Hearty

 Back in April, my FitBit -- which I've worn regularly since the days of The Plague -- announced to me that it had noticed a high heart rate at a time when I was inactive. 

Well, that's not right.

I wasn't particularly alarmed. Nevertheless, in view of the family history of aFib, it certainly warranted mentioning to a doctor. Fortunately, I had a follow-up appointment within a few days to get the results of my cardiac stress test (ah, manteca dreams), so the timing was fortuitous. 

Good news: the stress test was clear. Yay me!

It was decided to run a thirty-day heart monitor to see whether any other aberrations like the one identified by the FitBit appeared.  And so that was done. (I'll leave out some significantly annoying petty details, because they are all water under the bridge now; suffice it to say, some customer service people were helpful in accomplishing the monitor, and some were VERY MUCH not.) 

The technology was interesting, and all-in-all relatively easy to use/convenient-ish. Not too uncomfortable, though a tad sweaty, and poke-y on the cleavage. Hard to shower without worrying about damaging the adhesive. Oy.

Results showed nothing alarming. The monitor did not pick up any further spikes like the one found by the FitBit (even though the FitBit itself identified some spikes in the same time frame). It did show one moment of "bunny ears" (comical, given the number of rabbits in my house) where my heart apparently tried to go into a right bundle branch block, but that appears to be an incidental finding and not of concern. 

In short: nothing to see here, citizens. Move along.

My FitBit has anxiety, maybe? Who knows.

So, moving forward: I opted to get a different FitBit; switch it to my other arm; and not be concerned. I can do either depression or anxiety, and depression has chosen me, so no time for anxiety. We'll see whether the new FitBit provides any interesting data -- it may be completely different data, because the FitBit platform has also changed significantly just recently, incorporating new AI technology (AI: it's everywhere). 

I think my heart might just need a little bit more love. 

Lippy

Because we wouldn't want too long to lapse between the times that I need to visit the dermatologist, I had yet another biopsy of a suspicious spot back in March. Everything turned out fine (in that the spot was pre-cancerous, not cancerous), and the shave biopsy removed the entire area of concern, so ta-daaa, all set. 

The biopsy site took what seemed like an eternity to heal, even though it was no doubt just an ordinary amount of time. Perhaps that was because it is in such an obvious place -- just a few millimeters above my lip, on the right -- or perhaps it was due to its size. There's nothing quite like watching a wee open wound on your face slowly grow smaller and very sloooooowly grow less red, to make you sad about no longer being young and cute and scar-free.

There are now five easily visible scars due to skin cancer/pre-cancer: right temple, two nose, one upper lip, one high on chest. All thinks considered, they are small, well healed (though the chest scar is a bit hypertrophic), not alarming. They might not even be particularly noticeable, depending on the degree of interest that an onlooker takes in my appearance. 

It could be so much worse. I am grateful that it is not. 

I do not enjoy dermatological difficulties. But what else can one do? On we go.  

Evolve

 Herself speaks. 

A bit after my lovely Daddy died, I cut my hair short and dyed it more red. (I used to occasionally joke that I was in my "poison dart frog" era.)  I'm sure that Freud would have a field day dissecting the innermost reasons for the change. 

There was, to be sure, an amount of Heat Miser rage embodied in the short red hair. That year -- 2023 -- was a year of So Much Terrible, of Heartache unimagined and unimaginable, that the only possible action was a complete change of appearance, a metamorphosis, an outward indicator of the difficult state within. 

The Terrible continued into 2024, to the point that I asked for pharmaceutical help in order to further process and move through all of the Things. It has been a very, very, very long road. 

Time has passed, and the Terrible has attenuated. Grief has softened somewhat, although it periodically still has very sharp edges. I have done my best to let go of what I cannot change, and to move forward in new ways. It has not been easy.

The temptation has been to harden my heart, yet that thought yields a complex feeling which fans the embers of anger: why must I be made of stone? Must my joy in being open, kind, and warm also be stolen from me, along with everything else I have lost?  

Such a delicate balancing act -- remaining guarded, yet remaining true to my inner self. And with my Offspring, my siblings, my Cherished Friend all being far away, and with Beloved Husband being so busy and so often unavailable, there are very few opportunities to safely be who I am.

I refuse to give up, though. I may have built internal walls, but I have kept a window. And I have deliberately chosen to remain soft on the inside. You'd have to look really hard to find that softness, but it is there. 

