmaceutical industry. I'd also more than likely have dribbles of drool dropping from my chin & be falling asleep in public restrooms. In reference to some of those drunken moments of denouncing society, i.e. when you pound your fist down on a table and proclaim things like: "Its a pill for every ill!" Or, "Doctors & pharmaceutical reps are in bed together!" They are true.

While on the subject of the 'ole Rx, there are a couple of instances from the past two months that stick out like a sore thumb. One occurred at work. I stepped outside of the office to chat with a doctor on the phone. After reviewing some blood work, he concluded that he did not have a diagnosis for me and it was suggested that I try Cymbalta. My immediate response was: "Why should I take something if you can't tell me what's wrong with me?" He told me that Cymbalta was generally prescribed for an assortment of aches & pains - most people benefit from it. He attempted to ease my hesitations by saying that I'd probably seen the commercials for the drug on TV....(Not everyone watches TV. And how is mass marketing supposed to LESSEN my concern?). Upon re-entering the office, I did a web search and discovered that Cymbalta is "generally" prescribed for people with depression & anxiety disorders. I then proceeded to have an unbecoming breakdown in front of my coworker. I held my head in my hands and mumbled something along the lines of: "These doctors think I'm crazy!" She very politely conceded that I'm not crazy. She may not be 100% accurate with that assessment, but I will take my small sliver of sanity and run. The Cymbalta outcome? Denied. Thanks anyway.

 And lastly, Perspective: In order to get an accurate perspective on my current state, all I simply have to do is look around. While the core of my nerves may not be accessible, the rabbit ears to my mental state are.  - The Norway tragedy - Across an ocean & countries apart, I catch a glimpse of the anguish on a survivor's face in a photograph and realize that there are tiers of pain that I will never, ever be able to fathom.  Or, I can gain perspective closer to home. In the Neurologist's office. Where I sit, an active young woman, getting my toes pricked by a needle, while I listen to the doctor tell me she thinks I'm getting better....that soon it should all go away. I think of the girl that might enter her office after me. Maybe she's younger. Maybe her nerves won't allow her to walk at all. What would the doctor say to her? You might find this sense of relativity slightly off kilter, perhaps a little morbid. The "what if" approach to life often causes people to lose sight of the present moment...but sometimes it helps keep one foot on the ground too...so we don't float away alone in a hot air balloon with nothing but our own sympathy for company.

I can take one tingly step forward at a time, allowing the occasional electrocution and a few scatterbrained doctors to assist me along the way ("Assist?" Perhaps not. But at least they can provide me with a source of entertainment while I gather my bearings). Now please excuse me while I pick the paraffin wax out from between my toes.

'My Left Foot'

Since the title of this post is My Left Foot, a Daniel Day Lewis flick from 1989, I feel it fitting to give the film a brief plug. The movie & I have a history. As an assignment for a Sociology course I took in college we had to choose a film about disability & write a discussion essay to follow. My mother recommended My Left Foot so that was my pick. Based on a true story, Daniel Day Lewis plays Christy Brown, a man born with Cerebral Palsy. His left foot is his only controllable limb. Need I say more. Its a great movie...with the inspiring premise of overcoming adversities. Plus it stars Daniel Day Lewis. He's the kind of actor that appears in a movie & people pay attention. He doesn't mess around. C'mon, Last of the Mohicans?! There Will Be Blood ("I drink your milkshake!"). Now that I think of it, I should update my "queue."

So, how is it that I digress? In the opening paragraph? Here we go...I'm going to talk about my health issue. I don't particularly want to at the moment but writing is proving to be somewhat of a therapy, so I'll click on "Publish Post"  & when all is said & done: We'll call it a session. I can't feel my left foot. Nor the toes on my right foot. The cats give the tootisies a good tickle every now & again...and I get nothin'. Not even a trace of one fur follicle.

Yes, I will find a way to insert the felines into EVERY entry. Don't dare me.

