Return Of Jabber

*Update: Ha ha! I win! My mommy decided that it is worse to be a pill popping addict than to be overweight. And as my mother's word is the final word on any subject (and you would be wise to follow her advice) Sugarbowl had to raise the white flag on this debate.


Mr. Jabber Smith is with us this weekend to celebrate his 8th birthday -- we like to tease him that it is his 5th just to see him get his hackles up. Last night, instead of mining in his nose, it was his butt that had his attention. Or, to be more specific, his crack. I was trying to read and not pay attention to his nonstop chatter, but whenever my little sister asked him if he didn't wipe the last time he had a bowel movement (to put it politely) it would crack me up and take my focus off of my book. I gave up on the book because she was amusing me too much. He was playing Mario baseball on the Wii, which I know is not the real name of it, but I don't care enough about it to use it's formal title. Sugarbowl was chanting, "we want a pitcher, not a butt crack itcher," to my undying amusement. She got tired of watching him dig in his crack so she looked up sources of anal itching to see if she could get to the bottom of it -- he claimed that he did wipe well and that wasn't the problem. She regretted that decision quickly when she stumbled across pin worms and saw a close up picture of them -- YUCK! I couldn't look because the thought alone kicked off my gag reflex, and I have a strong stomach. We don't really think he has pin worms because we've seen the thick mud skid marks in his undies and know the real culprit in this situation, but that didn't stop Sugarbowl's creativity on the subject. Like, "they ain't heavy, their my pin worms!" And so on. If I haven't lost you due to the revolting nature of this story, let me say the worst is over and move on to the next part of all this.

Princess was shaking the chair her mother was sitting in, just messing around to see if she could dump Sugarbowl out of it and Jabber said, "you're not going to be able to move her, she weighs 300 pounds." Sugarbowl nearly had a heart attack right there -- she is not 300 lbs, not even close. She told him that he weighed 10 lbs and he said that he weighed 45 lbs, to which Sugarbowl retorted, "45 lbs of booger weight!" We all yukked it up to that, so much that Jabber was angry and kept trying to insist that he isn't all booger weight, but no one was listening. Then the little sh*t said, after I said that I wasn't very hungry at dinner time, that I wasn't hungry because I "ate so many pills all day." Talk about sputtering and having a heart attack! It made me feel like a pill popping addict that should hide when I take my meds because I am such a pill popping addict. I don't want him going around telling people that I eat pills all day, or to think taking a lot of pills is acceptable (when they are not prescribed for a good reason). I don't get high off my meds and they do serve a purpose besides taking me to my happy place (a beach, surrounded by the Brazilian soccer team, who are scantily clad of course). In fact, they do not take me to my happy place and only allow me to get a handle on my pain.

Now Sugarbowl and I are arguing over which comment was worse: being seen as more than 130 lbs over your actual weight or being a pill hungry addict who needs her own intervention. They both suck and we are both deeply offended. The little turd may not live to see his 5th birthday after all.

Questions, Thoughts, Concerns

I would like to start a new topic on this here blog o' mine. I've had this idea rattling around my head for awhile and finally decided to do something about it. Bring me your tired and weary, lay your head upon my bosom and take all and any advice/answers with a huge grain of salt, as they are merely my own opinion, albeit very good opinions in my opinion. So, without further ado, move over Dear Abby! (Also, I welcome any comments that you would like to share, especially if you have better advice than me, which is very likely.)

Dear Blindbeard,
I have a spot on my left foot that itches and buzzes off and on. This has been going on for a year. Now my left side has joined in with the itching. Two of the fingers in my right hand sometimes get cold and they ache. Any ideas? I haven't been to a doctor yet as these seemed like silly ailments. Any thoughts?
Jo

Dear Beautiful Jo,
My itchy spots nearly drive me mad. I dig up my skin in places, making me look like an even more diseased freak than I already am. The only thing that tames my itchy spots is Neurotin. It helps bring down the itch, soothes my aches and pains into a manageable dull roar, and even untangles my bunched up muscles, or the Periodic Limb Movements that steal my sleep and make me kick my legs uncontrollably. I too have the cold problem. My feet feel like frostbitten blocks of ice no matter how much heat is on them. I haven't found anything yet that has helped that problem, so I try not to judge the temperature of anything by what my feet are telling me. If there is something out there that helps with that cold feeling, I would love to hear about it. I get tired of my frozen feet, but after hearing about the opposite problem, ie the burning, I think I will take the frozen over the burning.

