autoimmune

‘Scuse Me, My Kitty Would Like to Get Stoned

Posted on by akiwifreund

My ears perked up when I heard that this was a real product being marketed. They calmed down again when I realized that since Minnesota has the strictest laws in the country regarding medical marijuana that it’s likely I won’t get my hands on any until maybe a decade from now.

The problem: I have horrific abdominal pains because I’m having an allergic and autoimmune reaction to the drainage catheter of my shunt. I’ve had this pain since July 11, 2011, the day my very first shunt was implanted. The neurosurgeon saw the inflammation with his own eyes during one of my subsequent surgeries.

If it’s a good day, I can’t bear to have my abdomen pressed on. The last time my PCP prodded my abdomen, I had tears leaking out of my eyes – and not because I am conjuring the pain up. I also have issues with using the bathroom no matter what is coming out of me. I can only tell you that it feels as if someone has inserted a knife into any and all of my openings and is waving it around like it’s a #1 fan hand at a football game. If it’s a really bad day I also have waves of pain rolling over me. One time I was crossing the street to go back to my apartment and my sister was helping me carry a few items, and she heard me gasp as if I witnessed a really bad accident. Nope. I just was suddenly overtaken by the stabbing pains. And there’s just no way for me to predict when I’m going to get hit by an 11 pain (because according to Spinal Tap, that’s the loudest). Could be because I’m breathing.

The solution? I’ve been told I will not be given opioids because they would just mask the pain. (My answer is always yes, please, I would like to not have the pain.) Tylenol, Advil and naproxen sodium are child’s play. I’ve also been put on various anti-depressants and gabapentin. I’ve tried ice or heat. I’ve tried stretching out my hips. Meditation is probably good for something, but so far has not made me feel better about having the stabbing pains.

This product is being marketed for women with pelvic pain that is the result of endometriosis and/or menstrual cramps. I wouldn’t even have to consume something, just insert that capsule like a suppository for the kitty and then lie back and let it do its thing. If it can work for those issues, why can’t it work for my stabby-stabby pains? Maybe I wouldn’t dread going to the bathroom too. Sexual relations? I would say hell yes, it probably will give new meanings to “420-friendly” and “Netflix ‘n chill.” I can just see the Craigslist ad now: “Fun lady with a great sense of humor looking for my partner in crime to experiment with my totally legal 420 vaginal inserts. Bring some Funyuns, just in case.”
http://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2016/02/vaginal-marijuana-menstrual-cramps-really-work.html

 

What I Know, What I Don’t Know

Posted on by akiwifreund

Okay, first of all, a very specific search appeared on my radar yesterday: “Indian sites for compression hose fetish.” Hats off to your freak flag flying proudly, whomever you are. Also, hats off to wanting your objects of desire not to have to suffer from varicose veins. I’m sorry that my mention is probably repeatedly bringing you back to my blog; I wish you luck.

Second, I got a diagnosis.

I’m going to start where I think I should, and that is May of 2009. I was living with the very controlling and very violent Drummer #2 in a beautiful 3 bedroom/2 bath on a man-made lake. My friend who is a CPA and has taken care of my taxes for 16 years as of this year flew down from Cincinnati. Drummer #2 was on the verge of nearly smashing my head with a drinking glass, but I didn’t know it. He made me feel like absolute dirt because my friend was visiting, so much that the friend had to stay at a hotel rather than in the spacious home we occupied.

My friend rented a car so that we could run around the state of Arizona, and most importantly to the Grand Canyon. We hiked down into part of the canyon; it was not easy for me because I had already had fibromyalgia since I reached adulthood, but I did my best to keep up. I was so happy that my friend had made it down to visit, even though the nastiness of Drummer #2 put a damper on things. Drummer #2 didn’t accompany us and that was absolutely fine with me. I wanted to be able to relax. My friend flew home and life went back to walking on eggshells to try to not make Drummer #2 angry – which proved impossible. The week after that trip was when everything went down with the asshole and I moved out in a hurry.

