Tag Archives: home doctorin’

I could feel at the time there was no way of knowing

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Well freaking well, internet. It’s April already! You may recall that last year around this time, I was seized with a bout of experimentation in home anti-aging breakthroughs. That didn’t go so well, and I still have a little scar.

This year, however, I’ve had great success with cosmetic dentistry. I went to the dentist today, and he complimented my teeth. I’d never seen this dentist before, but I soon took to him, falling asleep as his bear-like Russian hands cupped my jaw. Such a gentle brute. When I awoke, he had filed down my front teeth. At first I was all “Hey, isn’t this a little Charles Dickens?” But then I took a second look, and I must admit the effect is pleasing. “There,” he said. “ocharovatel’naya, charuyuschaya ulybka” And I had to agree. Damn.

Now I’m wearing 2 layers of Crest Whitestrips. I accidentally swallowed one, but I think I’ll be fine. The things I do for beauty.

More Meds, Please

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Oh, I have been gritting my teeth all week against the pain of a gland problem that has landed me screaming on a table in the ER many times over the years. For this round, I had to wait several days from the onset of PAIN to have a second try at the surgery that is supposed to correct the problem permanently. Luckily, while I waited I received a prescription of Codeine from Dr. Roommate. Isn’t that where everyone gets their painkillers these days?

The surgery went just fine, for at the helm was a brisk German with a heavy accent and a Van Dyke. Helen was there, to talk trash with me and squeeze my paw while i felt small and tired in a blue gown. But finally the sweet sweet drugs came, and I couldn’t stop laughing and reaching for the lights over the operating table and calling for the Mother Ship. Apparently, the nurses had never heard that one before.

Afterwards, I lay in white hot pain with Helen at my side until they brought me some Percocet. She said my eyes went Anime-wide as soon as it kicked in, and I was able to enjoy the sunny afternoon ride home and sushi on the porch with her and Stu and Mr. H.

On this perky fog, I can enjoy just about anything, like getting stuck in Red Sox traffic on the way home from the hospital or being here at work the next day. To say nothing of the two yards of bloody gauze I had to extract from the surgical incision this morning. It was like that magic trick where you pull scarves out of your pocket in an endless rainbow. Only more disgusting. I bet I could even eat a lima bean or be sympathetic to the ugly and downtrodden today, without feeling put out in the least.

I wish life came with painkillers for every day.

-xo

Diese Woche habe ich unter ein sehr schmerzhaftes Druese problem gelitten. Ich wurde gestern operiert und heute geht es mir schon viel besser, besonders wegen dieses tolles Schmerzmittel!

Ich fing letze woche mit einem neuen Bild an, und ich glaube meiner kurze Aufenthalt im Krankenhaus das beeinflussen wird. Das sieht Ihr selber wenn es fertig ist.

What day is it? Thursday again!

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I got to thinking about how good Mr. B manages to look these days. I am sure he has a whole team to work on him, drugs like a NASCAR pit crew. I was racking my brain as to how I could emulate all this good grooming, and it hit me: botox! I already work out, have a more than competent hairstylist, and I’d like to think I’m not a terrible slouch in the fashion department. But I am starting to wrinkle a bit, and that one stubborn wrinkle between my eyes really bugs me.

This idea got my home dermatology juices flowing, so I looked up how to make botox. You really can find anything on the internet. It turns out it’s mostly denatured alcohol, salt, and egg white. You can approximate the paralytic effect of the toxin with pyrethrin, which is a common pesticide ingredient! Thus began the bathroom chemistry. It looked pretty gross, but I dabbed some on with a cotton ball and waited a few minutes. It burned like a sonofabitch for a bit, but eventually the whole area went numb! Unfortunately there was no discernable visual change, so I figured you really do have to inject it, it’s not going to get through to the muscle otherwise.

I have a syringe that I scammed off my diabetic pal. I use it to refill my one nice fountain pen, and I figured “if that moron can inject herself every single day, surely I can master this.” I spent the rest of the afternoon practicing on an orange, with an Allure Magazine spread on botox for reference. Not too hard really. I braced my elbow on the toothbrush holder in the bathroom for steadiness and gave the wrinkle a poke. And… it hurt. A lot. The end result is a giant weeping sore. Bugger. I don’t think I’ll be going out this weekend, unless Mr. H makes me go to a doctor. I am half-tempted to post a picture and get everyone’s best amateur medical evaluations. So far I’ve just been spritzing on tea tree oil, like every fifteen minutes.

