Simple Horrors

Here I am, minding my own business on this lovely Sunday morning; drinking my Tito’s Bloody Mary and flipping through the latest edition of Self, when I stumbled across this handy, little nugget of information:

“Neti pot lovers, beware.  It’s highly rare, but using the sinus-clearing devices with water straight from tap could let (wait for it) a brain-eating amoeba enter your skull and, um, kill you in days…”

I have a feeling the neti pot (or amoeba farm) sitting in my shower right now is not going to be there for long.

The Hunger Games (Part I)

I’ve never had any apprehension about drinking the Kool-Aid (especially when mixed with vodka, or money), so it was no surprise that after a six-year stint working at a law firm that defended companies against claims of discrimination and harassment, I developed a deep-seeded belief that discrimination and harassment did not exist. 

I passionately carried this belief with me to a new job—the in-house legal department of an evil Power Company—and these beliefs took me far.  After only a year of working at the Company, I occupied an office coveted by lifers (never mind that it didn’t have a window).  The company was made up of 3,000 people and the CEO knew my name!  One Thursday morning, I received an email informing me that I’d been appointed “leader” of a company-wide process improvement team to manage the implementation of a new discipline tracking system—wait, this is where we cue the scary music. 

This “process improvement team” was to consist of me (feeble, little, 27 year-old, anxiety-ridden hypochondriac) and an assortment of eight seasoned, director-level participants.  In other words -- not going to fucking happen. 

Sitting in an office with the door closed hammering out work was something I could handle, but this “team” was to meet every week for two hours to discuss ideas -- I can barely eek out my name in a group that size.

So, I did what any rational person would do; I went home and bawled.  Then I bawled some more and lived for weeks in a state of sheer terror, until I decided to do what I avoid doing at all costs:  I would out myself.  I would inform my boss that I have severe social anxiety and, simply, could not lead the team. 

I mean, surely she would understand.  I had worked for her for almost ten years; I was a stellar employee; I carried her bags; I covered up her affairs, for Christ sake.  Who cares about a stupid process improvement team? 

So I popped two little, blue pills and stumbled into her office to break the news.  I plopped into the impersonal, beige chair as she sat stiffly at her throne looking gaunt.  Her piercing blue eyes remained fixed on the monitor in front of her as I heard the words falling out of my mouth.

“Janessa, I saw the email about the process improvement team and I-- uh-- I’m not comfortable being the leader.”

“Well, there are other process improvement teams being formed and no one wants to be the leader.  I’m not letting those people out of it, so I’m not letting you out of it either. Hisssssssssssss.”

“But Janessa, you don’t understand.  I have really bad social anxiety and I wouldn’t be able to speak in a group that size, let alone lead the team.”

I sat paralized as her eyes slowly lifted to callously meet the tears that had formed in mine.  In the back of my mind I heard a strange voice, “Let the ‘Games’ Begin...”

On the Road Again

Do not let my absenteeism lead you to believe that my hypochondria has been cured.  I, myself, fell into this trap (mistaking an unhealthy obsession with a horrible job and lack of time—read laziness—for the cure), but I, begrudgingly, must confess that I am as sick as ever (at least in my mind). 

The years spent away from the blog have been a whirlwind and as a testament to how crazy I still am; in my mind, I never left - I’ve actually been blogging this entire time. 

That terrifying midnight trip to the hospital prompted by violent spewing of deep red blood from my intestines (and the dude bumping the ‘80’s boom box in the waiting room) – blogged about it. 

The “flu” that caused me to throw up in a public bathroom and made me crap myself in my sleep – blogged about it.

My love affair with Xanax and Valium – blogged about it.

Oh, and Saturday’s St. Paddy’s Day sangria binge that ended in throat cancer – totally blogged about it.

In all honesty and the above incidents aside, I’m leaps and bounds from where I was in 2006, and to that I owe the blog and all the support I received from the hypo community.  But the reality is I’m still an anxiety-ridden hypochondriac and I still have a lot of work to do, so here I find myself – back at the blog I never left…

The Shit That Comes Out of His Mouth

While rambling on about the omnipresent blog revival, I informed Rey that I needed a new cartoon created for my profile (because, clearly, it’s that dated drawing over in the corner that’s impeding my ability to write).

I went on to inform him that I would not be meeting the artist in person because artists who draw caricatures for a living are cynical and judgmental. Instead, I asked that he find a good, skinny picture of me for the artist to work from. His response?

“We don’t have any.”

I love you too, honey.

State of the Union

Really, Internet? I dare to take a minuscule nine-month break from blogging, and upon my return I’m greeted with links to incestuous porn sites, propaganda for the Ohio Lottery, and a lot of 効率 的に優れている (which, I’m assuming, means cheap Viagra in Chinese)? Not exactly a proper welcome, if I do say so myself.

