I Heard the Devil Call My Name

Not really. Not literally, because that would put me into a whole new class of crazy.

This is the essential trap any loony faces: I'm on meds. I feel great. I have friends. I'm friendly at work. I don' stay at home, sitting on my hands, counting the minutes that I've managed not to kill myself.

So hey! I must be all better, right?

And when you've been sick and you're better, what do you do? You stop taking your medicine.

No.

First of all, I have been warned many times in many degrees of harshness of the foolishness of that act.

Secondly, I no longer have a death wish.

Thirdly, I have forgotten how horribly painful it was to be sick in the head.

I've got these meds fine-tuned now, to the point that I know I need to increase the anti-paranoia meds within the prescribed limit and can tune down the anti-anxiety meds, again within the prescribed limits.

Lately, I've read some articles about how people with a similar diagnosis but apparently deeper pockets have found themselves in a holistic program, which only makes sense. Healthy mind in a healthy body and all that.

I can probably organize this myself, although I doubt that it will be as easy. Still, I think I'm going to give it a try.

First step: Establish a baseline. That's the easiest part. Well. We'll see.

I am compliant, which is something relatively new to me. It astonishes me that it brings good results.

I Must Keep in Good Health and Not Die

Actually, I can do either. I can't do anything in between. I can't get sick. I can't get hurt. But I (preferably) can stay in good health or I can die. Anything else is right out.

I'm thinking of canceling my health insurance. I can't afford to use it. The money it would free up would ease my worried mind greatly.

When I went for my physical, the doctor wanted me to have an ultra sound done of my tummy. She wanted me to have an MRI for my back and hip. She had great aspirations for me, but the end result is that I haven't had any of that done.

And when I went to the gyn a little earlier, she wanted me to have a mammogram. I'm not having a mammogram. Because honestly, if there's anything going on in there, I don't want to know.

When I was updating the "Jingle" blog - actually, before that - it occurred to me that maybe I don't have ten years left. In a weird way, I hope this is true.

I was talking to my insurance agent today and he was nagging me about Roth IRAs and I told him, "I can't afford to retire. I can afford to work. I can afford to die. I cannot afford retirement." He laughed uneasily. No, I don't have life insurance with him. I don't have life insurance, period. What would be the point?

Of course, this all coincide with or is because of the medicine drawer running low to empty. I have to go this evening to pick up everything.

This morning when I got to work, exactly on time for once, I sat in my car in the nicely darkened parking deck. I leaned my seat back and I slept! For half an hour, but still, it amazed me that I could sleep anywhere other than the pile of mattresses with no peas under them.

Then later I was sitting at work and I realized why I have not been beating my brains out at work.

It's because I really don't give a fuck. Stock options, tranches, expirations, I really don't care. It's about as relevant to me as some rock falling into a quarry in Italy.

I realized that I haven't cared for a long, long time. Probably since Fezziwig & Co. made me walk Spanish down the hall. But I think it might have been earlier than that.

Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.

When I see the young 'uns at work, when I see how fired up they are about dividends on expired options and how deeply they're into it, it's a nostalgic moment for me. I remember caring that much. And I remember what it got me.

No. Truthfully? I don't give a fuck. I only care as long as I can keep getting a paycheck. Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.

Doctor's Report

Okay, I admit I haven't been feeling extra super for the last year or so. But I had no idea that I am, in fact, a crumbling, grumbling wreck doing the hokey-pokey over my own grave.

Apparently, I am just that.

Rickets!

Nobody gets rickets anymore. When it's referenced in old Disney movies, kids had no idea what it meant. Even I had no idea what it meant.

No, I don't have rickets. What I do have is a Vitamin D deficiency. Yay, me. I am so pale and wan, so driven to the indoors that I must not only take 1000 IU of Vitamin D supplements, I should spent some time in the sun.

Which will then cause me to collapse into a smoking heap of ash.

Do you know how to super-inject yourself with Vitamin D? Yes, there are supplements. But there's nothing like the old school remedy - cod liver oil.

I would like to apologize to the thousands of little cods who gave their livers so they could be squeezed into me. I'm sorry. But I'm at the top of this particular food chain.

Another reason why I chose it was because I desperately hope it doesn't make me burp fish oil all night.

This is a small sacrifice.

But spending time in the sun? This will have to be approached with caution. Since I moved from Florida where I was perpetually tan, I don't tan, I blotch. It can alarm observers. Spending time in the sun makes me sweat. There is nothing at all about being in the sun that recommends itself to me.

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Oh. Apparently I have high cholesterol. Moi? The non-bovine Miss Dairy Products? Butter, butter, butter, coffee most emphatically with cream, thank you. The fabulous dulce tres leches pastele I had last week. The mad love of oatmeal made with milk and a gob of butter.

I am shocked.

I was told "The doctor wants you to go on a low fat, low calorie diet and she wants to see you in another three months." Click. The whole report took 49 seconds. I know. I just looked it up on the phone.

Of course I know I can be resourceful enough to figure it all out, but I was kind of ticked off that that was that.

You're an aging old bat who doesn't take care of herself, now piss off.

Thank you so much.

But no, it was kind of disconcerting to learn that I am no longer the vibrantly healthy thing I was in ages past.

I really hope these people never have to tell me I have cancer.

Oh, I'll figure it out. I bought cod liver oil on the way home and I even had my fishy-lipped first dose. Faugh! Still, it's for my health.

A Word of Warning to the Unemployed

All of this started a good long while ago, probably the first time I was laid off. The only non-absolute that I had in my budget was food for me. And so I would tell myself, well, you really don't want to cook for just one person, do you? Such a hassle. And since you're not working, do you really need that much food? Have some rice. You have plenty of rice. Have some basmatti rice with butter. And cream. That'll cheer you up.

Salads? What, are you nuts? You can't afford fresh stuff, just to have it go bad!

This is a very bad way to think and I know. That's part of the reason why I'm here, in this particular situation. You may not think you can afford to eat healthily - not extravagantly, just healthily - but you can't afford not to.

One last fling with instant grits and then I'm done.

Sigh.