Getting Wiggy With It

Gah. I made the mistake of drinking Pepsi late yesterday evening and the caffeine has woken me up in the middle of the night. My left knee is aching terribly. Despite this, I am mentally running a marathon. I have cut back considerably on coffee consumption during the day to avoid causing myself more than the usual amount of anxiety. Now I am cursing my own stupidity.

I am also extremely restless on this new medication. My fight or flight has always been set to flight. As of late, it is constantly a cameo and sometimes decides to usurp the starring role in the little film called my life. This is not helpful in a call center position where I am essentially tethered to a computer for 8 hours a day.  I take anti-anxiety meds, they are not helping. I need to start exercising outside of work, which I agree would ease the anxiety a tad. But it’s certainly not a cure-all.

So instead I write diatribes in the middle of the night and think about how much work is still to be done in the garage. I’ve been here a month tomorrow and the amount of stuff I need to purge is still overwhelming. Anyone want a snowglobe? Or perhaps a snowman, I seem to have an army of the things.

I also love the bipolar disorder and the associated lack of sleep. It exacerbates the anxiety a great deal. Because when you have more time awake, you have more time to worry about things. Like migrant children in detention centers and all those implications. Like Medicaid expansion in Idaho. Like whether I’ll make it working full-time long term or if I will lose it one day. Those sorts of things.

I need EAP. Desperately, desperately. I have become desensitized to many types of calls but some of them still get to me. I also have these lovely pre-existing mental conditions which make stress hard to cope with. So my hopes of working in any other type of call center are essentially dashed. I would really excel at a job concerning documentation but am having a hard time finding one that I am qualified for.

So I sit in limbo. I would love to have a writing career but since I mainly write weird stuff in the middle of the night, I don’t think that will happen. I need structure. I need to come home from work and actually work on my side pursuits instead of becoming a potato. I need to write about the things I watch as well, that film blog is really just sitting there like a dud. I also need to READ A BOOK. Like the kind that I checked out from the library that is sitting unopened by my bed. Maybe it will inspire me to, I don’t know, write my own book or something.

I start writing books, get 25 pages or so in, and then stop. It seems to be a metaphor for my life. Now I’m going to go look at jobs I don’t have the guts to apply for and maybe try to figure out how to exercise without waking the entire household. I guess I could take an Ativan and sleep. Instead, I will likely make more coffee and continue to wig out.HPXAKL%jT2yLMc6RhxN+TQ

 

Insomniaaaaaaahhhhhh

Hello Interwebz,

Here I am again. The cat woke me up at 2 AM for food, which is when my body also decided that we were up for the day. I haven’t written a blog specifically for this site in a while. Which is funny, because I vacillate between bliss and a state of anxiety. The bliss is for when I decide to be ignorant that I am operating my life at a $500 per month deficit. The anxiety encapsulates that financial fact and everything else that’s going wrong in my life.

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Who could say no to this face?

So what has happened to make me attempt to get by on -$500 a month? I am glad you asked. There was the snafu with my ex regarding his retirement–to summarize, he read the divorce decree wrong and was giving me more retirement money than I was actually entitled to per month. So there went approximately $250. Because I trusted that he would not possibly make such a mistake, I took on an extra $90 worth of cell phone bill–before, he was generously paying for it but I thought eh. May as well consolidate, you know. And then there was the issue of paying him back for what he had erroneously given me.

Which brings me to MEDICAL COSTS. To pay the ex back I took on all of my daughter’s medical bills for a period of time. She had a tonsillectomy in that period of time after recurrent strep throat, lucky us. I also spend $350 every three months on psychiatric medication. Which is clearly more than I can reasonably afford.

I have a call center job that doesn’t pay as much as I need it to, though I enjoy my work in helping the deaf and hard-of-hearing. I could drop benefits I suppose and make up some of the difference that way, but with having OCD and bipolar I, that is perhaps not the best solution. I would try to get a different job but this one suits my disability well. As for actual disability, I am (according to the government) not disabled enough to merit it despite the comorbidity of my disorders.

Though I don’t pay pet rent for my two lovely cats, one of them has had unforeseen health complications. Mona Lisa will eventually need surgery before her stomatitis makes her unable to eat. They need special food, and they seem to poop a lot. This has made my pet care bill enormous (though pet insurance helps a great deal).

Also, RENT AIN’T JUST A MUSICAL. I am currently paying over a thousand a month for my apartment. Basically, that plus utilities make up most of what I make at my present job per month. I would have a roommate but well, a roommate situation has not served us well in the recent past. Before this, my daughter and I were living with my mom, grandmother, and my mom’s best friend, which essentially four moms for my daughter and TOO MANY HENS A CLUCKIN’.

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My small, cluttered living room and my cosplayer daughter

And then there are taxes, on which I managed to underreport my income because I forgot about the spousal support I was receiving for a few months. Egregious error but also entirely innocent, it came through an allotment and I just forgot about it. My amended tax bill, with preparation: $900, most of which is being sent back to the government. Ouch.

Oh, and to make matters worse, the student loan has reared its ugly head again. ACK.

