I Am My Diagnosis & Cheery Tips for Patients

As I was driving to my new excellent job today where the people are actually like me, or to be more specific, not so dolled-up or formal or formatory that I wasn't sure whether or not some of them were pods, I noticed that I was rapidly humming along, rather like a sweet little birdie on speed. Listening to the news didn't calm me, as they don't speak quickly enough when I am in that mode. So I turned on The Shins. Of course I had chopped 5 minutes off my commuting time, imagining that I would miraculously get there more quickly today. The clocks would adjust themselves for me, as they do when I am super-duper-cheery. After all, I was speeding through time. This was not a mega-caffeine morning. This was me in a slightly manic mode that I have been loathe to label because it sounds, jeez, so manic. My psychopharm guy referred to "cycling, " and I was all with that, because fast to very very sad to faster is like a sudden whip-around of your head, so that a tiny and fierce neck muscle spasms mid-whip, but the movement continues.

Why mention this now? Because Spotted Elephant wrote a super-brave posting about the joys of having a chronic medical condition. I think it is really fun. My medical condition(s), that is, although the posting is also excellent. My diagnoses make me unique, and without them, I would have no identity. Who would take my pills? The dog might find them unpalatable.

Also, my healthcare practitioners are the best, and I worked my ass off to find them. I help to validate their professional lives, and it's always intriguing to get a Case like me. And of course, 'every time a door closes, a window opens.' (That's because when a psychiatrist closes a door, the claustrophobic patient begs permission to open the window.) I have learned so very much from my medical misfortunes. They are like little gifts, or lessons, as it were. The following is a list, inspired by two men: my first neurologist, who taught me that other people had it worse than me, and that his wife had an important job; and also, Jerry Lewis, whose telethons helped me to realize just how much attention a wheelchair might get me.

LIFE LESSONS FROM A VARIOUSLY DIAGNOSED PERSON

Always trust your doctor, even when he leaves you sitting in a room alone for 40 minutes. He's busy, for crissake!

Never listen to the nurse - she's just a little helper, and she's probably been at that same job for years. So what does she know?

Don't expect a call on the actual week the doctor said she would call you! Holy cow! When she said Thursday, she meant Thursday of any week, any month, any year.

Quit learning the medical jargon: it's unnerving to your physician, and you certainly could not truly understand it.

Just because it burns when you pee, you constantly have to go, and you've had five urinary infections in the past, don't try diagnosing yourself. You must be seen before anything is prescribed. The doctor will see you in two days.

Your diagnoses are an opportunity to grow and learn. You are an example of heroism for all of those around you. When you feel like absolute crap and everyone is sick of hearing about it, remember that suffering builds character. Plus, no one likes a complainer, so quit bitching.

Remember, regardless of the dehumanizing diagnostic test, it is important so that the doctor can know exactly what's going on. It may turn out to have been completely unnecessary to make you shit all night, for example, or prohibit you from sleeping, but just be a good girl. The doctor has never had the diagnostic test, so he has no idea what the hell he's talking about when he describes it. Nevertheless, you can ask a nurse, and dumb as she is, she will probably, somehow, remember something about the test.

Although people do get genuine bodily ailments, women are known for their, pardon me, hysteria. Should you think you have a psychiatric disorder, you're probably crazy! It's undoubtedly related to your hormones, your cycle, your tendency, like all women, to exaggerate. Just cheer up, honey!

Everything happens for a reason. Like, the reason kids are in wheelchairs in the first place is that people like Jerry Lewis need to exploit them. Furthermore, the reason I wrote this is because of the joy it gives me to have many diagnoses, and to be part of the hysteria.

Whoopi Goldberg and Other Musings

Whoopi Goldberg looking over her glasses from out of the Sunday paper is far superior to looking at the pouchy faces we're ordinarily subjected to with our coffee. That crackly voice and her relaxed attitude have always appealed to me. The nun movie? The comedy shows with Robin Williams and Billy Crystal? And look at her - no make-up, or at least something akin to an actual human face. A humored, wide smile, and happily wild hair. When I opened the New York Times Magazine this morning, there was a Deborah Solomon interview in which the reporter attempts to either prove her superiority or her irritability - it's hard to tell which. Nevertheless, she was woefully outwitted by the ever-clever Whoopi.

I had sorta forgotten about Whoopi since I hadn't seem any of her recent crappy movies (I think they are all crappy, but I like her in them anyway, especially the one in which she coaches the baseball team). New York Times Magazine readers often complain that Ms. Solomon is uptight or biased in some way. Today she played the straight man, as it were, to perfection. She actually used the phrase "never mind," because Whoopi out-quipped her. How many people can spurn a reporter by saying "I'm not that deep"?

