A Buffalo Springfield Kind of Day, For What it's Worth . . .

Tommy and I were talking the other day, and he mentioned a meeting where his then-boss said something about positions opening in D.C., and how he remembered thinking, “This is important. This is where it starts.” I knew exactly what he meant because, back on August 28th of 2011, I experienced the very same sensation. But not in a good way.

You see, I was flat on my back on an examining table, legs up in the stirrups, with someone’s hand inside me when it happened. It went from a happy “let’s get all these routine exams out of the way so we’re going into our insurance-less stretch with a clean bill of health” to “oh, shit, I’m in trouble and I won’t have insurance!” That quick—from all-clear to formerly-comforting voice saying “Hello—hang on. What’s this? Has this always been here?”

“This” is a 7 mm “mass” in the anterior vaginal wall. 7 mm. The size of a pencil eraser, give or take. But that was four months ago, almost to the day. Four months with no follow-up, no further care because we were caught in the limbo of “between insurance” and the new insurance, which took almost three months to kick in, only has one urogynecology office (the other plans had NONE), and that office couldn’t see me until tomorrow. Four months, and I can only hope that it’s still “only” a 7 mm lump. Yes, yes, I did try to see a run-of-the-mill gyno at the mid-way point. You saw how that turned out. Money talks. Broke gets shuffled out of the office sans care in a haze of shame and sadness.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm a step closer to finding out if this is a urethral diverticulum, cancer, or both. Yes, it can be both—a malignancy could be found within a diverticulum, it’s not uncommon. And up there, where the vaginal wall and the urethra are in such close quarters? Even a small cancer can be a disaster. A life-altering, piss-into-a-bag-for-whatever-time-you-have-left kind of disaster. Could it be something totally benign in the truest sense of the word? It could, but I have urinary symptoms. A feeling of pressure, a sensation of something impinging. And that, my friends, takes “oh, it’s nothing” right off the table. It’s absolutely something.

In addition to the terror of what they might find (and it is terror, no matter how cool I might play it), there’s the competing horror of what they’re going to do to me to find out what this is. This is going to be beyond humiliating. Devastating is a more accurate term.

And then there’s the money. Copays, deductibles, the mad scrambling, trying to figure out what labs are covered and what procedures require prior approval in order to protect us from a massive, "we won't cover that" hit from the insurance. Stuff I never had to worry about with the old insurance. And we are so broke, this is not what we need right now. We need for this to be nothing. As stupid as this sounds, I find myself wishing that my old doc’s office had missed this “mass.” Because then I would have written the symptoms off to a touch of cystitis. Then I wouldn’t be worried until my next exam, which wouldn’t have been until next fall. Next fall, when the money starts flowing a little easier and we can better afford for me to be a disaster.

I’m 46 years old. I’ve pretty much lost hope that some Secret Santa-type is going to drop ten grand on our heads and save us. Even the 500 dollar pet deposit isn’t happening, and that breaks my heart. I want Sean to have a puppy. And more, I want to see Sean with a puppy. And I am very afraid of what’s going on with me, afraid that maybe I’m not going to get to see that. I’m fat, diabetic, and on heart meds for an arrhythmia—the almost certain surgery I’m facing is a terrifying prospect with potential to go very wrong for me.

That sensation that something small actually signifies the beginning of something very big, that a certain moment will prove to be the start of something life-altering? Yeah, I know that sensation. Too well.

Doctors, Doctors Everywhere . . .

So the move to Virginia has been colored a bit by two things-the fact that we almost bankrupted ourselves to do it and the fact that I had a routine exam go south on me just days before we moved. The money thing, which is scary on so many fronts (including the "if this is cancer, will we have any money at all for any sort of copays or scripts?" angle) is proving difficult to solve because my desire for a year of frugality in order to bail us isn't going over well. It seems to me that, when you're only barely making the bills, it's time to live like you're as poor as you are until things are paid down rather than spend through the last dime, then hope nothing else goes wrong. Better short-term impulse control than long-term poverty.

