I Got Stoned and I Missed It

Three weeks ago, my g.p. wrote me a prescription for medical cannabis. I had great hopes for this medication, because it is the last option on the list of suggestions my rheumatologist has made in order to combat my fibromyalgia. Believe me, I have tried everything: Elavil, Lyrica (which made my eyeballs vibrate from side to side like some kind of fucking cartoon character), Cymbalta, Prozac--most of them seratonin-uptake inhibitors designed to convince my brain that THERE'S NOTHING WRONG, STOP HURTING ALREADY. Medical cannabis--called Nabilon--was my last option, if I hoped to get off the 800+ mgs of naproxen and the 1000+ mgs of codeine I was taking every day. The pain of my stupid fibromyalgia has meant that I am not able to draw a bow or fence or even use the stairs (comfortably) for the better part of a year. This makes it hard to lose weight, yo.

A part of me was also fairly trepidatious, however. There aren't a lot of studies on the effects of marijuana (and no, I don't buy it as a "cure" for cancer), especially as it interacts with other medications. As it turns out, I was right to be wary. Maybe the dose was too high (*snigger*), but man, I was wasted for two entire weeks. In the first week alone, I was sent home from work twice because I simply could not function. I was dizzy and faint and mostly just sat around gazing at my navel. I was too impaired to drive or cook or clean, and often lost my train of thought in the middle of a sentence. 

I was also prone to odd outbursts, such as the time I randomly yelled out, "Pork loin! Pork loin!" during a staff meeting.

I will confess that it had an interesting effect on my thought processes. My brain on pot had a specific idea of what was significant--sometimes imperative--to share with the world. Yet, somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the translation was most often lost. For example, the Fragrant Missus is a cautious and competent (if slow) motorist. She very likely did not need to know, as I looked in the side view mirror, that "That car--is closer than it appears." What seemed to be perfectly reasonable, even important, one moment, ended up sounding completely stunned when it emerged from my piehole.

Possibly, the significance of my remark got swallowed in my all-consuming hunger. I was strving all the time. If it wasn't nailed down, if it needed no preparation, it was going in my face. All of it. I was like a fucking Hoover. No wonder when I get on the scale, I look down and see my phone number.

And when I wasn't stuffing my face or making pithy observations about the world around me, I was just kind of sitting around. My brain was like a big, fat bumblebee, buzzing lazily from thought to thought, getting a little insight here, some wisdom there, some humour over here.

And oh, God, the humour. Everything was so fucking funny. Especially the Fragrant Missus. Specifically, I remember going to a yarn shop with her to pick up needle felting supplies. One of the staff members had knit a baby sweater to hang in the shop door to indicate whether the store was open or closed. As we pulled up, the Fragrant Missus said, "The little sweater says open."

Well, I lost my shit. Apparently, this was the funniest goddamned thing that had ever been uttered in the history of humankind, because I laughed so long and so hard, I was physically incapacitated. We had to wait for the hysterics to end before I could get myself out of the car. And this was just one example. I'm sure it got old for her pretty quick, because it wasn't funny just the once. I laughed about that comment for DAYS.

Yet, despite the occasional hilarity, it didn't feel nice. I mostly felt numb and dislocated, detached. And it did absolutely nothing for my pain levels. So I discontinued use. 

Luckily, at the same time, my rheumatologist put me on injections of methotrexate. These injections are self-administered, which is fucked up. I understand that Type I diabetics do this all the time, but I'm having a little trouble adjusting. It is, after all, highly counter-intuitive to stick oneself with a sharp object, especially when the sharp object involves chemotherapy medication that inhibits cell division, which often results in GI upset, hair loss and/or seizures. 

