And 8 days later, I think I am doing better. I’m sorry to worry you.

Here are the highlights of the last week or so…

1) Had an unexpected half day last Thursday when I puked at work (in the ladies room, not that you asked). The whole thing was truly unreal; apparently when I announced to my boss that I was ill I was looking at him but not actually looking at him. I came home and told Gene and the next day he confessed he was afraid I was pregnant. Which is hilarious, right?

2) (It was no big deal, I’d taken my crazy pill that morning for the first time in a few weeks, plus I hadn’t eaten enough breakfast and I’d had to give some blood for a health screening – not pregnant, just a dumbass)

3) Went to dinner with Denise on Monday, ate yummy tacos, found out that they were on sale as Monday is Tacos on Sale night.

4) Had my stupid baseline mammogram on Thursday morning (Seven! in the morning! Why???) and it was just fine. I have funny stories about the experience but my brother and dad read this, so, no.

5) Dragged Gene out discount shopping yesterday for a pair of closed toe black shoes. Bought a pair that will probably only be truly OK with jeans but they’ll do until I can dream up a way to get Danskos or something equally gorgeous. I admit that I file cabineted myself on this one (“file cabinetting” is based upon the time I bought the $25 file cabinet instead of the $30 file cabinet to save five whole dollars and it turned out to be an utter piece of garbage). But in happier news! I bought a purse that I really like for very little money. With any luck I didn’t buy two file cabinets at Ross Dress for Less yesterday.

Anyway, I really am doing better. I feel less ragey and happier. Not everyone under my roof can say the same of course, but that’s how it goes. For me, I guess the Viibryd really works. At least at 20 mg (never go from zero to 40, unless you want an afternoon off, oops).


Remember the situation I alluded to in my previous post? About how we got bad news and it made a sad situation worse? OMG, now it’s even worse. Incomparably, nauseatingly, shatteringly (is that a word? Spellcheck approved it, so…) worse. I don’t even know how to describe it, really I don’t. I need this to get better, I need this to go away.

Hummm. Well.

Well, those have been some crazy (as in coo-koo, not wacky) posts of late. I’d really like to explain why I’ve been so…angry, but let’s go with this… we got some bad news early last week which has caused a sad situation to veer to the side of awful. It’s not unexpected bad news, but it’s “Ugh, this again?” bad news. We’re both so tired of this that I can’t even find the words to tell you but it’s just…tough. I just don’t have the energy to make conversation right now. I’m really no fun to talk to right now anyway.

Anyway it’s Sunday night and there’s laundry to fold and a mysterious smell in the laundry room to diagnose (or cover up with an air freshener).

Paptacular 2012

So, I had my annual visit with the girly doctor* on Thursday (I only had to reschedule it once…Lainey D for the win!). He brought up that he likes his patients (he likes to call us “the ladies”, which always makes me want to smack him) to get their first mammogram around the age of 35. Which, grrr. How did I get old enough to have to start scheduling mammograms? (Alternatively, my mother is going to be SO pissed when she finds out that I’m old enough for a mammogram).

Anyway, so I got home that night and Gene asked how it went. “The doctor wants me to get a…” and then I forgot the word I was looking for. I almost said “mastectomy” but I knew that was wrong. And then I almost said “vasectomy” but… ha.

Further aside, I thought we didn’t have to do these things until we turn 40?? I feel like it’s another way for me to pay for some doctor’s boat payment, like when I had two EKGs earlier this year at Urgent Care or all of those years I was on the Pill (because what was the point of that?**).

Oh, beyond the general indignity of having to do…that, everything’s fine. I may or may not have given up trying to the doctor explain exactly what my anti-depressant is for and finally just let him believe it’s for psoriasis.

Conversation as follows:

Doctor: “What’s the Viibryd for?”

Me: “Anxiety or depression”

Doctor: “I’ve never heard of this medication. Is it for anxiety or depression?”

Elaine: “I don’t remember, but it’s one of those”

Doctor: “Well, maybe it’s for psoriasis like Clobex is?”

Elaine: “Yeah, sure, doctor” (mentally rolls eyes hard enough to pop them out of my head). (Seriously. Of the two drugs, I smear one of them on my psoriasis and the other one I take with water in the mornings so I’m less tempted to shiv my coworkers. I wonder which is which?). (And even seriouslyer, neither drug has anything to do with my gyno and both are prescribed by specialist-type-doctors so can we get on with this?)

* Congrats Dr P for only being 30 minutes behind schedule, despite the total lack of patients in your office. I pulled up to his office 10 minutes early and literally watched him walk out the door to his car to pick up his lunch. I thought the upside to him getting out of the OB game was that he wouldn’t run so behind due to delivering babies. Feh.

** And yes, the point of the Pill was so I wouldn’t get pregnant in college. But were we fertile when I was in college? If I had to choose between having a b-a-b-y at 20 or zero b-a-b-i-e-s at 35 which would I choose? (Deleted joke about my mother’s reaction if I’d gotten pregnant in school but look for it in the director’s cut).

Hmm. My degree has proven to be pretty useless so the gamble might have been ultimately worthwhile. Oh wells.