Saturday, November 10, 2012


In my last post I mentioned, or rather blathered on incessantly about “PD or not-PD,” knowing full well that this is a riff on Shakespeare’s soliloquy by Hamlet in hi eponymous play. One day, when I’m feeling reckless, I will attempt a parody, much like my “X-Files” Seti@Home Contest Parody, which some people actually liked. Today, however is not that day. I’m already fighting with my keyboard and typint typing stupid words and getting piddes pissed off. Right now, I’m leaving the strikethoguhs the strikethroughs in, because I don’t want to slow down. I normally type 100 words a minute.

This will be shourt (enough of that; it’s got to be as annoying to read as it is to do. Backing up is a pain, but this is the thiss shits) short. Yesterday, while on the phone with an old friend, I had a very, very deep chest pain. It was like crushing pressure and moved around to my back. Eventually it moved up both sides of my neck. It was not a heart attack. The EMS people came to see me and all of my vitals were absolutely normal, with the exception of my sugar, which was at 116. I was also eating scrambled eggs while talking to my friend.

My sugar has been cray-cray, to use Andi-Roo’s term. Last week, at one point it was as high as 269. Later in the day it was down to 49. I haven’t been diagnosed as diabetic, but, when I was in the hospital for 2 months, I had this kind of problem; I try to control it through diet, but as my brain produces less dopamine and the symptoms worsen, my sugar level fluctuations become greater.

All in all, it’s similar to a closed-head injury victim, someone whose “governor” has been damaged. I notice that almost all of my autonomic functions do not work as they once did. I used to have very good control over my emotions (too good some would say, as I stifled everything and it hurt me physically, hence the ulcer disease at age 9) now, I have poor impulse control, but am slow to anger. However, if you do threaten me, or someone weaker than yourself, you’re taking a ride. Either to the morgue or the ER, your choice. I will be on my way to either here:

Orient Road Jail

or here: 

Florida State Hospital 

That’s okay. Repeat after me, "Morgue, or ER, it’s your choice.” Not mine.

The good thing is I got my Medicare paperwork and I’ve been able to get that all fucked up so I can fill it out on line. Shit. I could fuck up a wetdream if I were a guy. I’m not losing my cookies. The EMS guys were great. They told me to go to a walk in Dr. with this new, new symptom, and to for GOD’S SAKE take my new anxiety meds. I have only been taking them at night, well, cause they make me sleepy. And I can’t write or be productive.

Not that I have been productive, very much anyway, lately. Or ever was. But all of these problems with having the same kind of thing that Michael J. Fox, Yuma Bev, Muhammad Ali, plus millions and millions of others have , only not as bad, and not nearly as young, and now the symptoms are getting worse and I have no meds or real diagnosis, but everybody knows it, is a bit wearing. So I have to do what my other GOOD doctors tell me to do to maintain, until March. And do what my heart tells me. And my head, my poor scrambled head.

After yesterday’s little “scare,” and I wasn’t so much scared, as put out, I took my pill and laid down on our couch, while JC told me a story about the hunter Mr. Cantrell bought. The dog was a beagle and was supposed to be hell on raccoons. So, they went down in the woods with this dog, and it took off, barking. Bark, bark, bark, bark. Run, run, run. JC and Mr. Cantrell could hear it barking way off in the distance. Then, nothing. So, they waited, and waited. They waited some more. It was stone quiet. Then they heard some more barking farther away. Mr. Cantrell called and called this hunter. He heard some barking. JC told this damn story for an hour. The dog never did come home. I guess it’s still out there some where hunting coons. JC thinks it got into someone’s chickens. Okay, time for my nap.

JC is feeling oh, so much better. He’s finished taking his antibiotics, his infection seems to be gone. For the first time since June, he’s really feeling like his old self. I’m so glad about that. 
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