However, since starting the injections (taken with Plaquin, an antimalarial that could result in plaque building up on my corneas, resulting in blindness), there has been a marked decrease in my physical pain. For the past week, I take my pain medication once in the morning, typically do not have to take it again all day and, especially later in the morning when I've limbered up, no longer walk with a limp. Oh, there's still some stiffness in my right knee (due to sero-negative rheumatoid arthritis) and my stride is slightly abbreviated, but I'm starting to think that we've turned the corner. So far, my only side effects include grogginess and some po'po' (short for "poor, poor bum", how my brother-in-law describes diarrhea), so I haven't yet had to ask myself if being spastic is worth being pain free.

Of course, the question must also be asked if anyone would notice.

But for those of you who were curious about the pot--it might work for some, but it certainly didn't work for me. Mostly, I felt that I got stoned and missed out on two weeks of my own life.

So there you go. Drugs, drugs, drugs--some are good, some are bad.

Poked and Prodded

Things at work continue to be as satisfactory as possible. Whereas once my office was the place where files went to die, I am now moving things out and getting them back into the filing cabinets where they belong. In addition, filing for the individual lawyers is finally being addressed so that the files are up to date and properly maintained. I have actually had a couple of lawyers come to me specifically to audit and "fix" a file that had spiraled out of control. I've also been asked to proofread a legal brief, so it isn't all filing.

And I have lost at least six pounds since I started this job.

The only concern I have is the time I am taking off during my probation period for doctor's appointments. I am not a malingerer, but the timing is especially bad because we are changing up some of the medications I am on in order to address some issues around chronic pain. Apparently, I have fibromyalgia, which pisses me off. I mean, what the fuck is up with that? The medication I used to take for it no longer works, not since last September when I fell on the stairs and injured my right knee.

I saw the rheumatologist this morning, who examined the knee and then aspirated some fluid out of it before injecting me with a steroid. Oh, my gentle German Jesus, that was fucking uncomfortable, and now that the local anesthetic is wearing off, I'm even less impressed. He prescribed some naproxen, sent me for x-rays and blood tests and told me he thinks the knee might be mildly arthritic. The rest of my pain, though, that's fibromyalgia.

Piss me off. I haven't been able to fence since Quad War (SCA) last August, either because my knee has plagued me (despite weeks of physiotherapy), or because I can't lift the sword. And I miss fencing so much, I regularly dream about it. For awhile, I was doing archery, but my shoulders and arms couldn't take it. I know I could lose weight if I could only move, but it's all I can do to get through the day at work.

So now we tinker with drugs and other strategies, and I pray that my bosses see that I am invested in doing my job to the very best of my ability and that their faith in me so far has not been misplaced. My probation period ends in June, but it seems so far away.

Also of some interest is the fact that my former employer, a certain Princess Dumptruck, used to work in the same place I am now. I have even seen her name on some of the files. And she is remembered, though not fondly, by some of the staff. The stories they have shared with me about the Dumptruck's behaviour certainly confirm for me that this has been an issue for years, and that she has only gotten worse in private practice. Words used by these staff members to describe the Dumptruck ten or eleven years ago include "vulgar", "gross", "inappropriate" and "mentally ill".

I have been given to understand that when I submitted my resume for this job, my former employer's name caused a stir, as the memory of her presence there (and her subsequent dismissal) lingers like a persistent fart. There was some concern that I, as her assistant, might be equally as damaged, and there was apparently some hesitation about whether or not an interview would be granted to me. Luckily, one of the lawyers (the one who knows Dumptruck) ascertained that I was in need of rescuing, and thank the nine-pound baby Krishna that she did, because I was!

But now you see why I am so anxious that my health issues not get in the way of my fabulous new position, because it was almost a job I didn't get! I know what it's like to work for someone who is an unequivocal train wreck, and am daily mindful of my good fortune to be where I am.

And while this blog hasn't fulminated against anything recently, be patient. It's coming.

Bad Teeth and Feet

So it's not like any of you, dear readers, need further evidence of Teeth's bitchiness and self-indulgence, but here it is anyway (with a medical update to follow, for something completely different).

