CONFESSIONS OF A HYPOCHONDRIAC

State of the Union

2010-06-08T21:04:00.000-07:00

Really, Internet? I dare to take a minuscule nine-month break from blogging, and upon my return I’m greeted with links to incestuous porn sites, propaganda for the Ohio Lottery, and a lot of 効率的に優れている (which, I’m assuming, means cheap Viagra in Chinese)? Not exactly a proper welcome, if I do say so myself.

Although, I suppose there’s an argument that I deserve it. Running off like that! Without a word. Getting married. Having a child. Buying a house. And making a major career changing move. If that doesn’t earn me a little Megan-Fox-in-a-Bra-Spam, I don’t know what will.

Aside from Chron’s, the limp caused by my knee tumor, and my struggle with HPV; life these last couple months has been good.

In short (with details to follow, I promise (read maybe))…

The lovely and obnoxious Rey and I finally tied the knot. We eloped in Tahoe, Valentine’s Day weekend, then broke the news to our family with customized M&M’s. Needless to say, not everyone was amused.

I am pleased to announce that I am the proud mother of a beautiful baby girl named Ming. She is 20lbs 2oz with an incredible fawn coat and a penchant for eating toilet paper.

Behind the curve as usual, we bought a home; two blocks from our previous dwelling. And while one might think that that might make moving easier, one would be incredibly wrong.

Lastly, I accepted large bags of cash to leave my cushy job at America’s snobbiest law firm for a quasi-government job (and I'm kicking myself in the ass for it everyday).

So there you have it, nine months summed up in four bullet points. Who said life was too short?

To all of you who took the time to write, my apologies for being too rude (and drunk) to respond. For those of you who took the time to spam, this middle finger’s for you.

Because I Don't Have Enough Problems

2009-09-23T13:29:00.000-07:00

It's shit like this...

...that really pisses me off.

Here I am, minding my own business, trolling the internet for the newest headlines (on company time, of course—I'm all about full disclosure), when BAM!, my mind is suddenly flooded with the image of a mangled 737 plummeting to the ground.

The woman in seat 9B catches my eye. With sheer terror on her face, she coddles her screaming toddler for the last time. The Dora coloring books the girl scribbled in moments before fly to the back of the plane, as the elderly businessman in the seat over holds his blackberry firmly to his ear. Oxygen masks swing violently overhead as he informs his wife of 49 years, on their answering machine, that he won't be returning home. He whispers "I love you," tears streaming from his ice blue eyes, then asks that she hug each of their children for him. She doesn't retrieve the message until later that afternoon. The groceries for their dinner fall to the floor.

The United Airlines plane, or what's left of it, crashes into the middle of suburban Utah, killing not only all 211 passengers on board, but also the 16 year-old girl in the yellow, two-story house they crash into—the girl, tragically, had returned home just moments before, after taking her 3 year-old golden retriever, Eppe, for a walk. Eppe, now deaf and somewhat skittish from the explosion, survived the crash.

The woman in the neighboring house was severely maimed by the shrapnel that rained down on her as she pruned her roses in the front yard. After being med-vac'd to the trauma unit, the 52 year-old, breast cancer survivor died. Not from the loss of blood caused by two severed legs, but by an overdose of tramadol, administered by a seasoned anesthesiologist, who, incidentally, had too many glasses of scotch the night before, after learning his oldest son—married with children—was gay.

Okay, wait. Let's be honest here. There was no toddler or golden retriever named Eppe; it was me I saw on that crashing plane and pruning those roses. But my narcissism is besides the point. You, you darling little ad maker, put me through all of this just to tell me tort reform is bad? A little melodramatic, don't cha think?

Words to Live by

2009-08-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

You can’t change yesterday, but you can ruin today worrying about tomorrow.

-Anonymous

Can't Win for Losin'

2009-08-03T20:48:00.000-07:00

One of the more challenging aspects of being a hypochondriac is the constant effort that is required to shield oneself from the plethora of medical information floating around out there. (And needless to say, I'm referring to the time that is not spent intentionally seeking this information out.).

Say for instance, you're at work, minding your own business; surfing the net, when you end up—as you often do—at the mind-numbing, courier covered site of Matt Drudge. You assess the possibilities as your eyes wander down the page...

New HIV Strain discovered in Cameroon...

(Tempting, but where the hell is Cameroon?)

'Leapt to humans from gorillas'...

(That's nasty; we all know it didn't just "leap.")

Russian soccer fans urged to drink whisky to ward off swine flu...

(Hmm, maybe my dad’s Russian.)

UK: Patients forced to live in agony after NHS refuses to pay for painkilling injections...

(That's a panic attack waiting to happen.)

Woman jogger mauled by 8 hunting dogs...

(Good thing I don’t jog.)

But you—being the responsible hypochondriac that you are—you, don't follow the link about people being denied medication, nor do you click on the article about H1N1. No, you—in a conscious effort to maintain your sanity—you, take the safe path, and go with:

Sudan trouser woman 'ready for 40,000 lashes'...

That's right "trouser woman." As in woman getting her ass kicked for wearing trousers. No disease. No death. No swine. A little corporal punishment, but hey, it's all in good fun. And what are you rewarded with for making this educated decision?

"Hussein, who is in her 30s and whose husband died of kidney failure, told AFP in a telephone interview: "'I'm ready for anything to happen'..."

Wonderful.

Syke

2009-07-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

Um, yeah, forget that last post; the whole medication "thing," the resolute "I START MOTHERFUCKING PAXIL ON SUNDAY, BITCHES!" um, never happened. You see, in an ongoing effort to infuriate my pharmacist (and to avoid being killed by generic medication), I demanded brand name Paxil. Something that is, apparently, very hard to get. So hard to get, in fact, that to obtain such a rare and magical, little pill, one must possess special powers; such as the ability to pick up a fucking phone and order it. An ability my pharmacist has yet to master.

So in the two-week period that it took for him to secure a bottle of those magical, little, brand name pills, I started to think. I started to think (a) I really need to find a competent pharmacist; and (b) WTF?

How the hell did I walk out of that doctor's office with a prescription for Paxil? I went there for a rash, and—if we're being completely honest—the false belief that my throat was closing, but nonetheless! Taking drugs (prescribed ones, at least) has been something I've mulled over for years. Something I've resisted for years. And now, all of a sudden, I'm popping pills, because some arrogant quack told me I NEED to after a casual five-minute exam of the rash on my abdomen.

There was no discussion. No exploration of options. No mention of a psychiatrist. No nothing. Just an apathetic scribble on a little pad of paper.

I think Paxil would have been a dream come true for me three years ago. Today, I think I'm better suited for something like Valium; something I can pop in the heat of an attack (heart, or otherwise). My doctor may have known that, if he'd taken the time to ask.

Bottom line is this: I'm in the market for a new doctor. Oh and a pharmacist. But what else is new?

The Dark Side

2009-05-21T17:54:00.000-07:00

This morning on my way to work I had what one might call a “breakdown.” A minor breakdown, I’d say, but a breakdown nonetheless.

You see, a couple days ago I noticed an army of tiny, red, scaly bumps camping out on my stomach and breast. I was freaked out, yes, but figured with enough beer and a little anti-bacterial cream they’d go away on their own. Then, I woke up this morning.

Nothing remarkable had happened. Honestly, nothing had changed at all; aside from the fact that overnight I went bat-shit-crazy and was suddenly convinced that my throat was closing—needless to say—because of the rash. One frantic phone call and an hour later, I found myself in a backless gown, sitting on that tissue-lined table I know so well.

Before the doctor could get one foot in the door, I started rattling on about my rash and swollen tongue and closing throat and not being able to breath and oh, my new puppy—more on the pug later—who possibly, although doubtfully, was the cause of the entire ordeal.

As I carried on, he silently inspected my scaly abdomen (and “boob” as he lovingly referred to it), then looked at me blankly and explained that the puppy was, indeed, not the problem. The problem, he continued, “was the anxiety” and that was what I needed to be treated for.

He begged me (kind of) to humor him, and take the meds for a miniscule two weeks. I (begrudgingly) agreed. But, I’ll have you know, only after he swore on his dead mother’s grave (and license) that I would not suffer a stroke, aneurysm or heart attack during that time.

So, to make a long story short, I start Paxil on Sunday. Whoa, let me say that again (this time in the universally annoying all caps): I START MOTHERFUCKING PAXIL ON SUNDAY, BITCHES!

Stay tuned…

Tweet-da-leet-a-leet, Tweet-da-leet-a-leet...

2009-02-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

All the little bloggers on Hypo Street
Love it when Leila goes tweet, tweet, tweet…
Rock that bloggin’…
Tweet, Tweet-da-leet, Rock that bloggin’…

Oh yes, I’ve still got it. I’m still capable of creating annoying versions of already annoying songs. It’s one of my many, many talents, along with neglecting my blog and contracting rare illnesses.

I am still alive for those of you that care. Although I’m suffering from cervical cancer, which I developed after allowing a nurse to inject me with a “vaccine” that I knew was unsafe.

But that’s beside the point; this whole tweet-da-leet-ing post is to announce that I—much behind the curve as usual—have joined Twitter. You can find my tweets, or twits if you prefer, over in the sidebar.

Say Aww

2008-12-15T16:47:00.000-08:00

Seeing as how I’ve had four—yes, 1, 2, 3, 4—root canals (on the same tooth), in the last three months, I’m not particularly tickled with this article about the implications of poor oral hygiene.

Why can’t a cavity just be a cavity? Dry mouth a sign of thirst? What has the world become when a cavity equates to heart disease; dry mouth to leukemia? Is it me, or are things getting a little bizarre here?

Aside from a mouth full of fillings and four recent root canals, I—prior to my tonsillectomy—was a chronic sufferer of strep throat. So maybe, just maybe, my skepticism is based on the realization that if “opening your mouth” really is like, “cracking open the hood of your car,” then I’m screwed. But I stand by my initial reaction that any article with the words: “your dentist should be one of your best friends,” is a real crock.

One Small Request

2008-12-15T14:03:00.000-08:00

Even though I take birth control religiously, and have done so for almost nine years, I have a creepy obsession with becoming impregnated, and pregnancy in general. Honestly, I’m half convinced that I’m pregnant right now, (which would be supported by this morning’s nausea and dry heaving around the house).

This may sound harsh, but pregnant women d-i-s-g-u-s-t me. And I realize how horrible that sounds, but come on, there is nothing “beautiful” or “glowing” about a swollen, waddling woman about to squeeze a spawn out of her peesh.

Although, it’s apparent that this belief is not supported by the masses, or the media, because I am constantly bombarded by pregnant women. For instance, how am I expected to ever purge from my mind the image of Kate (of Jon and Kate Plus 8) laying on her back with a ginormus stomach wrapped in saran wrap, or—and I don’t know which is worse—the image of her sagging stomach after popping out six kids. For heaven’s sake, I watched a C-Section this morning; I watched an eight pound screaming human cut out of a woman’s stomach. I’m scarred for life!

So, this post is simply to ask that the human race stop procreating, because really, it’s become quite a bother.

On Being a Bastard

2008-11-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

As you may, or may not know; at the delicate age of twelve years, seventeen hours, thirty two minutes and fourteen seconds, I learned—from a drunken woman—that the man I thought was my father, was indeed not my father. Instead, as she further explained; my father, my biological father that is, was actually my “father’s” married best friend, who she, (my mother, The Beast as I loving refer to her), slept with in an act of revenge.

Needless to say, this was traumatizing, on many levels, for many years. But as time passed, I stopped wondering why and started wondering what.

What kind of diseases am I unknowingly at a higher risk of developing because of this dude’s genes? What if generations upon generations of women in his family have died of breast cancer before the age of forty? What if they exhibit a strong susceptibility for rheumatoid arthritis? Alzheimer’s? Parkinson’s?

At times these thoughts consume me; so much so, that I’m considering hiring a private investigator. I mean really, if you think about it, it’d just be another medical expense, an investment in preventative care; that, and I’ve always wondered what he looks like.

Back to the (Barely) Living

2008-10-14T10:43:00.000-07:00

As a consequence of recent events, I’ve developed an arm condition. Yes, an arm condition, which is odd in and of itself because the arm is not a body part I typically have issues with. Usually, I try to focus my efforts on more vital areas, like the brain or heart or liver, but nonetheless, desperate times call for desperate measures and I in turn have developed an arm condition. A condition I’ve coined as “Cold Arm;” a derivative of Cold Shoulder.

Now, when I say this condition is a derivative of Cold Shoulder, I do not mean of the phrase, (i.e., I give my mom the cold shoulder because she’s a conniving bitch), no, that’s not what I mean at all, I mean it in the medical sense of the term; “Cold Shoulder” or “Frozen Shoulder,” as it’s sometimes called, (i.e., I can’t move my fucking arm).

