Toothache

If you know me, you know I keep a detailed list of what needs doing in my day-to-day life, and you might even be aware that on my list of daily tasks, waiting to be checked off each night, is "Floss." I haven't always been great about flossing my teeth, but in the last five or six years, I've made an effort to make it mandatory, and now I feel gross if I go to bed without first flossing my teeth (and brushing, too, of course). 

Brushing twice a day and flossing every night has meant that my dental visits every six months are pretty routine, but sadly, I do need fillings from time to time simply because of normal wear on my teeth, and because I have some deep grooves that invite decay no matter how good my personal hygiene is. Whenever I see the dentist, I cross my fingers, and while most of them all is well, sometimes, I need one or two fillings.

C'est la vie, etc.

On Tuesday, I had an appointment with a new dental office. I had left the old one in a fit of pique over scheduling difficulties, and figured a fresh start elsewhere was just the thing. So I found myself at Dental Haven in Roseville, not exactly excited--who likes getting their teeth cleaned?--but figuring it would all go well.

And at the start, it...kind of...did.

I wasn't too concerned through the cleaning, though I noticed I could taste blood in my mouth, which was unusual. See, I've had my gums bleed before when a hygienist is using the pick on me, as I have sensitive, but not diseased, gums. Every so often they bleed when I floss, especially if I have something good and stuck in there (usually meat does it). So the blood didn't raise a red flag right away, and only does now as I realize that I've never been able to actually taste it before. There was a lot more of it than usual.

The dentist, a Dr. Cristina "Grace" Maniego, came to examine my teeth. She was extremely congenial and I immediately felt at ease...until she started poking around my mouth and muttering, "Oh, and that one..." She asked a few pointed questions.

"Do you grind your teeth?"

"No."

"Are you being treated for anything?"

"Well, I'm on blood pressure medication, but that's anxiety-related."

Ding-ding-ding!

"Oh, well then, you might grind your teeth! You have a broken filling...unless you've eaten something like almonds?" 

"That's entirely possible..."

It still didn't hit me right away, but a few minutes later, when the billing guy came back to my exam room, I started to figure things out.

"Well, you need a lot of fillings. I don't like to leave anything to chance and with your teeth-grinding," (I don't actually grind my teeth at night, but they were grinding by now) "you'll need a mouth guard. I'm going to want to do a special deep cleaning, too, and you'll have to take an antibiotic after that to prevent infection."

Wait, what? 

So I smiled at her, because even though I'm often an asshole in situations like this one, sometimes it's best to reserve that and feel a situation out. I was tempted to say, "Just give me the bottom line, here," but I waited as Billing Man brandished a freshly-printed "care plan" and "Dr. Grace" jabbered on about all the work--so much work, haha!--my mouth needs.

And then I saw the bottom line.

My insurance would pay for $951. I would be responsible for $1,092. 

And somehow, by some miracle, I still wasn't mad. I just stared at that number and thought, "That is one-sixth of what I have in savings, and I really want to buy a home this year. Well, shit."

I was dismissed from the exam chair and followed Bill Man out to the reception desk, where we could "go over the Care Plan in better detail." I love that--Care Plan. We care about you! Now give us your credit card!

By now, my initial shock was wearing off and my inner asshole was emerging. I pointed at the list.

"Even with payments...see, I'm looking at this and I'm thinking that I'm going to hate that mouth guard. I don't actually grind my teeth, and I will probably find it uncomfortable. My insurance doesn't cover any of it, and that's $311 of my money for something I won't use, that I don't even believe I need."

"Oh, we can take that off, all of these are just suggestions!" said Bill Man in a slightly-panicked rush.

"And a deep cleaning? I've heard of those, but I've never had anyone try to sell me one."

"Again, just suggestions, but Dr. Grace really wants to make sure you're--"

"I really need to think about all of this before I make any payments. I mean, I have the money, I could pay all of it right now. I just don't think it's all necessary."

"Oh, of course, take the time you need! But let me get Receptionist" (the name escapes me, and by now she was on my shit list, too) "to book you in to get those fillings done..."

"No. No. I'll call you." 

"Oh, great!!" By now, both Receptionist and Bill Man were looking a little bit scared--I'll just interject here that Angry Meg is one thing, and Anxious Meg is another, but Angry Anxious Meg is a sight to behold. Guess which one was starting to shine through?

Bill Man gave me a photocopy of my Care Plan, and I gave a not-so-friendly smile to the room at large before exiting to the lobby and saying, maybe a little too loudly to be considered polite, "Holy. Shit."

When I got home, I immediately called (with tail between legs) my former dental office and set up an appointment with the amazing and awesome Dr. Lee. I never doubted her awesomeness, I just had a hard time with scheduling over there. But I've learned my lesson, and I told her that this morning (she was incredibly gracious and happy to have me back). 

The bottom line? I need two fillings. Not the twelve Dr. Grace listed on my Care Plan. Dr. Lee never once uttered the words "deep cleaning" or "antibiotics" and she even agreed the mouth guard idea was excessive. She pointed out two spots of decay that have developed on a couple of molars and said, "I don't even need to numb you--these are nowhere near the root, I just need to sandblast a tiny bit and put some filler in."

So I've been leaving reviews for Dental Haven (Dental Hell?) on Google, Facebook, and Yelp, and I reported my experience to the Better Business Bureau. Anyone who asks will hear about this experience. I have reason to believe my one-star review on their Facebook page will be deleted, as they only have five-star reviews up. 

I'm not really a vindictive person, but it really twists my knickers when people try to take advantage of me--and to know (via Google and Yelp reviews by other people) that they've done it many times, usually to first-time patients. There are people out there who won't question someone with a PhD., and it makes me sad to think that others have blindly handed over their hard-earned money, maybe even others like me, who are trying to save to buy a home. Or worse, people for whom money is tight. What Dr. Grace and her employees are doing is dishonest and unethical. I believe that others have the right to know what is going on there. 

Pressure

Until recently, when I read a little bit about blood pressure in "The Brick" for my CPT studies, I never really understood what the numbers meant or what they should be. It's a bit embarrassing to admit this, because I spent a good few years in my late 20's and early 3's battling high blood pressure...taking it on the doctor's word that I needed beta-blockers.

Oh, I'm sure I did, but it also proves that in those years, I had my head in the sand when it came to my health.

Things have changed. Now I understand that the systolic (top) number measures the pressure in the arteries as the heart contracts, and should be at or under 120 (generally should be under, but 120 is acceptable). The diastolic (bottom) number measures the pressure in the arteries between contractions, when the heart is "at rest" for a small moment. It should be under 80.

With a history being pre-hypertensive and Stage 1 hypertensive, I always approach the blood pressure cuff at any doctor's office with some wariness. While my weight loss took care of a lot of my blood pressure issues, the fact remains that I deal with a certain amount of anxiety, and that can cause the pressure to elevate. Every time I visit a doctor's office, I worry, just a little bit, that my pressure will be up--which, of course, causes some stress and can cause my numbers to elevate. Funny how that works. Most nurses acknowledge this and so, since my numbers have been mostly really good the last few years, we don't worry bout it, and I haven't been on beta-blockers since 2010.

Yesterday, I had to visit the doctor for a reaction I'm having on my neck--a small cut got infected. It's not serious, just annoying and itchy. Last time it happened, I took an antibiotic for five days and everything healed up well. This time, as soon as I noticed it starting, I headed off to the doctor to get more antibiotics. But of course, before I can do that, my vitals must be taken.

I don't worry about the scale much these days. My pulse reading was right where it should be, according to the trends I see on my FitBit. But when the nurse strapped that cuff on my arm, I felt a moment of worry, and I forced myself to take a deep breath.