Yesterday was Teeth's birthday. I can't tell you exactly how old she is (and I am currently refraining from making jokes about looking in the horse's mouth), but she's in her early forties, which I find appalling. Anyway, Sylvester went in early and printed up a whole bunch of signs saying, "Happy Birthday, Teeth!" and plastered them all over the reception area. That way, Teeth would be greeted by this cheerful and well-intentioned messeage when she came in shortly before 8:00.

Princess Anne and Wolf Woman were sitting at reception when the little ray of sunshine arrived. She walked in, took one look at the signs and said, "I am NOT in the mood for this today." Then she stomped back to her desk in our pod. A few minutes later, Sylvester emerged and removed all the signs.

Apparently, Teeth's mother-in-law in Eastern Canada was going in for a lumpectomy that morning, and Teeth was spraining her vagina with anxiety. Still, I think her reaction was rude, juvenile and self-indulgent.

I had to leave early yesterday for a doctor's appointment (see below), and I thought I would take a little bit of passive aggressive revenge by being nicer to her than she deserved. So as I was leaving, I said as geniuinely as I could, "I hope you hear good news about your mother-in-law soon."

But it didn't work. She didn't feel guilty, only justified, I think.

Oh well, live and learn.

So, the ongoing medical saga that is my life:

Okay, so I don't spend a lot of time looking at the bottom of my feet. Hell, up until relatively recently, I had trouble seeing the tops of them! So I was a little surprized when the Little Hunneydoo told me that I had really thick callouses, especially on my left foot. I wasn't worried or anything because I figured it was just a result of fencing. No biggie, but because I'm a diabetic now, and feet are a perennial concern for the insulin-challenged, I promised the Little Hunneydoo that I would bring it up to my GP next time I saw her.

In the past, this has been problematic for me, because when I tell my GP things, she takes action like a terrier on a rat. And it almost always results in unpleasantness for me, like pints of blood being extracted for tests, vaginal ultrasounds and barium milkshakes. It occasionally makes me long for the days when I had a GP who didn't ever lay a hand on me and wrote prescriptions with careless abandon (even if they were for medications I was allergic to and which didn't work).

But a deal is a deal, so when I saw Katherine Anne next, I said, "My wife wants you to look at my feet."

And when I showed her, she said, "Those aren't callouses. Those are warts. It's a viral, auto-immune thing, and we have to treat them very aggressively."

"Treat how and aggressive what?" I asked suspiciously.

"Every two weeks, you're going to come in and we're going to spray the warts with liquid nitrogen."

Fuck you, I thought, and then Katherine Anne went off to have a baby, and for a little while, her nefarious plan to cripple me was put on the back burner, so to speak.

But, as I mentioned, she's one of these good doctors that are concerned for the well-being of her patients, and rather than just abandon us to walk-in clinics and emergency rooms, she arranged to have a locum take her place during her maternity leave. And this guy is awesome. He's terrific. He's personable, has a sense of humour, answers your questions, never hurries you, is thorough...and he does exactly what Katherine Anne tells him to do.

The first or second time I saw this guy, he was all about treating the warts. He made me take off my shoes, and then he aimed somthing that looked like an aerosol can at the bottom of my feet.

"I heard this stings a little," I said, bracing myself.

"Yeah, a little, but if it's any consolation, little kids get this done."

Then he squeezed the trigger and there was a hissing sound. But no sensation. I was delighted.

Well, hell, I thought, if this is all it is I can handle OMYFUCKINGGODWHATTHE HELLISGOINGONONMYFEET????

The most incredible stinging was driving me out of my mind. It felt like thousands of fine, freezing cold needles were boring into the bottoms of my feet and they weren't going to stop until they touched bone.

He did five "cycles" on each area of my foot and said, "There. That's good for now. I'll have you come back in two weeks and do it again."

"What if I don't?" I asked, looking for blood.

"They can spread and be a real problem," he answered. "Best if you take care of them now before they get a lot worse."