I have itchy spots in some of the most embarrassing and ridiculous places. I normally don't like to tell too many people about it, but it may be pertinent here. I have itchy bands on both arms, right above the elbow; my feet, in addition to being permanently frozen, itch so bad that I have to kick off my shoes and scratch and scratch sometimes, no matter where I am (like in a store! Making it look like I have raging Athlete's Foot); and I have the most embarrassing itchy spot on my left leg, slightly off to the side of my... delicates. I hate having to scratch that one when anyone may be able to see me do it, but sometimes I have to just dig in regardless of who may be observing me. When I really start to itch, I know my Neurotin is wearing off.

I hope this helps you.
Love,
Blindbeard

Dear Blindbeard,
Why can't you be serious? Multiple Sclerosis is no laughing matter!
Serious Sally

Dear Beautiful Serious Sally,
I beg to differ. If I couldn't laugh at this disease and the things it does to me, I would cry. How can I take myself seriously when I trip over a dust mote on the floor? Or the time I fell, butt naked, because of a drop of moisture on the bathroom floor, with such a squeal of pain it brought everyone in the house on the run to see me crumpled, and did I mention butt naked, on the bathroom floor. How about the ataxia that makes me stagger and look drunk even though I haven't had a drink in years? There is plenty of humor there. It makes me want to carry a bottle of soda in a brown paper bag with me at all times, just for poops and giggles. Or my inability to see any details unless the thing I'm trying to see is inches from my face. Try going shopping for bloomers and burying your face into a pile to see if there are any you like, and then tell me that's not funny! It makes me think of that quote, "the first sign of being a grownup is the ability to laugh at yourself." I may not have the words exactly right, and I can't remember who said it, but I think of that often and find it to be very true. If being serious about MS helps you, by all means be serious, but I can not be serious about a disease that renders me ridiculous.

Love,
Blindbeard

New Club

Due to popular demand, I will now be taking applications for the I Hate Sugarbowl Club. I'd like to let everyone join, but fear that there will not be enough room at our meeting place. We will be meeting on her side of the bed at 5am. I had to break up the I Hate My Husband Club due to my escape from his evil clutches, but that is a small price to pay for my freedom. In addition to meeting at exactly 5am, please bring snacks -- preferably things that are noisy and messy, like crackers or chips and dip. Also, there will be bonus points for anyone who remembers to bring incense because it gives her a raging headache to get even a whiff of them. We will discuss a number of topics and take suggestions for future topics. On the agenda so far is a widely varied list of topics that are of immediate importance. I will be printing up this list but until then here are a few topics that need to be canvassed. They are not set in stone and will be reorganized if there is a more pressing topic that needs to be covered first.

*Why does she have to eat in every room in the house? Does she enjoy roaches and other assorted vermin, because I do NOT! She leaves a trail of wrappers and dishes that is infuriating because I either have to pick up after her or ride her arse about doing it herself. I don't care to play Hansel And Gretel because I know there is no delicious candy/cookie house at the end of her trail.

*She has selective vision. She can see food and anything else pleasant, but not notice the overflowing garbage, the sink stuffed full of dishes, or the mountain of laundry that is forming snow at it's peak.

*Her utter inability to understand that when she drives my car she needs to put gas in it every time! I have made my desire to never have the tank go below a fourth very clear, yet she will still run it down below that level and when I need to use it, hand me the money to put in the tank because it was so cold she didn't want to do it. It's okay for me to freeze, but not her precious pelt. She will tell me that she didn't put gas in it "because it was so cold, but here is the money for gas," without batting an eye. When I point out that it will be just as cold for me and that I will not tolerate any more excuses, she acts surprised that I feel that way, even though I have... politely and calmly told her how I feel about it a million times and threatened her life if she didn't start treating my truck with the respect I expect if she is going to use it.

