The Answer to the Dots: Derm Weighs In!

I took my crazy Rachel body to the dermatologist’s this morning, in order to ascertain what the fudgie-the-whale is going on with my weird leg spots. Thankfully, my husband was able to take yet another morning off, despite it being another week of his new faculty orientation. A side note about that whole thing is how silly the military is about some things: why is he having to spend weeks orienteering himself to a campus at which he just spent his last full year? I’m pretty sure he knows where all the bathrooms are, and how to find the library?

I know I’ve mentioned the leg torture machine, here and there. This is the CPM machine, with my leg bending at 70-degrees. I have to use it 6-hours a day. I put my leg in, and it bends my leg to a prescribed degree, then bends it back to neutral, over and over again, until the end of time. It’s truly the best time ever.

I know I’ve mentioned the leg torture machine, here and there. This is the CPM machine, with my leg bending at 70-degrees. I have to use it 6-hours a day. I put my leg in, and it bends my leg to a prescribed degree, then bends it back to neutral, over and over again, until the end of time. It’s truly the best time ever.

 

I’ve been out of the “working” world for so long, that I get ambitious for a 9 am appointment, thinking that I can shower and get my makeup on, you know, look human, beforehand. I get the idea that if I get up at 7-7:30, I can accomplish the goal of leaving by 8:30, and be on time. Like always though, I left in sweatpants and a t-shirt, with my teeth brushed, and nothing more.

 

Honestly, if I had to get a real job again, I think it would be tragic for everyone. The poor peoples of the public sphere would be forced to see me straggly-haired and hideous, because I simply cannot stop snooze-buttoning, and/or I would drive my family crazy with flurrying around the house to get public-ready.

 

One of my favorite pictures of Mew from this week. He is a super anti-social cat, but he adores me, and his evening snuggles against my chest. This is his jealous face when I dared to give Bear a little scratch during Mew’s time. I thought it was adorable. My favorite part of this photo was that when I showed it to Bryon, he totally didn’t get it. He was like, “What? it’s the cats??” Non-cat people don’t get their little personalities. I think I might be crazy, and recognizing it is the first sign. I don’t want to do anything about it, but I do recognize it.

One of my favorite pictures of Mew from this week. He is a super anti-social cat, but he adores me, and his evening snuggles against my chest. This is his jealous face when I dared to give Bear a little scratch during Mew’s time. I thought it was adorable. My favorite part of this photo was that when I showed it to Bryon, he totally didn’t get it. He was like, “What? it’s the cats??” Non-cat people don’t get their little personalities. I think I might be crazy, and recognizing it is the first sign. I don’t want to do anything about it, but I do recognize it.

Anyway, back to the dermatologist! I couldn’t believe how busy this place was for a 9 am appointment! She’d already seen and cleared patients before we’d gotten there. I’m impressed with someone who is up and working before 9 am, on a Monday morning (back to my previous morning laziness). One thing chronic illness will get you, if you can afford it, (thank goodness for that!) is the ability to sleep in, on a Monday morning, without judgement.

 

The best part of this appointment was that it was totally unnecessary. But, of course I couldn’t cancel it because of the whole, “we’ll charge you $50 if you don’t cancel it by 5 pm the day before,” which was Friday. This is what my leg looked like this morning when we went in, despite the hideousness that it was last week:

Two things come to mind when i see this: first, i’m almost healed from the plague I had last week: and second, I used to have wicked calf muscles. Damn, it’s going to take a lot of work to get back to normal. Don’t surgeons know that I’m over 40. It takes 10x the amount of work to gain muscle and tone we lose when we lose it! Gaaaah! Not looking forward to this

Two things come to mind when i see this: first, i’m almost healed from the plague I had last week: and second, I used to have wicked calf muscles. Damn, it’s going to take a lot of work to get back to normal. Don’t surgeons know that I’m over 40. It takes 10x the amount of work to gain muscle and tone we lose when we lose it! Gaaaah! Not looking forward to this


I was pretty sure that this was going to be a waste of time, or that worse, she was going to be willing to take a biopsy, “just in case.” No one wants their skin sliced and diced just for the hell of it. Instead, she was the common-sense fairy, sent to deliver the most ridiculous diagnosis I’ve ever heard, and to both put all my fears to rest, and to make me feel like I’m, indeed, the most broken body in the universe.

All prepped for slicing and dicing me, if the need arose. Phew. It did not.

All prepped for slicing and dicing me, if the need arose. Phew. It did not.

 

I had an allergic reaction to, wait for it…Cold.

 

I did not have frost-bite. Apparently, that presents differently, so let’s be exceptionally clear. I had an allergic reaction to cold. She had a complicated name to what the rash is called, with the suffix “dermis” in there somewhere. I tried to file it away for this very purpose, so I could sound smart and official; however, I forgot it before I even left the exam room.

 

Me: What did she call it, exactly?

Bryon: I don’t know? Something medical.

Me: You are not helpful.

Bryon: Never said I was.

 

Anyway, all the other potential diagnoses were complete garbage. Shingles doesn’t go away that quickly. Vasculitis doesn’t start with a bug-bite presentation the way this did. Frostbite, right out. This was an allergic reaction, and it was specifically obvious to cold being present on my skin 24/7. Apparently, the histamines just build up, and build up, and then say, “nope, had enough.”

 

Oddly enough, I was pretty sure it wasn’t frostbite to begin with, as I’ve had frostbite on my face before, from headaches and ice packs on my face, forehead and jaws. When headaches go on for days, sometimes the ice sits there for hours upon hours and I get patches of frostbite. It’s normally just red and patchy. It never looks like what happened on my leg. I was willing to believe the marks on my leg showed up in the “shape” of the ice placed on the area, but it still seemed a little far-fetched. So, I’m glad I have an easier to believe diagnosis; even if it is a silly one.

 

Oh, and apparently, it’s quite unusual. Yep, of course it is. When she said that, I was like, duh!

 

So, moving forward I have to remember that I am technically “allergic” to the cold, and I should be careful of over-exposure. I plan to use this to my advantage, pushing my “allergy” as a reason to avoid cold weather activities which I already loathe. There shall be no snow shoveling (as if Bryon would let me), no sledding, no snow….fill in the blank, of any kind. There shall be no winter’ing. In other words, I shall forever forth experience winter indoors, from the warmth of the fireplace, waiting to greet my boy with hot chocolate, as he comes in, pink-cheeked and wet with the moisture of hell-season.

 

Allergies. The perfect excuse to avoid something we hate anyway. Can I be allergic to uncomfortable conversations, social situations, and meeting new people?

