First off, my legs. I have been limping for weeks on a shin-splinty right leg, only to completely dislocate my left knee last weekend in Baltimore. My ankles are weirdly swollen, there's a bunch of bruising on my knee (I didn't fall on it), and it's not getting better. I lent my crutches to a friend and I think that I haven't reclaimed them because that would mean I should use them. I wrap them in neoprene, I take illicit Motrin (thinning my blood to the consistency of acetone, no doubt), and I fret.
Oh yeah, I also do improv, run a few standup shows (running back and forth to the stage 20-odd times), take lots of stairs, and generally behave like an idiot, apparently.
But I don't want to be injured.
Crap.
In the meantime....the Duel 2!
1 - Mark is at least 37 and is kicking ass. I'd do him.
2 - Could Evan be more irritating? And surprisingly doughy?
3 - What's the deal with Katie? Is she sedated? Medicated? Or just menopausal?
4 - Ruthie is cute but a mite creepy.
5 - If someone else uses "myself" improperly again, it's on. It's on.
6 - Evan is a moron.
7 - The 'tribal' opening is bizarre, vaguely offensive in several ways (mostly because half the girls look bored, half the guys lurve being fake warriors.)
8 - Davis's cast picture makes it look like he has boobies.
9 - Yes, I read the cast bios. Shut up.
10 - What the hell kind of a name is Diem?
11 - Ha ha Evan's in the duel!
12 - Shut up.
13 - What the hell kind of a name is Brittni?
14 - Why do they keep letting Eric back on the show? Last time he had freaking arrythmia. Srsly?
15 - Did I just type "Srsly?'
16 - STOP SAYING MYSELF
17 - Shut up Evan.
18 - What the hell kind of a name is Landon?
19 - Srsly?
20 - I need some sleep.
Showing posts with label medical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label medical. Show all posts
4/8/09
You're so different! I'm so different!
Hey guys! I have a rare disease. (It's the first one! It must be the BEST one!)
I've known about for quite a while but didn't realize there was a club!
Whoo!
(actually I mostly try not to think about it. Rats! Or rat poison.)
More...
Crap! There really is a club!
Now I'm really depressed about the whole thing.
I've known about for quite a while but didn't realize there was a club!
Whoo!
(actually I mostly try not to think about it. Rats! Or rat poison.)
More...
Crap! There really is a club!
Now I'm really depressed about the whole thing.
2/19/08
Things you think about when you're vomiting.
Will I stop vomiting?
Why can't I stop vomiting?
What exactly am I vomiting?
I need to clean the bathroom.
Boy I'd like to sleep, but I keep getting up to vomit.
Ick.
Why can't I stop vomiting?
What exactly am I vomiting?
I need to clean the bathroom.
Boy I'd like to sleep, but I keep getting up to vomit.
Ick.
8/2/07
6/27/07
Clot-i-versaries.
In a few days is the first anniversary of my second (third?) blood clot. It was my second hospital stay for blood-clot related reasons, let's just keep it simple.
My first set of blood clot(s) - one in each lung, technically making them 'pulmonary emboli' rather than 'deep vein thromboses' (which is what the second one was) - happened two years ago; in fact, my second clot-i-versary coincides neatly with my wedding anniversary. I spent my seventh anniversary in Bellevue with a heparin drip, an EKG and pulse oximeter, a tray of uneaten chicken and mashed potatoes, a desultory hand-made card from my husband, and incredible amounts of tension. Shortly after I arrived home from Bellevue, after I went back to work, I asked him to move out. Nothing like piling tension on tension.
The second clot - the DVT - was a surprise, because I had quit the Pill and considered my problem solved. Actually, that's not true; I lived in holy fear that it would happen again. When I was striding across the overpass in the Newark Gateway Center I felt a sharp, fierce twinge in my calf and I knew what was happening.
The first time I was hospitalized I was numb and exhausted, having been running around with blocked pulmonary vessels for far too long. The second time, I was angry and anxious. I was uncooperative and demanding; I got my bags searched by Mt. Sinai Security when I railed against my lack of anxiety meds and threatened to take my own pills.
Over the past two years, I've paid thousands of dollars for injectable heparin. I've been so loaded with Klonopin I've been a zombie at times, the anxiety attacks being fierce and frequent. I've looked like a fat bruised junkie more than I care to remember. I've taken innumerable cabs to stew in innumberable waiting-rooms for constant monitoring and agonizing.
Since last year, I've lost weight, continuing on my pre-clot fitness 'kick' with renewed energy and a great deal more help and support. It's no longer a kick; it's how I'm trying, as best I can, to live my life. At the same time, I'm trying to go easier on myself, personally, while pushing myself to live properly (as my old shrink used to say).
I've gotten a new shrink, and a new doctor or two. They are wonderful women who help me take care of myself in so many ways.
This year I learned that I have a condition that will clot up my blood with relatively little to do with me - it's a genetic problem that causes me to produce antibodies that gum up the works (anticardiolipin antibody syndrome for you educated folk). You'd think this would make me more fatalistic; it may have two years ago, but it strangely doesn't now. It has made me rethink the desire to have children, which waxes and wanes, because the miscarriage risk is incredibly high. An interesting corollary, no doubt, to my reproductive woes.
Two years ago, or one year ago, I couldn't have handled this news. Two years ago, I'd not be wearing a skirt without stockings or probably even this patterned pink top that I adore. I'd not be pumping weights at the gym with pleasantly few aftereffects the next day, or less than I expected. I'd not be walking a six mile walkathon, or running for a train (in my case, a fast hobble down the subway steps; my peculiar knee anatomy has resigned me to my awkward downhill gait). I wouldn't be marching in a Memorial Day Parade. I'd not be forsaking a bag of chocolate almonds on my desk or refrigerating half a sandwich after lunch.
