"Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, it provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?" —Uncle Walt
"I sing the body electric." —Same dude
"And your very flesh shall be a great poem." —Again, same dude
"I sing the body pathetic." —This chick right here
Mike: "You know, a perfect female body, it's not a bad place to start."
Tony: "But with the head of Abraham Lincoln. With the hat and the beard and everything. Well, best not to think too deep on it."
Mike: "Best not." —Dazed and Confused
Dazed and Confused is precisely my current state, and I ain't talkin' post-midterm elections Florida. (Okay, a little, I am.) A flu-sinus-infection-y thing has laid me out for the past week, and I'm still not one-hundred-percent. For me, this is not a good thing, for reasons beyond the obvious.
You cannot start an immunosuppressive drug or biologic such as Enbrel (entanercept) to battle rheumatoid, or any of a multitude of other illnesses, when fighting any kind of sickness, be it a sinus infection-y thing or a nasty blackhead. Here's why:
"On May 2, 2008, the FDA placed a black box warning on etanercept due to a number of serious infections associated with the drug.[9]
It included required changes to the labeling one of which is "In post-marketing reports, serious infections and sepsis, including fatalities, have been reported with the use of Etanercept. Many of these serious events have occurred in patients with underlying diseases that could predispose them to infections. Rare cases of Tuberculosis (TB) have been observed in patients treated with TNF antagonists, including Etanercept. Patients who develop a new infection while undergoing treatment with Etanercept should be monitored closely. Administration of Etanercept should be discontinued if a patient develops a serious infection or sepsis. Treatment with Etanercept should not be initiated in patients with active infections including chronic or localized infections. Physicians should exercise caution when considering the use of Etanercept in patients with a history of recurring infections or with underlying conditions which may predispose patients to infections..." --Wikipedia, our modern-day abhidhamma pitaka.
Well that's not piss-your-pants terrifying at all!
I've literally (and yes, I'm using "literally" in the most literal sense—figuratively speaking) been counting the days up to my next appointment with the rheumatologist, when she'll show me how to inject myself with the drug. (I asked for heroin, but she wants to wait and see if the Enbrel works before going that route. Either way, I'll know what I'm doing.) Today is November 9th; my appointment is on November 11th. I'm still running a fever.
Wooderson: "Hey man, you got a joint?"
Mitch: "No, not on me, man."
Wooderson: "It'd be a lot cooler if you did..."
I've got more joints than I know what to do with—and all of them hurt.
I'm petrified (both literally and figuratively; rheumatoid arthritis should be renamed Medusa's Disease) that if I don't get the initial shot on Tuesday, the doctor will change her mind and ix-nay the Enbrel, because I've had to fight tooth, nail, and swollen knuckles for half my life to finally get approved for the drug. Every doctor had a different reason to not prescribe it: I was too young; I was of childbearing age and the medication could potentially harm a hypothetical fetus (the hysterectomy surgically removed that reason right quick); I hadn't (yet) been "firmly diagnosed" with rheumatoid—only all of its sisterly sidekick illnesses—and they wanted a positive RA factor in my blood work; I had a headache and a hangnail; the doctor didn't like my haircut and diagnosed me sarcastic, obnoxious, and vulgar. This was after I called him Shemp and told him to go fuck himself, so I'm not sure exactly how he came up with that.
Fact is, I'm scared. Scared and angry and frustrated and sick and tired of being goddamn sick and tired. I'm also sick and tired of saying I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Shavonne: "What in the hell are you talking about, lady?"
Shavonne: "What in the hell are you talking about, lady?"
*****
Tony: "Yeah I know, like it's all preparation."
Cynthia: "Right. But what are we preparing ourselves for?"
Mike: "Death."
Tony: "Life of the party."
Mike: "It's true."
Cynthia: "You know, but that's valid because if we are all gonna die anyway shouldn't we be enjoying ourselves now? You know, I'd like to quit thinking of the present, like right now, as some minor insignificant preamble to something else."
I should be enjoying myself, dammit! We all should! Right the hell now! At 18, I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, and chronic fatigue syndrome—all that and a bag of chips called a near-lifetime of agonizing poly-cystic ovarian disease and endometriosis. That's a shit-ton of physical and psychological burden for a kid to handle—and I didn't handle it well for a long, long, long time. Twenty years of not (fully) enjoying myself is too damn long. Coming home from work only to flop into bed, crying and hurting everydamnwhere, only to have to do it all again the next day, is not enjoyable. Entertaining an imaginary (read: web-based) social life is not enjoyable. Not that I don't adore you all, but c'mon, man. I miss going out, interacting with people, coming home in the wee hours slightly buzzed, smiling at the memories just made, but that doesn't happen anymore, ever, because flares randomly occur and negate any potential plans, or if I dare leave the house, I come home in much the same condition I did after an eight (or six or three) hour day on the job: exhausted, hurting, and furious that I can't exist as a normal adult in this world.
Okay, semi-normal. Kinda normal. Shut up, is what I say to you.
Mike: "I'm just trying to be honest about being a misanthrope."
Right on, man. Like, right on.
Slater: "Are you cool, man?"
Mitch: "Like how, man?
Slater: "Oh-kay..."
Some of you who know me best might be freaking out a little at this sudden misanthropic perspective, but really, I am cool.
Slater: "She was a hip, hip lady, man..."
Okay, "cool" in the sense that I am fine emotionally and psychologically. Everyone knows I've never been "cool." You want that definition of cool, look to one Matthew McConaughey.
Mitch's mother: "Are you drunk?"
Mitch: "Pssshht..."
My mom: "Give me back my computer, god dammit! You've had it all frigging day!"
That's all right, all right, all right, pretty Mama, 'cause I've run out of things to say, anyway. All that remains is this, the half-a-dozen things in life I know for sure:
1) I dunno for sure. Never have. Or, as my mom, the self-designated Old Sweaty Woman, just put it, "The more I know, the more I don't know." However...
2) Everything's gonna be all right, all right, all right. Because...
3) "The future is no more uncertain than the present." —A Sweaty-toothed Madman.
4) Mike: "I wanna DANCE!!!"
5) Got damn, I love this life of mine. Sincerely, honestly: I really, really do.
6)
"L - I - V - I - N!"
Now I gotta score Aerosmith tickets and some drugs. Top priority of November.
To all of my "loser friends": I love the hell outta you. Now go chill with some good buds and, of course, take it easy...
If you live in Denver or Seattle. Obviously.