The worry was all in vain. The nurse looked at the numbers and smiled. "Oh, very good."

"What are my numbers?"

"One-twenty over seventy."

Well, then, not bad at all.

I'm oddly proud to have such a good reading. I have worked so hard to improve my health and to have it show like that is amazing.

Self Care

The last six weeks or so, it's been building up, so slowly that I could almost convince myself that I was actually okay, that nothing could really be wrong with me.

I have a history of anxiety. It starts small. I worry a little here, worry a little there. When it starts to snowball, sometimes I don't notice at first, or, again, I write it off. "Oh, it's my hormones acting up. I'll be fine in a few days!" Or, "Haha, it's a full moon! That's why I'm so grouchy for no reason."

Then suddenly, it's not small. It's an elephant, stepping on my head and leaving me feeling exhausted, grumpy, and like I can't do anything right--even as I do things right. It starts with "Oh, I hope my boss likes what she sees when she observes me!" and morphs, without any sort of rationality, into, "If I'm not at work at 9:00 everyday, nothing will get done and I will lose my job." This is not true. Contractually, I'm obligated to be at work 15 minutes before my classes start. Choir starts at 11:05 (11:35 on Wednesdays). I'm there most days at 9:00 because I like having prep time to go through my email, make copies, write the agenda on the board, and do some score study and other relevant lesson planning. I enjoy being in my office and hearing the marching band next door. I will not get fired if I skip that pleasure in favor of getting something else done. But that's not always how my brain works.

Last Friday, I had a rather late start, which was then compounded by an oil change appointment for my car. The car was technically ready at the agreed-upon time of 9:00, but they took it over to give it a quick wash before giving it back to me. I waited an additional 15 minutes, which under normal circumstances would have been slightly annoying because hey, you said 9:00 and I've got to stuff to do...but last week, I started getting nervous almost to the point of being hyperactive because I was going to be "way late" for work. It's moments like that where I start to think about talking to the doctor.

When I lived in Antioch, my anxiety was at its absolute worst--I guess it was in 2007 that I called an advice nurse at Kaiser, hardly able to speak, I was crying so hard at the thought of going to work--and heard a kind, calm voice tell me, "You're having a panic attack." That might sound scary to some people, but for me, it was a revelation. Oh, my God, there is a legitimate reason I can't control the crying? And someone can help me? The nurse booked me in to see my doctor that morning. I called in sick. By the end of the day, I had a prescription for a generic form of Xanax.

I took the meds for a couple of years, eventually switching to having a medication I didn't have to take daily, but could take as needed. It worked, but in 2010, I lost my job, and with it, my health coverage. But in that time, I started working out with great regularity. I found that I could keep myself pretty even-keeled through nutrition and regular workouts, with occasional lapses that weren't nearly as bad as anything I experienced in Antioch.

It's pretty obvious, if you regularly read this blog, or are my friend, that I love my current job. The Large Suburban High School is a fantastic place to work, and I feel like I'm finally coming into my own as a teacher. I know there is a lot to learn yet, but I am comfortable and happy there. That said, this is the year I have to prove I'm worth their investment. My boss has given me no reason to think she dislikes what I'm doing in the classroom, but you have to understand that I have a little bit of observation-related PTSD from a couple of more recent bosses I've had. Add to that a life-long tendency to worry and imagine the worst possible outcome (I'm not a pessimist, I simply worry that things will go awry more than I should), and you've got a build-up of stress.

The last six weeks have been the hardest. I had my Come Fly With Me concert to prepare for and pull off, my first half marathon to run, observation lessons to prepare for. Life has been busy and fulfilling, but it's left less time for quiet than I might like. It's led to those moments where I nearly panic at the thought of getting to work at 9:30 instead of 9:00 because I was having my car serviced. I assure you, no one at that school cares if I arrive later than usual because of an oil change, as long as I'm there to teach my classes, and that I teach my classes well. But anxiety isn't rational, is it?

And so it goes. I put "talk to the doctor" on my weekly goal list, but it gets pushed aside in favor of work-related things. Then I wake up on a Friday morning with pink eye (today) and all hell breaks loose.

Having had pink eye before, I knew to immediately call Kaiser and talk to an advice nurse. The nurse got me an appointment at the Kaiser near my school (not my normal facility, because getting from there to school in time would not have worked). Only, I messed up. It wasn't the facility near my school, but the other one, slightly further away. I showed up at the wrong facility 10 minutes before my appointment time, only to find I would miss that time completely. I stood in the lobby, where a very kind receptionist told me how I could get there, shaking my head, with tears rolling down my face. "I'm going to miss my appointment. I've got pink eye," I said, hastily turning around and rushing out of there. I was humiliated. Who stands there in the lobby of a health care center, in tears over a missed appointment?

I got in my car, only to find that I had managed to break the clip-on sunglasses that go with my glasses, leaving me with two options: I could drive with my glasses but no sun protection, or I could wear my non-prescription sunglasses (normally worn with my contact lenses). I can drive somewhat comfortably without my glasses or lenses, so long as I'm not trying to read street signs, so I chose the sunglasses.

But first, I had to sit in my car and cry for a few minutes. I bit down on a finger and shouted at myself to calm down. It didn't help. I just sat there and cried, knowing there was no rational reason for me to cry over anything, but inconsolable nonetheless. Not knowing what else to do, I drove to school and started my day, somewhat messy and disheveled, but determined to do my job, not let my kids down.

My classes went well. I have great kids, and I love teaching them. So I got through the next several hours with minimal stress.

After school, I drove to my local Kaiser, thinking I'd pop into Urgent Care. Urgent Care is listed on the web site, so I figured I might have a bit of a wait, but it would be worth it to get my eye looked at, a prescription for eye drops, and on my way to a relaxing weekend. Only...there's no Urgent Care after all. At any Kaiser facility. I could swear there used to be. I stood in Member Services, tears threatening, and told the nice lady there, "The web site is misleading, then." She looked a little alarmed at my reaction--I suppose it's not every day you tell a reasonable-looking woman that she can try Adult Medicine upstairs and get met with angry tears. Believe me, I was alarmed, too.

For now, it's all's well that ends well. I spoke to a doctor on the phone, and tomorrow morning there's a prescription waiting for me to pick up at the Roseville Kaiser--a 12-15 mile drive for meds, but worth it to oust the pink eye (which is highly contagious). I feel calm now, but looking back at the day I had, I'm realizing it's time to practice a little self care. I'm going to make an appointment to see my doctor as soon as possible. I don't necessarily want meds, just options for dealing with the stress I build up--and it really is all about me in this case. No one is putting crazy expectations on me; I'm doing that to myself just fine.

Maybe the best solution is really just insisting that I take care of myself. I'm starting this weekend, by doing something I've never done in three years singing with Sac Choral: I'm sitting out a concert. I hate it, but I just cannot bear the thought of driving to Sacramento and back in the morning for rehearsal, then again in the evening for a concert. With the pink eye, and my recent tendency to get screaming-mad (literally) when I drive, I know it's in my best interest to stay home tomorrow. It took me a good 15 minutes to get the courage to send an email to my section leader today. The familiar thoughts roll in: I'm letting everyone down. I'm supposed to be there. One corner of my brain plays this broken record over and over, while the logical side thinks, "No one expects you to completely wear yourself out for a group you sing with for fun."

And I must ensure that I make time for running during the week. I've been getting my Sunday runs, but not my weekday runs, and this needs to come back. The simple truth is that spending that time on myself makes me healthier--physically and mentally.