So, dutifully, I showed up again two weeks later. This time, he examined my feet and jumped up saying, "Wait a second while I get a scalpel. I'm going to carve some of the callous off."

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but to my mind, letting someone at the bottom of your feet with a razor sharp surgical knife is counter-intuitive. Especially if the bastard has every intention of slicing up your tootsies and then spraying them with liquid nitrogen AGAIN. And yet, such is my trust in Katherine Anne and her locum that I surrendered up my feet with scarcely a groan. And to be perfectly honest, the scalpel didn't hurt at all. I hardly knew he was down there. Until the spraying part. That always leaves me limping for a few days.

Christ on a crutch, that's nasty. But on the plus side, they're definitely getting better and progress is being made.

Understanding Bryan

As many followers of my blog know, I named my largest ovarian cyst after Bryan Adams. This is because I hate him with a hot, hot heat. It's not just that I hate his music (which I do--I will turn the radio off when he comes on rather than suffer through his cancer-throated grunting and less-than-original songs about lost youth and dead princesses); there is a real and personal story behind my loathing that I might share with you all one day.

Today is not that day, however.

My friend, G., dropped by the house on Monday, bearing in her hands a book she had picked up from the public library, called Uterine Fibroids by Dr. Elizabeth A. Stewart out of John Hopkins University. G. told me she thought of me upon seeing it, and thought I might get some use out of the information contained therein.

She wasn't kidding. Within minutes, I was saying to the Little Hunneydoo, "Yanno what would be amusing? If I changed the phrase 'uterine fibroid' to 'Bryan Adams' while I read this book."

And here I am, dear reader, to share my nuggets of wisdom with you, courtesy of Dr. Stewart.

For example, did you know that more than $2 billion per year is spent in the U.S. on hospitalization costs due to Bryan Adams?

Or that Bryan Adams is the leading cause of hysterectomy in the U.S.?

Some women have some frank questions about this issue. They want to know, "How do I stop Bryan Adams from growing and causing me problems?"

As well as, "How do I prevent having the same problems with Bryan Adams that my mother had?"

Sadly, the only consistent answer the good doctor has for us is "We don't know." But she does reassure us that "the changing importance of women economically has aided the search for better interventions for Bryan Adams." Thank God for that, because she also goes on to report that women with Bryan Adams often report having periods that are painful or heavy (or both). Certainly, he gives me an acute rectal pain, if not a stabbing sensation in the wahoo.

In the final chapter, however, Dr. Stewart admits that "It is unlikely that a 'magic bullet' for Bryan Adams will be found in my lifetime." And that's too bad, because Canada has spent a lot of years apologizing for that lame prick. Both my nation and my ovary are tired of it.

Piss off, Bryan.

The Sonar Dildo, Take Two

I actually had two ultrasounds this month; the first one was just an abdominal, which doesn't involve the ramming of giant dildos into one's hoohoo. I had the same technician as last time, though, the one I farted for, and I can't be sure, but she might have twitched slightly when she saw that I was her next customer. There was a brief moment when her face registered, "Oh, Fartypants is back," but it was over so quickly, I couldn't be certain.

That ultrasound wasn't at all traumatic, and the results only went on to prove that when it comes to medical concerns, I'm virtually a fucking rockstar. My g.p. tells me I have gallstones and a cyst on my kidney! WOOT! But whereas the radiologists almost always want you to follow up on kidney cysts, this was is of no consequence at all. And so far, the gallstones appear to be silent, so I'm good with that. My understanding of gallstones is that they are hellaciously painful, as in 'lying-on-the-bathroom-floor-crying-for-your-mama" pain. I pass, thanks.

The following week, I had the dreaded transvaginal, to check up on Bryan, the cyst in my left ovary, and the thickness of my cervical lining. This time, I had a different technician who was cheerful and laughed at my jokes and was so pleasant, I considered asking her for "the happy finish". I didn't though, because the whole procedure was just so uncomfortable. This time, the probe looked less like the Olympic torch and more like a Jamaican doobie, only--and I don't know how I missed this the first time--the end of it had, like, the Red Eye of Sauron. And I swear that fuckin' thing winked at me!

