Monday, January 30, 2012

Sharing is Caring.

Especially when it comes to germs, in our house. Both of my boys have croup, something I remember having been called "The Croup" when I was a child. It's a mild case: no fever, barking cough only at night, hoarse voice during the day.

The croup is actually a monster that works its way into your child's respiratory system. It looks like this in the head: 


And it has a wormlike body, so it can wiggle all the way up through its throat and produce mucous that they hack up as they bark like a seal. That's Mr. Croup. Right up there.

In addition, we've also found out Hank has to have surgery. If he were older, I'd keep it to myself for fear of embarrassing him. It's on his boy parts. Part of the skin around the tip of it has grown together, and they have to cut it apart. What he has is something called penile adhesion. We noticed it a couple of months ago, and I kept meaning to call the doc and never did.

When I finally got up to calling, he'd developed croup, so it seemed fortuitous that we went. Harry had it, too, so I'm glad I had them there together. I think I have a touch of it as well. I have that hoarseness and difficulty breathing.

I'm nervous about Hank having surgery. He'll have to be put under general anesthesia, which bothers any mother of a young child, I'm sure. It'll also be quite a financial burden on us. I'm overly worried about that. Hoping we get money back from the government this year on our income taxes so we can pay for it that way.

Life just stays interesting around this joint, doesn't it?

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Why are there so many bad medical professionals in the world?

I use the term professional loosely. See cartoon below.

As most of you know, before I got pregnant with the twins, I was a relatively healthy person. I had some back pain, but it wasn't yet unbearable. I rarely got colds. I got the flu once a year and kind of looked at it like a tradition. It sweated all the toxins out of my body. I didn't get tired easily, and I ran around and did what I needed to do from day to day. I'd never had a surgery.

Getting pregnant with the twins changed everything, from day 1. I had horrible morning sickness, sometimes leaving me bedridden. I found an excellent OB, and I loved the staff he had in his office. Not having had to have dealt with many doctors before (only with my OB with Mitch, really, and he and his staff were pretty great, aside from the head nurse who was really pushy about breastfeeding), I didn't know what a great find I'd come across. Dr. Cox was brilliant. He remembered my name. He remembered I was having twins. He remembered my husband's name. His nurse remembered all of this, too. And when the day came for me to deliver, I showed up for my 6:30 a.m. ultrasound appointment, obviously in labor, and still sat through the ultrasound. The tech took me up to the office in a wheelchair and snagged Dr. Cox, who immediately came to my aid. He said, wheel her on to the hospital (the buildings were connected by a tunnel, how cool is that?) and by 10:45, Dr. Cox and his partner were cutting my babies out of me.

My babies were 7 pounds each at 35 weeks, so it was expected that carrying them would cause me pain. Having 14 pounds of baby in you hurts. Looking back, what happened to me during that pregnancy should have clued me in to what I think is wrong with me now, what's been wrong with me all along, what's caused my hip pain that I've had most of my life, my shoulder pain and my pelvic pain, my finger pain and even the pain in my feet and knees. All of these areas are where major joints are located. More on that later. What happened during my pregnancy is that the ligaments and bones became detached in my pelvis, causing extreme pain. Like nothing I've ever felt before. It was such bad pain that my doctor put me on Darvocet for the last six weeks or so of my pregnancy. He warned me not to take it very often or the babies could become addicted, as it was an opiate. So I took as little as possible, and he said with the amount of refills I had, I was doing fine.

Pretty much every woman who's had a baby in a hospital knows that the nurses in the recovery unit suck. I don't know if they get tired of new mothers whining about how much they hurt or what, but they're mean. And nasty. Up to that point in my life, the labor and delivery nurses in the recovery ward were the only really bad medical professionals I'd really met. I had some particularly nasty ones with the twins. One was too fat to wear scrubs, so she wore a scrub-like dress. waddled in and out and scolded me for not wanting to keep Hank in the room with me overnight (Harry was in the NICU for our entire stay, but he went home with us the same day we all went home). I told her she was rude and the reason I didn't want Hank in the room with me was because I had twins, and I was about to have to go home and take care of two newborns without too terribly much help, so I wanted to get my sleep in while I could. The next time I called her for pain meds, she took almost an hour getting to me. When I asked her why, she said, "Well, I was in the nursery taking care of YOUR baby," with an ugly sneer. Seriously? What a nasty human.

