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.

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around…

I’m exactly sixteen days into my twenty-two day sentence of Rey-lessness. That’s right; my loving boyfriend hopped a plane to Asia and left me behind, ALL BY MYSELF.

Now, being ALL BY MYSELF poses several problems. The first being, I’m scared shitless to be ALL BY MYSELF. The most important being, I might go into anaphylactic shock and they’ll be no one there to administrator the EpiPen. Or, more realistically, I might choke on my Miss Vickie’s jalapeño chip and they’ll be no one there to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

Truthfully, Rey probably doesn’t even know the Heimlich maneuver, and sadly I don’t own an EpiPen (although I really should invest in one). And while I’ve been able to mostly overcome the being scared shitless part—by carrying a tool belt adorned with mace, a hammer and a butcher knife—I haven’t been able to overcome the need to verbalize my afflictions. Hence the reason Rey’s voicemail is no longer accepting messages.

This need to verbalize my imminent death, paired with my anti-social tendencies, has left me in a real bind. I need to vocalize that I'm dying, but I have no one to vocalize it to.

It’s ironic really; I like to believe that hypochondria is a lonely plight. Until left alone, I didn’t realize there were other players in the game. A hypochondriac needs someone to profess their hypochondria to, (at least in my case).

So here I am, to proclaim to the world that I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe because I have a blood clot in my lung caused by my new blood-thickening birth control prescription. And, you’re never gonna believe it, but I’m really dying this time.

Whew…

Another Close Encounter

According to plan, I should be at my doctor’s office right about now, getting a shot of the HPV vaccination by a bitchy Filipino nurse named Joan. Instead, I’m sitting here choking on the generic aspirin I swallowed over an hour ago and thanking the good lord that I stumbled across the truth about the vaccine in time.

I was originally scheduled for the shot last Friday, as a twofer with my ringworm—which actually isn’t ringworm—checkup, but God is good, and they were out of the deadly serum.

Their shipment arrived the following Monday and I naively rescheduled my appointment with death for today. I carried on about my business throughout the week and nonchalantly mentioned the shot to Rey on Wednesday. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

Nervous! I couldn’t believe it. Why—aside from the fact that I’m always nervous—would I be nervous? I was overjoyed! I was essentially getting the closest thing to a cancer vaccine. Or so my doctor had led me to believe.

Rey’s words stuck with me through that night and into the next day, and finally on Thursday evening (less than a day before my appointment), I—cue scary music—googled the vaccine.

“Deaths Associated with HPV Vaccine Start Rolling In” was all I needed to see. My innocence was gone and I knew, before I followed the link, that that bitchy nurse wasn’t getting anywhere near me. Before I blacked out, words like blood clot, heart problems, paralysis, and seizures were strewn across my screen.

I awoke this morning with one thought in my mind; to cancel that appointment. And that’s exactly what I did, (then followed it up with a false promise to reschedule next week).

With All Due Respect

In a world where I drink my cup of coffee over a headline that reads, “9-year-old girl's twin is found inside her stomach,” hypochondria is the only rational response.

Good News, and—of course—Bad News

I went to the doctor’s office yesterday to have the growing skin cancer on my thigh inspected. What started out about a month ago as what I thought was a zit, has steadily matured into a scaly, red, quarter-sized growth on my outer left thigh.

So, I did what any good hypochondriac would do; I called my doctor’s office and emphatically told his staff that I was dying of skin cancer. They reluctantly squeezed me in for yesterday afternoon.

I sat on the table, with pants off and shoes on, as the bald doctor hemmed and hawed over the growth on my leg. After about two minutes of inspecting my pasty extremities, he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know.” Which is when I was forced to take the lead.

“MRSA?”

Blank stare...

“Cancer?”

“No...”

It was about there that he ended the guessing game—and hold the phone—asked me if I wanted a biopsy. I nearly fell off the table! A doctor offering me a biopsy? There is a god!

