The Good News: The doctor thinks my ear pain is due to allergies, and does not think I have the shingles in my ear. So, yay-no Valtrex for me!

The Bad News: Now I know that it is possible for a person to contract the shingles Inside. Their. Ear.

You may have noticed that lately, I appear to have dropped off the face of the earth. Unfortunately, this is due to my having had a pretty major relapse in my recovery from The Autumn Of Illness. Thankfully, there has not been a return of The Hostile Alien Bacteria. But everything else-the arthritis, the fatigue, the feeling like I’m being pulled naked across asphalt all day long-that’s all back.

I finally had my first pain-free day in about a month last Sunday. And I’m tentatively optimistic, because I’ve now had 3 in a row.

So hopefully I should have a little more to say around here. I appreciate everyone sticking around while I’ve peeled myself up off the floor yet again.

I found out that I have another stupid cavity.

“Well,” said the hygienist, poking me with a very sharp stick, “you have a pit that we’ve been watching for a while, and now it’s developed into a cavity.”

Hm, really? Well, thanks so much for sharing that information with me, when it can do me absolutely no good whatsoever.

“But it’s only a little cavity. And it will only need a little filling.”

That did not make me feel any better.

But it did make me wonder; is that anything like being just a little pregnant?

because I spent last night in a sleep lab doing a sleep study. Because when it comes to sleep, mostly I don’t.

This is not anything new-for as long as I can remember, I haven’t been able to sleep. But even though it seems sort of obvious now, it took me all of these 35 years to realize that I could get help for this, so that one day I might eventually reach the astonishing place of actually being able to sleep at night.

So I got scheduled for a sleep study, and the day finally arrived, and yesterday I was so anxious that at any moment I expected to vibrate right out of my skin, plus I had so much trouble taking in air that I was actually panting, BECAUSE OF ALL THE RANDOM STRANGERS WHO WERE GOING TO BE WATCHING ME SLEEP!!

It turned out to be only one random stranger, who was actually a very nice gentleman named Ken. Ken had me and my husband watch a little video on sleep apnea, then my husband left and Ken told me to take some time to relax. Apparently this “down time” was preparation for the fact that I was shortly to take on the appearance of a science experiment gone horribly wrong. I had wires going down under all my clothes to my legs, bands across my chest and stomach, something plastic sticking up my nose and in my mouth, a pulse monitor clipped to my index finger, and electrodes covering just about every square inch of my head.

As a matter of fact, between the sleep study and the clinical trial I was in for the C DIF drug, I’m pretty sure that the only information about my body that hasn’t been documented somewhere for all posterity is the rate at which I accumulate lint in my belly button.

So I thought I was all ready to go, but then it was time for Ken to tell me a bedtime story. It had to do with Reggie White and sleep apnea. I think the point of the story was that if I had a significant weight change in either direction, then I needed to come back in to get my treatment adjusted.

But it’s entirely possible that this was yet another test, because the story pretty much went, Reggie White, got treated for sleep apnea, retired from football, yada yada yada, AND THEN HE DIED OF A MASSIVE HEART ATTACK. As in, “Not only have I made it physically impossible for you to get comfortable, now I will mess with your mind. Let’s see you sleep now, bitch, Mwa ha ha ha ha!!”

Astonishingly, I did actually fall asleep long enough for them to collect the information they needed to determine my treatment. So they sent me home, and I stumbled into the house at 7 this morning only to find that the cats had chosen to express their anguish at my absence by attempting to set a world record through barfing 11 times in the 12 hours I was gone. Plus my head is covered in sticky white electrode adhesive, making me feel like perhaps I accidentally got drunk last night and decided it would be a great idea to style my hair with an entire package of cream cheese.

To quote one of my favorite bloggers, Mighty Maggie,

GAH!

So as I mentioned yesterday, I finally escaped Excessively Loud Jolly Man and made it in to see my doctor. He, I, his medical assistant, we were all pretty sure that yep, I still/once again have C DIF, and that it’s time to move up to the seriously bad-ass medicine for this round of treatment.

Only he wouldn’t give me a prescription for said medicine until he got back the results of my stool sample. Which was fine, except that they wouldn’t take my sack of poo! They told me I had to drive it over to the hospital and find someone over there to take it.

So I did, even though it was extremely odd to basically be chauffeuring my poo all around the greater Atlanta area.

I parked, and for the sake of this story, let’s say that my parking lot was in northern Georgia. And then I had to walk all the way over to the front desk which, metaphorically speaking, was all the way over in southern South Carolina. There I once again had the privilege of informing a complete stranger that, Hi, I’m carrying around a sack full of my own poo, looking for someone who will pretty pretty please take it off of my hands.

At which point the receptionist looked at me, looked at my bag, and said, “Well okay, but first you’re gonna have to go and take it to get registered.”

Me: (blinking)

Me: (as in, I have to register it so that it can go off to an educational summer camp and then get into a really good school with all the other stool samples?)