I was first exposed to this syndrome a couple years ago on a family cruise through the Bahamas when Rey’s mother became literally paralyzed at the thought of spending ten uninterrupted days with her parents and five sisters. We laughed about it at the time, I mean “Cold Shoulder” really? You’re so stressed you can’t move your shoulder? But as I sit here with my arm glued to my side, I’m suddenly thinking it’s not so damn funny.

Life’s a Bitch

2008-10-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

Eight years ago, almost to the day, my brother woke up, stumbled into my mom’s room and peed in her closet while emphatically requesting that someone remove the socks he wasn’t wearing. That day marked the first of an eight year battle; yesterday that battle ended.

Mental Health, meet the garbage disposal…

2008-10-11T18:24:00.000-07:00

When I lazily opened my eyes at 8:30 a.m. this morning and rolled out of bed, I had no idea. As I sipped my pumpkin coffee and watched CNN, I had no idea. When I headed out—on what I thought was an ordinary Saturday—for some fall clothes shopping, I—you guessed it—had no idea. I had no fucking idea, as I sat down for my first glass of scotch, that later that day, I’d be writing the following email to my supervisor:

* * *

Natalia:
My brother was just given one week to live. I’m on my way to the bay area now to spend some time with him, I plan to be back to work on Thursday. I’m sorry to communicate this to you via email but I’m too emotional to talk by phone. I’ll be available on my cell, if you or anyone else needs to get in touch. Thanks.

No and No

2008-10-01T13:21:00.000-07:00

To answer all of your thoughtful emails—which I was too rude and lazy to respond to—no, I am not cured, and no, I am not dead, although I feel like I might die right now, and it’s not because of the tumor in my neck or the mass that’s smashing my brain against my skull, and it’s not because of my unwanted pregnancy or the rapidly progressing mouth cancer that I’ve developed from excessive margarita intake—and no, it’s not because of this uncontrollably long run-on sentence—it’s because last night, I learned—wait for it—that my little brother has leukemia.

Leu-fucking-kemia. Do I need to say anymore? Do I need to say that this is a huge—and just because I resisted the urge to hit caps lock when I typed “huge” does not mean it’s not an enormously huge “huge”—blow to my mental health?

I will say one thing, if there was ever any chance of me beating hypochondria, it’s not gonna happen now.

What Love Sounds Like

2008-07-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

When Rey and I venture more than two minutes from a local hospital, I feel the compulsion to brief him on the “state of my health.” I do this so that in the event I unexpectedly lose consciousness, he can serve as my liaison with the hospital, and hopefully facilitate a speedy and accurate diagnosis. Yesterday, when we set out for our daily hike, it was no different.

As we approached the mouth of the trail, I customarily rattled off my recent problems with consistent headaches and unforgiving chest pain. I continued on about random, painful bruising, then finished up with a spelling of my new birth control prescription and a quick note on how the medication could possibly be causing blood clotting.

I paused to catch my breath, and what did my loving boyfriend look at me and say?

“Man, I hope I’m around when you actually do kick the bucket.”

Back to the Basics

2008-06-24T15:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve mentioned before that the birth of my hypochondria was spurred almost nine years ago when a rare, soupy tumor was found residing in the left frontal lobe of my younger brother’s brain.

Up until that point, I had led a fairly naïve existence. Given, I had my “irrational fears”—as any child does—I mean honestly, what child isn’t afraid to hang their foot off the side of the bed, (out of fear it will be violently devoured by a lurking monster)?

What kind of kid doesn’t constantly hold the prospect of sudden alien abduction in the back of their mind?

And really? What young girl doesn’t have the deep-rooted belief that someone in her midst—read her unsuspecting eye doctor—is a maniacal serial killer waiting for the right moment to kidnap, rape and bludgeon her to death?

Okay, I can admit it: the serial-killer-eye-doctor-obsession was a little on the morbid side; but until my brother’s fateful diagnosis, I had never really felt the chill of my own—or anyone else’s—mortality.

When confronted with the reality that disease—and therefore death—could strike anyone at anytime, including children (as it had done in front of my very own eyes), I did what any rational person would do; (no, not embrace the beauty of life), I too “developed” a “brain tumor.”

And as my brother went under the knife, I went through the CAT Scan. And as his tumor shrunk through radiation, I was informed mine never existed.

Time went by. My brother continued to battle his tumor. I moved on to new diseases. Strokes and heart attacks and blood clots and organ failure and lung collapse and cirrhosis and MS and West Nile Virus and lymphoma and the litany goes on, but for the last month or so, I dared to begin to think I was “cured.”

Then it happened...

Shooting head pains. Nausea. Confusion. Blurry vision. Fatigue. Day after day after day.

My brain tumor is back, and it's not alone; a blood clot and tuberculosis rode in on its coattails.

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around…

2008-05-25T16:22:00.000-07:00

I’m exactly sixteen days into my twenty-two day sentence of Rey-lessness. That’s right; my loving boyfriend hopped a plane to Asia and left me behind, ALL BY MYSELF.

Now, being ALL BY MYSELF poses several problems. The first being, I’m scared shitless to be ALL BY MYSELF. The most important being, I might go into anaphylactic shock and they’ll be no one there to administrator the EpiPen. Or, more realistically, I might choke on my Miss Vickie’s jalapeño chip and they’ll be no one there to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

Truthfully, Rey probably doesn’t even know the Heimlich maneuver, and sadly I don’t own an EpiPen (although I really should invest in one). And while I’ve been able to mostly overcome the being scared shitless part—by carrying a tool belt adorned with mace, a hammer and a butcher knife—I haven’t been able to overcome the need to verbalize my afflictions. Hence the reason Rey’s voicemail is no longer accepting messages.

This need to verbalize my imminent death, paired with my anti-social tendencies, has left me in a real bind. I need to vocalize that I'm dying, but I have no one to vocalize it to.

It’s ironic really; I like to believe that hypochondria is a lonely plight. Until left alone, I didn’t realize there were other players in the game. A hypochondriac needs someone to profess their hypochondria to, (at least in my case).

So here I am, to proclaim to the world that I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe because I have a blood clot in my lung caused by my new blood-thickening birth control prescription. And, you’re never gonna believe it, but I’m really dying this time.

Whew…

Another Close Encounter

2008-05-16T15:55:00.000-07:00

According to plan, I should be at my doctor’s office right about now, getting a shot of the HPV vaccination by a bitchy Filipino nurse named Joan. Instead, I’m sitting here choking on the generic aspirin I swallowed over an hour ago and thanking the good lord that I stumbled across the truth about the vaccine in time.

I was originally scheduled for the shot last Friday, as a twofer with my ringworm—which actually isn’t ringworm—checkup, but God is good, and they were out of the deadly serum.

Their shipment arrived the following Monday and I naively rescheduled my appointment with death for today. I carried on about my business throughout the week and nonchalantly mentioned the shot to Rey on Wednesday. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

Nervous! I couldn’t believe it. Why—aside from the fact that I’m always nervous—would I be nervous? I was overjoyed! I was essentially getting the closest thing to a cancer vaccine. Or so my doctor had led me to believe.

Rey’s words stuck with me through that night and into the next day, and finally on Thursday evening (less than a day before my appointment), I—cue scary music—googled the vaccine.

“Deaths Associated with HPV Vaccine Start Rolling In” was all I needed to see. My innocence was gone and I knew, before I followed the link, that that bitchy nurse wasn’t getting anywhere near me. Before I blacked out, words like blood clot, heart problems, paralysis, and seizures were strewn across my screen.

I awoke this morning with one thought in my mind; to cancel that appointment. And that’s exactly what I did, (then followed it up with a false promise to reschedule next week).

With All Due Respect

2008-05-15T19:04:00.000-07:00

In a world where I drink my cup of coffee over a headline that reads, “9-year-old girl's twin is found inside her stomach,” hypochondria is the only rational response.

Good News, and—of course—Bad News

2008-04-24T09:52:00.000-07:00

I went to the doctor’s office yesterday to have the growing skin cancer on my thigh inspected. What started out about a month ago as what I thought was a zit, has steadily matured into a scaly, red, quarter-sized growth on my outer left thigh.

So, I did what any good hypochondriac would do; I called my doctor’s office and emphatically told his staff that I was dying of skin cancer. They reluctantly squeezed me in for yesterday afternoon.

I sat on the table, with pants off and shoes on, as the bald doctor hemmed and hawed over the growth on my leg. After about two minutes of inspecting my pasty extremities, he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know.” Which is when I was forced to take the lead.

“MRSA?”

Blank stare...

“Cancer?”

“No...”

It was about there that he ended the guessing game—and hold the phone—asked me if I wanted a biopsy. I nearly fell off the table! A doctor offering me a biopsy? There is a god!

Of course I denied, but only after he explained that the said biopsy would leave a huge gouge in my leg for an infection that could probably be treated with a course of anti-fungal cream.

Then he turned the game on me:

“Do you have a cat?”

Odd question but, “Yes.”

“Have you noticed any bald spots in her fur?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“I think you may have ringworm.”

And there it is, the bad news.

Taking Time Out of My Day to Give WebMD a Big Middle Finger

2008-04-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

Not only does that wretched excuse of a site frequently impose itself on the state of my mental and physical health, but today it went a step further, and intruded on my love life.

There I was, minding my own business, searching WannaBeMD for a new and exciting disease, when I spotted the “Most Popular Stories” list on the right hand side of the page. It looked something like this:

1. 11 Secrets All Men Keep
2. Lose 10 Pounds in 3 Days?
3. The Flat Belly Diet
4. 5 Weight Gain Shockers
6. 12 Embarrassing Body Problems
7. Sex Myths vs. Facts
8. Benefits of Drinking Water Oversold?
9. 7 Pains You Shouldn’t Ignore
10. How to Survive Spring Allergy Season

Any guesses on which one I clicked?

Now, one might think that I’d beeline for number ten, considering I am a hard-core allergy suffer (who could use some survival tips, if not just for the sake of those around me). Or number two even, since ten is the exact number of pounds I need to lose—and who wouldn’t want to do it in three days? Ahhh, or number nine! Sweet number nine is right up my alley, not that I ignore any pains, (but I must admit, I’ve read that one before). So, I went for el numero uno: 11 Secrets All Men Keep.

I don’t know what I was expecting; maybe something along the lines, of “We actually do like it when you pluck our eyebrows, even though we squirm like babies.” But what I wasn’t expecting was this:

“Secret #1: Yes, we fall in lust 10 times a day...”

Okay, being the jealous girlfriend—as much as I hate to admit it—that I am, I should’ve stopped there, but instead, I continued on.

“If the oldest question in history is "What's for dinner?" the second oldest is "Were you looking at her?" The answer: Yes -- yes, we were.” (emphasis added)

Really? Why don’t you elaborate on that.

‘"When a woman walks by, even if I'm with my girlfriend, my vision picks it up,''’ says Doug LaFlamme, 28, of Laguna Hills, California. "'I fight the urge to look, but I just have to. I'm really in trouble if the woman walking by has a low-cut top on...It's not that I want to make a move on her,'" says LaFlamme. "'Looking at other women is like a radar that just won't turn off."'

Doug LaFlamme, I say this to you: I hope someday your “vision” will pick me up as I lovingly shove my fist down your throat.

Glutton for Punishment, (Among Other Things)

2008-04-07T10:14:00.000-07:00

I knew I should’ve put down the mouse when I read, ‘“This somber series of portraits taken of people before and after they had died is a challenging and poignant study.”’

I knew I should have walked away from the computer when I saw, “These photos are simultaneously haunting and beautiful.”

But apparently what I know I should do, and what I actually do are two very different things.

I was drawn to that turquoise link like a moth drawn to light. And before I knew what was happening, the “before and after death” portraits were flashing across my screen.

I think I reached the fifth dead person before I noticed a large pool of sweat on my keyboard, and it wasn’t long after that that I slipped into a full blown panic attack. I spent most of that night crying hysterically and thinking of nothing but death.

It’s been several days since the “viewing” and I’m just now able to talk about it.

It wasn’t the photos, so much, that got to me. In hindsight, they weren’t that disturbing at all. In fact, (though it sounds insensitive), most of the people were fairly old, and they looked peaceful in death—not terribly different from the photos in which they were breathing.

What got to me was the fact that these people knew they were dying. And that sounds somewhat ridiculous, because seriously, we all know we’re dying. I certainly do. But these people really knew they were dying and knew what they were dying from. It just hit me. It hit me hard to imagine what it would feel like to look into the camera for your pre-death portrait. It still gives me the chills.

If anyone shares my morbid fascination, the before and after portraits can be found here.