I'm fortunate enough to have some self-awareness, to know that things are starting to boil over and that it's time for me to seek out some help. I'm also fortunate enough to know that half of the "cure" (if you can call it that) is simply forcing myself to take care of myself. A little less of that Do Everything mentality will go a long way.

Overdoing It

I woke up on Sunday and promptly started sneezing. "Hay fever," I thought, before popping a Claritin and setting out for my six-mile run. These days, not even constant sneezing can keep me from my Sunday run. I simply tied a rag around my waist pouch (used to carry a house key and my phone) and breathed through my mouth.

As the day wore on, the allergies didn't let up, and in the couple of days since then, my head has felt stuffed with cotton, I've been a fountain of mucous, and I've also been stuck with a raging case of The Crankies. Just ask my students, used to a good-natured, humorous teacher, who yesterday snapped, "Look, I don't even want to be here. I want to be at home, in bed, with the covers over my head," and who today snapped, "Look, I know you're determined to hate this new song but we're doing it in May so get learning it."

Every week I print out a To Do List of things I want or need to accomplish that week. Some things are non-negotiable, like paying rent at my storage unit, a meeting at work, etc. Others can slide from this week's list onto next week's, like "working on the ongoing choral library clean-up" and other tasks along those lines. I list them more or less in order of priority, and I feel a lot of satisfaction as I tick them off my list. While it's rare I actually complete a whole list in a week, it gives me something to strive for. And this week, I have a pretty full list.

With our choir tour coming, and other craziness as the end of the school year approaches, there are more and more things that simply need to be accomplished, and this week, I find it hard to focus. My body is reminding me to rest for a few days, to allow it to get better, but my brain is screeching at me to GET STUFF DONE!! With as busy as my schedule is--the high school, the private lessons, SCSO, my regular workouts--I'm pretty set in the times I need to be out and the times I can be at home.

Yesterday, I had a few hours between school and SCSO to come home and relax. I read for a bit, dozed for a bit. Finally, after dinner, I got dressed and put my contacts back in...only to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and think, "I have no business driving a car."

I called my section rep to let her know I wouldn't be at rehearsal. As foggy as I felt, a 45-minute drive and two-and-a-half hours of singing just wouldn't be good for me. Then there's the drive back home. She was very understanding, as I rarely miss rehearsal, and I know my voice sounded terrible.

But here's how I roll--I felt guilty. I'm supposed to go to choir. I have to justify to myself staying home from an activity I pay to do, when the reality is I have no business being out and about when I feel this crummy. And take a sick day at work? You must be joking. I'm not contagious, and there's stuff needing doing. So I tough it out, and feel guilty when things fall by the wayside a little bit.

As I said to Mom this afternoon, "I really need to give myself permission to slow down a little." She gave me that timeless Mom Look and said, "Yes, you do."

That's easier said than done. I take my responsibilities very seriously, and I enjoy what I do. It's hard to feel like I'm letting myself and others down. Let's not even start on how I feel about missing a run this morning. But I am learning that in order to do my job well, sometimes I have to step back from it and let my body have a moment to rest when it's telling me, "Lady, slow down for a minute." Which is what it's telling me now, as "hay fever" seems to be moving more towards, "You've got a cold!"

So I soldier on, but I'm giving myself time to rest as I can grab it. Instead of staying at work this afternoon, I came home for some pajama time before my private lessons start. I'll go to the gym tomorrow, but do light duty. I'm making myself go to bed earlier, relax with a book a little more, drink a lot of water. I know, in another day or two, I'll be back to normal.

Songs About Hay Fever

Yesterday, my yearly bout with hay fever hit me like a semi truck. Let it be known that I still managed a six-mile run (my longest ever!) because I breathe through my mouth and am able to tie a hankie to my clothes for the duration.

But otherwise, I feel like crap, and if I sneeze one more time, I might cry. Actually, sneezing is making me cry. My eyes won't stop watering. 

So, of course, I have to have a sense of humor about it. Here's some new lyrics I've come up with.

To the tune of "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer":

Meggie, the red-nosed sneezer,
Had a very snotty nose.
And if you ever saw it,
You would think it really gross.

All of the other people
Used to stare and back away
They didn't want poor Meggie
To go sneezing in their face!


And then, my old standby, to the tune of "Deck the Halls."

Deck your ears with sounds of wheezin'
Fa la la la la, la la la la!
'Tis the season to be sneezin'! 
Fa la la la la, la la la la!

Don we now our comfy clothing
Fa la la, la la la, la la la!
Blow our nose, allergies loathing
Fa la la la la, la laaa laaaaa laaaaaa!


I actually stayed home from choir tonight. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, I was not in a mood to teach today, my throat hurts (all the sneezing and post-nasal drip), and I'm bloody tired.

I just hope it doesn't turn into a sinus infection. No time for that.

Days of Thankfulness, Day 18

In July, a small bump started developing on my thumb. I thought it was odd, but didn't really worry too much about it. Life was busy and full of developments--the new job, especially. Even when the bump turned into a bleeding...thing...I didn't really worry, so much as sigh at the inconvenience every time I put a new bandage on it, or every time my thoughtless picking at it (yes, gross) made it bleed again.

By the end of August, it was pretty obvious that whatever it was, the growth on my thumb was something that needed to be addressed. I can't play piano very well with a large wad of cotton on my thumb (my choir students will happily attest to this) and the massive bleeding every time I changed the bandage had me getting a little worried.

Still, going to the doctor is scary. What if it's not a wart or benign growth?

Long story (already blogged) short, it wasn't serious. It was a fairly normal growth, easily removed (that is, if anyone considers letting a doctor give them a 2nd degree burn "easy") and the lab tests came back showing it was, indeed, just a weird overreaction by my immune system, not something more sinister. I am thankful for that.

Indeed, I am thankful for my health overall. Meg five years ago was a hot mess of barely-controlled anxiety, high blood pressure, and worrying obesity. Meg now has normal blood pressure, a healthy weight, and coping mechanisms for the anxiety, when it happens (it will always happen, I know this, I'm okay with it, I deal). I am on one prescription medication--birth control--because I choose to be on it for many reasons.

But the key here is, I'm healthy. And I'm thankful for that. And while it's not a perfect system, and many people oppose it, I'm thankful for the Affordable Care Act, and the fact that as of January 1st, I will have health care again. Once my job goes over 50% (and it will, I'm determined to make it so), I will have healthcare through the district. But until then, having a safety net means a lot to me, after over three years without it. Thank goodness for Planned Parenthood being there for me, helping me monitor my blood pressure and other health needs (not just gynecological).

As for the growth, jokingly referred to as Bob the Blob, he is long gone. All that remains is a faint scar, but happily, I haven't needed a bandage in a couple of months now. 

Bob Be Gone!!

In the end, it was a clean break-up.

(Warning--there are pics at the end of this post, and they're not over-the-top horrible, and they're not from today, but if you don't like weird growths and a little bit of blood, well, don't look.)

The doctor walked into the exam room, asked what was going on, and about three sentences into my explanation, said, "Oh, it's a granulosis." I hadn't even take the bandage off yet. When I did, she nodded and said, "Yep. Granulosis." Even the nurse was nodding and saying, "That's what I thought!"

These people are gooood.

So, two minutes after she walked into the room, the doctor was preparing to jab me with a couple of needles full of local (ow!!). Once those started doing their thing, my thumb swelled up to about twice its normal size. As we chatted, she nonchalantly razored Bob right off of me. I looked down for a second and when I looked up again, she was handing the red, bulbous part of my granulosis to the nurse. That was a bit disconcerting, but I wasn't too heartbroken, trust.

