Organs...Rambling...And More Organs, I Guess...And Havering...And Then, Well, Organs (Not The Kind With Keys)

Listening to: Enrique Inglesias ft. Ludacris - Tonight (I'm Fuckin You)

--Hell yes it's on repeat, and we don't do 'clean' versions around here. Censorship is shit. And it can so go fuck itself. I had to! You know, this theme, it's actually frightfully appropriate. Getting fucked (over), by everything and everyone, was pretty much the unifying thread for all of us in the saga of the Dragon Lair this year. Well. Fuck twenty-ten. I should have known you'd be nasty when you didn't cough up jet packs and hovercars that run on the power of thought.

Dirty thoughts are non-polluting, obvs.

Been reading: Earth - The Audio Book; Married with Zombies; The Romance of Dollard (for PG); Old New Brunswick - A Victorian Portrait (for research, and because the c1900 photos of New Brunswick are just...impossible. Seriously. You can't believe they're real. The Loyalists sobbed in despair a century earlier at how desolate and bleak and harsh their new home was. And if you dropped them--and me--into 1900 New Brunswick, we'd still be completely hysterical. And I...am so NOT a metropolis person...)

Hope to Read Today: I'd like to kill Dollard today for PG, but lo, it is hard. I really want more Canadian content and / or more women represented in Gutenberg, and it still kills me that estimates are that more than 80% of our early literature and public documents were lost in deliberate fires. It kills me worse that, by sheer random, it's crap like this book that survived. ARGH. But I believe in the public domain. I believe in its mission, to preserve, freely for everyone, our stories and our history, and everything of who and what we are. Information and art are like the light of a candle, or a hug. You can give it away, and lose nothing. In fact, you gain so much more.

And yes, with our history and our art, we have to save the shitty parts along with everything else. Because none of us has the right to censor, abridge, or edit. And, we NEED to remember: the truth of who we are isn't always awesome, but it made us who we are.

Oh, and really hope to attack my comic stack. It's huge; I'm so far behind. Bitches like Cancer and hospitals have really fucked up precious time I need to spend with vampires and Shakespeare.

Looking forward to watching: Well, I burn through Conan and the Daily Show as fast as I can get them, and most everything is off now, but I do have the finale of Mythbusters. Oh, and I still have a Human Target. Guerrero and I? We are BFFs for life. Seriously, dude. Seriously.

Wishing that: I already got the most important thing. My family is still here. Well, not ALL my family, but the ones who live with me, thank all. Phoenix continues to be one of the best...everything. And I'm so proud and grateful for my son. And I so so hope that he keeps being my boy--an adorable brilliant sweetie and a stubborn as fuck badass--who is still kicking the shit out of cancer five years from now. The hospital staff is totally in love with him already; they all know his name, but they also call him 'Superstar!'. I'm honestly surprised they didn't shower him with holiday presents...but then, how do I know they didn't? *thoughtful squint* I know they do lots of stuff for him that never shows up on the bills--like treats, and grooming. And I mean professional grooming. I've cut my own hair for decades, but my son has an elite professional stylist who spoils him for free. Yep. All is as it should be. :D

I also wish I had some painkillers. I woke up at 5am, with the pain more gruesome than yesterday. and it just keeps building. I'm typing all this to try to stop screaming. I don't know how long that can help. I'm shocked it's gotten this far.

But, although the delay is much more pleasant, I have to get to the point sometime.

You know it's not a good week, when you're only halfway through Wednesday, and you've been to the doctor, twice, and the hospital, twice.

I still have an ungodly death flu that has been kicking my ass--on top of all my other crap--for, oh, six to eight weeks. And I was actually getting worse with time. Not good. But I wasn't at the doctor for the flu; I was there to special order allergy tests. My doctor refused to help us on this, so we had to do the research ourselves, which was a bitch that made the SU insane with rage: because the companies refused to talk to us because we weren't a doctor's office.

Eventually, the SU found a company in Canada who does the type of testing we need, but they were sticking by the not-a-doctor's-office blockade. Being so close, and so very very fucking stressed, the SU refused to let go, and kept calling back, over and over. Emphatically explaining how dangerous my allergies were and how dickish my doctor was being. And, finally, after easily placing more calls than the SU has to everyone, all year, combined, random or fate shined on us all. We got somebody with common sense and compassion. Or, at least somebody who knew that doctors are total dicks.