-xxoo

Spring fever

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I am once again a germy mess! I should be quarantined, in one of those rooms with the built in black rubber gloves. That way, someone could reach in safely and apply cold compresses to my fevered brow. Luckily, the wireless access extends to the bedroom. Once I am well, I am still not leaving the bed.

Random observations:

– People’s Choice would be a great name for a Chinese restaurant.

– The hawks that live along the river bank have figured out that we have a cat to eat, and they inch closer to the deck every day. They are practically pressing their beaks against the storm door now.

– I’m hungry, why does no one bring me food? Just a little Kraft dinner? Bastards. I give and I give.

In other news, the baby shower for a relative is a week away. People are pestering me by asking what they can bring. So I thought of assigning things I need around the house anyway. “Um, you can bring trash bags and dish soap.” Or maybe “The baby needs a massage gift certificate, or a tasty bottle of rioja.”

-xxoo

Domestic Blitz

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I am going to take a moment out of my busy Betty Lunchbucket schedule to tell you how much I hate TV birth shows. Not to mention average Amerikan expectations of birth in general. That should be enough to ensure that most of you stop reading right there. Meow meow meow meow….pushing the limits of Vomitola. First mormon slander, now afterbirth!

As I was busily folding laundry, I flipped to TLC hoping to find someone with bad hair to mock. Instead, a hapless woman was wincing and grunting flat on her back in a hospital bed, pumped up with labor-causing drugs. The doctor came in, inserted an entire arm, and tut-tutted because the woman’s failsafe valve hadn’t managed to open up any further since the last time she was checked, a whole hour before. They’d been at this entire process for about eight hours, since they started the labor induction that morning. So off she went for a c-section! I guess if your child doesn’t fly out of you like a hot buttered football in the first hour, you are just shit out of luck. There was no apparent distress for the baby; it seemed like the doctor just wanted to get the show on the road.

I find my latent hippy dippy side coming out like nobody’s business as I contemplate the terrifying abyss of future parenthood. I’m still not totally sure what I want to do, or when, but I am pretty sure I don’t want “it” as seen on TV. Until recently I always thought I’d want to be drugged out of my gourd if I had the misfortune to whelp anything. That philosophy (of staying drugged out of my gourd) has served me well up until now, so why mess with it? But I remember seeing my mother have my sister, so I know a natural childbirth is possible, with no screaming or flailing even. Of course I flip hurriedly past those photos in the ol’ family album. The first time Mr. H met the parents, we both stared at the first page, puzzled, until I realized what we were observing.

Basically I just don’t like being told what to do. Damn it.

-xxoo

Internet, I’m soaking in it

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Well, we’re all moved in. Apparently my mother mistakenly spread the rumor that we purchased a condo, so relatives are emailing to congratulate us. When in Rome, right?

Effective immediately, I am changing my blog name to ClamShandy. I don’t know, it just sounds filthy. Also, I’ll be guest-blogging at my sister’s blog for the next *unspecified period of time*. She’s in some medical study on the heartbreak of colitis, or possibly hair don’ts. Then I’m trying to entice her to the great northerly east, where she will see that you can bilk people out of vast amounts of money per hour for making food dance on the internet.

-xxoo

Bela Lugosi’s Dead

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Never you mind my earlier ramblings! I’ve gained purchase, a new lease on life. After my nightly Nyquil swig that allows me to breathe, I looked up cough syrup addiction because Crazy John told me that teens the world over guzzle tussin because the active ingredient causes hallucinations. I found all sorts of vile cocktail recipes involving tussin. Most of those were up there with the “Listo [Listerine] and OJ” and “Listo and Pepsi” favored by some of the homeless population. Apparently you have to drink a good six ounces, so I think I don’t have to worry.

Then I found this paean to tussin addiction, set way back in 1997. A proto blog. It involves goths, Charlottesville, VA, and the charming effect of hyperlinking every other word. Why, there’s even a glossary! This site should be laminated. Even the links are poetic: “Amy-“Gothic Amy”; we slept together once.” And there’s a photo gallery. Ah, the internet, fresh with dew.

