Fiddley Gomme - Health and Medicine

Celebrating A Small Victory

Pete — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 00:15:25 -0400

It may not seem like a big deal to a lot of you but for me this is nothing short of a miracle. An act of true pharmaceutical intervention.

Back in April, when I first visited my family doctor, I was so quivering and clammy the doc actually suggested we go outside to talk about my anxiety. Because grass is softer than vinyl tile and his liability would be lessened if I fainted there.

Zoloft works. Period. Tom Cruise can shove his zealous rhetoric up his Thetan hole.

Zoloft: Month 1

Pete — Mon, 19 May 2008 19:00:26 -0400

I put off taking anti-depressants for years. I was ashamed to admit I needed them. I was afraid of going to the doctor. I was afraid I would become someone else. I was afraid of losing my sex drive.

Now that I've been on them for a month I can't imaging a time when I won't want to take them. My mood has dramatically improved and, frankly, I haven't missed my sex drive. In fact, now it's Donna who lays wondering why I went to bed so early with nary a thought about performing the marital act while I sleep like a cat in a patch of sun. Content and happy.

Now I just know some of you are going to get all up in my face about how much I bitched about Donna and her lack of libido back in the day. And how I used to go on and on about how much it kept me up at night. All I can say is, I think I understand a little better what it's like not to want it all the time. Or to pretty much never have it occur to you.

I don't miss it either. It's not like the plumbing is broken of anything. I just don't feel like doing anything with it. Ya know?

As for becoming someone else. I can't really speak to that because I don't observer myself objectively very well. But I feel like I'm the same as I was, except that I'm not shaking uncontrollably when I'm around people and I haven't even once felt like keying anybody's car.

So, How Do You Feel?

Pete — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 18:28:26 -0400

I've had a few of you ask how I'm feeling since I started on the crazy pills.

I'm reminded of when my mother had her hysterectomy. When we picked her up from the hospital I asked her if she was feeling OK. She looked at me quizzically for a moment before finally muttering flatly, "I don't feel anything. Not happy. Not sad. Not anything."

That's me. I don't really feel much of anything. I think that's basically the point though. Isn't it?

Zoloft: Day 1

Pete — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 22:24:42 -0400

The past few weeks have found me struggling, and mostly failing, to stay out from under a fairly heavy malaise. Simply functioning has been painful at times. At work, I've been hard-pressed to perform at the level for which I'm generously compensated. At home, I'm not even coasting. At night, I drag myself through the motions but fail to follow through.

Falling short in my personal and professional performance leads to feelings of failure and shame. The failure and shame inevitably leads to more feelings of remorse and defeat. And thus the cycle turns. What it doesn't bring are those manic, desperate artistic outbreaks like you see in movies.

So I finally got my sorry ass back into my therapist and took his advice to get myself some crazy pills. And by took his advice I mean that I told him I was doing it and that I needed some advice on staying conscious during a trip to my physician's office. He told me to stop being such a pussy and make the appointment.

So I did. I risked the threat of public unconsciousness and did nothing more than sit there and sweat and shake and effortlessly convinced my doctor that I needed something to alter my serotonin uptake thingies. Very brave of me, I know.

Seriously though. The doctor was very understanding and probably waited until my check cleared before sharing a laugh with the girls in the office about the full-grown man who can't get his blood pressure checked without very-nearly blacking out. And he gave me Zoloft. And Xanax.

Xanax is a palindrome. I know this because I'm not wired right.

What? How did the first day go, you ask?

Well, I spent today quivering like a bundt-pan-shaped jello ring. So, really, about the same as every day. Not surprising as Zoloft takes some time to take the desired effect. That's sad but the good news about The Big Z is that the side-effects are available immediately.

The first twelve hours were fine. Mostly because I spent most of that time asleep. By lunchtime today and right up to this very second however, I've pretty much wanted to throw up nearly constantly. And in the middle of the afternoon I got simultaneously lethargic and totally disconnected. Oh, and did I mention? This is on half a dose? After just one day?

I'm saving the Xanax for a special occasion. Like maybe tax day.

The Knees Of A Man Twice My Age

Pete — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 17:08:34 -0400

When we built our house a few years ago, there was one space that was supposed to be left unfinished. A spare bathroom in the basement. But instead of leaving it totally unfinished a few, but not all, of the contractors did some work in there.