Next, the doctor cauterized the wound, which, yes, smelled horrid and isn't something I was keen on watching. Once finished, she left me in the nurse's capable hands for bandaging. She gave me some instructions and off I went, to pay for my small procedure, and then head off to the gym.

Once at the gym, I found a bit of blood seeping out from under the bandage (a simple band-aid). I carefully put my gym clothes on, scooped my hair into a messy ponytail (do you know how hard it is to gather your hair into a ponytail with a thumb that can't feel anything?), and headed out to a bike. I hate missing a good workout, but I wasn't about to do anything that might injure my thumb while it was still numb, so no weights, no floor exercises, etc. Just the bike.

After thirty minutes, I noticed it was still seeping blood, so as I left the gym, I called the doctor's office. They suggested I come back just to check, because they would be closing for the weekend in a couple of hours. I felt better doing this, so back I went, where the doctor did some "scraping" (just the thought makes me feel a little ill) and more cauterizing. This time I saw a little of that action--a tiny flame hitting my skin, people. I managed to not throw up, opting instead to mutter, "Oh, weird..." as the doctor and nurse chuckled. You haven't lived 'til you've willingly sat and watched someone give you a second-degree burn.

This time, there was less blood. The nurse gave me a pressure bandage, which I'm to keep on until tomorrow morning. No getting it wet, so when I showered tonight, I wrapped my thumb in a plastic baggie, and didn't take my time washing. Now I'm happily sitting around in my pajamas, with two cups of tea and a semi-unhealthy dinner in my stomach. The numbness is wearing off and my thumb is tingling. I can tell that later, there will be some pain--nothing earth-shattering, as the burn is only a tiny little thing across the crater where Bob used to perch, but enough to warrant some before-bed Ibuprofen.

Now I give it a few days to heal. I've got a burn ointment to start using tomorrow. I'll keep it very clean and watch like a hawk for any sign that infection might be on the way. Hopefully everything will progress smoothly, and my benign, not-serious granulosis will not come back (that's why she burned all the little blood vessels around it, to keep it from just re-growing...gah, when did my life become science fiction?).

I'm just glad the large, unsightly blob is gone. It was impossible to do simple things like wash my hair with that thing--my hair would get caught in it and that wasn't so comfortable. Keeping it wrapped meant feeling awkward when playing the piano, and letting the left thumb hang down off the keyboard when typing (which I'm still doing because it hurts tonight). The crazy bleeding, the discomfort...I'm so glad that I can start moving on from all that.

So...goodbye Bob. I don't miss you. I celebrated our break-up with some ice cream tonight, and I hope you are rotting peacefully in that bio-waste can in the doctor's office. Don't come back.

No more crazy bleeding!!

A couple of days ago--you can see where I now have
a small crater. Lovely. It'll heal, though.

Bob didn't need a tremendous amount of encouragement
to go.

Yep. Impressive.

Bob-Be-Gone

Hallelujah, praise the Band-Aids. Tomorrow I'm finally getting in to see a dermatologist (they apparently stay busy with Botox and acne and all kinds of other stuff, so I've had to wait a couple weeks since setting my appointment) to get Bob the Blob taken care of. By "taken care of," I mean, "hopefully removed." He has only gotten bigger, badder, and more disgusting...not to mention more painful. He is actually trying to leave my thumb on his own. Every time I remove a bandage (I change it 3 or so times a day), he separates a little more, bleeds like a stuck pig, and hurts a little more.

So yes. He's ready to go, and I'm way beyond ready to let him.

If the dermatologist tries to tell me can't do anything about Bob, the loud wailing you will hear across the country will be me. Do you know how difficult it is to play the piano--every day, for your JOB--with a bandage and gauze making your thumb twice its normal size? I'm fortunate to have very understanding choir students who just laugh with me every time there's a *clunk* and "Oops!" from the piano.

A few days ago, a colleague asked why my thumb was wrapped up. I explained the short story version of things ("I have this weird...thing...on my thumb that is apparently an overreaction by my immune system to something that irritated it a couple of months ago. It bleeds if I so much as look at it funny and it's rather disgusting, so I keep it wrapped.") and told her I'd named it Bob. As you'd expect, this resulted in a bemused smile. So, I helped her get to know Meg the Quirky a little bit better.

"I figure...if I have to walk around dealing with this nasty thing on my thumb, I may as well have a sense of humor about it, right?"

A grin spread across her face. "Absolutely!"

That's how I have to live.

Anyway, stay tuned. I'm sure there's more Bob stories tomorrow, after I see the doctor. Hopefully the story of our sordid break-up, and his subsequent moving out of my life and into the bio-waste bins.

I can't wait.

Anxiety

I don't talk about it a lot, but I don't hide the fact that I suffer from anxiety on occasion, either. I don't believe in staying quiet. Part of what has helped me get better and learn coping skills has been talking about it, knowing that others in the world have the same challenges.

When I look back at College Meg, I often wonder how I functioned sometimes. When things got really stressful, I got hysterical. The crying jags, the feeling of everything being impossible. My dad would tell me, "There's no crying in baseball!" and I'd bravely try to push through...but sometimes, it was just too much. It wasn't until 2007, when I was having a really rough time of it in Antioch, that I talked to my doctor and realized that I had been dealing with anxiety for several years. The catalyst was when I woke up one morning, completely stressed about everything that was going on at work, feeling that if I went to work that day, I might not make it through the day without completely losing control of my emotions. I called an advice nurse, who told me, "You sound like you're having a panic attack. Let me get you in to see your doctor."

Me? Panic attacks? What?

I suppose anxiety manifests itself in different ways for different people. For me, it's a feeling of dread, nervous energy and a strong belief that I simply cannot do what needs to be done. My heart rate accelerates and I have to focus on taking deep breaths to stay calm. After my doctor visit in 2007, I got Xanax to take on an as-needed basis, and that helped stave off the panic attacks.

What has really helped me in the long run (and I'm not saying this would help everyone, but it has worked a lot for me, personally) has been getting into better physical shape. Not just losing the weight, but actually being able to get up and move. In the past couple of years, as I've lost my medical coverage and had to go a lot of things on my own, I've noticed that I can rein myself in from having an all-out panic attack by exercising. When Mom landed in the emergency room this past August with chest pains, I sat in my dining room feeling the shortness of breath and pounding heart coming...but I got up and went to the gym and before long, I wasn't having the symptoms anymore.

I am still the same hyper, emotional Meg I've always been--maybe somewhat reactionary sometimes, even--but since I've achieved a higher fitness level, I'm ever-so-slightly more Zen in how I react to life as it comes at me. Maybe all this running makes me too tired to be bothered getting stressed. Whatever it is, it's a great thing, but I'm always, always aware that being prone to anxiety is just part of who I am and that I have to be ready for it.

Yesterday, I woke up at 3:30 in the morning, after only three or so hours of sleep. I didn't sleep well again before my alarm went off at 6:30 and spent most of the early morning feeling listless and unable to focus on my normal daily tasks. As I drove to the gym to go to yoga class, I felt like crying--I have no idea what I was so upset about, to be honest--and my heart rate started getting faster. I took a few deep breaths, and realized I was near to having a panic attack. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, I don't really know, but I was bothered and out of sorts about it.

Yoga class helped, as did running, to a point. I had a rough day, running-wise. The fatigue and the state of near-panic I was still in made breathing difficult and I started cramping. When my shoelace came untied at the twenty-minute mark, I threw my hands up and said, "That's it." Then I guilted and grumped the whole two miles home, wondering how I'd explain to M. the Reasonable that I hadn't met my goal of thirty minutes.