TAH-DAH. the reasons for my present situation. The reason I am up. Am I going to renew my lease for another year? Nope. I cannot. Am I going to move back in with mom? Well, I would but I have trouble establishing boundaries. And I like having my STUFF (that I lived without for nearly two years post-separation from the now-ex).

So my daughter and I are going to be moving in with my boyfriend across town. I just moved a year ago with my friend Michele’s generous help (she had her whole fam help me move, for reals. She is the best). Do I feel like moving again? Well, no. I just got everything arranged the way I would like it. And I feel like this whole “on my own” experiment has come to a premature end. So the OCD part of me is guilting myself and telling me that I am BAD AND A FAILURE.

Would moving be financially and emotionally beneficial? Uh-huh. My boyfriend is the nicest person I know. And Violet would have a yard to help with and play in. And we would have the scratch to actually afford to say, go out and eat or buy groceries without using a pesky credit card.

I am very stressed out right now, but I am unbelievably lucky that we have a great place to move into.

And with that, I am going to make some coffee and plan out the move in my head. Anxiety. It’s a trip.

The Damn Cat Ate My Puzzle Piece

I really only have one more stop in this “journey” of sorts and then will be caught up, able to talk about events that are actually happening as opposed to bitching about ancient history.

14 March, I had an appointment with my Rhumatologist, Dr. M.  The beginning wasn’t

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No 77 BPM to be found around the time.

great, I will admit. Her nurse took my pulse by hand and said it was 78. I checked my Apple watch.  My pulse was 113.  I told him that and he chuckled, saying if my heart was going that fast, he’d feel it. I just flat out told him he was wrong but with a smile.  There may or may not have been a touch of, “Well, bless your heart” in that smile.

He left, and I actually looked around to see if there was anything that would electronically take my pulse.  I just didn’t want that wildly in accurate number in the record.  But nope.  Thus it stands—a field of 100+ bpm, punctuated by one at 77.  (And you can bet I went out and got a pulse oximeter so that I can medically establish my pulse if I ever need to again.)

I didn’t really feel like I clicked with Dr M. the first time I saw her, but I really did this visit. She confirmed that my shoulder was impinged (I had done it the day before, no clue how, don’t ask) and offered a cortisone shot.. For the first time ever, I accepted one..

She stressed to me again the importance of PT or having some other way of building up the muscles to support my joints, particularly the troublesome ones.

She asked about some of the other appointments I had had.  Talking about the TE hair loss, she verbally brainstormed about what kind of injury had triggered it and then jerked herself out of it. “I am talking a lot. That usually means I don’t know what I am talking about, something that isn’t my specialty. I am talking out my butt on the subject.”. Yup, now you know why I feel so much more connected to her. She likes puzzles, cannot help but brainstorm about what might cause things and told me that she was talking out of her butt.  What’s not to like?

We talked about meds. The meds used for hEDS and fibromyalgia are basically little siblings of some of the meds that I am already taking. If my current meds aren’t stopping the pain, the ones she had to offer probably wouldn’t either.  There’s a great cream she likes, but unless I have a documented arthritis dx, insurance would never cover it and it is not cheap.

We talked about the possibility of acupuncture and pool therapy.  That is something I need to look into, insurance wise.

She ordered labs because that’s what doctors do.  In her defense, she really wants to make sure that she has baseline numbers of various things because she is very particular about picking up on patterns based on changes in those numbers.  For some of the labs, she only had one data point currently and even two is not going to be sufficient for pattern recognition.  I will return in 4-6 months, get another set of labs and have the option of another cortisone shot if I like.

I did some heavy thinking after this visit. I was in the middle of writing these blog updates. I have been so focused on finding the magical “missing piece” that I have put my life on hold while looking for it. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that I am probably never going to find the magic missing piece.

Don’t get me wrong—there are some things that still are unexplained that bother me.  The enlarged lymph nodes.  The strange bruising.  The mental mind fog that seems to go far beyond what my medications should account for. The trauma or injury that caused each round of TE.  What the heck is wrong with my scalp.  I am pretty sure that there is an answer out there that would explain all of it.  But I am not counting on getting it any time in the future, if at all.

Just like a real jigsaw puzzle, maybe the piece got knocked aside and no one noticed.

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Tsuka looks like she might eat a puzzle piece.  (photo credit Kendra Jean Photography)

Maybe the piece has been missing the whole time and the puzzle just came out of the box one piece short. Hell, maybe the cat ate the piece.

Deep down, I feel like there is something probably wrong with my autonomic system. It would explain the heart, maybe the brain chemicals, maybe the sleep problems, maybe most if not all of it.. But the autonomic system isn’t well enough understood to be able to prove, or even test, that theory.

Those are things I cannot control.. Now I am finally trying to move on to the things that I can control.. Better sleep hygiene.  Better nutrition for myself and my family.  Exercise.  Working on joint stability.  Drinking more water.  Losing some of the extra weight I am carrying around, which cannot be helping my joints or my heart—or my anxiety.