The drywallers put up walls that were painted but no plumbing was installed. Drains were roughed-in the concrete floor for a shower and toilet but the tiling guy just covered the floor without regard for where the toilet, shower and vanity might eventually go. In other words, in order to finish the bathroom, I have to rip out all the drywall, tear up a bunch of tile, add plumbing and generally undo all the work that shouldn't have been done in the first place.

I mean, it was very nice of them to do us what they thought was a favor. But next time guys? Just do what's on the plans. Mkay?

A while back I tore down most of the drywall and put some plumbing in place for a toilet and vanity. I even managed to get a toilet installed. And it only took me three closet flanges, twelve wax rings and two months to get it done. I'm handy like that.

Now, these many moons later, I've found the motivation to tear up the tile where the shower will be so I can begin framing in the drain pan. So Saturday I made all my measurement and cut an outline through the tile with my circular saw. Then I took my hammer an chisel and started banging away. Even my mom got in the game.

Surprisingly, it went pretty smoothly. Only one small piece of tile outside the lines was broken and it will be easily replaced. Well, almost smoothly. It seems that I'm just too damn old to spend a couple hours on my knees banging away like that. -insert your favorite Elliot Spitzer joke here- Even now, four days later I'm so sore I walk with a limp.

Seriously. Sore. From two hours sitting in exactly one spot hitting a chisel with a hammer. I will never make it to forty.

Tiptoeing Around The Subject

Pete — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 16:37:53 -0500

My brother's wife has been in town with their kids for a couple of weeks. She flew in to help her brother finalize the preparations for his wedding to a Filipino mail-order bride. Or something like that. Maybe he met her while he was a Mormon missionary in the Philippines. I'm not entirely sure and the more I hear, the stranger it all seems. It's best to just pretend like it isn't going on around me.

While they were here, we had some good time to spend with my nephews and niece while their mother went off shopping for the world's tiniest wedding shoes and blah blah blah, who cares. During their visits with us we reaffirmed that which Donna and I already suspected.

My nephew is autistic.

The Mayo Clinic's article on autism provides a checklist that in every way describes nearly-six-year-old "J". He seems to be unable to make eye contact. Conversations are brief and repetitive. He has several obvious physical ticks and distractions. Like the thing he does with his spoon, waving it past his right eye over and over. And while he is not anti-social, he is mis-social, following the other kids around and invading personal boundaries well beyond that of normal social neediness.

The list goes on and on. Any of these traits, on their own, could be considered totally within the range of normal. Together though, they seem to add up to something more.

When I pointed my mother to this list her response was dismissive with a hint of defensiveness. Saying something to the effect of, "Oh, that's not true. He sees his doctor regularly and they work with his teachers on his behavior." This comes as no surprise as my mother actually invented denial. It's true. She holds the patent on several major neuroses.

My brother and his wife also seem to act as if J's obvious and numerous social and physical developmental challenges are nothing more than odd quirks.

No, my diagnosis is not a professional one. And I want to be clear that I don't mean to attach any stigma to his apparent condition. Quite the opposite. I'd hope that those involved in J's well-being could look past any potential label and come to terms with his condition in a way that gets him the best possible shot and a quality lifestyle.

Everything Below The Waist Is Kaput

Pete — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 20:37:40 -0500

Sometimes in life we are faced with choices. Stay in and rent or go out to a movie? Nachos or hot dog? Water or wine?

Sometime around three o'clock this morning I realized I had chosen wrong to all of those choices while suddenly faced with another; what do I do with the contents of my stomach? Do I flood the basement or send it out the chimney? I sat up in that instant with a cold chill and a light head. My stomach churned. Whatever I chose, I didn't want to choose it in bed.

But as I stood to rush to the toilet, I swooned. I was fainting. As something of an expert at losing consciousness, I quickly recognized the sensation and laid back on the bed.

My profanity woke Donna.

"What is it?"

"I need to get to the bathroom but I nearly passed out."

I'll spare you the details but with Donna's help I managed to make my journey across the room and onto the cold tile and made my choice. I should have left a breadcrumb trail because it wasn't long before I was back at my porcelain destination. In fact, I repeated the journey, always in the dark, several times before the sun rose.

When it finally did I sent an email to the office and spent the day, between frequent visits to the lou, napping and nibbling saltine crackers. I've soaked in the bath and watched an edited version of Blazing Saddles on cable television.

This is truly the worst part of being sick, day-time television. How entertained am I supposed to be by Cleavon Little silently mouthing racial slurs while holding a gun to his own head? Do the people who censor these films even watch them? Do they get the jokes? Do they get that they aren't funny when they mute the punchline.

