You know and I know my clone sleeps alone,
Shes out on her own -- forever,
She's programmed to work hard, she's never profane,
She won't go insane, not ever...
("My Clone Sleeps Alone", Pat Benatar)* Like the Terminator promised in that movie, I came back -- from the dadgum hospital. But I'm not cowed, no way, Jose. No damn disease is going to get the best of me---and I mean that. And I guess I'm going to have to be honest about some things about myself to tell you what happened, which won't be fun, but ah well, such is life..... It all began with two simple meds. Last year I weighed 119 lbs. But then I began seeing a therapist for some very intensive psychiatric therapy for the first time in my life. (I will spare you the details of the why's and wherefore's of my need for therapy---but I promise to tell you in another blog post some day when I get the nerve....) Anyhoo, I was placed on two meds for my "mental condition", a condition for which I had never sought treatment, no matter how puzzling or frightening the symptoms. But the funny thing was, my manic "condition" had always hurt my personal life greatly, but had always done me very well---wonderfuly, in fact--- in my professional life. I was always an ultra-organized employee and forever obsessively-compulsive about even the most minute of details. I was, in fact, considered an excellent RN, especially in the Emergency Rooms and ICU's where a nurse must have the ability to keep a hundred things in her mind all at once, perform complicated tasks perfectly and quickly---and, most importantly, make the correct judgment calls in life or death situations. I was good---very good. Some doctors called me "Super Nurse". But alas.... neglecting my increasing symptoms for years and years wreaked more havoc on my personal life. And I overworked myself on the job to the point of exhaustion. And so, finally, everything came to a head last year when I clinically burnt out of the nursing profession after 22 years. I was fried.... I was toast.... And so last year, as I said before, I entered therapy--- and the psychiatrist stuck me on the two meds. And unfortunately for me, the two particular meds just happened to be two which are notoriously agravating for their side effect of causing weight gain. Slowly but surely my 119 lbs (which I totally LOVED being because any pair of jeans I liked fit me) rose up and up.... (Hey, I just thought of something HILARIOUS!!!! Remember when I was bitching out the Yarn Harlot and then I started getting all that hate mail from people calling themselves "Anonymous"? Well, a couple of them rudely and sarcastically advised me to shut up and "take my meds" --- an insult which I'm sure was meant to infer that I'm "crazy"---- and each time I read one of those I laughed gratefully and said: "Thanks for reminding me! Because, it actually IS time to take those meds!") (Oh yes---and also to you "Anonymous" people: you must not be habitual readers of my blog because if you were you'd realize that I have always admitted to being insane.) (HEH!) (I'M CUCKOO--FOR--COCO--PUFFS!!) (And also, if any of you Anonymous haters have any more urges to remind me to take my meds, please feel free to continue to do so because I frequently forget to take them and reminders would be welcome. Blaine sometimes forgets....) Where was I? Oh yeah, the two psych meds were causing my stupid weight to creep up. Fast forward... 10 months later, to present day. In the past couple of weeks, I had been feeling physically crappier and crappier. I felt AWFUL in every way imaginable. The fatigue was overwhelming. It was hard to get out of bed. I wanted to sleep all day. It was hard to pack Blaine's lunch-box. It was hard to scold the asshole cats whenever they did something wrong. It was hard to unload the dishwasher. It was even an effort to talk or type out an email. And I was thirsty.... Of course, it was all my own fault. Like I've done all my life, I ignored my symptoms. I have always been famous for ignoring my own medical problems. Like I said before, I'm a whiz-bang nurse---and I can fix YOU up just fine and dandy. But if it's me who's sick---you won't realize it till I am on death's door-step. Which kind of ..... well.... almost happened. A few days ago I collapsed in the living room. It was all I could do to crawl around and find the phone so that I could call Blaine at work to tell him I thought I was going to die. I was so frightened---because I really did think I might die. Of course, I knew I could have called 911 and summoned the good ole Overland Park paramedics---but our young landlord next door is ONE OF THOSE GUYS! And I certainly wouldn't want him to be on the medic truck which answered my emergency call. I was afraid he'd see the charcoal grill on our wooden deck (because it's illegal to charcoal grill on wooden decks in this county.) Okay....let me