They provided download links to all the paperwork and instructions required. The only problem now was: it's a medical procedure, so that paperwork still needs a doctor's signature of requisition.

Cue Monday's showdown.

I pretty much just sat there, head throbbing from horrific congestion, still blowing my nose endlessly as the SU efficiently eviscerated the opposition. Signature captured, the SU was more than ready to get the hell out.

(As a final dick move, they insisted we go to the hospital for the bloodwork.)

But the doctor suddenly wanted to talk about my cold. I said it was the worst flu I'd ever had. My doctor insisted there was no flu in the province. I, still continuously assembly lining puffs tissues with lotion, replied that this virus had to be a flu, not just for severity, but because the cold virus is short term, 24-48 hrs at most.

Then my doctor, against all of my previous scientific education and training, insisted: flus were short and harmless; colds were long.

At this point, I just stopped talking, before my head exploded.

From something other than the brutal sinus pressure that constantly felt like someone was breaking out my face and teeth with a hammer.

He did insist on talking about my symptoms, looking down my throat and ears, listening to my lungs. He said my lungs were good, which seemed insane, insomuch as my breathing sounded like someone had partially melted an accordion in a microwave.

As I crept off the exam table, I mentioned my urine was darker than normal. Pressed for description, I said it's kind of orange, and my urine is normally clear.

So, of course, I had to pee in a bottle.

I have to do this--or bleed my own blood into a test tube--at least as often as regular people brush their teeth.

The result was horrifying. In the past hour, my urine had decided to change it up for a new colour palette.

It was now maroon. Deep maroon. Almost opaque brown, but with a tint of red.

Immediately, my brain remembered House episodes, where there is a dramatic reveal to the side of the patient's bed, where there is a bag, suddenly now THIS EXACT COLOUR. And someone says something cheery like: 'His kidneys are failing.'

Shaking, when I handed over my bottle, I got scolded with: 'That isn't orange.'

I replied, 'Nooooo, that is more...maroon. But it WAS orange, even just an hour ago.'

They did the dip test. It detected nothing, not even blood. My doctor suggested--seriously--that I ate something with food dye.

Again, my cranium wanted to bathe the walls. Frequent exposure to medical situs, means I can contain myself. I just said I hadn't eaten anything new, and my urine has never looked like that before, except when I have one of my severe rapid-onset infections.

He replied there was no infection; the tests were normal.

The SU was not about to just let that go: 'THAT is not normal.'

Doctor: 'Food dyes...'

I kind of zoned out at this point. Either from pure exhaustion and misery, or just to save some sanity.

I just know I snapped to when I was handed a second bottle, and told to use it for cultures at the hospital. Then we had to do paperwork with the receptionist, and off to the hospital I staggered. Wanting desperately to just be in bed, fighting a miserable flu.

Dropping off my urine was easy. Well, except that it still hurt to pee. Something else I've repeatedly mentioned to my doctor that he insists is normal. :|

Getting my blood drawn for the allergy test was a mess. They were utterly confused, and finally had to call in someone else, who they said had done this before. I still have no idea if they used the right type of tubes, or shipped it as instructed. But they better not have fucked up. Medicare won't cover allergy tests of any kind, so we have to pay for it ourselves. Six. Hundred. Dollars.

I feel terrible about how much my illness takes away from the SU, but now I'm constantly sick with worry about what it takes away--or might take away--from Phoenix. As it is, we only managed about half of the available allergen panels, and my guilt is still enormous. Boo is also why I'm not at the ER right now. I can't bear it, leaving him alone, not knowing--

There's nothing the ER can--or rather, WILL--do anyway. At best, they keep me there for 8 to 12 hrs, in the agony of noise, brilliant light, freezing rooms, IVs, and medical 'professionals'--all making the pain worse. While they mostly complain about the space I take up, as they grudgingly give me tiny doses of pain meds over hrs, grilling me each time about the pain and is it gone yet. I get sent home when they refuse to give me any more meds, when I hit some unknown number the doctor on duty has decided is what I'm allowed. Often, either because it keeps progressing or from the exposure to so many things that make it worse, I go home with more pain than I came in with.

Anyway, Monday, after what felt like days of stumbling like a zombie, and trying desperately to think, think at all, with my brain filled with mucus, I got to stumble home and crawl painfully into my blessed bed.

And within two minutes of waking up on Tuesday, I got the news that there was a liver enzyme in my urine. I was to report to the hospital immediately for a blood test. My doctor's office was going to fax over the requisition, so I could skip the two hour trip to my doctor's office.