 

In totally unrelated news, when we arrived home from our excursion to the dermatologist, I discovered that the cats had some sort of extreme play session that landed this toy, which came from downstairs, into the toilet, upstairs. I’m not sure if this means they really had a raucous good time; or, if they are telling me that they hate this toy so much that they had to deeply coordinate this maneuver to throw it out. Either way, it’s now in the trash. Crazy cats. With their crazy cat lady mama.

For some reason, two of my three cats are obsessed with this toilet. No matter how much fresh water they have, they drink out of it. When they aren’t drinking out of it, they are examining it. When I’m on it, they are watching. When I’m not, they are wondering when I’ll be on it next. Cats are weird.

For some reason, two of my three cats are obsessed with this toilet. No matter how much fresh water they have, they drink out of it. When they aren’t drinking out of it, they are examining it. When I’m on it, they are watching. When I’m not, they are wondering when I’ll be on it next. Cats are weird.

 

Oh…and at least this time, for a weird dermatology thing, we didn’t get caught, “humping,” as my son says, like at the lip biopsy appointment a few months back. Nope. On our best behavior.

 

I’m having a hard time transitioning my writing from M.A./Ph.D writing to undergrad. So my paper topic is way too big and too in-depth for a 15-page paper. I have an outline/plan for what could amount for a dissertation or a book. My professor keeps telling me so, and to narrow. I know I need to! But, this weekend, working on the big picture took me two solid days. This was the result: judgemental kitties who didn’t get enough attention while i worked away at my lap desk. Sorry Homer and Bear. Lots of treats coming your way.

I’m having a hard time transitioning my writing from M.A./Ph.D writing to undergrad. So my paper topic is way too big and too in-depth for a 15-page paper. I have an outline/plan for what could amount for a dissertation or a book. My professor keeps telling me so, and to narrow. I know I need to! But, this weekend, working on the big picture took me two solid days. This was the result: judgemental kitties who didn’t get enough attention while i worked away at my lap desk. Sorry Homer and Bear. Lots of treats coming your way.

 

Of Course

I wouldn’t be me, if I didn’t have some weird confounding, extra medical anomaly, connected to my injury, surgery, or recovery. The funny thing is that I don’t actively wait for it, or expect it. I go through life, expecting normal recovery, and then, “Bam,” something weird happens, and I remember, “You can’t have nice things. You live in a body made of defective spare parts someone found in a bin marked ‘don’t use.’”

Finally, a selfie with Bear! It took a lot of work to get this shot! And it’s terrible.

Finally, a selfie with Bear! It took a lot of work to get this shot! And it’s terrible.

 

With this surgery, this awful, painful, dreadful, and torturous surgery, recovery has been slow, but steady. I’ve begun being able to bear weight on my surgical leg. I’ve begun being able to bend it to almost the expected angle, thanks to the most painful physical therapy session that’s ever been conducted, anywhere, ever, to anyone. Just ask. Or, count the tissues that I cried into, during the actual session. Nothing says grown up strong-woman, like crying in public, while a physical therapist manipulates her knee into what seems like normal positions.

 

But, in the last several days, my knee has suddenly looked like this:

Sure….looks like a bunch of bug bits punctuated by smushy leg brace marks. No big deal? Maybe a spider or something was smashed in there overnight and got a feast?

Sure….looks like a bunch of bug bits punctuated by smushy leg brace marks. No big deal? Maybe a spider or something was smashed in there overnight and got a feast?


But, shortly after, they look like this, and stayed that way, which is concerning:

Ummmmmm. WTF?

Ummmmmm. WTF?

At first, they were raised, and very, very, very itchy, like bug bites. We thought, at first, it was dreaded bed bugs. Correction, I thought it was bed bugs. Bryon wants credit for the singular time he was right, as he was certain we did not have bed bugs. I thought it was a reasonable assessment, as I was waking up with new lesions every morning, they were clustered together in groupings, and they itched. However, I was the only one getting bitten, and they were only biting my surgical leg, which was weird. I tried to justify this by saying that my operative leg must’ve smelled juicier and bloodier with all the swelling at the surface. Ew. Finally, there was absolutely NO evidence of bed bugs, despite tearing the bed apart, and examining every square inch. Even the Orkin man that we called confirmed that we were completely clear. Okay, Bryon was right. Mark it down.

 

It was also a good bet that they weren’t bed bug bites because about 24-36 hours after they itched, they flattened out into these weird flat legions that looked super…well, like I should see a doctor. So, I did. I called my primary care physician, who had no clue what it was. His first thought was a super scary word: vasculitis. I didn’t know what that meant, but he seemed awfully concerned about it, especially for a doctor dealing with me at roughly quitting time.

 

He spent about an hour on the phone, texting pictures and calling back and forth between infectious disease (oh my god!!) and my surgeon, arranging for me to be seen immediately the next day, and brainstorming about what was wrong. The working theory for the night was vasculitis.

 

The next day, my first appointment was with the surgeon. His assessment went something like this:

 

Vasculitis? No! It took me a while to remember where I’ve seen this before, but I think it’s frostbite burns from your ice machine pad….(examines the area for a bit) wait, no…it looks like shingles! It’s traveling along the blah-blah nerve. Yeah, I think it’s shingles…yep, the more I look at it, I’d say my best guess is shingles.

The ten minutes we were there, he became more and more convinced it was shingles, the point that all other diagnostic ideas seemed preposterous to him, or at the very least, far secondary options.

 

Call my primary care doctor back to find out what time, and where to go for infectious disease, and the phone call goes like this:

 

Shingles? No way. Probably vasculitis…Or, some kind of infection….not shingles…nope…no how…anyway…this is where you go.

By the way, she wanted me to just “storm the door,” to infectious disease. In other words, her initial plan was for me to just show up, say that I was sent there, and to just camp in the waiting room until someone saw me, because they all know one another, and if I made a stinker of myself, they’d see me sooner. I was NOT about to do that!

 

Get to infectious disease, and this is how that visit goes:

 

Nope, not shingles. And, it’s definitely not vasculitis. That’s for sure. Probably not an infection…spots are too different. Gosh, I have no idea, but it sure isn’t right. You need a biopsy on those spots. Need a dermatologist, or at worst case scenario, a plastic surgeon. But, it’s 3 pm, on a Friday. He calls my primary care doctor, and my surgeon to talk over what they think it could be, again. He wonders if it is an allergy to my own cartilage, or the graft, or maybe the bolts. It’s not.

 

Phone call to Primary Care, after I leave infectious disease, to figure out dermatology:

 

Sorry, called five dermatologists. No one can see you today. They’ve all left because it’s Friday. Expected. Got an appointment for first thing Monday morning.