And the medical thing?

Well, by the time I'll see a doc about it, 16 weeks will have passed since it was discovered. Four months. Have you heard the one about Steve Jobs lately? Decided to sit on his pancreatic cancer for 9 months, trying alternative therapies? Yeah. So I decided to take our fancy letter from the feds that states that, while we have no insurance cards, we are, in fact, insured, and visit a gynecological oncologist early, before my December appointment with the urogynocologist. So I shave my legs and arm pits, gird my trembling loins, and head into the office of a Dr. E. P., a local physician. First, of course, I speak with his billing department to ensure that my letter from FEHB is adequate. I was assured it was.

At the doctor's office? The front desk staff was ridiculing and ugly. You know, with the sidelong glances at each other and repeating back what you've said in sing-songy, disdainful voices. A lot of raised eyebrows and snickering. You know the types--they were the popular, gossipy-girls in high school and never moved beyond that. And then came the wait. An hour and a half, almost, I waited. And watched, as woman after woman limped gingerly through the waiting area and out the doors. Not good. When they called me back, the (much nicer) young lady asked if I needed to go to the bathroom. I said that I had actually intentionally made sure I did, just in case they needed a sample. She smiled, said they wouldn't need a sample from me today, and then led me to the bathroom. I should have known then we had a problem.

When I was led into the amazing Dr. P's office, he shook my hand, and then made a show of shuffling through my records. Then he said that they couldn't accept the FEHB letter and asked if I could fork over cash. Which, of course, would be refunded, should my insurance come through at a later date. I was mortified. Devastated. I asked how much cash. He said that his time was worth 300 dollars for an initial exam/consult. I goggled. He backpedaled and said that $150 was what insurance would usually pay, and he would accept that. He actually told me that, with the economy ruined by President Obama, things are "rough all over." I wonder, are things really as rough from behind the wheel of a brand new Mercedes as they are from a piece of junk, near-10 year old Sonata? As you've read the bit above about the money, you know we don't have $150. Viciously humiliated (and on the verge of tears), I told this doctor so. His response? Maybe I should ask my husband! Yeah, because I wouldn't know if we had the money, silly, scatterbrained female that I am. And hey, maybe hubby's holding out, right? I told him I was certain of our financial situation, but then asked to use his phone to call my husband.

He refused. He refused to let me use his phone. Like I'm some 12 year old in the principal's office or some boulevard rat at Village Inn. Bastard. As I stood to leave, he shuffled my file again and said he was very concerned about my heavy periods. I was taken aback, said, "My periods aren't even in the top ten of gynecological concerns I have right now--besides, they've lightened considerably since I began losing weight." He said, "That may be (?), but they're still a concern." I considered him for a moment, and then said, "Not of yours." He tried to hand me a business card so I could "come back with money or when my insurance problems were worked out." I looked at the card, looked at him, and said, "I won't be needing that."

Understand, I wasn't asking this man for charity. I wasn't asking him for payments. I was asking him to accept a letter from the federal government stating that I do, indeed, have medical benefits through my husband's employer, and that any treatment I receive will be paid for. How tough is that?

I didn't cry until I got to the car. Not so much because of humiliation (though I was humiliated). No, I cried because I am scared to death about this thing, and I had worked up the guts to walk into the office of someone who might well give me devastating news or propose a horrifying and potentially maiming or life-altering solution, and I was turned away. All that courage screwed up and nothing.

It's no surprise that I've got almost constant stomach pain now. Since that day, in fact. I am stressed beyond my ability to communicate it. I am so tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of worrying and considering the possibilities. I wish I could express my feelings fully, but I can't. But I am not unreasonable. I am not paranoid. I am not obsessing any more than any reasonable person in my position would be. Fact is, I get through most days without crying. I get through most days without freaking or lapsing into depressed states. I am sad, though. And I am scared. Think about it--two doctor's appointment co-pays and two more scripts and there goes our "disposable" income. For a month. If that possibility isn't something to fear, I don't know what is.