Not a Frog

2008-03-19T19:34:00.000-07:00

Apparently I’m not the only one who’s a mere leap away from death. My blog is too, considering I’ve posted what…once this month, and it’s already the nineteenth. I suck. I know. I don’t have a good excuse, except that I’m dying of throat cancer. Oh, and my alcoholism has been replaced by seriesism (the obsessive watching of TV shows recently released to DVD).

But, back to the crux of the post; I’m dying. A few days ago, out of the blue, as I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, and surfing the net on company time, I became “aware” of an “odd” sensation at the back of my throat. The sensation was similar to what I’d imagine a large marble stuck under the base of my tongue would feel like. So I did what any normal person would do:

I coughed.

It didn’t go away.

I coughed harder.

It still didn’t go away.

I panicked.

I had a near breakdown in the middle of my office—as I’ve been known to do from time to time—and sat at my desk for the next twenty minutes under my hand-held mirror trying to position my open mouth perfectly in the light so I could see the cancer growth that apparently isn’t there. (And this is probably too much information but, I even tried to wipe said invisible growth off with a wad of toilet paper, which, needless to say, was not one of my better ideas).

So there you have it, ever since that day, I’ve been convinced I have throat cancer. And I probably do and I’m probably gonna die.

A rip off of a post, I know. But you have to admit the five paragraphs netting sixteen words was good.

It's My Middle Name

2008-03-02T09:12:00.001-08:00

I have quite the large assortment of fillings in my mouth. Ten to be exact, and all in an attractive silver, instead of white composite, (because my mom was too cheap to care that my mouth would eventually look like a scrap yard). And the fillings aren’t there because I don’t brush my teeth, I do, daily, I promise, I just have a strong affinity for the dentist. But I digress.

About three months ago, one of those lovely, shiny fillings fell out. Okay, honestly, it became “loose,” and lodged in the crevasse between my other tooth, and I picked and pulled, with dental floss and tooth picks and everything else I could get my hands on, until one beautiful Sunday afternoon, I pulled that little piece of scrap metal smooth out of my mouth and left a gaping hole in my molar.

Now fast-forward three months.

The phone book lays open on the table. Bottles of codeine, Advil and NightQuil are strewn across the floor. I lay wriggling in pain on the couch as the exposed nerve in my molar feels like it is being repeatedly stabbed with an ice pick.

In true procrastinator style, I still haven’t called the dentist for my filling that fell out three months ago, and I’m paying for it in pain. If I can’t make it through the weekend, which is a very real possibility, I’ll be paying for it in dollars too.

On the Bright Side

2008-02-26T20:22:00.000-08:00

It’s good to be a hypochondriac who knows she’s a hypochondriac because when I think I’m dying, I know I’m not, only I don’t.

Almost

2008-02-25T13:04:00.003-08:00

I almost forgot what it’s like to have a pit of impending doom in my stomach; almost forgot how unnerving the false sensation of suffocation is; forgot what it’s like to have palms coated in layers of sweat.

I almost forgot. And then I woke up. Literally. I woke up this morning with anxiety like I haven’t had in what feels like forever.

Racing heart. Shortness of breath. Sweaty palms. Clenched jaw. A limitless supply of irrational fears and self-deprecating thoughts. All the usual symptoms are present.

Every minute of this day feels like an hour. Blow-drying my hair, driving to work, riding the elevator, small talk with co-workers: all the things I usually do with relative ease (okay, except the elevator), are suddenly paramount challenges.

My only solace is knowing that there are others out there who feel the same way; knowing that somewhere someone else is sitting at their desk with a pit of doom in their stomach and sweat pouring from their hands; knowing that we are almost through this god damn day...

Next on the List

2008-02-17T12:52:00.000-08:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again, aside from being an anxiety-ridden hypochondriac, I'm also a paranoid schizophrenic.

On a good day, I can manage being alone in my house for fifteen minutes. Now that there’s a serial killer loose in my town, I can’t manage taking a crap by myself.

The body of the third victim: five foot tall, 98 pound, nineteen year-old, brown-haired college student Brianna Denison was found less than a mile from my house. Her dead, naked body (I could be making the naked part up) lay rotting, for a week, in a field I can throw a stone at from my back yard.

And sure, I realize there are people out there who’ve lost a daughter and a sister and a friend; my heart truly goes out to them, but let’s be honest, this murder is about me.

The similarities between yours truly and what used to be Brianna Denison are striking. Now given, I do eat and hence weigh about fifty pounds more, but the height, the hair the age, it’s all the same. I’m consumed with the thought that if I unknowingly cross the killer’s path, I’m done.

Hell, I’m terrified to even write about the whole situation; I’ve watched enough movies to know that those who talk about the serial killer quickly become his prey. So here’s to hoping that you really can’t believe everything you see on TV.

You know you're crazy when...

2008-02-16T09:32:00.000-08:00

You wake up on a lovely Saturday morning to an intense stabbing sensation in the back of your neck and know immediately what it’s caused by; a throat tumor pushing on your spine.

Where's My Day Off? Er, Happy Valentine's Day!

2008-02-14T08:59:00.000-08:00

While I'm no fan of consumer-based holidays (unless of course, I get the day off, which doesn't appear to be the case this February 14th), I'll take any excuse I can get to binge drink, so in that spirit, cheers to the lovely St. Valentine!

Hypo-Logic

2008-02-13T19:14:00.000-08:00

I guess I’ve always known I didn’t want children; hell, at age twelve, when the other girls were asking their moms if they could get their ears pierced, I was asking mine if I could get my tubes tied.

The screaming. The drooling. The pooping. The helplessness. The responsibility. Children have always been a turn off. But it wasn’t until recently—thanks in part to The Childless Revolution—that I thought seriously about children, and decided, with some certainty, that they are not in my future.

The sheer prospect of hoarding money solely for myself left me giddy, and dreaming of, gasp, spending it on luxurious vacations and extravagant home remodels, instead of braces for some ingrate teenager, brought me an indescribable feeling of joy. I could finally bask in my selfishness with confidence; children were not for me.

But as I laid in bed last night, with visions of Amsterdam and early retirement dancing through my head, it hit me, I was wrong all along; not about not wanting children; but about the reason why. It wasn’t my inherent selfishness that brought me to the conclusion; it was something much deeper, and it deserves its own run-on sentence:

I think the reason I really don’t want children (aside from all the obvious reasons, i.e. peace, sanity and happiness) is because some subconscious part of my being knows that I have an aggressive form of ovarian cancer; that I will never see thirty, let alone have the opportunity to procreate, and am therefore unknowingly “protecting” myself from more disappointment then my early, painful and unexpected death will bring.

Ahhh, the mind of a hypochondriac.

Forgive me, Father

2008-02-10T10:39:00.000-08:00

I’ve committed the ultimate hypochondriac sin; violated the sanctity of all things hypo and chondriac; I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy. And I haven’t just “watched” Grey’s Anatomy, as in I stumbled across an episode on regular TV and indulged in the morbidity for an hour, no! No, what I did is far worse; I raided the local Blockbuster, and obsessively watched over sixty straight episodes.

And now, thanks to my gluttony, and despite the fact that I had an unremarkable pap smear just under a month ago, I’m wholly convinced that an aggressive form of cancer has infiltrated my female organs.

I blame Richard’s niece, who at seventeen is practically dead from the same affliction, and the Amish girl, who at no more than twenty had a massive tumor protruding from her nether regions.

But the blame does not rest solely on Grey’s shoulders; The Beast is also at fault (as she always is). We all know genetics play a role in one’s health, and guess whose mother had an ovarian cyst the size of a football when she was only a teen. Yep, that would be me. And guess whose brother has a rare form of cancer that only sixteen other people in the United States have. Yep, that would also be me.

Now excuse me while I go finish up season three.

Foot Drop?

2008-02-08T14:40:00.001-08:00

Misery loves company, and I’m no exception to the rule, so I thought I'd pass this lovely article on to the rest of the world.

For those of you wise enough not to follow the link, here's a snippet:

The immediate clinical diagnosis was "foot drop," which to a normal person might not sound all that alarming. But to a man with a lifetime of extensive and obsessive medical knowledge, all of it horrifying, it sounded really bad. As I traveled to the neurologist's office, I went over in my mind what I knew to be the possibilities: Foot drop can mean you have diabetes, which was the diagnosis I was hoping for, because foot drop can also mean a stroke, multiple sclerosis, Lou Gehrig's disease or (I swear) leprosy.

Fuck the Patriots

2008-02-03T19:48:00.001-08:00

AAA HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

Fuck you, Tom Brady! And FUCK YOU, Randy Moss! Punk ass little bitches!

Pardon the language, I think I've developed tourette's.

Back Up Off My Splints

2008-01-31T12:27:00.000-08:00

Shin splints, they are real, and I’m tired of people telling me they’re not. Given, I’ve been known, at times, to “imagine” afflictions (such as throat collapse and organ combustion), but shin splints—like cancer—are as legitimate as I am crazy.

And it’s not the gnawing pain in my lower legs on which I’m basing this conclusion. Nor is it my recently acquired limp that’s convinced me. I have all any person could ask for: acknowledgment from Wikipedia.

That’s right suckas! Lesson adjourned.

Speeding Down the Hill

2008-01-20T14:41:00.000-08:00

In the words of my loving boyfriend:

“You’re a crazy anxiety nut job…”

…sadly, I must agree. This month has been a mental health mishap, that started with the pap smear from hell.

You see, where I come from, hospitals are impressive ten story buildings. They’re equipped with cafeterias and gift shops (and teenage candy stripers), and pharmacies the size of single family homes. They’re cold. Quiet. Impersonal. Clean.

Where I live now, hospitals look more like funeral homes, by which I mean they’re literally converted Victorian cottages. If they didn’t have large-lettered signs on their grassy front lawns, you’d never know they existed. And that’s all fine and dandy, bigger isn’t necessarily better, or so I thought before that fateful visit.

An aura of naivety must have radiated from every inch of my being as I wandered into the cozy waiting room, and then calmly followed the nurse in Christmas scrubs through the cramped hallways into one of the three examination rooms.

And although her fifteen minute diatribe on the shitty-ness of Christmas was comical—considering she was decked out in reindeer scrubs—I was happy to finally be alone on the tissue lined table when the elderly nurse left the room.

Laughing to myself about the irony, I exchanged my clothes for a backless, polka dot gown, when I suddenly noticed a bead of sweat stream down my forehead; the goddamn room must’ve been 110 degrees! But before I could curse the good lord for the extreme temperatures I was cruelly being subjected to, I noticed something on the floor: CARPET! Carpet in a fucking hospital room! I was beside myself. And that wasn’t all, where a sink should have been, for oh I don’t know hand washing, there was a 1980’s boom box blaring, of all things, country music. It was like I had been sucked into The Twilight Zone.

I won’t go into the details of the pap, but I will say in my seven years experience, it was the WORST I’ve EVER had. The procedure was an exorbitant thirty minutes of excruciating pain that left me bleeding for the rest of the afternoon, and singing this song...

Which brings me back to the point, bigger is definitely better. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Truth be Told

2008-01-04T09:32:00.001-08:00

Do today's duty, fight today's temptation; do not weaken yourself by looking forward to things you cannot see, and could not understand if you saw them.
-Charles Kingsley

Where to Begin?

2007-12-30T10:56:00.000-08:00

Oh, I know! (Cue heavenly background music)...

HAAAALLLLLLLELUJAHHHHH!
HAAAALLLLLLLELUJAHHHHH!
HALELUJAH! HALELUJAH!
HA-LE-LU-JAH!

The Beast and my brother have departed after an eight day visit. (I never thought I would say those words).

It was an eight day visit that started with a bang as I spotted The Beast in baggage claim and cheerfully strolled over to her, “You look great!” I exclaimed, lying of course, but making an effort to be cordial, “You’ve lost so much weight!” “I have,” she replied, nose snarled in true Beast fashion, “but what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you at this weight. Are you okay? Are you sick? When’s the last time you saw the doctor?”

Um, yeah, I love you too mom. It was about there that I peeled the phony smile off my face and succumbed to what I was in for: eight days of torment.

That night was disastrous. She had apparently started drinking that morning on the plane and by the time we sat down for dinner and finished our fourth bottle of wine she was a belligerent, raging drunk. Squishing her pasta in her hands at the dinner table, breaking wine glasses, making uncalled for and hostile remarks towards Rey. When we sat down to watch The Simpsons Movie she was uncontainable. Screaming profanities, kicking her feet and shaking her head, parroting the movie lines. It was like we were in a bad movie, instead of watching one, (only The Simpsons wasn’t a bad movie, it was actually pretty awesome).

And so the rest of the visit went. She forced me to go shopping on the busiest shopping day of the year, where she proceeded to talk to any willing individual in the stores. She let my cat outside on Christmas Eve who subsequently went missing for the next four hours. She shook her head and scoffed every time I dared to eat. She was restless and repeatedly asked what we were going to do next.