Hilariously, they ask that if I need to cancel it, I do so before 5 pm, otherwise they will charge me $50. How, I ask you, as they have nothing but my name? However, I will not be cancelling, as I’m thrilled to death to have someone cut a chunk out of my leg. It sounds like fantastic fun.

 

Note from all doctors: if I start to run a fever or start sweating at night, or the spots change in any way, I’m to call any one of them immediately, and/or head to the hospital. I’m not sure which one wants the phone call. I’m sure all three of them would call the other two, since they are all fascinated with the mystery spots now. Since I have kind of a cool doctor that takes care of all my doctor referring, finding and records transferring, they are all on the ball with my bloodwork and the whole case, so they are totally invested. Plus, it’s weird, and their most fascinating case of the week…at least. That’s Rachel: Weird Medical Science.

 

So, that’s been my last two days. It was fun to miss a few hours of class on Tuesday because my doctor was playing phone pissing contest about which diagnosis seemed the most appropriate, who should see me first, in what order, and whose schedule was more booked. My surgeon was great though; all he said was, “send her in, whatever,” which was comforting, because he made me feel like maybe it wasn’t a big deal, and he made me feel like he’d see me no matter what, if something went wrong.

Doctor Trump Supporter

When I had my measles/random rash scare, I mentioned that my GP doctor is a MDVIP doctor. This basically means that I pay a bunch of money to be treated like I’m his only patient, to get same-day appointments, and to feel like he remembers me when he sees me. It’s actually pretty great. I thought I’d give it a go when I read his positive patient reviews, as a physician, and the reviews of the MDVIP program, in general. I’d definitely continue with this type of doctor, as we move from the area. However, a sticky wicket as come up with my personal provider.

 

He’s a nice man, but he’s definitely a bit…conservative. He’s not conservative in treatment, although he is that, a bit, but it’s his political views that are the real problem. He tends to find a way to bring them up, at almost every appointment. Since even a quick pre-op clearance appointment can take upwards of ninety minutes, he has plenty of time to let his rebel flag fly. He always manages to slip it into conversation as if we are commiserating on the ways of the world like old buddies who have had this chat before, or who obviously agree that both what he has just said is true, and also that we also both agree that pineapple on pizza is disgusting. I think that because he knows Bryon and I are both military, he assumes that we simply must be of the same persuasion, as he opens all of our non-medical conversations with, “how’s the colonel?” (p.s. ugh and eye roll). You’d be surprised how many military folks are both liberal and atheists, by the way. Next time the chaplain does the “mandatory” prayer at an event, take a gander around at the non-head-bowers and share the head nod with the other non-prayers in the crowd, you’ll see.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he’s so thorough, as a doctor, even though I have to clear half a day just to see him for a sore throat; but, I could live without him having the time to end up in a lecture about the potential danger of “illegals” killing us all at numbers we haven’t seen since the middle ages, thanks to unchecked entry with diseases like the Bubonic Plague. “Just you wait and see!” At least, that’s what the lecture was about this most recent time that I saw him. I’ve had lectures about everything from illegals, to voting, to speaking only English, and whatever other issue had Trump fired up that week.

 

These are always very awkward conversations, and they set my liberal, bleeding heart, a-flutter. I never know how to respond. Do I tell him that I disagree, and risk my doctor disliking me? Do I find a new doctor? Do I nod in silence and let him think I agree? Saying nothing makes me feel like I need a shower. It’s so confusing. There’s no one at the office to complain to, as his wife is his nurse, and the administrator is their dear friend. That’s it. That’s the staff. There’s no anonymity. When I call to make an appointment, they don’t just know me, they know me. This would generally be a great thing, but for something like this, it’s bad. How do you lodge a complaint about a doctor having somewhat inappropriate conversations with his patients, with the staff, when the staff is his family?  

 

Picture an oldish man. He looks a little like Santa, minus the beard, and a little more jowl-y instead of jolly. He’s a smidge imposing, and he’s got the upper hand in any interaction between us. He’s the one in control of my treatment and care, despite the fact that I’m the one who is supposed to feel in control, as the patient. The dynamic invariably shifts to the one with the most knowledge, and how he feels he will mete it out, in order to allow me to make decisions and draw conclusions. If he feels like I’m not capable of deciding the way of the world, perhaps he feels I won’t understand certain treatment options, or why he will make certain calls regarding my care. Perhaps, he won’t fully explain other options I might have considered, therefore not offering them to me as viable choices.

 

So, these conversations feel more threatening than they should be. This seems like a simple problem. I should just find a new doctor. Or, I should just live with this, and accept the imperfections of an imperfect man. However, neither solution is ideal. Finding a decent general practitioner who takes extended time with my complex conditions, and who has extensive relationships with referring local doctors is difficult. But, accepting, and furthermore, knowing I’m lining the pockets of someone whose views I find abhorrent, is also difficult for me, on a moral level. Ugh.

 

At our last appointment, I needed a Tdap booster, apparently. I mentioned the case of the child in Oregon, who contracted tetanus recently, to the tune of nearly a million dollars in related medical costs, and whose parents still refused the vaccine, despite seeing how ill their kid was. This brought up the aforementioned rant about how “illegals” are bringing in all kinds of diseases, and how the liberal media won’t tell you that they are going to kill us all. He told me that it’s black and white: one side wants more voters and the other side (I assume he meant the “illegals”) wants to come and work for free and get free benefits. I say that assume there, because what “side?” wants that?

 

I didn’t bother to tell him that what he said made no sense for his argument against immigration, because he described two sides of the same racist coin, in his hurry to slur the facts. But, that was neither here nor there. He’s so brainwashed by Fox that I just murmured that I didn’t think it was that simple. That’s all I could get out in defense of helpless humans being belittled in a doctor’s office hundreds of miles away, grouped into swaths of humanity that don’t even register as individuals anymore.

 

There was so much I could’ve said, so many points to bring up. Children being abused in detention facilities, deaths, rapes, families being separated. There are so many successful immigrants that I know, dreamers that have succeeded. There are so many reasons to love immigration and to support the idea that people should come here and have a chance. The dream of America is built on it. But, I didn’t say any of what I believe. And, mostly what I believe is that kindness and human decency should always trump anything else, and that we are treating our fellow man like they are subhuman, which is disgusting and makes me feel sick at night. We’re not only being un-American, we are being bad humans by doing so.

 

One might say that it doesn’t matter who your doctor is as a person, so long as he’s a good doctor. That may well be true. He could be a terrible man, but still be a great doctor. However, when that terrible man brings his terribleness to the job, and forces me to look at it, I have to assess how important that is to how he treats me, as a patient. If he’d left that part of him, at the door, before he came into the exam room, then I wouldn’t be forced to evaluate it as part of his medical persona. But, because he brings it into the room with him, every time we have an interaction, I have to ask myself how kind of a man he is, how sympathetic, how gentle, and how understanding. I have to ask myself if he’s the right doctor for me, overall.