Anyway, like last time, I inserted it into my fairy pocket and then the technician started moving it around like she was shifting gears or something. DISCOMFORT! I mean, once I almost sat up and said, "Hey, Dale Earnhardt, that's my vagina, not a transmission, and we're not going off-road here. Take it easy!"

But it was over soon enough and a few days later I was summoned to my g.p.'s office to go over the results. She was thrilled to tell me that, although Bryan was the same size, the uterine lining was a normal thickness and the cyst that had been in my right ovary was gone. Whee! So I told her that the metformin is kicking my ass and giving me indigestion and diarrhea.

"Urgent diarrhea?" she asked.

My first reaction was to reply, "Is there any other kind? I mean, is there indolent diarrhea? How many patients feel the urge and think, 'Oh, diarrhea; it can wait until I'm finished the fucking crossword'?"

But, since she's the one who orders all the tests, I decided not to sass her and said, "You could call it urgent. I prefer to think of it as 'imperative'."

"Sometimes the gallstones can present with those symptoms," she said. "Have you ever had a barium blahblahblahblahblah..."

To be honest, once I heard the word "barium", I just tuned out. My brain shut off.

"You know," I said, when she had stopped talking, "it's not that big a deal. I pop a couple of Zantec and I'm good to go."

"Hmmm..." she said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Suddenly the indigestion isn't so bad, huh?"

"Listen," I said, "my mother lost a good pair of shoes because of a barium enema."

She seemed to sag a little bit on her spine, and J., who had come along for moral support, just sighed and rolled her eyes.

"It's not an enema," the doctor explained. "You swallow it, and it's still chalky and unpleasant, but it's not an enema."

"Does this involve ramming probes into any orifice?"

"No, it's x-rays."

"Okay, I'll do it."

That finished, I wandered off the next week to the gynecologist's office for the biopsy. I was even more nervous about this than the transvaginal sonar dildo. The nurse took my blood pressure (which was slightly elevated, go figure!), and told me to take my pants off and sit on the table. A few minutes later, the specialist came in. I was even further disconcerted, because he looked a lot like my brother, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was discussing my hoohoo with my male sibling.

Anyway, the specialist said, "Dr. Kasha has indicated that you have a cyst in your ovary and your uterine lining is thick."

"Dr. Kasha," I said emphatically, "is an alarmist."

He seemed to take that well, and went on to tell me that what the radiologist referred to as a large fibroid cyst (i.e. Bryan) is not medically "large" at 3 cm. That's golfball size.

"When I talk about large," he said, "I mean this," and described in the air with his hands an object the size of a turnip.

"Furthermore," he continued, "your uterine lining is well within the range of normal, so we're certainly not looking at cancer."

Whee! So he put me on a birth control pill called "Yaz" (which made me want to break out into "Goodbye Seventies, for some reason), which he says is 90% effective against ovarian and uterine cancers. (Not so much cervical cancer, though, so I still need paps and shit). Also for the first couple of months, I will get my period back.

"Oh, come on!" I snapped. "Serious? I was having a good time until now!"

"I know," he said patiently, "but you only have to do it for the first couple of months. Then you can chose not to have your period again."

"Alright," I said reluctantly. "And no surgery? I was kinda hoping to give Bryan his eviction notice and score some time off work."

"No surgery," he said.

So, while there isn't an immediate resolution to the polycystic ovarian syndrome, and the Red Army will invade the summer house again, all in all, NOT HAVING CANCER is great news. And, NO BIOPSY!

WOOT!

The Sonar Dildo

Well, it's been almost three days now, and I think I've recovered enough from the trauma to talk about it without losing my mind and going off on irrelevant tangents.

