Sexual Madness

I’m working my ass off to clear this back shit up. I still, of course, have Tamar, the greatest P.T. on the planet. By the way, I’m not kidding about that. And having had a fucked up back in my past life courtesy of an overzealous trainer, I know that soft tissue back injuries can take eons to heal. Add my new and exciting limitations, this will be a more difficult slog than the first mess I made of my back. (That first bit of back torment eventually healed following chiropractor’s orders. We got it before it spread like a jam on my beloved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (No, the latter sentence is not nonsense. The beauty of all that I’ve learned is that there are all new and exciting ways to make yourself feel worse. But as my life is now nonsense, I think it’s high time to embrace it. So I gave my surreal hell of an existence the little cuddle it so deserves. Back to cuddling later.)

I am immersed in ways to sit correctly at this lousy computer. (I seem to fear less using it at the table than I had when I found I was no longer allowed to use it on the couch. (If I want to feel any better…yeah, I really do. While I’ve discovered I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, I still have no fondness for it.)

But I promised cuddling. Sex. My psychopharmachologist tried his damndest to put me on medication that left my sex drive in place. I think Jill Sobule gets it best. In Happy Town, her boyfriend said she made him miserable, but they stayed together because the sex was really good. Post Prozac:

"We don't fuck anymore, but we sure can snuggle down.

I used to sit under a gloomy cloud of gray

And now the sun's come out and it won't go away.

I used to go up. I used to go down.

Now I'm just even here in Happy Town."

I think I have a real problem when I watch Rubicon and have a visceral reaction to the administrative assistant who has the hots for Will. I find her to be lacking in any oomph whatsoever. (Okay, she has a fine body.) But her character is like a limp dishrag. And she looks like there’s nary a thought in her head. (Always be suspicious of those who look empty. They’re either actually empty or what the hell are they hiding behind that blank expression. I’m fucking angry at a television character. Not intellectually. But this is bullshit. She's a whole person. I'm just part of one. (In so many different and fun ways.) This is visceral, and I’m out for blood. I am crazy.

Have I really gone completely mad that I actually feel threatened, no jealous, by a fucking character on television show? Yes I have. By changing from Zoloft to Effexor, my sex drive dropped like a stone. (Zoloft, which left my sex drive out of this mess, made me shake to the point where I was unable to hold a book steady enough to read it. Otherwise, it worked beautifully.) Welcome to Effexor Country aka Happy Town. There’s a semblance of a sex drive, a vicious tease that’s what it is, but most of it has gone pfft into the ether. So I get jealous of stupid-ass television characters because I feel sexless, no longer human.

The little nasty secret about anti-depressants. I’m not depressed, I’m functioning okay, but I’m miserable because I feel less than human. I’m desperate. I now can really appreciate oddballs like the guy who worked at G&R who found girls with physical problems really hot. (Like one girl he lusted after with coke bottle lenses in her glasses. Crutches were great. I think this boy would see me today and sit up and take notice. And he was a good-looking dude. With money. He also thought there was some medieval king who had a hot rod stuck up his butt. I think that kind of turned him on too. Guys like that have a place in this world I know now in a way I never did before.) If I have to be someone’s fetish than it must be. Yes, my husband tells me I’m hot as ever. But I’m not. Tubing and clear breathing masks don’t add to pulchritude. Now other kinds of masks are another thing entirely. Gimme.

Do I try something else? Can I without walking the suicide gauntlet yet again? The sexual mechanics are all in order. I just have a post-it stuck to me that says “Under Repair.”

What the hell else can I do without completely losing my mind? Fuck. C’mon! Don’t take the little that’s left of my humanity. I am not a hydra. I’m a menopausal woman who only feels the menopausal part. I want the woman back before I completely go to seed, and I want her now.

I want the world to want to fuck me.