*Why does she have to drive like an asshat in my car when she has her own crappy, beat up car to drive like that in? I saw her rip out of the driveway one day and nearly busted a vein in my head. She drives like she has a spiked ball up her ass and can't take it out until she gets to where she is going. I don't care if she wants to drive her car that way, but NOT MY CAR! Her car is beat up and crappy because of the way she drives and I am careful with my truck. I like having my car not look like a sh*t mobile but she is having a hard time grasping that others could feel that way when there is road to be torn up.

*How many pets does one person need? I am so sick of animals I could puke all over her. I love animals, but that doesn't mean I need to adopt a million to prove it. Everywhere I go I'm tripping over cats and the dog she brought in, even though I didn't want another dog and was going to take a break from dogs after mine has passed. I clean the cat boxes because if I left it up to others, they would never get done and the smell would take over the house -- unacceptable! She has 2 cats (was 3 but we gave one to my older sister), 2 gerbils that run on their squeaky wheel all night, a tree frog that does nothing but cling to the side of it's cage but needs crickets that have their own cage and sometimes escape, and she brought in another dog. We are so overrun with pets it makes me feel claustrophobic and like the house will never be clean again.

*Be careful what you lend her, it may not survive. She has a bad habit of letting her CDs run wild in her car, getting scratched and ruined on a regular basis. So far she has had to replace my Simon and Garfunkel CD, an Eminem CD, and my Veggie Tales CD (I listen to a little of everything). She lost my Winnie the Pooh tape that I like to watch when I'm too stressed or worried to sleep -- it always lulls me to sleep. She lost the start up disk for the Internet that I need to get my desk top hooked up to the Internet, so we are stuck with only laptops, hence why I haven't changed any pictures for a long time: they are all on my desk top. And, to top it all off, she gets mad when you mention that she did it! Others may not want to argue with her, but I have no such reservations and will not hesitate to let her know that it is all her fault and no, she can not borrow _____! She still doesn't understand why I don't want her touching any of my stuff because "if something happens to it she will replace it." Which leads me into the next topic.

*She can't have a dollar to her name without having to run out and spend it. So it takes a long time for her to replace something, and I am not a patient person.

There are more topics in the works, these are just the most pertinent ones right now. Eventually I'd like to discuss her lack of organization, how she just puts stuff anywhere and wonders why she can't find anything; her hairballs that are stacking up on all her stuff in the shower; her room that hasn't been cleaned since she moved into it, et cetera et cetera. And, of course, I am open to any other topics that I may have missed. I will be sending out applications soon...

It Feels Sooo Good To Be Back!

*Author's Note: I adore Welcome Back, Kotter, so that song in Lisa's comment made my day. I hadn't thought of that song forever and can't find Welcome Back, Kotter anywhere on TV anymore... or Mystery Science Theater either, both are a huge loss for the TV watching population to miss out on.


Wow. Being without internet for a week or so makes me really appreciate having internet again and showed the depths of my addiction to it. How could I possibly know what is going on in the world without it?! Its not like I could watch the news or buy a newspaper; that would be too logical, and logic and I do not necessarily go hand in hand. I am thrilled to be back and look forward to catching up on your blogs to find out how you have fared in my absence -- hopefully better than me in my padded room, rocking in the corner, chanting, "it gets the internet once again or else it will need the hose again!" Now that I am back from the dark hole of no internet, I will not fear having no internet. It will lead me by glorious headlines and maketh me crave all gossip. Okay, enough sacrilege. I don't want to upset any that are more faint of heart than myself. I'm going to give a quick update so that I can get back to my regular blogging. You know, to bring myself back up to speed and show how truly boring my life is. So strap yourselves in for a wild ride.



*We had a round of sickness go through the ranks, nearly decimating the troops. Only a few of us were left well enough to care for the sick, but we did finally pull through and were able to defeat the hideous marauding mess piles.



