For the past 10 years, or so, my neurologists have treated my migraines with the front-line medications in the war on migraines: anti-depressants.

About 2 years ago, my neurologist referred me to a psychiatrist to manage the anti-depressant prescriptions, because he knows more about them than she does. It's a common thing to do with patients who have intractable, daily migraines.

My "shrink" put me through a few different regimens of medications, depending on the side-effects the drugs caused. Oh, that one causes me to have tremors, so I can no longer needlepoint?

Next.

Oh, this one is causing constipation, which happens to be a migraine trigger for me?

Next.

Oh, that one obliterates any interest you have in physical intimacy?

Next.

It's a process, and at times can be a very frustrating one.

And then, back in January, the side effects became overwhelming.

I was the most depressed I'd ever been in my life: I had no desire for intimacy, which caused feelings of guilt; I'd gained 30 pounds since my wedding and hated the way I looked; I felt like my presence on earth was really just a burden to everyone, but particularly to my husband, who had to deal with the brunt of my migraines and their effect on my moods.

It was bad, folks.

As a teenager, I sometimes self-harmed - cutting myself when I was particularly anxious or depressed, because the sight of the blood calmed me, somehow. It was a physical manifestation of what I was feeling. Following my cancer diagnosis, I stopped completely, and hadn't ever had the urge to do it again. Until January of 2018. Fortunately, a card from my niece on the refrigerator declaring "I love you SO SO MUCH!" caught my eye as I made for the knife block, and I turned around and went back to bed, skin intact.

Whenever you see ads for anti-depressants on TV, there's always a disclaimer about how they can, in some patients, cause suicidal thoughts.

Yeah, that disclaimer is aimed at me.

My psychiatrist realized how depressed I was and took me off the drug I'd been taking, without success, for about 6 months, and he gave me another drug to try out. I had an allergic reaction to the new drug, and stopped taking it, meaning that I was 100% off anti-depressants when I went back to see him a month later.

I was an entirely different person: happier, more cheerful in outlook, and able to take a step back from all of the horrible thoughts I'd been having and to realize that things aren't so awful, after all. In fact, they're pretty wonderful, despite the migraines.

My migraines aren't as debilitating as they were while I was on anti-depressants. I still have them, but I'm still able to function to some degree, meaning I can usually still make a healthy dinner for my husband and me despite the migraine.

I've also lost all the weight I gained since meeting my husband, which amounts to about 45 pounds. If I tried on my wedding dress, today, it would probably just fall off.

The last drugs we tried before I quit taking any had weight gain as a side-effect, and without them in my system, I no longer have the urge to eat as many sweets, or to binge on snacks. I'd tried to lose the weight while I was still on anti-depressants, not realizing that it would be nigh on impossible.

So now, we're trying to manage my migraines by being more careful about what I eat and practicing healthier sleeping habits: I wear a sleep mask at night, try to go to sleep at the same time every day, and have an evening "ritual" that I follow, which involves a warm bath, reading, taking melatonin, etc., though we joke that there's a goat slaughtered in there, somewhere, too.

I'm still having more days with migraine than not, but the migraines aren't weighing so heavily on me, now. Add to that the fact that my leather pants fit again, and things are looking up.

Sometimes, the best drug for what ails you is no drug at all.

Homeowners Once More

Dear Husband and I close on a house this Thursday.

I haven't been this stressed in a looooooooong time.

Add to the stress the fact that I've been terrible at eating Paleo - too much indulging in cheese via gluten-free pizza - and I'm having almost daily migraines. It's... rough.

And it's my own damned fault.

Once we've moved into the new house, however, I fully intend to get back to the super-Paleo lifestyle Dear Husband and I led when we first met and began dating. I'm not particularly looking forward to it - cheese is SO delicious! - but my body and my skin will thank me for it.

Particularly as the forehead of 13-year-old Ms. Strainedconsciousness is back in all it's unhappy, oily, bumpy glory.

Ugh.

I've been busy, lately, making purchases for the new house - because those wood floors aren't going to sprout rugs on their own (and I now have a new phobia that will probably haunt my dreams); lining up contractors to tune-up our current house's HVAC system, and doing the same at the new house; arranging for an appliance repairman to come look at our range in the new house (because it doesn't work); scheduling our new roof installation, fence demolition, and fence reconstruction; etcetera.

I feel like all I've done the last two weeks is make phone calls and take the dogs to the vet (Ginger's been a bit gimpy).

After 4 weeks - or possibly more - without a manicure or pedicure, and my feet still wearing the nail polish from that last appointment, I finally was able to do a little self-care, today, in the form of a mani/pedi. Because my doctor cancelled my appointment. Apparently, she was still in surgery, and couldn't leave her unconscious patient for a few minutes to come take care of me. Pshaw.

I'm joking, naturally.

It was fortunate, though, because as I told her scheduler, "This makes my day much less stressful." Despite the fact that I was already in the doctors' office parking lot when she called.

It meant I had time to shoehorn a little foot time into my day. Rescheduling for a month down the road was totally worth it.

Drying Out

Houston has recently been inundated by sever storms, leaving parts of the city flooded. Three days ago, I watched on TV as civilians rescued their fellow Houstonians using their duck-hunting pirogues (flat-bottomed boats, for those not raised in the South).

I also saw the "most cowboy" thing possible for a cowboy to cowboy: roping a calf that was swimming desperately in deep water, pulling the calf into a boat, and hog-tying it so it wouldn't flail and capsize the boat. I tried to find video of the most amazingly cowboy thing ever, but failed. I have failed not only you, Dear Reader, but all the cowboys in the Houston area who spent the last several days roping cattle and horses in an effort to save them. They deserve to be viewed online and admired for their sheer... cowboyness.

Which is now a word.

Really.

I'm sure the OED will add it any day, now.

As the city of Houston attempts to dry out (hampered by the thunderstorm raging outside my house as I type), I'm also drying out, in a number of ways.