Fast forward to October of 2009: I went to the emergency room because I developed a stiff neck and excruciating pain. Every time I moved my neck I cried. I didn’t sleep for four days and was starting to hallucinate. The ER doctor had no explanation for me because I didn’t have any other symptoms like a sore throat or a fever. He sent me on my way with muscle relaxants. The pain didn’t abate for a full week.

Around the same time, the naturopath I was seeing started documenting new symptoms for me, mainly that I had a constant rocking feeling, and I was always nauseated. We tried different remedies including Dramamine, but nothing even made a dent.

Have you thought up a diagnosis yet? Just wait.

In July 2010, I developed crushing fatigue. I drove over to San Diego mid-month to spend time with a man from Germany who made yearly trips to Comic-Con, the big one. I struggled to walk a few blocks between my hotel and nearby restaurants. He was used to walking up to ten miles a day; I felt a bit ashamed because I felt as if I embodied the lazy American stereotype. I was also plagued by deep bouts of vertigo to the point where I nearly fell down an entire outdoor cement staircase.

During the last week of the semester at school in July, I had to drop out and not take any finals. Fatigue and vertigo ruled my life. My parents were concerned because I spoke like a zombie, no intonation – very unusual considering I was a theater major in school. My speech was slurred, the top portion of my face became paralyzed, and my head began to nod uncontrollably. Because my body was under so much stress, my cortisol levels shot up to ten times the normal amount.

Have you guessed it yet?

In July of 2011, I finally started getting relief from the pressure in my head because a neurosurgeon installed a shunt. However, I had a total of 10 shunt surgeries in 46 months because my body fights them, clogs them, breaks them, strangles them. I have had horrible abdominal pain since July 11, 2011, because that is the first day a drainage catheter began living within my peritoneum and my small and large intestine, and there is a war being waged 24/7.

46 doctors and two states later, a naturopath in Saint Paul suggested I get some blood tests for Lyme disease. I ended up having to pay full price for them up front because they were not covered by insurance/medical assistance. I will admit that I didn’t think I had Lyme but I just wanted to rule it out like I had done with everything else up to that point. Two of the tests had inconclusive results; the third one lit up like a motherfucking Christmas tree.

I have late stage aka chronic Lyme, and have had it for nearly seven years. It wasn’t on anyone’s radar. Why should it be? I didn’t have a bull’s eye rash. I lived in Arizona, a state with a very small tick population compared to other states. The CDC has very strict guidelines about what can be reported for Lyme and I may not fit their parameters; however, I am still going to contact the state health board and let them know I was infected while I was a resident in the state. I think that only 8 cases have been reported to the CDC for Arizona. I don’t even know if they will take my data because I was diagnosed based on antibodies specific to bacterial exposure, and they only want tests showing the bacteria, which may not be detectable because of the time that has passed.

I know that most of the doctor visits and labs are not covered by insurance, so I will truly be destitute in short order. They are not covered because insurance companies and even the government get bucky about late stage/chronic Lyme, sometimes refusing to acknowledge it exists. There are now temporary laws in place in Minnesota that allow physicians to prescribe antibiotics far longer than they have before, for years instead of months, and the law is set to expire in 2019. I feel like my diagnosis is sitting on the cusp of being dismissed and being accepted. I don’t know how they will deny that my facial paralysis ties into the positive results on the blood work, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to tell me I just need counseling. It wouldn’t be the first time I heard that.

I don’t know what will be irreversible with the neurological problems when treatment starts. I think the facial palsy and ptosis may go away. I think the tremors will take years to adios if they stop at all. The left side of my body has lost some sensation. For example, when I am descending stairs, I have no concept of the pressure my foot exerts on the steps (and vice versa) and so must go very slow. I have been doing exercises to counteract the bed rest and try to gain some of the muscle I have lost, but I always feel like my nerves are disconnected on my left side, and I tire much more easily when I work on that side. I’m also having some cognitive difficulty including word recall. As I type, I fight to spell words correctly – I have developed some weird form of dyslexia. If you knew how particular I am about spelling, you would be as alarmed as I am. Sometimes it takes me a dozen tries to write single words correctly that would have been a breeze previously. Ultimately there is a 50/50 chance that treatment will work, and it may take years to get any positive results.