My hair reflects my choice. I've let it grow out, and have returned to a more natural brown color. I like it. It's not as angry. It's kinder. It is hair to put in a ponytail while taking care of Stuff, hair to run fingers through. 

Freud would probably have a field day about this hair choice as well. 

I'll keep it this way for a while. 

Taking a Walk

Nice. 

January: Manteca Nightmares

 I experienced a charming \sarcasm font\ bit of shaming a couple of days ago. 

I had a routine annual appointment with the cardiologist. I was not particularly worried about the appointment; he's (normally) a very kind man, everything usually goes smoothly. I had my lab results from the end of October of 2025 -- and according to my primary care physician (who had already reviewed them with me in November), everything was fine.

Dr. Cardiologist had different thoughts, though.  He breezed in with a student doctor, whom I welcomed (I'm always a fan of student doctors learning on the job) and commented right off the bat that he was concerned about my triglycerides. (Which, admittedly, are a bit high, though my primary care doctor was not concerned.)

He turned from the computer where the numbers were displayed, looked at me, and asked, "Did you eat a lot of grease over the holidays?" 

Well, Jesus H. Christ riding a bicycle. 

I got stuck momentarily in figuring out how to answer because 1) my labs were from before the holidays and 2) no, I don't normally eat a lot of fatty foods (I do tend to eat simple/processed sugars, especially when migraine-y, and that too can raise triglycerides). Was I supposed to answer either of those things? Probably not.  

I resorted to, "Well, I ate a lot of feelings over the holidays."  Which, putting you on notice that LIFE IS F*CKING HARD RIGHT NOW, SIR, PERHAPS A MODICUM OF TACT MIGHT GET YOU FURTHER. 

I wonder what the student doctor thought? Or if he noticed how horrified I was? Dr. Cardiologist did not, or if he did, pretended not to. 

Dr. Cardiologist instead glossed over my response and followed up his condescending question by asking if I'd ever had a stress test. Which, no.  We went over the whys and hows and whens of a stress test (there was more ick in that discussion, but I was still stuck on the grease).  He concluded with, if the stress test was fine, we'd just have to make sure I ATE LESS GREASE, and walked me out to the scheduling cubicles.  

The whole thing took maybe 3 minutes. 

I am still stunned. 

Horrified.

What does he think, that I'm just sitting in a corner with my spoon and a tub of manteca? And is making his point that way, really the best way to do it? In front of a student doctor? What was he teaching them, exactly? 

Whatever his intentions, he succeeded at one thing. I have felt shame about every single food item I have put in my mouth since then, and it has in fact resulted in my eating less. Well done, Doctor - you have turned slightly disordered overeating into vague orthorexia, just through the use of the word grease.

The stress test will be fine. And it'll be good to have a baseline and to address any concerns. 

In the meantime, I will chew on my shame. 

Why Does The Universe Hate Me?

Seriously? I JUST had Covid. 

Almost There

It's been ten days since that first feeling in the back of my throat appeared, and eight days since the first positive COVID test (this time). There is just the teeeeeniest line appearing at the test line now - the kind of line that can hardly be captured in a picture and that, if I saw it a week ago, I would have thought SURELY THAT CAN'T BE A THING, and tested again the following day to be sure. 

I still sound congested and am, as usual, retaining a post-illness cough, but at least I have made it to the other side. 

I am not thinking about the possible long-term damage that this as-yet-not-fully-understood virus may be causing, because what can I do about that? Nothing. Some people develop cardiac issues, or long COVID, or lung issues. Some people are fine. I have so many little health wierdnesses, that I am placing no bets - just crossing my fingers that all will be well. 

On we go. 

Third Time's The... Charm?

Well.... f**k. 

Catch-up

Herself speaks.

Let's play catch-up, shall we?  

The house refurbishing continues apace. Today I boxed up the last of the rooms that needs boxing -- that was quite the accomplishment.  This one was the study, and so it was quite the archeological dig:  old school pictures of the Offspring, tax forms, Important Papers, ancient defunct laptops, obsolete mobile phones, CD-ROMs of computer games from over a decade ago. I took down my diplomas, and carefully peeled off the pencil drawings made by the Offspring that I'd taped there, along with three photos: Beloved Husband holding an infant Offspring the Third; my Lovely Daddy and I during my college graduation weekend; a rare willingly-taken (toleratingly-taken) photo of Cherished Friend from a camping trip a thousand years ago.  I cleaned off all of my favorite schoolbooks from the shelf -- my Latin and Greek books from high school; organic chemistry; plant biology -- and put them in a box with the classics: The Phantom Tollbooth (Norton Juster), I Am A Bunny (Ole Risom), Anam Cara (John O'Donohue), The Prophet (Kahlil Gibran), When The Tripods Came (John Christopher), and other favorites. I added the books on lichens and mosses, and medicinal plants. A wealth of knowledge, in a single box. 

