Chronic Illness Bloggers

My Aching Back/Arm/Knee/Foot/You Name It

Posted on by akiwifreund

What are the two most common symptoms of chronic illnesses that we hear over and over, without fail? Fatigue and pain. This post is all about pain. That is why I was excited to receive this product to review, because in all of my adult years (24+ now), pain has been my constant companion. Just to be clear, I have been given this product through the Chronic Illness Bloggers Network. Although the product was a gift, all opinions in this review remain my own and I was in no way influenced by the company Mo-Haganys’ Dream Cream Products.

One friend, Nikki over at As I Live & Breathe (https://ilivebreathe.com/about-me/), got her products before I did, and excitedly told me, “Chels, just wait! Just wait! I did not have to take my painkillers tonight!” Now that is a huge endorsement, because like me, Nikki has some major stuff going down in her body that is the stuff of horror films (I will let her tell it).

What is this stuff anyway? Well, it’s some crazy concoction that seems so simple that it should be obvious and available everywhere and after you read this, you should be wanting to bathe in it. Unfortunately, your cynical side might still win out and you will proceed with caution. You will wait a few more weeks to buy a bottle with a homemade label because, hey, what does this woman know that big pharmaceutical companies don’t? But if you’re smart, you’ll give this serious consideration, because I’ve been a doubter myself many times too, and I treat Consumer Reports as a shopper’s bible, and when you find gems, you buy them up like they’re going out of style.

The woman who owns this company, Keri, formulated these products after contracting bacterial meningitis and developing debilitating pain and being placed on, in her words, “ridiculous” pain meds with horrible side effects (something that I myself know well). She began researching apothecary and Chinese herbology, and discovered a way to ferment cayenne pepper to make a capsaicin paste that does not “burn” the skin. She then worked on using different ingredients for blending and aromatherapy to compliment the paste’s action to “deaden” or “muffle” the nerve action. It depends on the person and the severity, but the pain relief can last 6-12 hours.

I was looking forward to this particular product challenge because my body is really giving me hell right now. Besides the ever-present abdominal pain from the rejection of the shunt materials, I am pretty sure the tendons at my left shoulder are frayed. I’ve been in physical therapy for three months and though my strength has improved, the pain has actually become worse; my doctor has ordered six more weeks of PT and an MRI at the end, but is reluctant to perform surgery because of my proclivity to immediately build up copious scar tissue and possibly undo everything the surgeon would do for benefit. This month was also the Hydrocephalus Association conference and so I was in incredible pain from sitting, walking and standing for four days, my feet and hips taking the brunt of the beating.
2016-06-28 16.09.06

Immediately after receiving this package, I tore it open and slathered the lotion, Mo’s Dream Cream, on my shoulder. I could not wait. The lotion has a thin consistency and I would caution everyone to use common sense like they would around light-colored fabrics and tomato food products: make sure it is well-absorbed before contact is made, or there might be color transfer that is irreversible. Also, another caution mentioned more than a few times: do not apply to broken skin. Here’s a small sample so you can see for yourself:2016-06-28 16.09.32.jpg
These products have a very specific scent, though I struggle a bit to describe it. You will recognize the spiciness of the capsaicin, because it’s the stuff that flavors our Mexican/Thai/Vietnamese/Korean food and haunts us later. But the essential oils include orange, tangerine, clove and wintergreen, so you will have hints of hot chocolate and sledding parties wrapped up in your burrito dreams.

The left shoulder pain is preventing me from sleeping comfortably. I also cannot get dressed easily, pick up items at waist level, overhead or floor level, or reach over to rub my boyfriend’s shoulder in a display of affection. Even doing simple things like buckling my seat belt as a passenger are turning into ordeals, and I have cracked three teeth on my left side because of the pain. So for me, because there’s structural damage, it’s not an easy fix; the pain can spike up to a good old fashioned 10. However, the lotion can bring it down to about a 5 in a matter of minutes, and keep it there for about 4-5 hours.

My abdominal pain is a little trickier. I’m allergic to the parts of the shunt that are housed in my abdomen and the pain is at exactly the place between the front of my abdomen and the middle of my back, so it’s in the middle of my middle. Again, the pain can spike up to a 10, and applying the lotion can get it to calm down to about a 7, but it’s just in a tough spot. Until I can figure out how to get a dose to middle earth, I am not convinced it’s going to get better than that.