A small note--I found this asshat physician on Facebook. Turns out he's a deep-sea fishing, yacht loving TEA BAGGER. Suddenly it ALL makes sense.

Half Life

It's been a while since I've written, and things have changed.

Drastically.

The dream of escaping that dinky-assed dustbowl slum? Has come true in a big way. We left Utah on September 3rd, arriving in Prince William County, Virginia September 7th. Just in time for Tropical Storm Lee to kick the east coast's ass. I wish I could say without doubt that it wasn't my fault. But I can't--disaster seems to follow me, precede me, and otherwise all-around associate itself with me. Just a short time before we moved, I was talking to my Utah insurance agent about moving here. She said, "But you've got a hurricane coming!" I laughed and said, "Sure, we may have to dodge the occasional hurricane, but at least we won't have to worry about EARTHQUAKES anymore." Ten minutes later, a major quake hit Virginia.

Me and my big mouth.

So here we are, finally on the east coast. We have cardinals partaking of the feeders out back. We have a flowering dogwood, which I've wanted since I was a girl, right out our front door. It'll spend its fall blazing scarlet, its winter covered with bright berries, and its spring awash in riotous bloom. We have a brilliantly magenta fall-blooming Crepe Myrtle right outside the back gate. We have mourning doves, jays (REAL jays!), sparrows, finches, a squirrel or two, and a SKUNK!

I have a flower garden, already laden with mums and a profusion of tulip, daffodil, and alium bulbs (some a gift from the lovely lady next door).

It's amazing. Been here a month, and we've already taken Sean to the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space in Chantilly, the National Museum of the American Indian, the Air and Space Museum in DC, and to an airshow and the beach in Virginia Beach. What an amazing place, how much happier I am!

There are people I miss in Utah, but I don't long to be there with them. I long for them to be here. Because here?

It's better.

Cheech Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Back in the bad ol' days, before my name was ever on a lease or my feet had ever walked a college campus, I was a bit of a stoner. A wastrel, you could say. Not someone who indulged daily or who lazed about on a stained sofa, giggling stupidly at the TV screen while cramming munchies into my slacker mouth, but someone who was known to partake when the occasion arose.

Those days are so far gone. My stoner life ended 27 years ago, and, while it was certainly fun (or at least funny), I don't miss it a bit. Chemically-induced stupidity is only entertaining for a while before it either becomes second nature or lands your ass in jail. Neither of those were on my top ten list, you know?

So, imagine my surprise when, yesterday afternoon, I find an envelope tucked in my door. From our apartment complex property manager, no less. The letter enclosed came exactly one nut hair shy of openly accusing us of smoking pot in our apartment.

Us. Smoking pot. If you knew us, even a little, you'd know just how utterly ridiculous the idea is. Our faces positively ache with how clean our noses are, and not only do we not smoke weed, we don't hang out with people who smoke weed. The strongest substance in this house, since the Vicodin for my back poofed without a trace last month (and wasn't replaced--I haven't taken anything stronger than Advil for the back in a year) is--well, Advil. Oh, and Nyquil. That pretty much covers our cache of "hard-core drugs" in the place. I know, how boringly domestic of us.

Anyway, letter. I call the office, no one home. I leave a scathing message that I delete before "making permanent." Glad I did. Brushed my teeth, changed out of the super-baggy sweats, and headed to the office. No one there. Wound up waiting a half-hour for the manager to return. I was sure the report had come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us, but no. It turns out it was a general "I smelled pot smoke in my bathroom" complaint that, according to the manager, did not come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us. In fact, it turns out she handed out multiple copies of the letter--one to each unit that in any way shares a border/wall/floor with the bathroom in question. It was a friendly meeting, throughout which I stressed that we do not smoke pot, we do not entertain folks who smoke pot, and that our goal in apartment life is to be invisible. We want to be the folks known as "The nice, friendly, quiet folks in 101 who don't make trouble and always pay their rent on time."

