I drew this picture in 2003, long before I had any reason to whine about medications. Back in the old days, when I was young and naive, when I thought because I didn't drink, smoke, or eat meat, I was therefore invincible. Back when I assumed I'd live to be a hundred. Ha.
I know it's foolish, but taking all these medications sometimes makes me feel like a moral failure. However, I admit to a thrill of triumph when I see the impressed look on the med aide's face when they take my blood pressure. It only takes two blood pressure medications to keep my BP looking good.
I probably mentioned my brainiac neurologist disagrees with my diagnosis of vestibular paroxysmia. Why she should trust her years of eduation and experience in favor of my imprecise, anecdotal tales of woe is beyond me. I'd be happy with a little empathy. I've heard surgeons are incapable of empathy, which is why they go into a field where they (mostly) don't have to think about bedside manner. It might be the same with vestibular neurologists. I bet most of the patients this doctor meets are weepy, anxious, wobbly whiners who can't describe their symptoms beyond "I fall over and I can't get up." I think I might be an anomaly. I know my malady is kind of rare, but the fact that I show up having read the NIH articles about my condition might be something she has never encountered.
Anyway, all that to say, after Med #1 lost some of its effectiveness, she prescribed Med #2. She said I should know after the first week if it was going to work or not. I appreciated that information. I stuck it out for two weeks and reported that the new medication had not only made the symptoms worse but also given me a new set of symptoms to complain about. She told me to keep taking Med #1 and stop taking Med #2. She's cooking up Med #3 as we speak. Not literally, I hope. She's a brilliant brainiac, so you never know. She might have a lab in her basement.
Yesterday I was at a grocery store parking my empty cart in the cart parking place like a good little shopper when I noticed an older white-haired woman pushing her loaded cart in circles, scanning the parking lot. I could tell right away she'd lost her car.
"Do you need some help?" I asked.
"I can't seem to find my car."
"What are you driving?"
She told me the make and model, looking worried and chagrined. "I parked it and pulled through to the next slot, you know, so I could get out easily?"
I reassured her I did the same thing. "What color is it?"
"Green."
I probably mentioned my brainiac neurologist disagrees with my diagnosis of vestibular paroxysmia. Why she should trust her years of eduation and experience in favor of my imprecise, anecdotal tales of woe is beyond me. I'd be happy with a little empathy. I've heard surgeons are incapable of empathy, which is why they go into a field where they (mostly) don't have to think about bedside manner. It might be the same with vestibular neurologists. I bet most of the patients this doctor meets are weepy, anxious, wobbly whiners who can't describe their symptoms beyond "I fall over and I can't get up." I think I might be an anomaly. I know my malady is kind of rare, but the fact that I show up having read the NIH articles about my condition might be something she has never encountered.
Anyway, all that to say, after Med #1 lost some of its effectiveness, she prescribed Med #2. She said I should know after the first week if it was going to work or not. I appreciated that information. I stuck it out for two weeks and reported that the new medication had not only made the symptoms worse but also given me a new set of symptoms to complain about. She told me to keep taking Med #1 and stop taking Med #2. She's cooking up Med #3 as we speak. Not literally, I hope. She's a brilliant brainiac, so you never know. She might have a lab in her basement.
Yesterday I was at a grocery store parking my empty cart in the cart parking place like a good little shopper when I noticed an older white-haired woman pushing her loaded cart in circles, scanning the parking lot. I could tell right away she'd lost her car.
"Do you need some help?" I asked.
"I can't seem to find my car."
"What are you driving?"
She told me the make and model, looking worried and chagrined. "I parked it and pulled through to the next slot, you know, so I could get out easily?"
I reassured her I did the same thing. "What color is it?"
"Green."
"Is it dark green?"
"No, light green."
I trotted around and eventually found a very pale greenish-gray car I thought might be hers. I ran back and verified the license plate.
"You've done your good deed for the day," she said, clearly greatly relieved.
As if someone would have stolen her car in an upscale grocery store in an upper-income part of town. I guess it could happen, but not likely. Now, if she'd parked in my usual neck of the woods, she might have come back to a car on blocks and stripped for parts.
I patted her shoulder. "Happens to me all the time."
Merry Christmas and all that happy horse pucky from sunny, warm southern Arizona.
Merry Christmas and all that happy horse pucky from sunny, warm southern Arizona.
