Drug "Discontinuation" Sickness

Yesterday, I was really sick from "discontinuation" (my psychiatrist's term) problems with Effexor. I've been taking it for years and I was supposed to eliminate it beginning this week. It's been a step-down process that's gone relatively well. Four days after I took the last (smallest mg. capsule available), I started to have that weird head thing that tends to happen. No problem. Then I started to have intense colon pain that spread throughout my body. I hurt all over and felt a little nauseated.

The upshot is that I now have to break the capsule open and attempt to divide the medication into two halves. I spent about 20 minutes this morning trying to separate the little grains. I'm not a naturally patient woman, though I've worked really hard through the years to get better. The process of dividing up the contents just about drove me insane. They're unruly and go sliding around everywhere, so I end up having to search for the little grains all over my desk.

I'm going to try that for a week and stop taking it again. I'll just have to see what happens. Otherwise, I guess we'll try to quarter it. Couldn't they just institutionalize me for a while? Oh wait. That would involve hospitals, I think. Never mind.

In addition to my weekly aerobics, yoga and hand weight routine this week I added in a belly dancing tape. I haven't done that since before my first surgery. Hard work. It was fun doing something other than riding my stationery bike, though. I have to proceed slowly; stamina is still hard to come by.

I finally decided to call my radiation oncologist and see if I can drop by for a visit next week. He's in town and, whatever the problem is, it's probably related to radiation treatments from last year. I have another appointment on Tuesday with a different kind of doctor, so I really didn't want to add another one in. It's come down to a choice between sleeping through the night (and just a high rate of anxiety, generally) and subjecting myself to another encounter with a doctor.

Try to imagine how tired I am of doctors--oncologists, general practitioners, opthamologists. I think there are some more in there, but I'd rather not summon the whole list to mind. Some things just can't be helped, I suppose.

I'm going to have to wrap this up. I have therapy today for the first time in two weeks. That means I get to leave Crazy Land early. It's too bad, in a way, because I do have some more work war stories to share. I guess I'll get to that next week or, if I'm feeling really energetic, over the weekend.

Elizabeth Edwards Again and Again and Again

"Consider that thou dost not even understand whether men are doing wrong or not, for many things are done with a certain reference to circumstance. And, in short, a man must learn a great deal to enable him to pass a correct judgment on another man's acts. ~ Marcus Aurelius

Warning: If profanity offends you, stop now.

Want to know what offends me? Continuing conversations with my co-workers about Elizabeth Edwards. Not only does it offend me, it enrages me. The owner of my company just called me to advise me again that he doesn't believe Elizabeth Edwards should be out campaigning for her husband.

I muzzled my rage and told him, in a reasonable tone of voice, that I've given her circumstances a great deal of thought. I don't judge other people trying to endure cancer, especially when it's clear that ultimately they will not survive. Even if it seems like they will survive, no one and I mean no one, has the right to make those judgments. Especially when you have not experienced the disease yourself. I don't mean just reading about it or watching documentaries about it or even knowing someone who has it. When you have walked the walk, then and only then, do you have the smallest scintilla of right to criticize others who are just trying to get through the fucking day. How ever they can.

"Well, I just think it's a matter of priorities. They have children, you know." he said.

No. Really? They have children? What would you have her do, sit around her house all day, waiting to die while her children watch her crumble? You don't know. Maybe you would do it differently, but here again, you don't have fucking cancer. So shut up.

What would I do if I knew with certainty that death by cancer was going to severely limit my time with my children? I have no idea. I know I used to have a lot of ideas about how to get through the struggle, even shortly after my diagnosis. You don't know until you get there. I don't know what I would do. How can so many people in my office be so deluded as to think they know? Well, aside from being judgmental assholes, of course.

If you don't like John Edwards, I don't give a fuck. Campaign against him. Vote against him. I don't have a horse in this race. Don't call me up to argue with me about his "arrogant campaign tactics." Allow me to repeat myself: I don't give a happy goddamn about John Edwards. He doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning the nomination, in my opinion. People do not contribute to political campaigns out of pity, in my opinion. (This is politics--anyone can have an opinion as to the mechanics and outcomes of political campaigns.) Who the hell are those people? Find some for me, provide me with some reputable sources of information on that score and I might be willing to change my mind. That really isn't the point. Judging someone who's dying of breast cancer, who's going to endure an enormous amount of pain (including the certainty that her children, both young and adult, will have to live their lives without their mother--that's the point.