After the first day of the conference, the pinched nerves in my hips were severely limiting my gait. My feet felt as if I had walked over hot coals. I could barely move, and I nearly cried at the thought of having to get up and do it all over again for three more days in a row, early to boot. I decided to wash my feet and then try to the stick form of the pain relief:
2016-06-28 16.10.13
Even though the capsaicin paste is the same, the scent and emollients are slightly different. 2016-06-28 16.53.09 The next morning, when I had to go back for day two of the conference, I felt as if day one had been erased by the pain stick. That is HUGE.

Overall, I felt like the lotion did a quick job of penetrating to the pain and providing the relief, but I certainly appreciated the convenience of the “No Mo Pain Stick” too – so much easier to carry that in a purse than the bottle of lotion, which now has a permanent spot on my nightstand.

Now I’m mentally debating making an appointment to see my pain doctor just to push these goodies on him. He’s a younger guy and I know he has chronic back pain. I want him to try it. I mean, what could he lose? He could just put some on a spot on his back and then slap a pad over the top of it if he’s trying to maintain a scent-free office because of sensitivities…

The skeptic in me also wanted to make sure I wasn’t under undue influence of the placebo effect, so I sent this with my sister for a few days, because she has RA. She was afraid that her boys would be put off by the scent but her co-worker dug into it, and she felt as if it helped her with pain (though I didn’t get to discuss it at length before I grabbed it back because my shoulder was singing like the hounds of Hell).

Here is a snapshot of the information that Keri sent with her products that you may find useful:

2016-06-28 16.10.42

Since I can’t transport a bottle directly through my screen to you, you still have to go and get a bottle the old-fashioned way through the internet, but I’m thinking you won’t be disappointed. And hey – Keri is even offering everyone a discount who has enjoyed my review by using the code CHELSEA4U (which I was not expecting, but thought extra helpful if you are on a budget): https://squareup.com/store/modreamcream.

Happy Anniversary

Posted on by akiwifreund

Exactly one year ago today I got on a plane and moved from Phoenix to St. Paul. According to the dust on my shelves, that’s the last time I dusted as well.

The first six months were difficult. I was going from doctor to doctor, trying to find any that wouldn’t turn me away. I couldn’t drive because I lose about 80% of my vision while I’m upright for a long time, so I spent about $500 a month just on cab fare alone; when I wasn’t going to doctor appointments, I simply stayed in my apartment.

It took me a lot to where I am right now: I have at least a primary care doctor, I have had 3 months of physical therapy for the pinched nerves in my shoulder and hips, I have a disability attorney (but probably no hearing until July or later 2017), and I now use the short bus and a cab company that is contracted through medical assistance to get me to appointments. I also have an incredibly supportive boyfriend.

There are still some black holes of missing pieces. One: I still don’t have a diagnosis. Two: I don’t know what in the hell I’m going to do about my shunt.

June 16-19 was the National Hydrocephalus Association conference, and I never would have been able to attend if it wasn’t right here in my back yard. I had decided that I was not going to be shy. I had also decided that although it was nice to meet other patients and commiserate, I really, really wanted to pick the brains of the researchers and doctors and manufacturers of the shunts.

At the very first speaking presentation, a researcher spoke about the work she has been performing regarding shunt occlusions (blockages). I raised my hand and first asked if the study began when the shunt was still in the patient (so they could figure out if the drainage tip was stuck somewhere, like a drinking straw that’s clogged by a large piece of fruit or an extra thick shake) or if the shunts were studied after they were removed, because I tend to immediately make 20 years worth of scar tissue in 2-3 weeks and clog my shunts very quickly. She indicated that she tests the shunts only after they are sent to her post-surgery, and that she was definitely interested in my shunt(s). I got her business card and told her about imaging that has been developed in Scotland that piggybacks off of current MRI and CT scans but is supposed to be much more accurate, and it just so happens that she is supposed to travel to Scotland in two weeks. In another talk she gave much later in the conference, she mentioned autoimmune diseases, and I’ll be seeing a doctor that specializes in mast cell disorders next week; I’m going to speak to him specifically about my issues with the shunts and about contacting her and speaking with her regarding shunt rejection. Not a bad start for networking!

But with the good comes the not so good. Another talk I attended was facilitated by a neurologist and a neurosurgeon who were experts in normal pressure hydrocephalus. That is one of my placeholder diagnoses and they kept talking about enlarged ventricles on MRI and CT scans. I asked if it was possible to get that diagnosis without the enlarged ventricles, and they said no. I talked to them afterwards and quickly covered my symptoms and demonstrated my unusual ability to move the fluid around in my brain. They actually became very condescending and a little pissy, asking if I had considered the Mayo. I thanked them and left the room.