I'm drying out literally, because I had to take all of 6 steps from the car door to our front door in the pouring rain, after I went out for breakfast.

I'm also drying out metaphorically, because I've stopped taking the narcotic pain killers that have kept me going for the past few years.

About a year ago, I began thinking about it. I have a wonderful sister who is unable to take opiates (which we discovered after an emergency appendectomy back in 2008). They make her incredibly nauseated and ill. See as we have a lot of the same intolerances to foods, I began to wonder if, perhaps, we shared an intolerance to opiate pain medications.

"But, Ms. StrainedConsciousness," you say, "if you began considering this a year ago, why are you just now quitting the medicine?"

That's a good question, Dear Reader, and the answer is: fear.

I've been taking them because I feared pain, and was scared that quitting the pills would lead to an automatic resurgence in pain.

After a full year battling migraines, sciatica, and neuropathy stemming from the chemotherapy I had as a teenager, I decided to suck it up, and I found myself discussing the idea of quitting pain pills with my Pain Management doctor a week ago.

As a result of our discussion, she wrote me a prescription for 10 pills (as opposed to the usual scrip for 84), and told me how to wean myself off of them.

For the past week, I've decreased the amount taken: 1 pill per day for 3 days, then a half pill for 4 days, and finally, Tuesday night, no pills at all that day.

Before quitting the narcotics, I was typically taking a full pill every night before bed, and then sleeping for 9-11 hours. I'd wake up groggy, and usually fall back asleep for a couple of hours after 30-45 minutes of perusing the internet.

For the past two days, after not taking any pain medication the night before, I've awakened after 7-8 hours of sleep feeling refreshed and awake.

It's amazing.

I feel more lucid during the day, and I fall asleep more easily at night.

I'm still using muscle relaxants to help with spasms in my neck, shoulders, and piriformis, but mostly extended-release ones that don't make me groggy. Before I go to sleep at night - and if I have a migraine during the day - I'll take 1-2 of the "acute" muscle relaxants my doctor still prescribes (these render me unable to drive, as I'm considered impaired, so I try not to take them during the day, if I can help it).

The weather this past week has been a real challenge to my migraines, since rainy weather and high humidity tend to set them off. Despite the pain (and the fact that there isn't an acute migraine medication out there that works for me), I've managed to survive without taking pain meds during the day.

So far, so good.

There's the possibility that the withdrawal symptoms can continue to rear their ugly heads for the next two months, but I'm being vigilant, and also listening when my body says, "You know what? I know you really want to go for a walk with your husband and dog, but you can't. You're dizzy and your blood pressure just dropped. Go home, while you still can."

So for now, I'm waiting for my body and the weather to stop freaking out.

Hopefully sooner, rather than later.

A New Experience

On Sunday, April 3, 2016, I did something I never thought I'd do in a million years.

I went to the WWE's 2016 Wrestlemania in Arlington, TX at the AT&T Cowboys Stadium.

It lasted almost 7 hours.

It was pure insanity.

You might be thinking how I survived it, what with my migraines and all. I wondered how I'd survive it, before I went in. I imagine I lasted as long as I did because I was completely hopped up on adrenaline, the way I imagine soldiers are going into war. Also, I had pain medicine with me, so that had some bearing on the fact I'm not dead.

Since that occasion, my husband - without whom I wouldn't be interested in Wrestlemania in any way, shape, or form - have discussed why it is we weren't immediately agoraphobic upon entering the stadium, given that we dislike places like amusement parks (shudder) and rodeo fairgrounds. I finally settled on this answer, though I'm not sure if I should share it with the public:

The fans at Wrestlemania were "our people."

They're the same otherwise mature, responsible adults, who watch Monday Night RAW. They have decent-paying jobs (otherwise they can't afford the tickets) and enough to pay to travel to Arlington, Texas for a weekend, and most likely miss work on Monday.

I admit, I was nervous going into the whole thing. I considered claiming a migraine and not going. But I felt pretty good the day of the event, so I sucked it up and went. With a couple of pain pills in my pocket just in case all of the pyrotechnics took their toll. Which they eventually did.

Among the amazing, unexpected things I saw at Wrestlemania were:

Shaquille O'Neal wrestling in the Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royal (he didn't win).

Joan Lunden appearing, because she was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame. Because of COURSE she was...

The Rock (aka Dwayne Johnson) came out to interfere in a brouhaha, ripped off his pants and shirt (no complaints here!), and wrestled a bit.

Three guys jumped out of an enormous cereal box while wearing unicorn horns on their heads.

Stephanie McMahon (Chief Brand Officer for WWE, daughter of WWE founder Vince McMahon, wife of Triple-H (HHH), who is the COO of WWE) appeared in what I like to imagine is her typical office attire. It involves a mask and a leotard...

Stephanie McMahon

Also Stephanie McMahon

Stephanie McMahon's husband, HHH, in typical office attire

The usual sort of thing you expect to see. Especially from multimillionaire business executives.

Around 9:30 pm, the large quantity of aforementioned pyrotechnics took their toll. I downed some medicine, along with a bit of cotton candy and some water.

Overall, it was more fun that I'd expected. I'd been anxious about wandering a stadium where grown men are dressed as deceased pro wrestlers, but it was amazingly entertaining. I walked behind one fellow dressed in full Macho Man regalia, and every fifth person shouted "Oh, yeah!", which earned an identical response from the costumed carouser.

I'll say one thing for Wrestlemania: it's a spectacle.

Wide Awake

It's a little before 1:00 am on a Saturday morning, and I can't sleep.

I've never been "a good sleeper." As I've aged, the insomnia has only worsened. In theory, there's a physiological reason for it: a calcified pineal gland, preventing my body from properly synthesizing melatonin. So I take melatonin at night, so I can sleep.

Tonight, however, my insomnia is super awful. I'm wired. I need to be making, or doing, or something, but I don't know what I want to make.

