Sorry I’ve been away for a while. No news on the apartment yet.
Wednesday, I finally went to the doctor for my “3 month” check up-which I’ve managed to postpone for five months, but in order to refill my meds I had to break down and go see Mr. Smiley, my fuckhead doctor. I really have a big problem with doctors, as you may have read about already, so this was one of those things I had to do at the very last minute, when I’m out of my head tired…and when I’m on my last thyroid pill, so I broke down, made an appointment and went to see Mr. Happy. I forgot about the blood tests that I need to have every three months-due to the thyroid and blood pressure meds I’m on, and blood tests make me extremely…no let me say it again: EXTREMELY nervous-not because I think anything’s wrong with me necessarily-but because I’ve seen people misdiagnosed with horrible things like Hepatitis C, because their blood had been accidentally switched with someone else’s. I’m not sure how that happens, but it definitely does happen, so that’s always been a HUGE fear of mine. Not to mention I’m also a hypochondriac, who’s fairly certain most of the time that I’m extremely close to death. As a matter of fact, I’ve already started searching for bone marrow donors-just in case I have a dreadful disease. So far, I have one willing donor, but she’s only a half-sibling, and I’m not sure that even matters. Sounds crazy, but that’s the way my crazy head works-and always has. I remember lying on the floor when I was 6 putting my legs up in the air checking out my scars and scabs, and was fairly certain that the scab on my knee was leprosy and not from a fall or a fight with a few boys. I’m a chronic worrier, and a chronic weirdo, so this is my world…
I told Mr. Quack that the Wellbutrin made me downright suicidal when I first began taking it in March, and he calmly says “Oh yeah, that’s probably because your body was withdrawing from Zoloft” (he’d had me on Zoloft for a few years, then had me go cold turkey when he switched me to Wellbutrin-a VERY strong dose of Wellbutrin) I wanted to say-“Thanks for the warning, you ass”, but I didn’t. He asked how the Wellbutrin was treating me, and I said I’m numb for the most part. He also said that I should not only be on the anti-depressants, but also a mood stabilizer to keep me in balance. I said “Nope, I’m already middle of the road-I don’t need anything extra to keep me there”. He says “But I’m worried about you having extreme highs”. I didn’t bother telling him about last month’s extreme high, but I said “Trust me, if I begin to think I can walk on water or that I can fix my horrible extended family, by off-ing them and rebuilding them, I’m sure you’ll be the first to hear about it.” He didn’t smile at this little remark, and instead asked if if I wanted to give Zoloft another try, and because I have nothing to lose, and because it at least did help with the social anxiety and the fact that I feel like the ugliest living thing in the universe, I said “sure”. So once again, he told me to go cold turkey -this time on the Wellbutrin and to start on half of my Zoloft dose for the first week. He also said that it might be possible to give me both, the Zoloft and the Wellbutrin, but I said “That’s ok; I’m enough meds as it is-one happy pill is enough”.
Then he gave me refills for 6 months-one of those refills being for the wrong pill that I don’t even take anymore. (Sounds great doesn’t it?) And just as he was leaving, he says “So did they get blood yet?” and I tried to play it off casually, like “Nope, not this time, but I’m sure nothing’s changed” which actually did get a smile from him, and then a “Well we need to keep an eye on your thyroid so we’re doing a CBC”. I loathe the term CBC–complete blood count. Then he says “Well, you’re free for 6 months, unless I see something I don’t like in your results” and every siren and panic button in my mind went off and I’m thinking:“something he doesn’t like? What in the Hell does that mean?!!” And Smiley leaves quickly and a very nice nurse comes in-one of my favorites, who tells me nice things like: ‘how lovely my skin is’ and how ‘she can’t believe I’m 37 and have a teenager’. Those things score great brownie points for her so If I’m ever a billionaire, I’ll drop her a cool million or something, because not only is she nice but she has a lot of probs with her husband and children apparently. Maybe I’ll hire her as my personal nurse…But then again, after what she just did to my arm Wednesday, maybe I won’t.
This may become a bit too much for the squeamish:
I don’t like needles-as a matter of fact, I loathe the sight of needles. My grandma was a diabetic and she had to have shots everyday. I used to watch her cry and I used to believe that it was out of cruelty that she was forced to have these horrible needles stuck into her poor arms and legs everyday. I was 6, I had no clue this was keeping her alive-no one bothered to tell me. Then when I was 17, I was thrown head first into a whole different needle world-and I couldn’t stand to watch people pricking themselves-jabbing holes in their arms for the ‘fun of it’. So, my needle fear definitely helped save me from a terrible fate. Later on, when I was extremely poor, I went along with some friends of mine to the blood center to donate blood-You can make up to 50.00 a week for your plasma-which I’m told hurts like hell-but hey, when you’re a hungry teenager, selling your plasma is a nice alternative to selling your soul, right? Anyway, I didn’t sell my plasma (or my soul-for the record) turns out, I’m borderline anemic-so they turned me away. Luckily, I had a very nice group of misfit friends who shared their blood money with me-so a few times a week, we feasted on very cheap pizza, and no one ever asked me to donate my plasma again. Anyway, I’m rambling-so let’s get back to Wednesday.