While I can laugh now, I'd be lying if I said that the letter didn't initially knock the wind out of me. See, on the 3rd of July, those loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards had a heck of a party. One that became increasingly loud until, at quarter to midnight or so, it hit an unbearable pitch of angry shouting and wrenching sobs to accompany the blaring music. Understand, the town we live in has a 10 pm noise ordinance. Rather than call the landlord or call the police, I rapped on the wall. Not hard, not with plaster-cracking force, just a light rap. The noise stopped immediately. I hopped in the tub, and, about ten minutes later, was stunned when someone began banging and kicking on our front door. Know that this is a quiet complex, stuff like that doesn't happen. I crept to the bathroom door and opened it, and could hear the very same drunkards yelling and laughing ON MY DOORSTEP.

I was scared to death. But, being the peace-loving girl I am, I didn't call the cops. I thought, "Okay, fine, you got yours, we're even, now it stops." When the letter turned up, I felt certain it was the result of a "spite" tip. You know, your neighbors piss you off so you narc them out on a fabricated drug complaint? But the manager insists that's not the case.

I sure hope not. I don't need that kind of drama in my life. Somewhere along the line, I got old. I grew up and discovered that peace and quiet beats out drama any day.

If I die, blame the baggers

As the debt ceiling approaches and the idiot bagger Congress makes more and more "ride her over the cliff" noises, the more utterly and completely stressed I get. The more I fear what's to come for us. The more I fear that the mythic east coast job will never materialize because these assclowns are too busy with their political posturing and masturbatory self-satisfaction to do anything more than try to bring down the Presidency. Obama is holding "the elderly and soldiers hostage as human shields?" What do you bastards think you're doing with federal employees and the poor?

This isn't political for me--this is PERSONAL. If they decide to carry their agenda to its sickening climax, not only does the new job go away, but my husband also winds up working for free indefinitely in his current position. Oh, yeah, that's what that means--he still has to go to work every day (because he's non-bargaining), but he doesn't get paid until and unless these freaks get back on track. It would only take us five months to eat through every dime of savings and available credit, and that's if we lived beyond frugally.

Yeah, that's moving money.

I look back to the last days of President Clinton. Back to when Alan Greenspan was "concerned that the United States was paying its debt back too quickly." And I want to cry. Those hopeful, positive, constructive days of fiscal responsibility are gone. I remember when former President G.W. Bush offered "tax rebates." My husband and I goggled, said to each other, "Oh, NO--and people are going to fall for this, they're going to allow themselves to be bought for a measly 400 bucks!" Indeed. And he tanked our economy, gave us this spectacular debt we have, and, as predicted, most Americans have forgotten that, have magically transferred blame from President Bush to President Obama. Make no mistake--I'm far from happy with our current President. But let's be fair and realistic here--he inherited an economic and political cesspool from the clown who preceded him. I'm not sure what could have been done. While I supported the health care reform (and still do--"you're too poor to deserve treatment" sucks no matter where or who you are), perhaps addressing the economy first would have been a better approach. Or perhaps manning up, having some stones in the face of the baggers would have helped some.  Of course, a show of spine from the democratic majority in the early days might have been even more helpful.

And hey, teabaggers? Remember how it was all about "jobs, jobs, jobs?" Yeah, my husband has one of those jobs. Yes, he is actually an American and a human being, despite your sickeningly disingenuous attempts to paint federal employees as overpaid, corrupt thieves. Well, unless you count Congresspeople as federal employees. Then, I suppose, you might just have a point.

Happy Birthday, or "Why is Kris so Pissed?"

Yes, I said "pissed." You'll get it, read on.