I tried reading, but I'm not 100% into the book I'm reading, and I couldn't force myself to continue slogging through it in my current frame of mind.

I tried writing, but I've been bogged down lately on that, and am having trouble pushing myself forwards in my story. I don't know how George R.R. Martin does it, frankly.

I tried to order wedding photos online, but had trouble with my account, so that failed, too.

And I'd love to be organizing our office, re-styling the bookshelves and cleaning out the boxes of wedding ephemera that will go in our album (once I succeed in ordering photos), but that would be noisy, and my exhausted husband has long gone to sleep.

In all probability, the insomnia is a forewarning of a migraine to come. It's common for me to have a night of awful, restless insomnia, and to have a full-blown migraine, next day.

Or, the inability to settle myself down is a symptom of my anxiety and depression, which can also cause migraines, which then cause anxiety and depression and insomnia, and...

I'm still having migraines and am unable to work, and I've made a decision about my treatment: I want to cleanse myself.

I've been on so many drugs for so long that I no longer have any idea what it's like to just feel like myself. Back in 2010 - or possibly 2009 - my neurologist/best friend took me off of everything, so we would know what my baseline was. Since then, I've been on oodles of medications for various reasons: antidepressants and antipsychotics to prevent migraines, pain medicine for sciatic pain, muscle relaxants for muscle tension due to migraines.

I no longer know what it feels like to be me, without any chemical alterations.

For years, between the end of my chemotherapy and 2011, when a doctor put me back on antidepressants, I had very strong emotions. When I was happy, I was amazingly happy. When I was sad, I was completely devastated. But my emotions were true, and they were mine. I feel, these days, like I'm completely numb. I don't really feel, anymore. I try to, but really the only thing that gets through is sadness and anxiety.

I don't know if taking myself off of my medications* will make a difference. I don't know if I'll feel happier again. I don't know if my migraines will grow worse, or better, or stay the same.

But I do know that I'm tired of not feeling.

*taking myself off of my medications under doctor supervision and with their blessing, because some of this stuff will f*&$ you up if you just stop taking it

Smart Phones and Credit Card Fraud

About six months ago, I was perusing the Cracked website when I came across an article in their "personal experience" series. The personal experiences range from being a professional dominatrix to what it's like to have a hand transplant (that's rejected).

Six months ago, the personal experience series was about a guy who spent $9,000 playing Game of War, famously advertised using the breasts of Kate Upton and Mariah Carey.

And can I just say that it's awesome that they're using Mariah Carey as a sex symbol? I mean, aside from the whole "objectifying women to get money" thing, she's 46 (or 45, depending on who you ask), and she totally rocks that metal bustier. Look out, Wonder Woman, she's gunning for you!

More to the point, though, I thought that someone spending $9,000 to play a game on their phone was absolutely stupid. How the hell could someone sink that much money into their phone? I thought there was no game on earth that could make me drop that much cash - or, you know, credit - on a silly game. That was what happened to people who had no self control.

Ahem.

No, I haven't lost $9,000 to an iPhone game, but I did spend about $50 over the course of 3 days, without even realizing it. I was playing Bejeweled a lot, and kept seeing ads for Township, which seemed like a more involved version of the Farmville game that initially launched on Facebook 8 years ago (and which I enjoyed playing for a while). I thought, 'That would be a nice change. Something I can dip in and out of periodically throughout the day." I downloaded it. It was free, after all!

Within about three hours, I was out of the valuable T-Bills (not treasury bills, but Township bills) that are required for... everything. Almost everything. I'd misunderstood how they were used, and only realized my error when they were all gone.

No worries, I thought. I'll just buy some more, just this once. Two dollars later, I was charged up, again. Easy.

But things have a way of snowballing, don't they? Instead of checking it occasionally, the game is timed so that some things are ready to be harvested after 1 minute, and some after hours have passed. So if you didn't constantly check in, you might miss the harvest, and with it the opportunity to earn more coins - not T-Bills - that were needed to do... stuff.

You could pay to build a market using the coins, but when you don't have enough building materials at the end of construction - and no contractor to chew out and threaten with a lawsuit - you have to use the T-Bills to buy materials.

And they go quickly.

One building required 100 T-Bills to complete, because the damned train kept delivering the wrong materials. (100 T-Bills is about equal to $5.00)

Fortunately, despite the fact that I eventually spent $50 on the game, I stopped myself after only three days. Three obsessive, can-hardly-watch-Sherlock-because-I'm-playing-the-game days.

This morning, I deleted the game - and the 1500 citizens for whom I'd worked so hard to create a lovely town. I'd started thinking, the night before, 'I need to delete this app. It's a money pit." But I didn't, because then the money I'd already spent would be wasted.

But I decided to drop the game at 6 am, after suffering a night of severe insomnia, possibly (probably) worsened by the game that had become somewhat addictive.

And then it happened.

At 9 a.m. I received a phone call from my credit card company, alerting me to possible fraud.

'Oh, good grief!' I thought. 'This is just what I need!'

Can you see where this is going?

The credit card company had noticed two suspicious transactions from 'a record store' (also known as the iTunes App Store), close together and for larger amounts than were typically charged 'at that location.'

So this afternoon, after guiltily informing my husband that the app had been deleted, and looking sheepish when he said, "It's not like you spent $20 on the game, or anything, right?", I called the credit card company and said, "Nope, that was me."

Except I said it to an automaton, not a real person.

Granted, I downloaded Tetris for my phone, but that doesn't require in-game payments to get ahead, just quick fingers.

Hey, a girl needs some variety in her digital life, right?

My Role in a Jane Austen Novel: Bedridden Lady of Leisure

I'm lying in bed with my dog, Frederic, curled up next to me. In a few minutes, I'll be working on a story I've started - for the tenth time, actually, but I think I really have it, this time - and drinking water.