I'm very lucky. I'm loved and needed and alive. In the peculiarly wobbly cycle of life, it's what I am truly needed to be right now.
My first set of blood clot(s) - one in each lung, technically making them 'pulmonary emboli' rather than 'deep vein thromboses' (which is what the second one was) - happened two years ago; in fact, my second clot-i-versary coincides neatly with my wedding anniversary. I spent my seventh anniversary in Bellevue with a heparin drip, an EKG and pulse oximeter, a tray of uneaten chicken and mashed potatoes, a desultory hand-made card from my husband, and incredible amounts of tension. Shortly after I arrived home from Bellevue, after I went back to work, I asked him to move out. Nothing like piling tension on tension.
The second clot - the DVT - was a surprise, because I had quit the Pill and considered my problem solved. Actually, that's not true; I lived in holy fear that it would happen again. When I was striding across the overpass in the Newark Gateway Center I felt a sharp, fierce twinge in my calf and I knew what was happening.
The first time I was hospitalized I was numb and exhausted, having been running around with blocked pulmonary vessels for far too long. The second time, I was angry and anxious. I was uncooperative and demanding; I got my bags searched by Mt. Sinai Security when I railed against my lack of anxiety meds and threatened to take my own pills.
Over the past two years, I've paid thousands of dollars for injectable heparin. I've been so loaded with Klonopin I've been a zombie at times, the anxiety attacks being fierce and frequent. I've looked like a fat bruised junkie more than I care to remember. I've taken innumerable cabs to stew in innumberable waiting-rooms for constant monitoring and agonizing.
Since last year, I've lost weight, continuing on my pre-clot fitness 'kick' with renewed energy and a great deal more help and support. It's no longer a kick; it's how I'm trying, as best I can, to live my life. At the same time, I'm trying to go easier on myself, personally, while pushing myself to live properly (as my old shrink used to say).
I've gotten a new shrink, and a new doctor or two. They are wonderful women who help me take care of myself in so many ways.
This year I learned that I have a condition that will clot up my blood with relatively little to do with me - it's a genetic problem that causes me to produce antibodies that gum up the works (anticardiolipin antibody syndrome for you educated folk). You'd think this would make me more fatalistic; it may have two years ago, but it strangely doesn't now. It has made me rethink the desire to have children, which waxes and wanes, because the miscarriage risk is incredibly high. An interesting corollary, no doubt, to my reproductive woes.
Two years ago, or one year ago, I couldn't have handled this news. Two years ago, I'd not be wearing a skirt without stockings or probably even this patterned pink top that I adore. I'd not be pumping weights at the gym with pleasantly few aftereffects the next day, or less than I expected. I'd not be walking a six mile walkathon, or running for a train (in my case, a fast hobble down the subway steps; my peculiar knee anatomy has resigned me to my awkward downhill gait). I wouldn't be marching in a Memorial Day Parade. I'd not be forsaking a bag of chocolate almonds on my desk or refrigerating half a sandwich after lunch.
I'm very lucky. I'm loved and needed and alive. In the peculiarly wobbly cycle of life, it's what I am truly needed to be right now.
4/17/07
a little too much information?
1. I have had wet towels in my gym bag since early this morning. Virtuous but probably stinky.
2. I also washed my hair with shower gel and applied leave in conditioner. Now my hair is especially stringy.
3. I had a doc's appointment, and this has never happened to me: Nothing serious, just icky and weirdly fascinating. The nurse somehow let the butterfly needle slip out of my vein and when it fell, venous blood came gushing - gushing - out of my arm. It wasn't an artery, I know that. But boy, can I bleed fast. Damn. I just stared as it splashed all over my suit pants and the nurse frantically tried to stanch the bleeding and clean me up. It should've bothered me more - although I've never been bothered particularly by the sight of blood. But usually when you cut yourself or something, unless you've severed an artery, the blood kind of oozes out as it tries to stop itself. I don't know if it was because the needle was directly in a vein or because I'm on ridic amounts of blood thinner, but blood poured out like water spilling from a glass.
Fascinating, huh?
2. I also washed my hair with shower gel and applied leave in conditioner. Now my hair is especially stringy.
3. I had a doc's appointment, and this has never happened to me: Nothing serious, just icky and weirdly fascinating. The nurse somehow let the butterfly needle slip out of my vein and when it fell, venous blood came gushing - gushing - out of my arm. It wasn't an artery, I know that. But boy, can I bleed fast. Damn. I just stared as it splashed all over my suit pants and the nurse frantically tried to stanch the bleeding and clean me up. It should've bothered me more - although I've never been bothered particularly by the sight of blood. But usually when you cut yourself or something, unless you've severed an artery, the blood kind of oozes out as it tries to stop itself. I don't know if it was because the needle was directly in a vein or because I'm on ridic amounts of blood thinner, but blood poured out like water spilling from a glass.
Fascinating, huh?
3/20/07
No fair!
Why do I have to have something in common with Dick "Dick" Cheney?
I'd never wish blood clots on ANYONE. (Discomfort? Ha!)
Does this mean I'm having sympathy for Dick?
Eww.
I'd never wish blood clots on ANYONE. (Discomfort? Ha!)
Does this mean I'm having sympathy for Dick?
Eww.
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