Lowering my stress levels. Meditating.  Easing my anxiety.  Finding systems and ways to make my life work, as it is.

Taking my life off pause. Being in the moment.  Connecting more with my family.  Hopefully reestablishing some friendships that I have seriously neglected.

Being the person I am, this is really, really difficult to accept, but sometimes, you just have to clean up the puzzle and put it back in the box, even if it feels unfinished with one piece missing.  But the damn puzzle is taking up the whole table, and I want room to be able to do other things.

 

 

Life is just a series of cliffhangers*

CW:  Some blood and guts and sores.  Just kidding on the guts.  But not the other.  Oh and REALLY REALLY BAD HAIR.

2019.  In the beginning of 2018, I had dubbed it my “Year of Joy.”  I wasn’t making that mistake again.  I quietly welcomed in the new year with hope that it would be better than last year and that we would finally figure out “the last piece of the puzzle.”

I had become quite obsessed with the idea of “the last piece of the puzzle.”  I felt like there was some magic diagnosis out there that was going to solve all the rest of my problems, if I could just find the right doctor who could just find the right test and treatment.

I started PT, which was one more appointment added to every week.  What some of you might not know is that I live “in LA” but I live in the Valley. My doctors are all Cedars-Sinai doctors, so that means going “over the hill” for every appointment.  This drive can, and has, taken close to 2 hours one way, if I go at busy times.  And if any of you see doctors regularly, you know–appointment time wise, you get what you get and you don’t get upset.  So my 1 hour weekly PT in actuality would take up around 3 hours of my day.  But I did it anyway.. I even got cute keychains.. One actually says, “Did It Anyway” and the other reads, “Didn’t Lose My Shit.”IMG_2978

 

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These appeared overnight

But January 4th, I looked in the mirror in absolute horror.  I had a small row of little red sores on my head.. I started to cry.

Okay, while this is pretty weird and sucky, I would not normally have such an extreme reaction. They were small, and if I didn’t have a previous experience with something similar, I would have figured I was having an allergic reaction to something.  But in 2014, my hair got destroyed.

 

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Normal Hair

I started out with fairly normal hair.  It was fine but wasn’t damaged.  But out of no where, it fell out, it broke, it didn’t grow.  My hairdresser said that it looked like I had gone through chemo, though I hadn’t.  And the first thing I noticed before it happened was some small sores on my head. I cannot believe I am going to do this, but I am going to show you how bad my hair got.

 

 

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At first we tried to hide the damage.
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Some damage you just can’t hide.

 

It literally took until almost the end of 2018 to regrow all out to the same length and have the damage cut out.  I immediately checked pictures, and now that I was looking for it, I saw that my haircut in October looked fine but my haircut in December showed some receding hair.

In 2014, we never did know FOR SURE what caused the damage.  However, the worsening stages seemed to coincide with increases in doses of the mood stabilizer I was taking, Depakote.  So I talked to Dr. W. and we switched to a different stabilizer.  And then another.  And then another.  It took awhile to find something that worked, but the point here is that my hair was a fucking disaster.

I never knew before how much I cared about my hair.  In fact is sounds really silly and superficial, to care about my hair that much.. But when I didn’t really have much and what I did have was a wreck, I found out that yes, I did care.  Very much.

So, this time I was NOT going to wait around and see what happened.. I made an appt with my PCP, Dr F., immediately.  I went in and we talked about changes in medications, (none), stressors in my life (lots) and what could be causing it all.. At one point, I flat out asked him if I was a hyperchondriac because I felt like I lived in medical offices.  He assured me that while he did have several hyperchondriacs in his practice, I was not one of them.  The hair loss, he explained, was probably caused by something called Telogen Effluvium (TE for sort because this is going to come up enough I don’t want to spell it out every time.) TE is caused by stress or trauma to the body.  You can look it up but in essence, your body saves its energy by shutting down hair growth. When the body feels healthier again, it starts hair regrowth—and that pushes out all the old hairs, causing the shedding. However, what he was worried about were the sores on my head which had basically appeared overnight and were what he was now calling “lessions.”  So, I got a referral to the dermatologist.  The upside, he told me, was that when they biopsied (as they probably would) it would also confirm that the hair losss was from TE—which is great because it regrows and doesn’t scar.

I saw Dr F. Jan 18th.  The first opening the dermatologist had was Jan 30th, with a Nurse Practitioner. I would have rather have had an appointment with an MD (I know NPs can be great but I had a BAD experience with one post partum and will never forget it).  But this was my damn hair and I took it.. By that time, the first small sores were gone but two main ones were still there—and one was in about the same place as one from 2014.

NP A. started by examining my hair and head and then started talking about the hair loss.  It was probably TE.  I finally interrupted her and said that YES, my doctor and I were pretty aware and sure of that but he was worried about the open sores on my head (which I had now had for a month) and that wouldn’t heal.  She looked at them and was honest with me.  She had no idea what was going on.  She would take a culture to make sure there was no infection.  (I asked her if it looked like there was an infection and she flat out said no.)  She wrote me prescriptions for an antibiotic and an antibiotic ointment just in case it was a bacterial infection.  I asked her what it was, if it didn’t look like an infection.  She told me she didn’t feel confident diagnosing it and wanted me to make an appointment with the doctor. She told me that she could do a biopsy on it, but if it was an infection that would be a waste of time and since I had to come back anyway, the doctor could do it.  She also did a blood draw because that’s what doctors do.

