Nothing Good

Well, back to the stupid names thing.  If the urge to name your daughter ANALIS hits, hurt yourself.  Bad, hard.  Before you fill out that birth certificate.

Please, for your daughter's sake.

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Still no word from the landlord.  I find myself okay for a while, and then I remember, and it's instantaneous--my arrhythmia goes nutty, I feel that rollercoaster adrenaline-hit to the chest, and I feel trapped, helpless.  

My mom offered to pull the last three grand of dividend out of her life insurance policy if necessary.  So, of course, my sister wrecked my mom's car.  Same day.  No, not intentionally, but dang, doesn't that just figure?  At least no one was hurt.

Except my ability to relax even a little bit about this.  That took a vicious hit.  

Not THE car, just a representative mock-up

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I'm considering offering online "atheist tarot readings and horoscopes."  For a fee.  I'm not joking, why not?  Make it clear right up front, "This is for entertainment purposes only" and "your future misforetold by a real, live atheist!"  Provide photos of the card layouts and everything.  

Hey, I'd pay five bucks for that.  If I had five bucks.  

Gorgeous picture, I've linked it back to the site where I found it.

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Ever have a friend you really love, you adore, and you know is a total racist?  Not a racist like "lynch 'em/no race traitors/papers please," but rather of the "I LOVE my Mexican homies/I'm not a racist, I know ALL blacks aren't . . . " variety.  You know, the kind who makes sure everyone knows he's not a racist because, look, here's another picture of him slamming back a cold one with his black friend?

Yeah.

Well, I have one of those.  We've been friends for decades, since junior high, really.  And last night, he posted a picture.  A meme.  And it was breathtakingly racist.  So bad that I literally gasped.  I called my husband in, and the first thing he said was, "He must have been hacked, no way he'd post that!"

Except he WOULD post that, and I know it.  He'd post it, and he'd argue strenuously that it's not racist, it's just funny, lighten up, you-know-me-I'm-no-racist.

It was terribly disappointing, and I stared at the post for a good 20 minutes, trying to decide what to do.  I mean, this is my friend and I love him.

And he's a racist.

In the end, I settled on asking, "Hey, dude, did you get hacked?"  I got no answer, and I already know the answer, but I'm hoping that communicates my shock.  Another friend came in with, "Wow, seriously?"  And now?

Now the post appears to be gone.  I'd like to think the post is gone because he's come to the sudden and sharp realization that the meme was utterly racist.  More likely, he didn't realize that posting it on his kid's wall would make it show in the feeds of all his friends.

No, that doesn't matter, but if you have to be a racist, at least be a sensitive one, right?

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Following the story of a 64 year old atheist woman who's been in the U.S. legally for better than thirty years.  She's shooting for citizenship, but, when she answered on the paperwork that she's a conscientious objector who wouldn't take up arms for this (or any) country (remember, she's 64 years old), she was told that only believers can object to war on moral grounds, and that she has until Friday to join a church or see her application for citizenship denied.

"Join a church or go away."

Wow, welcome to 'Murrica!

Pet Mold and Other Such Things

So, when I was a kid, we used to drink a lot of apple cider.  You know, the old-fashioned stuff that came in the giant glass jug.  One day, as I was about to pour a glass, my Dad noticed a speck of something floating in the cider.  This speck, it turned out, was the tiniest little bit of mold.  As something of an experiment, we decided to keep the mold rather than wash it down the kitchen sink.

The mold, which was soon dubbed "Marty," thrived.  In fact, it wasn't long before Marty had slurped his joyous way through all the remaining cider.   It was at that moment our little experiment took a rather sickening turn.  When asked whether or not we were okay with letting Marty starve, my sister and I adamantly rose to Marty's defense.

No!  No, Marty  must be fed!  Anything less would be positively cruel!

Not Marty, but quite possibly a relative

And so the weekly feedings commenced.  My mother, of course, wasn't so happy about this new addition to the family.  In fact, she was downright horrified.  She would storm from the room at feeding time.  Small wonder--when Marty's bottle was opened, the deep sucking, hissing noise was immediately followed by a smell.

A stench.

