In case any of you missed the previous warning when you tried to enter this blog, I am warning you again.
This one is REALLY R-rated, because I am REALLY mad.
So you have been DOUBLY warned.
Sorry Pastors, Christian friends, aunts, uncles, whomever doesn't like the way I speak my mind, but this is how I am feeling right now.
So yesterday I finally went to see the Pain Management Specialist. She was kind, understanding, supportive, and ready to attack the situation. I was told to stop taking the Vicodin. I'm cool with that. It doesn't work anymore anyway, after nine years, it's time.
She has prescribed methadone.
I started to hyperventilate.
And visions of Heath Ledger and Anna Nicole Smith came to mind.
Dr. Pain said, "Mrs. Fallon, if you take the medicine AS PRESCRIBED, and you are a responsible adult who doesn't also chase her meds with VODKA and add a dessert of HEROIN, you will be FINE."
So I took my first dose of methadone last night. (It is a VERY low dosage, by the way.) Didn't see Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, wasn't drooling, and woke up this morning. So, so far, so good. I still have pain, but I'm supposed to be taking it three times a day, but that really isn't feasible with my lifestyle at this juncture (you know, when I have children to feed, and I have to drive them places), so we'll have to work this dosage schedule out, but at least she treated me like a person, which I appreciate immensely.
In addition to the methadone, she is going to add a nerve medicine (I don't know the name of it) at a later date, as well as pain patches for my knees. I left her office feeling hopeful and grateful and relieved.
And then there was today.
Today, I had what I thought was going to be my final appointment with Dr. Hank.
Which also stands for "That Fucking Guy".
Yeah, I'm mad.
I went there with every intention of telling him that I was going to switch doctors, thank you for all that you have done, I'm going to Shands, but I still want to have my Remicade infusions at your lab, can I have your blessing, blah blah blah.
For the record, I do pretty well in situations of conflict. Unusually well. Some call me a conflict seeker. I don't think I "seek" it, I just don't avoid it. I face it head on, and usually I call myself a winner at the end of the day.
To summarize, because I am so angry, and my head is absolutely pounding at the memory of this appointment, and what I consider to be an absolute WASTE of thirty dollars that to be honest with you, I don't have to waste........
We reviewed the past four weeks and my 'status'. I told him about the changes in meds prescribed by Dr. Primary and Dr. Pain. He concurred. (Then why the FUCK didn't you prescribe them in the first place, JACKASS?)
We talked about "how are you doing (AND I QUOTE) upstairs"?
I looked him square in the eye, and said, "I don't think I ever had a problem UPSTAIRS."
He said, "I think you had and continue to have, situational depression related to an illness you cannot control."
I looked him square in the eye and said, "Dr. Hank, I almost killed myself, that's how bad the pain was."
He said, "Doesn't surprise me at all. That's a symptom of depression."
I said, "You call it depression, I call it AGONY."
He said, "I am not going to split hairs here. The important thing is that you are better."
NO! THE IMPORTANT THING IS THAT I HAVE DECIDED THAT YOU SUCK, BUT I CAN'T FUCKING FIRE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON IN THREE COUNTIES WHO CAN INFUSE MY REMICADE, DAMMIT!
We get back to talking about the Remicade. He says, "So you're scheduled for Remicade next Monday, and then four weeks later."
I look at him in horror, and say, "I've just planned a six week vacation, because YOU told me we were on a 2-4-6-8-8-8-8-8-8-8 week schedule!"
He said, "No. Clearly, you misunderstood me."
TFG! I am not depressed, I am not suicidal, and I am DAMN sure not DEAF!
He continued with, "NORMALLY, that would be the case."
Readers, That has ALWAYS been my Remicade schedule. For NINE F'in years.
He went on, "But since it is YOU (meaning, ALBATROSS), you will be on a four week schedule. Period."
I told him that was going to work, that we planned our SIX week vacation to the DAY around my Remicade treatments.
And he sighed, and said, "Well i guess this time, it will be six weeks, but next time, it will be four."
And he had the decency to ask where we were going that would take six weeks.
And I told him.
And he told me I was nuts.
And I said, "You know what, I got out of the hospital, I suffered for another two weeks, I finally got better, and I said to myself, I have no idea how many tomorrows I have left, and I looked at those three most precious to me, and I said, we're doing it. We're going to the Grand Canyon.
I don't care about the money, I don't care that it sounds crazy, I don't care that we don't have jobs, I feel like this is what we as a family absolutely positively need to do."
And he said, "I'm proud of you."
And then he spent fifteen minutes telling me all about the wonders of the Grand Canyon.
So I came home and Billy said, "how'd it go?"
I said, "I didn't fire him."
Billy laughed and said, "Chicken shit!"
And I said, "What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't get the Remicade in Clermont! What the hell am I supposed to do?"
Billy said, "Did you tell him you had seen the other doctor?'
"Did you tell him you want to go to Shands?"
"Billy, have you met THAT FUCKING GUY? He is IMPOSSIBLE to talk to!"
"i know, but what are you going to do?"
"I have 10 weeks before I have to face him again."
The splendor of the Grand Canyon awaits, and dammit, TFG is going to be the last thing on my mind, I promise you.