But all that being said, and although I’ve developed an eating disorder and feel like I’ve been beat with a baseball bat, the visit wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Now, that being said, you can bet your ass there won’t be another visit for a very long time.

Merry Fucking Christmas Eve

2007-12-24T09:12:00.000-08:00

Shoot Me Now

2007-12-23T13:01:00.000-08:00

The Beast and my brother are in town for eight days. They flew in yesterday and I’m already on the verge of suicide.

I’ll fill you in later, assuming I don’t eat a bottle of sleeping pills by then.

You Can Always Count on WebMD

2007-12-17T13:06:00.000-08:00

It never fails! When I’m not surfing “It Which Must Not be Named” (read WebMD) on my own accord, that bastard site tracks me down and pumps the fear of god into me. We’re connected like Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.

Now given, the connection could have something to do with me foolishly signing up to receive a newsletter from that ungodly organization, but is it really necessary to fill my inbox with subject lines that read “Are Your Arteries Headed for Disaster?” and “Sudden Death Gene Strikes Women Most.” No, I don’t think so.

So now, thanks to You Know Who, what started as a pleasant morning has turned into an afternoon obsession with atherosclerosis; apparently, America’s number one killer. And also thanks to You Know Who, things like: “Atherosclerosis is dangerous because it's so stealthy” and “Diseases caused by atherosclerosis also lead to chronic pain, kidney failure, blindness, and even impotence” and “Athero is linked to nearly 1 in 4 deaths in the United States” are running rampant through my mind!

So in the wonderful holiday spirit of giving, you too can get the shit scared out of you by clicking here.

Wishing I was born in the UK

2007-12-15T14:22:00.000-08:00

It has just come to my attention, while mindlessly surfing the web, that UK residents are afforded a luxury—a mighty fine luxury I might add—that I, in the states, am not; a do-it-yourself liver test. How remarkably ingenious!

You can find out the condition of your liver without even putting the beer down. All you do is prick your finger, send the blood and your hundred pounds to the lab, wait ten days, and voila, color coded results show up in the post (as they call it in those parts).

“If it’s green, ‘your liver enzyme levels are within the recommended normal range.’

If amber, ‘your liver health is less than optimal and you need to look at making changes to your lifestyle.’

And if red, ‘even mild liver test abnormalities may be an early clue to liver disease. You must make significant changes to your lifestyle to protect your liver in the future.’”

What kind of backward ass country am I living in? I can walk out my front door and get a gun and an abortion within a block of the house, but I can’t get a god damn home liver test. I need to relocate.

Oh, and you lucky UK residents can purchase a bloody kit, here.

Front Lines

2007-12-14T10:57:00.000-08:00

I didn’t have the chance to mention it, because I was obsessively cleaning my house for the last two weeks, but Rey graduated (with two B.A.’s) last weekend, and thirty of his out-of-state relatives were there to applaud him.

That means thirty of his relatives, including his neurotic dad, delusional sister, and super annoying, super tattooed cousin from SAN FRANCISCO were in my house; in my personal—but very clean space—at once. And despite all the anxiety I experienced leading up to the event, I must admit that I actually enjoyed it. I basked in the company.

It could’ve been the alcohol that made it more manageable, but I almost felt like my social anxiety was non-existent. No sweaty palms. No heart flutters. No blushing. No shaky voice. I did feel my ears turn red when Rey’s mom thanked me during her dinner toast, but aside from that, I was like a pro.

Now all that being said, I awoke the morning after they left with severe, right flank pain and met the following days with heart attack-like symptoms.

I’m thankful the social anxiety is at a low, but the hypochondria is suddenly at a high. One more thing I didn’t mention is The Beast and my brother are coming in to town and staying at my house for an entire week over Christmas; maybe that’s why I’m suddenly dying.

If Perspective is Reality, I'm Dead

2007-12-11T18:18:00.000-08:00

I cannot even begin to explain HOW REAL the “heart attack” I “had” today felt. It started at about 3:15 p.m. as I sat in our dimly lit conference room crosschecking an agreement with a coworker. I was reading aloud, she was silently following along, when mid-sentence, an intense stabbing sensation coursed through the left side of my chest.

Blinded by pain, I jumped up from my chair and grabbed my breast. Words were spewing from my mouth, (a problem I usually only encounter when drinking). “Holy shit, I think I’m having a heart attack!” I screamed.

My coworker, being an older woman, who’s actually had a heart attack, tilted her head and looked at me with unsympathetic eyes. “Your arm would hurt like hell and you’d be nauseous. You’re fine.”

Little did she know that as I stood slumped over that oversized table, gasping for air, and clawing at my chest, my arm did hurt, and it wouldn’t be long before the nausea set in. But before I could convey these seemingly infinitesimal details, and ASK HER TO CALL 911, her turquoise eyes shot to the black and white cityscape hanging on the wall behind me. “Why is that picture crooked!?! What the hell does that cleaning crew do in here at night? I’m gonna have to call management...”

The agreement fell to the floor as I limped out the conference room towards my desk. I could actually feel the artery bursting as I stumbled through the office. I could feel myself drifting away, when a sudden burst of nausea brought me back to this world. And then it happened, I started to dry heave, (right there in the middle of my office).

In a fit of panic, which it apparently was, I fled to the bathroom, gagging the whole way there. I locked myself in the far back stall and stood with my head in my hands for what felt like hours as stabbing pains continued to course through my chest.

Five minutes later, calmed only slightly by deep breathing, but still in a fog, I emerged from the stall and hobbled back to my office. The daziness lasted all afternoon. The pains have been sporadic. If what I experienced this afternoon wasn't at least a minor heart attack, I'm on the brink

Afflicted

2007-12-05T10:04:00.000-08:00

First of all, I must apologize to my blog, because if it were the French Bull Dog I’ve been so yearning for, it’d be dead in the back yard right now.

Second, I’m dying. And not that it did, but my absence was not meant to convey a period of wellness. Actually, it wasn’t meant to convey anything at all, except that I’m a lazy procrastinator. Writing hasn’t been all that appealing to me lately. In reality, nothing has been all that appealing, except for drinking, so that’s what I’ve been doing; throwing back bottles of wine amidst fits of hypochondria.

Among other things, I’m wholly convinced that my eye ball is going to explode at any moment. Over the past week, I’ve been experiencing severe pressure in my eye cavity whenever I move my head, blink or bend down. It essentially feels like being repeatedly hit in the face with a baseball.

Also, I’m suffering from what I’ve determined to be Multiple Sclerosis or Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, due to the crippling pains that have been plaguing my arms. I’m talking stabbed with an ice pick pains, that leave me in tears.

Oh, and I simultaneously have colon and cervical cancer.

So, um, yeah. Basically, I’m a basket case right now.

Family Lines

2007-11-25T12:48:00.000-08:00

My great grandmother, Anna Augustine, arrived to America, from Poland, in the early 1900’s, settled down in Chicago with an alcoholic engineer, had several children, then died from a heart attack at age thirty-five.

A woman in my family, only three generations removed, died at age thirty-five, from a heart attack. I cannot tell you how disheartening this is. Thirty-five. That’s twelve years older than I am now.

I like to live in denial about certain issues, and this happens to be one of them. I have secretly developed a theory about the death of my great grandmother, damn her to hell, that negates the conclusion that my heart is a ticking time bomb. You see, the theory I’ve concocted is that the sweet thirty-five year old Polish mother died not from a heart attack—as family history would lead you to believe—but from a violent drug overdose in the hard streets of Chi-town. Believable, right?

I bring this up because I’ve become increasingly aware of my own heart issues lately. First it was the heart attack in my sleep, now the constant chest pains; I can’t help but think I’m on the verge of my own heart attack, but I’m holding out for an overdose.

Notice to All Hypochondriacs

2007-11-24T10:59:00.000-08:00

If it’s not too late—which it may well be, considering the movie was released to the box office back in June—do not, I repeat DO NOT attempt to watch Michael Moore’s Sicko.

I left Blockbuster last night thrilled with my DVD selection. I could barely contain myself in the liquor store knowing that Sicko sat in the car waiting for me. (And as a disclaimer, I am NOT a Michael Moore fan by any stretch of the imagination, I’m just a sucker for a good documentary). But my dreams of movie grandeur were crushed not fifteen minutes after settling in on the couch and cracking my first Guinness.

Horror stories of sick people abandoned by their insurance companies filled the air. Young women and couples detailed their experiences with rare diseases.

And the TV went off.

So I warn hypos of the world, Sicko is not your friend.

Step One

2007-11-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

I emerged from my birthday stupor this morning to kick some anxiety ass. I headed off to work five minutes late, to discover that I was wearing a dirty sweater, and decided at some point thereafter that I was going to do the thing I’d been boasting about all weekend; ask my attorneys for letters of recommendation so that I could apply for the clerk job that I am so deserving of.

It took me all morning to drum up the confidence, and after a lunch pep talk with Rey, I marched into one of my attorney’s office—with racing heart and sweating palms—and recited the words I’d practiced forty-two times that morning: “There’s a job I want to apply for at State Court and I was wondering if you would write me a letter of recommendation.”

I saw her jaw tense as her chair swung in my direction. I stood their exposed in my dirty sweater as she looked me squarely in the eyes and exclaimed “No!” She, in fact, would not write me a letter of recommendation. Not only no, but fuck, shit, hell no. She didn’t want me getting another job.

Flattering, sure, but not the response I was looking for. A simple “no problem” would have sufficed, but what ensued was five-minute conversation about why I wanted to leave.

After explaining that the clerk position paid almost twice my current salary, the attorney reluctantly obliged. She also offered to talk our administrator about getting me the money I deserve. Score.

Those sweaty palms and racing heart ain’t got nothing on me.

Twenty-Three, Bitches

2007-11-15T18:58:00.000-08:00

I’ll make this short and sweet. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday…okay, excuse me while I go drown in a bottle of scotch…

I Suck

2007-11-14T20:13:00.000-08:00

I feel like a freak. Like a pariah. Like a clown. Mostly like a cripple.

I found out today that the state court is hiring. Judging by the way I’ve been acting for the last six months, you’d think I’d be ecstatic; sprinting to the courthouse with my resume plastered to my chest.

You see, I’m starting court reporting school next month and it’s common knowledge that court reporters who work in the courts pull the highest salaries; we’re talking in the ball park of $10,000 for a three-week trial, which is all fine and dandy, but the catch is these jobs are all sowed up, (surprise, surprise).

So, it’s been my dream—not in the sappy sense—to get my foot in the door at the court, as a clerk, so that I can woo the judges (and their staff) and eventually—after I complete my court reporting certification—steal a lazy, unknowing court reporter’s high-paying job.

But today, when I saw that posting for the clerk job on the court’s website, I nearly crapped myself. Actually, I’m lying, it wasn’t until I read the words, “those most qualified will participate in an oral interview or interviews before a panel,” that I nearly crapped myself.

Panel interview? Um…NO!

Release the anxiety gates! Ever since I read those dreadful words, my mind has been flooded with potential botched panel interview attempts.

Red face. Stuttering. Sweating. Crapping on the panel members. Or my chair.

Instead of excitement, I feel fear. Instead of opportunity, I smell failure. This damn job posting—that I don’t even have to respond to—has ruined my day, and probably my week. I’m pathetic.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know I can handle the job. I don’t think I can handle the panel interview. I want it, but I’m scared. I don’t know if I have it in me to apply.

I wish I was someone else. A braver, stronger someone else.

Truth be Told

2007-11-12T09:29:00.000-08:00

Every decision is liberating, even if it leads to disaster. Otherwise, why do so many people walk upright and with open eyes into their misfortune.
-Elias Canneti

The Things That Come Out of His Mouth

2007-11-08T14:47:00.000-08:00

I crawled out of bed this morning just long enough to call in sick. Strangely, after the call, the “fog” lifted and I felt strong enough to make a trip to Wal-Mart to pick up a 360 game in celebration of my mini-vacation. I leaned against the door, decked out in my grey sweat pants. I had the hood of my trusty Raiders sweatshirt pulled tightly around my face to hide my dirty hair. Rey—who had showered and shaved before I called in sick—looked at me while adjusting the collar of his dress shirt and said:

“Maybe they’ll think I’m taking you to get an abortion.”

I love you too, honey.

Analytics

2007-11-07T20:16:00.000-08:00

I bring you an update from the frontline. Or, is it the backline? Enough bad jokes. I’m here to report that things in the southern region have improved, i.e. I no longer feel like I shit fiery clumps of jagged gravel. Jagged gravel maybe, but I’ve gone five days without finding blood in my shit, and this alone is grounds for celebration.