We would all laugh (except for my Mom, who, as I said, would rush away) and shove in pieces of bread and dribblings of juice (and once, notably, a scoop of ice cream), then seal Marty up again to slowly but inexorably devour his culinary delights.  I don't recall how long this went on--months, probably.  I was only eight or so, so my grasp of elapsed time isn't so great.  What I do remember?

How it ended.

It ended with Marty's bottle cracking.  My Dad told us that Marty had gotten too big and too muscular for his home.  I believed it then, believed Marty had cracked the jar in an attempt to break free.  Looking back, I think it more likely that my mother, who was forever "accidentally" breaking things and slamming things about when angry, gave Marty a good kick in hopes of busting him up and winding him up in the trash.

When the crack was discovered, my Dad proposed taking Marty, cracked bottle and all, out to the dump and "setting him free."  My Dad went on and on about how happy Marty was going to be, how he was going to have the whole dump's worth of tasty treats at his . . . sporetips.

It's a fun memory.  Most folks would probably be horrified, I know.

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I want to take a moment to talk about "Hospitalists."  It's a relatively new term to me, I guess maybe I'd have called them "Internists" or "Staff Physicians" in the way-back,  but now they are called "Hospitalists."  And I haven't got a lick of use for them.

I've had three experiences with "Hospitalists," and each one has, to be blunt, sucked.

My first?  I was admitted to St. Ben's (or Ogden Regional, as it's been known for years now) complaining of chest pains.  Now, I get a lot of chest pains, but this one was new and different.  I hit the ER, and the ER physician (Dr. Joan B., a wonderfully skilled practitioner) smacked me with more baby aspirin and hooked me up with a 12 lead EKG.  They found nothing in the ER, but admitted me and ordered a Cardiolite Stress Test, which comes with TWO fancy 64 slice CT scans for my enjoyment and future increased cancer risk.  Before sending me down for the stress test, a "Hospitalist" came into my room and, looking at my chart, said (in a rather unpleasant, accusatory tone), "I see on your EKG clear evidence of a previous heart attack."

BAM!  If that doesn't wake you up, huh?

I told him I'd had no heart attacks, but he told me that "EKGs don't lie."  Told me that, just because I didn't think I'd had one didn't mean I hadn't.  He was, overall, amazingly unpleasant and had that "omnipotent physician" thing going on.  You know the one--where he knows everything, including everything about you, and you're just stupid and slow and dull and maybe, just maybe, a liar, to boot?

This was seriously unsettling.  A heart attack?  I was 43!  When had I had a heart attack?

A while later, down in the "nuclear medicine" department, I allowed them to hook me up with a 15 or so pound harness with about a Brazillion (you know the joke--how many is a Brazilian?) leads.  They started the nasty IV that left me slogging on that treadmill like I was trying to jog through cement.  Afterwards, I asked the Cardiologist who was looking at my feeds, about the "clear evidence of a previous heart attack."  He said, "What?" and really rooted around, examining every inch of feed.  He looked up and said, "I see clear evidence of an irregular heartbeat, which we already knew about--who said you'd had a heart attack?"  I told him.

He rolled his eyes.  He practically sneered.  And then he said, "Perhaps the 'Hospitalists' should do whatever it is they do and leave the Cardiology to the Cardiologists."

I've since discovered that irregular heartbeats often trigger the "previous heart attack" flag in automated software meant to interpret EKG results.  It's not a mistake a Cardiologist would make.

My second "Hospitalist" disaster (Hospitalistsaster?) came that same hospital stay, though it was a different practitioner.  The woman wanted to put me on a particular medication for my arrhythmia. I refused, told her I was concerned about the possibility of inspiring a secondary, competing arrhythmia.  She told me that she was bound to inform my insurance company that I had refused recommended treatment, and that I faced the possibility of my insurance refusing to cover my expenses as a result.  She then told me that I was foolish to worry about such a thing, that the situation I feared was only a risk in folks with both PVCs and PACs (that's premature ventricular contractions AND premature atrial contractions).  Which is EXACTLY what I have going on.

I lost all cohesion.  I asked her if there was any particular purpose to that file in her hands?  Was it just a PROP, did she even know how to read?  Because if she DID know how to read and she HAD used my medical file for more than just set dressing, she'd know that I DID, in fact, suffer from both PVCs and PACs,.