The appointment was for 2:15 and the lady from the clinic told me to be there for 2:00 and to make sure my bladder was full. So I hammered back a litre of water in 45 minutes I(I shoulda made it beer) and had J. drive my nervous ass over to the clinic.

And I was nervous. I'd been hearing all kinds of horror stories about the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound. Someone told me they used a speculum to prop you open. Someone else said you inserted the sonar dildo yourself. Others said they would do it for you. One chick told me it was a little probe. Still another made it sound like they were going to insert something the size of a city bus into my va-jay-jay.

My doctor had, the week before, done everything to allay my fears by scrunching up her face and saying, "It's weird."

"Weird" is probably one of those technical terms she trained many years to learn. All I knew was that, by the time 2:00 came around, my bladder was screaming like the claxon on Star Trek when the Romulans are off the starboard bow and my bowel wasn't very happy either. It was making all kinds of weird gurgling noises and I thought I sensed a certain familiar pressure, but since I had to pee so bad my eyes were crossed, it was kinda hard to tell.

I was shown into a dark ultrasound room ("What is this? Mood lighting?" I thought), and the technician asked, "Is your bladder full?" To which I said, "Jesus, YES!"

She did not laugh. She did not even smile. I could tell right away, it was going to be one of those experiences.

She told me to get up on the examination table and lay down on my back. She yanked the waistband of my pants down to my squishy bits like some impatient high school boy and told me to lift up my shirt. My belly was so distended from all the friggin' water that I looked like Snoopy lying on top of his doghouse. Not sexy.

But it's hard to be sexy when your bladder is making sounds like a latex balloon being rubbed, or--waitaminute, is that my bladder? Maybe it's my bowel. Well, anyway, in order to distract myself from the "weirdness" that was moments away, I watched the images on the monitor as the nice warm, gooey paddle (or whatever that thing is called, I should google it but fuck it, I can't be arsed) glided over my Snoopy-belly.

I tried to ask questions, but the technician wasn't interested in establishing a relationship with me. And I'm sure it's safer for her this way: it must be emotionally draining to ram the sonar dildo into the boxes of various women everyday, trying to convince yourself that "each box is special in it's own unique way", only to have those boxes walk out the door at the end of the procedure, never to be seen again. Eventually, you just shut yourself off emotionally, and remind yourself that you're just there to provide a service, just you and the sonar dildo.

And when I say, "I tried to ask questions", of course I mean about what I was seeing on the screen. I wasn't like, "So, do you come here often?" or "Do I know you?" or "How big is your sonar dildo, hawt mama?"

It was more like, "Is that my kidney?"

"Yes."

"That black spot in the centre?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Is that an ovary?"

"Yes."

"Neat. Can I see my fallopian tubes?"

"No."

"Oh." Pause. "Is that because I'm not permitted, or--"

"We just can't see them."

"Okay."

So, rebuffed, I just laid there, trying not to piss the table, and hoping that she couldn't hear my gut rumbling like a monster truck engine. When she was finished using her nice warm, gooey paddle to press on my kidneys, she told me to go empty my bladder and, when I came back, to take off my pants and get back up on the table.

Finally, we had come to the horror portion of the show.

Resignedly, but compliantly, I went off to the public washroom and drained my clam. SUCH RELIEF! But, as good as it felt to finally relieve the pressure on my bladder, my joy was shortlived when I realized that my bowel was going to be a Nazi bastard.

Fuck.

So, back I went to the dimly lit ultrasound room, dropped my drawers and got up on the table. She was back moments later, and appeared at my ankles, brandishing something about the size of the Olympic torch.

Immediately, my body cramped like a fist. My box sent a message, special hot-shot courier service to my brain: "You're fuckin' kidding, right?"

Brain: "Uh, stand by for further developments."

The technician said, "I'm gonna need you to insert this."

Box to Brain: "UPDATE! She's not fuckin' around!"