take that back because that's a lie. The real reason was really because I couldn't bear the thought of him and his buddies seeing me in sloppy sweatpants with messy bed-head hair. No, that indignity was inconceivable. So it was going to have to be Blaine to my rescue. So Blaine hurried home and took me to the Emergency Room, whereupon they found my blood sugar was 500--- and I was severely dehydrated. My first words after the doctor told me what was wrong was..... well let's just say I may have said the F-word after the good doctor walked out of hearing distance. And then my subsequent conversation was liberally laced with words along the lines of "goddang", "dammit", dadgummit----and a plethora of variations on the S-word. You know, there's lot of great variations of the S-word--- literally one for every occasion, especially if you've learned a lot of them due to being raised in the "southern persuasion" like I was. And many of them just jim dandy perfect for use when you're in a medical predicament when you're feeling frustrated and angry at one's self and medical issues in general. For instance: 1. There's the imaginative "Shit-fire-and-save-matches, but this is a damn fine mess I'm in!"; 2. And then there's the ever-popular: "I'm in some deep shit here..."; 3. There's the ominous "Blaine, the shit will hit the fan when Mother hears about this"; 4. There's the whiny "Most diabetic diets taste like shit"; 5. Then there's that old standby "This is so shitty"; 6. There's the rudely muttered "If that doctor tries to put me on insulin he can jolly well just eat my......(well...you know)" 7. There's the desperate "This damn Emergency Room is going to make me go batshit crazy".... 8. And then there's the informative variation (like to my mother on the phone): "Blaine just about shit bricks when they told him my blood sugar was 500....." I'm sure you get the picture.... Years ago I had elevated blood sugar after a divorce from the Biker Man, where I had again gained some weight after all the stress. But I diligently lost the weight and the diabetes went away and I went about my merry little way. But here it is, rearing its shitty head again, in a much worse way. (Sorry about the S-word again..... I got carried away. I'll tone down the cussing....) So now I'm stuck checking my blood sugars about 8 times a day, taking two different diabetic pills, and am on a severe diabetic diet. In short, I have to slim back down to 119 lbs, which seems to be the magical weight for me. And I know I can do it. I AM DETERMINED TO DO IT. I mean it, I'm stubborn. I refuse to have diabetes, ya hear me? I just flat out REFUSE. I hate to take pills, I hate to have to check my sugar, and I hate to have to worry about the whole dang thing. Do you hear that Angel of Diabetes? You can just pack your bags because you won't be long in this body. I got rid of you before and I'll get rid of you again. Anyway, so I came home from the hospital, impatient for some peace and quiet. I was even looking forward to feeling better enough to knit on my mystery project and read a new knitting magazine I received. But what do you think was the first thing I saw when I entered the house? About 8 or 10 clusters of yarn tangles ALL OVER the frigging place. And two veeeerry suspiciously innocent-looking cats.... And let me tell you---- my cats NEVER look innocent. Never, I tell you!! They even look guilty in their sleep. But on that day they actually looked innocent, so I knew something was up... Leonard looked as nonchalant as if he'd just finished casually smoking a Marlboro cigarette on the front porch. And Little Baby gave me her usual rude and disdainful posture----which is the view of the back of her little head. (You know, one of these days I'm going to get even with that little idgit for ignoring me like that. I'm going to get me a Sharpie marker and I'm going to draw crossed-eyes, bushy eyebrows, a mustache, and buck-teeth onto the back of her sassy little head.....) Anyway, which one of them do YOU think did it? One? Or both? Personally, I'm leaning towards Leonard, because Little Baby is way too haughty to pay any interest to my hobby pursuits. Thank God they didn't bother my "mystery project". Which I guess really isn't a mystery because you can probably see that it's going to be a psychedelic shawl. I have some details planned that haven't been worked out yet, but I do like it so far. (But then, I like psychedelic things--- which are not everybody's cup of tea.) Anyhoo, I think I'm going to watch a couple of those "pet whisperer" TV shows to see if I can learn some cat body language to see if I can figure out which of the feline criminals is the culprit of the great yarn caper.... (Oh, and don't forget, "Anonymous" commenters: Now that I've got a more complicated med schedule, I may need a few more med reminders, ya know? Thanks in advance!) * *