I finally threw out my review materials for The Task, though. 

I also cleaned out my closet upstairs. I finally gathered all my formal dresses that I will never wear again and donated them.  They were all beautiful in their individual ways -- velvets, sparkles, fringe or shimmer. They felt so lovely under my fingertips as I packed them up. I felt pretty when I wore them (a hundred years ago, now), and I was sad to see them go.  I hope they will each find a good home elsewhere. 

I moved the bunnies to their new room.  It's out of the regular flow of traffic of the household, but is quiet.  It's smaller, but I will get them a little rug so they can hop out and about in the rest of the house more after the refurbishment is done. 

I was concerned that they would find the move upsetting.  They did seem a bit cranky at first.  But they are adjusting. 

We parted ways with our dining room furniture.  It was old, in need of repair and polishing and tender loving care, and someone was willing to give it a good home. I feel sad and a little guilty, but I know that someone will enjoy it more. I did save the hand-embroidered seat cushion covers, though. It was a rhythmic, soothing process, to remove the hundreds of little furniture tacks. I will restore the embroidery and save the works for posterity. 

I rewarded myself for all the hard work, by speaking with Cherished Friend via Zoom this evening.  It's lovely to see him, to talk about ordinary things. I am annoyed he does not live closer -- how delightful that would be. 

When we said goodbye, the tiny grief of knowing I cannot really be a part of his everyday life and he cannot be a part of mine, flared white-hot for a moment. 

There is no point in crying, though. It won't change anything. I'll just put on my brave face and keep going.  

And that, lovely readers, is all the catch-up for now.

August Aspiration

I am working on taking better care of myself. 

Someone should take decent care of me. And it turns out that I am that someone. 

One More Scar

Yesterday, I had one more small spot of basal cell carcinoma removed. 

(It will leave a scar, he said. I'll add it to my collection, I said.) 

All things considered, it was not a terrible procedure. It wasn't on my face, so that's pretty good, really. It's a few finger widths down from my collarbone. 

(There are smaller stitches so the scar will be less noticeable, and you will be more comfortable wearing lower cut tops, he said. Thank you, I said.)

The initial bandage is a bit bulky and obvious -- no hiding that -- but I can peel that off after 24 hours and see what I'm really dealing with. 

Scars don't necessarily bother me. The idea of going through this procedure every few years does. Though again, not my face this time, so less unpleasant, means small win. 

I picked up dinner for myself at the local tiny/posh grocery store afterwards, because Not Cooking After Unpleasant Experience. I tucked my shirt under the strap of my purse over my shoulder to try to obscure the visibility of the bandage a bit, because I hadn't figured out a short-and-snappy explanation if anyone asked. It didn't work particularly well, but the parking lot was not crowded, so I mustered my wherewithal, tried not to be self conscious, and went in. 

(I like your shoes and you look great! said a pleasant lady I didn't know as I entered. Thank you! I chirped in reply.)

The only two compliments I have gotten from strangers in the past year (including this one) -- for I remember the other one, too -- have both been at times when it's been very clear that I am at that moment, In The Midst Of Some Kind Of Medical Unpleasantness. And I am grateful to the strangers -- both women -- who took it upon themselves to try to better my clearly not-great day with some nice words. 

It's been a rough road in many ways lately, but perhaps the world is not entirely a garbage fire: because every now and then, a nice lady says something kind at the right time. 

Here We Go Again

 Herself speaks.

Had my annual dermatology visit for Pelt Review recently.  It's always both a concern an annoyance - I don't spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, and I'm always worried that I will have missed some sort of problem that should be addressed. I do look at my face and ask about any Suspect Spots there since that's where the three prior MOHS surgeries have been located. This time, almost as an afterthought, I asked about a small circular spot on my upper chest. It's been there a while, hasn't grown or done much of anything, but it has not gone away, either. 

Aaaaand, biopsy it was. Small win - at least it wasn't on my face this time. 