The culture quickly came back negative which was good because I had taken the antibiotic once or twice and then stopped.  One, I am anti taking antibiotics unless there is a bacterial infection.  Two, they made me feel funny, I thought.  I called the office and asked if my blurred vision, head pressure, generally feeling like I had a concusion would be a side effect.  The nurse told me no and I assumed that I somehow had fallen and given myself a concussion and didn’t realize it.

Results came back showing my Ferritin level was 7.  Low normal is 10 but apparently doctors really want to see something closer to 35 in women who still menstruate, so I needed to start taking iron twice a day.

February 26thwas the first date they could get me in to see an MD, Dr. A.

Let me be clear here.  I have had basically nothing but good experience with every Cedars-Sinai person I have come into contact with, with only one or two exceptions.. But this was about to turn into a huge cluster fuck.

Dr. A. started the conversation talking about TE.. AGAIN.. I interrupted her pretty fast this time and told her that yeah, we already knew that, we were concerned about the lessions on my head that would not heal. She asked if I had taken the antibiotic and I told her no since it wasn’t a bacterial infection and I felt like I had a concussion when I took it and it went away when I stopped. Apparently, that is a serious side effect of that antibiotic and she told me the nexy time I saw a doctor to have them chart it as an allergy. (No clue why she didn’t add it to my chart on the spot.)  She checked sores and said that they looked fine.  Pink skin, looked to be healing, just don’t mess with them.  (Which I was guilty of.  The comb or brush would hit the spot and sometimes it was kinda damaging. But not two months unhealed damaging.) I asked what we would do about them. She told me she wanted to take a wait and see approach.

I had been seeing and waiting with these damn spots for two months now and I was done waiting and seeing and told her so.. It is one of the only times that I have told a doctor no, I want something different than what you are saying.  She said she could do a punch biopsy.  I said that I thought that sounded like a good plan and asked if it was overkill.  She said, “Well, it’s not overkill for me; I do them all day long.”  Great. Let’s do this.

So she numbed it, did the biopsy.  Asked for gauze.  Used sutures instead of foam.  Asked for more gauze.  And more gauze.  And more. I started to become a bit concerned and asked if everything was okay.  She assured me that yes, everything was fine—head wounds just bleed a lot.  Which is true and I knew.  She just seemed surprised to keep asking for more guaze for someone who does these all day long.  Finally the stitches were in.  She told me that her tech would clean me up and then waltzed out of the room.

The tech just stared at me for a minute.  “Do you have a hat?” she asked.  No.  “Do you have hair ties?”  Yes.  “Good.  You are going to want them.”  WTF?

 

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My hair wasn’t pink; it just looked like it from the blood.

She then told me she was going to pour hydrogen peroxide over my hair and wipe at it with large gauze pads, which she waved at me.  Ohhhh-kay.  She did and wiped and wiped.  The biopsy site was on the left side of my head, in front and above my ear and that is where she kept wiping.  I finally mentioned, “I know my head is numb and so maybe I am not feeling this right, but it feels like there is blood running down the back of my neck.”  She had me sit up a bit and assured me that my head being numb was not affecting the feeling.  There was blood all down my neck.  She dumped more solution, wiped more, and finally said she was done and I should pull my hair back.  She then handed me a bag with gauze squares, about 7 inches thick, and some Vaseline. Instructions—use the Vaseline once or twice a day.  Put some gauze on the site and keep pressure on it and it should stop bleeding within 20 minutes.  Also, usually the rules are not to get the site wet for 24 hours, but I was going to have to wash my hair because of the blood so just keep the site as dry as possible.

So I pulled my hair back without a mirror, applied pressure and went downstairs to the ground floor.  I had Ubered there and was planning on Ubering back home.  I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror.  I had blood smeared across the right side of my temple (why there and not the left?  Who knows.) My hair looked like I had dyed red streaks through it, especially in the back.  I started to cry.  I couldn’t Uber home like this.  What the hell?  What had happened?  I had to call my husband at work and have him come and get me since there was no way I was going to ruin my Uber rating by looking like a murder victim or perpetrator.

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After about 20 minutes, the bleeding finally stopped.

My husband took me back to his work and stashed me in an unused room; he wasn’t going to leave me alone.  My head hurt, I couldn’t stop the tears falling down my face, and I couldn’t think.

The bleeding did slow and had stopped by the time 20 minutes had passed but that did not make me feel much better.

Oh, Dr A—Dr. Ohara Aivaz, MD.  Everyone should make their own educated decisions but if you want my advice, avoid this dermatologist like the plague.  Also, and she also tried to sell me a $180/month supplement for my hair to make it fuller and richer.  It is not prescription but only sold in doctors’ offices.  So there is also that.

