Operation Anti-Anti-Depressant = FAIL.

I am not a depressed person. Or at least I don't think I am. But in the months after my father died, my world sort of got twisted. My nerves were a frazzled mass of rawness. My doctor suggested Lexapro, and darned if it didn't help. Lots.

So nearly 2 years later, life was calmer. Things were good. One day I asked myself, "Self, why do you still take these things anyway?" I decided to stop. I knew not to stop cold turkey ... I did my research and talked to my doctor, and then followed a slow and deliberate withdrawal schedule. I'd read about these things called Brain Zaps that can occur from anti-depressant withdrawal. You know what? I had them. It was very strange -- it felt something like a slight electrical current in my head. Sometimes, I'd have the sensation that things were moving that weren't really moving. It took nearly a month before I quit having those sensations, but they finally went away. Yay, no more anti-depressants, I thought.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, said Life.

Damned if the whole world didn't go bonkers all at the same time. First, I started noticing that I was just -- moody, I guess. I cried more, over dumb things, and I was snippier than I should be. I felt overwhelmed by work, bills, and other normal responsibilities. Then, I had a little medical adventure that involved a biopsy and in-patient surgery. As I write this, I still don't know the biopsy results. I missed a week of work and spent that week in pain a few days, and just downright uncomfortable for the rest of the week.

Just before the surgery, a family member got really pissed at me about something I won't hash out here, and she didn't pull any punches in letting me know just how pissed she was. Which is certainly her right, but the timing sucked. The very day of my surgery, I had an rather, well, MEAN email from her awaiting me in my mail box. (Thank goodness I had a few nice ones from people hoping my surgery had gone well!) So during a time when I could have really used a little TLC and support -- um, yeah, that wasn't happening. While I think we'll be OK, I have to say, that really HURT. DAMN, way to kick someone when they're down and bleeding! And off of the anti-depressants!!

Then, I decided today to take a look at my mom's bank balance. I manage her finances and have done so since my dad died. It's been very frustrating, because she seems to have no concept of how much she spends and how much she has. Let's just leave it at this: There are some family members who don't hesitate to ask for her help, and she seems to be unable to say no. I've repeatedly told her that she cannot afford to be as generous as she is being and she repeatedly ignores me. So today was the day I knew was coming. The balances in her account are in the double digits. The balance in her "emergency fund", which had a hefty balance when my father died 2 years ago, has about $30.00 left. So, while she has annuity income that will insure that her bills are paid, she has completely depleted her emergency reserves.

To say I lost it would be an understatement. I cried .... WAILED .... for about an hour. That was the first melt down. I proceeded to have about 4 more similar, but thankfully shorter, meltdowns over the course of the day. I am not a crying, sobbing, wailing sort of person.

During one of the calmer moments, my husband looked at me and very nervously asked, "are you sure you need to be off of those anti-depressants?" For some reason, that was the funniest thing I'd heard all day.

Stuff Larry Says Saturday

This Saturday, I can't make fun of my husband. I have to kind of say nice things about him.

We've been married nearly 28 years. It took me 26 years to come to terms with the fact that Larry doesn't do special occasions well. I could write a book about that, or at least a few blog posts. He's completely forgotten some occasions, and on others he's clearly run into an all-night drug store and frantically purchased the first thing he saw. On still other occasions, his gifts have been just ....

Anyway, on Valentine's Day this year, he had the day off. I came home to dinner, all cooked by him: Prime Rib, roasted potatoes and asparagus, chocolate dipped strawberries. He was so very proud of his gift: instead of taking what he called the "lazy route" and ordering flowers, he bought me one single, perfect rose encased in gold, no less. I felt pretty slack -- my gift was a 6 pack of beer. (fancy beer, but still).

Truth be told, I really wasn't in the best of moods that day. I've been stressed out for multiple reasons, the weather was lousy, and I was even annoyed at the high-fat meal that appeared three days into my latest attempt to go on yet another diet. But yet, after all these years, I have a hubby who went to all that trouble for Valentine's day.

So, yeah. I did OK in the husband department. But he still says funny stuff.

Saturdays are supposed to be fun.

I miss the Saturdays of childhood. Sleeping in, only not wanting to because cartoons were on. (Anyone besides me remember when Saturday morning was the only time you could see cartoons?) My dad cooked breakfast every Saturday: two eggs over easy, each egg atop a slice of toast. My family creatively named this dish "Eggs on Toast". True story: My dad never cooked. But my mom convinced us all -- by demonstrating -- that she could not flip an egg without breaking the yolk. We eventually learned that she broke the yolks on purpose so that we'd wake my dad up for breakfast on Saturday instead of her. Then, we usually got sent outside to play all day. No chores, no errands, no nothing.

Today I was at work before 8:00. I have to be out all of next week and I had a few bazillion things to tie up before I'm out. Then, I went with two co-workers to an employee's mother's funeral. It was in an old, small, country church and the pastor was a lively man of about 907. Yes, I meant to type 907. But as always, I remember how much it meant to me when co-workers came to my dad's funeral, and I try to do the same whenever I can.