Furthermore, could you just stop talking to me about this? I'm emotionally ravaged by two years of doing whatever I had to do to get through it, sometimes sixty seconds at a time, because that's all I could manage. I have this weird thing going on under my arm. Everyone here knows that and, even though I don't wander around with a worried look on my face, cut me some fucking slack, could you? I expend an enormous amount of energy every day trying to keep my own internal debate at bay. "Oh of course it's fine. Silly me," alternating with, "Fuck! This is how it happened the first time. Why is there pain and swelling? Why is there that hard mass?" I do not have the extra energy to stuff all of that back down just because my co-workers think it's their right and duty to express their ignorant opinions. To me. If you'd like to talk about it, if you think you must, talk to someone else.

I've asked that people not talk to me about it. I've asked politely and patiently. I've told them it makes me anxious. I've walked away when they ignore me. I sincerely hope that no one here (or anywhere) has to find out what it feels like to actually experience this disease. In these circumstances, I say that with a certain amount of bitterness. When and if my esteemed co-workers wake up to their own cancer diagnosis, they can come to their own conclusions about the behavior of everyone else with the diagnosis.

Until then, fuck off.

Loathsome Reopens The Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School

"No plan can prevent a stupid person from doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time - but a good plan should keep a concentration from forming." ~ Charles Erwin Wilson, 1890-1961

It's another Loathsome story. Who would have guessed? Recall that Loathsome is in charge of a huge project and that he's already made some damn fine progress in screwing it up. The trend continues.

This morning, I opened my intra-office email and found two separate emails from Owner regarding an old Crazy Land employee. The first email informed everyone that Jim Bob Jones (name changed to protect a whole range of people) is ineligible for employment and should not be allowed in the building. The second email contradicted the first--we're hiring him so let him in the building to fill out his paperwork.

I recognized Jim Bob's name immediately and had to stop a phone conversation with my mother because I was so stunned. No wait...surely he means someone else, I thought. Jim Bob worked for us about ten years ago. He suffered a series of minor work-related injuries which, if nothing else, indicates some pretty poor safety habits. Then he shattered some bones in either his leg or his arm. It doesn't matter which. Coincidentally, Jim Bob had been in a bull riding contest over the weekend. Obviously, we had some reason to doubt the cause of the fractures, seeing as how there were no witnesses to the accident at the work site.

Bull riding. What the hell is the deal with that, anyway? I'll never understand it. I've gaged the extraordinary scope of his arrogance and stupidity. It rivals Loathsome's. There is no way that guy could be good enough to make any real money at falling off bulls on a regular basis. However, the list of things that can get permanently injured is endless. Let's start with breaking limbs. I'll bet his genetic heritage is absolutely saturated with stupidity, because he actually told us about the bull riding.

This was a huge, huge workers' comp case. Doctors put Jim Bob on restricted duty for months. I won't bore you with how much that can cost a company or why. Suffice it to say, Crazy Land was in for some major workers' comp problems the next year because of this bull riding pin head. (Note: We don't have any problems with people who are legitimately injured at work, even though they may be off for a significant period of time. Especially if they don't do it repeatedly.) We had no light duty projects to accommodate his particular restrictions. That meant Jim Bob was going to be sitting on his ass at home for the next six months, drinking beer and watching soaps, no doubt. Lost time accidents take a serious toll not only on workers' comp rates, but on our ongoing ability to find and keep customers.

Owner was furious. Jim Bob is arrogant and whiny and snotty. It's a winning combination that doesn't inspire much confidence and certainly not any pity. Owner directed me to give Jim Bob something to do at our office every day for the next six months (or however long the disability lasted).

This is how the Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School was created. I told Jim Bob he'd be watching safety films all day, every day until he was restored to full duty. Just to ensure he wasn't spending his time with us napping or chatting with office employees, he was required to write synopses of each and every safety film. I reviewed them every afternoon. Not only that, but he had to go over to the State Safety Commission, pick up and return his own films each day. I got to approve the list of films. Jim Bob was not going to sneak in repeat films so he could re-use his synopses. All of the reviewing and approving was, to say the least, annoying additions to my then harrowing number of responsibilities.

