And I went to the Temple. And I saw the Oracle. And I asked for a sign. The Oracle gave me a choice. She said it would be difficult and slow going. I started my journey. I made a ceremonial sacrifice of my flesh on an altar. The Gods were pleased. The weather was fair.
I’d never had an EKG* before. It was kind of interesting. It took longer to get the electrodes on me than it did to measure my heart rate. I have to have a baseline, see, because the new pills might fuck me up and make my heart go haywire.
I’m to go off the Acnefy, finally. Hopefully, what that should mean for you is better copy editing. Seriously, I can type. I type the letters off my keyboards I type so fast. I can tell the difference between “a,” “an,” “at,” and “and.” I know they’re different words! Since I’ve been on this stupid medicine, all words that sound kind of the same–all homophones and phonic-blocks–are coming out the same. Driving me batshit. Hopefully you’re more forgiving of me than I am.
But it will be bad, this switch. I have to cut back, and the side effects of the new medicine are worse on lower doses than they are on higher doses. That sounds great. Smashing. We’ll see how much of a basketcase I am. Crying at work! Forgetting brassieres! Headaches! I don’t know, really, what to expect. (Although I doubt “forgetting your drawers” is ever listed as a side effect of a medication. I don’t think that would make it to market. Unless it were marketed only to frat boys.) I’m not allowed to read the side effects before I take something. Hypochondriasis. I have that. The worst part about it, I’m all special lunch now, so I really do get sick.
Ah, special lunch, I haven’t told you what that means. Remember that girl in elementary school? The one that was allergic to everything? Milk, wheat, soy, peanuts, tree nuts, fish, dairy–she had to have a special dietetic lunch kept in the nurse’s fridge, next to the insulin and epinephrine? That’s me now. Now I’m the special lunch kid. I have a bad hip, a tricky shoulder, I’m on crazy pills and I can’t sleep over at people’s houses without my medication, I have irritable bowel, migraine headaches, and pre-carpal tunnel. And I’m thirty-three. Watch me throw my back out in yoga or something. It’s all so pathetic. By the time I’m forty I’ll be carrying my ass in a paper bag with me.
So I get sick (accidentally typed “I get dick,” but I don’t), but no one believes me. Not my friends, not my doctors, not even my Moms. What’s a Seer to do? Loll around in pain and feel sorry for herself, usually. Would you like some cheese with your whine, bitch?
So there’s probably going to be a lot of that around here for the next four weeks or so. It’ll get worse before it gets better, people. Strap it on–er, strap in!
*This is edited. I said “MRI” before, but it was an EKG. I’m so easily addled. MRI. No. I’ve now had:
If I tick off the MRI I get a free happy meal!