Wednesday, June 21, 2017
So, I live near one of the (if not THE) counties in the country with an drug problem. Its opiates and it is a problem. In my opinion, not because it is killing people. I do believe that addiction is a mental health problem and that addictive personalities need help, but I also believe people need to not try drugs in the first place so they don't get addicted. I believe that while the second, third, or fourth time you use is not a choice, the first time is. People make bad choices I know and while people are born with tendencies, that initial exposure is indeed a bad choice. Anyway, the problem I have is Narcan. I have a real problem with this life saving drug. Not because it saves lives of people but because it is used so easily. Someone ODs, cops bring them back with Narcan. There are businesses in the urban area of the county next door who are having people OD in their parking lots numerous times a day because they know they will be found, the cops will be called, and they'll be saved thanks to Narcan. I'm not saying these people don't deserve to live. I am not God. It is not my place to judge. The problem I have is that if you have cancer and no insurance or limited finances to pay co-pays, cops don't show up at your house with cancer fighting meds. Little kids with peanut allergies and other allergies can't get Epi-pens because they are upwards of four hundred dollars but Narcan is free? What about inhalers and other medications that are required for life due to a disorder that someone is born with not a bad choice someone makes. It is almost like rewarding people for ODing. I just can't wrap my mind around it. And don't even get me started on zombies. Has no one noticed that these people OD and are brought back to life through the use of Narcan? People are BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE!!! They are zombies people! ZOMBIES! How long before those who have been saved with Narcan start craving brains? AND NOBODY NOTICES THIS??? Whatever. Keep using your Narcan. I'll be stocking up on treadmills to surround my house with so the zombies won't get me. Nothing like watching zombies fly off the back of a treadmill instead of crashing through my windows to entertain the masses. So when the zombies, who are already living among us, come to get you, come to my house. We'll be safe. I even have an Epi-pen, an inhaler, HBP meds and psych meds - just no Narcan ;)
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Holy Health Scare Batman! So here's the whole shebang in a nutshell. I was seeing a flash. Actually it was more like a glowing blob that would appear in my vision for about half a second and then be gone. It had been happening for months but it seemed to be getting more frequent so I went to the eye doctor. He said everything looked fine but had me come back in two weeks for a recheck. I went back and to be on the safe side he referred me to a retina specialist. "You'll be the youngest one there by 30 years." he said. "they'll check you out and laugh and say I was crazy for referring you," he said. "Well this will be a grand waste of time," I thought. But I went. I WAS the youngest person there and the triage portion was long and boring. I had the pleasure of being snapped at by a nurse with RBF big time. (That's Resting Bitch Face for those of you who don't know.) Come to find out throughout the visit that it wasn't just RBF. She was just a bitch. Anyway, I finally got in to see the doctor. He looked in my eye and blinded me with a bunch of shiny things. I was fully prepared for the "I don't know why he sent you here. You are fine." I waited to hear those words when he reclined me and began poking and prodding at my eye. I waited to hear those words when he said, "Give me a moment to make some notes and then we'll chat." I waited to hear those words as he made scribbles and marks on the eye diagram on his computer. I was still waiting to hear those words as he began to "chat" with me about my RETINAL DETACHMENT!!! What?!?!?! Did I just say retinal detachment? Yes I did! He started with that and then went on but all I heard was "wah, wah, wah wah wah wah." All of a sudden he was Charlie Brown's teacher. He said something about gel in the back of my eye and something about being prone to tears and something about a tear and a hole and surgery. My mouth was hanging open. My husband's mouth was hanging open. When he realized I was in shock, he slowed down and explained my treatment options. There were three. Number one: Do nothing which he said wasn't really an option. Number two: Have laser surgery to forma scar around the tear/hole to prevent it from expanding. This option does not stop the flashes but may prevent them from getting larger and more intrusive in my vision. Number three: Have traditional cutting surgery. It involves anesthesia and a band around your eye and then "wah, wah, wah wah wah wah." Risks include bleeding, infection, and a bunch of other things. "Ok," I'm thinking, "I really need to do some research and thinking about which I want to do." No such luck! The doctor slams me into a state of shock again with the news that the laser surgery would be done today and the traditional surgery would be done the day after tomorrow. Well there goes the research and the thinking. He ushers us into another room to decide and I want to burst into tears. My hubs who thought he would be back to work in an hour quickly cleared his meeting schedule. While he was doing that, I was left to decide my fate. The laser would be quick but not painless. The surgery was more invasive but may fix the flashes and they would knock me out for it. I had no idea what to do. My only bright spot (pun intended) was maybe I'd get a pirate-style eye patch to wear home. That intrigue was short lived as I imagined the laser zapping my vision away if I accidently looked in the wrong spot. I thought of the recovery period after the traditional surgery and wondered if they put stitches in your eye. There was no one to answer any of my questions. Everybody acted as though there was no decision to make. I ended up opting for the laser surgery which was scary as hell. It felt like I was getting a tattoo on my eyeball. Like someone was snapping the inside of my eye with a rubber band repeatedly. They finished the first portion and put me in the waiting room with juice and crackers to recover a bit. After about an hour, it was time for round two. My eyes were tired and uncooperative but the cod managed to do what he needed to do. Once I could see again, we made our way home. My eyeball was sore from all the drops and poking and prodding and zapping. It felt swollen and it ached. I now know what to look for as signs of retinal detachment but am totally paranoid about every little light or shadow I see. Eventually I'll get back to normal but knowing I am more vulnerable to going blind in the future - well, I kind of sucks. The most disappointing part was I didn't even get an eye patch. Ahoy, no pirate look for me matey. Arrrrr!!!