Besides notifying the board of health in Arizona and Minnesota, I have decided to write letters to my team of doctors in Arizona to let them know about the diagnosis. I am not trying not to think in terms of, “Oh, if only someone would have tested for Lyme, I wouldn’t have had to have 10 brain surgeries.” Honestly, the disease has really fucked up my body, and it’s possible I would have needed the surgeries even with the right diagnosis.

If my symptoms do abate, I’m going to have a serious conversation with some neurosurgeons about removing the current shunt. It has adhered to my chest and the abdominal pain is still constant, and I just think I would have an easier time without it. However, that also leaves me more vulnerable to CSF leaks – and I don’t ever, ever want that pain again.

Lastly, I don’t know if this is a “rare” disease. The data is poor. On a survey of health, chronic Lyme rated the worst for quality of life as outlined in this article – worse even than congestive heart failure, multiple sclerosis, fibromyalgia, diabetes and depression. In other words, I truly won the shit cookie.

Chronic Lyme Disease

 

Are You There, God? It’s Me, Chelsea

Posted on by akiwifreund

Judy Blume wrote from the perspective she was most familiar with – her own. It’s what we all do. It’s what makes our stories unique, especially when we look at the story teller as female vs. male, as tall vs. short, as narrow vs. wide, as black vs. white, as wheeled vs. walking.

Something that Judy Blume would have no perspective on is the experience of a girl going through puberty and dealing with questions about her body and her sexuality while also experiencing a physical disability. For instance, would it be so easy to use a tampon if your hands did not have the dexterity and strength that most girls had simply because you had cerebral palsy? It seems unfair that a girl with CP have to advertise to the world that she had to install a brick (aka pad) in her underwear because a tampon was just too damn complicated.

For me, my baldness has flavored many stories. I didn’t choose to lose all my hair. I had absolutely no control on it falling out, and I have no control on it growing back. However, wigs have gotten so good that I can “pass” to the untrained eye. I still get a once- or twice-over.

This woman is hugely disappointed because she has never been catcalled. I’m sure she’s faced many, many types of discrimination, but she is heartbroken because she has never been desired simply for her appearance. She is always going to be liked for her personality, and only after she has been passed over by many, many men. She has never written in her journal that some stranger said something sexual and inappropriate to her, and she told him to fuck off and then ran-walked away.

Right now I only use a cane to help me walk – my walker stays in my closet. But I know a bit about what she feels. I am treated completely different when I’m walking with my cane compared to no cane. I even feel different, more vulnerable without it, because I know that when my feet are slapping together and my face is paralyzed, I’ve lost all desirability.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-establishment/nobody-catcalls-the-woman-in-the-wheelchair_b_9130226.html

 

Movin’ On Up!

Posted on by akiwifreund

I’ve been added to this network for bloggers who are focused on chronic illness. I am hoping to continue entertaining everyone with my stories about doctors, dating and down time (because I’m in bed for at least 22 hours a day). Occasionally you may see product reviews or ads, but please know it’s still me and my voice and my forthrightness about what is happening in my world.

Many thanks to the creators and curators of Chronic Illness Bloggers for directing traffic and addressing specific needs, and allowing me to take part in it.

Here is the home page:  http://chronicillnessbloggers.com/

Did You See That?

Posted on by akiwifreund

“The X-Files” is gearing up again, and to piggyback off of that, the CIA has released documents and pictures from the 1940s through the 1960s pertaining to UFO sightings and encounters.

The technology that was available during those decades pales in comparison to what we have now, and the world is certainly much smaller – getting a report from, say, the UK or the Belgian Congo can take seconds or minutes as opposed to weeks.