I guess there's been some big hoo-ha recently about Oprah not inviting Whoopi to a big Diva Dinner. I have reported my opinion of Oprah, and it was only reinforced recently when I saw her magazine, O, on the rack. What is that? Is she like O is for Oprah? Orgasm? Oh! It's me again, Oprah! And every single how-to-be-healthy-in-ten-easy-lessons issue has Oprah's sandwashed photo on it. She may be narcissistic, but she is also the center of the O-niverse! In contrast, Whoopi is on the radio, talking about how people oughtta be more considerate of one another. She plays fun music in between, apparently, so she can run to the lavatory if necessary (Deborah dislikes the music). Oprah's all 'O Me O Me' and Whoopi's talking on the radio, and posing in her very regular clothes.

Why should I compare two black celebrities? It just so happens that these two people are very prominent celebrities and one of them is a talented comedian;I am an opinionated woman, passionately involved in sociological issues, and comparing celebrities is practically an advanced seminar in cultural literacy. Also, there's the matter of my ego: how come no one pays as much attention to the people I like? That actor in Crossing Delancey - he was great. "Do you think my job defines me?" he hollered at Amy Irving, who couldn't admit that she had the hots for a Jewish pickle-man. Where did he go? Gotta google that. The Green Party woman - Jill Stein - an intelligent person, not a celebrity, but close - a politician. Why didn't people vote for her? She was intelligent, warm, articulate. Would there ever be a J Magazine? Well, of course not!

What if Whoopi had a magazine? "Ten Reasons to Listen to The Radio," or "There is Nothing About Oprah in Here." If she had a magazine, would I still like her? More importantly, if she were as rich and famous as Oprah - and she's probably pretty rich and famous as is - would she still talk about the natural need to fart when one is on stage for hours? Most important, if I were as rich and famous as either one of them, would I be deep, like Oprah, or shallow like Whoopi? I'm off to call my psychic. I think I'll fart along the way.

Jews Can Confess, Too

Oy vesmir to be a progressive Jewish girl these days. Oy gevalt I cannot watch the news I cannot talk about it. When my goyishe husband criticizes Israel I get nervous. I am sure a uniformed officer will come for me, noting my unruly hair and Jewishy face. When I hear politicians support Israel, I feel oppressed. I keep myself at a news-exposure minimum, because after reading and listening about the war the cease fire the families the terrorists I am overwhelmed. And I'm just a Jewish gal in North America, living my little life with nothing more than a few pauses here and there.

Sometimes, I am reduced to thinking about Hebrew school: the way we were taught that we should never forget The Holocaust (so true), the oft-repeated words - "the chosen people" - that I always knew were wrong, and the unflinching support of Israel, along with the notion that all Jews, some day, would go to Jerusalem. We were our own proud little band of soldiers, with Hebrew workbooks, and Hebrew names.

I read about a local Jewish family moving to Israel, and I thought what about the children? Those people could die from a bomb. People believe so fiercely in Israel and somehow that intense devotion missed me. It feels sacrilegious even writing that. Other Jews assume that I accept Israel's actions unconditionally. But I don't accept anything unconditionally! When a country's weapons kill innocent civilians, I won't be an apologist for it. Israel has the right to exist, but I wish all the neighbors there could exist without killing each other.

I am already on some organization's "self-hating Jew" list, whatever that means. Please forgive my feelings of humanity for Lebanese people! I don't understand, for example, why the progressive temple we attend raised money for Jewish children in Israel last year. What about all Israeli children in need? I simply do not value Jews more than I value Arabs. I was told as a child that Arabs are evil. It didn't sound right then, and it is not right now.

So don't hak me a chinek (give me grief) with the Israel talk, and don't tell me who did what to whom. I tell my students, and my own children, that I'm not interested in who started it, I wanna know who's going to finish it? Not finish it with bombs. Talk about some real peace. It would be a grand trip if we could ever afford to travel to Israel. Will we ever feel safe enough that we would even consider it? Ach, what kind of a Jew am I?

The Pill & The Poof

My anti-depressant is great. It's an SSRI. That means it inhibits the flow of seratonin, which maybe my brain squirts out a bit too freely. Or something like that. It's Prozac, only not. How ordinary of me. The theory is that the anti-depressant helps with depression, and it does. But where's my orgasm? (As you read that, please imagine it asked with outrage, in a loud voice that has a bit of wail, similar to a cat's, mating in the distance.) It seems to have gone the way of bikinis, abdominal muscle, and regular periods. Let's not get the issues confused, though. The peri-menopause has not taken my orgasm; the yellow pill I take twice a day has taken my orgasm, and even the requisite great feeling right before the orgasm, and deleted it from my hard drive.

Now Chrystal would say "forget the drug! Embrace your depression and get the orgasm back!" That's why I don't ask Chrystal about this particular issue. I don't ask anyone. It's the Catch-22 of My Pathology, or one of many, really. If I don't take the meds, I will not want to have sex. I will not want anyone near me. That's my guess. If I do take them, I am vibrant, exciting, a regular Bugs Bunny, but female, and not a cartoon, and with just a tad more depth and better ears.