 

Worst of all, when faced directly with this attitude by a man who looks a little like a kindly grandpa, and who is in a position of power, I did nothing. I said nothing. And, I’m ashamed. I’ve started looking at how I can transition to a provider in the same system that maintains all the same records, but is still part of the same provider network. My current doctor is less than a mile from my house, and any new one would be at least a fifteen to twenty-minute drive, but I suppose that’s the price I pay for a cleaner conscience, and for a doctor who can be more professional. I’m hoping it’s a possibility. Starting over with a new doctor is never fun, but in this case, I think it’s important that I at least try. At least I’ll know that I’m not supporting his practice any longer, anyway.

 

The Only Thing Necessary for the Triumph of Evil is that Good Men Do Nothing

 

 

 

Measles...Or Not

Speaking of hypochondria…


You know how it seems like we are living like pioneers in 1857, thanks to the measles outbreak(s) brought on by kooky anti-vaxxers and their fear of survival? According to the CDC, there have already been 764 reported cases of measles this year. This is more than double last year’s total cases, and more than six times the cases in 2017. This year, there have been public health notices regarding measles outbreaks in Los Angeles County, Brooklyn, Washington, New York City, Texas, Illinois, and Rockland County (New York).


I am immunized because I got all my shots as a kid, and because I was in the military. When you in-process, you line up with all your fellow new airmen and wait for a slightly senior-to-you airman to push up your sleeve up and give you approximately 97 shots at once, regardless of your vaccination history. Your arm hurts for, what seems like, weeks, probably because you are concurrently doing endless push-ups and pull-ups on those same arms. I’m pretty sure it’s just the tetanus shot that hurts, but it seems like they all hurt.

 

These new measles cases mean that adults are panicking about their decades-old shots and whether or not they need to be covered with new boosters. If you were born after 1989, you probably had two doses of the measles vaccine, which is approximately 97% effective at preventing measles, versus the single dose MMR (measles, mumps and rubella) vaccine used as far back as the 50s, which was still very effective (93%), but slightly less so. The only way for adults to tell, at this point, whether or not they fall into that “almost” covered, or not covered at all between 93%, 97% or 0%, is to get their titers checked. This is as simple as getting their blood drawn to find out if they have any antibodies that say, “yep, I’m protected from the measles.”

 

All of this measles talk has a purpose, I promise.

 

I was born before 1989, and I was in the military. So, logically, I’m covered for the measles, right? Duh. I have had my measles vaccines. In fact, I have been vaccinated twice over, by anyone’s standards. According to the anti-vaxx crowd, I should either be dead, have super-autism, or be glowing with toxic radiation. That’s how it works, right? Either way, I have no reason to assume I have the measles.  

 

Still, when I got a weird rash on my face last week, that’s precisely what I did. To be fair, I didn’t assume measles…at first. I waited several days before I freaked out. And, I kept the freak out factor very minimum. In fact, I tried to go to my primary care doctor, super casual-like. “Hey man, I’ve got this rash, can I come in? Super chill. No big deal. In fact, let’s forget the rash, let’s just get some burgers and milkshakes. I’m cool, I’m casual. I’m breezy.”


I only showed up at Urgent Care because he’s at a conference at Johns Hopkins, for the next THREE FREAKING WEEKS, and I had no choice. He’s still out of the office, actually.

 

I was, frankly, pretty annoyed at him. Not sure if you’ve heard of this new MDVIP thing; but, it’s basically concierge medical care. A lot of doctors cut their patient load down to a few hundred (or fewer) patients, which is great for you, as a patient; however, you pay a yearly fee to enroll in the practice. It works out for the doctor, too, as they work with less insurance red-tape, make a higher profit (the high enrollment fee is cash only), plus they get to practice medicine the way they want to. It makes for pretty personalized care, and a wonderful patient experience. It’s not cheap go to a MDVIP provider, and he was gone for THREE WEEKS, during a “measles” crisis on my face.

 

I digress. I suppose I can forgive him. He’s been there for me at minutes’ notice when I’ve had the flu, a UTI, and a kidney stone, in the past, so fake measles can be forgiven…this time! He’s a great doctor, and always thorough. He’s often too thorough. You can never get out of there in less than thirty to forty minutes, even for a “quick” appointment, and not for waiting, for the appointment.

 

Anyway, back to this rash on my face. It was weird, red splotchy spots that had popped up out of nowhere all over my face, primarily on my right cheek. I’d not had contact with anything new, not eaten anything new, not worn anything new, not used a new soap, nothing. They kind of itched, but not really. They felt raw when I touched them. They were spreading, and they were ugly. The ugliness was my primary concern, of course.

It’s almost embarrassing to show you all this picture because it barely shows the rash, here. But, this is the" “best” picture I have of it. Half of my face is covered by sunglasses, and half of my spots aren’t visible. Overall, it’s a pretty dumb shot to “show off” a rash. But, here it is. And, it’s a HIDEOUS picture of me. It’s probably not the ugliest picture I’ve ever posted here, but it’s still not great! But, you get the idea of what some of the spots looked like.

It’s almost embarrassing to show you all this picture because it barely shows the rash, here. But, this is the" “best” picture I have of it. Half of my face is covered by sunglasses, and half of my spots aren’t visible. Overall, it’s a pretty dumb shot to “show off” a rash. But, here it is. And, it’s a HIDEOUS picture of me. It’s probably not the ugliest picture I’ve ever posted here, but it’s still not great! But, you get the idea of what some of the spots looked like.

 

 At first, I thought they were pimples and that I was having a hideously bad acne breakout. Because I am blessed with normally clear skin, with the exception of pimples that come in singles here or there, I was pretty annoyed to have a baker’s dozen arrive on my face all at once. Still, I slept with those awesome pimple patches on all of the spots, thinking I’d wake up with lots of goopy stickers to peel off in the morning. Nope. All the stickers came off clean, and the spots were just as red and hideous. So, I was annoyed that I’d wasted a ton of those stickers. Plus, there were even more red spots. Hmmm….and grrrrr.

 

In the back of my mind, I thought they looked measle-y, but I knew it couldn’t be, because I’d had my vaccines; however, measles starts on the face as flat, red spots. Check. Logic be damned when you’re a hypochondriac. I posted my rash, now several days old, on FB and one of my friends immediately said measles. Really, I just wanted someone to say, “poison ivy,” or, “leprosy.” Really, anything other than confirming what I was already thinking.