Numb extremities isn't where it all begins (but hopefully it's where it ends!). Six months ago I found myself sleeping on a cheap-o air mattress on my kitchen floor when I had company. I kept waking up with a stiff neck. Understandable. Excusable. Then, after the company left, when I was back in my own delightful & heavenly bed...the real trouble began. I couldn't rollover without being in pain. Do you remember when you were a child & you would play that game at birthday parties where you would relay a raw egg on top of a teaspoon? That's what I felt like sliding out of bed in the morning. Stiff as a board & fragile. Evaluating every physical movement before it was made. I couldn't lift my arms above my shoulders. I had to run my fingers under scalding water in order to semi-straighten them. Taking a shower & getting dressed are two of the most painstaking processes I've ever experienced. I started half-jokingly/half-seriously making comments about having Rheumatoid Arthritis. I started to get scared.

It took me awhile to visit a doctor, but once I did, my Rheumatoid Arthritis theory was quickly negated.  I was given anti-inflammatory pills to take & sent on my merry way while the doc put a red question mark on my file & used it as a coaster. The joint pain is currently subdued due to the afore mentioned pills. I can put on a shirt without having to prop my elbows up on the dresser & precariously weave my head through the neck hole. I can open water bottles by myself. Turn the page however, & the next chapter begins by my feet going numb one at a time. It happened quite quickly. As I went to bed one evening my right toes were tingly...pins&needles like. During the night the nerve elves must of paid a visit because when I woke up my foot was numb entirely . Repeat process a week later with left foot. Walking around with two senseless feet isn't so bad. You just kind of feel like a tharumping (the beauty of writing a blog is getting to make words up) elephant with every step you take. After almost getting used to the fact that my feet were inexplicably dumb-struck...I felt the first lightening bolt of nerve pain shoot through a foot. Unless you've experienced it yourself; there isn't a way to accurately describe nerve pain. On a recent medical questionnaire (those horrid forms you have to fill out in doctor's waiting rooms....how is circling Y or N next to "Drymouth" really going to help you treat me?)...I was asked to circle a number 1 through 10 to define my level of pain. Screw it I thought, & circled the number 10. It was time to take a stand (figuratively) & stop being conservative. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, I'm not a 10. But in my world, its at least a 9 since I don't have much to compare it to. When the doctor asked me what the pain felt like: Imagine placing the balls of your feet in between vice grips and cranking down on the handle at random while someone simultaneously rips your toes off one by one.

Currently, my debatable diagnosis is Drug Induced Lupus (DIL). For the record: The frustration of NOT knowing exactly what's wrong with you, is worse than having an actual diagnosis. I think. Trust me, if my walls were padded I'd be banging my head against them right now. To offer a bit of an explanation to the confused: Drug Induced Lupus is not as severe and incapacitating as the real kind of Lupus, Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE), a chronic autoimmune disorder. However, the symptoms of DIL often mimic those of the real Lupus. Now, to address this "Drug Induced" bit - no, I don't have track marks on the inside of my arms - & no I don't have a crack dealer. As of late, there is a list of approximately 40 medications on the market that cause DIL as a reaction. On that list is Minocycline, which is an antibiotic prescribed for, of all things: A pretty face. Mild acne. Dermatologist recommended. Foolishly, it took me ten years to type "Minocycline" into Google...and when I finally did...the results are jaw dropping & disturbing. The drug has wreaked horrendous havoc on people's lives. The good news: Once the offending agent (Minocycline) is removed, the symptoms of DIL should slowly disappear.

To be continued...

And by "To be continued..." I mean I'll be posting within a day or two what was originally the second half of this entry. It's already written. It dawned on me that the loquacious length of my ramblings/life's problems might actually deter people from reading them. God forbid. So consider yourself spared for the time being.

The Crying Game

June was the pits. Yep. Worst month on record. So, what have I decided to do? Start a blog of course! "Blog" is in the dictionary now. Everybody's doing it. Therefore; I must create my own online journal of self loathing for the world to see. How does it go? Something like: Other people's dysfunctions make us feel better about ourselves? Well, maybe some of what I put on here will accomplish that. Plus writing makes me happy. And happy is in short supply these days. 