Results are, as expected, another basal cell carcinoma.  (No amount of hiding from the sun can save me from the UV damage of my youth, even though I'm essentially crepuscular now.) And so I go back in another month to have a wider excision, to make sure it is all gone. 

Again, small win - not on my face. It'll be a bit of an ugly scar, but not particularly noticeable unless I'm wearing a V-neck shirt.

I am so tired of this. Every few years, though, I can expect it again. The price I pay for existing, really. 

The Pettiest of Petty Things

 Herself speaks.

Recently, Beloved Husband had his vision surgically corrected. It was something he has spoken about for a while as wanting to do; he up and decided at the turn of the New Year to take immediate steps to put it on the calendar. And so, it was done. 

He mentioned afterward that for the procedure, they offered all patients a teddy bear to hold. And while I know that's essentially a distraction so that the patient's hands are occupied and they won't accidentally touch anything they should not (such as the sterile eyeball field), all I could think was, once more, his lucky star was shining through -- he was offered a comfort item to hold, during an elective procedure he chose to have. 

Never once, in the history of ever, in all the various non-elective (and varying-degrees-of-unpleasant) procedures I have needed to have, have I ever been offered a comfort item. It's hard to bring your own stuffed animal when you're an adult -- no one wants to seem juvenile or afraid. But a teddy bear would have been helpful on more than one occasion. Moreso than, "Don't cry, you'll get all stuffy." 

Help, I'm envious of this seemingly inconsequential thing. 

I am truly glad for him, that he could undertake this elective procedure that he wanted. And that it went well, and all was good. 

And at the same time, inside my heart, I envy his good experience, and his comfort. Because those are not things I have gotten to have. I carry memories of some very unpleasant medical experiences within this body. How I wish I could forget them. 

Perhaps next time (because we all know I will have a Next Time), I'll bring my own comfort item. 

Side Effect

 Herself speaks.

One of the... side effects, I suppose one could call it, of antidepressants, is that now that I am not numb with grief and obligation, there is more time to reflect on Things. (Or maybe, there's more Thinking in general, instead of just being mired in the Abyss.) Sometimes, it's Good. Other times, long-hidden Sadnesses and Traumas swim up and present themselves for processing. 

(I know that the word trauma tends to be overused these days. I don't use it lightly. While I have generally lived a very good life, there are events, conversations, and ongoing patterns that have been quite difficult. These have shaped me in ways -- often negative -- that ultimately need to be addressed and understood, so that I can move past them and do better, for myself and for the people I love.) 

Processing is slow, and tiring. But necessary. 

I keep wanting to explain myself. This is why I react so strongly to this particular scenario. This is why the way a sentence is phrased is so important to me. This is why I work so hard to ensure someone's personal space is respected. This is why it is so necessary to choose the right time and place to say certain things. This is why I always give my full attention to health issues, however minor, and treat them as ordinary occurrences rather than as some kind of moral failing. This is why I always listen to other people describing their dreams. This is why I feel abandoned when certain things happen. 

But do people want to know why? No. No one cares about motivations. No one wants to know why I am the Odd Duck that I am. In all likelihood, they just want me to conform to social norms and be low maintenance. I try. I don't ask for much, so I do consider myself low maintenance.  As for social norms? Well, that's hit or miss, as always. 

Ultimately, people are mostly concerned with themselves: they just want to be heard, to be seen, and to feel understood. So I make that my primary mission. Perhaps, if I try hard enough, people will do the same for me. 

I know that's pipe dream. But, I can still dream. 

Poster Girl

 Herself speaks.

It's the most ordinary of things that make us overthink sometimes.

I went in for a routine dental cleaning earlier this week. We always begin with the briefest of health updates: the hygienist takes my blood pressure (which was good -- pop quiz passed!), and asks, "any surgeries since the last visit? Any new medications?"

No surgeries, thank goodness. New medications: eight hundred thousand thoughts, in a millisecond, before responding. 

Yes, antidepressant is a new medication since my last visit. BUT, the hygienist is related to someone I work with, who does not know that I take antidepressants. I would tell my coworker about the antidepressants if it came up in conversation, but I do not want them to find out through the grapevine. The hygienist is bound by HIPAA, so technically she should not discuss it outside of the dental office, but you never know. Also, the dental office is open enough that the people in the cubicles next door will be able to listen, so other patients may hear what I say and I don't particularly want strangers to know. Because Stigma. How relevant is antidepressant use to dental health? I know some people in the depths of depression have trouble maintaining oral health, but that particular issue doesn't apply to me. So, is it irrelevant in this situation? Do I want to be the Poster Girl for being upfront about mental health issues and just mention it casually, as if it were no different from thyroid meds or other routine meds? No. No, I do not. Not today. 