*I burnt my leg on the space heater. It is one of those standing ones that looks like a radiator and we like to stand over it to warm our legs. I leaned back on it, laughing at my little sister's joke, and burnt the back of my fat thigh, in a place that I can't see well or get to easily. Others have had to dress my wound, which they are thrilled about dressing a wound inches below my arse. Having decreased sensation in my legs, plus my damaged nerve pathways and my poor plaque encrusted brain made the "THAT'S FRIGGIN HOT! Move, B*tch!" message too slow in it's journey to my brain. It took awhile to find a nerve pathway that it could get though on, then bounced around on all the lesions before it finally got to my consciousness. Alas, it was too late. I've got a good burn that hurts like hell and is keeping me from properly exfoliating my leg or shaving for that matter. My legs need to be shaved so bad that I fear a logging truck may be necessary when I am finally able to run a sharp object over my legs again. I'm past the braiding stage and into the dreadlocks stage now, but it is just going to have to keep growing for a little bit longer.

*Still loving the Ritalin here. I have been able to finish things that I started long ago but didn't have the attention span to complete. I haven't been napping as much -- I do doze off between doses sometimes -- and when I do nap it is an hour at most. A huge improvement over several hours and it lets me sleep better at night. I saw my shrink again and we are going to try the controlled release tablets to see if that helps me more because I am so tired and so ADD it is ridiculous and embarrassing. I know that these drugs are not for everybody, especially anyone who is/has struggled with addictions, but I am not a person who has that problem. I smoke, yes, but I don't drink and I have never had a drug addiction problem... not saying I've never tried non-prescribed drugs (whistling and looking off in another direction) but I was not sucking d*ck for them, which is always my barometer for my dependence on something. I've been taking Xanax for over 7 years now and have never upped my dose. In fact, I have been going down lately, so I think I can handle my controlled substances regardless of how controlled they are. And controlled Ritalin is! My shrink can only write the prescription for a month at a time and I have to pay for it at the pharmacy, there is no taking it to a checkout and paying for it there even though it would be on record that I did pay for it. But I am used to strict controls on my meds: I've been on Tysabri for 2 years now.

I'm sure there was more but the kids are awake now -- we have Jabber with us this weekend -- and I can no longer put together coherent thoughts. Jabber is sooooo obsessed with what is in his nose that we are talking about staging an intervention. We have even started our letters to him, and anyone who watches Intervention will recognize the beginning of these letters:

Dear Jabber,
I have seen your addiction affect your life negatively in the following ways:

Your hands are toxic waste sites that I don't want near anything I may ever think about eating.

Your hiding under the blankets to take a jackhammer to your nose without being observed makes me sick and not want to touch the blankets until they have been soaked in hot water and bleach for hours.

And so on. Sorry, I can no longer think when I am being buried under a mountain of words. Until next time...

We Interrupt This Blog

To bring you this important message. Due to our inability to keep a cord alive to power our laptops, we are temporarily unable to be on the internet. (Battery, don't fail me now!) Until we are able to procure a cord that will not go crappy wires up and join it's brethren in the electronics grave yard that is eating up most of the backyard, this blog will be on a forced hiatus. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope to return you to your regularly scheduled blogging needs soon. Until then remember that a computer is only as good as the cord that powers it, which makes mine useless right now -- less than 20 minutes remaining! Gotta run. Take care and hope to be back soon.

Of All The Disgusting Things...

*Update: It appears that my wound is healing nicely. I really dodged a bullet this time. (So much for my plan of having a hook for a hand. Maybe next time.)