There are times when I feel like an alien, explaining my mysterious disease and strange allergies. However, I did not feel a tug at my heart looking at these photos, so I can only guess that no one has captured my mother ship on film (or the CIA hasn’t released the reports).

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3422014/The-truth-really-CIA-releases-thousands-declassified-X-files-aliens-flying-saucers-unexplained-phenomena.html

Look Me In The Eye

Posted on by akiwifreund

On Friday, I wrapped up (I hope) a series of daily appointments at the University of Minnesota with a visit to an ophthalmologist.

Something happened while I was waiting to be seen. Actually, something was brewing the week before, but I wanted to deny it was happening, or would get worse. I think it has reappeared after more than five years because this is the first time since July 2011 that I have not had any successful shunt surgeries for 8+ months, and my brain/brain stem are getting seriously stressed.

Normally my symptoms resolve and I can open my eyes all the way when I’m laying flat. That’s the result of cerebrospinal fluid moving away from wherever it’s pooling and pressing on the brain stem and the nerve roots leading to my face. However, the tremors do not resolve with laying down. I remember being in an MRI machine in August of 2010 and the techs yelling at me to hold still because they couldn’t get clear pictures of my neck. I had absolutely no control over the tremors. This time around, for about a week I could feel the tremors in my neck when I laid down to sleep at night. I hoped it was the worst they would get.

Unfortunately, I have not been spared. The tremors are exhausting. And it’s bad enough that the world is already swimming around me – but the tremors really scramble my brain. They make my head constantly nod “yes.” I asked the resident doctor examining me for the ophthalmology test to document the tremors, since they started when I was sitting in a waiting area close to the examining room where I would be seen.

The reason why I insisted on seeing the ophthalmologist is that I wanted to have my vision problems documented – and not how they wished I could see, but what I could actually see. It’s going to take 12-15 months for me to get a hearing with a judge for a disability determination; I want to load the judge up with proof.

A tech took me through a ptosis vision field test. In the great scheme of things, it was pretty benign; no one had to stab me with needles or get me to take my clothes off. First they do the test without altering the eye to “see” what I can see. Then after that eye is done, the tech has to tape the eyelid so that at least 20% more of the lid is lifted. Have you seen the “tape game” by Jimmy Fallon? This is what it felt like. For extra special fun, my head was nodding so much that the tech had to grab my head and hold it in place for the test.

 

Talk To Your Doctor About Your GD ED

Posted on by akiwifreund

A week or so ago, when I was being driven to my daily appointment to get the dressing on my wound changed, the cabbie asked me if I was single. He was Somalian and he told me how if I visited his village, I would have many offers of marriage within the first hour. In his culture, it’s important to visit your neighbors and check on them. They value personal bonds. They also obviously have a serious gossip network, which explains why everyone would know I’m single in a very short amount of time. I secretly wondered if I could demand goats as my bride price.

I didn’t ask, but I wondered if he was mistaking me to be about 10 years younger than I am – that happens often. I think that the paralysis of my face actually works like Botox gone bad. I also didn’t tell him that I am not able to have children (thanks to my hysterectomy 5 years ago – BEST DECISION EVER). That aside, I’m already at an age where bearing children would be very risky. I didn’t bring up the fact that I’m also completely bald, as I think that would be the last on a long list of deterrents.

I was hit up by a 24-year-old on OKCupid today asking if 24 was too young. I wrote back that it was. It’s another somewhat terrible reminder that I am middle-aged.

Another reminder that I am middle aged: I date middle-aged men. I seem to have hit the bubble where their penises don’t stay hard or even get hard. We get to the awkward point where they are trying to shake the shit out of their dicks to force the blood to go down there, or they are trying to stuff their very soft unit in me and get pissy if it just flops out.

Then they blame me. I’m “too excited.” I’m “in the wrong position.” My “legs aren’t the right length.”

Physiologically, I am not the problem. I’m 5’5″and not considered short. Even though I had a hysterectomy, I kept my ovaries, which means that my hormones are still coursing through my body – I haven’t gone through “the change” yet. Believe me when I say that I am more than sufficiently able to welcome a foreign object.