I'm married, now - Frederic is actually my step-dog, I guess - and my husband is in the living room of our tiny three bedroom house in Houston. I can hear the narrator of Ken Burns' "Civil War" faintly, and last time I peeked into the living room, my beloved husband was working on a needlepoint project: a pillow with "Home Sweet Home" in blocky text at the top, with two palm trees flanking a smiling Predator below.

It's amazing.

No, he didn't know how to needlepoint before he met me. He learned about two months ago, first starting with a kit geared towards 5-year-olds that depicted a dog. The dog is named Toby, and will eventually be framed. The Predator is named Theodore, because we have a thing about naming stuff. (Frederic's current favorite toy is a stuffed fabric bone that has a handle for playing tug-o-war. It's named Bonaparte, because it's a bone that comes apart).

The last time I wrote was about a year ago, I think. Maybe a little less. I was still planning a wedding, at that point, preparing for the best day of my life.

That day has come and gone, and I still feel amazingly blessed. Even more so than I did before.

Our first 6 months of marriage haven't been easy. I was suffering chronic migraines - still am, actually - and my doctor at the time had decided I was faking it, seeing as she couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I guess she thought struggling to live on the 60% pay that came with my short-term disability insurance while paying $500 per month in medical bills was a walk in the park.

I (and my migraines) went back to work, and I averaged 3 days per week, for a while. Then that dwindled to two days per week. I was struggling to make the 30 hours per week I needed to keep my insurance.

I have since found a doctor who believes me, but we aren't any closer to my migraines going away. I was able to take Family and Medical Leave for three months, but when those were up, I ended up resigning my position, with support from my husband.

I have mercury toxicity, which could be contributing to the migraines, and I've since quit eating fish - unless I know where it comes from - and had the mercury-containing fillings in my mouth removed.

Despite all of that, I've had no relief. Occasionally, I'll feel awesome, but if I'm not careful, awesome can turn really quickly into just-kill-me. So I tend not to get out and do much. I'm afraid I'll be thirty minutes from home in my 10-year-old Civic and not be able to get back to our little bungalow.

I'm also seeing a new neurologist, whose office is five minutes away from Chez StrainedConsciousness. She specializes in headaches, unlike my old doctor who treated headaches alongside other neurological illnesses.

So we're still trying to figure out what's wrong with me, and hoping we'll find out sooner, rather than later.

And if that's "sooner", then my old job is still waiting for me. My wonderful boss told me, the day I cleaned out my desk, that the firm wants me back, once I'm healthy again. Even if it's just part-time, at first, I have a place (barring some economic catastrophe that wipes out all of the company's work).

I'm incredibly lucky that my boss is a kind, caring man, who I believe truly cares about his employees. It probably doesn't hurt that he has a daughter my age, either.

While I've been home, I've done a lot of reading - lots of different genres - and a lot of writing. I want to simultaneously write three different stories, but I don't know if I'm capable of that. I'm afraid I'd have difficulty maintaining the individual "voices" each book requires, because one is a young-adult fantasy book, one is an adult fantasy book (but not, you know, bow-chika-bow-wow adult), and one is historical fiction, set in the 1910s-1950s.

I've also considered opening an Etsy shop - don't laugh, now! - to sell embroidery. Not needlepoint, because I doubt people would want to pay $400 for a Christmas stocking, but simpler embroidery that could be framed. I'm still considering it, though my sister's voice is in the back of my head reminding me that I have yet to finish the needlepoint stockings I'm making for my niece and nephew.

So there's simultaneously a lot going on, and nothing going on. Lots of different stressors, but not a lot to do.

So if you have any ideas for what I could do without having to stare at a computer screen, all day, and also ones that I can do while completely horizontal (because sometimes, just sitting up hurts), I'd love to hear them.

Hopefully, they'll give me more to write about than just, you know, whining about my health.

A Surgical Patient, a Single Lady, and A Fashionista Walk Into a Bar...

I'll cut to the punch: they're all the same person.

Moi.

I had surgery, this past Monday. In essence, the surgery wasn't particularly surgical: I had three needles inserted into my left posterior, one of which was electrified, and then had an injection of - er - something into my left piriformis muscle (it's beneath the gluteus maximus). I've had pain from my piriformis for a long time, mostly because it's wound tighter than a naval clock, and it's squeezing my sciatic nerve.

Fun, no?

Post-surgery, the BIL had to practically carry me into my apartment, because my left leg decided not to work for a while.

No big deal. I crawled around the apartment until my leg got back to business.

Problem: The Man of My Dreams suggested during Date #2, last night, that we go to a rather nice restaurant for Date #3, because I haven't been there, and it's been a few months since he's been, and damn a good steak will hit the spot.

I checked the prices on zagat.com. It will hit about 100 spots, per person.

I'm so glad I don't have to pay for anything when he takes me out.

The difficulty: I would normally wear a dress and heels. I haven't tried on any of my "nice" pants, but I'm pretty sure they're all too big. At present, I have three large, highly-visible bruises around my left knee, along with carpet-burn on both knees from crawling to the front door to lock it, then to the bathroom.

Yay, nylon carpet...

What's a girl to do?

I know: First World Problems.

Ready, Set, Render!

I have a project due Monday at noon. I have two presentation boards almost completed, and part of a model to finish. For once, I managed to cut all the pieces for my model well before the date of presentation, and my almost-completed model is awaiting its context (a.k.a. the site) and possibly a bit of sanding before it is finished.

Possibly a bit of sanding. Possibly not.

What concerns me, right now, is the fact that I am about to import a model from a dumb yet wonderful program called SketchUp (it's free, by the way) into Rhinoceros so I can render it with a fancy schmancy expensive program called V-Ray.

Okay, so it wasn't that expensive (the student version cost $250. Yes, I actually purchased it. Legally), but every penny counts when you're a student.

When you spend upwards of $1000 per month on medical bills, every penny counts even when you're not a student.

I'm nervous about rendering, so I'm putting it off. Procrastinating.