"No new meds," I said.

-----

I feel a little bit as if I am doing a disservice to the mental health community by not being forward about my own personal struggle.  At the same time, it is my own personal struggle.  I don't want to talk about it a lot of the time. Nor should I feel obligated to do so, if it does not affect my health care. I have good days. I have bad days. A lot of times, I have days where there are good moments and bad moments. I am doing better. But not so much better that I can be an open representative of Better Mental Health Through Pharmaceuticals. 

I do want to help other people who might be struggling similarly. But right now, I'm putting my own oxygen mask on first. And that means that I might not say anything publicly.

That's OK.

Chronic Chronicles

 Herself speaks.

I had an appointment yesterday to follow up with the neurologist. At this point, I'm paying more than $50/minute copay to speak with the doctor in order to have my prescriptions refilled; this time, I did get the added benefit of having a particular assistant in the office assigned the task of helping me to navigate the rejection of the pre-authorization of the one and only medication that has been effective in stopping an incipient migraine from turning into a full-blown horror show for me. Let's hope she and I together are successful in convincing the insurance company that no, I'm not just overusing over-the-counter NSAIDs, but I do in fact have chronic and fairly terrible migraine that needs this particular medication. 

The neurologist seems to regularly have freshly minted doctors doing a rotation through her office -- this was the second or third time in the past couple of years that I've had a wet-behind-the-ears MD doing my intake information. It's always an interesting exercise because they ask more questions than the neurologist does at this point: how many days of headache? How many hours per day? On a scale of 1-10, how severe is the pain? How many days of migraine?  

As I responded to the questions, I realized that my point of view on what level of pain constitutes an acceptable level, is forever skewed: three days of headache a week, not even bothering to take an NSAID unless the pain was a 4 or more, pain lasting for a few hours on each occasion, and about 3 migraines a month -- that, in  my eyes, is a VAST IMPROVEMENT over where I started. I'm willing to live like this. It's better. It's tolerable.  Let's keep the current medication regimen and not try anything new, because I don't want to rock the boat and risk making things worse from where they are now.

That's pretty horrifying, looking at it from the outside. But it's the life I live. I don't even mention the headache/migraine unless it's interfering with something that I need to do for someone else. I just power through.

It's taking a lot of readjusting of my mindset as to what I can realistically do. Some days, the best I can do is... nothing. Lie on the couch. Do a little bit of DuoLingo. Surf through TikTok. Feed the pets. Order pet supply pickup. Order grocery delivery.  Contemplate what days I can move my pending household tasks to. Do whatever I can do to minimize wear and tear on myself. 

The task at hand is to Get Through. Tending to the pain is enough. 

(And, perhaps, I would do well to remember that some days, tending to existential pain is also enough, too.) 

It's frustrating. In this world of Multitasking and Monetize Your Hobbies and Constant Social Media Input, it's hard not to feel self-critical about not doing all the time. 

But: managing pain IS doing. Surviving IS doing. 

There will be better days. (And worse days.) We take one day at a time. And we do our best not to criticize ourselves for the days when even boiling water seems like a lot. Because some days, it IS a lot. 

On we go. 

Well, Well, Well... Wellbutrin

Herself speaks.

I've been a bit quiet, because I've been thinking about something that needed my full inner attention. Something small, and yet big. A tiny thing, and yet a Big Thing. A miniscule request, with potentially rippling consequences (some potentially negative, many potentially positive). I thought, and thought, and then decided. 

I looked out over the past six years, all the way back to The Task (since that was monumental enough to be a solid landmark in time), and then looked forward again, and made myself a list of all the Happenings in that interval that were difficult, or required some form of life adjustment or adaptation, or needed a period of time of a month (or more) to get used to/get over/come to terms with the event or change. And I stopped adding to the list after I could reliably identify twenty-five different items -- and none of them were even ordinary daily items like Work or Chronic Migraine or Ordinary Stuff. 