Oddly, my insurance was never told that I had "refused recommended treatment."

Stupid, lazy people.

I will give my third "Hospitalist" credit.  While the same "automated EKG interpretation" hung us up again (this time immediately pre-surgery last spring), he DID listen when I said, "Ah, yeah--we've been through this, it's a thing that happens when the software meets my arrhythmia."  While he didn't believe that his precious software could be wrong, he did accept that I was aware and had discussed the issue with a Cardiologist.  Not the best of responses, and not the most encouraging (I like my medical folks to be open to new information and willing to learn/research an issue), but certainly better than what I got from the other two.

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One last thing?  I just want to say a little something to my former teacher turned Congressman.  Hey, pal?  Don't do that--don't call people and chew them out for asking you why the House can't get its act together on the sequester.  Don't be that ass.  That young man wrote to you because YOU are HIS REPRESENTATIVE.  I know, that concept is likely far beyond you (representing a common person?  I know, right!), but that's the fact of it.  Do NOT tell him that he should call Harry Reid (who is NOT his representative) and chew him out, don't tell him that he needs to write you again and be polite.  He was polite--you were the one lacking in manners there.  And hey?  Repeating, over and over, "Don't rag on me" is NEVER the appropriate response when a constituent asks you for an explanation of your behavior.  You owe an apology.  Heck, you likely owe thousands of them, but if you're still the same smug, self-aggrandizing prig you were when I knew you in school (and you are, I see the interviews, I read the news), you'll never apologize.  I can only hope that you're right and I'm wrong on the whole afterlife thing.  

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And now?  I know, it's not bad paneling, but it just SO caught my eye, it's SO awful, I had to share!

Enjoy (?)

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

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.

Be Still My Heart

Yes, I’ve been letting the blog slide. I’ve been cranking out a couple thousand words a day since December 2nd, and writing for recreation has taken a back seat.

I’ve jotted down a gaggle of ideas for my blog, but right now the only thing going through my head is my miserable heart. More specifically, this damnable irregular heart beat that has me so freaked it’s hard to think of anything else.

The whole arrhythmia thing started back in 2001 or so. I was exercising a lot, and had lost around 70 pounds (don’t worry, I gained it all back and ten of its friends). I smoked a LOT back then, and ingested rather astounding quantities of caffeine. When the “palpitations” started, I was a bit floored. See, I was born with a congenital heart problem, so to have my heart suddenly go nuts on me was a scary proposition. Being me, I tried to ignore it, but after four days (yes, DAYS) of increasing discomfort, panic, and pain, I wound up in the emergency room. The INSTANT I hit that ER, the problem resolved itself. No kidding. I threw exactly ONE PVC in the four hours I was hooked up.

Do I have to tell you how embarrassed I was, what with all those ER docs and nurses raising their brows and blinking in my direction? One doctor muttered something about taking magnesium supplements, and that was that.

I had zero problems for over six months, and then came another bout of PVCs. Those are “Premature Ventricular Contractions” for anyone wanting to know. It means a little part of my heart is jumping the gun and contracting before it should, which leaves it playing a little game of catch up. It’s an incredibly unnerving sensation. My new bout found me staying home, steadfastly refusing to go to the ER again. I cut back on the smokes, ditched the caffeine (a ditching that became permanent), and after two days, things mellowed out again. For about six months.

The next swarm? Astounding! I lasted five days before I was finally so terrified that I went to the ER again. And again, the instant I walked in, the PVCs STOPPED. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—on the one hand, GOOD! I’m glad they stopped! On the other? Well, once again I look like a contender for Miss Hypochondria. Isn’t my insurance company going to start raising a stink? After all, these hospital visits ain’t cheap.

My third ER visit came yet one more year later. I’d been suffering through the PVCs every few months, but once again, they hit a fever pitch that couldn’t be ignored. And once again, they jumped ship as I walked into the ER. Try, for just a moment, to imagine how incredibly humiliating and frustrating this was.

After two more years of three or four times a year patches, I had another beaut (about six months after quitting smoking, in fact). But instead of going to the ER, I went to the local clinic. They hooked me up to a portable EKG, and the tech said, “Wow, that can’t be fun!”

What? Someone can SEE this? Hallelujah!

