Now that Sophie is finally "fixed", here we are - contending with my seemingly neverending medical stuff. A little switcharoo, of sorts, it seems. Actually, I'm starting to wonder if God brought us through the Sophie stuff, just so we could take on this new trial. I mean, it would get pretty tricky - trying to corral barf and syringe her from my new favorite flat-on-the-floor position.
I know God never promised that life would be easy. Quite the contrary, in fact - He promised troubled times and suffering here on Earth. Not 'til Heaven do we get the bliss. I get that, I really do. And I'm okay with that. I don't expect blue skies and calm waters all the time. But my goodness gracious, what I wouldn't give to not have to deal with feeling crapola for awhile. Even just a little while. One blissful poo-free week - that's what I'm looking for.
Yes, it's true. I'm cranky.
Let's start with the good news. Some of you may have already heard: the "little breast incident" (as I now like to think of it) turned out A-okay. The scary spot that looked alarmingly to the doctors like IBC turned out to be just a really ticked off inclusion cyst, with lots and lots of inflamed tissue under it. All that remains from that Scary Thursday is one Bad Dude Scar. It kind of looks like I was involved in an altercation with a shark. One rather impressive CHOMP. ...From a shark with a predisposition for large breasts.
So what do I wake up to this morning? The other boob - with a spot all red-ish/purple and weird. Inflamed looking. What is causing all of this stinking inflammation?! Plus, I'm still cling-to-things crazy dizzy. Still gastrically challenged. Still achy. Still having unbelievably debilitating headaches. Which means...yep, still sporting my fantastically stylish Ace bandage. (It's going to catch on, I'm telling you!)
What in the name of Mystery Diagnosis is going ON WITH ME???
The doctors certainly don't know.
Yeah. I'm starting to lose faith in the medical community. (Sorry, dad.) I feel like I'm just constantly getting passed from specialist to specialist. Each running their particular gamut of not so fun tests. Only to be passed to the next expert. None of which seems overly interested in actually listening to me. Isn't "listening" kind of a prerequisite to "diagnosing"?
I've encountered a couple of gems during my Doctor Tour of 2008 who don't seem to think so. One in particular had his nose so far buried in his laptop (they don't use pen and paper anymore, by the way, to record things) - click, click, clicking away. Picking the boxes that he thought fit me. Like he was filling out the Create-Your-Own-Fajita form at Chili's. I'm still not sure how he made his selections since he had yet to hear me speak concerning my symptoms. He kept his head buried, yelling out: "Headaches?" "Mouth sores?" "Pain in your joints?" I seriously felt like I needed to hop-to and salute. Sir, yes, sir!! After his form filling out shenanigans, he stood up. "On the table." He pointed. I hopped up and he launched into a poking frenzy. "Does it hurt here? Here? Here? How about here?" I barely had time to get out a yep, nope, yep, yep and he was back on his stool, furiously clicking buttons again. He then declared me to have "some sort of connective tissue disease...with probably some fibromyalgia too". Or, he said, "It's possible you have something else." And then he walked out.
He walked out, people! I didn't know if he was going to get a prescription pad or a referral form or possibly some conclude-our-splendid-time-together whiskey for both of us to shoot... So I waited for fifteen minutes there in my paper gown before finally peeking out in the hall where his nurse was standing. I asked if he was through with me and she said, "Well, yes. I think so."
"Connective Tissue Disease with a swirl of Fibromyalgia, bye, bye! I'm off to an office full of people anxious to remain mute while I sum them up clicking through my nifty laptop. See ya!" What the frick? Kind of reminded me of Dr. Vestibular, who determined my dizziness wasn't vestibularly motivated in the first minute and a half of seeing me. How could he tell? What can you possibly tell in ninety seconds? ...Other than that I've had a bath prior to my appointment, you're welcome.
I'm telling you, I am thisclose to going stark-raving LOCO on some poor unsuspecting doctor. As in: institutionally nuts. All it's going to take is the illusion of boredom or aloofness, and that's going to be it. They're going to need to yell for the straight jacket and tazer gun.
WRITE IT DOWN! This date. This time. I officially warned The Internet about the moment that will result in me being the lead story on the local news.
Aaaaaaaa! I need to decompress. Perhaps jet off to the islands. Sip some fruity drinks. Breeeeeeeeathe.
So. Where'd this little treat of an emotional dump come from, you ask? I don't know. After almost a solid year of dealing with this junk, I guess I've had it. I'm worn out. Monday I'm having a CTA of the arteries in my brain (when I pressed the neurologist on whether that was really necessary, he proceeded to share a lovely little story about a woman my age with five aneurysms) and a lumbar puncture. Otherwise known as a spinal tap. Tree-trunk needle in my spine time. Bring out the iodine and party hats!!
Or maybe it's because Sophie's birthday is one week away and I'm too stinking exhausted and yucky feeling to even plan for it. I can't even get out of my p.j's or comb the bird's nest out of my hair half the time these days, much less shop for her presents and party supplies, make invitations, and order a cake with her face on it. (That's what she wants this year. Her face, surrounded by rainbows and flowers. How does she come up with this stuff?) Nor can I imagine taking on Chuck E. Cheese and his menagerie of freakishly large, dancing rodent friends for an evening. Oh, man, the video games. The rides - flashing, whirring, blinking, beeping. Dizzy? Here, have a seizure instead. Dear Lord, help me next Friday. (Hee.)
It's getting to me. Some days more than others. I feel like I'm missing things. I feel like I've lost my fun. I totally sympathize with Stella. I need to get my groove back too. (How'd she do it? Oh, yeah, I seem to remember it had something to do with Tae Diggs. And rediscovering their Inner Hormonal Teenage Selves together.)
Maybe I need to read this a few hundred times. I should probably print it out and tape it to my forehead for easy reference.
What do you guys think? Won't this face look nice on a birthday cake?
Or maybe I should go with this one... Aw.