But although the blood is gone, I still have intense upper-stomach pain, and I’m increasingly convinced that my turds look skinnier by the day; both indicators of colon cancer. And while I never thought I’d say, “I’m crossing my fingers for hemorrhoids,” I definitely am, (and it’s looking pretty bleak).

I just can’t bring myself to pick up the phone and call the doctor. I’m operating under the illusion that this thing will clear itself up.

Bottom line? The blood is gone, that is good. The pain is not, that is bad.

Truth be Told

2007-11-06T09:03:00.000-08:00

Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.
-Helen Keller

Narcissistic

2007-11-04T13:01:00.000-08:00

I’ve often wondered how I’d look in the eyes of Renaissance man Sandro Botticelli. Now, thanks to this nifty little site, my life long desire has been fulfilled.

What important questions will I ponder in my spare time now that I know what I look like as an apewoman:

And as an Asian:

And as a black girl with jaundice:

I guess I could use my spare time to quit smoking and lather up with sunscreen, (if I care not to look like this in forty years):

Hyposomnia

2007-11-01T18:43:00.000-07:00

When the clock struck 4:00 this morning, I slept peacefully in my TempurPedic bed. When the clock struck 4:01 this morning, I was out of that TempurPedic bed, keeling over in a fit of panic—a steel dagger lodged in my heart.

In the fleeting moments of consciousness that ensued, I became cognizant of the fact that cardiac arrest had found me in my sleep. (And how ironic, it being on a night that I’d eaten a salad for dinner).

Blurry vision. Loss of breath. Numb arm. Aching jaw. SEVERE, piercing chest pain.

I wobbled through the hall as the symptoms persisted for two, three, four minutes. Ten minutes finally passed and although my vision had adjusted, and my numb arm had turned into a numb leg, the chest pain was unrelenting.

I tried to go back to bed. Tried to tell myself it wasn’t a heart attack. That it was gas (from my salad). But I wasn’t buying it, and I wasn’t falling back to sleep. I laid in that bed, in that god awful TempurPedic bed, wide awake for the next two hours.

The chest pain never ceased as I tossed and turned, nor, as I debated its cause.

Gas. Blood Clot. My Lung repairing itself. MRSA.

Heart attack mostly stuck in my mind. I couldn’t accept that it was gas, not on a night that I’d eaten a salad. And so I laid there in agonizing pain, waiting for the cardiac arrest to take me.

But, obviously, it never did.

Trick or Treat

2007-10-31T12:40:00.001-07:00

Staying true to my obsessive nature, as a child, my Halloween costume for the first eight years of my life was a cat; teased hair, face paint, black leotard, felt tail and ears. And although I won't be dressing up as a feline this year, it's in that spirit that I say Happy Halloween!

The Perfect Excuse

2007-10-29T18:59:00.000-07:00

I could be brainwashed by the relentless media coverage of drug resistant staph infections, but I’m fairly certain I’ve contracted (HA) MRSA, i.e. Hospital Acquired Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus.

It’s the pussing sore in my right nostril that tipped me off. I’ve had it ever since my tonsillectomy two months ago, and according to the Mayo Clinic, it’s in the hospital—during tonsillectomy-like procedures—where most of the 1.2 million MRSA infections a year are contracted.

Also according to the Mayo Clinic, there are four major risk factors for contracting the hospital acquired version of the strain:

A current or recent hospitalization;
Residing in a long-term care facility;
Invasive devises; and
Recent antibiotic use

Need I remind everyone that I had a recent hospitalization and that I was pumped with antibiotics twice a day for two weeks following that hospitalization? That’s exposure to two out of four factors. That’s not good. But what’s even worse is that I have the number one symptom of the infection; a painful, pussing wound, in—of all places—my nose, (the unfortunate body part where the majority of staph bacteria are housed).

But that’s not all, in the last couple days I’ve developed a cough. Now, this could be attributed to the two and half packs of Camel Lights I smoked this weekend, or more likely, to the advancement of my MRSA infection, which often kills people by infiltrating their lungs.

And as a side note, this (HA) MRSA is the perfect reason not to go to the hospital for my colon cancer/hemorrhoids. If I don't already have the "super bug" (as the news agencies so lovingly call it), which I most likely do, I'll surely get it by trekking into the doctor's office and having an "invasive device" shoved up my rear.

Not for the Faint of Heart, Read at Your Own Risk

2007-10-24T21:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve been silent because, frankly, what I have to say is unpleasant. The disease I’m suffering from is unpleasant. My existence is unpleasant. And despite the unpleasantness that has become my life, I’d like to think I have enough pride not to share it with the world. But I don’t, and I can only stay silent for so long.

I apologize now for the words that I will write, as they too will be unpleasant. I’m not one for bathroom talk. I don’t like to hear about people’s gastrointestinal “issues” and I don’t share my own. But under the unforeseeable circumstance that I’m afflicted with colon cancer, I figure my life is about to change, in more ways than one.

I have blood in my shit. Blood. In. My. Shit. This alone is cause for alarm. I’ve been on this earth for damn near twenty-three years and until a week and a half ago, I have NEVER had blood—not a trace—in my shit.

But that’s not all, I feel like I shit gravel. Fiery. Clumps. Of. Jagged. Gravel. I need not explain the trauma involved in this.

Oh, and depending on the day, I have diarrhea, or constipation, whichever is more inconvenient at the time. Lets just say this morning, as I repeatedly dashed from the shower to the toilet, (soaking wet in thirty degree temperatures), it wasn’t the latter.

All of the above, and the severe upper abdominal pain I’m suffering, are symptoms of colon cancer.

I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified.

I don’t dare go to the doctor. The last thing I want is to be sedated while a perfect stranger shoves a “long, flexible, tubular instrument about ½ inch in diameter” up my ass. Shitting fiery clumps of jagged gravel sounds like a day at the spa compared to that.

My doctor, (read WebMD), said hemorrhoids may also be the culprit. But just reading the four stages, see below, gives me diarrhea:

First degree: The hemorrhoid does not stick out from the anus.

Second degree: The hemorrhoid sticks out from the anus during a bowel movement but returns on its own to the anal canal afterward.

Third degree: The hemorrhoid sticks out from the anus during a bowel movement and does not return to the anal canal on its own. In this case you can push it inside the anus with your finger and then it will stay in.

Fourth degree: The hemorrhoid is always outside the anus and cannot be pushed into the anal canal.

I lost it at “you can push it inside the anus with your finger and then it will stay in.” WHAT THE FUCK!!! I want my innocence back.

But don’t think you’re in the clear, fifty percent of people encounter hemorrhoids in their lifetime.

This is the epitome of a no win situation. Shoot me now. I beg you.

And I'm the Crazy One

2007-10-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

It was an ordinary day as I fell out of bed this morning grumbling to Rey about the nightmares that stalked me through the night. Elevators were the subject. Not uncommon. Not terribly exciting. Just the typical forget to push your floor, end up on the 12th, crash to your death.

So, I headed off to work and arrived five minutes early—only because my supervisor was in town—to encounter an elevator maintenance crew in the lobby of my building. Coincidence, I thought.

But apparently, I thought wrong, because upon entering the elevator, the following conversation ensued:

“I don’t like to see those guys working on the elevators”

“Neither do I.”

“You know, the elevator to the right of us fell yesterday.”

“Are you kidding!?!”

“No! One of our attorneys was riding it down. It only fell one floor and he wasn’t hurt, but he was pissed off!”

This is where I exited the death ride. Am I the only one who knows the meaning of foreshadowing? Stairs are in my near future.

I Should Have Saved the Last Post’s Title for Today

2007-10-15T18:49:00.000-07:00

I have colon cancer and a tumor in my neck and brain. I realize how ridiculous this sounds, but despite the absurdity, I am wholly convinced that I display symptoms for each.

I’m not going to elaborate, other then to say I’m freaking the fuck out. I can’t hear or see with my right ear and eye respectively, and I have shooting pains coursing through the left side of my neck. (I refuse to elaborate on the colon cancer symptoms, but trust me there’s not a more fitting diagnosis).

Excuse me while I go try—for the second time tonight—to convince Rey to take me to the emergency room.

Death Becomes Me

2007-10-10T19:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately—my cat’s death mostly, and my own death, of course—but not in the usual, panic-stricken way. The distinction between my recent thoughts and the thoughts I’ve had most of my adult life, is, recently, my thoughts seem to address mortality from a state of awe, rather than a state of holy shit I’m gonna die right now.

In idle moments, my mind drifts to thoughts of mine and my cat’s deaths, but instead of focusing on the particularities of the deaths, i.e. the pain, or lack there of, the last thoughts, the fear, the loneliness, the tears, the feeling of knowing you’re dying, instead, I find myself thinking of the greater implication of ceasing not to exist. I’m consumed by the enormity and insignificance of the end of a life. People die everyday. Young people, old people, people just like me. They die, everyday. It’s insane.

I’m suddenly baffled by the idea that such a sweet little creature, my cat, so full of life and personality will one day close her eyes, become limp and cease to exist. I don’t know what to make of it, but I do know it’s a perspective of death that I haven’t taken in the recent past.

A step forward? Perhaps…

Anticipatory Anxiety

2007-10-08T19:26:00.000-07:00

Although I haven’t mentioned it here, I’m beyond thrilled to have an out from my company Christmas Party this year. The ordinary person may think I’m insane to dodge a free trip to Vegas and a stay at the Wynn, but frankly, I live in a town where gambling and prostitution are legal (which takes all the fun out of Vegas), and I like my house more than my coworkers.

There’s just one problem, I traded my soul to the devil to get out of the event. This year, instead of attending the Christmas Party, Rey and I will host thirty members of his ridiculously large family for a graduation party in his honor.

What will I wear? What will we talk about? How will they get here from the airport? Where will they stay? What will we eat? What if I crap myself? What if they don’t like my home décor? What if they want me to say something in Rey’s honor? What if they think I’m a horrible host?

Aside from all the customary questions racing through my mind, I’m largely concerned with the demeanor I’ll exhibit in such a large group. One-on-one, I can be charming and witty, which is not always the case, but it happens—I’d like to think—more often than not. Put me in a group of more than two and I clam up, sweat profusely, shake in my boots. Unless large amounts of alcohol are involved, me and groups don’t mix.

Aside from social anxiety, anticipatory anxiety is the form of anxiety I struggle with the most. Maybe they’re byproducts of each other, maybe they’re one in the same, but whatever they are, I know them both extraordinarily well.
Take that anxiety, throw in some quasi-in-laws, and that trip to Vegas suddenly ain’t looking so bad. “Don’t trade the devil you know for the devil you don’t” never had so much meaning.

Potty Mouth

2007-10-06T11:43:00.000-07:00

There’s a toilet paper dispenser in my office bathroom that has increasingly become the subject of my thoughts. This dispenser isn’t special upon first inspection, it’s your run of the mill, round metal bar with a circular metal stopper on each end. And every stall in the three-stall bathroom has two of these ordinary dispensers situated neatly under a small metal shelf, which typically holds extra rolls of toilet paper.

Now that’s all fine and dandy, but there’s one minor detail specific to the first dispenser in the first stall that is plaguing me. You see, the circular metal stopper that holds the toilet paper in place is broken, so when you pull the paper from the roll, it gently slides to the right and threatens to fall to the floor. Now, this in and of itself is no problem for the person with common sense (who can easily use their free hand to hold the roll in place), but as Rey’s Grandpa once said, common sense aint so common, and I’ve never heard a truer statement.

It didn’t occur to me until a conversation with a coworker, that this dispenser was more than an inconvenience; it was a disease waiting to happen.

Upon entering the bathroom together and noticing a roll of toilet paper strewn across the floor, my unwitting coworker made the following remark:

“People are so disgusting! How rude do you have to be to drop a roll of toilet paper on the ground and not pick it up?”

It occurred to me at that moment that, holy fuck, she—and who knows how many other filthy bathroom goers—were entering that first stall and dropping rolls of toilet paper from that rickety dispenser, on to the infested bathroom floor, only to pick them up for me—and who know how many other unknowing sanitarians—to walk in and wipe our asses with festering disease rags.

I nearly lost my lunch. I couldn’t even “go” after that little comment, and silently trudged right back out that bathroom door to sit at my desk for the next three hours and stew over the multitudes of diseases I must have been exposed to over the course of my employment, all the while holding my piss.

Sparing any details, I’ve since developed a condition in response to this discovery, and I blame it on that damn toilet paper dispenser. I think I'll start carrying my own roll.

Wine is Back on the Menu, Boys

2007-10-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

Rey had a surprise for me this evening when I got in the car after waiting for him for two hours after work while he attended his statistics class. He had a tasty little morsel waiting for me and he could hardly control himself when I got in the car. It wasn’t chocolate, which I’m not particularly fond of anyway. It was this tasty little piece of advice that his professor had imparted upon him:

“Never give up your vices based on the results of a study.”