All of them were varying levels of Big: the loss of the Tiniest and Fiercest of Warriors, of my very fine fur friend Mr. Uncle Tio, and of the very fine New Old Dog; the Divergence; minor surgeries and medical events of various levels of annoyance; the loss of my lovely father in law, and of my lovely Daddy (which, in addition to being heartrending, also came with a new set of responsibilities, which I undertook with love to honor my Daddy); the Pandemic and how terrible People behaved, and having COVID -- twice! -- with virtually no support system to help me during that time; the Inflection Point and the arduous recovery from it; and other events of similar degrees of size and shape. 

(I have not included specific mention in the listing here, of events that belong primarily to the Offspring or to Beloved Husband, in which I was a tangential player, for those are their stories; nevertheless, I play a supporting character in their lives, and what affects them, impacts me in certain ways, too.)

As we can see, though, there has been rather a lot. 

I'm Tired. Tired through and through, to the very core of my soul.  And you can read it, too, if you look through the Blog. 

This level of Tired means that my own personal wellbeing became such a low priority, that I could see that I wasn't really taking adequate care of myself -- not finding the time to exercise, not putting in the effort to ensure I was following the best migraine-free diet, not finding activities to do that I enjoyed. Because I enjoyed nothing. There has been no joy. Only Obligation, Numbness, and marching forward, doing the things that must be done. With a little despair thrown in here and there. 

So I gathered all of this, held it all carefully in my hands, and when I went to my annual physical yesterday, said to my lovely doctor: 

Let's talk about anti-depressants, please. 

And she was ever so kind about it. 

We ran through the standard depression and anxiety questionnaires. I inwardly chuckled a bit at the depression questionnaire because the timeframe it asks about is, "In the past two weeks...." Two weeks?! Hell, I can do ANYTHING for two weeks. For two months. For two years, even. And she also asked me what the biggest stressors were, and I told her a few of the twenty-five things, and though I couldn't quite look at her when I mentioned the worst of them, it was pretty clear that what I said was somehow clearly... enough for one person to be dealing with. 

I passed (failed?) the depression questionnaire, though I have virtually no anxiety -- which does not surprise me. Things are going to happen, whether I worry about them or not; at this point, I just hitch up my pants and do what needs doing next.  We agreed on which antidepressant I should try, and it's one that is least likely to have weight gain as a side effect, since one of my side goals is to lose weight. (I probably will, if I can feel my feelings rather than eat them.) The prescription was called into the pharmacy even before the end of the visit. She gave me a hug before I left, and I felt embarrassed that someone actually cares. And her assistant told me, when she walked me to the exit, that it would get better. 

I want to believe that they were being genuine and kind. I am unused to spontaneous kindness from other people. Especially people who don't want something from me. 

It was a tough choice to decide to ask for help.  I spent a lot of time thinking about the ramifications of what it would mean to have a diagnosis of clinical depression in my medical records. Will medical professionals take me less seriously in the future? "Oh, your symptoms are because you're depressed."  Well, it's possible I'll get that. But is that any worse than "It's because you're fat"?  Because we all know that's a standard "diagnosis" for women, too. 

Maybe, with the antidepressant, I'll eventually be able to be less fat, because I'll have the wherewithal to take better care of myself. Really, that's my goal: a few store-bought neurotransmitters, to take the edge off of the level of Terrible, so I can do better for myself.  Someone needs to take care of me. I am that Someone. 

I'm trying not to look at the whole situation as a personal failure. I can only Power Through so much. When I can no longer reach my own bootstraps to power through everything, though, it's time to get some assistance. Even though I would rather chew off my own leg than ask for help, it was definitely Time. 

I debated for a long time about whether I would write here about this issue. The stigma associated with Depression is, as always, very high, and I realize it's a risk to say certain things out loud. (Though I do want to give Kudos to the younger generations for being much more open about mental health and wellness than my generation and older generations.) But perhaps, that's all the more reason to say something. 

If there's a chance that, by reading my story, you can look at your own life and say to yourself, "I have plenty of Terrible and would like something to take the edge off, too", and you can then go ask your own doctor for help, then this is a story well told. 

I will -- either literally, or metaphorically -- be there to hold your hand while you ask for help, too. 

Do Unto Others

For the past week, I've been trying to get back into the habit of paying better attention to what I am doing for others.  I've been Very Migraine-y, and as a result, have been mired in Myself -- physically and mentally, and I was hoping that by looking outside of myself, I would feel better.

I made an extra effort to make sure that my Mom's birthday had gifts she would like and multiple texts and bits of communications here and there -- I know that all festivities both large and small are very different for her now, without Daddy, and it is more important than ever that we make her feel special, without him here to do so.  

