Did you know I have Fibromyalgia, Reader? Well, I didn’t know I had it, either, until I went to the hospital in October for the mean and rude spider bite on my tootsie. Even then, I didn’t know I had fibromyalgia. It wasn’t until about a month after I’d been home and I was sorting through all my paperwork and saw the words “fibromyalgia” on my paperwork as a diagnosis.
<——- p.s. – this is my view right now and it makes me oh, so so so happy to enjoy my porch. This is the most I’ve enjoyed my porch since I moved here. I did not think I would enjoy having an umbrella on my table, as I thought I liked the sun, but hey guess what? That sun would get really effing hot and I couldn’t enjoy my deck for very long. Now? Me love it long time.
But back to my ailments. You didn’t come here to hear about happiness and pretty porches did you, Reader? Well, you probably did, but you’re getting more of complainy-pants me.
I read through the symptoms of fibromyalgia and quite frankly had always thought that was just a made-up condition for people who liked to bitch & complain, not exercise or clean, and sleep a lot, which I guess is the very definition of me, so yep, fibromyalgia. Apparently there’s a MEDICAL REASON for my lack of motivation, concentration, stiff-leggedness, incessant napping, and anxious feelings when I look around the house and see all the things I haven’t cleaned. Now don’t you feel rude judging me, Reader? Well, you should. I have a condition with “algia” in the name. It’s very important.
So anyway, as a result of my fibromyalgia, I take a daily dose of Cymbalta, because in addition to keeping me less wack-a-doo, it is supposed to repath my nerves to my brain and make everything feel less ouchy. That’s the definition I got from the doctor, in exactly those words.
Now, the reason I’m
boring entertaining you with my medical history here is because it’s germane to the rest of the story, as our friend Paul Harvey would say.
I’ve got another Thing, Reader. I guess at 50, shit just pops up outta seemingly nowhere. And now that I’m Officially Diabetic, it seems everything is a Thing, which frankly makes me extra-sweary and cry-ie and causes even more fibromyalgia anxiety and tension headaches and did I mention tears, lotsa lotsa tears?
I bought cute new summer footwear. Well, “cute” according to what’s also comfortable on my dern feet, which is very limiting. And I wore them the first time a couple of weeks ago and they seemed to be not quite as comfy as I had hoped, so I gave them a time out and then tried them again. And that was a bad decision, because by the time I got home from work on Wednesday eve, I had barely enough time to kick them off and change into really comfy kicks before we headed to the movies to see Atomic Blonde, which was kick. ass. And made me want to strut around in high heels and dye my naturally-blond hair even more blond and punch people in the throat. Go see it, is what I’m saying.
By Thursday, a day spent in those uncomfy shoes had created a concerning area on my spider-bitey foot, which is also my same foot with 18-year-old-me car accident trauma, so what I’m saying is, there’s a host of probs down there and I’m hyper sensitive to it.
By noon on Thursday it was throbbing, not to mention hurty to walky so I went to the ladies room to give it a proper examination.
That was where I almost lost my shit, Reader. Good thing I was in the ladies room. Ba-dum-dah.
I got on the horn and called my spider-bitey foot doctor surgeon and begged him to fit me in that very day, as the next available time was next week as he was going out of town. He’s the nicest doctor a girl could ever have touching her foot, but how dare he vacation when I may need him at any given moment.
He fit me in immediately when they heard my distress, and I skidded outta work in a hurry.
I was in tears by the time I got there. I just knew it was going to be something dire, because of my history of everything always being a Thing.
Long story longer, Reader, yes, it was a Thing, possibly made worse more quickly by my newly diagnosed diabetic condition, which just having to say that made me cry harder because I don’t want to be That Person With All The Things Wrong and it was an ulcerated thing, which even sounds ugly and he numbed it and poked it and cleaned it and wanted to take x-rays but hey guess what, I’m uninsured until Tuesday and I’m operating on out-of-pocket-which-are-really-shallow-pockets-at-the-moment so I asked how important to the situation where they – are they a “need to have” or a “nice to have.”
He agreed they could wait until next week, I don’t know if he agreed because he just didn’t want me to cry harder or because it can really wait, but we’re waiting. And this is the Universe’s way of fucking with me since I posted about judging Go Fund Me’s, and now I need my own but instead I just have a Go Fuck Me, in the form of a big charge on a credit card once again, the good old-fashioned American Way.
In the meantime, I’m back to doing wound care, which I’m getting rather good at, and also luckily I still have my $300 salve from the spider bite era, which I very carefully preserved in the proper temperate conditions and even more importantly was able to easily locate. And I’m on a three-x-day antibiotic.
Which is why this whole rambling ride even started.
Since Thursday I’ve been an anxiety-laden mess. Crying to the point of headache, fearing there is something even worse going on down there and because I denied the x-ray it’s all going to lead to amputations because that’s not a far-off reach at all, it’s the perfectly logical next step. I wish I were making this up, but it’s been that dramatic. Hey, who wants to be my roomy?? I’m a real treat to live with!
And then yesterday I went to take my 3x daily dose of of antibiotic and my 1x dose of Cymbalta and I noticed the striking similarity between the two:
Which caused me to pause just a moment and tap my nose and utter a long, drawn-out, “hmmmm.” Is it possible that my Chicken Little The Sky Is Falling demeanor could have in fact been because I was taking 3x the Cymbalta and 1x the antibiotic?
I did a quick pill count and perhaps I’ve mistaken it a time or two – perhaps. I blame the fibromyalgia for my brain fog. I mean, it does seem that if you have a condition that causes brain fog, they should make the pills for it REALLY stand out and not look like anything else, amiright, Reader? I mean, what about a triangle shape and a bright lime color? They’re now just fucking with us.
My footsy seems to be less radiating red today. I feel less like killing myself today (I wish that were an exaggeration, but unfortunately, it’s too close to the truth to be happy about it). I think things seem to be balancing out. At least for the moment.
I’ll take it by the moment. And carefully read my labels.