I have no experience with rendering. I don't know how to add lamps/lights to my model to make it look its best. I don't really know much about textures and creating them. It's all confusing, and there are so many variables.

So I'm writing a blog post. The first in two weeks by the looks of it, and listening to thrash-metal, and pondering calling it a day and going to sleep so I can wake up early tomorrow morning and get to work feeling fresh as a daisy.

Or fresh as a petunia.

Or some fresh little flower.

(Insert "flower power" joke here).

Fill 'Er Up

With Botox, to be exact.

This coming Wednesday, I receive my first Botox treatment.

No, the Botox is not to hide unsightly wrinkles, or to try to freeze away the years by paralyzing my facial muscles. Seeing as I'm regularly told that I look like I'm 19 years old, I have no reason to try to make myself look younger.

I do not want to get ID'd when I go to PG-13 movies.

The Botox will (hopefully) help my migraines even more. Sure, my migraines have lessened considerably in the past month or so, but I'm still having them a couple of times per week, and that's a couple of times too many.

In some ways, I'm excited. The procedure is being performed by Dr. Pain, so I'll spend several days in Plano prior to and after the procedure. I'll get to see my mom, and one of our friends who is recuperating from a massive surgical procedure. And I'll get to hang out with Major Tom Shadowmaker for a few days, which is always nice.

My excitement at returning to Dallas for a few days is kind of overshadowed, though, by my fear of having yet another treatment for migraines/pain that could, potentially, go awry.

I'm having injections in my forehead, scalp, neck, and shoulder muscles: a total of 21 injections in all.

I most likely won't be able to move my eyebrows afterwards, so there go the amusing facial expressions I use to get my niece to giggle. There's also the possibility that my head could drop forward, as happened to a former architectural client of mine who had the injections in his neck to treat spasms from Parkinson's Disease.

Having to work harder at holding my head up, not being able to register emotion using only my eyes: these are things I can deal with.

My biggest fear is a recurrence of daily migraines that could, potentially, derail my whole reason for moving to Houston. No one has mentioned more migraines as a potential side effect of the treatments, though, and so I'm hoping it's unheard of.

But then again, the epidural steroid injections I received weren't supposed to exacerbate my migraines, and they did.

And if my migraines do get worse, how does that affect my schooling? The fact that I'm now living in Houston with an apartment I have to pay for, partly out of government loans?

If things get worse, then what do I do?

What's Goin' On?

Cue the Marvin Gaye.

Ahhhhhh. That's better.

I've been on a veritable roller coaster of ups and downs, recently. I was supposed to be a bridesmaid in a friend's wedding, but two of my doctors forbade me from flying to San Antonio and then driving to Laredo for the wedding. I can't say I blame them, as I was unable to drive myself for more than 30 minutes without needing to rest.

So that was a down.

But then, because I couldn't stay home by myself, I went to Houston with my parents for my 10 month old niece's dedication ceremony.

That was a definite Up.

But then, what with the organ music during the service and the lights in the sanctuary, I had a bad migraine attack.

Down again.

But then I went home and took some pain medicine and rested and ate some of the best biscuits known to mankind, courtesy of my sister, and I was Up again. Okay, really, I was "high", not "Up" but that's semantics.

My headache got worse during the drive home to Dallas, and I went to the emergency room, expecting to enter the hospital for in-patient care.

Down down down down. Down-be-doobie down down down down down.

And then I had a panic attack at the idea of being stuck in an uncomfortable hospital bed for three days, hooked up to machines, so I checked myself out of the hospital. Oddly enough, I consider that an "Up."

And today, I'm trying to get into the UT Southwestern Pain Management Clinic so I can begin treatment with them, there. UT has another teaching hospital in Houston, so I could just jump from the Dallas clinic to the Houston clinic. This has to be all squared away with my neurologist and my other pain doctor (who I'll have to stop seeing, I think). But hopefully that will happen today.

Trying to keep things on the up and up around here...

Round Two

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about being put on unpaid leave. I wasn't laid off, per se, but was just put on "unpaid leave" until the work in the office picked up again.

This morning, around 9:00 a.m., I received a phone call from Mrs. Robinson, saying that I needed to come in to get my chair, and that the guys needed my CAD license key back, etc...

In other words, I was laid off without actually being told I was laid off.

Kind of crappy.

I immediately got up, got dressed, and checked the internet for what I'm supposed to do in regards to health insurance. Our firm - er, my former firm - was under 20 employees, so no COBRA for this gal. However, the State of Texas requires that firms grant me up to 9 months on the group health insurance plan, so long as I reimburse the firm.

Whew. I went ahead and applied for unemployment benefits - which I can't receive until the last week in January, even though I haven't received severance pay or anything - and then awaited the arrival of my sainted (and tired) mother, who was loaning me her minivan so I could clear out my stuff at the office.

I showed up at the office, and the first words I said, right after, "Hey, Mrs. Robinson!" were "So I'm assuming this means I'm actually laid off, now."

She said yes, that until that morning everyone in the firm had been working on different assumptions.

Oldsmobile and our book keeper - not the most competent woman - were dead certain that I had already been laid off. Mrs. Robinson was instructed last week to write a letter to the insurance company telling them to cancel my health insurance benefits.

Ahem.

Radio, Scooter, and Pacman were all working on the assumption that I would eventually be back in the office and that my unpaid leave was temporary.

What we have he-ah is failyuh to communicate.

I informed Mrs. Robinson that, pursuant to State of Texas Regulations, I had the right to 9 months of insurance, so long as I reimbursed the company. I didn't mention that, seeing as they failed to go over all my health insurance options with me at the "exit interview" (which never happened), I could file an official complaint with the Texas Department of Insurance.

I'm nice, though, so I won't file a complaint... unless the book keeper tries to tell me that they're going to defy State of Texas regulations.