That came from the mouth of a woman with a Ph.D. in Psychology who specializes in statistical analysis, which means it might as well have come from the mouth of God.

According to her, studies are unreliable because they’re frequently conducted by professors seeking tenure at their colleges. To receive tenure, the professors must have published studies. The catch is this: schools frown on replication—which is the backbone of any reliable study—hence the bogus results, i.e. wine will strangle you in your sleep.

So, for those of you keeping score at home, Take 492 is officially over. Cheers!

Layin’ Off the Sauce, Take 492

2007-10-01T18:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight doesn’t count, because I have an excuse in Monday Night Football, but starting tomorrow, there’ll be no drinking in my house on weeknights. And I use the term weeknights very loosely. Mondays and Sundays are excluded, due to my football obligations, and Fridays and Saturdays are no-brainers. That leaves three days, or “weeknights,” if you will.

Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.

That’s seventy-two hours in which a drop of alcohol must not touch thy lips. Actually, if you subtract work and sleep hours from that figure, it’s twenty-four waking hours. Simple enough.

There are two reasons I’m instituting this law:

I don’t want to die a horrible and painful death caused by prolonged and excessive alcohol consumption; and

I don’t want to die a horrible and painful death caused by prolonged and excessive alcohol consumption.

But, my fear of a horrible and painful death caused by prolonged and excessive alcohol consumption, apparently doesn’t outweigh my attraction to chilled chardonnay. I’ve attempted this “program” several times in the past, and each time, it’s the same result: misery, followed by excessive alcohol consumption on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

I don’t know why alcohol is so instrumental in my happiness. Maybe being raised by alcoholics has something to do with it. But in my mind, there’s nothing like a bottle of wine or a six-pack of beer to relax to after work.

I’ll be back tomorrow to cry about how horrible my life is sans alcohol. Until then, cheers.

Don't Judge The Judge

2007-09-26T20:02:00.001-07:00

As I walked through the lobby of my building after work today, I couldn’t help but notice the frisky blonde that trotted just twenty feet in front of me. Four-inch heels. Hoop earrings. Big sunglasses. Gucci purse. I silently snickered as she gawked at the reflection in the bank’s window as she passed.

So captivated by her image, she nearly missed the exit and veered right at the last possible moment towards the building’s main doors. I shook my head and snickered again, continuing straight towards the garage as I thought about what a shallow girl she must be.

I quickened my pace to beat the five o’clock rush, when something in the sprawling, reflective window of the gym caught my eye. It was her, Ms. Burberry, standing firmly in the threshold of the high double doors, staring intently at me.

I wilted under her gaze.

I continued walking as the grey pants I was wearing for the third time this week became painfully obvious and my black, five-dollar t-shirt screamed cheapskate only slightly less than my flat sandals doctored with permanent marker to hide last year’s scars. I cursed the good lord as the strap of my $50.00 purse slipped from its buckle, and the princess turned away.

I limped the rest of the way to the car, assuring myself that being a plain Jane was admirable; it proved external forces didn’t control me.

And as I forced that thought repeatedly through my mind, a vision of just 24 hours earlier came into focus. There I laid, crying on the couch, loudly proclaiming that “I hate[d] my life,” because, (brace yourself)… a burrito with beer was not included in the night’s itinerary.

As I watched the image of myself wreathing on the couch in such emotional pain, I realized I had the same flaw as the beauty queen in the lobby. It just manifested itself in a different way: hers an obsession with style, mine an obsession with burritos and beer.

And even though we scrutinized each other in the brief moments that our paths had crossed, it’s obvious upon reflection that she and I—the beauty queen and the plain Jane—are unwitting sisters in slavery.

Poor mental health makes for strange bedfellows.

Outside My Window

2007-09-22T10:16:00.000-07:00

Embarrassment fear and shame

Torment from shadows
Anxiety clogs the mind

I woke up feeling creative this lovely Saturday morning, so the above is my attempt at a hypo style haiku. I wrote it while I sipped decaf coffee and listened to violent hail beat at my roof. I love nasty weather. I don’t understand why they call it nasty, I think it’s soothing.

I was born in San Francisco on a Thursday morning in November; I’d like to think it was raining.

Poetic Justice

2007-09-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

"I was suddenly in love. It was amazing. We seemed to be stuck in the same kind of miserable marriage," - Sana Klaric, 27. There was just one small problem, the anonymous stranger she was chatting up on the internet was her husband. They're now filing for divorce and accusing each other of cheating. Now that's what I call comedy.

The Moon is in Hypo

2007-09-17T19:45:00.001-07:00

Now that the tonsillectomy is behind me—and all I have to show for it are a drug habit and a healthy throat—my good friend hypochondria seems to be rearing its head again, and rearing it wildly, I might add.

Things were relatively quiet for that two-month period surrounding the surgery. Of course, there was the death by anesthesia obsession and visions of violent post-op hemorrhaging; but those delusions aside, that period was relatively calm. There were no strokes, no heart attacks, no deadly blood clots and no brain tumors. All of which I encountered this weekend.

The brain tumor appeared on my radar Friday morning, after I repeatedly experienced severe pains in the same spot on the left side of my head. By the time lunch arrived, I was smelling “weird” smells—like my brother did in the days leading up to his diagnosis—and although I wasn’t peeing in closets or asking people to take off the sock that I wasn’t wearing—like my brother also did in those days—I was certain that there was a rapidly growing tumor in my left frontal lobe that was seconds away from crushing my brain until blood spewed from my eyes and ears. And frankly, I’m still certain that that tumor is lying in wait.

The blood clot made its debut Saturday afternoon as I attempted to enjoy a little more than a little Chardonnay with my HGTV after reporting to work. In my peripheral vision, I spotted a deep purple mark the size of a quarter, on my left inner calf. I nearly spilled my wine as I jumped up to investigate, but before my feet hit the ground, sharp pain engulfed the entire area surrounding the bruise. I limped around the room for a good four minutes in agonizing pain before I realized that the bruise could only mean one of two things: leukemia or blood clot. I decided on the latter and sat back down to finish my wine, acutely aware of the fact that the blood clot would fatally encounter my heart in less than twenty-four hours.

But, before I could reach that twenty-four hour mark, the heart attack hit. Hard. In my chest. Then my arm. I did my standard heart attack dance around the house, gasping for air while grabbing my chest and stumbling through the halls. Rey sat unconcerned in front of a rerun of NFL Playbook. I finally slinked back to the couch, grasping my chest in one hand and my thermometer in the other.

Oh, must I go on? To relive these “episodes” is humiliating. What seems so true in the moment, seems so pathetic in the now.

It’s beginning to sound like hypochondria is my favorite past-time, and in that spirit, I finished off the weekend with a bang. A bang in the form of a stroke, right in the middle of the finale of Design Star. And before I continue, let me clear my good name by saying that I am not a reality TV whore, I actually despise most reality shows, but HGTV is my weakness and that stroke couldn’t have hit at a more inopportune time.

I had already missed the premier unveiling of the new Design Star, (in lieu of watching the Patriots/Chargers game), and it was 10:00 p.m. as I laid in bed, away from the TiVo, when the second showing finally arrived. Not fifteen minutes in to the long awaited show, my left foot went numb. A sure sign of stroke. It was all down hill from there. I couldn’t breathe, I was disoriented, my vision was blurry. I became convinced that I would die a slow painful death in the bed, as Rey laid there engrossed in the finale, so I resorted to pacing the room, at 10:30 p.m. mind you, so that it would be obvious that I was dying when I hit the floor in a brain dead stupor.

Translation: I’m back.

There's No Escape

2007-09-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

“…he’s [Frank Gore, 49ers running back] having a conversation with his mother that he’s had everyday of his life; and this will continue even though, she’s passed away at the tender age of 46, because of, kidney failure…”
~Anonymous NFL Announcer

And I thought football was safe. At the tender age of 22, I can feel my kidneys failing as we speak.

Thank You, Tongue!

2007-09-13T19:43:00.000-07:00

Had I not been so overworked these last couple of days, I would have apprised the blogosphere of my newly developed condition. It came to my attention early Tuesday morning that my tongue was…acting up.

Ever since that fateful day, when I found my rogue tongue lodged in my throat, strategically restricting my oxygen supply, I knew I was destined to die. In my sleep. From suffocation. By my tongue.

It’s like that bastard can’t accept the loss of its good friend, the tonsils, and is going to take it upon itself to fill the void, and kill me in the process, if necessary.

Every time I turn my head, I find that damn tongue waded up in the back of my throat, sitting there like a pouting child. I’ve spent the last two nights fighting off sleep, after twelve hour work days, because I’m terrified that fucker will slip into my throat the second I dose off.

I’ve been conflicted on whether or not to mention this phenomena of the animated tongue to my doctor. Rey advised against it, so as not to reveal myself as the crazy that I am. But this afternoon, when that white coat cornered me in that cold, little hospital room and asked me “how I was doing?” with those all knowing eyes, I cracked. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. That tongue came alive, and I spilled it, I told him everything.

His response? “Normal.”

And when I carried on, like the lunatic that I am, about my newly developed sore throat, that was silently infiltrating my kidneys and killing me, he suggested, “a refill of the pain medication.” I nearly fell out of my chair.

The tongue was all mine as I spattered and stuttered about what a great suggestion that was. And as the white coat left the room to fetch his pen, it hit me, that unruly tongue was on my side, it was all a ploy for more drugs.

And tonight, as I sit here next to my 400 mg of liquid bliss, I introduce to you a body in harmony.

She took yer JOB!

2007-09-10T20:38:00.000-07:00

I’m not a Mexican, but today I stole a good American’s job.

Unbeknownst to me, the bigwig senior attorney in my office demanded to work with yours truly. It just so happened that the bigwig senior attorney previously “belonged” to my thirty-eight year old, female, recently separated, legal secretary, stalker ex-“friend.”

(For those of you who pay attention, that’s the same thirty-eight year old, female, recently separated, legal secretary, stalker, “friend” who I spoke about several times several months ago and then never again. I never elaborated on the “ex” part—when I probably should’ve—because the story of me and her turned out to be the story of my life: it didn’t work out). Oh, you can also read about our adventures here, if you’re looking to gag yourself.

But that’s beside the point, this reassignment of me to “the bigwig” is headline news in local office politics; something I try to stay miles away from. For the last three days, since the news hit the floor, doors have been shut, and whispers have filled the halls. At least in my mind they have.

And despite all the drama and petty power plays that are accompanying this change, the reassignment is a great career move for me. The bigwig isn’t just a bigwig in my office, she’s also a bigwig in the city and a great contact to have. She’s one of the first women to graduate from Stanford Law and a very successful, independent woman to be associated with. Not to mention, I think she suffers—though it hasn’t impeded her—from anxiety, so all in all, she’s a great woman role model to have in my life.

The bottom line is, even though I essentially stole someone’s job, I’m pumped!

And in my state of glee, I’d like to take a moment to thank my anxiety for this feat. Without thee, I never would’ve been able to bust my ass so hard at crunch time, or do my job so meticulously. There’s nothing like self-doubt and anxiety to fuel that oh-so-important attention to detail and speed that I wield so easily. I guess anxiety isn’t all bad after all, at least not today.

Rise and Shine

2007-09-05T20:02:00.000-07:00

I never really noticed it before, but my house is directly under the flight path for incoming and outgoing planes of the nearby international airport. I’ve lived under this flight path for three years and the planes have never bothered me, I never really noticed them; until a couple a weeks ago.

Every morning, at about 6:20 a.m.—twenty-two minutes before my scheduled 6:42 a.m. wake up—I’m jolted from my state of comatose by what feels like a thirty ton meteor crashing into my house.

Everyday, as sure as shit, I find myself vaulting out of bed in sheer survival mode, as the sound barrier is broken above my house. Some days I know that earth-shattering sound for what it is: a plane crashing into my bedroom. Other mornings it’s a bomb, alien invasion or terrorists.

And, so my morning started today: in a state of pure panic, and that panic has somehow followed me into this evening. Mid-afternoon I developed a severe case of pneumonia and I hold that damn plane responsible.

Panic-Man

2007-09-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

Apparently there’s a new computer game designed to show how the brain reacts to threats. The game, modeled on Pac-Man, has a predator chase down a player; if caught, the player receives a shock. The results of the study are allegedly explaining why some of us unfortunate souls suffer from anxiety and panic.

"When our defence mechanisms malfunction, this may result in an over-exaggeration of the threat, leading to increased anxiety and, in extreme cases, panic, he said. Although brain-imaging studies like ours cannot directly help to cure such disorders, they do improve our understanding of how the emotional system operates. This is the first step to helping people with anxiety-related disorders."