At another session, there was a representative from the Social Security office talking about the process of filing for disability. He opened the session by saying that he actually never handled disability cases where health was involved – I mean, when it’s a health conference, why send someone who is knowledgeable? I raised my hand during this one too and asked two questions: 1) Is it correct that since my request for a hearing was filed in early February of 2016, it’s pretty backed up and I shouldn’t expect a hearing to be set until July or August of 2017? and 2) I was told that even though I can’t see well, that my arms and hands still work, so I should be able to get a job. What criteria is used to determine whether I should be employed when my records indicate I should be laying down for 20-22 hours a day? He said, 1) It’s not unreasonable that the hearing would take that long to be set (and I answered that maybe it’s not unreasonable to him, but it’s unreasonable to me), and 2) It’s not just my inability to see or be upright that’s considered, but also my education and my age, so yes, no matter how impaired I am, I may be “too young” to be disabled. That absolutely floored me – no wonder I have to fend off assholes telling me that every day, because that’s the idiocy that the social security office perpetuates every single day.

One session was put on by the Metropolitan Center for Independent Living right here in Minnesota and a particularly energetic and passionate woman dedicated to helping people find the best and most resources available. Of course I raised my hand and said something to the effect of, “Dude from the SSA yesterday said that even though I am impaired when I’m upright, I can still use my hands and arms and I’m only 42, so of course I’m going to be denied. Does this seem correct to you, and would you deem needing to lay down flat 20-22 hours a day a ‘reasonable accommodation’ to request of a workplace?” (In other words, can I lay on a hospital gurney while I’m ringing people out as a cashier at Target?) She rolled her eyes and said that she was told a while ago that when dealing with the SSA, never to apply logic, because what they do defies common sense. She also said that one guy was told by the SSA that he should be able to find a livable wage somewhere “folding napkins” because that was all he was capable of. I asked if there was ever any communication between the SSA and her office for them to base their findings off of, and she said absolutely not.
While we were waiting to be picked up by the short bus at the hotel in downtown Minneapolis where the conference was taking place, there were plenty of people partying and women wearing the most ridiculous heels and short skirts because the Twins were playing the Yankees at a home game. One drunk hanging with his two very drunk buddies began to loudly read my shirt, and so rather than roll my eyes and be pissed, I invited him to read the other side of my shirt. His immediate demeanor took on the tone that he was going to make fun of me, but after I gave him a brief history, all he could say was that he was sorry, and he doffed his hat to me.

Through all of this, The Saint Paul weathered some really dry presentations, and probably learned more than he ever wanted to. However, when I met his dad and stepmom for the first time on Sunday night and they began to ask me questions about my health, he answered them exactly as I would have. The Saint Paul really takes all of this to heart in addition to reminding me that we are a team and that I no longer have to do everything on my own. I mean, man, he got me paper towels because he noticed I was running low on his own – he didn’t even have to ask, and I didn’t have to tell him! Forget “don’t sweat the small stuff” because it’s the small stuff that counts!

One of the sessions I wanted him to attend (while I was in listening to a much heavier topic) was about caring for the caregiver. All of the men in my immediate family have had to put their own health and happiness on hold because my mom and sisters have had chronic and severe diseases. The Saint Paul believes he can handle whatever happens to me, but I warned him that things can change suddenly and completely and permanently for either he or I, and even with the best of intentions, it’s absolutely possible that he can be so deeply affected by this unnamed change that he’s going to lose his shit. It’s a lot to ask of one person.

So, back to this anniversary: this is also the day a year ago that my sister and her husband brought home their second rescue dog from Secondhand Hounds and renamed her June. Just recently, June has started to mimic her dog brother and put herself on the floor and position herself for belly rubs, something she never would have been relaxed enough to do a year ago. It’s amazing what thousands of dog treats and a loving family will do.
2016-04-12 21.37.08

Can You Describe It To Me?

Posted on by akiwifreund

This week I’m getting ready to attend the 14th National Conference on Hydrocephalus (http://www.hydrocephalusconference.org/conference-information/conference-fees/) that is happening right here in Minneapolis. I’ve got my t-shirts ready. I’ve got my binder of medical history ready. I’ve got my boyfriend ready. I’ve got my transportation ready. I’ve got the hashtag for Twitter ready (#HACON2016). I’m getting mentally prepared to be upright for 9 or 10 hours for three days in a row (only about three hours for the fourth day because everyone is flying home Sunday). It’s going to be really, really tough, physically and emotionally. I just don’t know what to expect but I’m trying to prepare for every variable.