What’s the problem with these guys? Well, weight is an issue. I fully acknowledge that I am overweight, and I notice the difference in my ability to perform bedroom gymnastics according to how overweight I am (my weight fluctuates). These guys are sporting the full pregnant belly, though. I imagine a big elastic band resting at their hips, cutting off the blood supply.  They also huff and puff from the effort; I often have to ask if they are getting tired and if they would like to change things up.

One guy was overweight (6’1″ and over 300 lbs) and insulin-dependent. Diabetes affects blood flow greatly – that’s why doctors recommend that diabetics stay away from pedicures. Any tiny nick to the skin could cause a huge wound because a lack of blood flow stymies our body’s repair mechanisms. So, yeah, his penis was definitely having blood flow issues.

I hate the smell of cigarettes and I’m allergic to the smoke, but smoking also affects blood flow to the extremities.

Some men are very accustomed to jacking off to porn. It’s alarming how much they abuse their poor penises. It’s like angry jacking off, or jackrabbit fast. There’s no way my very human body is going to be able to replicate that. It gets to the point where the men only respond to this violent kind of touch. One of my exes was a smoker AND could only do the jackrabbit thing, so when he was ready, I just had to make sure my arms and legs didn’t touch him so he could pound away. You know in movies when EMTs or doctors are trying to use the paddles to revive a patient and they yell “Clear!” to make sure no one is touching the patient when the current goes out? That’s pretty much what I had to do for the jackrabbit guy. Clear!

So guys, talk to your doctor about your goddamn erectile dysfunction. You might hear something you don’t want to about lifestyle changes. But if you want to screw like that 24-year-old who wants to bang me, then you might have to make some changes. Hell, the rest of your body may feel better too.

If you’re not willing to put in the work, then learn how to do other things that don’t involve the penis.

Don’t ever, EVER, blame me for your ED.

Time’s “Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Men, Backed By Research”

Posted on by akiwifreund

By Eric Barker (writes Barking Up the Wrong Tree.)

Scientific studies show:

— Being too rich and good-looking can actually hurt a man. Then again, marriage may be a bad deal for handsome guys.

— You can predict how many women a man has slept with by how funny he is.

— Yes, most TV commercials make men look like morons.

— Companies pay women more if a male CEO has a daughter.

— Poor and hungry men prefer heavier women. Rich and full guys like skinny girls.

— Attractive TV anchors make men unable to remember the news.

— What’s the chance that a man’s kids are not really his, biologically?

— Punching things does make men feel better.

— If men’s jobs didn’t affect their ability to attract women they’d be far less ambitious.

— Men fake orgasms too.

 

The first item that caught my eye was the second on the list, predicting how many women a guy has banged according to how funny he is. Testify! But what is harder to match up is the type of humor. I deeply value humor, but I’m a snob. I can’t watch The Simpsons or Family Guy. I just can’t. Even if the satire might be something I admire, I can’t relate to cartoons with moving mouths. I was cured of that by age 10.

Second item of note: Attractive TV anchors. I mean, we’ve all seen the “naked news” spots, right? Usually it’s the damn Russians putting porn stars in front of a camera. Apparently, they don’t have to be naked for dudes to lose their minds.

Third item of note: If men’s jobs didn’t affect their ability to attract women, they’d be far less ambitious. I know some guys who are there already. They are not currently camping out in my bed, nor will it be likely that they will. I have never gone around with the attitude of “I’m lazy” but I’ve heard so many men say that. More importantly, after they say it, they demonstrate it. I believe them, I have no grand illusions of changing them, and they need to stay far away from me.