The clinic physician came in, watched the EKG readout for a few minutes, whistled, and told me that we’d talk after they unhooked me. He handed me a folder with my EKG readout, and told me he’d made an appointment with a cardiologist for the next afternoon. That, of course, panicked me worse than anything else—I must be terminal if I scored a NEXT DAY appointment with a cardiologist!

Next day found me still heart-skippy and miserable, sitting in the cardiologist’s office being rigged up to a Holter monitor. Yes, it is HOLTER, not halter. Named after Dr. Norman J. Holter. No, I’m not making that up. I was given a little notebook and a pencil, and told to push the button on the monitor every time I felt a THWACK in my chest, then write down what I was doing and what time it was. I had to wear this thing for 48 hours. I was then to return to the office, let them remove it, and they’d let me know where we would go from there.

That’s 48 hours without bathing. Nasty.

I did everything I normally do (except bathe). I even rode my incumbent stationary bike for 45 minutes each day. The only problem I had was the whole “push the button/make the note” thing—see, I was having palpitations so frequently that I’d have five more while I was writing about the first one.

The day I dropped off my Holter monitor, they did an echocardiogram. That’s an ultrasound, minus all the cooing and blushing. The echo looked great, they said. What a pretty heart!

Two days later, they called back—all the information had been sent back to the clinic, and I was to call them and make an appointment for a follow-up. Hmmm. What does that mean? I don’t need help, or they can’t help?

Made my appointment and staggered in. The doctor said that, according to the Holter results, I was tossing out around 3500 PVCs a day. A few PACs (those are Premature Atrial Contractions) thrown in to keep things interesting. Almost none while sleeping, which I thought (and still think) was supremely unfair. I was horrorstruck, but the doctor smiled and said, “3,500 isn’t really anything to be concerned about—we don’t really start to worry until you top 10,000, and we’ve got some folks who pop with 35,000 a day.”

What does that MEAN?

Well, in a nutshell it means “idiopathic arrhythmia.” No underlying pathology, everything looks lovely, so sorry, sucks to be me. When I asked what could be done about it, the doctor shrugged and said, “Well, that depends. The aggressiveness of treatment really depends upon your ability to put up with it.”

Huh?

Turns out that some PVCs respond pretty well to Beta Blockers. Some don’t. Some respond fairly okay to Calcium Channel Blockers. Some don’t. Some can be eradicated via ablation. Some can’t. And some freak out when faced with Beta Blockers or Calcium Channel Blockers and create the emergence of a second, competing arrhythmia, a condition called a "proarrhythmia." This is more common in women. It’s more likely to occur in someone like me with PVCs and PACs. It can be fatal, and it's not something I’m eager to flirt with.

And it turns out that my irregular heartbeat isn’t likely to kill me any time soon. Go online and search the hundreds of cardio forums. Millions of people live with this, millions deal with it on a daily basis. As time has passed and the frequency of spates has gradually increased, I’ve become one of those millions of daily sufferers. If I get a two week break, I count myself lucky these days.

So I opted to let it do its thing. And it does, pretty frequently and sometimes, like tonight, pretty scarily. I’ve had the old ticker looked at since, including shambling through 20 hours of continuous in-hospital monitoring, a “Cardiolite” stress test, and two 64 slice CT scans (Is that you, Cancer? Hi! How are you? Yep, yep, see you in a few years!). My heart looks perfect.

Utterly flawless.

So why am I’m sitting here with pains in my chest and shoulder blade? Why am I suffering PVCs so intense it feels like I’ve got no normal beats going on at all? My heart feels as though it’s squirming in my chest, and I can feel myself ramping up to a full blown panic attack. What's that you say? Get to the hospital? I don’t think so—felt like this four nights ago, felt like it a week ago, felt like it three weeks ago, too. When that BIG ONE comes, I’ll totally miss all the warning signs, because I experience them half the time, anyway.

Wow, look at me whine! I know, I need to learn to relax. I need to meditate, take up yoga, and learn to let go what I can't fix. I'm a "stresser," and stress makes this worse. So does focusing on it. But you try having your heart dancing a tango in your chest and then take a shot at relaxing. Go ahead, try to ignore it. It’s a lot easier said than done.