Yesterday I was flea combing the animals to make sure there were no stragglers left. We had a flea epidemic that lasted too long thanks to the cats that just don't want to part with their new found friends. That and the cats never go outside so the fleas don't get frozen off like they do on the dogs. I have given the dogs flea baths and it is a chore I don't care to repeat too often. The big dog turns into a pile of jelly and won't move a muscle to help me get him in or out of the tub, so I have to do it one leg at a time. The little dog fights tooth and nail against getting a bath, which covers me in nasty flea shampoo and the water that is tainted with flea shampoo and any fleas that fell off. I won't bathe the cats. That is my little sister's job. The cats fight with every ounce of their rotten selves and shred anything they can get ahold of, so Sugarbowl emerges from the bathroom covered in bleeding scratches and tatters of skin barely attached. Anyhoo, after flea combing the animals and removing any guests that have over stayed their welcome, I stabbed my hand with the flea comb. A dirty, nasty, not-sterilized flea comb! It ripped a hole in my hand, causing me great panic and forced me to run to the bathroom and wash my hands with antibacterial soap under hot water until my hands cracked and bled. I almost grabbed the bleach, but had second thoughts about the wiseness of that plan of action. I swear I can feel it rotting. I can feel the infection seeping into my blood stream. I don't want to overreact, but I think an amputation may be in my future.

Adding to my deteriorating health, I swallowed a gnat this morning. I didn't check my coffee in time and down the hatch it went. Goodness only knows where that thing has been. I can't stop the visions of it hanging out on a dog turd in the backyard and getting tired of the cold so it wanted to warm up in my coffee! Or buzzing around in my gorgeous hamster's cage, feeding on his poop and pee saturated pine shavings only leaving to share my coffee with me. I probably have the plague festering in me as I type. Maybe I should make a will...?

Lastly, I am at war with all the hair that everyone sheds around here. Last night in bed I pulled a long dark hair out of my mouth. I have short blond hair. Sugarbowl's bf/f is dark haired and sheds almost as bad as the rest of the things in this house. He also will shave and trim his goatee and not notice the thick coating of hair left all over the sink. I don't know how many times I have grabbed a towel getting out of the shower and rubbed myself down before noticing all the dark, curly, (hate to think of this) probably pubies, hairs clinging to me. We usually have our own towels in the bathroom and they know how anal I am, so it bothers me to think that they are using my towel to wipe down their... unmentionables (read "genitals"). I have warned my little sister that if she does not start taking her hairballs out of the shower -- because it makes me sick to have to remove others nasty hairballs clogging the drain -- I am going to start putting them on her side of the bed. She knows me well enough to remove her hairballs, but sometimes she forgets. When she forgets, I take the hairball and put it on her face cleaner's spout so that she has to touch it to dispense her cleaner. It has really slowed down the amount of hairball buildup.

I feel so dirty, diseased and hair covered. Be glad that I may be quarantined soon so that I can't spread the germs.

History Repeating Itself

This morning I couldn't wait for my coffee to cool down, or I forgot to check it's temperature, which I usually do but being deep in the throes of Text Twist I got so excited I forgot to make sure it was not still too hot to guzzle down. For whichever reason, I grabbed my mug and took a huge swig which then burnt the bejebus out of my tongue and tonsils -- good thing I don't need them or anything. This reminded me of a story that I don't find too amusing but my family likes me to tell at any family gatherings and all major (and some minor) holidays. So if you can humor me a moment, I'd like to share that story.