Nearly falling over many times trying to get dressed--stupid flu--my mind again went right to House. This time, my brain tried to pre-calm any panic by reminding me that the liver is the one organ you can actually borrow from somebody else. Not that I have anybody I could ever ask for a cup of liver, but, the deal is you can do that because the liver can regenerate. If your liver is borked, it's not like having your heart or your brain go...

The blood lab greeted me laughing about how much I must love their company. Once again, I bled my own blood and stumbled home.

The SU got the results from the doctor's office Wednesday. They were classed as 'abnormal'. They eventually broke and admitted that there were multiple liver enzymes in my urine. They refused to say more than that without an appointment.

So, the SU had to ditch work, again, come gather me and impart delightful news, and once again make my furious body make the two hour trip to the doctor's office.

The doctor was sticking to his 'food dye' scenario. Although when called on how the hell does that explain liver enzymes, he kind of blathered around for even longer than usual, and finally tossed out that I had a blocked duct, that was blocked by gallstones, the blockage broke, and I passed the gallstones, which dissolved completely, giving me, with a perfect coincidence in timing, a spike of liver enzymes from the dissolved stones. He said he was certain of it.

He then popped open his cupboard and handed me another bottle.

I looked at it in my hand, smirked, and said, "I feel like I'm always peeing in bottles."

He replied, "That's what sickly people do."

I sighed, "My body. It likes to keep things interesting."

And, smirking into his keyboard, he said, "It's not your body."

I still don't know what the fuck he meant by that. Not for sure. But if he meant the usual crap about how nothing is wrong with your body, it's all in your head. I would like to know how in the actual fuck my mind can change the colour of my urine. Or spike it with liver enzymes. And back when I was getting this shit from lots of doctors, specialists, who insisted the only thing wrong with me was that I was an attention whore. I would like them to explain how my mind filled my abdomen with growths. Nasties that took two surgeries and a team of specialised surgeons to remove. And they couldn't remove it all, and it can regrow anytime, and the disease that gave it to me is progressive, so I'll have ever worsening agony for the rest of my life, among its long list of joys.

Or hey, maybe the surgical team imagined it too.

How divine, that we should come together, all sad attention whores.

But I didn't say anything. I'm sick of trying. It's exhausting and it gets me nowhere. It's just not worth trying to reason with that depth of moron.
For some bizarre reason, possibly hospital policy, he ordered an ultrasound.

I guess I visibly cringed. Understandable, since I just suffered one that was TWO HOURS long. I spent the whole time screaming. The tech did my whole torso, front and back. She was shoving so hard the whole time, it actually felt like she was trying to kill me. If it was possible to make that blunt instrument--the roller ball thing--actually impale flesh, she would have done it. Maybe she just needs to work out her upper body more.

She actually, finally, after two hours, called in her supervisor. Because she couldn't find the basic body part she was supposed to take an image of. I wish I was fucking exaggerating.

Afterwards, the SU, who was not allowed to be the room during the test, had to actually carry me from the hospital. I was in so much agony, I couldn't walk. My hair and clothes were completely sodden with sweat, and, despite my shame, I couldn't hold in the sobbing any more. Although I was crying from pain, yes, but also from pure fucking rage.

So yeah, when my doctor signed me up for another ultrasound, I probably flinched.

"Is there a problem?" he said.

"They hurt." I tried not to fly apart into a total hysterical panic attack. "They hurt SO MUCH. That last one, I spent two hours screaming, and--"

I think I was going to add about how badly I bruised, but I got cut off with him laughing.

"Ultrasounds don't hurt," he said, still laughing with an enormous grin. "No one has ever told me that they hurt."

I shut up. We were back at pointless. But, as it happens, everyone I'VE ever talked to insists they hurt like fuck. I know a person who went through multiple surgeries without painkillers, but cried through every ultrasound. In fact, this person didn't just say the ultrasound hurt worse than labour, the insistence was it hurt more than the c-section.

Stop and process that for a moment.

My pain level is cranking further up. Trying to make words isn't distracting me enough anymore. I'm going to have to try something else.

Besides this thing is already an essay--it took me six hours to write this bitch--and it's so long nobody will make it to the end. So I'll just slip in here that I watched dinosaur porn. Really. Tyrannosaurus Sex. It was from the Discovery channel! That makes it classy. Totally educational. And so so funny...