I’m starting the conference by meeting my attorney for the first time because he’s about five blocks away. He doesn’t know that if I detect laziness from him, or a “can’t do” attitude, I will kick him to the curb. At this point, I cannot be the only person fighting for me. I don’t know if actually seeing me and my physical challenges will change his attitude, but he has not been impressive over the phone so far. I keep getting flashes of Boss Hogg a la “Dukes of Hazzard,” all oily, fat fingers and labored breathing. (I realize I’m being very harsh and am one step closer to Hell. Maybe I’ll see you there?)

Then I’ve got to figure out how to be succinct. My t-shirts do half the battle for me. The weather we are having is both a blessing and a curse for me, because if anyone sees me outside, they will witness me at my worst – my face will be almost completely paralyzed, so that means my eyelids will be mostly closed. However, air conditioning helps with temperature, pressure and humidity, so it will take longer for the pressure to build when I’m inside. When it’s bad, I want to die. It’s not an exaggeration. I have trouble explaining it. It’s not a headache. I associate headaches with dull or shooting or throbbing pain; this is more like my brain is being suffocated and crushed by an elephant sitting on it while my head is submerged underwater. But how can I explain that without it sounding like an outrageous exaggeration? It’s not like I keep elephants in my back pockets to demonstrate to others on the spot what is happening with my body for times like these.

I’m also dealing with my left shoulder and right hip giving me loads of trouble. I babysat my nephews Sunday night while my sister and her husband attended a concert, and I had to block a body shot from my 7-year-old nephew, which made me nearly weep with the pain it stirred up in my shoulder. It hasn’t stopped since. I knew my physical therapist would ask for a number to rate it today. I struggle with the pain scale, because as I pointed out to a fellow blogger, my “7” is someone else’s “21.” My PCP thought I was dealing with an inflamed tendon, but since therapy has not been a steady upward improvement, I may in fact be dealing with tears in the tendons and/or ligaments in my shoulder for laying on it for the first three years of shunt surgeries being done on the center and right side of my body. I’ve got an appointment with an orthopedic doc who only specializes in shoulders a week from today.

But even my crying “10” isn’t my real “10.” I would say that my worst pain has been when the CSF has been overdraining – both after my very first surgery, and then for almost all of 2014 when I had a leak in my shunt but my doctor wouldn’t operate because he wanted to find out which parts I was allergic to. Almost every time I got up, I cried. It really did feel like I was being beaten. I know it’s because my brain was coming to rest on my cranial bones. What would be worse? Read my fellow blogger’s description of her “10.” http://www.thehurtblogger.com/post/15492551756/evaluating-the-1-10-pain-scale
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to try to track down a reduced-rate or free dental clinic that will do three crowns for me. I can’t chew on the left side of my face because I’ve been in so much pain that I’ve been clamping down with my jaw in my sleep and I cracked three teeth on my left side.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT:When Good Intentions Aren’t Enough: Loving Each Other Better

Posted on by akiwifreund

FROM: AS I LIVE & BREATHE – Nikki Seefeldt, co-host of Sickadilly Chat

I’ve shared some of Megan Devine’s work before here in my blog in the past & I absolutely love her approach to dealing with pain & grief in life. I follow her on Twitter & w…

Source: FOOD FOR THOUGHT:When Good Intentions Aren’t Enough: Loving Each Other Better

The Boyfriend Invasion

Posted on by akiwifreund

The Saint Paul and I have been dating for two and a half months now. Our first date was many hours long, so many that we approximated it to be the equivalent of four dates. We’ve had many dates since then where we’ve had up to fourteen hours together until I’m physically holding my eyelids up with my fingers and he’s stumbling into his shoes to go home. We’ve also fallen into the habit of not going more than three days without seeing each other. But we’ve never had a full-on sleep-over; he’s always gone home.

I live in a historic area of St. Paul, Minnesota, and every year on the first Sunday of June there is a celebration called Grand Old Days that includes music, food vendors, a parade, artists and sports/health vendors. Attendance has been anywhere between 170,000 and 270,000, and attendees can even print a bus pass for certain routes to park and ride to this area for free. It has gotten so large that this year they have expanded the festival to the whole weekend instead of just Sunday. My flat just happens to be right next to one of the sound stages – and I’ve checked the lineup, doesn’t look promising.

Healthy me would have been absolutely thrilled. This is the stuff I used to live for, and it’s right at my front door. But the new me has to come to terms with the fact that I can’t walk a couple of miles or stand for hours to listen to live music or spend money on food and pottery. The thought of trying to navigate throngs of people while my brain is being squeezed and my eyes are drooping gives me extra anxiety. If I’m being completely honest I can whine and say that it’s not fair, but then who in the world can I blame that on?