Autumn of Doom Redux

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water. Saturday was strange. When I take my glut of morning pills, I always down them with a Trader Joe’s Breakfast Bar. I don’t know why, but I had no stomach for that bar or any food item that morning. I wasn’t sick to my stomach. Yes, hormones were raging as it seems is their wont, but they’ve never impinged on my ability to eat.

I had Tamar, the greatest P.T. on the planet coming over later in the afternoon, so I had to eat something. Good lord, I had a Zone bar. I think the last time I had one of those was a lifetime ago. But at least I some energy to burn for the beloved Tamar, the greatest P.T. on the planet.

In the afternoon, computer activities that require no thought at all suddenly became difficult. Puzzling. Scary. Chip came and made all better, and I breathed a sigh of relief. But what the fuck is going on?

Saturday night, I started to go through about double the number of oxygen tanks than the usual. (I didn’t notice. Chip told me this today. He had the gall to say to me, “You had the mask on most of the night.” Like I’m supposed to put two and two together when I’m no longer able to handle basic computer function. (Do you remember when we were elementary school kids, and I guess in an attempt to teach us beauties higher math skills, they used “The Function Machine.” Except no one really ever bothered to put the damned thing into context. All I know is one number went in, and another number came out.. Why? Don’t ask me, I didn’t get it then, and I would like to think I’d get it now without outside help.)

Another thing in life where context would have been everything. Hey kids, back in ancient times they had what they called “The Seven Wonders of the World.” One was this humongous statue of a man. I mean so seriously humongous that it made the list. He was called the Colossus of Rhodes. Stay with me kids. This poem “Give me your tired your poor/your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”and so on. Does anyone know the name of that poem? (No, off course we didn’t.) It’s called The New Colossus, and the woman (Emma Lazarus) who wrote the poem was writing about the Statue of Liberty. America as a haven for immigrants. Now let’s talk about immigration…

Wouldn’t that teensy bit of context been helpful? And I just found out that the damned poem doesn’t even begin with “Give me your tired your poor…” The first part explains exactly what the fuck Emma was talking about. So you understand the goddamned poem and title without even knowing dong about the Colossus of Rhodes. Aren’t teachers blithering idiots? Or are we too stupid to get the big picture even though the little one just floats in the ether, attached to nothing or no one.

Goddamn, I’m one pissed off human being tonight. I remember in fourth grade learning the names of three very important “statesmen.” Not a surprise, they were Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, and John C. Calhoun. I don’t ever recall knowing what made them “statesmen.” I don’t ever recall know what a “statesman” was. I knew these dudes were American. That’s about it. I had no idea what they did for this country except that it must have been very important. So, it’s good to be a “statesman,” and these three were particularly good at being “statesmen” because the teacher is bothering to tell us about them. Do we have any other “statesmen?” Besides this three who have names? (And why is only one allowed a middle initial?)

I sure knew nothing about our system of government back then. C’mon everybody, you can do it quick and dirty: You know the president, right kids? The statesmen are people who are elected from every state, and they write the laws. There is a third part, the judiciary, but let’s save that for another class, shall we?

Oh, and by the way, Emma Lazarus died at the age of thirty-eight of Hodgkin’s Disease.

Back to Saturday night. I think I may have felt a little under the weather, but I was really perturbed that walking my usual laps in the hallway were near impossible. The first is always the hardest, but number two was pretty rough too. I have never, ever done this: “That’s it for tonight. No lap number three. I can’t do it.”

So off to bed I go. Chip, as usual, wakes me up for glut of morning pills. I take the pills. I tell Chip to get me a thermometer. I have 100.4 fever. Not a big deal except when you know there’s an infection in your body and your lungs have only quarter capacity. Chip gets the pulmonologist on call, (my wee pulmonologist’s big macher partner.) I’m prescribed a combo of steroids and antibiotics. (The only treatment to try and keep the lungs out of this.) Good news, the infection has not gotten into my lungs. If it had been, we might really be saying farewell.

I should only be so lucky. No more fever. I’m using a lot less oxygen than I was before, but it’s still more than it had been before all this crap started. I have zero strength. Until it all actually comes back, I’m making no assumptions.