Today, I'm better. I don't feel like crying, and my breath and my heart rate are normal. I ran on the treadmill to warm up before my appointment, and felt really good. While working with M., I told him about yesterday's bad run. To my relief, he just smiled at me and said, "There will be bad days. Not every day can be a good day." He went on to tell me that he doesn't worry about me because whenever I have a bad day, I go out the next day and push harder to have a great day. I don't have strings of bad days in a row (excepting, of course, the several days of back pain that kept me from running in December) and I don't make excuses.

"You'll go out there today and kick butt."

"I will certainly do my best. I don't quit."

I went on to explain to him that part of the problem yesterday was really just my anxiety. And here's the thing about telling people about anxiety: some people just don't get it. If you haven't had a panic attack, or held one at bay by the sheer force of your stubbornness, it's hard to know exactly what it's like. It's not something that can be fixed with a "Just calm down!" or a hug. But as I told M. what I was going through yesterday, he simply nodded, and then he amazed me by saying, "I suffer from anxiety, too."

He gets it, and that makes all the difference. Yesterday was a rough day--not a day I was going to go out there and kick butt while running. I tried--for myself, for my health--and trying, getting that physical activity, helped me in a lot of ways. I was able to calm down a little. I slept like a log last night. And any worry I had about M.'s reaction to my having a bad run (he did say, "Twenty minutes is actually not bad, you know.") due to anxiety was stamped out by his simple, I've-been-there-too understanding. And for that, I'm so very grateful.

It reminds me that I'm not the only one on this big revolving planet who deals with this stuff. None of us are ever really alone.

A Visit To Planned Parenthood

Editor's note: This blog is a little more TMI than my usual fare, but I've left out the goriest details.

When  my job ended in May 2010, so, of course, did my medical benefits. I am among the many people in this country who cannot afford health insurance. I am also among the many who are ineligible for Medi-Cal, because my income is "too large" (because living off of $1,800 a month is so easy when you're single).

For a while now, I've been wanting to make an appointment at Planned Parenthood for my annual physical and to talk about options for getting on the pill. The pill regulates my periods and keeps the monthly acne breakouts at bay, and I miss being on it. I finally got proactive this week and called to make an appointment.

I arrived at the Roseville Planned Parenthood yesterday, about half an hour before my appointment was scheduled. I had no idea what to expect--would they be brusque and all-business? After all, Planned Parenthood is a busy place. Would they help me with the forms I had to fill out?

From the moment I walked in, the ladies at the registration desk were all smiles and friendliness. I was given a medical history form and a couple of forms that asked about my ability to pay, my current financial and living situation, and, of course, questions about my sexual history and if there is any current abuse happening in my life. After last year's emergency room adventure, I was not expecting to be eligible for any kind of assistance, but I filled out the forms anyway, just in case.

Right at the time of my appointment, I was called back by a nurse, who did the standard weighing, blood pressure taking, and questions about medical history. She was very friendly, and even though she seemed to be bustling around an busy, she was happy to talk to me and make me feel at ease.

Imagine my total surprise when she handed me a small plastic card and told me that I am eligible for state assistance that covers the cost of my pap smear and some of my birth control! Having been denied Medi-Cal, and stuck with paying off that $2,500 hospital bill from last year, I could have cried when I learned that all they were asking from me yesterday was a donation, if I could afford it. There was never any pressure to give.

Next came the nerve-wracking part involving taking all of my clothes off and putting on a paper gown and lap drape. I've yet to meet any woman who feels totally comfortable at an appointment with the gynecologist! I waited a few minutes and before long, the doctor knocked on the door and came in.

We started with the standard health questions, and for my reasons for being there that day, my history with the pill, etc. At first I thought she might be a bit brusque but within five minutes, the doctor turned away from the computer, smiled at me, and proved to be as nice and friendly as everyone else I'd dealt with so far. I was immediately more at ease.

The good news is that everything looks and feels healthy and of course, I bragged to her about my weight loss and fitness victories in the last two years, which she agreed must be a huge part of my overall health and freedom from major anxiety. Finally, I was getting dressed again and wondering what where I would have to go to get my pills.

As soon as I stepped outside, my question was answered. The nurse was back, with a small paper bag. I walked out with a three month supply and thorough instructions about when to start and how to use it. After settling my account (I made a donation because I had set aside some money in anticipation of having to pay for everything already and I fully believe in Planned Parenthood's mission to promote women's health and provide essential services) I left the office, amazed at how smoothly everything had run--I never had any major complaints about Kaiser, but my experiences there were never so easy as this one, either. Every person I encountered in Planned Parenthood was friendly--and this is so important for putting someone at ease. Any medical appointment comes with a little bit of anxiety and stress, but especially one that involves being naked. It's an extremely vulnerable position to be in, and everyone there seemed well-trained in making the whole deal less awkward.

I follow Planned Parenthood on Facebook and Twitter--in the last several months, some major attacks against this organization have been launched, and it breaks my heart to think that Planned Parenthood has to spend so much time and energy on fighting for their organization. It takes away from their most important mission--to promote healthy women and families. It's not about abortion, it's not even about birth control. It's about protecting people from health problems ranging from STIs to cancer. It's about helping women who are not in a position to help themselves--whether they are living in deep poverty, or are in an abusive situation, or, like me, between jobs and just need some help keeping up with their health.

Will I continue to support Planned Parenthood? Absolutely.

Back To The Gym

I went to the gym this morning. The last time I worked out was last Friday, and I've been missing the endorphin rush I get.

Of course, I'm not ready to run or do anything really hard yet, so I walked on one of the treadmills. I set the speed at 3.5 miles per hour and the incline at 6.0. I made it just shy of a mile-and-a-half when my body told me, "Okay, it's time to stop."

I chatted with a lady I'm friendly with who has also worked with Gershom. She happens to be a nurse and she told me that the walking is great, but definitely not to push it until my body is back to normal. After my time on the treadmill, I was sweating and breathing as though I'd just run a few miles, so I know that I was right to stop when I did.

I feel great for having worked out, though. The endorphins help me feel better, and make my body heal. I've only had to use my inhaler a couple of times today, and will probably use it before bed tonight just to make sure everything is clear.

I aim to keep walking on the treadmill, and adding some weights and such until my body is back to normal and I can resume my usual butt-kicking workout regime. I won't even try running until I've finished my antibiotics (so Tuesday, perhaps). But I can do some other stuff to keep the blood flowing and the boredom from settling in.

Wow. I really have become a gymbo.

A New Day

I woke up on Tuesday morning at 6:30. After that, I got a grand total of about six hours of sleep before 11:00 last night, and had one traumatic trip to the Emergency Room in all that fun.

Needless to say, my state of mind when I wrote yesterday's blog post was exhausted.

Today, however, is a new day. After going to Walmart yesterday to pick up my prescriptions (a five-day program of azithromicin, an antibiotic and a couple of just-in-case inhalers of albuterol sulfate), I stopped at 7-Eleven and bought the largest size blue raspberry Slurpee I could. By this time, I had a massive headache, my eyes were still swollen from the various crying jags I'd had through the previous night and day, and I was feeling like something the cat dragged home.

I took some ibuprofen for the headache and sat down at the computer to read my emails and drink my Slurpee. Mom and Dad had received my email.

A sample of mine to them:

I'm going to try my very best to figure out something on my own before running to you guys for help, so I DON'T WANT YOU WORRYING ABOUT THIS!! I know you, and I hesitated to email you about any of this for a few days because I will feel terrible if this mars your enjoyment of your trip. Please, don't let it.