Jim Bob was eventually released to full duty and resumed his work at our client's site. The next time we were required to make work force reductions at that site, Jim Bob was at the top of the list. Aside from the questionable circumstances of his injury, he had clearly not been working safely for quite some time. Needless to say, the time came when Jim Bob rode his bull into the sunset, falling off all the way.

Yesterday, Loathsome sent over a list of people he was hiring for the big project. Everyone who does hiring is required to check in with me to ensure they're eligible fore rehire, based on their injury record. A flurry of ruffled feathers swept throughout the building. Virtually everyone knows the story of the Jim Bob Memorial Film School, because I bitched about it endlessly while I was essentially babysitting him. I had already gone home for the day, so someone called Loathsome to tell him that Jim Bob is not eligible for rehire. Loathsome then called Jim Bob and told him he's not eligible for rehire. Another brilliant move by Loathsome. Jim Bob wanted to know if that's because of his work-related injuries. Having screwed up royally, Loathsome then punted to Owner to resolve the problem.

Although our company is well within its rights to refuse to hire someone based on a poor safety record, that wouldn't necessarily prevent Jim Bob from attempting to sue. In this state, all it takes is $250 and a rapacious attorney. Like all companies in that situation, we would be compelled to settle a claim (and maybe hire him, anyway) in order not to spend the next decade litigating at an enormous expense to the company.

I hope I'm here when Jim Bob shows up to fill out his employment paperwork. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see me again. I won't mention the fact that we now have a film school named after him. That would be the kind of idiotic thing Loathsome would do. I might ask him how the bull riding is going, though, as if he might be having some success with it. In the meantime, I'm getting the break room ready for some more safety film reviews. Welcome home, Jim Bob, your film school is waiting for you.

America held hostage: Endlessly (I gave up counting long ago)

Bushism of the day:

"I've heard he's been called Bush's poodle. He's bigger than that." --George W. Bush, on former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, as quoted by the Sun newspaper, June 27, 200

Find your own gems at http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/blbushisms.htm

Vacation Envy

"To get away from one's working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one's self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change." ~ Charles Horton Cooley

Everyone in Crazy Land is either just back from a vacation, planning one or is taking one now. Because of my many years of service here, I have four weeks of vacation and five days of sick leave. I figure I won't really have any of those two until the year 2012. I've been out more than 5 weeks the past couple of years, having surgeries or chemotherapy. I spend a lot of time traveling to places where they torture me for the sake of my health; those get added into the time off tally, too. There will be no vacation for me and, frankly, I'm envious of those who get one. I might, on some days, be said to hate them a little bit.

How callously they talk about the great times they had or will have! I suppose I should be more genuinely celebratory with Crazy Land folks and their vacations, but I'm not. I make the appropriate sounds of appreciation for the things they've seen, note that they look rested. Inside? Surly.

I just had the day off for Independence Day, but days like that are usually spent in recovery from the built-up fatigue from never having a real vacation. Realistically, though, even if I had officially sanctioned vacation time, would I have vacation stamina? No.

In a couple of weeks, my mom is going to a big family reunion with the family I've never met. I was invited, but a four day weekend, surrounded by people I don't know is exhausting to merely contemplate. I'd really like to meet my uncles, aunts and cousins. They are (as far as I can tell) the sane branch of my family. My dad's family is, without exception, really really crazy. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to whether they're clinically insane (DSM-IV doesn't recognize "insane" as a diagnosis, or course), but they're crazy in the way that makes you hope they're never able to track you down.

I'm still not sleeping well, but I'm sure it's related to anxiety about the iffy area under my arm. I double checked the information about lymphedema and determined that it's not the cause of the pain and swelling. It certainly isn't the cause of the hard mass in roughly the same place.

I'm even boring myself today, coasting along half awake and suffering from vacation envy. Charles Horton Cooley speaks of getting away from one's self. If only. On the up side, the Phil Spector trial is back on this week. My vacation? Criminal prosecution of insane genius music producer who hates women, points guns at everyone and finally kills someone. I can hardly stand the excitement.