Now it’s a new day! I’ve been awake for a nanosecond today and already, I need to nap. I’m not sure why this was so important last night, but I’ll see if I can figure out why. Ah, we have a lithograph that we bought on a whim at a gallery that only sells surrealist art. The thing is fucking ginormous. The only wall space large enough to accommodate it was in Lydon’s room. We hung the thing. And boy, does it freak him out! He insists it’s a representation of death, which I suppose is totally possible. Even though it lacks the typical death accoutrements (no cowl, no scythe). But this is surreal, so it shouldn’t include the usual death symbols, right?

Okay, he’s a young man, dressed up in green robes (plus maybe, just maybe, a medieval version of a back pack). He carries a brightly-lit staff and is standing be a cube of space that appears to continue on for all eternity or at least as far as we can see. I really relate to this guy. The lithograph has a name. And it isn’t “Death“ which would certainly be a dead giveaway. (Stupid pun not intended. I don’t have time for stupid puns.) No, it’s more subtle than that: “…nè in cielo nè in terra…” Neither heaven nor earth? Neither sky nor earth?

Yes, it’s Limboland! That’s where I live. I’m totally young and spry except I have a quarter lung capacity (and that’s when I’m healthy). It must be less- at least until I fully recover from this piece of nonsense. I’m disabled, but everything except one vital organ works perfectly. So, I like that guy. If by keeping that damned staff lit, he saves some poor schmuck from falling down that really nasty abyss, then I’m all for him and the whole lithograph. He’s stuck in the miasma just like me. Wait a minute he is me.

The Wonders of Modern Medicine

Today I have taken an oxycodone. I am mostly pain free (in what in my world constitutes pain free), but the dose these little pills provide is the bare minimum. All it does is cut the edge off the really wicked stuff. I mean, my tendinitis in my right shoulder hurts like hell. What’s that about?

Last night, I was all teary and whimpery, because I hurt so fucking much but somehow thinking that there’s something shameful about taking a prescription painkiller. Yet another thing that we can add to my insanity. I was also afraid to move from the couch to the dining room table as I am no longer allowed to use the computer on the couch. Actually, I will not allow myself to use the computer on the couch anymore. I have made a choice. In some weird way the Venus aligns with Mars, I get terrible pain in two points behind my ears and have trouble turning my head. (Don’t even ask about Saturn.) These are not good things. Magically, the planets align properly when I sit at the dining room table in a chair like a mensch. I have remind myself I’m not a cripple. (Emotionally, the verdict’s still out, but physically, all body parts work as far as I can tell.)

But I was afraid to walk the few steps over. Am I afraid I might fall? No. Am I afraid it will hurt? Not anymore than usual. (Though pain can really fuck up your head. I mean scrambled brains, not sore pressure points.) No, I think this was just irrationality at its best. (Like being afraid of the shower. Not slipping. Or tripping getting in or out. Or even water boarding. No, I was just afraid of the shower. I’d have made more sense if I had thought the damned thing were infested with demons. That should embarrass me. Not taking a teensy oxycodone that never hurt anyone. (I mean the actual pill I’m about to swallow- not Oxycodone in general. No, I’m not taking pot shots at people with drug problems. I only take pot shots at myself. Anyone caught in the line of fire, my most sincere apologies.)

I just bought a bunch of Pointer Sisters songs. They kick serious butt. And thought they might be empowering. I need a hit. Couldn’t hoit? Now, I’ve got Marvin’s Let’s Get It On in my happy ears. Empowering too. But in a different way.)

*********************************************************************

It’s Saturday and saw Tamar (the best P.T. in the entire world.) I do my damndest, but I get out of breath so fucking easily. Hell, Tamar said we may only be able to get me only a little less tight. The tightness might not be coming from my body refusing to cooperate. (I never did learn to play nicely with others.) Really that’s not exactly true. I just always refused to take part in any competitive sport. I just hated looking like a numnutz I knew I would be. Better to sit on the sidelines. Isolating? Yeah, just, a bit. Very helpful in my coming age. I remember once the school had a pep rally. My friends and I took that opportunity to go home. If there had ever been any others during our three years at Schreiber, I missed ‘em.