So I went home. With the pain meds they gave me. I found out shortly, that like most of the pain meds I'd been given in my life, they didn't do me much good. The way I have to take pain medication is save it up and take large quantities instead of taking small quantities over a lengthy period of time. So I don't have pain control for the entire period of time it's needed. I've explained this to countless medical professionals, and NONE has offered to help me. None has offered to help me figure out WHY this happens. None has offered to give me a stronger medication than Vicodin, or something without Tylenol so I'm not hurting my liver.

So I'm sick of it. I'm tired of it. I'd been planning to talk to my pain management specialist about it tomorrow. I see her once every three months, so I'd been planning on it for a couple of months. I figured this surgery was going to take me out and cause me a lot of pain and that I wouldn't be able to control the pain. But today, oh, today, and yesterday, two medical assistants made me contemplate assault and murder.

I'm not a snob. If you've gone through a few months or a year and become a medical assistant and have a certification instead of a degree, that's fine. You've done something good for yourself and are making better money for your family than if you'd been waiting tables. I have friends who do that kind of work and family, and they're sweet people.

These two women took it upon themselves to tell me they knew more about my medication than I did. I have no idea what's taught to a medical assistant when he or she goes through school, but I've been dealing with medication in my own life for about 20 years. For someone my age, that's a long time. I know they have no way of knowing that, but I told them. I told them I have a condition that causes chronic pain, therefore it takes more pain medication to ease my pain and nothing makes my pain go away completely, at least that I've found. The first one I talked to told me I was wrong. That if I took two Vicodin, it would completely get rid of my pain and if i took three it was just because I wanted to get high. I told her she was being ridiculous. That on my bad back days I took far more than that. I won't say how much because it's unwise to put that online. But there's obviously some condition my body has that doesn't process medication normally. It's not just me building up a tolerance, either. It's been like this from the first time I took a pain pill and it did nothing. Doctors have to give me quadruple or quintuple of the sedatives they use to sedate me. Anesthesia in normal doses doesn't work on me, and when I come out of it, I jump right up and put my clothes on and say, 'Let's go."

The point of al of this is that I called on Monday to ask my surgeon's office to refill my pain meds. They gave me 40 Vicodin. Before the surgery, I told the surgeon that I have an extremely high tolerance to medication and the pills don't do me much good in small doses. He said he wished he could do more but since I was already under pain management, he could only give me 40 pills and had to write the script to take 1-2 pills every 4-6 hours, but he wanted me to take two pills every four hours. I told him that was fine. He said if you're still in pain after they're out, call the office and ask what to do about a refill and also describe your pain to ensure that what kind of pain you're having is normal. Honestly, I'm used to surgeons being assholes, honestly, and he wasn't.

When I called the doc's office, I was trying to tell the medical assistant all of this and her words were, "Making up all of these stories won't get you more drugs." Seriously? I mean, no doctor has ever taken me seriously with this, but that's rude, and I'm pretty sure unethical. I mean, who says that to a patient who's just had surgery? So I said, look, I'm telling you, I took the meds like Dr. X said, and I'm following his instructions, and you're being really rude. Can you just talk to him, please? This was Monday morning. She said, he won't be in until tomorrow afternoon, so you'll have to wait.

Am I missing something here?

I've had my guts cut open. The gas hasn't gone away, and it's causing me a ton of pain. One of my incisions looks infected. I'm running a fever all the time. I'm exhausted, and I need time to heal. I'm one of those people who believes that if you're in extreme pain it delays healing.

After a beat, I said, "Look, I'm not making up any stories, all I"m asking you to do is to ask Dr. X if I can have a refill because that's what he told me to do. I'm thinking you fancy yourself a gatekeeper, but it's not your job to pick and choose who gets through to the doctor. It's your job to take the messages and get them to him, so do that, ok?"