Sunday night, I got a vicious burn/itch/pain in the ol' urinary tract. While I've never had a UTI, as a diabetic I didn't want to mess with it, so I made an appointment with my PA-C. Urine test, blood work. Woman told me I was wrong when I told her how much weight I'd lost ("that's not possible, you couldn't have lost that much"). When I asked her to weigh me, she said she didn't need to--no way I’d lost that much weight. I actually said, "No, really, WEIGH ME." She wouldn't. So I said, "Well, you won't mind if I weigh myself, right?" I weighed myself, and my scale is spot on with hers. Which means I've lost the weight I said I've lost. Anyway, that's not the issue. She looked at my urine lab work and said, "No bacteria, no leukocytes, you don't have an infection." She literally sings the praises of my wonder-urine. Sends me home with a worthless script for phenazopyrid, which didn't do a damned thing about the burn, but did turn my urine a lovely color.


Today, I manage to reach her office to fetch the results of my blood work (after six tries--they don't believe in answering phones or returning calls). She won't talk to me (though she's sitting right there, telling the assistant what to say), but her assistant lets me know that my A1c is down from 6.9 to 5.7. In two months. But no, I’m lying about the weight loss.


After hanging up, I take a nap because I haven't been sleeping well. I wake up with a wowser pain, starting in my lower back toward the hips and radiating up and forward, settling viciously right over my lower abdomen and bladder. I call my PA-C's office, only to discover she's already left for the day. Early. So I make an appointment with another PA-C, and, with an agonized shuffle, head to the clinic. The first thing I'm told? I'm someone else's patient, so they're probably going to refuse to see me. I goggled, I was stunned. Then the receptionist leans forward and says, "Don't you let them turn you away. You MAKE them see you." My fear, of course, is that I have kidney stones, and I am in agony--even if you can't fix the stones, fix the pain, please! They tell me to wait, and I walk away, actually start to cry. I sit down, Tommy and Sean with me, and Tommy says, “Don’t sweat it, we’ll just go to the damned hospital if they won’t see you here.”


Nurse/assistant for someone else (not the promised PA-C) comes out, and she starts telling me that, while there’s nothing they can actually DO for me, they’ll certainly SEE me if I insist. I insisted. I expressed my concern that it might be kidney stones. This woman says that it can’t be a kidney stone because my urinalysis the day before didn’t show a bacterial infection. I say, “Are you sure there has to be a bacterial infection?” I asked because I know that’s not true—you can have a kidney stone with no infection whatsoever. She insists, and I’m too damned tired and hurting to argue, figure she went to the same school as the “fifty test strips, testing twice a day, should last you 45 days” creature. They grow ‘em stupid out here. So I give a bright orange urine sample to the lab (same tech as yesterday, she actually said, rather sardonically, “Oh, wow. Happy day after birthday, huh?”) Indeed. So then I see the doc (a REAL DOCTOR!) and he sends me down for a CT scan to look for kidney stones after giving me a shot of Toradol. I come back upstairs post-CT, and the Doc comes in and says, “No kidney stones.” Understand, that doesn’t rule out having already passed one. Then he looks at my urine numbers and says, “Well, your PA-C doesn’t seem to have finished her notes here, so I don’t know what antibiotic she’s put you on, but your bacteria numbers are even higher today than we saw yesterday –“


WHAT? According my to PA-C, my “bacteria numbers” were ZERO yesterday, so I was sent home without a script for abx.


So here I am, a week’s worth of Cipro on the desk in front of me, feeling like utter crap while Tommy and Sean have popcorn and sodas at the “Two Towers” showing. If that silly bint had just given me the damned antibiotics YESTERDAY, I would already be 3-4 doses into it and likely feeling a whole lot better than I am right now. I would also not have had to pay ANOTHER co-pay because I wouldn’t have required another visit!



I have never had a UTI in my life. I’ve had the itchy-burnies, but I’ve never had urinary-related radiating, dull, unbearable pain while just sitting (and utter agony on urinating). Two things—first, next time someone says they have a UTI, they have got ALL my sympathy, and second, I am done with my PA-C. All done. Had hoped to hold off until after the move, but I just can’t trust myself to that careless git any longer. Tomorrow morning, I call and ask for my file to be transferred across the hall to my new doctor.