Many years ago, when I was a young, gappy toothed, knock-kneed, shag haircut sporting Blindbeard I was actually a Girl Scout. That's right, I was a dedicated cookie selling machine. I pursued the whole getting-those-iron-on-patches with a zest that I don't think I have ever applied to anything since then. Not only did we have meetings each week where they served watered down Kool Aid -- which was invented in Nebraska -- in dixie cups (why only dixie cups is something I have never figured out. Earning those patches and selling cookies works up a thirst that requires more than a dixie cup can hold) and a single cookie as a bounteous snack, but we also had parties from time to time. These parties were held in the basement of the church that we attended every week because my parents are instruments of the devil and would only allow us to miss church if we were coughing up our lungs, vomiting blood, or shating out our entrails. And we never had coloring books or toys with us like one sees today with less tortured children than we were. We had to behave and pretend to listen to the sermon; anything less would get you 20 minutes on the couch at home where you had to sit like you should have while in church -- a hideous fate that we tried to avoid but sometimes forgot and messed around in church when we knew better. Like this one time when my mother had to take my older sister out of church because she was misbehaving and give her a spanking in the bathroom (back when spanking was the norm) and while she was gone I got into her purse, grabbed her lipstick and smeared it all over my lips in huge chunks that ruined her lipstick. My mother came back, took one look at me and took me to the bathroom. So in the basement of the church that was the bane of our existence, we were having our annual Christmas party. They were serving hot cocoa that was the temperature of lava direct from the earth's core and next to the dispensers of this boiling liquid they had straws. Now whether they were actually straws or stirring sticks for coffee, my memory doesn't tell me, they were all the same to me. I took a cup of cocoa and a straw and took a huge suck of this ridiculously hot beverage. It scalded my tongue and tonsils so bad I couldn't feel a thing on my tongue for 3 days. I must not have been the only one to do so because they moved the straws/stirring sticks down the table away from the hot cocoa after several draughts were served. To this day I can't figure out why anybody would serve hot cocoa with a straw. It was an experience that scarred me for life and made me scared of hot drinks for a long time. Even to this day I feel the reverberations of it and am uber careful with any hot beverage. So to be so careless as to guzzle my coffee without checking the temperature of it first was an act of stupidity on my part. Did I learn nothing from that whole experience?! Obviously I needed a reminder of exactly why I don't just hurl hot drinks down my gullet without ascertaining their exact degree first. I just hope it doesn't take 3 days again to regain any sensation in my tongue.

In Defense Of Being A Jack-A-Ninny Jack Pipe

*Author's Note: Your comments on this post were GREAT! I got up at 5am the other day, checked my comments and yukked it up, loudly, much to my roomies irritation. I tried to share the comments with them, but for some reason they were not interested in listening to them at that early hour. What a bunch of babies!


There is a method to my madness here. Despite my reading choices, which would make me seem more mature and serious than I am, I am not always as grown up as I could be (should be?). People want to treat me like a delicate invalid whose disease should entitle her to special treatment. No one wants to be mean to a gimp, like it is bad karma or something. They want to treat me like I'm sick and a delicate flower -- something that irritates me to the roots of my soul. I am NOT sick in the sense that we tend to think of "sick" (mental problems aside). My body is healthy, I just have an immune system that hates me. And the quickest way to get my hackles up is to treat me differently because of it, or give me special treatment, or even to be too nice to me when it is not warranted. I don't want a free pass to be an ass hat because of my disease. I want people to see all of me and treat me the same as anybody else regardless of my disease and physical problems. Even my mental problems do not give anyone a reason to treat me differently. I do not feel that depression, especially under the circumstances, is a reason to treat me with kid gloves. When my disease came out of the gate with a gusto that was scary, everyone started acting differently to me: they no longer wanted to make fun of me, be mean to me. In my family we all tease and harass each other endlessly; it is our way of showing love. And to suddenly be exempt from that harassment made me feel worse than if they had just kept up with the insults. Insults I can handle, being treated gently I can't.

After the initial shock and bouts of incessant crying started to subside, I got tired of all the sympathy and felt it was time to move out of the "shock" stage (is that the first stage in loss? I can't remember and don't want to get a book out to find out for sure). I moved into the "anger" stage while everyone else continued grieving -- and I'm still stuck at "anger," but I think you figured that one out. I found early on that if I heckle and annoy my family they lose their patience with me and treat me like my old self, of which there are still a few remnants left. As long as I am an obnoxious ass to them, they treat me the same way they always did. They take back the "Get Out Of Punishment Free" card and let loose on me in a way that I find refreshing. I want to remind people that just because I have this disease I did not become a saint with patience that would rival Job's. I get woolly and cross and obnoxious. I like to annoy them and remind them that I am still a pain in their aft ends regardless of my disease. Maybe my method doesn't work for everybody, but for me it get results. I may not think deep thoughts, pen moving poetical lines about MS, be serious too often, or come across as a person with even 2 brain cells rubbing together, but all that stuff is just not me. If I am too serious people start to worry about my mental state and whether they should haul me off to the loony bin again. And that is a road I really do not want to go down again, thank you very little. So whenever I feel like someone is being too kind to me when I don't have any claim to being treated that way (besides having the MS, which I don't find to be an acceptable excuse) I have to be an obnoxious ass pipe to make them realize there is much more to me than just MS. There is no sound sweeter to me than someone treating me that same way as everyone else and saying the same negative things they would say to anyone acting/saying the things I do. It is a lullaby that soothes my soul and brings a smile to my face.

