I Do Not Want Them, Sam I Am

It's flu shot season.

 

I don't like flu shot season.

 

Rarely do I ever get a flu shot - because rarely do I ever get the flu. I've had it twice. Ever. Once in 1992 and once in 1999. Doesn't mean I won't ever get it again, but my immune system (and my hand-washing neurosis) is pretty effective all on its own.

 

I have a love-hate relationship with flu shots anyway. I got one last year and an H1N1, because I had a toddler, a brand-new baby and the people dying in this region were healthy people in their 30s - which would be me.

 

Okay, fine. Don't get a flu shot.

 

Which is what I decided.

 

Yesterday, I was at the doctor's. Never mind he didn't seem to care about what I was there for (a whole separate post), he put more effort into trying to wrestle me into getting a flu shot than he did in determining the source of the pain which is why I was there to begin with.

 

"Do you need a flu shot?"

"No"

"Do you have children?"

"Yes"

"How old are they?"

"1 and 3 - but my employer gives flu shots for free, so if I was to get one, it would be through them."

"See? You need a flu shot. If you don't it at work, you need to come back."

 

[Yeah, I'll get right on that]

 

Fast forward to today - flu shot day at The Mega Office. Someone in management comes to my desk:

"You know, flu shots are free today."

"I do, thank you."

"Have you got one yet?" (Does HIPPA not cover me at work?!)

"I'm not going to get one, thank you."

"You know, there is still time to get one today."

"I know. I got the e-mail, thanks."

"You should really think about it."

"Thank you."

"Keeps you healthy!"

 

Yes, thank you. And so does eating well and washing my hands and staying home from wrok when I have the heebie jeebies. As do the Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer on my desk.

 

WHY must it be such a big deal? I don't want one.

 

Not in a house, not with a mouse

Not in a box, not with a fox

I do not like flu shots

You let me be

 

Gaah! And if I get it, I promise not to breathe on anyone.

(My apologies to Dr. Seuss and his lovely story)

 

Murphy's Law

Whoever Murphy is, he has a warped sense of humor.

 

One should never make serious decisions while emotional, facing danger or turning off the alarm. I chose to go back to sleep after my alarm went off this morning. My exhaustion won out over all the plans I had made to mop the kitchen floor and pick up the toys that seem to reproduce like rabbits. It also won out over the little voice in my head that kept reminding me there is no possible way I'd make it to work on time if I went back to sleep.

 

Alas, sleep is my favorite thing to do these days.

 

I got up an hour later. Problem is, I didn't care if I was going to be late. I was still tired. And there is a dull ache in my stomach. And working wasn't really high on my list of things to accomplish today. So I slogged through the morning routine barely moving fast enough to be considered "slow motion" instead of "no motion." Himself made everyone scrambled eggs - he's my hero today, and I don't even like plain eggs. (I eat them anyway, something about breakfast prepared by someone else AND trying to be a good example for my kids, who were born LOVING eggs - proof they are indeed their father's children - that gene certainly did not come from me).

 

Sometime before I left, I realized I had forgotten the fruit and veggies for the sitter's - it's my turn to supply them. I ran around getting that ready. Then, while leaving the house, I realized that though it would be warm this afternoon, the weather outside was definitely not warm enough for anyone to be going out as they were dressed. Back inside to collect jackets for all of us. As we rolled down the driveway, the gas light came on. I had a dull recollection that I had noted the night before that I would need to leave for work 5 minutes early so I could get gas. Clearly, that thought had gone by the wayside, since I was leaving the house 15 minutes late.

 

I pulled into the gas station - one of only two on my way to work on the right-hand side of the road. I get up to the pumps only to see a small sign that says, "Station Closed for Upgrades Today 8 a.m. to 4 p.m." It was 8:03 a.m. I do believe I rolled my eyes.

 

The tank has plenty of gas to get me to the next gas station on the right-hand-side of the road - another 8 miles away - which I breezed by, totally forgetting about the orange light on the dash. Which meant I had no choice but to cross five lanes of traffic to get to a gas station on the left side of the road after I dropped the girls off. I started on the second half of my commute at the exact time I was supposed to be at my desk - still 20 minutes away.

 

I frantically (finally) bounded into the office, powered on my laptop and ... nothing. No connection to the network, which meant no inter-office IM, no work e-mail, no access to any network documents, no access to any data for the report I'm working on. I rebooted. I was waiting for someone to say, "Nice to finally see you in this morning."

 

When I finally got powered up, there were two e-mail messages waiting for me from my two bosses (everyone needs two bosses), both informing me that the network was having issues and they were working from home today. I am the only one from my team in the office. I could have easily worked from home today.

 

Murphy's Law = the worse your morning is, the less likely there will be a need for you to actually be IN the office.

 

I'm so working from home tomorrow.