Huh…I’m not sure what to make of this. I guess one could say I “overreact” to certain situations, but, when your heart starts pounding, your palms start pouring sweat, your vision becomes blurry and your arm goes numb, it’s kind of difficult not to overreact.

Or Does It?

2007-09-03T20:42:00.000-07:00

"Just because you're crazy and we're crazy does not mean we're related." ~Nancy Botwin

Ten dollars—that's fake dollars, not real dollars—to the first person who can guess my most recent DVD obsession.

(hint...hint...)

On Tongue Hair

2007-09-02T14:39:00.001-07:00

I feel like I have a hair tied in a bow around the tip of my tongue. I have no idea what implications this may carry, but the sensation is terribly annoying.

Had I not been dealing with this “tongue hair” for the entire morning, I might be convinced that I’m actually in the initial stages of a stroke, but as the hours have passed I’ve lost faith in that theory and have really no idea what this could be.

I figured I should at least document the sensation, in case this ordeal turns into something serious. Tongue hair update to follow shortly, assuming I’m not dying from some rare tongue hair disease.

Hi, My Name is Leila and I’m a Drug Addict

2007-08-29T09:11:00.000-07:00

Since I’m on “vacation,” I allowed myself two slices of salami and olive pizza and five bottles of Sierra Nevada last night. I watched Wheel of Fortune and several other obsolete shows—which were apparently a huge waste of my life because I can’t even remember what they were—and then headed off to bed at 10:00 p.m.

Normally, I go to the bed—to my beloved Tempur-Pedic bed—at 10:00 p.m., fall asleep by 10:45 p.m. to a show on the Science Channel then wake up at 6:40 a.m. (or on the weekend 8:00 a.m.), it’s my schedule, it’s what I do. It never fails and it never wavers. Until last night.

I headed to bed, as usual, turned on the Science Channel, as usual and laid in my sea of pillows waiting for sleep to overcome me, but it didn’t. 10:45 p.m. passed, no big deal, 11:00 p.m., can’t be long now, 11:45 p.m., tossing and turning, 12:15 a.m., burning flesh and itching, 12:30 a.m., headache, 12:45 a.m., shooting pains coursing through the body, 12:50 a.m., aching legs, 12:55 a.m., spinning, 1:00 a.m. panic.

I was having full-blown withdraws from that evil red syrup that that evil greedy doctor prescribed to me. I didn’t even realize it until I woke up Rey (who had to be to school early this morning), in a sweaty fit of panic and described to him the symptoms. “It sounds like you’re kicking dope,” he informed me, “go take some OxyContin.” But I didn’t want to take OxyContin, especially not if I was having withdraws because taking it only meant that I’d have to face the horrors of withdraws another day.

So, we stayed up for the next hour and a half as I cried and twitched on the bed. I finally caved at 2:30 a.m. and fell asleep with that sweet, red syrup coursing through my veins at 3:00 a.m.

Being addicted to a drug is not a pretty thing.

Back on the Wagon

2007-08-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

Please excuse my recent absence, several days ago I discovered that OxyContin does not have to be used alone, it can also be paired with substances such as alcohol—which burns a hacked throat—and “greenery”—which does not burn a hacked throat, but depending on the time of day does make me think I’m dying of a heart attack.

Since that grand discovery, I’ve been diligently testing the results of the aforementioned substances, and through intense analysis have determined that each should be used individually, and in moderation, preferably when not recovering from a surgical procedure. But no worries, I’ve locked the juice in the safe and took a shower.

I’d like to say that those doctors lied. I did not loose ten to fifteen pounds from this surgery, I more like gained ten pounds, because all I ate for five days was KFC mashed potatoes and gravy, which apparently aren’t terribly healthy. I want their heads for false advertising; that whole weight loss schpeal is just a ploy to reel you in, don’t fall for it.

Painkiller Jane

2007-08-24T16:41:00.001-07:00

I’m clawing my way into day five of recovery looking like a prisoner of war. Over the past four days, I’ve eaten no more than one Quaker’s cinnamon bun oatmeal packet, half an order of my favorite Mexican restaurant’s beans, and one can of Progresso Chicken Rotini Soup. I no longer comprehend the meaning of the word “food.” My world revolves exclusively around OxyContin and frozen Gatorade.

Actually, I’m lying about the last part, I couldn’t care less about frozen Gatorade—despite having drank nine gallons of fierce melon in the last 48 hours—what I really care about are my drugs. That sweet, red syrup that courses through my veins is what keeps me pushing on. It’s also what keeps me incessantly itching around the clock, but I don’t care, I’ve come to love the “heroin itch,” as Rey so lovingly calls it, and I think my skin looks nice with red scratch marks raked across my body.

That syrup, my handheld mirror, my purple flashlight and my digital thermometer are what I’ve been reduced to in this time of darkness. From my twelve-plus pillow bed on the sectional couch in the living room, my existence involves staring into space in a OxyContin-induced stupor, sleeping (only for increments of less than three hours, as not miss an OxyContin dosage), examining the rotten abyss previously known as my throat, taking my temperature, and bitching about my lack of nutritional intake. Really, it’s the life; beats the 9-5 grind, any day.

Now, please excuse me; it’s time for my precious...

Still Kickin'

2007-08-20T14:46:00.000-07:00

My throat looks like I gargled with and swallowed a hot coal, but I’m alive! Alive and surprisingly well. As a person extremely versed in the horrors of strep throat, I must say that this tonsillectomy can’t shake a stick at that god-awful sickness. I feel like I could run a marathon, or more realistically throw back a beer and burrito.

(Now, this whole happy-happy-joy-joy attitude could be the Percocet talking; it wears off at 5:00 p.m., so I very well may be back at that time to rescind the preceding paragraph, and curse the day my doctor was born; but as of now, I feel great).

And How Was Your Weekend?

2007-08-19T21:04:00.000-07:00

I’d like to point everyone’s attention to the little counter on the right hand side of the screen. Notice that I’ve run out of days. I’m in the final hours. The tonsillectomy is inevitable.

There are two individuals who helped to make this weekend a living hell, and I’d like to acknowledge them individually.

First, the attorney in my office who informed me on Friday afternoon that, “Oh my god, my friend’s daughter had her tonsils removed a couple weeks ago, and a few nights after the surgery, the girl woke up spewing blood from her throat. My friend was terrified, there was blood everywhere.” Apparently the kid lived, which is a positive, and it was just the scab being prematurely ripped from the throat that caused all the bleeding, but this was not the type of information I needed to carry me through the weekend.

The second person I’d like to acknowledge is the anonymous commenter who graciously stated the following, “You can never be too careful...did you know that a known risk of tonsillectomy is injury to your external carotid artery? Yep, it's true…and another known risk is hemorrhage…don't believe me? Search it -- it happens…it happened to my son...and he died…ask your doctor…good luck.” I don’t know if that was someone’s idea of a sick joke, but it totally was not fucking funny. I’ve spent the last two days obsessing about my external carotid artery, although I guess I could view that as an improvement from obsessing about death by anesthesia.

I’m pretty much terrified right about now, and I can’t even pour myself a drink to relax. If I suddenly disappear from the blogosphere, you’ll know what happened. It’s been fun.

These Thumbs Were Made for Video Games

2007-08-15T20:02:00.000-07:00

I’d love to sit here and bore the world with more thoughts on my surgery, and my recently developed ear infections and deafness, but I went to the driving range last night, which means my thumb looks like this:

Apparently, I thought that giving the golf club the death grip would make me a pro golfer. It didn’t.

T Minus 6 Days and a Wake Up

2007-08-13T19:26:00.000-07:00

Seeing as this place has recently turned into Tonsillectomy Central, I thought I’d take the liberty of laying out my fears surrounding the dreaded surgery. With the procedure rapidly approaching, I find my anxiety intensifying and my days increasingly spent worrying about the following:

My chart will be mixed up with another patient’s and I’ll wake up with some random body part removed;

My doctor, due to sleep deprivation, will unwittingly butcher my throat and I’ll either die from drowning in my own blood, or excessive plasma loss;

The anesthesiologist will overdose me just enough to cause severe brain damage, or with my luck, death;

My voice will be transformed into an earsplitting squeak or raspy croak;

I will have a heart attack in the waiting room from my heightened anxiety;

My liver, so damaged from alcohol and drug consumption, won’t be able to handle the anesthesia and I’ll die on the table before they can pull out the scalpel; and

The facility will be unsanitary and I’ll develop a sadistic post-surgery infection that will infiltrate my brain and other vital organs.

Deep down I know the likelihood of any of these scenarios happening is minimal, but I’m becoming increasingly irrational about this procedure. My brother had brain surgery for goodness sakes; I should be able to suck it up for a forty-five minute tonsillectomy.

T Minus 9 Days and a Wake Up

2007-08-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

Never say things are going good, it’s like asking for something to go bad.

After I rattled on the other day about how great things were going, I had a major meltdown. I did what no hypo should ever do, no matter how great the urge; I googled. I googled “tonsillectomy.” And when that wasn’t horrifying enough, I googled “tonsillectomy + death.” The results were, shall we say, not good. They were so not good that I sat at my desk for the rest of the day in a state of sheer panic with wells of tears threatening to spew from my face. I bawled the whole car ride home and late into the night, the whole time playing my death out in my mind, first by anesthesia then by post-op bleeding, over and over again.

I read somewhere that chances of death by tonsillectomy are 1 in 15,000, another site said 1 in 250,000, neither odds sound terribly appealing. Rey assures me that I’m a strong, healthy, young women with nothing to worry about. I say it’s the strong, healthy, young ones that the freak accidents always happen to.

I have ten days left to live, and I’m not taking it well.

Happy Birthday to Me, Happy Birthday to Me, Happy Birthday...

2007-08-08T19:36:00.000-07:00

I started this blog one year ago. One whole year ago! I can’t believe it, it feels like it’s only been weeks. On the other hand, at times each post has felt like a week, but I digress.

And okay, for the record, it’s been one year and three days, but who’s counting, and either way, that’s not bad for a procrastinator of the worst kind. I started this blog on a Saturday morning one year ago in an attempt to relieve the intense pain and humiliation associated with my bouts of hypochondria. What began as a personal and private attempt to beat back insanity, has morphed into a community discussion, from which I’ve drawn great support and insight.

Just one year ago, as I sat at the computer with sweaty palms and a sense of impending doom, I could barely bring myself to admit that I needed help, even though I silently knew I was slowly losing my mind. And now, today, because of this blog, and the support I’ve received through it, I’m an unapologetic hypo, with one foot out the closet door.

This year has been more rewarding than I’d ever imagined it could. While the acknowledgment of my problem hasn’t made it magically disappear, the “fits” have significantly decreased. I’ve found colossal comfort in articulating my episodes and pulling the humor from otherwise humorless situations. Many times at the onset of an attack, I’ve gone back and reread old posts that, low-and-behold, describe the same symptoms and fears I was experiencing at the time. This little corner of the blogosphere has been a great refuge for me.

But, what’s amazed me the most has been the response from people who’ve stumbled across the site and felt compelled to share their stories via email and comments. I know it sounds cliché, but it really does help just to know there are others, many others, out there in that same scary place, with those same irrational thoughts, and those same irrational fears.

And even more surprising—being the sociophobe that I am—are the bonds I’ve formed with other bloggers, namely: Lacey, Barbora, Tournesol, Addie, Dave, SA Dave, Sean and Debaser. Not to mention the frequent commenters who have provided just as much support as those who maintain their own sites. And even the readers, who don’t say a word, but keep coming back, let me know I’m not alone.

So, with death by anesthesia only twelve days away, here’s hoping I make it through another year.

It's All About Perspective

2007-08-06T19:06:00.001-07:00

If only I could see the world through the eyes of the director of this spoof on The Shining. Hair loss would be just a great reason to stop combing your hair. A panic attack would be a wonderful opportunity to experience an increased state of sensitivity. And Alzheimer's? An easy way to forget your problems.

Oh, in a perfect world...

Spreading the Panic

2007-08-05T13:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, after finishing the last disk of season four of our beloved Six Feet Under series, we decided to raid the town’s Hollywood Video stores (because Blockbuster doesn’t carry them) for the last five DVDs. Much to our delight, the store just one exit away had the disks. So, we grabbed the keys and dashed to the garage. But, before I could get in the car, it hit me, I should bring the cat.

She’s a very mellow cat, she doesn’t even attempt to fight when given a bath, (and any cat owner will tell you that’s an anomaly of great magnitude). She’s ridden in the car several times, without incident, (given it was only to the corner store), but what’s the difference I thought. Down the street; a freeway exit away; it’s all the same; a car ride is a car ride. Boy, was I wrong.