 

This was moments before I went in to a physical therapy appointment for my ridiculous shoulder that is still bothering me. My physical therapist, of course noticed my rashy face. There’s nothing like brining a potentially contagious rash into a medical building where they treat dozens of patients, many of them elderly, a day. You feel like a criminal. Only instead of assaulting the elderly directly, I was potentially leaving behind a microbe to do my dirty work. When she asked what it was, I was forced to tell her I didn’t know. But, of course, she said it looked a little like measles. I explained it couldn’t be, that I was vaccinated, which made her more comfortable, and that I was going to get it checked anyway, which put her even more at ease.

 

So, I went to urgent care….

 

This is how check in went:

 

I’m perfectly healthy, energetic and happy, as I approach the counter. I tell the check-in woman that I’m probably fine, but if I’m not, perhaps I should sit somewhere away from others because I’m concerned the rash on my face is measles. The woman behind the desk looks up at me, looks at my face, smiles at me, and tells me to take a seat. She removes the pen that I used to sign in with from the cup on the counter, throws it away, and then sanitizes her hands, wipes the counter with bleach and wipes her keyboard. Yep. I feel great, so far. The waiting room is empty, except for a single person, so I sit all the way on the other side of the room.

 

Moments later, a nurse comes out to get me, wearing a face mask and gloves. She was excessively kind and apologetic for being so overly cautious, and said that she hoped I understood the precautions. Of course, I did! She got me to a room, checked me in and took a look at my face. From her assessment, she said it was hard to tell, but it looked like…hmmm…maybe? In other words, she didn’t know. So, she obviously wanted to wait for the doctor. What she did want me to know was that she was so happy that I came to the clinic and that she wished more people came to check on rashes they didn’t know about because it would help stop spread these outbreaks. This left me wondering what other rashes cause outbreaks, other than measles? Meanwhile, I was apologizing profusely for wasting everyone’s time and for being so ridiculous for coming in, in the first place. All I could think of, was becoming patient zero in Northing Virginia.

 

Next, a PA comes in, introduces herself, gloves up, and puts a mask on. She also apologizes for the precaution and congratulates me on potentially stopping a measles outbreak in its tracks. I am starting to feel like a god damn hero for visiting Urgent Care, instead of like a weirdo with a face rash. She spends about five minutes examining my face, which, trust me, is a long time to have someone centimeters from you face, poking it, shining a light on it, and staring directly at each spot. The end result of her exam was that she just…wasn’t…sure. She thinks that it’s probably not, but she doesn’t want to make the final ruling without a doctor to sign off on it. Just in case.

 

By the way, there’s nothing like a woman with a light squinting right at your face, quizzically saying, “Gosh, I just don’t know…what IS that?” while poking your cheek, as if she’s poking at a piece of rotten meat. It makes you feel just, I don’t know, pretty? Is pretty the right word? Gorgeous?

 

So, that’s two people who are maybe thinking it’s not measles, but they can’t 100% be sure that it’s not, so they need a third party to rule it out for certain. So, now I’m wondering, if it’s not measles, what the hell kind of rash do I have? What did I get into that’s so insanely unique that no one can even identify it?

 

The doctor comes in, this time not covered, not masked, and not gloved. He was also very nice, and congratulated me on being responsible enough to take seriously how contagious I might be to others. I was wondering if, at some point, the entire clinic might be secretly planning a party, or perhaps a parade for me? It really made me feel much better about going in for something so silly, to have everyone be so nice to me. Anyway, he examined me pretty closely as well, and determined it was “just a rash.”

 

His assessment was that it’s basically a “who the hell knows?” kind of thing. He didn’t say that, but that’s my description. I could’ve come in contact with anything, at any time, and been allergic to it. Even with steroids and steroid cream, it still took another week for it to clear up, so whatever it was, I was obviously having quite a reaction to it! He said it definitely looked very similar measles, so there was certainly a reason to feel a little concerned. However, measles tends to start more towards the hairline, and not the cheeks. The more you know, I suppose!

 

He said it might’ve been poison oak or poison ivy. It made me remember that I had, indeed, been rubbing my face in the lawn when I was gardening a few days prior. I was weeding our raised veggie and flower beds, and to take a break, I put my face all over the grass. No wait, dogs do that. So, no, I have no idea what caused the rash. It was just there. And now, it’s gone. And, it wasn’t measles. Of course.

 

So, my hypochondria sent me to urgent care for a disease that deep down I knew I didn’t have, which I was later told I didn’t have. And, all ended well. OH! I forgot the part which Bryon even agreed that it was a good idea to get checked. He was a hypochondria supporter, at least in this case. He, like me, said, “you probably don’t have it, but yeah, get checked. Not a bad idea.” Meanwhile, he was at home, texting me what he was Googling, which was that I didn’t have a fever, and all the CDC reported cases by state. He didn’t feel 100% sure that I was “safe” until he saw that there were no reported cases in Virginia yet, this year. I always know when Bryon is worried, even 1% worried, by his texts, or what he Googles or looks up. He was just a smidge concerned, just like me. A smidge counts. Hope my hypochondria isn’t rubbing off on him!

Medical Diagnosis: The Odyssey

My body is weird. I don’t say that in a “I hate my body” kind of way. Don’t get me wrong, I hate my body in all kinds of womanly ways. I hate when I get constipated and my stretchy baby bucket allows my woman pooch to fill up and look like I have a poop baby, gestating to about six months, instead of just a little bloat. I hate that I my boobs are too small, and I hate that I still get acne breakouts. I hate that I have enough cellulite, that a few months ago, Collin, who still follows me to the bathroom asked me, “Mommy, why is your butt skin bumpy and mine isn’t.”

 

But, that isn’t what I mean. I mean that my body behaves weirdly, which makes medical diagnoses difficult, time consuming, and frustrating. There’s a theory, in the medical community, that when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. For me, it’s always the zebra, or maybe an emu, or even an ostrich who identifies as a horse, wearing horseshoes.

I don’t have any pictures of horses, ostriches or zebras, but we call Loki, Bear. So, here’s a picture of a Bear.

I don’t have any pictures of horses, ostriches or zebras, but we call Loki, Bear. So, here’s a picture of a Bear.

 

On television, we see doctors like Dr. House, who get a mysterious patient, hone in, and refuse to let go, until they reach a solution. In reality, someone like me, who presents with a wild array of insane symptoms, even one with an already bizarre diagnosis, which may complement the bizarre array of symptoms, and even be a part of the list itself, is shuffled around to an ever-growing list of specialists to find not one diagnosis to tie them together, but a laundry list of them.

 

It’s a game of hand-off, pass the patient. It makes the patient (me) start to wonder if they are crazy. Am I sick? Is there actually anything wrong with me? Maybe this is all in my head? If Doctor A couldn’t figure it out, maybe it’s because there’s nothing there, and I’m actually fine. Am I just a hypochondriac?