The bottom line is I'm fine, and I have the meds I need to get better. I can breathe. I was so scared--my chest was so clogged up I just couldn't get enough air in.

Dad's reply:

Sounds like you've got things under control; however, we will still worry about you.

I wasn't at all surprised when my cell phone rang a little after 5:00, with "DAD" across the screen. I reassured them that I'm fine, and I think they are satisfied that I'm going to be okay. They both said I absolutely did the right thing going to the hospital.

I had planned on making myself stay awake until 8:00 or so, but my headache and exhaustion pulled me into bed at 6:00. I crawled under the covers and was immediately joined by Millie and Harley. Millie got under the covers and curled up next to my stomach. Harley plopped down on the pillow next to my face (I was lying on my side). Both had low, gentle rumbles going on and the whole thing was marvelous. You'll never convince me that animals don't have some sort of intuition when it comes to their people. My cats seemed to know I just needed quiet cuddles.

I slept for two hours, waking up just before 8:00. I thought about America's Next Top Model and thought I'd like to watch it, so I got up. I was up for another few hours, and even though I knew I'd certainly get yelled at if anyone knew, I scooped the litter boxes (they smelled bad!) and vacuumed a couple of rooms that had been vomited in (all four cats vomited yesterday, so no Tuna Time last night!). At 11:00, I fell back into bed and there I stayed until close to 8:00 this morning.

I've had today's dose of antibiotic and I took a couple puffs of the inhaler, as I could feel my congestion coming back a little bit. I must say that after such a good night's sleep I feel a lot better. Still, my biggest plan for today is to have a mini-spa here at home. I'm going to do my favorite face mask, shave my legs (it's been a few days) and just pamper myself a little bit before settling on the couch this afternoon with my book and/or a movie.

One more time, I have to shout out to my friends for being so awesome and caring; in particular Maayan, who called from New York while I was sitting in Walmart waiting for my prescriptions (I walked around the store once and then collapsed on a bench in front of the pharmacy in total exhaustion). And Meghan, the RN, who is already offering advice about paying and admonishing me for going to the ER alone. Mustn't forget Dianne from Chorale, who told me I should have called her, as she would have come with me. I'm blessed with wonderful friends. Don't think I don't know that!

So I find myself feeling much better today, and yes, I'm still able to breathe! I will need a few days before I'm back to my gym rat self (Gershom is going to give me terrible stink-eye, I just know it), but I'm well on the road to recovery now and I'm thankful for my overall good health.

A Scared Little Girl With A Rubber Duck

I had started to feel so much better yesterday afternoon and evening. I was alternating between sitting at the computer and sitting on my ottoman, leaning towards my TV, watching CNN's live coverage of the rescue of the Chilean miners. When the first man came up, I cried and said, "Muy bien, Chile. Muy bien."

I stayed up a little late. The night before I had taken NyQuil but still slept poorly, waking often because it seemed that when lying down, whatever I had in my chest seemed to shift, making breathing more difficult than it already was. So last night I set some pillows up on the couch and propped myself up a little, wrapped in my comforter--and immediately started feeling that suffocating feeling of everything shifting in my chest. I darted up from the sofa, hoping that being upright again would help. It did, but my heart was pounding and my breathing had become gasping and painful. I thought I might be having a panic attack along with whatever ailed me. I calmed myself down a little and started calling area urgent care clinics. All were closed. It was nearing two in the morning, so one option was left: the emergency room.

The last time I visited an emergency room was in 1981, when the shopping cart I was riding in tipped over while Aaron ran with it. I had a broken leg, a hospital stay, and surgery. Mom still can't talk about it. Obviously, I don't remember much about that ordeal, so last night was pretty new and very, very scary.

As I pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, I thought of what else I might need. It was cool outside, so I grabbed a sweater. I grabbed my book, knowing that I might have to wait a while. And as I passed the kitchen, I grabbed a small rubber duck that has been sitting on my computer hutch for a few days. It's an inside joke I have with some friends--his name is Mr. Swimmy and it's all very silly and crazy. But as I prepared to go to the hospital, alone, scared, with my parents half a world away, I impulsively grabbed Mr. Swimmy and shoved him in my purse.

I arrived at the hospital a little after 2:00. I went to the window and gasped out my name and address to the lady there. I only sat in the waiting room for about 15 minutes before being called back by the first of many nurses. He took my information and vitals, said (kind of snidely) "Oh, you're not going to like getting your bill, then" when I mentioned that I'm recently laid off and uninsured (thanks a lot, dude, let's ADD to my stress, shall we?). I had a low-grade fever and my blood pressure was up a little from stress.

He handed me a cup and said, "We'll need a urine sample," then guided me over to the part of the ER where you have to scan a badge to get in. He showed me to the bathroom and pointed out the bed I'd be occupying just across the hallway. I did my thing and was then instructed to take my shirt and bra off and put the gown on. I left my jeans and shoes on.

Another nurse came in and put one of those pulse monitors on my right index finger. She took my blood pressure a second time. A doctor came in and started rapidly firing questions, theories and "I want to's" at me. They had a cup of my urine. He wanted to take some blood, get a chest x-ray, and he started going on about some other things. I said, "Um. I'm uninsured. I lost my job this year. I'm...kind of worried about how much this is going to cost, and I'm getting a little scared."

He slowed down. He said, "I won't be so aggressive, then. I do need to do the blood test and the chest x-ray, though, to make sure your lungs are okay. I'm worried about blood clots, too, because you're a normally healthy young woman who suddenly couldn't breathe. Normally it's cold, then a cough, then difficulty breathing, over a period of days or even weeks."

I agreed with this--it came on so suddenly. The first nurse had said, "Sounds like bronchitis to me" but of course, it's not his job to diagnose.

A respiratory doctor came down from his department and started me on a mask that helped me breathe in Albuterol. It's a steroid, and almost immediately I could feel relief in my chest. I breathed as deeply as I could, and each breath came easier. The mucous that I thought I'd been fighting with Mucinex started to truly break up and go away.

I sat there for a long time. I had been hooked up to a heart monitor--the little things they stick to your chest and then clip wires to, like jump-starting a car battery. I also had a blood pressure cuff that took my BP every 30 minutes. Every once in a while the monitor that showed my heart rate would beep loudly and a red light would flash. No one came to check on me. I found out later that this happened when I moved my index finger monitor too much.

And in one hand, as I sat there, alone, I had Mr. Swimmy, hidden from anyone else's view.

At one point a new nurse came in and took some blood. I read my book and occasionally took Mr. Swimmy out to hold in my hand. I've never felt so alone. With Mom and Dad in Asia, my closest close friend in Oakland, my brother in Idaho...I have local friends but I also have this, "Oh, I don't want to bug them" mentality. I should have known better. Already one friend from Chorale has told me I should have called her, because she would have come to sit with me.

Finally, the Albuterol was finished, and it was time for my chest x-ray. The x-ray guy came and helped unhook me from the gadgets and wires.

After the x-ray, it was back to my bed. Within a few minutes the ER doctor was back. "Everything's clear," he said. "Your chest x-ray looks great, your blood work is clean. It's got to be asthmatic bronchitis." I was given two prescriptions (one for an inhaler to use if I need it, one for an antibiotic) and my discharge papers.

By 5:00 I was back in my car, heading home.

It took me an hour-and-a-half to settle down. One side effect of the Albuterol is a racing heart. Mine was going like I'd just run a few miles. I was exhausted, but also keyed up. I emailed my friend Summer, and sent a quick message to my friend Maayan. I started an email to Mom and Dad.

Then I trashed it.