The Saint Paul has opted to come over Friday night so he can score a parking spot and not have to stress about it after that. We might run out to get a few groceries, which will require us planning out meals for two whole days together, and then he’ll head home Sunday night. He’s going to try to borrow a camp chair for the parade, since I have my own already – we have to stake out a place on the sidewalk along the parade route pretty early in the morning Sunday, because it’s going to get gnarly. We’re fully expecting drunks to be trying to get into my building or to be peeing in our planters or every barfing in every doorway. I’ve heard stories. Non-food businesses are now in the habit of shutting down completely for this festival.

Other things take planning too. I’ve suggested that he bring over his favorite pillow to help him sleep better (because we all know that makes a huge difference when sleeping in unfamiliar territory). Sometimes I wake up coughing because of acid reflux, so I kind of have to be ready to move to my couch (five steps from my bed) if I think I can’t get back to sleep right away. And to hear The Saint Paul tell it, he flops around like a fish when he sleeps, which does not bode well for me, the ultimate light sleeper.

Most importantly, 48 hours together guarantees that there is going to be poo involved. Knowing my GI tract means there’s going to be multiple incidents each day. I have a brand new bottle coming that should be arriving just in time for Friday that is ruby red grapefruit-scented that may prolong my relationship with The Saint Paul. I am telling you, every house should have PooPourri because everyone poops, and no one wants to die by Lysol or any other chemical stuff that you spray in the air that makes it smell like you shit out a pine tree. I cannot say enough good things about this product. Buy it. You spritz it in the toilet bowl before you unload your load, and all is right in the world.

Lastly, most of my lounging and sleeping when I am solo in my flat is done sans hair. My wigs are just not at all comfortable, and wearing them in bed actually wrecks the fibers. So The Saint Paul is going to get a full dose of me au natural, and I have warned him that once I have taken them off in his presence, I will probably lose all motivation to wear them all of the time. I like how I look in them, but they are so damned scratchy and uncomfortable, plus wearing them less will also help me to be able to keep them longer since I have no money coming in. So for your viewing pleasure, here is (a very dirty) Mr. Clean taking your day to a whole different level:

Just The Tip

Posted on by akiwifreund

For the life of me, I cannot remember who worked this joke into their standup (though I could have sworn it was Eddie Murphy or someone else who was quite popular in the mid-80’s). The premise is something along the lines about said comic complaining about how when it came time for him to get a blow job, his dates were less than enthusiastic. They grabbed his penis like a microphone, gave the tip a lick or two like a lollipop, and then looked at him with expectation and asked, “You good now? That okay?” That counted as oral sex in their minds. Their mouths came in close contact with the comic’s junk, so good enough. I mean, there’s nothing more intimate than having your face in someone else’s parts and getting a close-up inspection, is there? He should have just been thankful that he got a couple of licks because that’s all he was gonna get.

I bring this up because this routine is always what goes through my mind whenever I interact with a friend or family member who checks on my status:

Friend: How are you?
Me: I’m still having health problems.
Friend: So you’re better now?
Me: No, I’m actually worse now.
Friend: Oh, but you’re better now, right?
Me: Not at all.
Friend: Okay, we good now? Stay positive!

So, are we good? Well, no, actually. Especially since I have this conversation multiple times a day with people who don’t have any connection to each other, and I am at a loss as to why this keeps repeating. When I try to get to the bottom of how they could have possibly come to that conclusion that I’m okay, I realize that it has to do with lip service every time. They want to brag that they went down on me without actually having done it.

Since I’ve vowed to live an authentic life and not fake my orgasms, I am being truthful when people are asking me about my current status. It’s making them uncomfortable but I’ve decided not to apologize for it. As we enter the summer months and the air pressure, humidity and temperature jump around hourly and the pressure in my head goes haywire, I will struggle more. No amount of wishing for rainbows and puppy dogs will change it.

Rare + Rare = Still Rare

Posted on by akiwifreund

Yesterday was generally a non-productive doctoring day for me. I went to see a neurologist in a different medical system outside of the ones that I have tried just to see if I could at least get an acknowledgment that what I’m dealing with is not that idiotic label “facial weakness” that the U of MN doctor put in my file. Besides trying to work towards a diagnosis, I’m also trying to build my case for disability, and I keep hearing my attorney’s voice in the back of my head saying, “If you don’t get a diagnosis by the time you are sitting in front of the judge, you’re screwed.”