The biopsy results came back quickly.

“Dear Michele,

Hope you’re doing well! Your biopsy results came back showing that the spot we biopsied was consistent with telogen effluvium (stress/iron deficiency induced hair loss). There was no evidence of scarring or autoimmune disease, which is great news. Please continue with the viviscal, iron, and meditation. I will see you back in three months…….I have copied your pathology result below.

DIAGNOSIS:
SKIN, LEFT SCALP, PUNCH BIOPSY:
– Non-scarring alopecia with increased catagen/telogen forms
– See comment
COMMENT: Of the clinical differential diagnoses under consideration, the histologic
findings are most supportive of telogen effluvium.”

I have no idea what different clinical differential diagnoses were under consideration.  I do know, however, that TE is a result of something else happening to the body.  What caused it?  No certain answers.  Still have a sore on my head though—the other one is where she did the biopsy, so it is also still healing.. . I do know one thing though.. There is no way in Hell she is ever seeing me again, let alone in three months.  Whatever piece may be missing from the puzzle, she doesn’t have it.

****Thank you to Mark for inspiring this title.*******

Yesterday I Made My Bed (AKA the rest of 2018 Summed Up in One Blog Entry)

TL;DR—I have been ill.  Also this is a bunch of text.  Swear I am going to try to put some pics in later but I don’t know what of……IMG_6516

So, yesterday I made my bed (this is not a metaphor, I promise).  I did it in layers.  (Still not a metaphor.)  I stripped the bed.  (IRL, I swear.)  A bit later, I put on the fitted sheet.  (I actually put on the fitted sheet—this really isn’t a clever way of comparing life to making the bed.)  A bit later I did the next step.  I have started Triple Sheeting, which is a hotel trick and has been GREAT for sleeping.  *If you want to know the whys, email me and I will provide an explanation to satisfy your curiosity, or you can Google it.  To Triple Sheet, you use a bottom (in my case fitted) sheet, tucked (or elasticized) in.  Next comes a Flat Sheet, laid out from the top of the bed. On top of that sheet is a feather blanket, about 3 to 6 inches from the head of the bed.  Lastly, there is another (THIRD) sheet, a flat sheet, laid on top of the blanket, starting at the head of the bed.

So this is where I left off. I put on a flat sheet, my feather blanket, and then the last flat sheet.  I folded down the two sheets once, so that they now were as high as the blanket.  I folded them a second time, this time with both sheets and blanket.  I tucked them in, starting at the bottom.  I shoved, I mean tucked, all three layers under the mattress at the bottom of the bed (I swear this is still not a metaphor.) Next, I moved to the sides.  The extra material at the bottom corner was manipulated as if wrapping a present, allowing for a straight corner.  (Now this is starting to sound like a metaphor even to me and I know it’s not.)  I tucked all three layers in on the right side.  I repeated on the left.  I checked my heartrate (HR).  I was at 168 beats per minute (BPM).  I WISH that this was a metaphor but it is a literal, actual fact.  Tucking in two sheets and a blanket raised my HR to 168.

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This is too high.

Yeah, that’s not really okay or even in the neighborhood of normal.

So, when we last parted, it was May of 2018, almost a year ago.  I had changed my mood stabilizer and gained some stability and a bunch of weight.  But, it was working.  I was feeling much,  much better. I started going out.  I was seeing friends for social reasons.  I was getting my shit together.  I was still a little tired but I had seen my doctor who made me an appointment with his favorite neurologist for sleep issues.  It was great.

I felt so great that I both noticed a strange lump at a lymph node site and even made a doctor’s appointment to be seen for it.  I felt a little silly—it was probably just caused by an infection and was nothing and as many of you know, I HATE going to the doctor to be told that it is “nothing” or is something that will resolve itself on its own (as in, I didn’t really need to go to the doctor.) But I vaguely realized I had had it for a while and I had J.R. check it and was reassured that umm, noooooo that shouldn’t be there.  So I made an appointment with my wonderful PCP, Dr F.

Dr. F was “quite concerned” about the lump which is something because he is usually pretty easy going.  He measured it at 2 cm long (normal is 10-20mm), firm, unmoving and not painful to touch.  Those were all signs that this could be cancerous.

Dr F. ordered an x-ray which was done that day and looked good, and a CT scan.  In a very unusual series of events when dealing with Dr. F., the request for a preauthorization for a CT was denied and he had to fight with insurance until it was granted.  I had the CT done on May 23.  Dr F. had the results the evening of May 29.  He called me the 30th, telling me that I needed to see a surgeon, Dr. J.  because it was likely that the lymph node needed to be biopsied or excised.  The approval for that visit came that night. I called the next morning, (May 31 for those keeping track) only to be told that the wait would be several weeks to see one of the doctors for a consult.  That afternoon, around 2, Dr. J’s office called me to ask if I could come in sooner—say around 4 that afternoon?