 

Then, I remember that Doctor A did find something. He found lots of things; he just isn’t the right doctor to deal with the stuff he found. Medicine, these days, is so compartmentalized and specialized. It’s out of his area of expertise, and the stuff he found was scary. It was so scary, he was worried and insisted I see Doctor B. But, the tests Doctor B ran, ones he was sure would present a positive diagnosis, didn’t; but, they turned up something out of his area of expertise, and now I have to go to Doctor C. And on and on it goes. Now, I am all the way to Doctor Q, and I am tired.

 

Side Note: is Doctor Q a cool villain name, or what?

 

Eventually, I question if I am a not only a hypochondriac, but if I am such a hypochondriac, that I am being a hypochondriac about being a hypochondriac. How meta is that? I am constantly asking doctors if all this is necessary. I am constantly pressing them whether this is crazy; couldn’t I just be fine?

 

Can you imagine being my therapist? She’s paid well.

 

In the past eighteen months, here’s just a sampling my saga:

 

Cardiology

I pass out sometimes, for no reason. I just, poof, go down. Imagine lying on the couch with your head hanging over the side, then quickly standing. For me, just sitting normally gives me that feeling when I stand. I also pass out if I’ve had a bad headache. I’ve never worried about it. I always wake up, right?

 

My primary care physician felt otherwise, at my annual physical, when she took my blood pressure, and it presented as approximately low enough to be dead. Meh, it’s always low. I wasn’t concerned. So, I mentioned the “spells.” She made me do the sitting, standing, lying down blood pressure tests, and they changed dramatically, so she shuffled me off to cardiology for several other tests.

 

All signs pointed to a POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia) diagnosis, not uncommonly comorbid with Chiari.

 

Then, I had a tilt table test, which is the gold standard for diagnosing POTS. They strap you to a mechanized table, that tilts up and down, to see how long it takes to make you pass out. Only medical test I know of that’s basically an amusement park ride. Because they used this table so rarely, at the hospital I went to, the table barely worked; so, I passed (not out) with flying colors. Instead of it “tilting,” to any degree of speed, it moved at the rate of a 103-year-old woman standing up and down.

 

This left the cardiologist scratching her head, and she basically said, “whelp, for all intents and purposes, I’d have diagnosed you with POTS except for the tilt table test.” In other words: Dunno? Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck; but seems like it might be a whale? So, POTS-ish?

 

Hepatology

Did you know that a hepatologist is a liver, gall bladder and pancreas doctor? I do. I know this because I have a hepatologist. I also know my liver’s soft/hard value, because it’s been tested. This is bizarre and seems like something that a chronic drinker should know. I’ve had approximately three glasses of champagne in my entire life.

 

For as long as I can remember, doctors and nurses have said, in passing, after blood draws, “oh, your liver number is elevated,” or, “hmmm, everything looks great, but your alk phos (as if I know what that is) is a little off, probably nothing.” Again, my primary care physician, being ever diligent, noticed a pattern in those pesky numbers. Turns out they are always off. Turns out my liver is a weird-o. Turns out whatever day the random doctor noticed the numbers wasn’t a fluke; it’s consistent.

 

What no one knows is why it’s off, or what to do about it. Liver issues are noted with alcohol, or with obesity. They aren’t noted in thin, vegans who don’t drink. There are a few autoimmune diseases that cause liver disease; I tested negative for all of them. So, I have idiopathic fatty liver; but he isn’t sure I even have fatty liver. At this point, he is just guessing.

 

But, the values of my labs are so off, I have to continuously provide blood to monitor them. The good thing is it’s being watched. The bad thing is that I feel like a time bomb, waiting for my liver to randomly need a replacement. I know it doesn’t really work that way, but it feels that way. Mostly, I think it feels that way because my doctor is in the Georgetown Liver Transplant Center, and his waiting room plays, on a loop, a video about liver transplants. It’s unnerving.

 

Thanks, vital organ, for being weird and janky.

Doctors, doctors, doctors! I think this must’ve been my orthopedist’s office that I felt the need to photograph and save for posterity. Flattering, no? Nothing says sexy like paper shorts and crew socks. They really shorten the leg and make you look like a troll. On a positive note, I’ve not shaved my legs in over a year! Look at that!! You can’t even tell. I have been blessed in very small ways.

Doctors, doctors, doctors! I think this must’ve been my orthopedist’s office that I felt the need to photograph and save for posterity. Flattering, no? Nothing says sexy like paper shorts and crew socks. They really shorten the leg and make you look like a troll. On a positive note, I’ve not shaved my legs in over a year! Look at that!! You can’t even tell. I have been blessed in very small ways.

 

Rheumatology

I did NOT want to go to rheumatology. I felt like it would be a rabbit hole. My pain doctor in California begged me to go for the three years, insisting that my joint deterioration, swelling, and even some of my other body symptoms were all connected. He was sure I was suffering from an autoimmune disease, and that I could be so easily helped, if only I could get a diagnosis that would tie everything together. After a particularly rough week of exhaustion so bad that I could barely move, I thought that surely no normal person is ever this tired, I finally made an appointment.

 

I have been tested for everything under the sun; but, my doctor was almost positive that I have Sjogren’s. It fit with all my symptoms. I am practically the poster child for it. For once, at my next dentist appointment, I’d have no shame about the inevitable new cavities. I would be able tell him that I have Sjogren’s and no matter how much I brush, floss and rinse, it’s almost impossible to battle the crippling dry mouth. I have virtually no saliva, cavities are going to grow. Not that Sjogren’s is just about dry mouth, but since it’s one of the things that’s most annoying, it came to mind.

 

I did find a solution that I particularly like for dry mouth though. If anyone out there has dry mouth from Sjogren’s, or from any meds that you are on, try these! I can’t find them in a store anywhere, you have to order them directly from the company’s web site. My dentist recommended them; they are amazing. It’s not too much to say that they have, literally, changed my life. Better than any rinse, strip, toothpaste, or anything out there. Best thing I’ve ever tried for dry mouth!

 

Alas, Sjogren’s doesn’t have a single test. It’s a diagnosis based on patient history and a few other tests that “help” make a diagnosis. I was negative for the ones that “help.” The test they consider the “gold standard,” is a lip biopsy. We all know how fun that was, based on my last post. I forgot to mention that I was so nervous to get the damn thing done that Bryon came with me, and was leaning over the chair hugging me when the doctor came in to start. The hug looked so awkward based on the chair’s position, that it looked like we were in a rather “delicate” position. The doctor and nurse, literally excused themselves as if we should have our privacy! So embarrassing! When we told Collin the story, he said,

 

“The doctor thought you were humping!”