All was well until we hit about 70 mph. Suddenly a loud distress call echoed from the gut of my “mellow” little cat. Mounds of hair filled the air, and our eyes and mouths. She was frantically searching for a way to escape. We finally arrived at Hollywood Video, and this is when the full-blown panic attack set in.

She started to pace, still emitting the distress call. No petting or talking could calm her down. She began to wheeze and pant like a dog. By the time we got half way home, Rey and I were both convinced she was having a heart attack, which of course translated into me having a heart attack, and the two of us spent the rest of the ride wheezing and panting like dogs. Turns out we both are fine.

The moral of the story? Leave the house cat at the house.

Doing My Best to Accelerate the Aging Process

2007-08-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

I didn’t start getting zits—for lack of a more flattering word—in my earlobes, until about eight months ago. Don’t get me wrong, puberty more than assaulted my face and back with acne. Inside, I’m still that same little girl who was asked by her mom “how [she] could live with all those zits? Then told to, “…try and shave them off with a razor blade.” I’ve had zits on my face, neck, back, chest, arms, legs, even in the mouth on occasion. But the earlobes? Never. Those sacred little ¼” awkward flaps of skin that hang off the side of my face have always been off limits, or so I thought.

My first earlobe zit, or “poisonous boil” as I referred to at the time, was a major ordeal. For a week, I was convinced that if I even looked in the direction of the swell, it would spew a poisonous stream of venom into my veins that would kill me, or cripple me for life if I was lucky.

But, it’s been a long eight months since that poisonous boil, and somewhere along the line, I came to love these little inner-earlobe zits. Disgusting I know, but as soon as I feel that little round mass starting to grow, my mouth begins to water, literally.

I long for the snap that emits from my lobe when I squeeze that pussing mass. I love to pop those little fuckers so much that I habitually tug and squeeze at my earlobes throughout the day. All day. Every day. At the rate I’m going, and assuming I make it to forty-five, my earlobes will be hanging to my knees.

And as a side note, if after reading about this disgusting compulsion you decide to never visit my blog again, I completely understand.

Truth be Told

2007-08-02T10:29:00.001-07:00

The problem is not that there are problems. The problem is expecting otherwise and thinking that having problems is a problem.
-Theodore Rubin

Blah

2007-08-01T19:07:00.000-07:00

I have no interest in anything anymore. Not my blog, (as you can see). Not exercise. Not work. Not alcohol. Not food. Okay food, but only Mexican. And TV too, but just the Six Feet Under series, (of which I’ve watched more than forty hours in the last week, so I’m more like obsessed than interested, but who’s counting).

On the hypochondria front, I’ve been battling bowel cancer, but I’ll spare you the details. Also currently on the list are: impending liver failure, heart problems, imminent death by anesthesia, and brain tumor. I wish I could elaborate, but with two seasons of Six Feet Under to go, who has time for death?

Layin’ Off the Booze (Again)

2007-07-31T21:11:00.000-07:00

I stumbled across a lovely little article today. It basically said that a person who drinks one alcoholic beverage a day increases their risk of bowel cancer by ten percent; a person who drinks two alcoholic beverages, increases their risk by twenty-five percent; and me? I fall somewhere between a seventy and ninety percent increase, if my calculations are correct.

Did I mention the odds are already along the lines of 1 in 20 for men, and 1 in 18 for women?

Hence the dilemma, or “new arrangement” as I should call it. In the interest of my beloved bowels, I’m no longer afforded my nightly bottle of wine. The teat is dry. At least for now.

Cloud 4.5

2007-07-26T20:06:00.000-07:00

Loss of breath. Blurred vision. Chest pains. Head pains. Arm pains. Leg pains. Light headedness. Fat tongue. Irregular heartbeat. Trouble swallowing. Involuntary twitching. Sweaty palms. Impending doom. Symptoms I haven’t experienced in months…

I don’t know what triggered it… Busy month? Approaching surgery? Working with a bunch of asshole attorneys and attorney wannabes? Maybe…

I’m still recovering from this afternoon’s anxiety attack. At first, I thought “heart attack.” Then, “stroke.” “Maybe organ failure.” But, I quickly recalled my blood test. My age. My hypochondria. And that nasty little thing called “panic” that plagues me…

Lucinda Bassett would’ve been proud. Despite the “discomfort”—I’d have called it much worse at the time—I somehow managed to “float” through the “symptoms.” And although the aftertaste of the attack is still in my mouth, I grasped pretty quickly, that what I was experiencing (in those terrifying minutes), was a panic attack, not sudden death.

And although I clung to the “panic-handle” above the passenger window the whole way home, I knew inside it was just an attack. And just knowing was a victory. A small victory albeit, but I’ll take ‘em where I can get ‘em.

Now, excuse me while I finish drowning myself in this bottle of chardonnay…

Rubber Band Hand Syndrome

2007-07-25T18:25:00.000-07:00

It started this morning as I sat my desk at drank my Dannon Mixed Berry Light & Fit Smoothie. It hit again as I lazily sifted through my morning emails. And, again as I waited at the copier. This sensation has followed me relentlessly throughout the day; the sensation that an invisible rubber band is wrapped so tightly around my wrist that my hand is seconds from exploding.

This can mean only one of two things; either, it’s all in my mind, which is highly unlikely, or, I have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Either of which undoubtedly means that my body is in an advanced state of decay and I’ll die in surgery next month.

Truth be Told

2007-07-25T08:53:00.000-07:00

You must never regret what might have been. The past that did not happen is as hidden from us as the future we cannot see.
-Richard Martin Stern

T Minus 26 Days and a Wake Up

2007-07-24T20:17:00.000-07:00

As of 11:00 a.m. this morning, I’ve officially committed to having half of my throat lopped off. I met with an Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist who kindly informed me that I have one tonsil growing the wrong way, (into my neck), and another tonsil that’s equally as large, as it is damaged.

The surgery—which is scheduled to take place in just under a month—is gonna cost me three hundred and fifty bucks, two weeks of bed rest, and supposedly fifteen pounds. If the last part is true, the money and time will have been more than well spent.

I’m pretty much terrified. Not only for the obvious reason, that I’m getting my throat carved up like a thanksgiving turkey, but because of the anesthesia. I’m petrified that it’ll kill me, (and the little fact that I’ll only be “out” for forty five minutes gives me no solace). Out is out!

How do I know my habit of excessive alcohol consumption, and recent drug “experimentation” won’t interfere with the anesthesia? Or, even worse, how do I know these extracurricular activities haven’t left my liver in a deteriorated state and unable to filter the “good drugs,” (for those of us D.A.R.E. graduates out there).

So, I’ve got myself something new to worry about, death by anesthesia. This should be an interesting month.

* * *

Editor’s Note: The broken toe I referred to in the last post was a hypochondriac break, which is more akin to a stubbing than an actual break; my apologies for any confusion.

Clown Shoes of a Smaller Size

2007-07-23T18:42:00.000-07:00

I don’t think of myself as clumsy or awkward. Surprisingly, coordination is one of the few subjects in which I score pretty well. I cheerleaded for six years (something I’m humiliated by), played soccer for five, and dabbled my foot in gymnastics here and there. And I wear a size seven shoe, if that’s any testament to my daintiness.

Conversely, my mom once told me my demeanor was similar to that of “a bull in a china cabinet”—she’s so original—but I think her drugs were running low, and we all know first hand how irritable that can make a person. She’s also the same individual who said I can’t sing, so you can pretty much count her out as a grossly unreliable source.

And because you’re probably wondering what all this bullshit, I mean lead up, about my graceful and nimble manner is for; the answer is this: to soften the following sentences:

I broke my toe today. I broke my fragile little pinky toe on my right foot by slamming into a file-cart wheel with my poor, little, unknowing, sandaled toe. I then proceeded to scream, “OH FUCK!” in the middle of my office, as I crashed into the nearby cabinet before falling to the floor to hug myself and rock back and forth in the fetal position until the stars in my peripheral vision disappeared ten minutes later.

The Verdict

2007-07-22T09:51:00.000-07:00

The call came at approximately 11:30 a.m. on Friday. The blood work was "normal." Hallelujah!

Although, now I'm somewhat concerned that they did a half-assed job reading the results. (Welcome to the life of a hypochondriac, I guess).

My face is still swollen, and my neck is still sensitive. I can't get the image of my eyeball bursting, out of my mind. But the blood work was normal, and in the grand scheme of things, I guess that means I'm doing pretty fucking good.

Judgment Day

2007-07-19T20:04:00.001-07:00

“The nurse will call you between 8:00 a.m. and 12:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

I can’t get those words out of my mind.

I keep telling myself that if the blood test had revealed lymphoma, or some other horrible disease, the nurse wouldn’t tell me over the phone. At least I’d hope not. But, I’m completely making that up, because if the blood test really hadn’t revealed anything, my little “you’re okay” postcard from the doctor would be on it’s way to my mailbox as we speak. But instead, I’m getting a call? I’ve never gotten a call regarding a test in my life. I want my postcard!

I’m silently dying over here. I eat, breathe and drink lymphoma. I’m convinced that my face is swollen from the spillage of toxins that my lymph nodes can’t filter. I’m overly sensitive to touch all through my neck and face. I can barely walk.

I’m dying. I know it. Tomorrow it will be confirmed.

Excuse me while I go pray.

Truth be Told

2007-07-19T11:06:00.000-07:00

Your past is important, but it is not nearly as important to your present as the way you see your future.
-Tony Campolo

The Idaho Concern Analysis Report

2007-07-16T14:16:00.000-07:00

I’m alive! I survived a weekend in Idaho with The Beast!

At the suggestion of the charming and witty SA Dave, I have crafted “The Idaho Concern Analysis Report.” This report will reveal why hindsight’s a bitch by addressing and debunking each of the “concerns” I had prior to the dreaded trip.

[Begin Report]

The plane will crash.

This obviously did not happen. But the ride—both there and back—was shall we say, somewhat unpleasant, and not only because of the violent turbulence. I spent the flight there battling the seven-foot giant in the seat next to me for the armrest, and the flight back listening to screaming children while getting kicked through my seat. Those evil little creatures should be banned from planes, movie theatres and all public places.

I couldn’t be happier to have my feet back on the ground in good ol’ 1955.

The car will crash.

The car also did not crash, but that probably would’ve been a welcome relief from my mom’s driving, which involves a detour or pit stop every fifty feet. On the way to the airport, we stopped to get coffee, to tour model homes, to get gas, to drive through a portion of the national forest, to buy lottery tickets and lastly to get McDonalds. Did I say probably would’ve been a relief?

I’ll have some sort of medical emergency while the nearest hospital is more than an hour away.

At one point, I thought I was having a heat stroke, but it turns out that’s just the sensation you experience after being exposed to 103-degree weather for an extended period without air conditioning. Luckily, medical services were not required.

I’ll get lost and stranded in the wilderness, only to end up on “I Shouldn’t Be Alive.”

Rey attempted to drive the jet ski, with me on the back, dangerously close to a dam. Luckily, the voice of reason, from the back of the jet ski, was there to stop him. Although had he got any closer, I probably wouldn’t have lived to make the show.

I’ll be attacked by a grizzly bear.

I didn’t even see a bear, which I’d like to attribute to my preventative measure of leaving my beloved Heavenly and sweet smelling products at home. I did however see several deer and a moose. I also ate venison jerkey. I have no idea what that has to do with bears.

I’ll be bitten by a malaria infested mosquito.

Turns out Rey should’ve been worried about this one. I didn’t get bit once; he got bit at least twenty times, (apparently mosquitoes like the dark meat). He seems to be okay, aside from the swelling and delirium.

My mom will shoot me.

This was a close encounter. After several drinks on Saturday night, my mom looked at me with a blank stare and said, “I can’t wait ‘till we can all be together—me, you, Tony and Rey—together up there.” Up there! As in up there in heaven!

That little comment pretty much sent me into a hysterical fit. I calmly excused myself and proceeded to the bedroom to barricade the door and cry myself to sleep in the closet. She decided not to send us up there that night.

An intruder will shoot me.

Another no go. But, I did shoot a gun myself, not at anyone of course.

I’ll get in a boating accident.

I think the jet ski/dam incident falls under this category. Although, I did see a spider in the boat, and had I been driving when it showed its ugly little face, it would’ve been a major accident.

My mom will live up to her nickname and be a complete and total bitch.

Turns out, my brother was the one who’d be a complete and total bitch. The first thing he said to me when I got off the plane was, “Man, Leila, you need to lose some weight! You’re getting fat!"

But, The Beast was not to be out done; she managed to insult my character and appearance several times over the weekend. She was mainly concerned with my “plainness” and “lack of style."

Overall, they were not as insulting as I had imagined, and I handled The Beast and Mini-Beast surprisingly well. In the words of Rey, “You like to dish it out as much as they do.” I can only offer that my “dishing” is always done purely in self-defense.

[End Report]