So I trudged on over to, say, central South Carolina and explained my situation to yet another random stranger in hopes that maybe she would finally give my poo a loving home.

But no, they wouldn’t take it in there, so they called the courtesy (golf) car(t) to come and take me back over to northern Georgia, which is where I started out in the first place.

Finally, almost an hour later, I found the correct lab where I was met at the reception desk with…stunned outrage and indignant disbelief that, of all things, I brought a stool sample! To a lab! A stool sample on which I had the audacity to expect them to perform laboratory tests, if you can even believe the nerve of me.

I had well and truly had it by this time, and was one dirty look away from responding, “Look, lady-I wasn’t the one who decided to go into a job where you have to deal with other people’s poo on a daily basis. It’s not my fault.”

So she was a real bitch, which is really not what you need after suffering with hostile alien bacteria for over 2 months, but in the end she took my stuff, and they did the test, and it came back positive, which meant I could finally start treatment.

I’ll save that story for tomorrow, because it I don’t really have the energy right now to write about how I almost had to rip someone’s face right off and make them eat it. That’s a story for another day.

Over the weekend the Hostile Alien Bacteria returned to my intestinal tract for the third time. This time I decided to go and see my real doctor, as opposed to The Only Doctor Who’s Open At 5:00 On Sundays When You Become Deathly Ill.

Fortunately I was able to get an appointment right away, but on the way there I was making up so many horrible stories in my mind (I’m going to be an invalid forever, They’re going to have to rush me to the hospital, my body is eating itself from the inside out) that by the time I arrived I was mere moments from full-blown hysteria.

After I checked in I decided to do some writing, because that usually helps me calm down. Just as I sat down and pulled out my notebook, an elderly gentleman somewhere between 70 or 80 entered the office. I didn’t really pay him any attention, until he started to speak.

Because this man was loud. He spoke IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. And by God, we were all going to benefit from his wisdom and wit, whether we wanted to or not. It was not that he was senile. It was more that he had a compulsive need to keep everyone’s attention on him at all times, in addition to being completely unable to entertain himself for more than 30 seconds at a time.

Perhaps sensing my need for some blog fodder, this gentleman sat down next to me. However thanks to my highly honed hermit sensitivities, I knew how to be polite without inviting any further contact; namely, smile gently but without making any actual eye contact.

But Excessively Loud Jolly Man was undaunted by my defenses. After he’d exhausted all possible greetings to the room at large he thought for a moment and then said, (to no one in particular), “YOU KNOW I TRY, BUT EVERY TIME I TRIM MY FINGERNAILS, I END UP CUTTING THOSE SUCKERS TOO SHORT.”

Dead silence in the waiting room, because what the hell do you say to that?, and also, maybe if we just pretend we can’t hear him, he’ll finally stop talking.

But unfortunately, we were not that lucky.

Because although his hearing seemed to be a bit impaired, his eyesight was keen enough to notice that I was writing, or in his mind, doing something that didn’t involve him, and so he was immediately compelled to get involved.

“MIGHT I ASK WHAT YOU’RE WRITING?” he inquired in a tone that at first glance seemed polite, but was actually designed to 1)make me feel bad for ignoring him, and 2)impress everyone in the room with his charming and witty manner.

I wasn’t really writing anything in particular, plus I really didn’t want to be in a conversation with this man, so I gave him a polite, but definitely a brush-off, kind of answer.

“I’m just doing a little writing practice,” I said, immediately turning back to my notebook in hopes that he would get the message to please, please just leave me the f*&% alone.

“I UNDERSTAND THAT, BUT WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?” (so clearly, he didn’t understand AT ALL).

“Well, you know how athletes have to practice their sport every day? I’m just practicing my writing.”

“I UNDERSTAND THAT, BUT ARE YOU WRITING ABOUT SOMETHING IN PARTICULAR?”

F*&% politeness.

“Nope,” I said brightly, and went back to ignoring him.

Apparently that did the trick, because after that he left me alone. But unfortunately for everyone else, it meant that they were now the objects of his attention. And of course that meant that his next victim was…the woman in the wheelchair.

“MADAM,” he began, full of the confidence that he was only about to ask what we all wanted to know, but wouldn’t ask ourselves, as well as the confidence that we would all be so grateful to him for retrieving this information, “MIGHT I ASK WHAT YOU’RE DOING IN THAT WHEELCHAIR?”

Noticeable change in the room’s barometric pressure as we all gasp silently in horror.

But she was a polite, Southern woman, so she said, “Well, I’m just waiting to see the doctor.”

“WELL I UNDERSTAND THAT, BUT MIGHT I ASK HOW YOU ENDED UP THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?”

Fortunately at that very moment, in what I can only describe as some extremely well-timed Divine Intervention, the nurse called my name and I bolted out of the waiting room.