Here's the thing. On the one hand, I'm a 32-year-old independent woman. I'm getting by with a little help from Mom and Dad in these lean times, but mostly I'm doing okay on my own. My rent is paid, my bills are paid. My car is paid off and running well.

On the other hand, right now, I feel like a scared little girl who takes a rubber duck to the emergency room in the middle of the night because she's scared, alone, and doesn't know quite what to do.

Now that I've slept a few hours (I desperately need more but I've got to get over to WalMart for the meds), I've emailed my parents. I tried to keep it simple and I even wrote, in all caps, "DO NOT WORRY ABOUT ME." I'm so afraid that they're going to spend the last week of their trip worried about how I'll pay for this, worried about me, worried, worried, worried. And that makes me feel guilty, and as though all I bring to them is expense and worry.

As I got in my car this morning to come home, I thought with a small laugh of what my dad said when he first saw me: "I'll go broke; she's beautiful."

There's hope. I've left a message with the hospital's financial advisor. I hope to find that I'm eligible for something--anything--that will assist me in covering the costs from this morning. Maybe there's a loophole that makes me eligible for MediCal. Maybe I'm eligible for the discounts the hospital offers those who need them. At the very least, I can get on a payment plan. I'm adamantly opposed to running to Mom and Dad for help, feeling that I need to do this. 

Anyway, this is rambling. I'm so tired. I need to get those prescriptions filled so I can get home and rest. I think, in lieu of napping this afternoon, I'll just go to bed really, really early and let my body sleep. I find it hard to sleep for long periods of time during the day. To cheer myself up, I'll buy a blue raspberry Slurpee on my outing. I think I deserve it.

Ha. Ha ha ha.

I love that I can be such a determined little optimist. Last night's post: "I hope to feel well enough to work out tomorrow."

Yeah, that would be NO. Even with a dose of NyQuil, I couldn't sleep very well last night. Every time I woke up I'd cough, feel miserable, and then lie back down to listen to the annoying whistling of air going through my throat.

Today I'm debating whether or not I should give myself one more day of sitting around drinking tea before going to a doctor, or bite the bullet and go to the urgent care center and spend over $100 to be told I need Mucinex (already have it) and lots of liquids.

Gah.

Right about now I wish I lived in England, where I could go to the clinic and get checked out and pay a whopping...NADA!

Mucous

I have too much mucous right now.

At some point last night, between, 7:00 and bedtime (early for a change, because I was feeling so punk), the post-nasal drip I've been experiencing from my allergies of late made a sudden, painful drop into my chest.

Lovely.

I can't cough--coughing requires getting a good gust of air, and taking deep breaths is physically painful at the moment. When I can, I force myself to cough, but I'm afraid all that force is going to make me throw up (it's happened before).

To add insult to injury, my phone line went down yesterday, taking my DSL Internet connection with it. I called AT&T and listened to that annoyingly cheerful automated voice long enough to set up a service appointment for today between 12:00 (noon) and 4:00 (afternoon). Then I sat down and made a bunch of cards for my Etsy shop while drinking tea and watching Harry Potter movies.

(On a side tangent, I finally finished Book 7 today, thus wrapping up my annual re-read of this awesome and amazing series.)

Then last night, the shit hit the fan (in the form of phlegm hitting my lungs) and I found myself gasping and uncomfortable.

So today, I gave myself a break. I skipped the gym and running, and the most strenuous thing I did all day was walk over to get my mail--and that left me breathing like I'd just run a couple of miles. I lolled on the couch, reading. I drank copious amounts of tea. I had a quick shower and settled back on the couch just before noon, eagerly awaiting the technician from AT&T.

Hours ticked by. You know how when you're anxiously waiting for something, time crawls? Yeah. The afternoon crept by like that old tortoise, while my patience and ability to be reasonable fled like the hare. Buh-bye, sanity. Zoom! There it goes.

By 4:00, I was hopping mad. I had figured I'd get this issue fixed up and then run to the grocery store for some Mucinex. I had grand plans to be parked on my couch again by early evening, happily feeling my chest clear up while glancing over at the computer every once in a while to see if any tell-tale red numbers cropped up on my Facebook page.

At 4:15, I got through to a human being at AT&T, who informed me that the service technicians were running behind today, and to expect them "within the hour."

By 5:15, I was on the phone to another human being, asking, politely, what the goddamned holdup was, and why I'm still sitting here, wearing a bra when I could be in my pajamas, napping on the sofa. With Mucinex, preferably.

The lady informed me that they were very behind (knew that!) and would hopefully be here by 7:00...and if they didn't make it, it would automatically roll over to tomorrow morning.

"Fine. Thanks." I ground out, hanging up. Tomorrow? Oh, hell no!

Finally, around 6:15, my cell phone rang. It was my friendly neighborhood technician, letting me know that he'd be around soon. I told him if he came to my door and I'm not at home, "Please don't leave! I'm sick and I need to run to the store for some medicine!" He agreed, and within 15 minutes, I'd sped through Marina Marketplace, bought some Mucinex, and arrived home. By 6:40, I'd swallowed some Mucinex and was leaning against the kitchen counter, gasping painful, whistling breaths of air through all the mucous and crap in my throat.

Around 7:00 I looked at my modem. There was no longer a flashing red light--just green lights all across. I picked up the phone--a dial tone! I immediately got online and caught up on everything I couldn't see on my miniscule cell phone (basically everything but my email inbox and Facebook homepage--I can load my blog on my phone but it takes ages and the screen is too small to get a decent view).

It's now a little after 9:00. I've had some NyQuil (research shows that NyQuil and Mucinex are okay together) and a long hot shower. I started the water running at its hottest, closed the bathroom door, and waited about five minutes before going in to a steam room. That helped a bit. I forced a few deep coughs in the shower, further loosening up some of the crud.

The NyQuil is kicking in, and in a few minutes I'll be tucked up in bed. I hope to feel well enough tomorrow to work out. I took the weekend off, as usual, and missed today, so I'm feeling quite lazy and lethargic. I also don't want to get yelled at for not "pushing through the pain" if Gershom should ask why he didn't see me today. I reserve the right to smack him if he tells me I should run when I can hardly walk to my mailbox without getting breathless.

There's still a lot of crap in my chest but I'm feeling like the meds, combined with all the tea and water I've been drinking (and peeing, good Lord, the peeing!) all day and a good night's sleep, will help a lot.

I have lots to blog about--Saturday in wine country, the homemade cranberry-raspberry sauce I made yesterday before the phlegm hit the fan (and ate all in one afternoon because it was SO. GOOD.), and other little bits and pieces. But all that will have to wait. My bed is calling.

Unsolicited Stomach Update

Well, the good news is that the severe cramping stopped on Saturday night. I woke up on Sunday morning feeling more myself, and even attempted about five feet of running before giving up (God, my body was so achy and tired) and just walking for a mile.

However, I'm not completely back to normal yet. I'm still a little gassy (sorry, TMI, I know) and I have moments of discomfort. But overall, I feel much better and today, I even went back to the gym.

On my way to the locker room I ran into none other than Gershom, and told him a little of my recent woes. Two other people he knows have had recent bouts of what he termed "food poisoning." He gave me his special "smartass trainer" smile and said, "It's your eggs." (He didn't know that I've been eating a lot of eggs lately).

"That's what my mom said!"

So general consensus among everyone (sans Ph.D.'s) is that the eggs were, somehow, to blame. Honestly, I couldn't tell ya. I'm just glad to get back into my workout routine (stuck with StairMaster and lower body RT today).