I was hit up on OKCupid last night by the I’m-separated-but-probably-going-back-to-my-wife-and-kids guy. He got a new screen name.
Him: Still horny?
Me: You got a new screen name and you ghosted me. (I wanted to say, “No, fucker, I have a new hole in my ass, and not by choice.” This whole bedsore thing is really cramping my style.)
Him: I got fooled into giving my phone number out to women who live in Russia and the Philippines so I decided to start new
Did you meet someone
Me: Doesn’t matter if I did or not. No one wants to hear they are a consolation prize.
Him: just asking
Me: No you weren’t. You were trying to make a bootie call, I am just not picking up.
Him: sorry just asking

Oh, yes, he’s just so innocent! He disappeared after November and he thinks the best, most innocuous way to greet me is “Still horny?” No wonder he has only slept with 4 people in his 39 years. (I was number 4.) I sure hope his wife lets him come back home soon. I’m done raising him.

‘Scuse me, I’m off to find my poor and hungry guy, I hear they like big asses on their ladies.

 

That Girl Is Poison

Posted on by akiwifreund

Recognize this phrase? I have a station set up on my Pandora titled “New Edition,” and since some of the members of the singing group New Edition split off and formed Bel Biv Devoe, the song “Poison” comes up on my play list. Bel Biv Devoe sang about the dangers of getting tangled up with a woman who was bad news; however, it’s not just romantic relationships that suffer when someone is nasty or devious – friends can be poisonous too.

I am eternally grateful to the friends I have made over the years who tolerate my weirdness and bluntness. Without a doubt, I am humbled by the friends who have mopped and sanitized my house when I have returned from the hospital. I am indebted to the people who have shuttled me around to doctor appointments and grocery store runs, and who have replenished my stock of food and supplies. I have tried to be a good friend in return when I have been able to, which admittedly has been very infrequent for the past 5.5 years because I can’t seem to stay well enough to be out of bed for any length of time.

Unfortunately, because I have the reputation of being a good listener and the voice of reason, my bedridden status has trapped me into being something of a therapist for some. One friend helped me get to a doctor’s appointment about five years ago. This woman and I had become friends back in 2006 when I was working a couple of jobs to pay for my second trip to Europe. That one ride of eight miles nearly cost me my sanity.

Because she found out that I was stuck in bed when I called her to help me get to the appointment, I believe she saw it as an opportunity to unload all that was bothering her – after all, I didn’t have anything better to do, right? This friend was going through a nasty divorce. She would call me at all hours nearly every day, crying and asking me what she should do in certain situations. She would never actually take my advice.

Our interactions became more strained. I finally resorted to telling her, “I don’t know what you should do” every time she called with a new crisis. She switched to texting me instead of calling me. I’m not sure if she thought my answer would somehow be different. Just for the record, it wasn’t.

This woman had a good heart, and I did get a ride from her when I needed it most. I just did not think that I was forever obligated to take on the stress of her failing marriage. For that reason, I cut her off completely. Subtlety wasn’t working, and telling her I was exhausted and stressed from fighting to be heard in doctor visits had absolutely no effect. I feel a twinge of sadness when her birthday shows up on my calendar, but I know that if I pick up the phone and wish her a happy birthday, the cycle starts again.

Another woman I became friends with was introduced by a mutual friend. We became acquainted after we spent a holiday together; I brought a movie that she had watched many times in her native country as a young girl, and she translated the film for us as it did not have any subtitles. I’m going to christen her Ms. Lederhosen.

I met Ms. Lederhosen as she was going through a nasty divorce with her second husband. I had suggested we get together for movies or nights out because it seemed like she needed to do things that would distract her from all of the emotionally draining stuff she was going through. Unfortunately, it was all she would talk about. I’m not exaggerating when I say that. I could say something like, “This tomato soup is good.” Ms. Lederhosen would reply by saying, “Oh, R. (her ex) likes soup too. You know, when we were married, he used to make me take care of his daughters, but they were lazy and did not like me. I would tell them to do something and they would go to their dad and he would tell them they didn’t need to do it.” It’s how every conversation would go. Everything tied back to her ex, no matter what I said, no matter what I tried to talk about.