So finally, I'm home, and flat worn out. But there's laundry and shopping and ...... I think I'll take a nap.

Life After 50 (or, keeping doctors rich, one appointment at a time)

This week should be a fun one. What's up, you ask? Here's what's up:

Monday: MRI on the left knee. This knee has been problematic for a couple of years. I reckon I have arthritis in it. However, about 6 months ago, in my quest to become more fit (and I might as well have launched a quest for unicorns), I fell off of a treadmill. In public. My knee was decimated. My ego was in even worse shape. I had a CT scan at the time, as I was really afraid I'd broken something, but all was well. however, the knee continues to be swollen and painful. Now, I'm not exactly sure what I hope to gain from the MRI. If they tell me I need surgery, I will politely decline. I guess I just want to know what's up, what's helping and what's making it worse. In my secret, darkest place I am kind of hoping that I'm told that all forms of strenuous exercise are explicitly forbidden forevermore.

Tuesday: I'm having a biopsy done. Sometimes I'm fairly certain that I only do this blog for my own amusement, but in the off-chance that someone is reading this, I'll spare you any grueling details. I'll just say that the biopsy is being done by a gynecologist and I'll leave it at that. Ouch, you might be saying. Ouch, I will be saying, I'm sure -- along with several of my more colorful favorite curse words. I may even do some research to learn a few new ones. My doc has prescribed some pills to help relax me ("heck, yeah, I'll dope you up -- this isn't going to be any fun at all!" she said helpfully)so I'm hoping to giggle and slur my way through the whole procedure. I'm dragging the hubby with me with the hopes he can converse intelligently with the doctor.

OK, the rest of the week is pretty mundane, except for the waiting-for-biopsy-results part. Whatcha wanna bet these tests will lead to even more doc appointments? Which is why I vowed, years ago, to never volunteer ANY sort of problems to the doctor. I should have kept that vow!

Stuff Larry Says Saturday

OK, I'm not posting this until Sunday. My husband was remarkably un-funny this week. What's up with that? I did have to laugh at this little vignette from yesterday:

Cue Scene: Larry is in recliner, controlling the remote, watching whatever Pawn Shop/Storage Wars/Swamp People thing he's stumbled upon, and, as always, he falls asleep. I'm paying the bills ... not just mine, but my mother's. Since bill paying is one of my least favorite things, doing it for two households makes me, kind of, insanely bitc .... um, grumpy.

Larry: zzzzzzzzz

Me: OK bills are paid. My mom's bills were crazy this month!

Larry: (snappishly, waking from his nap) You already told me that!

Me: NO I DIDN'T! BUT I'M SORRY I INTERRUPTED YOUR SILLY NAP (i didn't say silly -- for the purposes of this g-rated post please substitute your favorite profanity for the word 'silly') ARE YOU GOING TO DO ANYTHING TODAY OR IS NAPPING ABOUT AS SILLY AMBITIOUS AS IT GETS FOR YOU ON WEEKENDS?

Larry: Why are you yelling?

ME: BECAUSE ALL YOU SILLY DO IS SILLY SLEEP! I'M SO SILLY SICK OF SEEING YOUR EYELIDS EVERY TIME I LOOK AT YOU! I CARRY ON CONVERSATIONS WITH YOU ONLY TO SILLY REALIZE YOU ARE SILLY SLEEPING!!!!

Larry: Well I had a big lunch!

******

Oh. My bad.

"Stuff"-Larry-Says Saturday

I mentioned previously on Facebook that my son and daughter in law have told me several times that I should write a blog called "S*&$ Larry says". Larry is my husband of, let me count, 28 years. As he gets older, he gets funnier. Only he doesn't mean to. Which makes it even funnier.

So I'm going to try to make every Saturday a post about the latest absurd or funny thing Larry did.

Last night, my husband was watching the news. Which almost always means that he's actually napping. The funny thing about my husband's naps, which are legendary, is that he frequently acts offended and/or defensive about them. "I'm awake!" He often snaps, if you suggest that he, perhaps, go to bed to snore.

Anyway, he was napping or watching the news, depending on who you ask. My son called and was telling me about something that had happened at work. We'd been talking awhile. At one point, I asked my son, "what do you think's going to happen?" Larry sat up straight, eyes wide open and said, "I don't know!" very conversationally, as if we'd been talking all along.

Doctor, My Eyes!

Getting old kind of sucks. For many reasons. I could go on and on. But for now, I'm only going to go on about the vision part.

I've worn glasses or contact since I was, I think, about 8. My mother was "frugal" before it was cool to be frugal, and she would be the cheapest possible thing no matter what.

