Major Deegan FAIL

Yeah, it's spaz week in Andi-land. Yesterday, I caught my shoe heel in the hem of my trousers and succeeded in launching myself down a flight of steps, ultimately landing in an Olympic-style ass-plant at the bottom. In front of my boss. Fortunately, I only sustained a slight injury to my left knee. Oh, and my dignity.

Then today, on the way back from a client meeting, my car got rear-ended on the Major Deegan, and not in a good way. Fortunately, my Infiniti is a big heavy car with a big heavy bumper, so it only ended up with a couple of scratches. But it wasn't a jolt that my already injured, rheumatically-challenged body really needed. I just hope I can get out of bed tomorrow.

Thankfully, I am on my way south tonight, to Delaware, ostensibly to attend the Brandywine Arts Festival but really to hang out with my college buddies / sorority sisters / partners in crime, etc. I'm leaving tonight so as to not have any unfortunate encounters with Hanna; given my mojo this week, it seems like a good idea to avoid as much trouble as possible.

Back to posting on Monday. Shabbat shalom, y'all.

Methotrexate, mon amour

I guess the only good thing about having survived bad relationships is that ultimately, it teaches you how to deal with taking medication, especially when it's a medication that's almost as bad as the illness itself. I've been in too many relationships like that, heaven knows, where living with love and its consequences is almost as difficult as feeling like you're all alone.

And so it is with methotrexate, the weekly wonder shot, the yellow syringe of doom, the drug my insurance company won't pay for me to self-inject, which has enabled me to get to know every one of the doctors in my medical group, many of whom have now experienced the joy of asking me to expose my tushy to the slings and arrows of rheumatoid fortune.

I'm rhapsodizing a bit because today is bad. Labor Day, and yesterday's doctor's appointment, afforded me a little delay this week. Obviously couldn't get the shot on a holiday, and my insurance company in their infinite wisdom, won't allow me to see two doctors in one day. So at 7:45 this morning, I presented butt to the covering physician (my regularly scheduled doc is on vacation) and let the Rear Admiral do the honors. I was fine for about two hours, and then it hit. Stomach upset, throwing up, fatigue, the dizzies...it's just not a good day.

That's a reason why this is sort of like being in a lousy relationship. You hate it, you wish you could find another option, but ultimately, when it's not being a total pain in the ass, it makes you feel a little bit better about your existence. It even, on occasion, succeeds in taking some of the pain away.

And then just when you think you're feeling better, and that maybe you can live with things the way they are, you find yourself head down in the toilet again.

Ugh. I'm off to get a diet cream soda out of the fridge, the best sugar-free low carb cure for nausea that I know of. Any other remedies you can recommend, please let me know.

Freestyle

Unfortunately, it wasn't all good news at the diabetes doctor today. Today was our first consultation - she's wonderful. Sweet, kind, smart, and clearly looking at all the factors - genetic, medication, and lifestyle. She acknowledged right away the issues at hand: being double-whammied genetically from both sides of the family is a huge thing to fight right out of the gate. The good news is that I've pretty much got the lifestyle piece down: I'm down another seven pounds since my last doctor's appointment, and once I really start exercising, I'll have made most of the changes I need to make. Losing sugar and switching to mostly whole grains has already made a big difference.

The bad news is that my RA medication is likely playing a major role in this whole nonsense: the steroids, apparently, do more than just lessen inflammation and make me feel better. They also send my sugar values through the roof. For example: I'm on a steroid pack at the moment, and my blood sugar was 253 fasting. Not a good number.

So I got a new toy as a result - the lovely Freestyle Lite test meter (pictured above), which I am supposed to use faithfully once a day (just once - thank heavens) to see where my blood sugar is at. I also got a new medicine which is not only supposed to help lower it, it also helps with weight loss. (Me: "Can I start it now? Do you have any here?") The nurse trained me on how to test, and it's not too bad - it doesn't hurt or anything, but I am really disappointed that I have to take all these steps to make sure it's under control. Apparently, with the three strikes of genetics, RA meds and not-quite-being-svelte yet, I've got some work to do. And it will be safer and healthier work if I am aware of what's going on sugar-wise.

I have to say I do like the name Freestyle. Kind of a Michael Phelps-ian, Californian eclectic sound to it. I figured I'd end up with the Aviva, given that it's my name, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. I mean, how closely does one need to identify with their testing supplies? Ah, marketing.