In gym class, as much as I tried, I was stuck participating. Sophomore year, I was playing flag football. I hung out in the back of the mass of girls. My opponent’s quarterback threw a forward pass. The wobbly ball moved through the air as if in slo-mo coming straight at me. I caught it. (Not too hard, I never had a problem with hand-eye coordination. I just issues participating.) We were at the opponent’s goal line, so I had to run down the whole fucking field. Touchdown. Whoopee. I don’t think we had an extra point kick or even a kickoff. Somehow were around the opponent’s goal line again. (We weren’t pushed there by a fabulous offense. I think that’s where the gym teacher started us because if we did, she didn’t have to go tramping around the field.) Once again the quarterback threw one more wobbly ball towards the end zone. Shit, it was coming straight at me. Again. I ran down one more time. TD! I think our gym teacher had enough of flag football, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to move her ass under any circumstances.

Gym class improved immensely when they introduced a selection of sports we could choose to play. I square danced an awful lot. I fenced once, but the layers of Lysol permeating the mask was more than I could take. All I knew, if I wanted to live another day, I had to get away from Soccer Speedball as fast as possible. I don’t remember much about it except that people threw balls at you with incredible speed and force. The fucking “game” hurt like hell. If you enjoyed taking the risk of being decapitated by Sue Murray, play away. Once was enough, after that I avoided it like the plague.

Then I discovered the fabulosity of weight training. The class was made up mainly by a bunch guys keen on expanding their muscles. No teacher taught. There must have been one there, but he or she was one quiet dude. The muscle-bound boys were really friendly and very nice. They showed me the machines and shit. I did lots of sit ups to make the class go faster. I must have been in this section with a friend, because I recall entertaining ourselves by discussing what we actually wanted our “weight” to do as we trained it. Jump through hoops? Catch poorly thrown footballs?

I must be on drugs looking at the shit I just wrote. Note to self: one oxycodone gets me fucked up, and I don't even know it.

Privacy Pad

I have been doing my “homework” assigned by my masseuse. The pain I’ve getting in my head and neck has reached the level of excruciating. The cause? The position of this goddamned laptop. Today, I have been following orders sitting in a real chair with the computer on the table. (With strategically placed pillows and lumbar support) Rachel (who is becoming one of the best massage therapists in New York) knows her shit. I’m not going to hope to eliminate my problem. (I haven’t been all over this like I have the back. The non-functioning back trumps all.) I was never a Lisa Loopner and Todd fan (sorry y’all) though I adored Mrs. Loopner. She always killed me with “Poor Mr. Loopner. He was born without a spine.” I often think about poor Mr. Loopner these days.

This is a big move. It gets my ass off the couch. Which Tamar (the best P.T. on the planet- of this I am entirely sure) has been telling me to do for weeks. A great Tamar aside: I just ate it up when Chip and I, after confirming I have a soft-tissue injury in my back (big move), conferred and said, “Yeah, we’ll give Tamar a call…” No last names, just Tamar. My orthopedist is stunned, “You know Tamar?” (C’mon, this is a big city. Tamar. In the orthopedics/P.T. world, it’s like saying Madonna’s doing my P.T. No last names necessary.) Even better, “You get Tamar to come to your house?” (This from the most laid back doctor I’ve ever met.) “Yeah, we do.”

My other piece of homework was to soak my feet and then have Chip give them a massage. Rachel said they’re tight as little stones and if we can get them loosened up, this will loosen up legs and finally my pissy back. This piece of homework is a good thing. I love the whole shebang and my blessed husband says he love massaging my feet. Go figure.