She said, "Well, he's in surgery a lot, so I don't even know if I can get him." And then she hung up.

I was pretty pissed, but I had enough pills to last me through to the next day, so I let it go for that day.

The next day, I called again and got the receptionist on the phone. This was yesterday. The receptionist said, "Didn't you call yesterday a couple of times?  And they still haven't taken care of you? You poor thing! You sound just awful. You must feel awful.." Pretty sad when the receptionist has a better bedside manner than the medical "professionals".

She passed me on to Thing #1's cohort. Thing #2 was no better. I told her what had happened and she said,, "Why are you trying so hard to get more drugs? You shouldn't have gone through 40 pills so fast. These are the strongest strength and you can't take them that fast."

I then related my entire spiel about my tolerance to her. She said the same thing about making up stories to get more drugs. I was just in shock. I told her I had half a mind to report both of them to... someone. I don't know who you report medical professionals to. But I may find out. I told her she needed to find a solution fast, or I was about to get in my car and drive - something that wasn't safe for me right now because I was having stabbing gas pains, causing me to tense up and jerk my hands around - to their office and sitting outside the doctor's office until he showed up, at which point I would tell him what the two of them had said and done to me.

She said she would try to call the doctor while he was in surgery and ask him if they could give me a refill. I kid you not, she called back in less than five minutes, telling me that the doctor approved the refill and they' be calling it in immediately. She sounded really humbled and embarrassed. My guess is Dr X told her off when she called, and she wasn't expecting it.

Her mistake was assuming every patient is the same. You just can't do that. I'm not in the medical business, and even I know that. All humans are different. How hard is that to understand? This surgeon was exceptional. Most surgeons are assholes. If I have to have any other general surgery in the future, I really want to use him, but in my follow-up appointment next week, I want to make sure to let him know that his staff were really rude. Just the two of them. And I want to make sure to let him know his receptionist was amazing, although I think she was working for the entire practice, not just him. And she may be one of many, although I caught her on both days I called, so maybe she is the only one. I intend to find her and let her know how much I appreciate her kindness.

Friday, January 13, 2012

My holy underwear make me a bad mom.

If you've been following what's been going on with me lately, you know I had surgery two days ago to have an implant put into my torso that will help my digestion issues. It has already helped, and I'm thankful for the surgery and the technology that allowed me to have the Enterra implant.

Moving forward. We keep a key in a lock box outside our house with a special code so Mitchell can get into the house when I'm either incapacatated because of my health or gone at a doctor's appointment. Unfortunately, I have multiple health issues that keep me from being there every day to let him in the house, and if I'm off in another part of the house stuck in the bathroom, I don't feel comfortable leaving the front door unlocked, hence the lock box.

Today, I was exhausted. I was up all night last night and the night before in pain because I don't like to take pain meds at night. I wanted a nap this afternoon, so I needed to take the key outside to put it in the box so he could get inside in case I was still asleep when he got home. 

Holy Underwear, Batman! I wore mine outside to put the key in the box.


I was in bed when he got home. He asked to go to watch TV in our den. I said sure.

Ten or so minutes later, there came an insistent knock at the door. I was scared because of the guy who pulled the gun on me last week. I slowly and carefully got out of bed and hollered for Mitch not to go get the door because I didn't know who it was. The knock kept getting louder and more insistent. I kept hollering to hold on that I was coming. I was trying to get a pair of shorts on but it was hurting because of my incisions. 

I finally got a pair of low-slung shorts on. I hobbled to the front door and saw three men in what looked like Sheriff's Deputy uniforms. I cracked open the door and asked them for ID. They wanted to know why. I told them that I had been mugged down the street the week before and I was wary of people I didn't know. They said they were Sheriff's Deputies. I said that was all well and good, but I needed to see ID. They finally relented and showed me some, so I opened the door wider. They said they were in the nieghborhood responding to a call.