Debating My Mental State

Last night I asked my roomies if they noticed any difference in me since switching meds. I feel better and more stable, which is always a good thing. I'm taking a mood stabilizer for my extreme downs that make me contemplate how sharp the knives are in this rotting heap of a house. I've had 2 shrinks now that have said I'm bipolar. I don't have much of the manic highs, but I get the extreme lows, and they both said that is a form of bipolar disorder, and who am I to argue? I don't know hockey pucks about poop when it comes to all this mental diseases stuff, so I have to take their word for it.

Honestly, I expected glowing reviews about how I'm doing on my new meds. I was prepared to hear about how much better I am to live with. How life with me makes the idea of heaven pale in comparison. That I am so much better they are astounded by my progress and envious of my new found peace and lack of mood swings. Ha ha and HA! My little sister said that I am still a pain in her (huge, dimply, looking like she is smuggling cottage cheese in her pants) arse. That I am still an asshat whose extreme stubbornness and lack of willingness to share makes any changes in me hard to discern. Really warming up to the subject, she told me that she thinks I may be borderline like she is, because I am such an overgrown ass clown. I was/am deeply offended that she thinks I may be borderline too. I see how she is and I see no resemblance in our mental problems' manifestations. She, being an expert on the subject, said that my depression and troubled relationships are part of being borderline. I bristled. My hackles standing on end, I challenged that whole theory because I don't think having to get a divorce, when divorce is so common, qualifies as "troubled relationships," it being only one bad relationship. She then outlined my past relationships and how they would fall under the category of "troubled." While I was drawing in a HUGE breath (and Princess and Sugarbowl's bf/f cowered under the kitchen table, preparing for one of our fights) to unleash a torrent of negativity down her self-righteous person, she said that she didn't really think I was borderline, she just wanted to mess with me. I hate when she so successfully gets my goat -- and an ugly goat it is, not being the best out of my goat herd; I'd never part with you, Billy! Wanting to return the favor of annoying the crud out of her, I sang the following song, loudly, off key, and repeatedly throughout the rest of the night:

Jingle bells,
Sugarbowl's crotch smells
Like 50 rotting fish eggs!
Her sh*t mobile lost a wheel,
And she can't throw a thing away, HEY!

Her sh*t mobile did just lose a wheel: she had a flat and is still driving on a donut. She also hoards stuff to the point that it makes me claustrophobic to look in her room. That and her car is a traveling city dump -- she never cleans it out. If I have to ride in it, I always grab a trash bag so I can get rid of enough crap to put my feet as near to the floor as possible so my knees aren't up against my chin. She tolerated my song, knowing that if she showed her irritation it would only egg me on, but got a trite pissy when everyone else laughed. Now I have her goat to add to my herd.

When Good Neurologists Go Bad

*Author's Note: I want to answer D.R.'s question about Ritalin. I don't get anxious on Ritalin. I get anxious on Provigil, and being a person who has battled anxiety too much in this life, I try to avoid it at all costs. Out of all the horrible things out there to experience, anxiety has been the worst that I have had to go to combat against. It is a horrible thing and I envy those who have never had to go through it. I don't ever want to deal with panic attacks again and take my meds religiously to keep them away. If anything makes me feel anxious I ditch it immediately -- I hate that feeling with a loathing that I don't have words for.