After my massage, I’m, supposed to try my daily walk in the afternoon as opposed to 1 to 2 A.M. as usual. I tried. It’s not only not better than the early morning stroll, it’s much, much worse. I take a drying medication late in the evening that clears me up for that pleasant stroll up and down the hall which always ends dramatically with my flinging myself in my wheelchair parked in the foyer for just that reason. I heave for the next few minutes until I can breathe again. And then we go and do the stroll twice more. Every day.

Now, isn’t it easier to see how frustrated I am that I’m not going to get much better than this. But I have to keep it up. Since life these past few days the glass is half full, what choice do I have? (If it were half empty, don’t even ask.)

I must have written about the entire Pittsburgh nightmare last December. The loveliest persons I met with, believe it or not, were surgeons. You remember that the whole fucking week I and the two other women with me on the Block, 50% 5 years, 10 or 14% or thereabouts 10 years (I can’t remember, damnit!) The head surgeon took both my hands in his and said what I already knew, but no one else dared touch with a ten-foot pole. He looked me straight in the eye and said softly to me, “Those aren’t your numbers.” What an angel! (Meaning I am very likely one of those transplant recipients who pull the numbers up. Strong, young, otherwise healthy…

While that its likely that would be so, I could also react badly to the new lung and have to go back on the vent for????? They had a young woman in the program who received her new lungs two years ago and hasn’t left the hospital. After my hell, I just can’t go there. Not again. “Franny, say bye-bye.” “Bye.”

My best friend there was a man I call Dr. Asshole, the most pleasantest asshole you’re bound to meet. Who said, “If we could squeeze another six months out of your lungs, you’d have five and a half years, isn’t that good?” (Great! Five and a half years and then I drop dead with god knows what complications during those fun, transplanted five and a half years.) And best of all, “In two years, (with his smarmy, cheeriness dripping from every pore of his body), your lungs will be two bags of pus and then no one would do a transplant on you.” How I kept my wits about me, I don’t know. I asked him, “Are you telling me I’m dying?” (He didn’t expect that. That’s not in the script. “Director! (whine) This patient is improvising! (panic) What do I do?”)

The uncooperative patient continues, “No one’s ever told me I’m dying. Are you?” I was livid, and I cried. A real good one, long overdue. Where’s this shit coming from? I ended up making him feel like he fucked up, because I ended up with a visit from the Grand Poobah of all Transplants with a non-apology apology. If nothing else, Dr. Asshole knew he had done something not quite right.

I apologize to you all. I may very well tell you this same tired story every week. I just don’t remember. Just like I can’t figure out long division. Just like I’m having serious trouble spelling correctly. Every time I make one of these discoveries, it hurts. Big time. I guess I was something once upon a time. Who knew? Not I. But maybe it was so. A little late on the uptake.

In the recovery room, after my double heart catheterization. Now there was a roomful of mensches! I loved those guys. We talked music the whole time. (I had to stay awake while the doctor wormed catheters through both veins and arteries through the heart and out. I frightened one of them when he asked me what bands Eric Clapton had been in. And I rattled them off. (That’s when I frightened him.) C,mon. dude, that’s an easy one. Next catherization challenge me. “Are you in the business?” No, I just listen to music. Silly guy. But actually very nice. The surgeon was a doll. I thanked him profusely. I don’t think that happens very often. I felt nothing. I believed he was in total control. He deserved it. And he seemed to really like the thank you.

Maybe these folk want to make you feel powerful and smart. Patients must behave better when they’ve proven themselves and can lie back, smile, and be cocky. Lying on your back covered by a “privacy pad.” I guess it must make everybody feel better. After lying on my bed stark naked at 85 pounds getting a szigmoid during rounds, a “privacy pad” does seem kind of silly. I guess it’s just the separation of church and state. I can’t imagine how dehumanizing crap I’d have to get through to feel dehumanized. Maybe some people are more sensitive about these things. Hell, is the team going to get horny seeing a tuft of hair? Will I? (Thank god for my Chip. At least there’s still someone who does. Kinahora.)