I cleared out my physical possessions (including my Ice Age III action figures, aluminum desk accessories, and wireless mouse - both of which were purchased by myself) and loaded them onto my Aeron chair, which served as a handy dandy cart for transporting all my stuff.

I will return on Wednesday to download the digital files showing all the work I performed at the office (I took the extra copies of Specifications I had, since the firm already has record copies).

Because of some rumored hiring going on at my former employer's office (not Oldsmobile's, but a different firm... the one that laid me off in 2008), the guyzos all thought I would have a brand spanking new job to go to all wrapped up and tidy in a little bow.

Heck, I was pretty certain I'd have another job, but wasn't really getting my hopes up. I'd been talking with the former employer every week about the possibility, after they first approached me to discuss my coming back.

About thirty minutes after I returned to my apartment, my cell phone rang.

"That was XYZ Firm," I said to my mom, who was napping on my sofa. "They don't have a job for me, right now." I shrugged. I wasn't really certain about getting the job in the first place, and as time dragged on (almost a month) I got the feeling that it just wasn't going to happen.

My feeling was right on target.

So now I'm looking for a job. One I won't have to move to take. There's plenty of great design jobs out there. They are all, however, in Baltimore, or Shanghai. So tomorrow, I send out resumes, and a letter of introduction for my little entrepreneurial venture (which is now up and running), and we'll see how things go from there.

Once again, I'm back to playing it by ear. But this time, I have rent to pay.

Sounds of Silence

I haven't been writing much.

I know, I'm a bad blogger.

I also haven't been reading the blogs I usually check on a daily basis, because... well, I forget. And too much computer time gives me a headache, whether I'm lying in bed or not.

Why haven't I been writing?

Well, there's not a whole heck of a lot going on, these days. I write, I run one or two errands each day, I get myself lunch, sometimes (but other times it's cereal for me), and then I scratch good old Major Tom (who is very lazy, this winter, and is almost constantly lying on his bed in the living room).

I don't want to blog constantly about my health problems, although this space has sort of become a clearinghouse for 'what's wrong with me today.' I feel kind of whiny when all I blog about is my health, and I'm sure it's not very interesting, and is possibly distressing, and the last thing I want to have in my already super-guilt-riddled-for-no-good-reason mind is the added guilt of causing my readers - who are mostly family and friends, and a couple of people of whom I have no knowledge (Bangladesh, what up?) - to worry about me.

Example of guilt-ridden Ms. Strainedconsciousness: A couple of years ago, a harmless garter snake was on my parents' back patio. I flipped out and killed it, and it took longer than I'd thought it would to actually kill the thing. I've felt awful about it ever since for depriving the harmless little snake of its life.

A couple of days ago, there was a snake in my parents' kitchen (um, I'm living with the folks, since I can't really take care of myself right now. I'm a toddler all over again... but a toddler who's paying rent on an unused apartment). Instead of killing it and smushing its little serpentine brains out, I put on garden gloves and carried it outside, flinging it into the yard to go about its happy little life.

The snake was maybe 5 inches long, cold (so lethargic, kind of like Major Tom), black, and had a slightly triangular head.

It was a baby water moccasin.

Guess what? I didn't kill it. +5 points for me. It's a water moccasin and might 1) re-enter our home at some point and kill us all in the night and/or cause abject terror; 2) it could kill Major Tom while he's in the backyard "powdering his nose." So -475 points.

More guilt. It's an issue. And occasionally, someone will chide me for feeling so damn guilty all the time and... then I feel guilty about feeling guilty.

Vicious cycle, people. Vicious cycle.

Almost as vicious as a water moccasin a.k.a. cottonmouth. But not nearly as deadly.

Deja Vu All Over Again

While hospitalized for my migraines, I received copious quantities of steroids.

I look something like the Creampuffs Marshmallow Man from Ghost Busters, as a result. Meaning, my face is puffy, as is my tummy.

I hate the word "tummy," just FYI.

Another fun tidbit about steroids is that they cause insomnia. INSOMNIA.

I don't need any help with the insomnia department, as it is fully staffed and operational at all times of the week/month/year. Need someone who can't sleep? Oooh! Call me! Call me!

So I've spent the past two nights not sleeping when I'm supposed to be recuperating from my hospital stay. Because you have to recuperate from recuperating. Yes, really.

Thursday night, I read and wrote in alternating shifts, because I get restless when I have steroid insomnia. I want to do something. Now. Something different. Now. Something different again. Now. Okay, thanks.

So I read for five minutes, then wrote for five or ten, then back to reading for maybe 15 minutes, then back to writing for ten, etc., etc., ad adendum, ad infinitum.

I did the same thing Friday night. It was just as exciting the second time around, except I wasn't 3/4 of the way through a book I wanted to finish.

So I'm running on 4 hours of sleep in the last 24 hours, and that seems to be how things are going to stay, for right now. Awake. They will stay awake. For a long time.

The last time I had steroid insomnia this bad, I was on chemotherapy. I was also 17 and reading Harry Potter, so it wasn't like I lacked for something to do. I plowed through those books. And dreamed of pancakes and sausage, because in the first three books, J.K. Rowling talks about food a lot.

This time, there is no thrilling boy-wizard trilogy (at that time - now there's 7 of the books!!!) to get through, nor is there much of anything to do. I've cleaned out all I can clear out of the soon-to-be-office that used to be my (onetime) bedroom at my parents' house, and I've almost finished the first very rough draft of the story I'm working on.

So I'm blogging at 6:45 in the morning, as my dad gets ready to go jogging in the cold (for Texas) December air. He's crazy.

He's crazy for jogging, but I'm the one who's been up all night, and will probably be up all night again, tonight. Hopefully this doesn't trigger another migraine...

The Human Pincushion

In the past 21 days, I have had 17 days of migraines.

It gets old, dear readers, very quickly.

Although the Thanksgiving holidays are over, I have yet to return to the office, because I am physically incapable of driving myself. The sunlight and movement of a car, combined with the need to sit up and the ever-present skull-cracking headache, mean that I get nauseous.