I ordered some small gifts for coworkers who are moving on from the office soon. I don't actually work directly with either of them, but we interact on occasion and have been employed at the same place for quite some time now. They should know that they have been an important part of the collective team, and that they will be missed. 

I sent additional birthday wishes to people whom I don't see in person any more (it is apparently a popular week for birthdays), but of whom I am fond and to whom I don't reach out nearly often enough. This was part of my new/ongoing effort to make sure people know that they are important: even when they might feel as if they are out-of-sight, they are not out-of-mind. And I sent a messenger message to an artist Facebook friend, to thank her once more for the piece of art I have of hers in my office at work, for the same reason. 

It helped a bit. I felt a little less isolated and mired in my own literal/metaphorical pain of the moment. The truth is, I know a lot of lovely people. The part I struggle with the most is, reaching out. And, unfortunately, so do the people I know. I should be very empathetic. 

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One of the hardest parts of chronic pain such as migraine, is how isolating it is. My ability to be social, to reach out, to be cheerful, is so constrained. I have so few spoons. And it's also exhausting -- embarrassing even -- to tell the people near to me that I'm unwell, yet again. Nobody likes to be seen as weak in any way. So I don't mention it much any more. 

And when I do, I have apparently reached the point where those closest to me don't even react a lot of the time. They are so used to me plowing through as best I can despite everything, that it no longer even occurs to them to do anything other than perhaps say, that's too bad. Sometimes it requires prompting to get that sentence.  And if I don't prompt, sometimes they don't even say that any more -- I told someone close to me yesterday that I was on day three of Migraine, and there was not even a "that sounds painful".  At least the conversation continued, though. I'm not fully abandoned. 

When there is so little acknowledgment of what I am experiencing, I quickly become embarrassed that I've even mentioned it. I so easily devolve into a little ball of ouch and self-consciousness, horrified that there is that part of me that wants someone to say, well, that sounds terrible, to acknowledge my pain. It takes all my strength not to go down the path of, what would it be like if someone tried to help -- to ask if they should bring any meds, or a snack or some water, should I go lie down, what would work to make things better, they will take care of X or Y or Z so I do not have to do it, don't worry about a thing. 

I have to remind myself: it is up to me to take care of me. Or to ask for what I want. (And ask with the full knowledge that asking may still not yield what I want.) 

I have to bootstrap myself to do the former, if I cannot bring myself to do the latter. 

One day at a time.

No Ozempic, Thanks

Herself speaks.

I had an appointment today to follow-up with my primary care doctor about the 'POP' injury from a couple of months back. It took a while to heal, but it appears to have done so, and I’m getting back on the treadmill and into my regular activities. (It’s been very hard to be motivated to resume regular exercise, what with Mustache being dramatically ill, and Miss Kitty needing dental care, and life, and my general inability to prioritize my self-care, and all that….)

The doctor and I went over my current meds, and scheduled my annual physical for the end of August. And then we had a conversation – necessary, though horrid, as always – about my weight. I’m overweight. I know it, you know it, everyone who sees me knows it. There’s more of me than there should be, in order for me to be as healthy as I could be. And my doctor is the right person to raise the issue. So, time to address the metaphorical (literal-tiny) elephant in the room. 

She asked whether I need medical help to lose weight, and told me that there are a variety of pharmaceutical options, including two in pill form, and in two shot form (e.g., Ozempic/Wegovy). I’m not interested in Ozempic/Wegovy; those seem quite drastic, overused, and trendy at the moment, and I’m not sure of the safety of them, to be honest. That definitely would need a whole lot of research before going down that kind of road, and no thank you. The pill forms – stimulants that serve as appetite suppressants – also give me pause. Risky/safe? Effective? They are designed to be short-term. What happens long-term? Is it just a yo-yo forever? 

The bigger (haha sigh) issue:  inside my head, it seems like such a Moral Failing to resort to pharmaceuticals in order to lose weight. Wouldn’t just getting a grip on myself, eating right, exercising right, doing better, be enough? Shouldn't it be enough? Why isn't it enough? Clearly that’s not working for me right now. I must not trying hard enough. 

Maybe I should stop eating my feelings.

Maybe I just… suck.

So much self-loathing. I can tell myself all I want that fat is morally neutral. It certainly is for other people I see - I don't judge people for their size. But the truth of the matter is, in my head, for me, it isn’t. I judge me for my size. And, truth be told, other people do, too. I am treated a certain way by other people because of my size -- like a fat girl. 