Or maybe "When Neurologists Attack." How about "Neurologists Gone Wild" (though that it a scary thought, my neurologist being a trite old and... not so firm)? Take your pick, I've got more. I have been pondering this whole thing and keep thinking the same thing: "When Good Neurologists Go Bad," because my neurologist seems to have gone past her due date and needs to be put in the compost pile. Or maybe fed to the birds and squirrels, put out to pasture, made into preserves, sent to the glue factory... once again, take your pick because I have more.

I do not feel that my neurologist takes me seriously -- a subject she and I had a discussion about on my last visit to her. I was not accepting of her hee-ing and haw-ing on the subject and wanted some firm answers. I wanted to know if she actually listens to me and believes what I tell her, because her "findings" do not reflect what I report to her. She only became my neurologist because my last beloved neuro moved to Florida to care for a more populous clientele and the clinic that she practices in was the only place for me to get Tysabri, so she has only known me on Tysabri. I will freely admit that Tysabri has been a God send for me (and many others). It has wondrously slowed down my MS -- I have only had 1 clear-cut attack in the almost 2 years I have been on it. Granted, I've had new problems, but not a full on attack like the current one I'm in. I haven't gotten better, only held where I am, but that is enough for me. Before Tysabri I had, on average, 3-4 attacks a year. And my attacks last forever. One of the shortest ones was 6 weeks, and that was with the steroids. I never recover fully from my attacks and always have residuals left over from them. My old neurologist knew this and took this into consideration, hence why he was so adamant about my getting on Tysabri post haste when all the other meds we tried did not hold me adequately. My new neurologist must not have cracked into my records and has only seen me on Tysabri and concluded that I am a walking miracle whose MS is so miraculously under control that I can now solve world hunger. Whew! Glad she figured that out! On my last visit I asked her if she had read what my old neurologist said about me, what his findings were, what his opinion of my MS was, ANYTHING he had to say? She was evasive, but I was determined and pinned her down with my beady red eyes and wouldn't let her squirm out of answering me. After a long tug-of-war over the subject, she finally realized that I meant business, wanted some hard answers and was not going to budge until I got them. We had a nice long chat about what she had got out of his reports and what she did incorporate into her own records. To get rid of me, she told me that she does chart the things I tell her, that I know my own body best and know how MS really feels, nobody can tell me what my MS is doing to me better that me. Then, to flatter me, she told me that people with MS tend to be intelligent and more educated. I was slightly mollified, darn it all to heck! I wanted to march out of her office the self-righteous victor instead of pondering whether I am an intelligent, educated dumb ass.

So is there a point to all this? Why yes, there is, I'm so glad you asked! My fatigue kicks my round butt on a regular basis, it keeps me from accomplishing the things I want/need to do, and has made me have a love affair with the couch -- all things that I don't want. I tried Provigil and hated it. Even at the lowest dose, which I then broke in half, it made me feel sick and anxious -- 2 things I don't care to be.

Blindbeard: This fatigue is driving me nuts! Isn't there anything that will help?
Neuologist: We could try Provigil for that.
BB: We did and I can't tolerate Provigil. It makes me feel like I should have snorted it, shot it up, like I sucked d*ck in a dark alley for it.
N: We usually prescribe Provigil for fatigue.
BB: I've heard from other MSers that Ritalin works well.
N: We usually try to stick to Provigil for fatigue.
BB: Is someone playing a broken record in here?!

The good news is that my shrink is more open minded and not afraid to branch out from the whole Provigil-is-the-only-option mindset. She gave me a prescription for Ritalin without my asking for it (I had forgotten about it because I got nowhere with my neurologist about other options for fatigue). She suggested we try it because she knew that there are other things out there that will work for fatigue besides Provigil. I have been on the Ritalin for the last few days, maybe even a week, I can't remember, and I am LOVING it! I have not felt the need to make ass prints in the couch and have not been napping for hours on end. I even vacuumed the house and got my room cleaned up. The next day I was able to get the dishes caught up and change the cat boxes. I went grocery shopping and was still able to get a few things done around here. I feel almost normal and can't wait to see my neurologist again to tell her that I started on Ritalin. I want to see the look on her face when she hears I didn't need her Provigil and found something better.