I remember one time we made plans to see a movie. When we picked our seats out and got settled with our beverages and snacks, she started talking about the ex. The lights dimmed and the movie started; Ms. Lederhosen was not letting that stop her. Other patrons in the theater started saying “Shhhh!” loudly, turning towards us. She wouldn’t shut her trap. I told her that we should wait to chat until the movie was done. She kept talking in a loud voice because she had to finish that story. Well, she finally did…and then throughout the movie, she ran a commentary on what was happening on the screen. At that point I made a mental note to never see another movie in the theater with Ms. Lederhosen.

The ex was dragging out the divorce, filing extensions and demanding spousal support. Ms. Lederhosen was constantly calling and texting to rehash what he had done. At one point she asked me to proofread letters and documents for her because they were going to be used in her case. I would always set aside what I was working on and comb through her submissions because I knew how picky judges could be.

Ms. Lederhosen finally decided to pursue her U.S. citizenship. She didn’t have many friends, so she asked me to prepare a letter of good character for her attorney. Again, I set everything aside and whipped together a professional piece to convince the Court that she was a productive member of society.

She didn’t care for her job or boss, so Ms. Lederhosen sent me her resume so I could send it out to my contacts and enter it in my employer’s database. She wanted to respond directly to her ex’s demands through family court but didn’t want to pay her attorney to do it, so I arranged for a friend who was a paralegal in family law to assist her.

Ms. Lederhosen met a man through a woman who facilitated a social group for foreign-language speakers. I had hoped that meeting someone new would calm her down regarding the ex and encourage her to discuss other items of interest, but no. She even told me that her new man was complaining that she was too focused on the ex.

I was able to meet the new boyfriend when Ms. Lederhosen brought him and her little sister over to my house to visit; it was her sister’s first time in the U.S., so I made an effort to speak slowly – her English was good, but there is always a huge adjustment period when anyone is suddenly immersed in a country where the language is not their native tongue. Often Ms. Lederhosen would interrupt to talk about her ex. At one point, her current boyfriend grabbed her face, squeezed her cheeks and said “Stop talking.” She didn’t, of course. Her sister got completely put off and eventually just fell asleep on my couch while the boor hijacked the conversation.

A few months later, I had reached the point of blinding pain with my shunt – I had developed an uncontrollable leak. Ms. Lederhosen had indicated that she was at her boyfriend’s house but that if I needed a ride to the ER, she was more than willing. I took her up on the offer. They didn’t end up keeping me to bring me into surgery as I had hoped, because at that point they wanted to figure out which parts of the shunt I was allergic to, which would take months. They sent me home with big bad painkillers instead.

Facebook can make or break friendships, and in our case, it broke ours. Actually, for me it was the last straw. I had posted a story about a product that was being given to girls in sub-Saharan Africa to allow them to continue safely attending school during the bleeding days of their menstrual cycles. This charity was distributing silicone cups that could be used to collect the fluid for up to 12 hours and then be emptied and washed in private. Well, Ms. Lederhosen did not like that at all.

She hijacked the post by first saying that she would never want to use a product like that and that she was perfectly happy with her birth control pills. I explained that birth control pills were not an option in this region, and that it was a much safer alternative for the girls instead of their normal methods, which included stuffing their bodies with dirty rags, newspapers or mud. Ms. Lederhosen said she asked her boyfriend’s mom, and she agreed that she wouldn’t use a product like that either, and they were stupid for not using birth control pills. I explained that in this region, pills were not readily available or transported easily, and not everyone could or should be on hormones, and that the girls just really wanted to attend school and the cups were a viable option. Then Ms. Lederhosen posted a huge paragraph about how American women are stupid, fat and lazy, and she was able to lose weight by eating organic foods and exercising (which had nothing to do with what was being discussed).