Of course I denied, but only after he explained that the said biopsy would leave a huge gouge in my leg for an infection that could probably be treated with a course of anti-fungal cream.

Then he turned the game on me:

“Do you have a cat?”

Odd question but, “Yes.”

“Have you noticed any bald spots in her fur?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“I think you may have ringworm.”

And there it is, the bad news.

Taking Time Out of My Day to Give WebMD a Big Middle Finger

Not only does that wretched excuse of a site frequently impose itself on the state of my mental and physical health, but today it went a step further, and intruded on my love life.

There I was, minding my own business, searching WannaBeMD for a new and exciting disease, when I spotted the “Most Popular Stories” list on the right hand side of the page. It looked something like this:

1. 11 Secrets All Men Keep
2. Lose 10 Pounds in 3 Days?
3. The Flat Belly Diet
4. 5 Weight Gain Shockers
6. 12 Embarrassing Body Problems
7. Sex Myths vs. Facts
8. Benefits of Drinking Water Oversold?
9. 7 Pains You Shouldn’t Ignore
10. How to Survive Spring Allergy Season

Any guesses on which one I clicked?

Now, one might think that I’d beeline for number ten, considering I am a hard-core allergy suffer (who could use some survival tips, if not just for the sake of those around me). Or number two even, since ten is the exact number of pounds I need to lose—and who wouldn’t want to do it in three days? Ahhh, or number nine! Sweet number nine is right up my alley, not that I ignore any pains, (but I must admit, I’ve read that one before). So, I went for el numero uno: 11 Secrets All Men Keep.

I don’t know what I was expecting; maybe something along the lines, of “We actually do like it when you pluck our eyebrows, even though we squirm like babies.” But what I wasn’t expecting was this:

“Secret #1: Yes, we fall in lust 10 times a day...”

Okay, being the jealous girlfriend—as much as I hate to admit it—that I am, I should’ve stopped there, but instead, I continued on.

“If the oldest question in history is "What's for dinner?" the second oldest is "Were you looking at her?" The answer: Yes -- yes, we were.” (emphasis added)

Really? Why don’t you elaborate on that.

‘"When a woman walks by, even if I'm with my girlfriend, my vision picks it up,''’ says Doug LaFlamme, 28, of Laguna Hills, California. "'I fight the urge to look, but I just have to. I'm really in trouble if the woman walking by has a low-cut top on...It's not that I want to make a move on her,'" says LaFlamme. "'Looking at other women is like a radar that just won't turn off."'

Doug LaFlamme, I say this to you: I hope someday your “vision” will pick me up as I lovingly shove my fist down your throat.

Glutton for Punishment, (Among Other Things)

I knew I should’ve put down the mouse when I read, ‘“This somber series of portraits taken of people before and after they had died is a challenging and poignant study.”’

I knew I should have walked away from the computer when I saw, “These photos are simultaneously haunting and beautiful.”

But apparently what I know I should do, and what I actually do are two very different things.

I was drawn to that turquoise link like a moth drawn to light. And before I knew what was happening, the “before and after death” portraits were flashing across my screen.

I think I reached the fifth dead person before I noticed a large pool of sweat on my keyboard, and it wasn’t long after that that I slipped into a full blown panic attack. I spent most of that night crying hysterically and thinking of nothing but death.

It’s been several days since the “viewing” and I’m just now able to talk about it.

It wasn’t the photos, so much, that got to me. In hindsight, they weren’t that disturbing at all. In fact, (though it sounds insensitive), most of the people were fairly old, and they looked peaceful in death—not terribly different from the photos in which they were breathing.

What got to me was the fact that these people knew they were dying. And that sounds somewhat ridiculous, because seriously, we all know we’re dying. I certainly do. But these people really knew they were dying and knew what they were dying from. It just hit me. It hit me hard to imagine what it would feel like to look into the camera for your pre-death portrait. It still gives me the chills.

If anyone shares my morbid fascination, the before and after portraits can be found here.