Because I Don't Have Enough Problems

It's shit like this...

...that really pisses me off.

Here I am, minding my own business, trolling the internet for the newest headlines (on company time, of course—I'm all about full disclosure), when BAM!, my mind is suddenly flooded with the image of a mangled 737 plummeting to the ground.

The woman in seat 9B catches my eye. With sheer terror on her face, she coddles her screaming toddler for the last time. The Dora coloring books the girl scribbled in moments before fly to the back of the plane, as the elderly businessman in the seat over holds his blackberry firmly to his ear. Oxygen masks swing violently overhead as he informs his wife of 49 years, on their answering machine, that he won't be returning home. He whispers "I love you," tears streaming from his ice blue eyes, then asks that she hug each of their children for him. She doesn't retrieve the message until later that afternoon. The groceries for their dinner fall to the floor.

The United Airlines plane, or what's left of it, crashes into the middle of suburban Utah, killing not only all 211 passengers on board, but also the 16 year-old girl in the yellow, two-story house they crash into—the girl, tragically, had returned home just moments before, after taking her 3 year-old golden retriever, Eppe, for a walk. Eppe, now deaf and somewhat skittish from the explosion, survived the crash.

The woman in the neighboring house was severely maimed by the shrapnel that rained down on her as she pruned her roses in the front yard. After being med-vac'd to the trauma unit, the 52 year-old, breast cancer survivor died. Not from the loss of blood caused by two severed legs, but by an overdose of tramadol, administered by a seasoned anesthesiologist, who, incidentally, had too many glasses of scotch the night before, after learning his oldest son—married with children—was gay.

Okay, wait. Let's be honest here. There was no toddler or golden retriever named Eppe; it was me I saw on that crashing plane and pruning those roses. But my narcissism is besides the point. You, you darling little ad maker, put me through all of this just to tell me tort reform is bad? A little melodramatic, don't cha think?

Words to Live by

You can’t change yesterday, but you can ruin today worrying about tomorrow.

-Anonymous

Can't Win for Losin'

One of the more challenging aspects of being a hypochondriac is the constant effort that is required to shield oneself from the plethora of medical information floating around out there. (And needless to say, I'm referring to the time that is not spent intentionally seeking this information out.).

Say for instance, you're at work, minding your own business; surfing the net, when you end up—as you often do—at the mind-numbing, courier covered site of Matt Drudge. You assess the possibilities as your eyes wander down the page...

New HIV Strain discovered in Cameroon...

(Tempting, but where the hell is Cameroon?)

'Leapt to humans from gorillas'...

(That's nasty; we all know it didn't just "leap.")

Russian soccer fans urged to drink whisky to ward off swine flu...

(Hmm, maybe my dad’s Russian.)

UK: Patients forced to live in agony after NHS refuses to pay for painkilling injections...

(That's a panic attack waiting to happen.)

Woman jogger mauled by 8 hunting dogs...

(Good thing I don’t jog.)

But you—being the responsible hypochondriac that you are—you, don't follow the link about people being denied medication, nor do you click on the article about H1N1. No, you—in a conscious effort to maintain your sanity—you, take the safe path, and go with:

Sudan trouser woman 'ready for 40,000 lashes'...

That's right "trouser woman." As in woman getting her ass kicked for wearing trousers. No disease. No death. No swine. A little corporal punishment, but hey, it's all in good fun. And what are you rewarded with for making this educated decision?

"Hussein, who is in her 30s and whose husband died of kidney failure, told AFP in a telephone interview: "'I'm ready for anything to happen'..."

Wonderful.

Syke

Um, yeah, forget that last post; the whole medication "thing," the resolute "I START MOTHERFUCKING PAXIL ON SUNDAY, BITCHES!" um, never happened. You see, in an ongoing effort to infuriate my pharmacist (and to avoid being killed by generic medication), I demanded brand name Paxil. Something that is, apparently, very hard to get. So hard to get, in fact, that to obtain such a rare and magical, little pill, one must possess special powers; such as the ability to pick up a fucking phone and order it. An ability my pharmacist has yet to master.

So in the two-week period that it took for him to secure a bottle of those magical, little, brand name pills, I started to think. I started to think (a) I really need to find a competent pharmacist; and (b) WTF?

How the hell did I walk out of that doctor's office with a prescription for Paxil? I went there for a rash, and—if we're being completely honest—the false belief that my throat was closing, but nonetheless! Taking drugs (prescribed ones, at least) has been something I've mulled over for years. Something I've resisted for years. And now, all of a sudden, I'm popping pills, because some arrogant quack told me I NEED to after a casual five-minute exam of the rash on my abdomen.

There was no discussion. No exploration of options. No mention of a psychiatrist. No nothing. Just an apathetic scribble on a little pad of paper.

I think Paxil would have been a dream come true for me three years ago. Today, I think I'm better suited for something like Valium; something I can pop in the heat of an attack (heart, or otherwise). My doctor may have known that, if he'd taken the time to ask.

Bottom line is this: I'm in the market for a new doctor. Oh and a pharmacist. But what else is new?

The Dark Side

This morning on my way to work I had what one might call a “breakdown.” A minor breakdown, I’d say, but a breakdown nonetheless.

You see, a couple days ago I noticed an army of tiny, red, scaly bumps camping out on my stomach and breast. I was freaked out, yes, but figured with enough beer and a little anti-bacterial cream they’d go away on their own. Then, I woke up this morning.

Nothing remarkable had happened. Honestly, nothing had changed at all; aside from the fact that overnight I went bat-shit-crazy and was suddenly convinced that my throat was closing—needless to say—because of the rash. One frantic phone call and an hour later, I found myself in a backless gown, sitting on that tissue-lined table I know so well.

Before the doctor could get one foot in the door, I started rattling on about my rash and swollen tongue and closing throat and not being able to breath and oh, my new puppy—more on the pug later—who possibly, although doubtfully, was the cause of the entire ordeal.

As I carried on, he silently inspected my scaly abdomen (and “boob” as he lovingly referred to it), then looked at me blankly and explained that the puppy was, indeed, not the problem. The problem, he continued, “was the anxiety” and that was what I needed to be treated for.

He begged me (kind of) to humor him, and take the meds for a miniscule two weeks. I (begrudgingly) agreed. But, I’ll have you know, only after he swore on his dead mother’s grave (and license) that I would not suffer a stroke, aneurysm or heart attack during that time.

So, to make a long story short, I start Paxil on Sunday. Whoa, let me say that again (this time in the universally annoying all caps): I START MOTHERFUCKING PAXIL ON SUNDAY, BITCHES!

Stay tuned…

Tweet-da-leet-a-leet, Tweet-da-leet-a-leet...

All the little bloggers on Hypo Street
Love it when Leila goes tweet, tweet, tweet…
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Oh yes, I’ve still got it. I’m still capable of creating annoying versions of already annoying songs. It’s one of my many, many talents, along with neglecting my blog and contracting rare illnesses.

I am still alive for those of you that care. Although I’m suffering from cervical cancer, which I developed after allowing a nurse to inject me with a “vaccine” that I knew was unsafe.

But that’s beside the point; this whole tweet-da-leet-ing post is to announce that I—much behind the curve as usual—have joined Twitter. You can find my tweets, or twits if you prefer, over in the sidebar.