And Then I Got Syphilis

You know the posts where you really, really want to say something to the Internets but just can't bring yourself to type it because when the Internets know something it becomes real. Like, my right boob could up and run the fuck away and I would be SO sad but until I type it and hit publish it's not real. My boob could come back, lonely without the other boob to hang out with and gossip about other boobs and their size or elasticity or OMG please put them away you cleavage exposing nipple peaking boobies! You understand, right?

It is also that way with me and doctors. I've made a few feeble attempts in the past to express the feeling like painful, steaming shit that is my life, but doctors tend to need actual WORDS and then SENTENCES to understand what is going on with a patient. Therefore, for seven years I've been struggling with what is most likely fibromyalgia syndrome without an official diagnosis. I've had many, many great excuses for not getting diagnosed, but the primary one is this: Maybe my body is just temporarily fucked and I'll wake up one morning and feel GREAT and FINE and FANFUCKINGTASTIC and then my evil stepsisters will have to clean and cook and live with rats or mice or whatever. But if I get diagnosed? Not going to happen.

One could say "But if you get diagnosed you could be treated and be ALL BETTER." Nay, my good blogger friend. As a general rule, what you do for FMS is this:

1. No smoking
2. No drinking
3. No caffeine
   
4. Eat healthy
5. Exercise VERY lightly when you can get out of bed
6. Take an anti-depressant
7. Take sleeping pills
8. Take pain killers (the prescription needed addictive type)

Well, I did #1. I've done #3 on and off and didn't notice a difference. I do #2 for months at a time and then I crack because the Goddess that is alcohol takes the pain away. With pain killers you can live on them all the time (thus addicted but with less pain) whereas alcohol is a nighttime only solution (being drunk interferes with things like parenting and driving and functioning) so I only can do it so much. Make any sense? My new doctor calls it "self-medicating" which is much cooler sounding than "alcoholism" isn't it? I try to eat healthy-ish and I exercise several times a week (sex counts, right?) and I take anti-depressants and sleeping pills.

So...if I do just about everything I can do for my fibro, why the fuck do I need to go to a doctor? Well, Teddy Bear wants babies. Plural. Currently, I don't know how well I can do the whole pregnancy thing and MANY of the drugs that I am taking don't jive well with creating a little Sam. *sigh* Also, Teddy Bear wants me to be HEALTHY. Fucking irritating request, huh? Take care of yourself because I want you to feel better? What. Ever.

I asked the Internets "Where in [redacted] is there a doctor that specializes in fibro?" and Google gave me some answers. In the top five sites returned from my search, THREE of them are Sam's Stories. You might have noticed that Sam of Sam's Stories has no fucking clue as to where a fibro doctor is located. Fucking Google. I widened my search and I found a clinic in Riverside, California that specializes in various fucked-up things in the rheumatology field. The clinic, The Arthritis Center of Riverside is a big of a jog from my house, but what the fuck else do I have to do with my day?

The scary thing about the clinic is that among their specialties, three are conditions that are in my family. My dad was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, my maternal grandmother died from Scleroderma, and my mother has fibromyalgia. Yes, that mother. The frozen yogurt wedding gift giving mother. So I needed to go to the clinic because they explore things from a multi-faceted approach and have some interesting treatments and blah blah. But I didn't want to go. NO, NO, NO!

Then Teddy Bear laid the smack down on me and said "if you don't go I'm going to give you a sad face and how will you bear my legions of little Teddy Bears?" So I went, but not without a bribe. I instructed Teddy Bear to give me a little something for facing my fears and being a good girl. He then gave me syphilis.
Go to ThinkGeek.com and you can have your very own bacteria or virus to cuddle and love. Because nothing says "I love you" like a little STD. As far as the doctor visit, they examined me, took many, many pints of my precious blood to test, laughed silently as I peed on my hand while attempting to give a urine sample and then charged my insurance just over $2100. Next month I'll have a few answers I hope.