Immediately, I thought that meant someone else had been attacked and they were checking on people. I told them there was a problem, obviously, because I'd been attacked too last week. This conversation went on in this vein for roughly five more minutes until they finally came out with why they were there.

Someone had filed a complaint against me with the Child Welfare office. I'm not joking. For what, you ask? For going outside in my T-shirt and panties to put the key in the box. In someone's mind, this made me a bad mother. So the deputies had to check on me and my children. The ID'd me. They checked on my one child who was at my house and told me they'd need me to get my other two children back from my mother's house and to my house so they could see they were ok as well. I told them that wasn't possible because they were in Austin with my mother. But if they wanted to get in their police car and carry their happy little butts to Austin they could go check on 'em.

I was so angry. I wear less when  I go to the pool in the summer. I can't believe that person. It had to be a woman. What man would complain about a woman being outside in her underwear? I called my neighbor because she jogs in her jogging bra and shorts. I felt like she needed to be warned. 

It's the weekend. I'm going to think on it a couple of days and talk it over with my husband and fellow mommy friends and think about what I want to do. I think I want to take some time to calm down and call the child welfare office and ask what their policy is. I need to know why walking outside of my own house onto my own front porch in my own clothes is so bothersome to them that they believe it would be harmful to my children. I need people's thoughts on this. How is one linked to the other? How is me walking outside in a T-shirt and panties linked to child abuse? I'm just shocked. Please share what you think.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

So much happening!

Before last week, a whole lot in my life was going right.I was really happy.

My husband and I, after some bumps in the road, seemed to be getting along really well.

I was really happy with the routine I'd established with the kids at home.

I'd taken over paying the bills and managing our money at home and I'd been doing really well with it.When I took it over, we were in a bit of a hole, and within six to eight weeks, I'd had us whipped into shape. One of my friends who did the Dave Ramsey plan and was very successful with it has been offering to teach the class and let us take it for free for ages, but I thought we didn't have enough money to pay our bills in the first place, therefore making following Dave's plan impossible. But after I took over, I realized this wasn't the case at all. The only bills we have problems paying are our student loans. That's another story for another time, but in a few short weeks, I've managed to whip the rest of our finances into shape, and I'm hoping to be able to take my friend's class in the summer if she's offering it and I can fit it into my schedule.

Aug. 5 was my last day of work at my job as a reporter at the San Antonio Express-News working for the community newspapers they publish. I loved my job dearly. I was sad to have to leave it. But when their parent company Hearst bought Prime Time, the company that owned us previously, they froze our salaries, putting us working next to people who were making double and triple what we were. It felt awful, for one, but then they froze our salaries not only for that year, but for the next three to five years, and I could no longer afford to work there. I stayed for as long as I could, but after the twins were born, paying for day care took up more than what I was paid for my job. So it was costing me money to work. I knew I could make money freelancing with my writing because I'd done it before. It's not my favorite way to make money, but it's doable, and it was the only way we were going to make it, especially with recent health problems I'd had crop up.

Prior to last week, I'd finally settled into my routine at home, happily being a housewife and writer, working hard and managing our money, bringing in a little of my own but making out budget work even if I didn't bring any in. That way, whatever I bring in is extra, and can either be spent on me, the kids or the husband, or thrown into savings or toward something that needs to be paid off. It's a great way to live, and I'm happy with it.

Ro had just finished up his EMT training, meaning he can get a second job, the proceeds of which can go toward our student loans, which is a huge load off of our shoulders.

So everything was going along great. My surgery for my gastroparesis was scheduled for yesterday (which went great, and I'll talk about later), and everything was speeding toward fantastic.

Then, last Monday, I had a schedule I wanted to stick to. I had some work I wanted to do and then I wanted to take the boys to Target and Costco. When I grocery shop, I have to go to both because there are things I need from each. But the boys were being IMPOSSIBLE. So I decided to go to the stores first and then come back, put the boys to bed and do my work. That's when the mugging happened, all because I decided to stop at the mailbox first.