**UPDATE**

That Cipro? From hell, folks. Each dose left me feeling increasingly awful, until, by three days, I truly felt I was poisoning myself with each pill. Nausea, grinding waves of pain in the back, sides, and belly, and a shaky unsteadiness that left me fearing I was going to go down any minute. This is all on the day we were heading out of town for a few days to catch the airshow. I called the new doctor's office (he's actually at the clinic until late afternoon AND his office answers the phone!), and in 20 minutes they had a new script (for Macrobid) waiting at the pharmacy for me. While the 3 hour drive was still rough, I felt mostly fine by the next day. Thanks, Doc!

**UPDATE-ER**

That snotty, awful PA-C?  Wound up getting busted for DUI with alcohol and drugs, evading, reckless driving, and driving left of roadway when prohibited.  And yes, I positively CROWED with joy.  Does that make me awful?  Maybe, but that woman condescended, patronized, was all-around disdainful and, worst of all, careless with my well-being.  Glass houses, Madam PA-C. 

Hope Springs Infernal

I've always been the hopeful type. Many don't realize it, because I'm also a realist. What does that mean? It means I hope my hardest for the best, but I'm rarely suprised when it doesn't happen. That's not to say I'm not devastated by hope's failure--believe me, I am. But I put on a stoic face and, hey, at least I'm not surprised.

Except I am. Even though I fully comprehend and even expect the worst, my secret heart of hearts truly believes that good will come.

How stupid is that?

When I was 15, my mother announced, while we were vacationing in Pennsylvania, that we were moving back to the east coast. Back to Hallstead, our hometown. Back to beloved family, my Aunt and Uncle's Arabian horse farm, and the lazy, sweet, firefly-lit place of my childhood. I was so excited, so eager to return to where my heart had always been.

And then she reneged. She just blah. No reason, no explanation, she just kept putting off and making excuses until finally I realized that it wasn't happening. It had never been a plan, it had been a tale to entertain and impress. This wasn't the first time my Mom had made up a story to enlarge herself or made a big promise with no real intention of living up to her word. No, no--in fact, that's something of a hallmark. It was, however, the first time I was ever devastated by her bullshit. Not the last time, though. Not by any means.

Why am I rambling on about my Mother and her fanciful but faithless tales of wish fulfillment and dreams come true? Because I am so afraid that I'm doing the same thing to Sean--or at least that he will come to perceive it as so. He wants so badly to move back east, to be near the Franklin Institute, the Air and Space Museum, and the ocean. He wants it so deeply that he, like me, like his Daddy, breathes it, eats it, lives the dream of it. But each job that comes up, each opportunity to escape this place and be where we want to be, has fallen through. Hopes dashed time and again. I feel like I'm 15 again, and worse, I feel like my mother, too.

What if it doesn't happen? It's already been three years. What if another three pass and we're still stuck in this dry, dull place? What if five pass? What if we never, ever escape this desolate patch of dust? Poor Sean.

Poor us.

And those beloved relatives my mother promised we'd reunite with? Dead. Bob since 2007 and Helen Jean since March of this year. The Arabian horse farm long gone, the horses dead. But the fireflies are still there . . . for now. Their numbers are reported to be dwindling, though.

You want to hear something shamefully pathetic? For as pessimistic and down as this entry sounds, I am, sadly, brimming with hope. It's scary, how hopeful I am. Why scary? Because the more hopeful I am, the more devastating the fall. Good thing I bounce.

Life's Funny

A year-and-a-half ago, I posted about how my degree, which I had come so close to attaining, had wound up splattered across the dashboard of my '71 Mustang. I had spent so many years accepting that I would never be granted my degree, and then decided to go for it. Sure I had been thwarted, I posted a blog entry detailing my misery.

Well, I got my degree.

That's right--after scrounging about for records verifying my "story," I submitted a formal appeal and was granted my degree. My wonderful husband threw a party for me, and my degree is now hanging on the wall in a nice frame. I am degreed. I are, in fact, edumacated.