I juggled some childcare issues and on Thursday, May 31, 2018, my husband and I went in for the consult. I saw the nurse first, who asked me if I was particularly nervous or upset.  I said only the normal amount for seeing a surgeon—why?  She told me my HR was 118 after sitting in the office for 5-10 minutes.  (This is a gun that is going to go off in a later act folks.)

But that day, I saw Dr. J, who was wonderful.  He had reviewed my chart beforehand and we chatted, and then he did a physical exam. There is a negatively surprised look that people (doctors included) get when what they are presented with is not as good as they had hoped.  I saw that look on his face.  My husband could only see his back, but noticed when the doctor stiffened.

Apparently, the CT exam had revealed two enlarged lymph nodes.  The one that I felt was 2 cm by 1.4 cm, while the other was buried a little deeper (so not able to be felt) and measured 1.8 by 1.4 cm.  Dr. J’s physical examination confirmed Dr. F.’s—enlarged, firm, non-moving, and unpainful.  Dr. J’s plan was to fully excise the lymph node closest to the surface.  It sounded like a relatively simple procedure.  Day surgery.  In and out.  Results within a week.  He told me not to worry and that it wasn’t a pressing issue and turned me over to his scheduler.

Apparently, he had different words with her, because she told me that we needed to schedule surgery as soon as possible.  Since it was Thursday, the surgery calendar at Cedars-Sinai was closed for additions on Monday, with the first openings available on Tuesday.  She paused and then looked at me, and told me that she was going to try and get on the Monday schedule anyway because we needed to do this as soon as possible and this surgery wasn’t one that was just for “funnsies.”  Monday wasn’t possible, but first thing in the morning Tuesday was by adding an additional spot to the surgeon’s schedule before his typical first surgery.

The surgery itself went well and I won’t keep you in suspense for the results.  No cancer.  However, the recovery was much harder than I had been expecting.  The incision was close to 4 inches, which was a surprise. They had to cut through more than just skin.  All of this probably should have been obvious to me, but for some reason I just felt like it was going to be this small little thing.  I ballooned with water weight and the placement of the incision made walking and sitting, as well as clothing, painful.  I had expected to be down for maybe three days.  It took me closer to three weeks to be up and running.

While the no cancer part of the findings was GREAT, the rest was very frustrating for me.  Reactive lymph node, reacting to something.  What was not known.  The main options were bacterial infection, viral infection, AIDS, or something autoimmune.  For something that lasted for months, viral was unlikely.  All of the examinations done and bloodwork indicated that I did not have a bacterial infection—nor did I have AIDS.  Autoimmune?  Just weird? Dr. F, after consulting with some specialists, went with just weird for now, with a keep an eye on it outlook.

The “just weird” thing bothered me.  I like clear and clean answers and this wasn’t one.  It certainly didn’t explain why I didn’t feel great.  Plus now I was worrying about my heartrate.  Now that it had been pointed out—my HR was high often. I mean close to all the time.  And I was TIRED.  ALL the time—to the point I was worried to drive and had to have my husband leave work a few times to pick up our kids from school.

I called a friend who has had health issues that she has had to fight through to get answers and is still looking for some of it.  After listening to me, she suggested that I look at Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, hypermobility type.  And she told me not to quit asking questions until I had answers.

So I made an appointment to see Dr F. about my heart and fatigue on June 28.  He did an EKG which showed tachycardia (high heartrate) but normal rhythm.  He told me to come back in a week so it could be rechecked. He reluctantly prescribed Dexedrine, the stimulant I had been on in the past, but at half the dose.  I had an upcoming appointment with the sleep neurologist and Dr F. said to ask him if there was some brain stuff that could be affecting the heart.  I asked about autoimmune issues and if we should run an ANA test (it’s an autoimmune detector) but he said we didn’t need to go there yet.

I followed up the following week with a nurse visit.  It took close to 8 minutes for my heartrate to stabilize enough to take a reading. It jumped everywhere from 97 bpm to 147 bpm.  It finally settled at 117.  Dr. F. offered an echocardiogram, but I decided to hold off for the moment.  I really didn’t want one MORE issue causing tests and appointments.  Dr F. prescribed a heart mediation to keep the HR down.  He recommended I buy a blood pressure machine to make sure the medication didn’t cause my blood pressure to drop too low, because I have a history of very low blood pressure, though lately it had been higher.  The heart medication didn’t last too long because it prevented my heart rate from going above 122.  Random number, right?  But even when I was huffing and puffing and about to blow myself down, my heart rate wouldn’t raise to accommodate the increase in activity.  We found this out at the Grand Canyon.  Good times.

July 26th was my first appointment with a neurologist who specialized in sleep disorders, Dr. R.  He was wonderful.  He listened to my symptoms, did the Epworth Sleepiness questionnaire (I scored an 18 WHILE taking the Dexdrine and Nuvigil.)  He asked about a sleep study and I explained I had done one in the past but that it had been a disaster.  It did not indicate Narcolepsy or any other specific disorder—just poor sleep structure. The study was a problem though, because I was made to go off ALL my medications (including mood stabilizers, anti-anxiety meds, antidepressants) and I just couldn’t sleep.  My anxiety was too high.  I was afraid of “failing” the test.  I didn’t have my usual white noise to block out sounds that freaked me out. Just—disaster.  I was, however, unwilling to repeat the experience because I refused to go off my meds again for any length of time, let alone the three weeks they asked of me before.

