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I Have a Hard Time Getting Out of Bed

How You Know Your Anti-Depressant Medication is No Longer Working

You get your driver’s license in the mail and wonder if the photo will be used for your obituary.

You come home to an iPhone 5 package on your doorstep, you bring it inside – and go take a nap.

You realize that you are part of Mitt Romney’s 47%, and not part of the 1%, but also in the 99%.  And your life is 60% over.

You realize that your hair will never look as good as Mitt Romney’s.

You are upset because Penny Marshall just published a book called, My Mother Was Nuts, which was totally what you planned to do – publish a book about Penny Marshall’s mother.  

You look at this face wistfully and wish you could be even half that happy.


Pill Popping Poppycock

photo credit: Nomadic Lass via photopin cc

My favorite way to start the day is to coat my hand with slimy mucus and remnants of couch cushion foam as I shove it down my bulldog’s throat.  At least two times.  If not three.  I get to end my day that way, too.  I know.  You’re jealous.

Wonderbutt has developed some kind of canine version of Seasonal Affective Disorder, which has resulted in a weirdly symmetrical loss of hair on both flanks.  The frosting to that diagnostic vet bill cupcake (which was inconclusive) was that he developed a staph infection because of his dysfunctional follicles.  Hence the medication and my twice-daily mucus baths.

I mentioned to the vet, as he was prescribing some antibiotics, that Wonderbutt had gotten a bit funny about taking his monthly heart worm prevention.  I wasn’t too confident about getting two pills twice a day down his throat.  The vet recommended coating it in peanut butter.  It worked!  For two days.  Then the darn dog began to suck all of the peanut butter off and spit the pills on the floor.

I’ve always been pretty good at getting pills down animal throats.  But Wonderbutt is a challenge.  He is all tongue and teeth, making it extra difficult to get the medicine past the point of no return.  I’m still trying to decide if he is attempting to compromise or to make a fool out of me by not completely clamping his mouth closed in the first place.

Meanwhile, in my Parenting Parallel Universe, my daughter, Dimples, had an allergic reaction two days ago, probably due to the extra pollen in the air.  I pulled out the trusty Benadryl, and offered her a pill.

Dimples is 9.  She has never taken a pill that could not be chewed.  One look at that pill, and her gag reflex took over.

“Are you serious?” I said.  “You’ve swallowed Tic Tac’s bigger than this.”

(“No I haven’t,” she says, as she fact-checks today’s post.  “I chew them.”)

I had heard tales from other parents regarding this Pill Panic Phenomenon, but I never imagined my own child would join the ranks.

In case you are wondering, the reports that logic does not work in these situations are absolutely correct.

Cap’n Firepants took pity on our darling Drama Queen and divided the pill into fourths.  I still don’t know how he accomplished this miraculous task.  I tried to compromise and cut it in half today, and I’m convinced that only a laser could cut the minuscule thing without reducing it to crumbs.

I offered to coat it in peanut butter, and she glared at me.  She was not very receptive to my hand-down-the-throat suggestion either.

So, I wished the problem away. Because I could think of no solution other than surrendering and running to the store to buy liquid Benadryl. And, although I do not share this disproportionate reaction to pills to which Dimples and Wonderbutt stubbornly cling, I do share one trait with them – obstinance.

Lo and behold,  my wishing worked, and Dimples’ allergic reaction has abated.  Wonderbutt, of course, spit his pills out twice today, resulting in double the usual fun – so I really haven’t won.

I Love Dr. Jimmy (In a Completely Hippocratic Way, Of Course)

Not too long ago, I published a post ranting about my frustrations with some of the doctors I’ve encountered.  Telling people in my blog what I really wish I’d said to them in person is what this site is all about.  But not every missed opportunity to speak up is a complaint.  Today’s post is dedicated to a compliment I wish I’d given.

When I don’t feel well, I call Dr. Jimmy’s office.  A Real Person answers, not an automated voice with a confusing menu of choices, none of which actually apply to your situation, advising you to listen to all of the options because they have changed, then tricking you by making zero, the former talk-to-a-person option, into a non-choice so you have to listen to the blasted menu all over again.

The Real Person at Dr. Jimmy’s calmly listens, and finds a time to fit me in.  Not in a month.  That day.  At a time that is convenient for me.  There is a millisecond of a moment that I’m on hold while she looks up my chart, but there is no irritating scratchy music or ads for new treatments I didn’t know I needed.  And no accidental hangups.

I arrive early for my appointment and the Real Live Person gives me a three-inch sheet of paper with about five things for me to fill out.  I don’t have to fill out three pages of questions that I’ve already answered ten times before about my entire medical history and all of my allergies.  Just check off that nothing has changed since the last time I was here, which for your information, People Who Think I’m a Hypochondriac, was two years ago.

I turn in my little paper stub and my copayment.  I sit down and pull out my iPad.  Two minutes later, I am called back to the exam room.  Yep, you got that right, folks.  Before. My. Appointment. Time.

Weight and blood pressure taken, I wait in the reasonably temperate room.  I am not freezing my butt off in a transparent napkin that covers nothing because I am actually still wearing all of my clothes.  No paper gown dress code for Dr. Jimmy’s office.

As I contemplate taking my iPad out again, in strides Dr. Jimmy.  Casually dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, he shakes my hand and greets me like an I’m an old friend from college he happened to bump into at the grocery store.  In a manner of minutes, he has helped me to identify my physical ailment, empathized with me because he’s suffered through the same symptoms, offered over-the-counter treatment, and asked me to call the office back if this reasonable prescription doesn’t help within a day.

No over-dramatic orders to go see five specialists, get blood tests and x-rays, and to stop eating anything if I ever want to feel better.

I am back in my car within 25 minutes of my arrival.  I could actually go back to work if I want to.

But I don’t.

Thanks, Dr. Jimmy.  I haven’t taken my medicine yet, but I feel better already.

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