 

 

 

Badge of Honor: Mean Mother

I've always aspired to be a Mean Mother. Not in the grouchy, grumpy, mean-just-to-be-mean kind of "Mean Mother" way, but the "There are consequences to every action - you choose the action, I choose the consequence - no discussion" kind of way.

I anticipated it would take me awhile to achieve the title of Mean Mother. After all, little girls adore their mothers and are convinced that the women that brought them into this world really can take them out of it by wiggling their nose or counting to three or vowing to sell them to the gypsies if they continue to try to ride on their sister like a horse.

Boy was I wrong.

The other day I put Woodstock in timeout for what seemed like the 475th time that day. It was a particularly rough day, and it wasn't even lunchtime. It's rare that there are days like that, but even fair-haired, blue-eyed impish little elven children have days where the world of "bad choices" is far more tempting than the staid, boring array of good choices available to them.

As I put her in timeout, Woodstock (who was crying) said, "But I said sorry!" I launched into another rendition about choices and consequences and how being sorry is important, but so is "doing the time" for making a bad choice.

With tearstained cheeks, Woodstock looked at me and said, "You're not the best mother in the whole world anymore. You're MEAN."

She'd only been three for just over a week.

I need a new goal.

Missing

While it's been more than a year that The Frontier has begun to feel like home, I still have occassional periods where I miss Virginia - the DC area in particular - deeply. Fall is one of those times.

I miss the Association of University Women's annual used booksale at the McLean community center. I miss the National Book Fair. I miss the storybook fall weather and landscapes - The Frontier is much too dry to produce much in the way of spectacular fall colors. I miss the Taste of Bethesda festival - one of my first introductions to what became a long list of "my favorite things" when I first attended 12 years ago. I miss the mass (and usually misguided) hysteria-disguised-as-loyalty regarding the Redskins. Here people root for Denver or San Diego or, sometimes, Seattle - trying to adopt a home team loyalty for teams that play hundreds of miles away.

Most of all, I miss loving fall without having to dread the onset of winter. Winters in the Mid-Atlantic are often a breath of gratitude for relief from the onslaught of soggy, sordid, steamy August weather. Conversely, winters in The Frontier are exactly the weather people attempt to avoid (at least those who give little regard for The Frontier's "Greatest Snow on Earth.") The coming of winter looms over every piece of fall, casting long shadows as the days fade from brilliant sunshine to dull, slate gray skies.

The Frontier has slowly become home - at least for now - and I'm okay with that. But once in awhile - during the golden days of September and October - I miss the East Coast falls that I once anticipated with great excitement.

It's All in Your Head

If you don't count the dozens of doctor's appointments I've been to while pregnant or recovering from childbirth over the past few years, I have been to the doctor only twice in 4 years - for a bout of tonsilitis 2 years ago and a physical this spring. I also have a pretty high pain tolerance. I am fairly dramatic when in pain, but the older I get, the less I rely on medications to mask pain.Not only that, but Sundays are fiercely guarded as quiet, introspective days spent recharging and being with family.

 

So the sheer fact that I was sitting in an urgent care facility on Sunday afternoon for The. Worst. Headache. Ever. should say something.

 

I couldn't think. I couldn't process. I really wasn't in the best condition to drive, but I did - it's a straight shot from my house to the urgent care clinic 8 miles away - involving only one stop light (and a 7.5 mile portion of interstate). And I was in more pain than I've been other than during childbirth.

 

I've had a lot of headaches in my life. I am pretty good at figuring out their triggers and avoiding/treating based on that knowledge. But this headache was different - much worse than even my typical migraines.

 

To be truthful, I only went to urgent care because I've had three of these headaches over a very short period of time (with increasing frequency), the nature of its onset (very quickly) and the severity of the pain. And because Himself said I was crazy if I didn't at least make sure I wasn't dying - particularly with my newly discovered clotting disorder, the severity of the pain and the rapid onset. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the ER - at least they could have then run the tests during the headache. But I was worried that a severe headache didn't qualify as an emergency, and I'd be stuck with the whole "slightly under $1k bill" just for showing up.

 

The urgent care our insurance covers isn't a typical doc-in-a-box situation. It is one of the largest physician clinics in the valley, connected to a major teaching hospital, and the doctors take turns rotating for urgent care shifts on nights/weekends. The nurse was excellent.

 

Then, the doctor showed up.

 

I left, 90 minutes later, with a shot of the equivalent of a super non-steroidal anti-inflamatory (that did nothing but take the edge off) and 6 pills of a pain killer I can't take while nursing - even though I had repeatedly told the doctor that I was nursing (and there ARE pain medications that are safe - or as safe as one gets when using painkillers) and more frustrated than I've ever been at a doctor in my life.

 

In short, the doctor didn't listen. That much was clear even in the 2-line sentence he wrote on the MRI order - one that he said, "just schedule sometime in the next couple of weeks" and "patient has a history of migraines and stress headaches [I never mentioned the words "stress headaches"] and feels they are becoming more severe." Throughout the "consult", he implied multiple times that the severity of the headache was all in my head.