The first task at hand when constructing a blog apparently; is to name it. How are you supposed to title something that you haven't written yet? I don't know about you, but I always had to write the essay first, then come up with the clever title. So I had to wing it on here. "Confessions Of A Crazy Cat Lady" seemed too long. Then I found myself looking up the word "crazy" in a thesaurus which is where "Bats In The Belfry" appeared. Its got a nice ring to it. Sounds easy to remember.

I've been crying a lot lately (okay, maybe everyday...multiple times). It makes me feel less submissive, less like hiding, if I admit it. I've been pretty good over the phone & in public. My voice cracks sometimes, and tears well up in my eyes beneath my sunglasses, but I'm usually able to stop it before it becomes perceptible. At home, alone, in my apartment however, its a whole different ball game. My apartment feels like a prison (though Al Capone would like it here, its very bright & sunny with high ceilings & decent square footage). My last waterfall session occurred just a couple of hours ago, when I ended up punching a throw pillow & clutching a quilt mumbling: "Wh-wh-whyyy can't I st-st-stop crrrying...I j-j-just want it to st-st-stop!!!" Now I'm just getting pissed that I can't control the affliction. One day, ONE tearless day is all I ask for right now! 

I've learned a couple of lessons from the crying game though. First of all: It IS possible for cats to roll their eyes. I witness it on a regular basis..."Oh gawd. Here she goes again..." is what they must think in their little pea brains as they perch on the love seat across from me, rolling their eyes & twitching their whiskers. Either that, or they spring on top of me & sniff my face getting their fur stuck to my salty cheeks & inside my nostrils. Phhlet...yuck. Another lesson I've learned: Tissues with aloe injected into them make a HUGE difference. Trust me, 'Scott' toilet tissue is my brand of choice (1,000 sheets per roll!) & it is not 'Charmin' soft. The t.p. is harsh on the under-eye area & causes a lot of dryness. Its a nightmare. Oh yes, & the waterproof 'Lancome' mascara I recently purchased: Two thumbs up! So far its only rubbed off on the quilt.

I've plugged two brands of toilet paper & a cosmetics empire. Maybe I can get sponsors on here?

So. Why all of this crying??? Well, I assure you it is justified. At 29yrs of age I'm suddenly facing some serious health problems...which is a discussion reserved for a future blog entry...but don't worry, I'm not dieing & I should get better. But, for the first time really, I'm experiencing debilitating physical pain. It causes a tear to drop from time to time. And it causes me to be scared & anxious about what's going on inside of my body. I am also sad because a guy broke up with me. The decoupling event only occurred a few days ago. Yay! A fresh host for tears! I am adamant with myself that the breakup tears are merely superficial; that they will subside after about a week, at which point...I'll pick myself up, brush myself off, think of all of the fond memories...smile&wave...while I pass him on a regular basis as he comes & goes from his office...located directly UNDERNEATH my apartment (yet another attribute to the apartment:prison cell analogy).

Alas, that's it??? Some unfortunate, hopefully temporary, health issues...& a boy...is causing all of this distress? Yes. Its really not that bad after all. The way I've been carrying on, one could suspect I had just suffered some incomprehensible tragedy. Fortunately, and frankly, that is not the case. As far as my health is concerned: If I dose myself with memories from some of my past travels to third world countries (& in this country!)...I consider myself blessed to have access to amenities such as insurance & basic health care. The hardest part about not feeling well is the emotion of self-pity that leeches on as well. With some reluctance I've come to realize that feeling sorry for oneself is an instinct (though I will always feel guilty for it). There's a threshold between having an informative conversation when discussing personal health problems, and whining.  Hopefully I'll keep from crossing into the latter category. And as far as the boy is concerned: Getting a little of something good was holding me back from getting all of what I deserve. At least that's what my family told me. And I believe it.

"Periods of good fortune naturally alternate with periods of adversity, just as sunny days are interspersed with rainy ones."  -Eric Weiner, NPR Corespondent/Author

It seems a little absurd & narcissistic "blogging" about such personal affairs. Its not for everyone. But one thing I can tell you is: If there's anything that can make pain & sadness subside...it's humility. 


ps: It takes at least three cats to classify as a crazy-cat-lady. I only have two. I may have just made that up. But I make the rules on here!