Brain: "Uh...hold on...we're...um....I...oh, shit..."

My bowel, out of nerves, started jumping up and down like a Jack Russell Terrier.

"Actually, maybe you could do it," I suggested.

She gave me a look as if to say, You wish, honey, but said, "Give it a shot. Only the tip needs to go in."

I gave her a look that said, Yeah, right. That's what they all say.

So. I sat up, grabbed the dildo cam and, just as I was weirdly penetrating my pissflaps with the Olympic torch while a complete stranger watched (and not for $3.99 a minute this time), I farted.

It was the finest moment of my adult life.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," she replied.

At that moment, several thoughts occurred to me. On one hand, I thought, "Splendid. Can you explain that to my wife? She doesn't think it's okay." And on the other hand, I also thought, "Oh, good, cuz there's more. LOT'S more."

But instead, I sank back in utter humiliation, betrayed by my treacherous colon, and she proceeded to move the dildo cam around like I was some kind of popsicle and the exam table was a giant mouth. There was considerable pressure on my pelvic bone and it was, as the doctor had promised, "weird". I concentrated mostly on breathing and trying to relax.

It seemed to take forever, because the technician couldn't get a good look at my left ovary. Apparently, it's camera shy. Or maybe it had heard the messages sent to my brain from my box and was hiding out behind my liver, waiting for the dildo cam to leave. I pictured it peeking out from behind the appendix like a homeowner on a Sunday morning when the Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking: "Are they gone? No, don't go look, they'll see! Then they'll never leave!"

"Can you tilt your hips?" the technician asked.

It's not easy tilting your hips with the CN Tower stuck in your twat, and your asshole threatening to unleash a Weapon of Ass Destruction, but I did what I could. It wasn't enough, though and she had to remove the dildo cam (insert cork popping sound here) and go back to using the nice warm, gooey paddle thing. But not before she reamed me good.

Eventually, she got the Sears Family Portrait series of Mama Uterus and the two Ovary Girls that she wanted, and said, taking off her gloves, "Your doctor should have the results in a couple of days. Have a great day."

And that was that.

Next on Gynacology Weekly, a Pap Smear and Internal Exam!

Even Sweeter Piss

On Tuesday of this week, I had a meeting with the Chronic Disease nurse and my doctor, who wanted to talk to me about the diabetes and results of the blood work I had done last week.

So the Chronic Disease Nurse was very helpful and gave me all kinds of interesting and necessary information about what to eat and how much and what to avoid and what will help, etcetera etcetera, and I was feeling all relaxed and comfortable and "Yeah, I can do this! I'm gonna make diabetes my bitch!"

And then she said, "And an important part of all this is checking your blood sugar levels."

Immediately, I was suspicious. Blood sugar levels? Doesn't that involve blood? Which is properly and typically stored in the body? And to test it, don't you need to somehow get it out?

Well, yes, in fact you do. She gave me this machine, which is like carrying around a pocket vampire, and showed me how to inflict a wound on myself so as to check out the sugar levels. NOT IMPRESSED, PEOPLE! When she first brought out the lancing device, I thought, "NO FUCKIN' WAY!" In my mind, this thing took on the proportions of a railway spike, and the way life likes to kick me in the junk every so often, I was convinced I would hit a massive artery in my finger and bleed out in seconds.

Following this disheartening interview, I then progressed to meeting with my doctor. You know, the one who gave me diabetes, fatty liver disease and polycystic ovarian syndrome to start with. Yeah, I wanted to see her like Joan of Arc wanted to see a match. Anyway, she proceeded to tell me that my cholesterol is also high, but she's giving me three months before she prescribes drugs for it. So then I told her that I've been doing some of my own research on PCOS, and I'm pretty sure that's what she gave me (she smirked--a sure sign of guilt), and with regard to treatment, can't we just haul the old things out? After all, it's not like I'm using them.

To which she replied, "Well, that's something you can discuss with the gynacologist."

Gynacologist?