She begins with sizing up my veins, because I have ‘teeny-tiny veins’ apparently. All the while, I’m thinking-worrying about the fact that for the past week, I’ve lived solely on ice cream and cheese, so I’m certain that my cholesterol level is going to be horrid and that maybe I’ll have clogged arteries and that I may be a candidate for open heart surgery or something. So I begin telling her about this-or asking her rather, and because she says I’m so adorable, she sort of giggles (like a nice mom might) and says that what I’ve recently eaten can indeed affect my cholesterol-so I tell her about my severe PMS grilled-cheese craving over the last several days, and she says “When was the last time you had one?” and I said “umm, I had two-this morning at 5:00- for breakfast.” this apparently ups my adorable factor even more, and she says “Don’t worry sweetie, I got your back, and I’ll put a good word in for you with the doctor, if you get a bad reading.” Then she begins preparing my arm for the blood sucking. But she has to keep switching arms, and I’m already feeling nervous-because I don’t like pain, and I don’t like the sight of my own blood-finally she decides to go with the right arm, and just as she says ‘this may hurt a little’ she jabs me-and the needle hits something–something that wasn’t my vein-it was enough to send terrible pain through my whole arm, and cause me to instantly go dizzy and hot-like the way I felt when I blacked out once. I inhale through clenched teeth, all the while she’s saying something about my vein rolling and apparently she’s trying to pinch my vein with her thumb to push it toward the needle-which is still inside of my arm sticking something that’s causing me extreme pain. So in the coolest tone I can manage, I say “Wow, this is really, really hurting me, so do I get a sticker or a lollipop afterwards?” and then she says “Oh My God Honey, I must have hit a tendon or ligament!” (I’m not totally sure of what she said, because by that point I’m beginning to fall forward off the table.) So I say “Is it normal to feel so sick and dizzy, because I’m not doing do well.” That’s when she has me lay back on the bed and begins feeling my head and checking my color-and yes, by then she’s taken the poker sized needle out of my arm. So I think I’m finished, but oh no-because I’m not much of a bleeder, she says she has to try the left arm, as soon as I’m feeling better-so I toughen up and say ‘ok, lets do this’,convinced She’s going to wound me again. Luckily, this one is a cinch, and she even makes a joke-which totally throws me off guard. She says “Wow, looks like all of those cheese sandwiches aren’t going to let me get any blood” which make me go instantly pale, because she’s confirming my artery clogging fears. She sees that I’m not laughing, so she says she’s kidding, though I’m not so sure. When she’s finished draining me, she says I can get my cholesterol reading immediately and asked if I’m interested. Of course I must know, so after 5 minutes of complete fear, she returns with a printed sticker of my results-and says that my cholesterol levels are ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. This is fabulous news, and to be honest, I feel like wearing the sticker around because I’m not such a healthy eater at the moment-thanks to the fact that not only am I distracted with writing, but also because I’m a bit broke and food is insanely expensive (Have you heard anyone saying the phrase God Bless America lately? No? Good!!!)
Before leaving, she tells me the rest of the test results on my blood will be back the next morning. So I stayed awake all night-happy that my heart is fairly perfect-but worrying “what about the rest of me?” I wait for the call-and it doesn’t come. I call the doctor’s office twice on Thursday-and they tell me that my results are not back yet, and to try on Friday. So Thursday, after beginning my Zoloft again, I sleep virtually the rest of the day, but I wake up startled-whenever the phone rings. Thursday night was full of worry about all of the things that could be wrong with me. I heard that hair dye could cause Hodgkin’s disease-and I’ve dyed my hair since I was 13… A LOT.
Friday was full of the same worry, and I called them twice and still, my results aren’t in. There’s a small chance that they’ll be in on Saturday, although Monday’s more likely. So I’ve spent the day in a worried heap feeling completly stoned from my half dose of Zoloft, napping and fearing the worst: That perhaps I have a very rare disease so they’ve called in specialist from Disease Control to have a look at my blood, and that perhaps the guys in ‘White Coats’ will come to my house to do something straight out of the movie E.T. Or maybe my poor blood will be confused with someone else’s just like the girl who had the Hep C scare. what if they tell me that I’m terminal, but I’m really not-and I don’t find out the truth until I’ve drank myself into a liver killing stupor???!!
Needless to say-I haven’t done anything since Wednesday-NO writing, NO reading (by the way, I went back to the library-and like the foolish girl I am-I’m reading three books at once again) I can’t do anything except wait by the phone and fall asleep every 10 minutes-only to stay awake all night worrying-like right now. I haven’t read emails, I haven’t done ANYTHING-so PLEASE don’t be upset if you’ve emailed me-I’ll be back to myself as soon as I hear something. I’m not sure if it’s the combination of worry and the Zoloft and PMS that’s causing me to feel half dead, but fingers crossed that I’m ok-because I HAVE to be ok…and if you’re religious, then say a prayer for me-because that sort of thing sometimes works…somehow.
So I’m leaving another soundtrack song, and if you need the lyrics, look them up guys-I’m in the midst of a trauma, so you’ll have to do it this time. I’ll update you on my silly life as soon as I know something new. Love and hugs and all that sweet stuff~13