I still can't get the mail. I want my diploma. I've been waiting on it to come in the mail. My mom went to check the mail for me yesterday while she was here. I worked my ass off to earn that master's degree, and I want to see it! I guess I'll have to wait a while longer. I bet I can get my husband to check it for me every day for a while. He got his certificate in the mail for completing his basic EMT stuff. We both accomplished a lot last year.

I'm pretty proud of us. And on top of that, we're raising three pretty great little boys. We're also learning a lot about being married. Marriage is hard freaking work, and it has its ups and downs. We've had to work pretty hard at it this past year. This year, 2012, is going to be better. I know it. We'll make it better. Ro, Mitch and I have all learned a lot about being members of a family and working together to live harmoniously in a household. I don't think it comes naturally for anyone.

So just as I was getting past the mugging, which you never REALLY get past, I had to go in at 5:30 a.m. yesterday for surgery. It's not the hardest surgery I've ever had. The hardest surgery I had was my hysterectomy. This was probably the second hardest. I've only had three, with the easiest surgery I had being my C-section.

I felt great when I came home yesterday. They let me go around lunch time, which was fantastic. They gave me a wonderful prescription for pain meds. I already had some pretty good pain meds flowing in my system from my IV. So before supper I took some of my marinol (synthetic THC) just to calm myself down and help me sleep with the discomfort last night. It worked. I slept all night, only waking up a couple of times to use the bathroom, and felt fine throughout the night.

When I woke up around 7, though, I was in a TON of pain. I took a large dose of pain meds. A large dose for me, which is enough to take down a T-Rex. It didn't touch the pain. I was doubled over. And I have been for much of the day. I removed all of the bandages to clean the wounds and check out how big they were. I took photos, but I'll refrain from showing them. They're pretty foul looking. I can't get the adhesive off my torso where all the tape was. I got it off my arm and hand, but I could press hard on my hand and arm. I can't on my torso. It's way too sore. I was missing my children for most of the day, but I'm unbelievably grateful to my mother for taking my twin toddlers for a week so I can heal here at home.

Anyway, the last bad parts of 2011 bled over into the first parts of 2012, so I'm glad everything is now over. I just have to heal, and then we'll be done and ready to start fresh. Bring it on, 2012!

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Three Days in and the New Year is Already Kicking My Ass!

Last night, I posted the following message in a note on Facebook:

This note is for the young men of San Antonio that for some reason have decided it's appropriate to use me as their personal ATM machine or their free electonics store. They have decided that I am an easy mark, and they want to steal from me. In the process, they don't care if they take away my children's mother or if they take my children from me. Today, one of these young men decided once again to use a weapon to attempt to take what is mine and use it as theirs. It angers me beyond belief. It also terrifies me because it happened down the street from my house next to my car while I was checking the mail with two of my children strapped "safely" into their car seats.

These young men anger me. Three of them have taken advantage of me since we moved to San Antonio. And they look so much alike they could have been brothers. Young adult Hispanic men dressed like thugs. Neck tattoos. Hoodies with the hood on, sunglasses in the two occasions where the crime involved violence. On one occasion I was lucky enough not to be present when the crime occurred and was only shown the young man's picture after the fact.

So you guys, listen up. You've been using me far too much. I'm pissed off, and I'm about to learn how to use a gun with much better accuracy and I'm going to get a license to carry it concealed. So kiss my ass. I'm sick and tired of your BS.

For the rest of you, here's a synopsis of what I've been through in this lovely city:

The first occasion was when I was working at the Papa John's on Culebra Road just outside of Loop 410 six years ago or so. Somewhere between five and six years ago. I'd just earned my degree and we'd just moved to SA, but I coudln't find a job using my degree, so I stayed in food service, which was really all I'd ever done except for working at my college paper and doing some freelancing. I'd just been given a management position but was also still picking up driving shifts for the extra money. Delivery drivers make good money, or did back when I did it. With the cost of gas now, I can't imagine they're making much unless the corporations and franchisees have ponied up the extra cash for gas... I'm off topic. Anyway, I was the closing driver that night, and there was a manager there doing inventory in the walk-in cooler. We had a side door the drivers came in and out of that had a magnet lock on it that engaged at 9 p.m. It was almost 10 when this happened. I saw a man dart in the side door. My immediate thought was, "I'm going to die." It seemed like no time elapsed between the time the guy ran in the side door and the time he was in the office where I was sitting when  I saw him standing in the doorway with the gun pointing at me. He said, "Open the fucking safe!" I instinctively stuck my hands up and backed up. He said, "Don't move, bitch!" He scooted closer and closer to me until he had the barrel of the gun touching my face. He told me to open the safe or I was dead. I told him I didn't know the combination to the safe, which was true. It was changed frequently to prevent theft. I might get my brains splattered all over the walls of the office, but Papa John's wouldn't lose their precious money. Oh, and there was a handy time delay on the safe. I think it was a 10-minute time delay. Maybe 15. Long enough to deter theft. I must have screamed when the guy came in because the manager who was there with me came out to check on me after about five minutes. The walk-in cooler door was directly opposite the office door, so when he came out, the guy whipped around quickly. I'm surprised I didn't poop my pants. THe gun was touching my face. And then it wasn't. He marched the manager to the front, and I could see them talking. After five minutes or so, the guy ran out. Victor (manager) stood there for about 30 seconds and then he ran back to where I was. I just collapsed onto him and cried. He just held me and let me cry for a bit before we called 911 and upper-level management. I hadn't really smoked in years and wasn't drinking much at that stage in my life but I think I went through a pack of cigarettes and a pint of whiskey that night.

The second crime happened when I was pregnant with the twins. I got a phone call from a detective in Helotes. At the time I was working for the San Antonio Express-News  as a communities reporter for the Northwest area, covering Helotes, Leon Valley and Grey Forest. The detective asked me if I was missing a laptop. I said I wasn't missing one that I knew of, thinking only of the pink Dell laptop I used in my home. I knew the detective because of my job with the newspaper, so he described the laptop to me. It was the netbook I used at city council and other official meetings to take notes. I always leave it in my car so I have it in case a meeting comes up on the fly that I need to attend. I asked him where he found it, and he said he'd been contacted because his name was in a document in the laptop. I'd worked with him on a feature story a few weeks back, and his name was the name I'd used for the title of the document, so I'd know what the notes were. They called him asking if he recognized any of the names on the laptop. When mine came up, he said to check and see if my name was the name on the log-in screen. When it was, he offered to call me. He even offered to bring it to me because I was working from home on bed rest while I was pregnant with the twins. What happened was the Castle Hills Police Department noticed a car driving erratically. When they ran the plates, the car came back stolen. When they tried to pull the car over, the driver gave chase. When he did, he ran into a concrete wall, smashing up his car. Inside, the officers found thousands in stolen goods. Including my netbook. There were two men in the car. One talked. He divulged their group's operating procedure. They would go out in a group of four and hit up a neighborhood. The driver would drop each of the three (thugs?) off in a separate part of the neighborhood. Each thug would walk his part of the neighborhood and look for both unlocked cars and cars that are easy to break into to steal valuable items. The thug would carry the items in a backpack he carried. Un-freaking-believable. Then the driver came back around and picked them back up. I told the detective it was entirely possible my car had been left unlocked, as I was busy gestating two babies, and that took up a LOT of my brain power.

Time for the last. Sad to say, it happened just this morning, around 10 a.m. The kids were restless. They didn't like Dad going back to work and brother going back to school, so I decided to change my schedule around and go to the grocery stores before digging into the work I had to do for the day. They like to go to the store. I decided to stop and get the mail to see if there were any coupons in there. BIG MISTAKE. I may never look at coupons the same way again. As I was pullig out the mail (which, tonight, I still haven't even opened or looked through), I saw a guy (looking like the one I described earlier) coming around the corner with his hand closed around something bulky in his pocket. Immediately, adrenaline, fear, something kicked in. He approached me quickly, pulling out the gun, at first trying to act normally, saying, "Excuse me," and then, when I ran for the car (I'd left the door open, thank God, or something bad would have happened. I wouldn't have made it in time.) he said, "Bitch," in a really ugly tone of voice, but I made it to the car before he could get me and slammed the door closed and slammed the locks down. I just kept my eyes straightforward and jammed the key in the ignition and peeled out of there. I was shaking so hard I was surprised I had the ability to drive. I got a couple of blocks away and got stuck at a stop sign. I was scared this kid was somehow going to catch up to me on foot. Or someone would pick him up in a car and he would come after me that way.

