Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Pajamas at Noon

So I'm sitting here in my pajamas at 11:00 in the morning trying to get up the energy to get showered and dressed so I can do errands that should have been done last week.  This morning, I woke up and got up several times, but kept finding myself back in bed.

Usually, when this problem arises, it's because of depression.  And I won't say that there's not a whole lot of that going on right now.  Yesterday was just not a good day and it was a day that followed a whole bunch of Not. Good. Days.  Boy, 2011 has been a banner year!  We were waiting to find out how bad my best friend's cancer that just came back is going to be.  The poor puppy had surgery to turn him into a female version of himself and he was desperately unhappy when he got home.  Poor puppy.  (And he peed all over himself and the car.  He still stinks, but how do you give a post-surgery puppy a bath?)  The grade reports were out, per every Tuesday, and there were still missing assignments for both kids.  I'm not exactly sure what else I can do to punish them except actually beat them and I really don't want to go to jail over something as stupid as bad grades.  And...I knew that today was the day my mom was going to find out what the chemo specialist recommended for her treatment and I really would like it if he says, "Oh, by the way, you really don't need any chemo.  Amputating your leg was good enough for me."  But we're waiting to see.

Did I mention they found a growth in the puppy's mouth yesterday?  No.  I didn't.  The vet thinks he's way too young for oral cancer (there's that lovely word again - could someone please remove the word cancer from the dictionary???), but it's something to keep an eye on.  This poor dog, the product of brother and sister and a back yard breeder just can't catch a break.  He's already being tranquilized at night so he can settle down enough to sleep (yes, I really am doing this) and is on prozac to smooth out his neuroses (yes, again, I am doing this because I don't want him to go to the shelter.  I love him, even if he is a total nutbag.)

So anyway, back to me, me, me...isn't it always about me?  My books are ready to go out, except I missed a typo when I had them printed up at the copy place and need to go back into town to get that page redone for the three manuscripts going to real publishers.  And I called in prescriptions four days ago for refill and if I don't go to the store today, I'm going to be out of one of them.  Why can't I get off my butt?

Well, it's kind of embarrassing, but it's not that I can't get going because of depression.  If it were just depression, I'd pick up that black cloud with the chain attached (has anyone seen that commercial?  If the treatment is so effective, why is the cloud still following her around at the end?) and just get going.  I'm used to it.  No, something else has yet again hit my body like a steam roller, making it almost impossible to even get dressed.

The pajamas are not only comfortable.  They're one of two pairs of pants that don't make me want to cry right now.  (The others - also pajama bottoms.)  Okay, I know I've written about this before and I'm sure you're sick of me whining about it.  But here's the story.

My urologist, after giving me a prescription for a drug that I generally associate with women over the age of 60 living in retirement communities, sent me to a "personal physical therapist."  At the time, I thought what the hell?  Maybe she can figure out why my pants won't fasten and make me want to strangle the person who invented the zipper.  So I went, thinking I was going to get a lesson in kegel exercises and be sent on my way.  Okay, yes, I got a lesson in kegel exercises (hahaha), but she also figured something else out in about 30 seconds.  I have a condition called pelvic congestion syndrome.  I have Every. Single. Symptom.  And I've had every single symptom since after my last kid was born.  It's just that it's been getting worse in the last 18 months or so.

So, all this pain and swelling that I thought were being caused by my defunct uterus, fibroids, and ovarian cysts (men, you are permitted to leave the room now) is actually due to veins that are blocked and blood that is not flowing back to my heart.  It's pooling in my pelvis on a daily basis!  Ack!  There is really a name for this problem.  And it's the reason I need muumuus.  Sheesh.  Maybe I should go to the gynecologist who blew off my pain after performing the surgery and ask him for my uterus and ovaries back.  Oh, and then he blew off the physical therapist by saying I couldn't possibly be suffering from any pain because he did the hysterectomy.  Through his nurse.  (Incidentally, he is off my Christmas card list.)

Not only is there a name for this condition, there's a treatment!  You know how they can put in stents when you've suffered a heart attack to open up the veins and keep them open?  Well, um, guess what they're going to do to my poor pelvis?  I'm right now waiting on a call from UVA to schedule a consultation with none other than an interventional radiologist (have you ever heard of such a thing?) who specializes in pelvic congestion syndrome.  These people actually exist and sympathize with my specific problem.  I just hope they can sympathize soon.  I'm very tired of feeling like a watermelon is going to fall out of my, um, shirt every time I stand up and not being able to wear, well, you know, clothes.

So, there you go.  Dress manufacturers, there are 30% of women with more than one child who suffer from this condition.  It's a demographic of which I am sure you were previously unaware.  Take heed.  Some really nice dresses that don't fasten at the waist might be the ticket to profitability.  I'm putting the word out right now that Vermont Country Store actually sells some online.  Not cheap, but hey.  I'm game for anything that I can wear out of the house without embarrassment right now.

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