***If you see flashes, floaters, shadows, or black spots, please see your eye doctor right away***
***If you see flashes, floaters, shadows, or black spots, please see your eye doctor right away***
Sunday, February 7, 2016
After a disrupted adoption, we are in the process of attempting to adopt again. If you would like to follow our trials and tribulations as we make our way through this process a second time, please see my other blog "The Butterfly Keepers" at www.wordpress.com/thebutterflykeepers. Thank you and I hope to see you there!
Friday, February 5, 2016
Well it finally happened. I dreaded it. I tried to avoid it. I even had nightmares about it. I actually fell off the treadmill at my gym. It happened simply enough. My phone was in the holder on the machine. I hit a button and went to move my hand back and caught the wire of the ear buds. My phone tumbled to the running belt. Of course, my instincts kick in and I try to grab it but since I am incapable of doing two things at once, my feet stopped walking. Within a half a second, I realized I needed to keep walking but it was too late. By that point I was flailing with one arm and holding onto the side of the machine with the other. I let go of the side, stopped flailing, and just let myself be ejected off the back of the machine. I must have kicked my phone at some point because it was still on the treadmill and was ejected after me. The entire time I was thinking "I can't believe this is happening." Luckily, or was it by divine intervention, I was able to stick the landing. I managed not to fall on my ass. My niece would have been proud of my "nastics" moves but I highly doubted anyone else in the gym would be appreciative of them. I looked around and saw everyone in the gym, ears plugged with ear buds, continuing on with their workouts. Even the folks at the desk didn't seem to notice. I was grateful for this but also a bit unnerved. I just wiped out on the treadmill in grand fashion and nobody noticed. What if I had been really hurt? Would someone have come to my aid? I was in the back so I guess that helped my anonymity. Still. I could have used a "poor baby." And as for not hurting myself, that train quickly left the station. I finished my workout but my arm was hurting a bit. As the evening went on, I became more sore in the realm of my right arm. Today, it hurts to type this and I can't lift my right arm without the fear of vomiting in pain. It'll be a trip to the urgent care tonight for me. Is it sad that I know the x-ray guy at the urgent care by name? And it's January so that means deductible time. So I'll be paying full price for my exam and x-rays. It'll cost more than the year long membership at my gym. So if I had never gone to the gym, I'd have my membership money, my x-ray money, and not be in constant pain? Sounds like the gym is the problem here. Or is it just my lack of coordination. Either way if I hadn't gone to the gym, like ever, I'd be a lot richer and a lot healthier. That doesn't quite seem right. But what's done is done and what's injured is injured. At least I don't have to come up with a disguise to go back to the gym. But I will be forever haunted by the idea that somewhere out there in interwebland there may be surveillance camera evidence of my treadmill dance with death.