Dr. R asked about cataplexy, which I experience mildly.  I also experience some sleep paralysis, hallucinations while falling asleep, and exhibit automatic behaviors at times.  All of these are hallmarks of Narcolepsy, which is what doctors have been telling me for years but the sleep study didn’t show.  Dr. R. had no compunction about making the diagnosis of Narcolepsy official without a sleep exam, based on the other symptoms.  He told me to stay on my current meds and that he wanted to me to try a med called Xyrem.  It is a very rare, very controlled medication that can be a miracle worker for many Narcolepsy patients.  We started the preauthorization process for that plus he had a coupon for a free month.  Paperwork needed to be completed by both of us, I needed to go through a vetting process with Xyrem and then I could start the medication.  He also put “Schedule a midday nap when able” as part of my treatment plan, which meant it was in writing.  I can’t tell you how much guilt that has put to rest.  Now when I nap during the day, I reassure myself that I am just following my treatment plan.  He also did a blood draw to check my B12, my homocysteine levels, Methlymalonic acid, and Vitamin D.

I asked Dr. R about the HR issue and he had nothing, other than it was likely autonomical and not directly related to the Narcolepsy.  I asked hesitantly about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, hypermobile type (hEDS) but it isn’t in his wheel house at all but based on the quick flexibility I demonstrated as asked, he put in a referral for me to see a rheumatologist.

Another doctor.  And while it is not talked much about in this account, I was still seeing my psychiatrist, Dr. W, about every 4 weeks. Seeing doctors and having tests and talking to insurance was becoming more of a ¾ time job rather than part time.

The results of three of the tests came back fine, though I was instructed to continue the B12 supplement. However, the normal range for Vitamin D is 30-100 ng/ml and mine was 5.  So, I started a daily Vitamin D supplement.

–Side note—I have gotten some surprised looks and even side eye from people who also have a Vitamin D deficiency when I tell them I tested at 5, to the point where I have done screen shots of the test result.  Then I get asked how I was alive.  I shrug. Then I get asked how did I not feel like crap, to which I answer truthfully, I DID feel like crap.  I still feel like crap.

So, up next was my appointment with Dr. M, a rheumatologist, to be examined for signs of hyoermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.  Now, I had never really heard of hEDS so I broke my typical rule and looked it up before my appointment and looked at the criteria.  Yup, seemed to fit.  When I saw Dr. M, she did an examination and finished by asking if I had any weird scars. I didn’t, but I did point out these weird things on my foot, which are called Piezogenic papules.  She said she didn’t know what they were but they didn’t have anything to do with hEDS but she would be happy to send me to a podiatrist.  No.  No thank you. No more doctors.  She said that I had hypermobility, benign type and fibromialgia.

This is where I began to lose it a bit in my own mind.  Fibromialgia is a real thing and people who have it have my sympathy.  But I don’t have it.  I regularly break toes without saying anything, I have coached with both a broken foot and broken ribs, I did gymnastics on a cracked wrist for 6 weeks, my parents were briefly investigated for child abuse because when I broke my collar bone as a child they didn’t take me to the doctor for a few days—because I didn’t cry about it.  I guess what I am trying to say is that I am not super sensitive to pain.  But okay, whatever, by this time I just wanted to leave.

I did leave, arrived home frustrated, and then went to Costco.  I don’t even know why I went to Costco.  I just did.  I spend like an hour and a half walking around Costco and then spent about 40 minutes wandering the parking lot because I seriously lost my car.  During this search and rescue mission, Dr M. calls me. She said she just couldn’t get those heel things out of her head and so she “consulted some medical journals about them.”  (She googled it like the rest of us do, don’t lie.)  Turns out they ARE a diagnostic symptom of hEDS and just kidding, I did have it.  Also, I really needed to have

The car on the left is mine but the car on the right kept confusing me at Costco.

an echocardiogram done because hEDS affects connective tissue, including the heart, and I really needed to get back to physical therapy because my joints are, and will always be, weak.  The only thing to do is build up the muscles around the joints to stabilize them.  Also, I could never ever do yoga.  Seriously, it is contraindicated.  So now I never have to feel guilty about not doing yoga.

 

I politely turned down a referral for PT because A. I have done it before and knew what to do and B. my medical scheduling was turning into a nightmare.

However, by the beginning of September, my heart rate was really starting to worry me.  I wore a Fitbit and my heartrate was over 90 bpm most of the day, and it was over 100 beats for a good portion of the day.  And I wasn’t doing anything.  Like I said, I felt like crap and was spending most of my days lying around on the couch.. There is no reason for a heart to beat over 100 bpm while a person is sitting around doing nothing.  I approached my awesome PCP, Dr. F., and he ordered a Holter Monitor.