-xxoo

Hospital Johnny

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In a grim display of foreshadowing, I watched the grade B Zombie Nightmare last night. This morning found me arising at an unholy hour to go to the radiologist. I found myself sitting in a little Kabine with a bench and a mirror and a Barium shake. I lay on a table that tilted me like a bottle of pop to shake my contents. The cute technician took photos of my small intestine. He let me keep the plastic barium shake bottles with the built in crazy straw. They have pictures of Tracts on them. I wiped the chalk from my mouth and put on lipgloss. I think the pale blue hospital johnny suits me.

I want to go blonde and learn to play the harp.

I want to do portraits of all my friends ( I am working on a smashing one!)

I have learned something valuable- on the train, people tend to give a person room when they are drinking out of a bottle with a picture of a Tract on it.

A narsty bank teller refused to give me money on false pretenses, and the replacement card still has not arrived, leaving me stone broke at lunchtime after having to fast before my appt.

This evening I came home to be washed in bill collection threats- they toppled menacingly from my tray over my head, like a bucket of pig’s blood on prom night.

The last thing I consumed before my pre-radiology fast was a flute of champagne.

-xo

Lambchop gets a Forcefeeding

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The agonies of my Tract continue, and so tomorrow I have to endure a battery of tests. I have to fast until morning, at which point I will show up to the office, sample proudly in hand, and be forcefed some kind of dairy concoction until my liver bursts. Oh wait, thats foie gras. No, I will then be bled for two hours. I wonder when they are going to bring out the leeches?

This procedure is utterly pointless, as there is NO WAY I am lactose intolerant. Me and cheese go way back. We like the same things! For a time I was trying to learn how to say “I like cheese” in as many languages as possible, merely to generate variety in the expressions of love that I whisper to Cheese. This actually came in handy when I got caught stealing cheese from the dining hall where I was pizza girl. When asked by the manager what I was doing carrying cheese with me into the coatroom, I simply repeated “I like cheese…” to his every query until his jowls quivered and his face turned red. He eventually gave up. Wouldn’t you?

After all the starving and bleeding, I get to stagger all starved and bled to WORK, where a colossal mountain of someone else’s failure awaits me in great papery dunes.

But it ain’t all bad news, folks- I got a call from the Sisterhood today. If all goes well, I shall soon be mentoring a 7-15 year old girl. I just hope they won’t be requiring any samples.

-xo

Break up to make up

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America, these are scary times. I get through them just a bit more easily thanks to a few important people. I would say I add more important people every year than I subtract. Then there’s the people I’m out of touch with even though you live across town. What’s your damn deal? Who stops writing back first? Who lets the calls go to voicemail? Many times I’m guilty. Life gets overwhelming.

Like this week. I had to hop in a cab yesterday to get home to take Mr. H to Rehydration Camp. That’s like Guantanamo Bay, with Tylenol and surly nurses. Today the little sucker had to go back again because he couldn’t breathe, and it turned out he has pneumonia.  He never really gets sick, so when he calls in the middle of the afternoon to say “Can you come home,” it’s a pretty big deal. I had this horrible thought that he might kick off even as I waited in line at CVS to purchase the exciting thermometer with 3 modes. You can tell which mode it’s in because the stick man on the LCD points to his head, his armpit, or his ass.

After all the prescriptions were filled, we sat on the couch and got weepy talking about how neither one of us is ever allowed to die or become gravely ill. I realize how my definition of family has changed over the years. For all intents and purposes, a lot of my blood relatives are nutbags. My own parents are kind and well-intentioned, but they just don’t understand half the stuff that comes up in our lives. Weddings? “In my day, you changed your name and liked it!” When I was busy doing the pee-pee dance about getting laid off, released from 1999-style hell, my poor mudder was unsettled. Until I put it like this: “I motherfucking retired. Like Coolio.” Retirement, that they get. “Oh. Well, CONGRATULATIONS!”

But I’ve got my boo, and we’re a family. We make big scary adult decisions. We are getting life insurance. We use the cat as a child substitute, because she’s people too. And then there’s the rest of the tribe, the friends we can count on no matter what. Sorry to be a sap, but it’s true, and you know it. Don’t underestimate what you have for a snot-covered second. It’s worth more than a job or a new car or even shoes. Sure, work kept me in cartoon underwear for a while, but there’s more to life than lame-ass pyramid charts and capabilities presentations. We’ve got empires to start, hairstyles to try out.

So thanks for being my people, people. All those rude conversations about other people’s outfits, all those rounds of drinks, oh, those times we paint each other’s nails, they mean so much.

-xxoo