No one wants to be treated like a fat girl. Trust me on that.

So many thoughts. What do I decide? Do I admit defeat? Do I do the shameful, easy-way-out, pharmaceutical aid to weight loss? Will it even help? Can I just bootstrap myself, actually TRY, and do better? Will I ever succeed? Is that just wishful thinking? Foolishness, in the face of so many failed efforts?

I wish I could talk to someone about this, in real life. I cannot talk to people I know, so many of whom have weight issues or food issues or orthorexia, or will blithely say “you’re not fat!” even though I am (fat is morally neutral!), or will bemoan their own "fat" even when they weigh approximately as much as one of my thighs, or who will not understand at all because they do not eat feelings and do not find solace in carbohydrates when their heart aches. And because I already feel as though I am physically repellent to others, to even bring up a discussion of my physical existence will only draw attention to HOW repellent I already am. 

I am alone, enveloped in my cocoon of muchness, and I am sad. Perhaps, if I spend time feeling that sadness, instead of feeding that sadness, I will get somewhere. Somewhere... smaller. 

All these thoughts in the space of the three milliseconds, while the doctor looked at me, expectantly, waiting for me to say, yes, please prescribe me something to go with my diet and exercise, or no thank you, let me try harder myself with diet and exercise alone. 

What did I decide?

Let's go for a walk. And we can talk about the whole fat thing. 

Pop Goes The Weasel

 A week and a half ago, I was traveling. (I haven't even written about that yet. Help, I am so behind.) And as I stepped off of the small train onto the platform, to switch onto the other train to go back to the airport to go home, there was... a POP in my right calf. 

Ow. 

It was surprising that it wasn't actually audible -- it was that noticeable.  I was momentarily unable to walk on that leg. I was one of the last off the small train, so fortunately I didn't hold anyone up. I regained my balance, and hobbled to the next train as quickly as I could so as not to miss my connection, which was NOT quickly as all, because I could not bear full weight on that leg, nor swing it/extend it fully. 

I then had an hour on the next train to figure out what to do. Do I seek medical care there, or do I just make my way home to deal with it? The obvious choice was to go home; I didn't want to incur delays, hotel fees, out-of-network medical costs. The leg was not SO painful that I couldn't move. I would be sitting for the vast majority of the day, except when moving from train to airport, and from plane to plane. Choice made. I continued the 12-hour door-to-door journey home. 

The hardest part was the airport walking. I was very, very, slow, because I really couldn't walk normally at all, and needed to stay out of the way of everybody hurrying by. I opted to check my carry-on suitcase to minimize what I would have to take with me during the layover/gate change, which was helpful. The hardest part was getting from the final gate, to baggage claim, and out to long-term parking. So. Slow. So obviously limping. Awkward. Painful.

The next few days were a bit of a challenge. Doctor's visit, crutches. Compression sleeve. A little ibuprofen. Testing ordered. Things slowly are improving. 

The long and the short of it (I'm going to leave out the ABSOLUTE SHENANIGANS involved in getting what I thought should have been routine testing to figure out what happened, because I might dissolve into a tirade about the still-lacking-medical-care in this area of the desert) is: I have a 'greater than 75% tear' in the gastrocnemius muscle in my right calf. Yikes. 

Things are better now, in that the pain is fairly low (as a person with chronic migraine, pain is all relative -- and this is really not a lot unless I pivot strangely or try to move too quickly).  I am, however, extremely frustrated, because I don't at the moment have concrete information about how to ease back into regular activities. How do I get back to my regular treadmill use (incline/speed/length of time)? When do I start physical therapy, to make sure this doesn't happen again? 

Also, what the actual f*ck is this nonsense?  

I am very surly. I do not do well without being able to Take A Walk. 

The only consolation in this entire debacle has been -- and hear me out, for I know this will sound strange -- there is an actual, identifiable thing that is wrong. 

That may sound silly. But as an overweight, middle-aged woman seeking health care, the odds are more likely that my concerns, and my description of pain, will be minimized or treated as 'anxiety' or curable through weight loss, rather than as rooted in an actual problem. 

(I'm not minimizing the health benefits of shedding a few pounds. I know what they are, and I  know that I should.  But you know that.)

I... am tired. 

But, on we go. One (slightly limping) step at a time.