All these infomercials, soap operas and mid-day newsfluff shows have failed me. Punishment, I suppose, for choosing the wine, the hot dog and the theater. Next time maybe I'll just reheat some leftovers and rent some hi-def porn on the DVR.

What A Headache

Pete — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 00:35:02 -0400

A bleary-eyed Donna stumbled into the kitchen and with a quizzical look declared, "My mouth just went totally numb. Like I've been at the dentist."

Donna's fruit allergies often cause this symptom and usually a Claritin will clear things up right away and get her back to her favorite fruits. She's particularly fond of bananas. I happen to find them repulsive but it is fabulous to watch her put the entire length of one all the way in her mouth and slowly eat it.

I found an antihistamine in the basket over the sink. You know the basket I mean, the one with the empty box of Care Bear Band-Aids and three-years-expired baby suppositories. But the usual instant result didn't come. Moreover, Donna hadn't had a bite to eat.

I immediately thought back to a couple years ago when Donna first started complaining of a chronic numbness in her wrist. A series of MRI's, blood tests and examinations revealed nothing then and eventually the symptoms subsided. The look on Donna's face at this moment told me she was thinking the same thing.

"Don't worry about it", I told her as I kissed her goodbye for work. But I was worried.

A few hours later my phone beeped. A text message.

"My mouth is numb again."

"Go to the doctor", I responded.

She made an appointment for as soon as she could. Two o'clock. Four hours later. Between then and the appointment she had some errands to run, including a stop at the junior high school to drop some gym clothes off to our oldest daughter.

"Megan says I look really tired. Even if I wanted to keep my doctor's appointment, I don't think I should drive there", was the next message.

A bit later, "My mother tells me I'm slurring my speech. I made it to the doctor's office. I'm feeling really emotional right now. Fifteen dollars for the visit. I hope it's a waste of money."

It was about now I figured I ought to leave the office. Though it's usually Donna who I count on to keep me from fainting in these situations. But before I could wrap up the task at hand, another message came.

"Good news, I've lost twenty-four pounds since April. It's in my records, so it's official. Oh, also... he's pretty sure I'm just having a migraine."

And so, just like that, and an ibuprofen/asprin cocktail later, all was well.

Though I can't help but think that fifteen bucks would have bought a really kick-ass pumpkin latte americano with a double shot of espresso like I would have prescribed for a migraine in the first place. If only my education hadn't been three semesters of musical theater study and had been eight years of medical school instead.

Tit For Tat

Pete — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 20:34:35 -0400

"I think you should do more shows at the theater."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"So I can get a boob job."

"OK. But if I'm buying you new, expensive tits then you have to show them off. I mean, if I'm going to restore an old car I'm not going to leave it in the garage where no one can see it."

"OK. So I can get a boob job?"

At Your Cervix

Pete — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 09:26:24 -0400

Because we've decided that five is simply one too many weddings to finance before we're forty-five, Donna has had an intrauterine device entrenched in defense of her fertile-as-the-Tenessee-River-valley uterus for a couple of years. Crammed in her cervix just like God intended. Or wherever it is they jam those things.

Sorry, I haven't had a close look for myself lately to know the specifics. Also, I don't think cram and jam are the exact terms that reproductive medical professionals use for this sort of installation. It does send and receive SMS messages though, so that's cool. At least, I presume that it does based on what our insurance company paid for it. I mean, for nine-hundred bucks, it had better have an IP address and run some flavor of UNIX.

Being the high-tech, bionic fishing lure that it is, the IUD requires some kind of regular maintenance. Lube and oil change, probably. So Friday Donna took it in for its fifty-thousand mile maintenance and to have her airbags safety inspected.

Ever since the first time we had sex after the IUD was implanted, I've complained that I can feel it poking my wiener during the sacred act. So much so that I am often a bit reserved when it comes to... um... fully athletic thrusting. I asked her to ask Dr. Ticklefingers to have a look to make sure the bobber or sinker... or whatever wasn't hanging off of her lady bits into her V-J-J... or whatever.

After her appointment I got a phone call from Donna.

"Hey, Dr. T offers his compliments."

"Oh, Why? for having such a fabulous vagina at my beck and call?"

"No. He says he had a look at the IUD and that it's far enough in my cervix that it would take a pretty impressive tool to find it all the way up there."

"Pff... figures. I guess this is the cross I bear. The thick and lengthy cross I bear."

"Uh oh..."

"What?"

"You're going to blog about this, aren't you?"

"Umm... maybe."