Although, I suppose there’s an argument that I deserve it. Running off like that! Without a word. Getting married. Having a child. Buying a house. And making a major career changing move. If that doesn’t earn me a little Megan-Fox-in-a-Bra-Spam, I don’t know what will.

Aside from Chron’s, the limp caused by my knee tumor, and my struggle with HPV; life these last couple months has been good.

In short (with details to follow, I promise (read maybe))…

• The lovely and obnoxious Rey and I finally tied the knot. We eloped in Tahoe, Valentine’s Day weekend, then broke the news to our family with customized M&M’s. Needless to say, not everyone was amused.

• I am pleased to announce that I am the proud mother of a beautiful baby girl named Ming. She is 20lbs 2oz with an incredible fawn coat and a penchant for eating toilet paper.

• Behind the curve as usual, we bought a home; two blocks from our previous dwelling. And while one might think that that might make moving easier, one would be incredibly wrong.

• Lastly, I accepted large bags of cash to leave my cushy job at America’s snobbiest law firm for a quasi-government job (and I'm kicking myself in the ass for it everyday).

So there you have it, nine months summed up in four bullet points. Who said life was too short?

To all of you who took the time to write, my apologies for being too rude (and drunk) to respond. For those of you who took the time to spam, this middle finger’s for you.

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…
Rock that bloggin’…
Tweet, Tweet-da-leet, Rock that bloggin’…

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.

Say Aww

Seeing as how I’ve had four—yes, 1, 2, 3, 4—root canals (on the same tooth), in the last three months, I’m not particularly tickled with this article about the implications of poor oral hygiene.

Why can’t a cavity just be a cavity? Dry mouth a sign of thirst? What has the world become when a cavity equates to heart disease; dry mouth to leukemia? Is it me, or are things getting a little bizarre here?

Aside from a mouth full of fillings and four recent root canals, I—prior to my tonsillectomy—was a chronic sufferer of strep throat. So maybe, just maybe, my skepticism is based on the realization that if “opening your mouth” really is like, “cracking open the hood of your car,” then I’m screwed. But I stand by my initial reaction that any article with the words: “your dentist should be one of your best friends,” is a real crock.

One Small Request

Even though I take birth control religiously, and have done so for almost nine years, I have a creepy obsession with becoming impregnated, and pregnancy in general. Honestly, I’m half convinced that I’m pregnant right now, (which would be supported by this morning’s nausea and dry heaving around the house).

This may sound harsh, but pregnant women d-i-s-g-u-s-t me. And I realize how horrible that sounds, but come on, there is nothing “beautiful” or “glowing” about a swollen, waddling woman about to squeeze a spawn out of her peesh.

Although, it’s apparent that this belief is not supported by the masses, or the media, because I am constantly bombarded by pregnant women. For instance, how am I expected to ever purge from my mind the image of Kate (of Jon and Kate Plus 8) laying on her back with a ginormus stomach wrapped in saran wrap, or—and I don’t know which is worse—the image of her sagging stomach after popping out six kids. For heaven’s sake, I watched a C-Section this morning; I watched an eight pound screaming human cut out of a woman’s stomach. I’m scarred for life!

So, this post is simply to ask that the human race stop procreating, because really, it’s become quite a bother.

On Being a Bastard

As you may, or may not know; at the delicate age of twelve years, seventeen hours, thirty two minutes and fourteen seconds, I learned—from a drunken woman—that the man I thought was my father, was indeed not my father. Instead, as she further explained; my father, my biological father that is, was actually my “father’s” married best friend, who she, (my mother, The Beast as I loving refer to her), slept with in an act of revenge.

Needless to say, this was traumatizing, on many levels, for many years. But as time passed, I stopped wondering why and started wondering what.

What kind of diseases am I unknowingly at a higher risk of developing because of this dude’s genes? What if generations upon generations of women in his family have died of breast cancer before the age of forty? What if they exhibit a strong susceptibility for rheumatoid arthritis? Alzheimer’s? Parkinson’s?

At times these thoughts consume me; so much so, that I’m considering hiring a private investigator. I mean really, if you think about it, it’d just be another medical expense, an investment in preventative care; that, and I’ve always wondered what he looks like.

Back to the (Barely) Living

As a consequence of recent events, I’ve developed an arm condition. Yes, an arm condition, which is odd in and of itself because the arm is not a body part I typically have issues with. Usually, I try to focus my efforts on more vital areas, like the brain or heart or liver, but nonetheless, desperate times call for desperate measures and I in turn have developed an arm condition. A condition I’ve coined as “Cold Arm;” a derivative of Cold Shoulder.

Now, when I say this condition is a derivative of Cold Shoulder, I do not mean of the phrase, (i.e., I give my mom the cold shoulder because she’s a conniving bitch), no, that’s not what I mean at all, I mean it in the medical sense of the term; “Cold Shoulder” or “Frozen Shoulder,” as it’s sometimes called, (i.e., I can’t move my fucking arm).