The neurologist was very friendly and open, and definitely had the approach of working with me as part of a collaboration rather than dictating to me. However, we still had a breakdown in communication. She could not wrap her brain around the concept about why I have a shunt in the first place (and indeed is the same barrier for 99% of the doctors I talk to even though I explain to them that the shunts were placed because my symptoms improved temporarily after receiving lumbar punctures 12 hours apart). Almost all doctors incorrectly jump to the conclusion that my face is drooping because I’m overdraining – as if the fluid is pulling my face down with it, like I am living out a Salvador Dali painting. It’s easier for me to explain the shunts and the failures and the symptoms to people who have absolutely no experience with this world because they have no expectations and no preconceived notions (except for the asshole armchair “experts” who don’t know shit but think that watching a few episodes of “House” have made them suddenly intellectually superior).

Because this doctor had wonderful bedside manner, I made sure I took the time to assure her that her inability to give me a diagnosis or a direction was not her fault or a failure on her part as a physician. As a matter of fact, she was doctor #50 in six years, and I told her that too. The combined look of horror and chagrin was a bit comical. I gladly accepted her recommendations for a pediatric neurosurgeon (because sometimes they take the most complicated adults) as well as a rheumatologist she thought would have the best bedside manner, so all was not wasted on that visit. I also explained to her that I would be attending the national hydrocephalus conference June 16-19 being held here in Minneapolis and that I had t-shirts printed:

This week another one of our relatives passed away. His niece happened to contact me through 23 & Me, where I have an account set up after getting my genes tested last July; I wanted the cheapest way possible to get them set up in a database while I tried to figure out what is going on with my body and just how rare it really is. It turns out that this relative of mine has a daughter who is also super rare, truly one in seven billion! It’s so rare that they actually had to formally name it: Hemolytic Anemia Medicine Lake. The “Medicine Lake” portion of the name refers to the area that I and a large portion of my extended family grew up and lived in in the western Minneapolis area. Unfortunately it’s not in any way similar to what my problem is so I can’t go to the NIH and tell them to link our cases, but we definitely hit the rare disease lottery in this family.

By the way, universe, I’d like to win the LOTTERY lottery.

And I won’t be going back to this neurologist, as nice as she was, because she described herself as a “neighborhood neurologist.” She said that she was a step or two down from the facilities where I had been trying my luck, and this was way over her head.

Would You Like Some Abject Poverty With That?

Posted on by akiwifreund

I left a message yesterday with my apartment manager regarding my lease, which is ending on May 31st. I had signed a notice and turned it in on March 17th indicating that I wished to stay another year when my lease expired, but I haven’t heard anything since then, and we don’t have many days left until the end of this month. I have a certain amount of money in my bank account from the sale of my car that I have been using for living expenses but I figured that if I was going to sign another lease, the apartment manager wanted to see proof of income or a certain amount of reserves in the bank, so I decided to call the administrators of my 401k to pull all of the funds and close it out.

The simple act of getting on the phone causes me anxiety. In all of the jobs I’ve held over the years, I used to field anywhere between 50-100 calls a day, so just know that that’s highly unusual for me to dread picking up the phone and try to figure out what to say without fumbling.

It’s also unusual for me to not have one or two or three jobs simultaneously. The 401k is my last lifeline and the only thing standing between me and homelessness. Right now I have to operate under the assumption that I will never have any money coming in ever again because I have no idea what the outcome of my disability hearing will be in 2017.

The call to the 401k plan administrators only took a few minutes. The first representative couldn’t confirm or deny which penalties I would be subject to, even though my CPA said that I could probably avoid a 25% and 10% early withdrawal penalties because of my indefinite disability status. A second rep – presumably the guy who did the calculations and released the funds – advised me that he had to take out a minimum of 20% for taxes and that I should set aside an additional 10% for penalties, all in a blaring and bored voice, as if he heard this stuff all the time, as if it wasn’t a big deal for me to have no other choice.
I have a few big purchases coming up. First, I have to take care of a crown and root canal completely out of pocket because medical assistance won’t pay for any of it. Second, I need a new bed; this one started to sag about five months after I purchased it last year because I spent so much time in it, but the store wouldn’t cover it under warranty because I moved out of state and the manufacturer would only cover a small percentage (this time around I’m going for the bargain Sleep Number C2 – no inner springs and it costs the same as a traditional inner spring bed). Third, I want to buy a different a/c window unit because the one that was provided with the apartment is gross and inefficient.