Basically, this is something that gets hooked up to your heart and you wear it around for 24 or 48 hours and record everything that you do.  When the results came back, Dr. F was thrilled because I had Innappropriate Sinus Tachycardia.  Basically, this means that my heart is getting instructions from the correct spot but it beats to its own drummer.  Sometimes I have a high heart rate for no reason.  Sometimes I get a rise in heart rate when most people would, only mine jumps up to 168 instead of 102.  That’s the innappropriate part.

Dr. F. was thrilled because there were no arrhythmias or beat problems to worry about.  At first, I was okay with that.  But when I looked at one version of the narrative from the test, it mentioned “a significant burden on the heart” and that had me worried again.  So, referral to the cardiologist for Dec 31.

So we are now up to the beginning of October.  I had an echo of my heart and it looked great (and still does!)  Yay for that great news!

44916301_10156850002909390_761069523406159872_o45114741_10156860707779390_8582016403177996288_nAnd then at the end of October I broke the 5thmetatarsal in my foot.  It was nothing big; I just stepped wrongly, tripped, and then stepped on the TOP of my left foot.  I got crutches for the first time in my life, missed Trick or Treating with my kiddoes and went ahead and scheduled some physical therapy.

Randomly in November my GERD kicked back in.  I got a gastric cocktail and was told to start taking Prevacid again.  I stopped taking Xyrem because it was the culprit. I am trying to wait for everything to calm back down to start back on it.

The end of December rolls around, and I see Dr. EJ, my cardiologist.  She was pretty concerned with the heartrate but was for a conservative approach to begin with (which I was in full favor of because I was already taking all the pills.)  The plan: 101 oz of water a day, no more than 100 mg of caffeine a day, slowly increase exercise as tolerated, and follow up in three months.

And this is where I am going to pause.  The New Year brings a few new problems and a few new professionals and (spoiler) a horrible episode that I am going to rant about for at least a page.

But at the same time, some wonderful things happened during this time too.  I just am not including them in this post, lol.  –Michele

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anxiety, Ho!

It’s been a while, ye landlubbers.

Anxiety has hijacked my life as of late. For me and many others, the Kavanaugh confirmation process has been a waking nightmare.

As I discussed with a friend the other day, women are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Deny a man sex? Then you’re labeled a whore. Give in to his advances or, God forbid, willingly have sex? You are also considered a whore.

Smooth sailing for us is not to be found anywhere. Take my old sex life, for example. Before my divorce, I was very picky and conservative about who I chose to sleep with. I ended up with a cancer-causing form of HPV anyway. Yay me! The doctor was in disbelief that with my limited sexual experience that I should end up with such a malady. But as luck would have it, I did. And you know what? I was ashamed and anxious for a long time to admit that even I, the impenetrable ice princess, could have an STD.

And then comes along this Kavanaugh thing. And it brings back the painful memories, and I have to wonder, how would men enjoy being treated as us women are as far as sex is concerned?

For a man, a conquest is exactly that–some sort of badge of honor, he’s slept with another one, bully for him. Another notch in the belt. When a woman does it, she is considered a slut for her poor choices.

Let’s apply this logic to the dudes for a minute. If I said all the men who chose not to sleep with me or weren’t attracted to me were dickheads, there would be an awful lot of dickheads around. If I add the ones that I’ve actually had sex with, ho, those are the REAL dickheads. It sounds so silly when applied to men. Why is that?

I used to be all closed up and anxious about sex, mostly due to a bad introduction to it in college. When I was a high schooler I used to think that having sex, especially at a younger age, made you a slut/and or a whore.

How naive I was. And what a stuck up judgemental beeyatch.

The tide came in–I divorced. And in the digital age sex seems something expected, even if you don’t know the other person very well. Not the best situation to be in when you’re a timid girl who has been conditioned to give in to men’s sexual advances. I’m just a girl who can’t say no–in a bad way. Or at least in my early digital dating days, I was. Now I am quite a bit stronger and intolerant of men who seem to only have one thing on their minds. They annoy the crap out of me and I tell them not only no, but hell no. Especially when they refuse to value me for the slightly deranged unicorn that I am.

Look at my sex life for the last two years, and a lot of people would consider me to be a slut. And you know what? I could care less. I have reverted back to my old, closed-off, serial monogamist ways. If people want to judge me for my poor judgment, lack of boundaries, and somewhat manic tendencies then they can stuff it.

ESPECIALLY since, if I were a man, I would be considered a hero among men. A real ladykiller, if you know what I mean. Click click boom. Wham bam, thank you ma’am. I would be revered for my prowess instead of degraded. It says a lot about how we view lady parts versus the all seeing, all knowing male genitalia. It makes no sense.

And how does this tie into anxiety? It is because anxiety and society’s cruel double standard has made me scared to admit that God forbid, I was ever sexually active. I love my grandmother to pieces but I know she judges me for it. She may be 84 but she knows what a booty call is (if you know what I mean).

This whole double-standard has turned me into a bit of a salty dog. So I leave you with a song that is supposed to be empowering to women. Until next time dear readers. Thank you for letting this scurvy wench confess her horrible sins.