I was first exposed to this syndrome a couple years ago on a family cruise through the Bahamas when Rey’s mother became literally paralyzed at the thought of spending ten uninterrupted days with her parents and five sisters. We laughed about it at the time, I mean “Cold Shoulder” really? You’re so stressed you can’t move your shoulder? But as I sit here with my arm glued to my side, I’m suddenly thinking it’s not so damn funny.

Life’s a Bitch

Eight years ago, almost to the day, my brother woke up, stumbled into my mom’s room and peed in her closet while emphatically requesting that someone remove the socks he wasn’t wearing. That day marked the first of an eight year battle; yesterday that battle ended.

Mental Health, meet the garbage disposal…

When I lazily opened my eyes at 8:30 a.m. this morning and rolled out of bed, I had no idea. As I sipped my pumpkin coffee and watched CNN, I had no idea. When I headed out—on what I thought was an ordinary Saturday—for some fall clothes shopping, I—you guessed it—had no idea. I had no fucking idea, as I sat down for my first glass of scotch, that later that day, I’d be writing the following email to my supervisor:

* * *

Natalia:
My brother was just given one week to live. I’m on my way to the bay area now to spend some time with him, I plan to be back to work on Thursday. I’m sorry to communicate this to you via email but I’m too emotional to talk by phone. I’ll be available on my cell, if you or anyone else needs to get in touch. Thanks.

No and No

To answer all of your thoughtful emails—which I was too rude and lazy to respond to—no, I am not cured, and no, I am not dead, although I feel like I might die right now, and it’s not because of the tumor in my neck or the mass that’s smashing my brain against my skull, and it’s not because of my unwanted pregnancy or the rapidly progressing mouth cancer that I’ve developed from excessive margarita intake—and no, it’s not because of this uncontrollably long run-on sentence—it’s because last night, I learned—wait for it—that my little brother has leukemia.

Leu-fucking-kemia. Do I need to say anymore? Do I need to say that this is a huge—and just because I resisted the urge to hit caps lock when I typed “huge” does not mean it’s not an enormously huge “huge”—blow to my mental health?

I will say one thing, if there was ever any chance of me beating hypochondria, it’s not gonna happen now.

What Love Sounds Like

When Rey and I venture more than two minutes from a local hospital, I feel the compulsion to brief him on the “state of my health.” I do this so that in the event I unexpectedly lose consciousness, he can serve as my liaison with the hospital, and hopefully facilitate a speedy and accurate diagnosis. Yesterday, when we set out for our daily hike, it was no different.

As we approached the mouth of the trail, I customarily rattled off my recent problems with consistent headaches and unforgiving chest pain. I continued on about random, painful bruising, then finished up with a spelling of my new birth control prescription and a quick note on how the medication could possibly be causing blood clotting.

I paused to catch my breath, and what did my loving boyfriend look at me and say?

“Man, I hope I’m around when you actually do kick the bucket.”

Back to the Basics

I’ve mentioned before that the birth of my hypochondria was spurred almost nine years ago when a rare, soupy tumor was found residing in the left frontal lobe of my younger brother’s brain.

Up until that point, I had led a fairly naïve existence. Given, I had my “irrational fears”—as any child does—I mean honestly, what child isn’t afraid to hang their foot off the side of the bed, (out of fear it will be violently devoured by a lurking monster)?

What kind of kid doesn’t constantly hold the prospect of sudden alien abduction in the back of their mind?

And really? What young girl doesn’t have the deep-rooted belief that someone in her midst—read her unsuspecting eye doctor—is a maniacal serial killer waiting for the right moment to kidnap, rape and bludgeon her to death?

Okay, I can admit it: the serial-killer-eye-doctor-obsession was a little on the morbid side; but until my brother’s fateful diagnosis, I had never really felt the chill of my own—or anyone else’s—mortality.

When confronted with the reality that disease—and therefore death—could strike anyone at anytime, including children (as it had done in front of my very own eyes), I did what any rational person would do; (no, not embrace the beauty of life), I too “developed” a “brain tumor.”

And as my brother went under the knife, I went through the CAT Scan. And as his tumor shrunk through radiation, I was informed mine never existed.

Time went by. My brother continued to battle his tumor. I moved on to new diseases. Strokes and heart attacks and blood clots and organ failure and lung collapse and cirrhosis and MS and West Nile Virus and lymphoma and the litany goes on, but for the last month or so, I dared to begin to think I was “cured.”

Then it happened...

Shooting head pains. Nausea. Confusion. Blurry vision. Fatigue. Day after day after day.

My brain tumor is back, and it's not alone; a blood clot and tuberculosis rode in on its coattails.