I briefly considered driving with my seat laid back, but I'm not gangsta enough to pull off that move.

I have tried all the migraine medicines I can, to no avail. The ones that previously staved off the worst have thrown their hands up in frustration at being called into action so often. Even the previous champion - the one that costs $24 per pill before insurance (!) and $10 per pill with insurance (that's $20-48 per dose, dear reader) - has admitted defeat and slunk out of the ring.

In desperation, and at the urging of two of my doctors, I sought help through acupuncture.

No dice, yet. But it was a fascinating experience.

A couple of light taps, a tiny prick, and a needle stuck out of the skin just above my umbilicus. Then, three more were inserted - one below and one on each side - and I started looking like a Buddhist mandala.

Five pins in each foot - one of which hurt, and drew blood, which surprised the acupuncturist and myself - and four in each hand, three in the legs just above and at the knee level, and one pin in each arm, three inches above the knobbly bone of my wrist.

Did I feel anything (apart from that painful foot pin)? Yup.

The pins in my legs sent electric shockwaves down my calves, into the tops of my feet and the outside of my ankles. The pin in my left arm sent a dull ache up to my shoulder.

But my headache wasn't relieved.

For a time, it changed, granted, but it was the location of the headache that changed, migrating from my forehead down into my upper jaw, of all places. Another pin here, another pin there, and the headache was back where it started, albeit slightly dulled. But not eradicated.

I have another acupuncture session on Thursday, which is preceded by a doctor's visit Tuesday afternoon (my mother is acting as chauffeur, at present, while I luxuriate, supine, in the heated leather embrace of the minivan's passenger seat).

I have no idea what my neurologist will tell me to do for my headaches. Will she end up hospitalizing me? I was about to demand that my parents take me to the hospital on Sunday, after my sister, brother-in-law, and beautiful niece departed Plano for their Houston abode. I was only halted by the glimmer of hope that my Monday acupuncture appointment provided me.

That flicker - although not completely snuffed out - is not as bright as it was, but it was worth a try, and I haven't completely given up on it, yet.

As the acupuncturist said after reviewing my intake forms, I "have a lot going on," medically speaking, and taking care of one or two other things might help with the migraines.

Once again, it's the game of Wait and See.

The Week From Hell

This past week was, to put it mildly, awful.

I had my pain management treatment on Monday, and then another doctor's appointment that afternoon.

No, there is no abatement in my pain, so I'm not too hopeful, as things stand.

Following my migraine Saturday, I started to get one Sunday, but staved it off with some medicine (whew!). Monday, I had one in the afternoon. Tuesday, joyfully, migraine free. But then Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I had migraines. All day.

I've begun keeping a migraine journal - er, spreadsheet - so I can track them. I chronicle what I've done to try to stop them (medicine X + medicine Y and sleep, for example) and whether or not it had any effect. If no steps were taken, then why not?

The only reason why no steps will be taken is that there's so many triptans in my body that I'd explode if I had any more, just in case you're wondering.

I have an appointment with my neurologist - a.k.a. my new best friend, because I see her more often than I see any of my other friends - to discuss what the hell we are going to do to get me back to normal.

The guys in the office have been pretty supportive, helping me remove most of the fluorescent lights from my cubicle so that it's now a dark little cave (I still keep my sunglasses on half the time, as the glare from the computer screen is so bright). It's no fun. No fun at all.

And my other doctor's nurse - the one I saw after my appointment with Dr. Pain on Monday - gave me a little lecture because my weight has dropped again. I'm back down to where I was when I was "too thin" in her estimation, when she wanted me to gain at least 5 lbs. at the beginning of August. I told her I hadn't intended to, but that I've been nauseous because of the migraines...

The nurse frowned. And then asked me why I take so much Benadryl.

Fortunately, she forgot all about my weight loss as I regaled her with steps she can take to help combat her recent outbreak of eczema (it's new to her, old hat with me, and the reason for all the Benadryl on the long list of daily medicines: something else my doctor doesn't like).

So my week: awful.

On the up-side, I think I figured out why I almost passed out at the construction site. And why I almost passed out on that date last year. And why I almost passed out during a staff meeting 3 years ago. There is a form of hypotension (low blood pressure) called neurally mediated hypotension that results from your brain failing to send your heart the proper message to step up its game when you've been standing for longish periods of time (30+ minutes), after which blood will pool in your feet, so your heart has to pump harder to keep it circulating properly.

In people with neurally mediated hypotension, your brain doesn't recognize this, fails to send the proper message, your feet become big ole sacks of hemoglobin, and your brain then fails to get enough oxygen. Badda boom badda bing: hey, presto! Unconscious.

Or, at least, pale, sweaty, and scaring the crud out of your construction superintendent.

Post-Flood Contrition

I've felt guilty about my rudeness to my downstairs neighbor ever since my blunt, "I know" comment when she embarked on her final lecture about the evils of washing your clothes when you're not home.

I had contemplated the idea of sending her flowers to apologize, and I decided, this evening, that I would do so.

Sorry, First Born, but FTD Florists gets you.

I think I've only sent flowers once or twice before. Definitely once. And I didn't pay for them. They were sent on behalf of my former employer. I just picked them out.

My rudeness just cost me $70, including "handling fees" and sales tax. So much for the $49.99 price tag, right?

And, unfortunately, I don't actually know my downstairs neighbor's name, and the reverse address lookup websites all come up with a billion names. I thought that, since my neighbor is an elderly Hispanic woman (pile on the guilt), it would narrow things down. Nope. The first three possible names listed are for Hispanic women in their early to late 70s. So in the "name" blanks (required), I entered First Name: My; Last Name: Neighbor.

I briefly toyed with calling the apartment office in the morning to ask her name, but feared they'd ask me why I needed it. "So I could send her flowers to apologize for being a royal b***h the day my apartment flooded. The usual." The prospect of calling started sapping my will to apologize, even if I'm not brave enough to do it to her face.