My friend Lisa called me after  I texted her and told her I thought I had almost gotten carjacked. She talked me down and told me that the incident was probably something similar to when my laptop was stolen, and the guy was more likely after my wallet and wedding rings than my car, but I was still terrified. I was sitting in the Country Home Day Care parking lot that sits at the entrance to our subdivision, and I was convinced this dude was going to come up and shoot me and my kids. The logical side of my brain knew I didn't matter to him. It probably irritated him that I got away because I probably had some valuable stuff on me he could have stolen. Other than that, I meant nothing to him. Anyway, Lisa got me the info about how to call in to the Sheriff's office, so I did just that. Three deputies came out. Two cruised the neighborhood while the third took my report, went to the area where it happened and then searched my house to ensure it was safe and all the doors were locked and deadbolts were engaged. 

Our trips to the store were necessary. Basic items were needed for our household, and the boys and I needed distraction, so we went to the store anyway. We didn't make it home until almost 3. I put them straight to bed. They slept for roughly an hour. We were all beat. We need a break. 

I think these three should be forced to work and pay for a vacation for me and my family. And a nanny to go along with us. They have put me under so much stress in the time that I've lived here that it's affected me physically. I'm so unbelievably outraged by the fact that these men are able to continue to victimize women and children. I'm sure they don't just do it when they're attempting to steal money and property. I'm sure they probably beat their wives, girlfriends and children, too, because people who choose to steal by means of violence are lower than scum, lower than crap, lower than, well, scum crap. Get an effin' job already. McDonald's hires people with neck tattoos. I've seen them working there. You're not too good for it. I did it for seven years, so you can do it for a while instead of threatening me with your gun. Next time you pull your gun on me, I'll have one right back in your face.

Assholes.

Last night I felt okay. My husband was home, it was night and the ordeal was over. Overnight, however, I tossed and turned. I had trouble sleeping and I had nightmares. It was a terrible night. I sneaked in and checked in on my babies a bunch of times because I was scared something would have happened to them with the nightmares. It was awful. I slept roughly half an hour later than normal this morning, and now my eyes are all droopy. The boys are down for their nap, but I can't nap because I'm waiting on a call from my psychiatrist, who I hope  will call in a prescription for either Valium or Xanax for me to calm me down a bit.

After Super Husband left this morning (he's done a good job with his no-good, mess of a wife so far), the anxiety set in and very quickly turned into full-blown panic. I started checking the doors every five minutes. And in our house, that's no small task. We have five doors to the outside. And it really was every five minutes. OCD style. 

The panic attacks just kept getting worse and worse on top of one another until I got hold of my mom. I stayed on the phone with her for more than an hour, off and on, and she helped talk me down from them. They kind of come in waves. It's taken me forever to type up both this blog post and a private message on Facebook I'm writing to a friend who's asking my advice on a financial matter. 

I knew this morning that I'd need to place a call to my psychiatrist. I waited until 8:30 this morning and I called. She has the sweetest receptionist who ALWAYS answers the phone. If she doesn’t (I know I just contradicted myself there.), she returns voicemails ASAP. She’s great. She told me she would try to get my doc to call me back as soon as possible.

I waited an hour. Nothing. I waited another hour and then called back. The receptionist told me they were just overwhelmed after the holidays with patients (I suppose people are probably trying to recover from family issues that cropped up over the holidays? No other explanation for that many work-ins.) needing to be worked in, so they didn’t have time to return my call.