After those purchases, I will have to live off of the same amount of money slightly more than what workers make at minimum wage in the U.S. I don’t know how people do it. I don’t know how I’m going to do it. It’s not like I can go out and get more jobs, or a better job.

This is the song of our people. Poverty. Desperation as our bodies shut down, especially in my case (and others out there) when I don’t have a name to attach to it or a prognosis to go by. My counselor has told me not to think a year ahead and allow myself to be swallowed up by the fear of what comes after the money runs out, but how can I not think about that? My life is already so different than it was even just a year ago; I can’t even whisper the words, “How much more can I lose?” That’s like setting up a new dare to the universe.

Hanging up with the Merrill Lynch rep, he wrapped up the call with the requisite, “Is there anything else I can help you with?” The old, working me would have awarded him 10 points for asking the question. The new, disabled me wanted to tell him to suck my ass.

Stick It Where The Sun Don’t Shine

Posted on by akiwifreund

I rarely count myself lucky to have an alphabet of ailments, but this is one of those times – namely because I was offered the opportunity to try the Luxe Bidet Neo 185 in exchange for a fair and objective review for you, dear readers, through the Chronic Illness Bloggers network. As per the usual, please know that even though the product was a gift, all the opinions in this review are my own and I was in no way influenced by the company. I’m going to tell you that you can look away if you don’t poop, but since you and I both know you do, you might as well keep reading.

I B.S. you not, I suffer from some crazy IBS – irritable bowel syndrome. Sometimes I’m on a dead run from my bed to my toilet, which is a whole ten steps, because my bowels have decided they want to release the Kraken…again…for the fourth time in five hours. There are times when I have wished I could hose myself down after every episode. There are times toilet paper has felt like rows of shark teeth because I’m wiping my poor abused bottom for the umpteenth time. I think I responded within 30 seconds of this being offered to our group because I was wishing for it and it suddenly appeared.
2016-05-17 17.32.39

I am confident with putting mechanical stuff together, but not so much plumbing (though I did once take apart my kitchen sink in Phoenix). I talked my step-dad into installing this gadget when he was in town on babysitting duty with my mom for my nephews one weekend. We put a bucket under the water line after we turned off the water during the transition, which I strongly recommend you do as well. He asked me to note in the review that he wished that the part connecting the water lines was metal rather than plastic. In fact, this entire unit is plastic with the exception of the water line, probably to keep costs contained. It took him about 5-10 minutes to get everything set up correctly.
2016-05-17 14.16.06

Now for the good stuff! Wait, wait – I live in a really old building dating from approximately 1910, and who knows how old the toilet is (I didn’t look at the lid for a date), so just know that I thoroughly cleaned the toilet before photos. I take no responsibility for decades of filth and disrepair from previous tenants. It even looks like some half-wit tried to flush grout at some point, but there’s not much I can do about that. Onward ho.

When I told my step-dad that I would be including pictures with this review, he squealed with laughter. I think he was disappointed when I sternly said I wouldn’t be posting those pictures. But then he squealed again when we discussed the fact that the water was coming directly from the pipes without being heated first.

So here’s the logistics: I’ve included a copy of the card with the instructions because I had to read them a few times myself first before using the Luxe Bidet Neo 185. It can be a little intimidating to have something pressure washing an area that only a few boyfriends and GI doctors have had intimate knowledge of. After the first few tries, you shouldn’t need a queue card.
2016-05-17 17.33.19

Basically, the “second nozzle” in this scenario refers to whether or not you are a girl person and your parts are located in an area that would benefit from a nozzle that reaches forward further than the other one taking care of the brick layer.

For my first sit-down, I was a little scared. I knew that water would be chilly. There was a good chance my apartment neighbors would hear me whooping and hollering from the startling freeze-out of my back door. I’ve been trying to think of the best way of describing it, and all I can come up with is that it feels like someone is trying to suddenly and quickly stuff freezing cold cotton balls up my keister – maybe Lucille Ball or Carol Burnett were somehow acting out a skit with my hiney as the punchline?? All I can say is that you just need to rip the band-aid off and get through the initial try, because you’ll get used to it.

As far as the “second nozzle” and girlhood goes, I found that if I sit upright, it doesn’t do me much good. However, if I lean forward, then more of my bits get cleaned – but again, with the shockingly cold water.

Look, this does the job. I really have gotten away from using those demon “flushable” wipes. They have been deceptive with their marketing. Entire communities are becoming backed up because Charmin and Cottonelle and their knockoff competitors have created these heavily perfumed wipes that don’t actually disintegrate when they’re flushed; besides that, your parts don’t fare well with all of that perfume hanging out on your bits. I am trying not to be that person in my very old building who clogs up the pipes (though I have managed to collect everyone else’s hairballs in my sinks and tubs and plumbers have made numerous visits here). I have sent these wipes packing like ex-boyfriends that I have also grossly misjudged.