I'm hoping the florist doesn't call me for name clarification, thinking I'm a nutjob. Particularly since my card reads, "I wanted to apologize for 1) accidentally flooding your apartment (I no longer wash clothes when I'm not home); 2) my unpardonable rudeness. I am truly sorry. Megan (third floor)."

I also hope I don't end up with a defiant elderly Hispanic woman on my doorstep, throwing the flowers in my face and cursing me in Spanish. Particularly since I'd probably understand the cursing (I don't know much Spanish, but I understand enough to know when to be offended).

On another, more cheerful note, my apartment management is replacing my whole washing machine. I informed them that I'd washed small loads of clothes, and the thing was jumping all over the place, and could they please come look at it again, as I was afraid the jumping would throw it out of balance again, potentially flooding the apartment again. Ahem.

Jaime the beleaguered maintenance man left me a cheerful note saying that he ran the machine, there's something wrong with it, and he thinks the jumping could be what's wrecking the balancers. As opposed to their previous assertion that the wrecked balancers caused by my overloading were causing the jumping. Ahem.

So I get a new washing machine.

I can't wait. I bet my downstairs neighbor will be happy, too, once The Jumping Washing Machine of Dallas County is no more.

Dr. Pain

When I was little, my pediatrician was named Dr. Paine.

I'm not making this up.

We used to laugh about it, as much as a 4 year old can when she goes to see a man called Dr. Paine who jabs her with needles.

On Tuesday, I will see a whole different kind of Dr. Pain (not his real name, natch, and hopefully nothing like T-Pain, featured above - a grill does not lend itself to a professional appearance). This doctor will, supposedly, help relieve my pain. This past week has been pretty atrocious, and I feel the worst I've been since I started back to work at the beginning of August.

Before I called to schedule my appointment, I Googled the new Dr. Pain, because I was curious about him: why my neurologist referred me to him, how long he'd been practicing, where he did his residency.

She referred me to one hell of a pain doctor.

Dr. Pain did his residency at Walter Reed Medical Center, and he is board certified by a bazillion different boards of specialization. A bazillion. That's a lot of certifications, Dear Reader. His website listed a bunch of different types of therapies he uses - most of which I didn't recognize, but none of which were "pills", so I felt better about that. I've been terrified of going to the type of doctor who just shoves a bottle at you and says, "Have fun with the narcotics. Don't drive too much."

Much like tequila and Coca-Cola, narcotics and construction sites don't go well together.

Not that I know from experience. About either of the above.

Hopefully, though, come Tuesday, there will be some path forward towards feeling better, again. Because this constant pain in the left half of my body is starting to become a royal pain in the-

I think you get the idea.

Preparing to Meet My...

This afternoon, my mom received a voicemail from a woman in her Sunday School class, who urged her to call a nutritionist friend of hers, currently in Dallas from Pennsylvania. The nutritionist, to whom we will refer as Ugga Mugga, has successfully diagnosed multiple ailments within the aforementioned friend's family, and has her Ph.D. The friend suggested we call to make an appointment with her before she leaves on Wednesday, saying that she might be able to help me find the seemingly inexplicable source of what ails me.

In short, on Tuesday, I will be going to see a woman who I perceive as being something of a witch doctor.

She uses acupuncture methodologies during her diagnoses, and I have a two hour appointment with her.

Fortunately, my parents are offering to foot the bill, seeing as I doubt my insurance would have any truck with Ph.D nutritionists attempting to diagnose what supposedly was a problem to be cleared up by routine surgery.

What will be the outcome of my visit with Ugga Mugga the Witch Doctor? I don't know. I do know that I was able to pull myself together for long enough to discuss with her some of the ailment's background and the surgery, and hardly cried at all.

That, these days, is a triumph indeed.

And as we all know, the most important detail in life-threatening medical situations, after you've been crying, is to make sure your mascara isn't running. Never fear, dear reader: my mascara is still firmly in place.

Potential Resolution

Friday morning, I received a phone call from my doctor's (Dr. L) nurse. She had the results of my CT scan.

"Nothing showed up that could possibly be causing what you're experiencing, although we did find XXXXXX."

Huh. Okay. She continued, "We can book you for an appointment with one of the other surgeons in the practice if you'd like a second opinion, or you can discuss this with Dr. W (note: the doctor who referred me to Dr. L and who would typically handle problems such as XXXXXX.)"

"I think I'll talk to Dr. W before I proceed," I replied and hung up the phone. I called Dr. W's office to make sure they had the results of the radiology report from the CT scan, and had Dr. W had a chance to look over them yet? Apparently not, according to the receptionist, why did I ask?

"Because the results, according to Dr. L, show that there's something there that Dr. W needs to have a look at." Two hours later, after a discussion of the radiology report, I had an appointment booked for this coming Monday, after the normal appointment hours.

Yikes.

I did a little research on my own. Dr. L's nurse said that XXXXXX couldn't be the cause of the debilitating pain I've been experiencing.

Oh, really, Dr. L? Apparently, she hasn't checked the Mayo Clinic's website recently, which references almost every symptom I've exhibited as potential symptoms of the condition I appear to have.

Neat.

The good news is, according to The Mayo Clinic website (I'm addicted, now) and the National Institutes of Health website (their statistics are kind of broad, so I don't trust them as much), that there are multiple treatment options. The bad news is that almost all of them require surgery of some sort, and most of the surgeries are pretty drastic and have long recovery times.

More bedrest ahead, it appears.

Neat.

But at least there is (possibly) an end in sight for my current problems, so I can quit whining about them on my blog and get to feeling better so I can get back to the important things in life, like the imminent arrival of my niece, and working 8-hour days in the office, and providing my coworkers with stories of romantic entanglements that make them shake their heads and remark how lucky they are to be married.