I do think about sex, and the interest is there. But I suppose it's not as there as some people have it there. And then what is strange is that if I do engage Ball & Chain, or he engages me, or, more to the point, we are doing it, I do not end up frustrated, the feelings simply disappear, mid-heat. Every appropriate cell is aroused, everything is in place, and when I say "thing" you know what I mean, and matters are proceeding as they have throughout time, except those folks probably hadn't had their husbands spayed to avoid worry about pregnancy, and then as I approach the moment, poof. Poof, truly, that's all. The SSRI is in there somewhere, a little mad scientist with troll hair and a polka-dot dress running through my bloodstream saying "she cannot have the orgasm - it is the price she pays!" and the demon turns off some switch. It's like going to a great film with a terrific soundtrack, and suddenly you're watching old black & white home movies of a distant relative serving himself macaroni salad. The soundtrack is gone and there's just a crackle.

Ball & Chain has been understanding. After all, his bloodstream is not poisoned. What's to understand? He saw the whole movie, including the credits and the little tiny extra if you wait until the very end, and I listened to some old guy gumming macaroni. Should I talk to my doctor about the macaroni? I dunno. Other than the sex part, my medications are working well. I'm caught in the 22. In the past, when on an SSRI, once I have manage to have one peak experience, as it were, that was it, the Polka-Dot Lady was gone, and I could do it again and again. Like magic.

For now I'll have to hope that Ball & Chain can come up with a few tricks. He does have some talent, so we'll see what happens. I'm not about to stop the SSRI. I suppose chastity would be a bit extreme, and I do still have an appetite. Only not for macaroni salad.

My Pal Chickie

My pal Chickie is a walking encyclopedia of relevant knowledge. Need a car? She knows where to get a good used deal. Does your child have a conundrum at school? Chickie has managed a similar issue, knows the school authorities, as well as three other mothers who have dealt with it, and she can suggest an article. Chickie doesn't advertise, though. You must discover her talents on your own. And here's a query that I posed for The Knowledge Chick: if one's daughter begins to wear a bra sometime in the next decade, what is the proper protocol? What to say? Where to go? What to do? Not only did Chickie's advice assuage my fear of budding breasts, or breast buds, as it were, but she directed me to the proper retail outlet.

I have discovered OneHanesPlace. All this time I have been writing, you, Dear Reader, as well as the ant crawling across my screen, may have thought that I was a buxom, large-breasted, womanly type of woman, whaddevvah that means. Well, no. (For extrapolation on the matter of post-mastectomy bras, stay tuned, I'm on the job.) I'm a B. Thirty four B. That's a lie. I'm in between, really. An A is too small. Yes, it is! Do I want big breasts? No. Do I wish my tuchas (ass padding) was proportional to my breast size? Yes. Do I care that much? Not nearly as much as if I suddenly grew a moustache, but a little more than if Condoleeza Rice grew a moustache. I don't think anyone else in the executive branch could grow a moustache right now, due to either a testosterone omission in their rabies series, or the intense concentration required. Nothing against Condoleeza personally, but I think she'd do well with some facial hair.

Back to OneHanesPlace, where I imagine all of the panties and bras go to gossip -"See you over at One Hanes, Thong!," - they have every single type of brassiere ever created anywhere including "Near-B"! So I don't have to look down at my small breast lolling meekly inside a B-cup, as if waiting to be joined by a partner, and I don't have to strangle my entire chest by squeezing into an A. And everything's returnable. Not the breasts - the bras.

There's a measuring guide on the site. Does every other female in the world have a measuring tape in her sewing box? My sewing box is a lame sight. It's a fake, really. I don't sew, except buttons that fell off. Someone gave me the box as a work gift and I threw in some tangled spools of thread and a pack of needles. I've used it, but it's more of an emergency management service as family members attempt to leave the house and discover holes in unseemly (terrible pun, really) places.

Obviously, I have no measuring tape at all. I look at those grids for sizing and I'm using a plastic ruler trying to figure out how many inches my bust is. The dog is peering up at me like he knows he should be embarrassed. I call out to Thing One and Thing Two "do you guys know where a tape measure is?"
Thing One says "No, but we have a yard stick."
"Um, no thanks," I holler down. I pretend not to hear him when he asks what I need it for.

Regarding the mothering of a budding girl: I am confident that Rugelah, aka Thing Two, and I, will find a mini-bra, or pseudo-bra, or, perhaps, a bra bra for her, when the time is appropriate, just as Chickie and Chicklet did a few years ago. Meanwhile, I do not have to shop for bras in the company of women who actually need them, although I did note that over at One Hanes they have many handy bra types for women who are carrying a lotta tit, a bit o' tit or some type of mix. They have post-mastectomy bras, too, so a bra for every gal who wants one. Now there's a pause, an oh my, as it's hard to end on a mastectomy note. But ladies in all cleavage and non-cleavage categories are on my mind, so there.