Because it was only a matter of time before Excessively Loud Jolly Man noticed that I’d brought with me a stool sample, and we were all forced to hear,

“MIGHT I ASK WHY YOU’RE CARRYING AROUND A SACK OF YOUR OWN POO?”

Thank heavens for small mercies.

…that last month when I had strep throat I asked the doctor for a different antibiotic than she was going to prescribe, because the one she was going to prescribe caused me to experience some severe intestinal issues

…that by taking the new antibiotic I contracted clostridium difficile,, an intestinal infection consisting of nothing but those very same intestinal issues

…that the treatment for this infection is…yet more antibiotics.

Oh, Universe, you tricky bastard you.

There are many things for which I am grateful to my friend, Lynne, but one of my favorites is the fact that she was the person who introduced me to the fantastic phrase, “Just ‘cuz.”

Until I met her, nothing in my life had ever been done “just ‘cuz”. I always backed up everything I decided to do with case plans, legal arguments, graphs, pie charts, handouts, and a Power Point presentation so that, if asked, I could at any moment give a detailed presentation on exactly why I should be allowed to do the activity in question, and exactly how it would lead to some sort of measurable result such as more money or a better job.

Then I met Lynne.

And one day when I was telling her about some kind of training I wanted to take, and I finished my whole song-and-dance routine of justifying why I wanted to do this, she said, “What if you just did this. Just. ‘Cuz.?”

For a while I was speechless, mostly because I was involved in picking all the pieces of my brain up off the floor. And then I was all, “Oh, sure, but first why don’t I go rob a bank, and then go knock off a chain of convenience stores because, HELLO!, you are not allowed to do something just because you want to and you think it will be fun. What’s wrong with you?!”

But truth be told, I was fascinated with this idea. It was sort of like mental cocaine, the idea that maybe, just maybe, I could actually do the things I wanted to do just ‘cuz. No need for any lengthy dissertations or comprehensive oral exams where I had to prove my worthiness. Just. ‘Cuz.

So ever since then I have been luxuriating in the freedom this thought brings. Like, the kind of luxuriating where you roll around naked in giant piles of money while your handsomely oiled and scantily-clad pool boys fan you with large palm fronds and hand feed you individual pieces of gourmet chocolate on the beach of your own, private, Caribbean island.

Yes, I’ve been living it up big time with these two little words. And then recently, I discovered yet another liberating aspect of this powerful thought.

As I’ve written before, during the past few months I’ve been very involved in learning how to manage my anxiety disorder. I’ve also had to deal with a lot of health challenges, as I often do in the fall.

And while I love all the personal growth work I do, the shadow side of that comes out when I blame myself for my conditions and tell myself things like, “Well, if I were more enlightened, I wouldn’t be having all these problems. If I were just doing this stuff right, I wouldn’t be so sick.”

And once again, Lynne stepped in and helped me see this another way.

“What if,” she suggested, “you are not to blame?”

“What if this is just a thing, like, you just have an anxiety thing?”

“What if,” she posited, “just like we can be happy ‘just ‘cuz’, we can just have an anxiety thing ‘just ‘cuz’?”

“What if you could let yourself off the hook?”

I’m not exaggerating when I say that there is no number high enough for me to describe the amount of shame, judgment, and blame that lifted off my shoulders when she said these things to me. It was such a tremendous relief to have another way to view this situation, one that did not involve the need to constantly abuse myself mentally.

Such a powerful little phrase, those two little words. Once again they are proving to be quite the lifesaver for me.

To read some more great posts about how we can let ourselves off the hook, check out:

“Doing our work” by Lynne Morrell, and

“Positive Attitudes: All Powerful…or Maybe Just Warm and Cozy?” by Alix North.

And what I learned yesterday was that having diarrhea for 12 days in a row is kind of a bad thing. Who knew?

Just wanted to explain why I’ve disappeared for a while, as all my time and energy is now divided between mainlining Gatorade, waiting to hear which of the wonderful intestinal bacterias such as E Coli or salmonella that I’ve managed to contract, and waiting for some kind of horrific alien to burst forth from my stomach because, seriously, who knows what I could be growing in there?!

Today I was working out with my trainer and we got into a discussion about safety. Gym safety is very important to me, seeing as how my number one fitness goal is To Not Die. But after this conversation, I’m not sure that she and I are moving in the same direction as far as our goals go.

My Trainer: Hey, did I ever tell you that that was the part of my certification exam that I failed?

Me: The safety part?

My Trainer: Yeah. You know how when you have a client who is short of breath and is showing signs of distress, how you’re supposed to be real careful and conservative with them?

Me: Yeah.

My Trainer: Well I didn’t do that. I killed ‘em.

Me (not really sure how to respond to that, attempting to unobtrusively gauge the distance between me and the nearest exit.)

My Trainer: But you know, Jenny, the thing about failing is that you start to think, “Hm, maybe I shouldn’t kill people.”

Me (totally on board with this, and wanting to encourage this train of thought as much as possible.): I think that is an excellent motto for life.