“Look, I got mugged yesterday,” I said. “Well, almost mugged. The guy had a gun in his pocket and was in the middle of taking it out when I dove back in my car and peeled out with my kids still safely in their car seats. I was checking my mail when it happened, which is why my car door was opened and why I had my car with me. I was on my way to the store and running errands for the day. I’m having multiple panic attacks, and I need her to tell me if she can call in any kind of meds that will help me with the panic attacks in the short-term, while I wait for my next appointment with her, where we can talk about getting me some counseling about dealing with both of the violent crimes I’ve endured.”

I said that, but I said it while crying, shaking and coughing. The receptionist said she felt awful for me, but there was seriously nothing she could do. She said she had room in the schedule at 2 if I could come in. I asked her if I sounded like I was capable of driving. She said no. She asked if I had a friend or family member that could bring me, and I said no, I have no family in the area, and all my friends work. I asked her if I could do a phone session with her at 2. She said that would be fine. It made me feel so much better I was able to get a bit of reprieve from the panic attacks, which is when I wrote most of this.

Unfortunately, she never called. I called back twice and got the answering machine both times. I think if she doesn’t take time out to call me at least at some point today, she’s being neglectful in her duties as my doctor, and I’m going to have to talk to her about it at a later date and consider changing doctors. Then again, as I so astutely pointed out to my mother earlier, if I were to change doctors every time one of them messed up, I’d run out of doctors fairly quickly.

Right now, the only reason I’m able to keep the panic at bay is that I took a bunch of muscle relaxers. It’s probably not safe, but I’m not driving, so that’s ok at least. I’m incredibly sleepy. Mitch is here to help with the babies. I’m going to feed them on the coffee table in the living room. I’m not bathing them. Too worried about them being in the bathtub with me in this condition.

So far for me, 2012 has started off hard, but I hope it gets better from here. I’ve tried to maintain my commitment to being healthier in this new year, even though yesterday sucked so hard. I broke my diet yesterday, but today I’ve been keeping track of my diet and exercise. Today, I did some light fitness workout on the Wii fit, just to start out, and I ended up working off a little of the panic that was seizing me. That was nice. One of my favorite Christmas gifts was a carriage that hooks onto my bicycle for the babies, so I can pull them behind my back. Now I’m too afraid to go outside. That bums me out big time. I need some counseling –  stat – to get to where I can get outside to exercise because only indoor exercise doesn’t work for me, and I want to look good in a swimsuit by summer. There are positive things to look forward to.

Earlier today, my mom told me to take it day by day, or even minute by minute if I had to. I’m trying to think that way, but it’s hard. I’m in a lot of pain right now.  If you’ve ever had a real panic attack, you know they hurt. Physically. Your muscles are strained, so you’re very sore afterward, and if your heart rate is up for a significant amount of time and you’re hyperventilating, your chest hurts a lot. My face also hurts from hours and hours of crying. I kind of want to curl up with a good book and take some feel-good medicine and drift away. And then when I wake up, everything will have righted itself. In a perfect world, right?

As I finished typing this, my doctor called me back and had a conversation with me about what happened. She told me she suspected there was some trauma involved in this as well as some stress from the previous crime. She called in a prescription for a benzodiazepine for me. If you don’t know, it’s a class of medications that is used as a sedative hypnotic. It basically calms you down. A little like alcohol without the bad parts. Except it can cause headaches in some people. It can be addictive, and benzo withdrawal is harsh, so I tend to stay away from them, but I’d have used them if I could the last time this happened. I’m going to make an exception for my no benzo rule this time. I’ve used them a handful of times over my life. I’ll write about some of those experiences some day. Some of those weeks and months of my life have been nuts.

Ro is on his way home now, bringing ice cream (my treat for making it through the day, I made room for it in my calorie bank) and my meds. I’m ready for Harry to stop screaming in his bed and for Ro to get here. Those two things may happen around the same time.

Thanks to all of you who have helped in various ways over the last couple of days, even if it’s just been a little prayer here and there. Keep praying. This is going to be a long road for me.



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