I blocked her on Facebook. It’s no wonder she has few friends! Unfortunately, my phone at the time was not able to block calls or texts, so for two days she sent me all kinds of nasty messages about how she was prettier, smarter, more successful and thinner than me. Ms. Lederhosen told me how I was jealous of her relationship with her boyfriend, and how my college degree was the equivalent of elementary school in her home country. I sent back one message saying I was not interested in competing with her, and her messages just got nastier. She told me how she was a much better friend than me because she drove me to the ER that one time; of course, she conveniently forgot about all of the ways that I tried to help her when she needed it. Finally she stopped and went radio silent.

Two months later I got a card without a return address. I opened it to discover it was a note from Ms. Lederhosen, telling me she missed me as a friend and that we should be friends again. I didn’t have a return address for her and so couldn’t send anything back, and her info had been deleted from my phone long before that. A week later I got a text message from her saying that she didn’t hate me anymore and that we should be friends. I again told her that I did not want to compete with her, and that she said horrible things that made it difficult for me to want to be friends with her. Well, that just set her off again – 16 messages of vile, nasty words.

Around Thanksgiving of 2015, I received another text from her. Ms. Lederhosen said that she missed me and that I probably still had some bad feelings, but she was there for me if I needed her. The response that I didn’t send but really wanted to? No fucking way.

Pain in the Ask

Posted on by akiwifreund

Every time I watch this clip, I giggle. I hope you will too.

 

Today I had a little procedure in the surgical area of the University of Minnesota. Truly, it was little. But since 1/1/2016, I’ve been in a lot of pain because I developed a boil near my tailbone as a result of laying in bed for 8 months straight. Sure, I get up once in a while, but I’m in bed at least 22 hours of every 24 hours.

We thought it was the trucker’s cyst, but luckily it wasn’t – it would have taken a lot more cutting to pop that meatball out. First I met a PA who turned out to be very, very new (I’m thinking it was his first day or first week because he was asking where everything was for supplies). I didn’t joke with him because I realized how new he was and I didn’t want him to lose his place in asking me questions; a memorized script that one can skip around out of order comes with experience, and he obviously wasn’t at that point yet.

The general surgeon came in, and damn, he was cute. He took a look at my ass, and I made a joke about having to show my ass to everyone. Hey, I worked my way through St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix – may as well start on Minneapolis now. He asked me how I felt about them cutting and draining the problem area. Of course I agreed – I told him to exorcise the demon. Everyone stepped out of the room to enter notes in my chart.

The nurse came in with the PA and she and I chatted while they got all of the supplies ready. Then the PA had the task of shooting me up with Lidocaine. His hands were shaking like the dickens. I honestly don’t know if it was because he was making an effort to spread the juice while the needle was inserted, or if he was just scared shitless of shooting up my left cheek. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt; besides, whenever I get Novocaine in my mouth when I’m getting worked on by a dentist, they do this crazy thing where they flap my mouth around while doing the injection – maybe to avoid getting a big old bubble of juice and instead encouraging it to go into the surrounding area? I got about 8 shots.

They left again, and in about 15 minutes they returned to do the cutting. The doctor talked the PA through doing the incisions. When he said, “You’re going to need to go deeper,” I was just at the point of yelling. They had warned me that the acidity of the bacteria that was pooling in this spot would make the Lidocaine less effective, and they were right. The nurse told me I could swear. I told her that my inner truck driver was coming out and I was getting ready to recite every nasty term I could think of.

They packed the area and then covered it with a large patch. The doctor asked me where I lived and then told me it would be a good idea to return to his office every day and his nurse could repack the wound, at least for the next week. At some point they may even try to get me to pack it myself, but it’s in a spot I can’t exactly see, so that will be a challenge.

In the end, they only got about 5 ccs of fluid out. What??? That tiny bit of junk made me feel as if an ostrich egg had been laid under my skin.

This is going to be a problem for date #3 with Nashville. We were supposed to get together Monday for a day date after he finished his overnight shift, but instead, I have to get my ass packed. By Monday it will have been three weeks since we last saw each other and I don’t want to delay another week, but I don’t think I have a choice. Plus there’s going to be no monkey business while I’m dealing with this wound. I can’t get laid and it makes me want to kick some ask.