I forget that. Often. I'll be sitting in bed, being carried along on a wave of disappointment and despair over my lack of degree when, suddenly, I'll remember! Hey, I DID succeed there!

I'm in the process of losing weight. A lot of weight. My hope? That I'll lose enough that my vicious social phobia will ease and I'll maybe even get myself a part-time job. Don't call me silly for being afraid--read the news, read the research. Heavy women are routinely denied employment, and when they are hired, they're paid less and fired first. Anyone who says different has never been an overweight woman.

In a totally different direction, our months-long quest for new furniture we can't really afford is finally approaching its end. The amazing, wowser, super-chair and ottoman from the Land of Fancitude has come, and it truly is a wonder to behold (our friend Joe said, "That's no ottoman--that's the Ottoman EMPIRE!". It wasn't the chair/ottoman set we'd wanted--that chair, after months of hope and BS, never did come. So we ordered from someone else. More money, but hey, they actually GOT the furniture to us. The sofa and second chair are en route (that's on rooooot, not IN ROWT), and should be here in a week or so. Sleeper sofa, here we come!

Of course, the new furniture has us panicked--my Mother's got to come over SOME time, right? And what are we going to do when she decides she wants to sit on our nice, new furniture? Her running sores and total lack of hygiene completely destroyed her new furniture in the space of a few weeks. What do we do? There's no good way for that to turn out. I guess we drape blankets over the whole mess and hope?

Or maybe we move? That's what I'm hoping for. Tommy's got applications in for positions in DC, and gosh, wouldn't that be amazing? No, it's not Pennsylvania, but it's mighty close, and it will certainly do in a pinch. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please!

Free Association

This and that, this and that. My heart's being a punk, what else is new? Rode the recumbent for 40 minutes anyway. Even though doing so scares the daylights out of me, I don't think it makes much of a difference. If I die, I'll die naked, sprawled out on the floor next to my fancy-assed murder machine. Jim Fixx indeed.

I feel so wrong lately. Edgy, nervous, sad. I buy myself one new outfit in three years, and I feel guilty for it. No, don't look around me for the answer. It's not there. It's inside me. In that thwacking, idiot heart of mine. The words "I don't deserve it" actually passed my lips. What the hell is that all about?

I want. I want a tablet-geegaw. You know, something to fiddle with while I ride the recumbent that may slay me. I use my cell phone, but the display is small and my eyes are worsening. Makes for a whopper headache. Now all I have to do is figure out how to justify a 300 dollar toy when I can't find it in me to feel I deserve new clothes. Dunno.

Planned Parenthood wants to feature me in some advertising thing. Not going to be easy, considering I'm a photo-phobe with one decent outfit that hasn't arrived yet and may not fit. Blah. Seems there's pressure from all sides, doesn't it? Shut up, PP, stop stressing me. I gave you a photo, I gave you my words, you can't have any more of me. I know, that makes me a selfish pile of something, but you know, I can't. That's all. I can barely make my way to a dinner party without collapsing from sheer nervousness. Don't ask me to go on national television. Not happening.

Thinking maybe working out when the heart's messing up does make a difference. Hate this, so sick of it. Seems to get a little worse every month, a little more intense, a little longer lasting, a little less time between bouts. Not good.

I wonder how much the current political climate has to do with my heart being such a disaster? I'm stressed and angry all the time. So tired of rude, stupid people who don't care about other human beings. Who think poor people deserve it, that women should be chaste until marriage, and then stay home playing baby-making machine. People who glorify oppressive, occupying governments and vilify entire races based on the desperate actions of a few. People who think that the answer to all our problems is smacking immigrants and cutting funding to aid programs.

Oh, and the environmental causes. Let's not forget to slash the programs meant to keep our air and water safe and clean.

I'll proof-read this later. I don't feel like it right now. I need out of this state, out of this mindset, and maybe, just maybe, out of this world. No, not like that.