Yeah, because she's sending me for an inter-uterine biopsy. BIOPSY. Isn't that where they take stuff out of you with no intention of putting it back? Well, naturally, my brain went to the darkest, bleakest area available and conjured up images of my hoohoo being probed by some medieval instrument the size of a firehose. J., who went with me to this appointment, started to laugh because she knew exactly what I was thinking, which went something like this:

"AAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!"

Lemme sketch it out for you, folks: over the next few weeks/months, I have scheduled two pelvic ultrasounds, one pap smear and internal exam, one abdominal ultrasound and a uterine biopsy. With the very real potential of a hysterectomy. WTF? My pregnant sister doesn't have this many people peering up her cooch! What am I, some kind of finger puppet? By the time I am finished, half of the province will have been in my snatch! I should institute a cover charge.

Anyway, I'm now up to my full daily dose of metformin, started paying more attention to what I eat and started yoga last night. And I'm taking my blood sugar levels regularly; the lancets have decreased in size from a railway spike and are more like a finishing nail, but it is still highly counter-intuitive to draw blood on yourself. Of course, the first night I had it, I wanted to 'hurry up and get used to it" and spent a long time poking myself in various fingers trying to figure out where the best places were to do it and how deep the lancet needed to go, so it was a lot of, "CLICK! OW!CLICK! OW!"

My first set of pelvic ultrasounds are scheduled for Monday. This is the one where they stick the sonar dildo up my cooter.

Wow. Can't wait.

Sweet Piss

I opened my schedule book last week and looked over my To Do list. And there next to "Milk" and "Bread" and "Dr. Appt" was "Get diabetes".

So I went off to my Doctor's appointment, because she wanted to go over the results of the blood tests I had the week before. Did I forget to mention the blood tests? I did. I probably also forgot to mention that I have a new doctor now, because the other one, Norman, was something of a tool. So, yeah, I have a new G.P. who is really, really thorough. She not only sent me for blood tests, but also ordered an ECG and wanted me to whiz in a cup. And then she booked a physical and two ultrasounds. WTF?

And I'll tell you, those blood tests were fuckin' AWFUL. I have really low blood pressure and I'm FAT, so the technicians (yes, two of them were required!) had difficulty finding a vein. They ended up taking blood out of the back of my hands, and, because my b.p. is so low, the veins would just stop flowing before they got enough to do tests on. I had two puncture wounds in each hand; I looked like the victim of an incompetent vampire.

Anyway, the doctor wanted to see me before my physical in early February, and when she got me into the exam room, she told me that I have Type II diabetes. SCORE! I am *such* an over-achiever! Not only that, my thyroid is borderline, I show signs of having fatty liver disease and I'm not menopausal, so there is no good reason why my uterus has decided to stop shedding its lining every month. How's that for starters? HIGH FIVES!

She's putting me on metformin, which she says is really hard on the G.I tract and may cause nausea, vomitting and diarrhea (to which Janet says, "How will you know?" LOL @ her when I SHIT THE BED!).

The metformin is supposed to make me more sensitive to my insulin, as apparently I have been a jerk to my it, and it blabbed everything to the doctor during the bloodtests. When I got in the car after the appointment, I said, "Oh, sorry, insulin; have I been INSENSITIVE? Have I been ignoring you? Does my liver feel overworked? Whatever! I'm going for a beer!"(I was careful not to actually go for a beer, though, cuz honestly, you don't want to piss off your internal organs.)

On the positive side, I understand that the urine of diabetics is quite sweet, so I'm thinking of marketing my pee as pop. It'll look (and taste) like Mountain Dew. Swear.

As well, the metformin is supposed to help with weight loss, and that's a positive thing, because being diabetic and untreated is probably why Weight Watchers didn't work for me while I was going. Once the metformin gets into my system, I'll have to try it again, and see if I have more success with it.If I have as much success getting well as I have getting sick, I'll be running marathons in no time!