Month: February 2013

Survival of the completely unfit

Today was the day to see the new meds doc for the first time, after a three-month wait to get in.

What happened when I went upstairs to get in the car and leave?

Go on, guess.

Right. The car wouldn’t start. Sounded like Dead Battery Syndrome.

Seeing as how my problem-solving skills have been in the toilet recently and I was gobsmacked that the stupid thing picked today to break, I burst into tears, came back downstairs to the house, and called to tell them I couldn’t make the appointment. Clever receptionist suggested calling a cab—brilliant woman!—and Cab Co. promised to send one over.

Since I live on a cul-de-sac with two entrances, I started ambling down the road (in the rain) so the guy could find me. And waited. And waited. Fifteen minutes later—five minutes before the appointment time, with a minimum 10-minute drive to get there—no cab.

A neighbor whom I know only to wave to drove up at his house, there at the intersection. I asked if I could have a jump after I got back from the appointment and he offered to drive me there. Bless the man with many blessings, and more blessings, too. I was about 15 minutes late, but I got there. And driving down the road into town (the one everything has to come on, because there is no other way to get here), we did not see a cab, so they obviously didn’t dispatch anybody and that cab company is on my (!# list.

I staggered into the new office, wet and bedraggled and out of breath, and receptionist greeted me by name as if she’d known me for years. Nothing like a little crisis to make a person stand out, eh?

New meds doc is wonderful. He went through everything very thoroughly, discussed several options, wrote me a couple of Px-es, and set up a follow-up. And he gave me a Px for sleeping! O joy!

So it’s back on the meds wagon, and we shall see how things go.

And I’ll have the damn car towed in the a.m. (it’s seven years old, so prolly needs a new battery anyway). AAA can pay for that, TYVM.

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The grimrose


This, for the floriculturally challenged, is a primrose. The first one I ever saw was here in the Great Northwest, in a January, peering out from under snow. Before that, all I knew about them was that they were supposed to line paths to bad ends.

They amaze me. They survive in cold, nasty weather. They survive freezing. They survive icy rains and sleet. They bloom during all this. They are tough as nails.

This one is in the barrel on my deck. I put it there a few weeks ago, about three months into the unmedicated brain journey.

That journey now spans five months. It has been, in the proverbial one word, hell. I’m not going into any greater detail, because it depresses me worse to think about how shitty it’s been and how many times I’ve wanted to cash it in. Life is grim. I have been hanging on by my fingernails. By now, they are torn, ragged and bloody. If I had skin on my teeth, I’d hang on by that, but it’s been worn off, too.

This tough little plant reminds me that I’ve survived so far. One hundred fifty successive days. Almost half a year (which all by itself is depressing).

At present, I have to get through five more days before I see the new doc.

Even if he has a good idea, it will be at least another six to eight weeks before I know whether that plan will work, or if I’m going to have to go through another series of the godawful chemical experiments that turned into 2012.

I am calling this plant the grimrose.

It is still blooming.

I am still breathing.

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