Friday, January 22, 2016
Today sucks. Yup. I said it. Today sucks. It completely blows. I am just sitting here wallowing in self pity and I don't care who knows. I don't give a rat's ass. Why does today of all days suck. Because. My Gram died two weeks ago and I still haven't really accepted that, yesterday I found out that my psychiatrist of ten years will no longer be accepting my insurance in a month, a person who is supposed to remain impartial has proved to be totally and completely biased in my book, and my dogs pooped in the office. That last one is nothing new. They poop in the office on a daily basis. They think its their own person toilet. I included that one because having poop in your house that you have to clean up just kind of sums up my day. Oh, and we are apparently aren't going to see hide nor hair of a snowflake in the exciting Snowmaggedon of 2016. I wanted to stay tucked into my house as the snow fell down all around me sipping coffee and being productive. Instead I sit here with my eyes closed willing the world away. (Yes, I know I have depression.) I called the Hubs to tell him how upset I was about some of the days events and . . . nothing. No "awwww." No "poor baby." Nothing. That only added to my depression du jour. I want snow damn it! I have the weather channel on and they are talking all about snow in terms of feet, power outages, driving restrictions, and here - nothing but melting. It sucks. The only good thing about today is that I get to meet one of my bestie's offspring tomorrow. Hopefully this gloom and funk will be over by then but if not, I will hold that baby and sniff her head (Babies smell awesome. The head end that is. Not the other end) and experience a moment of pure peace. Because even if just for that moment, that little baby needs me. That may be it. I may just want to feel needed. The Kid (who is about to graduate from university) informed me that that's why they give people in nursing homes with diminished cognitive capacity baby dolls to care for. It gives them purpose. A reason for being. A connection to the universe. Maybe I need to dig out my old 80's Cabbage Patch Dolls and carry them around. I wonder if that would make me feel any better. I also wonder if I will end up back in the "special unit" on the fifth floor. Walking around with a doll all day. But if I go to the "special unit" I will get a referral to a new psych doc and an appointment without the normal waiting time. There, two birds with one stone. Now all I've got to do is keep the momentum going.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
I suck. I suck, I suck, I suck. I really want to be better at this blogging regularly but blogging occasionally is a hell of a lot better than not blogging at all. Funny, I feel the same way about exercising as I do about blogging. I think about it a lot, but don't actually get around to it a lot. I saw something online today that said "I am fat because a tiny body couldn't hold all this awesomeness." I feel this way about 50% of the time. The other 50% of the time I wonder if chairs will hold me and if I will fit through certain places. This was especially true on our recent vacation to Virginia Beach and Colonial Williamsburg. The day we arrived I felt tremendously self-conscious and we didn't even put our swim suits on. Day two I warmed up to the beach and stopped worrying about what I looked like and enjoyed myself. I'm not very happy that there are pictures to prove this beach vacation but whatever. When we left the beach and headed to Colonial Williamsburg, I thought I was in the clear - no such luck. I forgot about one thing - the dreaded Colonial chair. Not only did many of the Colonial doors into the Colonial buildings open in the middle only giving you half the Colonial doorway to squeeze through, but there were these chairs - Colonial chairs - that are historically accurate to the Colonial time period in material and construction. Apparently, I am not historically accurate to the Colonial time period because these suckers hurt. They were about half the size of my butt with knobs that poked in some not-so-comfortable places. And that was just the design. The materials used to make said chairs would creak and snap and basically make you feel like its the soundtrack to your ass falling on the Colonial floor. But I survived and promised myself that I would get back in the gym as soon as the patella femoral tendonitis I had was healed. That and as soon as the gym we joined was back in business after THE TORNADO! That's right! We joined a gym down the street and within a month I had hurt myself and shortly thereafter the gym was hit by an EF1 tornado. Luckily, we were not there. Even though it was our usual day and time to go, we didn't. But I'm thinking there's no way more direct for God to say be happy with who you are first and if you then still want to change yourself - all the better - than with 100mph rotating winds. So as the gym heals and I heal, I tried to take stock of my self-worth and self-esteem and realize that I am fine. I like me. No, I love me. And I want to slowly but surely improve me - for my health and my family, not for vanity or appearances. And if I ever find a time machine or develop a means for time travel, I will omit the Colonial period as a destination option.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
I need to do some soul searching. Somehow over the course of the last year, I have become overwhelmed. I have turned my hobby into an etsy shop, I have jumped into a new personal business, I have started doing vendor shows, I have volunteered as a lead for a major local charity event, I have a sick bird in my living room, I have a sick kid away at college, I have a dog now who has recently had surgery, I have a husband who is out of town at the moment, and I don't know how I'm going to do it all. All of this without one of my medications because thanks to my "new, improved" health insurance plan, it costs $800. They are trying to force us to use their ridiculous mail order pharmacy (because sending drugs through the mail is so safe.) When I called and talked to them, they said that yes it is $800 for a month's worth of the drug. However, they could provide me with 3 months of the drug for <drumroll please> $800. Yes, I'm not kidding. Plus the plan which last year was a no deductible plan, is a high deductible plan so not only am I paying more for prescriptions, I am also paying full price for every doctor visit I have. I have no idea where this money will come from. I wish I was like Oprah and could just pull it out my ass. Being upper middle class sucks. But we were poor when we first got married and that sucked too. Maybe life just sucks in general for everyone no matter how much you have or how much you make. I was happy. Through much of 2013 and 2014 I was happy. But 2015 seems to want to break me. So I think I need to do some serious soul searching. I need to figure out what is important to me and what I can let go. Where my focus should lie and what I can afford to let fall by the wayside. I just feel like I have way too many balls in the air and the fact that I take everything personally doesn't help that. Someone honks their horn in traffic, I think they are honking at me. Someone opposes my viewpoint and I think they just don't like me. I doubt everything I do. It takes an effort for me just to appear as though I'm a normal person. I'm exhausted and I am avoiding it all by sitting here and writing this blog. I need my medication - obviously. I need that little pink pill to help me be like Elsa and let it go. I can't wait till April when the generic is scheduled to come out. Damn insurance. Damn illnesses. Damn expenses. Damn people. Damn, damn, damn. Maybe I should just hermit away till April for everyone's damn sake. Look out world! Here comes unmedicated Elsa! Maybe that's why its so damn cold and snowy around here lately.