 

He never seemed to grasp (or note on my chart) that this (and the other two I've had in recent days) ARE TOTALLY DIFFERENT than any other headache I can remember having - more severe pain, faster onset, non-respondant to any medications I've taken.

 

The doctor also uttered a couple of fabulous gems: "So nothing like Imatrix or Topamax (or several other migraine drugs I can't remember the names of) work on these?" To which I wanted to respond (but was in too much pain to be snarky): "1. This is not like a migraine - maybe it's a-typical, but this has none of the hallmark symptoms of a migraine and 2. The above named drugs require a PRESCRIPTION, so no I have no idea if this headache would respond to those drugs."

 

And, "Well, the pain must not be too bad. You're handing it remarkably well." Again, I just sat there and responded that the pain was, in fact, quite severe, but being hysterical would do neither one of us any good. What I wanted to say, however, was: "I've had an epidural-free childbirth, and I've recovered from gallbladder surgery on nothing more than 800 mg of Motrin a day, and I'm here for a HEADACHE. That should give you a clue as to how bad the pain is."

 

I came in with a headache that was a 10 on the pain scale and left full of one of the strongest non-narcotic meds that knocked it down to an 8.

I know headaches are almost impossible to diagnose. I know that treatment often takes awhile to find. I know that the symptoms are hard to convey. I know that everyone has different pain threshholds and so it's hard to place a universal line as to when one should consult a physician.

 

But I also know that a doctor's first responsibility to his/her patients is to LISTEN and to accurately capture what they are saying.

 

Let's just say it will be a 90-degree day in January before I ever see that doctor again.

 

Meanwhile, I'm grudgingly scheduling the MRI and an appointment with my regular doctor - whose first reaction will hopefully be something other than drug peddaling.

 

Should I ever decide to become an opiate addict, however, I know right where to go.

 

The Return: Numbers Lie

SIDE NOTE: I'm back to blogging (hopefully) on a more regular basis. I've missed the 0.34 readers I probably still have.

This spring, I finally got around to having my first complete physical in nearly 7 years. Mind you, I've been to the doctor PLENTY in the last 7 years, I just haven't had a complete physical.

The numbers came back, as expected, looking stellar.

• My weight is normal
• My BMI is normal
• My blood pressure is great (it's so low that every single time a new person takes my blood pressure I have to reassure them that I am not ready to pass out/die, that it is, indeed really that low all the time)
• My heart rate is great
• My cholesterol is great
• In short, by the numbers, I LOOK like a perfectly healthy thirtysomething

Fast forward a couple of months to when I recently applied for an increase in my life insurance. I referenced the above numbers, which painted me as the epitome of perfect health. Until they asked for the actual details, not just the numbers.

GULP.

That is when the letter came that they were unsure as to my suitability for a policy increase and I would have to explain several things in order to further review my request. What made them question the perfect picture of young adult (can I still be a young adult? please tell me I'm not middle-aged yet!) health?

Maybe it was the fact that my asthma has grown 50% worse in the last 7 years (or the fact that I have asthma at all). Maybe it was the diagnosis of having a genetic clotting disorder, which now explains the previous mystery DVT I suffered during my last pregnancy, along with some other medical issues. Maybe it was the Zoloft script that was filled - though it still sits untouched in a kitchen cabinet - written during the worst of my anxiety this spring and kept on hand for when Pebbles is no longer dependent on me for a source of food.

And maybe ... it was all three.

I was eventually granted the additional policy, but not before I had to detail, essay-like, how none of the above were likely to kill me tomorrow. Were there risks? Certainly, but no more than my chances of being hit by a bus while crossing the street (which in The Frontier, I must admit, is pretty likely - never have I lived in a place with so many auto v. pedestrian incidents - fortunately the life insurance company is based somewhere else and likely doesn't realize this).

In short,the numbers lie. My body, which has long given me issues - simple and complex, minor and life-threatening, gives the outward appearance of being perfectly normal, but hides two genetic issues that require documentation every single time I go to the doctor, several chronic illnesses (one of which is asthma, worsening with age and the horrible inversion-laden winters of The Frontier) and a massive hormone disaster, chronic headaches, severe anxiety disorder and an ankle that can accurately predict the change in barometric pressure thanks to an unfortunate accident while visiting Detroit nearly a decade ago.

It's no wonder the life insurance company demanded answers - just reading that makes me picture a sallow, listless, old hag coughing up a lung, muttering to herself and limping around on a gimpy ankle.

I'm a regular mess.

But at least, for now, I'm insurable. And in today's day and age, that is really what matters, I guess.

Someone has to pay for the continuation of random incidents that seem to pop up and then prove to be a permanent little black raincloud on my medical record.