I'm also going back to the basics, diet-wise. I'm going to start journalling again, and really being extra-careful to keep HFCS and other bad stuff out of my kitchen and diet. I have gotten a wee bit lazy over the last couple of months, and that needs to stop so that I can stop maintaining my weight (a reasonably healthy 160) and lose another 20 pounds or so. Besides, I feel better when I'm eating very well and working out regularly (read: at least five days a week, but more like 6 or 7 if I count some leisurely swimming and the regular housecleaning).

In other news, Chorale starts back tonight, and I offered to bring baked goods. Our new director has mandated that our traditional five-minute break should, instead, be a fifteen-minute break, with cookies. I like her style. Of course, cookies aren't exactly what I should be eating, but I figure a few once a week won't hurt anything. I'm going to make brownies for tonight, as at our Summer Sing, some people had brought bars and brownies in addition to the cookies. Variety is good, right?

Salmoppendicitis, And A Pulled Muscle

I think that about covers my self-diagnosis for whatever it is that has been bothering me these last few days.

It started on Wednesday morning, when I threw up during my attempt at the New York City Ballet Workout DVD. I chalked it up at that time to working out too soon after having a smoothie that contained orange juice. I figured on Thursday, I'd wait longer.

Thursday morning found me feeling a bit rough still, though I thought saying I felt ill or sick would be overly dramatic. I figured one more day of non-strenuous activity and careful eating would do the trick. Indeed, I started to feel better.

On Friday morning I woke up quite late--I've been sleeping more than usual, too--and had my regular smoothie. Bad idea. Convinced that my body is rebelling against citric acid, I skipped lunch, had a Slurpee from 7-11 instead, and drove up to Mom and Dad's house, experiencing intermittent cramping in my upper abs--around my diaphragm.

(At one point in the afternoon, Mom and I mulled over the possibility that I pulled a muscle doing the NYC Ballet Workout...but I've since decided that's not the case. It's not that kind of pain.)

The cramps have continued since then with no rhyme or reason. I'll feel motly well and then BOOM! Owwwww. Last night I made the collossal error of looking up my symptoms on Web MD and walked away nearly hyperventilating about appendicitis and stomach cancer. Even worse than the thought of actually having an illness that might require surgery or even just a quick hospital visit was the knowledge that such a visit would put me into debt quite quickly because I no longer have health insurance.

Yay.

This, in turn, put me in a bad enough mood that I actually shouted, "FUCK [insert former evaluating administrator's name here]!!" I'm not one that likes to shout that stuff, for fear of inviting bad karma, but damn, I was in pain, and I was getting a little frightened, too.

Mom and Dad had a dinner they had to attend, so I stayed home with my research. My friend Meghan (an RN) finally calmed me down on Facebook by telling me that if I did need to go to the hospital, the ER staff would help me find out if I'm eligible for MediCal, or other options for funding any care I might need.

I started taking deep breaths and whaddayaknow? I started noticing a dramatic decrease in the amount of pain I was feeling.

The cramping hasn't gone away entirely, and it doesn't seem to have anything to do with what I eat, because it happens when I eat and when I don't. It's now accompanied by frequent restroom stops. Mom looked at me tonight and said, "You've been eating a lot of eggs lately, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Salmonella."

I've been hard-boiling the eggs, but I suppose it's possible. I looked up the symptoms and they are basically abdominal cramping (check), diarhea (check) and fever (uncertain). Symptoms usually start 3 to 72 hours after being exposed (so it's possible, as I'd been eating the eggs earlier this week) and can last 4-7 days. Most people shake it without treatment.

I honestly don't know, but I'm calm enough at this point that I'm not freaking out about it. I figure if the cramping doesn't stop, I will find a way to visit a doctor. Mom and Dad won't let me suffer. In the meantime, my working out is suffering. Goodie.

So here's hoping it's just something that will go away with plenty of sleep. I've got a couple of Harry Potter books on hand to keep me entertained, and if anything does go wrong, I've got Mom and Dad to help me, which is comforting.

I'll Put A Spell On You

I am not at some wild and crazy Halloween celebration tonight, nor accompanying any little trick-or-treaters out and about. I decided this year, after doing the Harry Potter thing at school yesterday, to be a curmudgeon by staying at Mom and Dad's house. They live in a retirement community, which means no trick-or-treaters, no temptation to gorge on candy--just the three of us, catching up on Grey's Anatomy and having steak for dinner.

It's a good thing I decided on this course--because I have a cold. Yuck! It's the stuffed-nose, icky-throat, sneezy variety, and to add insult to injury, I have a cold sore on my lower lip, just where it meets my top lip when I close my mouth.

Fortunately, the wonders of science have given us Anbesol (for the sore), NyQuil (so I can SLEEP and not be wheezing all night), and Ibuprofen (for the pain). I'm quite drugged up, but at least I'm not uncomfortable.

So enjoy your parties and candy and stuff. I'm going to toddle off to bed soon and read the trashy romance I bought today, snuggled up under a quilt, with Millie and Harley cuddling nearby, and a dose of NyQuil working its magic.

Don't forget to turn your clocks back tonight!

Oink, Oink

I'm not an alarmist (usually). I might freak out over certain things, but when the term "swine flu" started getting thrown around, I didn't panic, I didn't freak out. I'm still not panicking. But I really want that H1N1 vaccine, and I can't get it yet.

I went to Kaiser today, and marched up to the flu clinic to ask about getting the shot. The lady informed me that at this point, they're only giving the vaccine to people who are 25-64 years of age with a chronic condition such as diabetes, asthma, kidney or liver disease, etc.

"High blood pressure?" I inquired hopefully.

"Sorry, no," she replied.

"Do you know when a teacher might be able to get it?"

"I wish I could give it to you now--I think teachers should be on the list right now." She was very kind, and I was understanding--she didn't make up the rules, but she does have to follow them.

I understand, too, that supplies are limited, and production is behind. But I want that shot, because I do NOT want to get H1N1.

Again, I'm not being an alarmist. But I know that my chances of getting H1N1 are high, because I work with children. Children who don't always remember to wash their hands, or cover their coughs. There's only so much hand-washing and Oust-spraying I can do. Sooner or later, I will be exposed to H1N1, and I really want that vaccine before I am.

If my chances of getting H1N1 are high, my chances of having complications are low. I don't think it's going to kill us all--but from what I hear about it, it makes you want to die. A fellow Chorale singer is coming off of a bout of H1N1, and from what he said, it was a miserable experience. Apparently it takes several days to come back from it, and as a teacher, I can't afford those days. Sure, I have the sick days on the books--that's not a problem--but the thought of being out for a week or more, and the sub plans and craziness that would ensue because I am assigned to two school sites makes my head spin. I just don't want to deal with it.

The nurse gave me the number for Kaiser's flu hotline, and I'll keep up with it. As soon as that vaccine is available to me, I will be there, with my arm bared. I already got my regular flu shot, and I want to cover all of my bases.

In the meantime, I will wash my hands a lot, tell my kids to cover their mouths when coughing, and Oust the hell out of my classroom at every opportunity.

Ahh, Penicillin.

And free doctors.

Well, not exactly free. They took £97 out of this months paycheck alone for National Insurance, so I figured I was entitled to see a doctor without paying.

Turns out the Bug From Hell is a sinus infection. Doctor Sankar spent all of 2 minutes talking to me, looking at my throat, feeling my glands and writing a prescription for penicillin. In, out, and on my way to the co-op to get the meds.

I'm starting to feel better. The cough is pretty much gone (yay!!), though my nose is still pretty drippy. It can only get better from here!!

Well, it's a short update, but I have referrals to fill out for Happy Slapping.

And that, my friends, is a story for another day...

Cheers!

Meg