Back to the bidet. Here is what it looks like with the lid closed:
2016-05-17 14.15.54
The device is actually installed so it is attached between the bowl and the seat so it stays secured:
2016-05-17 14.16.38

As promised, I did not take pics of the bidet in action on my tushie, but I did take pics of the “nozzle cleaning” mode:
2016-05-17 14.18.09
(Where the bubbles appear in the bowl is where the water is shooting out of the water feed, presumably so the nozzles can have “debris” power washed out.)

If you are interested in purchasing this product, it is offered where anything in the universe is offered, on Amazon (and don’t forget to select your favorite charity through smile.amazon.com so that a certain percentage of your purchase is donated by the company every time): http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P2XZDGG

You can also go directly to their website for any product information: http://luxebidet.com/

I have to say that I will be trying to hang onto this product for as long as I can.

Waiting For The Mother Ship

Posted on by akiwifreund

Last Wednesday I went in for a procedure that was new to me, and quite frankly, I didn’t hold out much hope for as far as its success rate went. It was a transabdominal plane (TAP) block. My pain doc, who is fairly close to me in age, very serious, sober, and I suspect severely depressed, hoped this TAP would stop the nerve pain that I get as a result from the allergic reaction to the drainage catheter that winds around my abdominal area. He thought my pain was from my abdomen being cut so many times from all of my surgeries. I indulged him because quite frankly, I’ve got nothing better to do.

When I arrived at the outpatient surgical area, I changed into the ugliest shit brown gym shorts ever, and got a matching pair of shit brown hospital socks with rubber grips for fall prevention. No way would anyone willingly steal these digs (with the exception of one lovely elderly lady who declared them exceedingly comfortable, I was told). I had three nurses ranging in age between 50 and 68 (I’m guessing), all slightly fussy and calling me honey, and addressing me in a loud volume with small words as all surgical nurses are accustomed to doing when coaxing patients out of anesthesia. I was awake and responsive the whole time, but it’s hard to break a habit that takes decades to build.

We discussed all of the yellow on my chart – meaning all of my allergies. We settled on a chlorhexadine scrub rather than a betadine solution to prep my abdomen because of my allergy to shellfish. I watched as my doctor put a long sleeve on the ultrasound paddle that would help guide the needle that would deliver the meds, as he rolled it down and secured it with a rubber band, and I asked, “Oh, is that an elephant condom?” The nurses twittered and the doctor chuckled. Then the nurses got in on the game and tried naming a few other animals with especially big penises. Then we got serious again because it was time to stab me.

The doctor applied some ultrasound gel and pressed the paddle to my abdomen. The nurse at my head put her hand on my shoulder and I closed my eyes. My doc warned me that I would feel the poke and burn. I focused on my heartbeat and forcing it to beat slower, and as if from far away, I heard the nurse say close to my ear that I could squeeze her hand if I needed to. I whispered “No” and refocused again on my breathing. I could hear my heart on the monitor slow down. The doctor said something about enlarging the picture, then needing more “puffs,” and then he finally said he was done and he was going to withdraw the needle. I opened my eyes and my heartbeat increased again, and I saw him pull out a needle that was about four inches long that was attached to a wire.

We did it all over again on the other side: gel, paddle, breathe, focus, heart rate down, needle, pain, puffs, out. I had to have paper tape with gauze over the insertion points because I would have been allergic to what they usually use for gauze pads. The doctor told me afterwards that he had never seen anyone’s heart rate go down as he was inserting the needle and the meds – usually the opposite happened. I told him that I learned a few things from meditation.

I didn’t pay it much mind, but almost immediately, I had developed hives at my insertion sites. I was supposed to keep the gauze on for 24 hours so I didn’t see the hives until the next day. As far as pain relief goes, I didn’t feel any by the time I received a call at noon, but I noticed I had some at about 5:30 that night. However, by Saturday I was laid low by pain again. I emailed my doctor and his nurse to let him know about the hives as well as the ineffectiveness of the block. The hives did not appear across the entire area that they prepped so I know it’s not a reaction to the chlorhexidine – at least I still have that as an option.

If my doctor is depressed, I can understand why. I would feel the same way if I had patients like me.

And whatever this new allergy is, it’s really just another sign that I’m not a native to Earth and that I need to send a signal flare up to the mother ship to scoop me up.