 

My son, ladies and gentlemen.

 

He’s cute though, right? No, this wasn’t taken at Christmastime. He just wears his holiday pajamas all the time. Who wouldn’t? They are awesome!

He’s cute though, right? No, this wasn’t taken at Christmastime. He just wears his holiday pajamas all the time. Who wouldn’t? They are awesome!

My appointment to go over this negative result is in a few weeks; but, I expect the same type of conversation that we’ve already been having, an echo chamber of what I hear from my other doctors, really: there’s a ton of stuff we are finding in your imaging, tests, and in your blood, but it’s not matching with the predictions we’re making….you have something, I just don’t know what.

 

It’s so unhelpful and makes me so confused and frustrated. It’s always the same story: I have all the symptoms, I have almost all the positive test results, and then poof, I’m negative for something, and it’s very confusing to everyone. But then, alas, I’m positive for something else.

 

Today, I am declaring myself my own disease. I have Rachel. Since Rachel is incurable, there’s no point looking for that. Not to fear, it’s not lethal. However, symptoms are alleviated by her wonderful family (duh), presents purchased from Anthropolgie, Jonny Was, Frye, and especially from Tiffany’s. Symptoms are also reduced by spending time in California with loved ones, and by jolly kittens. They have to be jolly, otherwise the whole thing’s off. Other salves are relaxation with good books, painting, and creativity. Exacerbation of symptoms can be caused by traffic, people who don’t turn their phone volume down in waiting rooms, and anyone who won’t shut up about Game of Thrones.

 

I know that Homer doesn’t look “jolly” here, but he was sound asleep, so he let me tuck a little blanket around him; and he looked so darn precious! I’ve said before that I embrace my crazy cat lady. I feel no shame.

I know that Homer doesn’t look “jolly” here, but he was sound asleep, so he let me tuck a little blanket around him; and he looked so darn precious! I’ve said before that I embrace my crazy cat lady. I feel no shame.

Why Big Pharma Doesn't Care About You

There are lots of things you can think of, in passing, or even for a sixty-minute Nightline episode, form a brief opinion on, and then forget about, when you have the luxury of being relatively healthy. But, those things take a central role in your life when your life is dominated by doctor’s appointments, prescription management, and referrals. Life looks different. So,let’s have a heart-to-heart about “big pharma,” for a minute. I’ve mentioned it before; but, let’s delve into a kinda boring topic.

This is me....here I go....Gosh, I'm cute.

This is me....here I go....Gosh, I'm cute.

It’s a term that gets thrown around loosely, as if there’s a boogey man out there that is menacingly lurking in the corner of your doctor’s office, sneakily dipping his fingers into your medical treatment, like a Svengali, made of money. While I’m not naïve, and there is a business to medicine, the small-fry patient-doctor relationship is not as adversely affected as I think people want to believe.

When we are truly sick, or chronically sick, we want to blame someone, anyone, or anything for why it’s so. We are angry that no one’s listening to us, or that no one has listened to us for so long. We believe that there are cures out there that are being kept from us, being held back for more profitable ones, or medications being sold to us, instead of being prescribed. This is especially easy to believe when we are sick with something chronic, or with something incurable. It’s easy to feel betrayed by a system that hasn’t felt like it was on our side, when tests weren’t ordered, or results not delivered. That’s why it’s so easy to believe that cancer can be cured by baking soda, or that not your doctor, but some doctor has the key to a cure locked away somewhere, but won’t reveal it, for lack of profits to “big pharma.”

But, when we backup a second and realize that, at the core of a doctor-patient relationship are two people, the idea of an amorphous, threatening indistinguishable and intangible force is difficult to believe. I have a hard time believing that, when I look into the eyes of my doctor, who’s watched me cry, that he doesn’t want what’s best for me. Last weekend, he put his newborn daughter down, when we called him after-hours for help. This is the same newborn daughter for whom he dropped all pretense of “doctor,” during our last appointment, showing me dozens of pictures on his phone. I have a difficult time believing that he’s being secretly manipulated by a cloaked figure called “big pharma.” All of these same doctors that you may want to believe are being manipulated have real daughters (sons, wives, parents) and are real people too; I just can’t personalize them like my doctor because I don’t know them.

I read, all the time, especially on message boards, every time someone gets prescribed a new medication, how it’s probably because a doctor was most likely getting a kickback from that pharmaceutical company, not because he was motivated by patient care. I’d rather not believe that there is a large portion of doctors (or humans!) out there, that would put the health of their patients beneath a free cruise, or a second home. That’s not so simple as insulting someone; it’s cruelty at its basest form. It’d be like telling you that you’d rather collect grocery bonus points on peanut butter, putting your name in the hat for a chance at a sweepstakes trip to the Bahamas, than worry about the fact that your kid is allergic to nuts. “Let them eat cake!” Right? ***

There’s a really amazing website, called Open Payments Data, which allows you to put in your doctor’s name to look up, down to the penny, exactly what pharmaceutical companies have given them money, and for what purposes. I’ve yet to come across any doctor, personally, in any specialty, that has had more than $2,500 of pharmaceutical “influence” per year. Phew. They are practically shills, right? Of course, here's the rub, you have to trust the "government," if you want to trust this site, because it's a .gov site. Don't get me started on you guys, who refuse to trust that.

Although, one of my surgeons made a pretty penny last year from a company called Medtronic, and by “pretty penny,” I mean around $50K. So, I looked up what it means to make money under the heading “licensing.” It turns out that his expertise lead to a breakthrough in his field, and they are paying him for use of his new procedure and equipment, similar to a trademark, or patent. And, they have him lecturing on its potential application in spinal injury and paralysis patients. Having this data lets you ask the right questions, not assume that doctors are automatically been given money from a conglomerate. We want our doctors on the cutting edge, researching, and staying current, but we want them to do it for free? That seems unfair.

In 2013, the article, “The $1M Mistake” was published. It tried to shake our preconceived idea that doctors are the financial elite. In fact, it shed light on the fact that doctors are, mostly, underpaid and their time undervalued. The notion that they start med school wide-eyed and driven to help their fellow-man, but somewhere along the way, take a class about Bentleys and McMansions and fall prey to double-booking patients and the allure of “big pharma” shilling, in order to satisfy their greed is insanity. It turns out that while a doctor might make more than, say, a line-worker, they don’t make the money we think they make, especially considering the education, training, and long hours they work. A patient’s perception of us versus them, rich versus poor, elite versus working, is just another barrier between people helping people, and between people being people, together.