(a quick story that proves my point. When I was pregnant, just barely pregnant, and living 400 miles from home, mom called to ask if I needed anything. I was quickly becoming too fat for my regular clothes but not yet big enough for maternity clothes. So, I told her I needed some stretchy sweat pants in a size Large. She sent them. In a size Medium. Which didn't fit. When I asked why, I was told that the medium ones were one dollar cheaper.)

OK back on point. My frugal mother purchased for my first pair of glasses the least expensive glasses she could. These were blue, pointy, and very, very, very not cool. I realize retro is kind of "in" now, but before it becomes retro, it's ugly and geeky. So off I went into the belly of the beast that is grade school, sporting my specs. Yeah, four-eyes was one of the nicer things I was called. I became the "girl with the glasses". And it's true what they say about boys and passes and girls with glasses. (at least I think it was the glasses!)

My memories of growing up oddly include many about my vision correction devices. Finally getting the cool wire rimmed specs in 7th grade. Begging, pleading, crying for contact lenses at 15. Begging, pleading, crying for SOFT lenses at 17 and not getting them. Buying them myself when I was 18, going out and getting drunker than a skunk the first night I wore them, (I'm so old it was legal to drink when i was 18) and 3 of my college hall-mates (who had been drinking with me) trying to help me get them out. Hint: they don't come out the same way as the hard ones did.

So I go every year for the eye exam, and have been doing this for lots o' years. When I hit 40, doctors started warning me that the reading vision would start going any time. Ha. I could read even the tiniest print on the card. Year after year. My reading vision was fine, thank you very much. Until all of a sudden, it wasn't. Crap! I couldn't read the time on your watch, the back of a box of macaroni to see how long to cook it, and Lord help if I need to know how many pills to take! So I started sporting the readers, leaving them in every room, purse, and location. I must have collected 10 pairs. But I always hated how I look in glasses, and this just wasn't making me happy.

When I first tried multi-focal lenses, I was ecstatic. These amazing lenses are comprised of concentric circles for close vision/distance vision, and somehow one's eyes just know which circle to use. Amazing! No more readers! I could see like a 39 year old! And I could, for a long time. Until I couldn't. Apparently, the worse your close-vision gets, the less likely it becomes that these types of lenses will work. So next, we did the split one-eye-for-close-and-one-eye-for distance. I hated it the whole time. I felt off balance, and I couldn't really see that well up close OR at a distance. Plus, my dry-eyes have gotten worse and worse, making contacts terribly uncomfortable some days.

So this last visit, I scrapped them. Now on deck: Daily wear disposables. So thin you can barely see them. UBER comfy.Wear 'em once, and toss 'em. No cleaning, no solution to buy. And, once more, an array of stylish, cute, quirky readers. I'm learning to embrace the four-eye look again. I may even look for a pair of pointy blue ones.

Presenteeism

I'm home sick from work today. The thing is, I've gone to work on days when I felt much worse than today. I've been sick, off and on, for most of this month. First a cold/sore throat/plague thing that lingered forever, then a vicious stomach bug (or food poisoning?) last week, and this morning, the stomach bug, albeit a milder version, seems to have returned. From what I hear, it's circled around the office a few times as well. A few weeks ago, when I had the cold/sore throat/plague thing, everyone in the office was hacking and horking and looking like death warmed over. But our schedules were demanding, our calendars were full, our deadlines were looming, and we pressed on.

But I wonder -- when you just keep working when you're sick, what are you really accomplishing? Sure, you get things done and maybe avoid missing a deadline. But at best, you're not firing on all pistons. At worst, your brain is fuddled by medication or fevers or lack of sleep. And the germs you're sharing are just going to mean that your co-worker has the same thing going on a few days later. Also, I just have to think that actually staying out of work and resting (like the doctor suggested I do a few weeks ago -- fat chance, I worked a holiday instead) would go a long way towards getting well faster warding off the relapses. So a day spent at home might equal four productive workdays, whereas a day in which you drag your half-dead ass to work might drag out the illness and result in five days of mediocrity or mistakes.

Most of my co-workers and many of my friends have very busy, demanding jobs. I consider my job to be demanding, and most times it's quite busy. For the most part, if I get behind, there's no one who can cover for me. So we drag ourselves in. Secretly, I think, we all want the brownie points we get for going the extra mile. These days, no one can afford to be seen as the weakest link. So we're damn glad to have our jobs and we just don't think a fever or a night spent vomiting is an acceptable reason to stay home.

What's wrong with this picture?

Revival

I'm not sure why I've let the blog go dormant. I've been busy since the last time I posted with things like, oh, I don't know, a few dozen months of working and living. I'm sure there are many spell-binding tales I could share, some good, some bad. But the quick highlights (many of which would have made AWESOME blog posts) are as follows:

-2010 sucked. Enough said.

-2011 was way better. Went to Key West, started working out again, and best of all, got blessed with a second amazing and awesome grandson named Owen.

Anyway, I missed my quirky little blog that I'm sure no one reads. So I'm reviving it. My life is full of randomly profound moments and equally random absurd moments, and I want to remember them.

So stay turned, whoever you are.