Okay, stepping down from my soapbox now. I have an exciting and weird story to tell you guys tomorrow about Collin's visit to the "therapist," we finally found for him. If I can get my ducks together to type about it today and tomorrow morning. Ducks are so hard to line up. They are always getting feathers and poop everywhere. Plus, the quacking. Dear God, the quacking!

I had this beautiful idea of reversing this image to stepping OFF the soapbox. I couldn't figure it out. So, do it in your head. I'm a beautiful, damn unicorn. And, I'm stepping off my soap box!

I had this beautiful idea of reversing this image to stepping OFF the soapbox. I couldn't figure it out. So, do it in your head. I'm a beautiful, damn unicorn. And, I'm stepping off my soap box!

***The Marie Antoinette story about her saying “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche,” which translates to “let them eat cake,” is likely fabricated. According to historians, that line has been attributed to several other women, including Marie Therese. The fact that Marie Antoinette was soft-hearted, and donated often to the poor, and to charity, seems to have been forgotten, and her legacy has lived on in a misquote (probably because she was still aristocracy!).

P.S. I knew I minored in French for a reason. I could translate that French sentence! Don’t let anyone tell you that a French degree is useless! I was also able to order croissants and crepes in Paris, with minimal trouble. And, asking for bathrooms? Forget it! Pas de problem!

New Year: New Headache!

I had a procedure called a rhizotomy, just before New Year’s. This sounds really cool. It sounds like my beak of a nose should be smaller, right? No, just me? Yeah, yeah; I know that the word for that is rhinoplasty. But, it sounds similar, so maybe it’s like the back-alley version, or the cut-price version.

I shared this picture before, but this illustrates my point beautifully. See? I have a big nose. Bryon doesn't believe me, but he's blinded by love for me. It's giant!

I shared this picture before, but this illustrates my point beautifully. See? I have a big nose. Bryon doesn't believe me, but he's blinded by love for me. It's giant!

It’s not. A facet rhizotomy is basically severing nerve joints to relieve back and neck pain. They use x-ray guidance, and they burn your nerves, in very specific spots. My doctor is awesome-sauce, so he knocks me out hard-core, and I sleep for like twelve hours, afterward. He also pumps me full of some good pain drugs, so I feel pretty happy with him about the whole thing, when I “wake up,” for the car ride home, just to be tucked back into bed. I feel like “oooh, I feel like this procedure helped.” Of course, he’s a damn liar at that point, because when you wake up twelve hours later, your nerves hurt, and it’s all been a lie.

See, a potential side-effect of a rhizotomy is that the pain can get worse for a few weeks. Worse. Way worse. Like worse than you could possibly imagine. For weeks. The idea is that after those few weeks, the pain subsides, and especially in conjunction with PT, it’s supposedly like skipping through a field of daisies. But, those first few weeks are like death. They warn you that it’s an “increase of symptoms,” but because you’d be willing to try anything to make the pain stop, you can’t imagine that an increase of symptoms could be much worse. It can be

After my twelve-hour drug-induced nap, I woke up feeling a bit worse for wear. Then it hit. The pain was intense. Right at the nerve, it felt, literally, like someone had a knife right in my skull. This is not a metaphor. A knife. Right in my skull. I kept arching around, trying to escape it; but, it would only feel better if I was pressing on my head, hard. Because my neck muscles, especially at the base of my skull, are so weak, I have no strength to gather around this weakened area. A triggered spot in my weak neck causes a chain reaction of symptoms. Within hours, the whole thing had exploded in pain. I was curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth in agony. I’ve been alternating between migraines and Chiari headaches since January 2nd.

At my best, I’m curled up in bed, in the same pajamas and robe, for days on end (ewww), watching television and reading, trying to remain as still as possible, and cozily enjoying a 2-3 on the pain scale. At my worst, which happens about twice a day, I’m packed in ice. We have two ice bags, the old school type with screw tops, and about fifteen ice packs, that work well around my neck and across my face. Bryon packs them completely around me, so I’m covered, and then holds my hand. He takes my blood pressure continuously, making sure we don’t need to go to the ER. It’s been a fun time for all of us.

This isn’t the first rough patch for my head. It’s one of the longer ones. For sure. Sometimes I get a headache patch that lasts a week or so, sometimes longer. I know that this one has scared Bryon a little, mostly because the “bad” days of it have been more frequent. He’s taken control of his fear by creating a tracking chart in Excel. My little nerd. He sits down with me, every day, and asks me about two million questions about every symptom in my body, and then takes all my vital signs, and cross-checks them against all the weather data. He’s convinced there’s a possibility that there’s correlation with the pressure outside.

Mostly, I’m just bored. I’m ready to get out of bed! I’ve been in bed for four days now. I was on the couch for two or three before that. Now, I’m just ready to move, move, move. I’m sick of sitting and laying down. Being sick is boring. But, my headache comes back when I even get up to go to the bathroom; so, I’m stuck sitting here. Ugh. It even comes back doing things like typing this for too long. Boooooooorrrrrrreeeeed. How much longer will this last?

I see my neurologist on Friday and my pain guy on Wednesday. Wish me luck that one of them gives me a magic cure. All of my docs are in the loop, and all of them are concerned. The surgeon has me back on the "strap the thing to your head" routine, and call me in the morning route - but he's even concerned. Everyone is in the know, and no one is happy about the increase of my headaches, especially because they seem to keep happening. Hopefully, they decrease in intensity, and frequency. Here's hoping!

The best thing about this is that it's not even a surgical sponge anymore. it's a sock. Yep, a sock. The UCLA super-surgeon gave me approximate dimensions of A SOCK to strap to my head. The sad thing is, it worked! This is me with a sock-strap and an ice collar.  So, for days, I have been walking around with a sock strapped to my head. This is how lunatics start. Pretty soon, I'll be walking around, pushing a shopping cart full of my precious cargo, and wearing a housecoat.  Oh, and aside from my big nose, I also adore that when I make a pouty-face, my chin looks, simultaneously like a witch chin, and like a weird geological map of an undiscovered land. Bryon thinks i'm beautiful. He's weird.

The best thing about this is that it's not even a surgical sponge anymore. it's a sock. Yep, a sock. The UCLA super-surgeon gave me approximate dimensions of A SOCK to strap to my head. The sad thing is, it worked! This is me with a sock-strap and an ice collar.

So, for days, I have been walking around with a sock strapped to my head. This is how lunatics start. Pretty soon, I'll be walking around, pushing a shopping cart full of my precious cargo, and wearing a housecoat.

Oh, and aside from my big nose, I also adore that when I make a pouty-face, my chin looks, simultaneously like a witch chin, and like a weird geological map of an undiscovered land. Bryon thinks i'm beautiful. He's weird.