Success!

I'm cured! 

I think lunggunk is a thing of the past. My breathing is normal, my heart isn't beating too fast, and I feel good, man.

FUCK YOU PULMONARY EMBOLISM! I win.

It's All in Yer Head

This gentleman has too many limbs

I've recently been preoccupied with the mind-body connection.

It's no secret that the human brain is largely a mystery. To say the balance between what we know about the mind versus what we do not is unequal is an understatement. And, often, physicians are apt to dismiss anything they do not understand. If whatever problem you are experiencing cannot be solved by the pharmaceutical industry, then you will likely be sent away from your doctor's office with little more than a referral to a psychologist and an insincere "sorry 'bout you."

As a patient, this is infuriating and demoralizing. Chronic physical pain is difficult enough to manage. When a doctor gives you that sideways look and states, "this is probably an issue for your psychiatrist," it is like being kicked when you are down. If you have any type of psychological diagnosis listed in your chart, you will probably hear this more than once from more than one different physician.

"Diagnoses" like these beg the question: if the very real pain that one is experiencing is rooted in the mind, why not take a more holistic approach to treatment?

I see one doctor for physical issues and one doctor for all things mental. While these physicians can communicate with one another, there is a very apparent disconnect I notice when having to reiterate my issues to each. If my mind and my body work so closely with one another, why can physicians not do the same. Or better yet - why can't doctors view & treat the body as a whole rather than a sum of their parts?

I don't think I've ever looked so peaceful

If you are like me, you will try virtually any reasonable treatment to relieve chronic pain. I mean, I am not going to go out and pay someone I've met in the woods two hundred bucks for a concoction of deer pee and ground-up rat bones but if something, say acupuncture, has been used for centuries and people report real improvement in their symptoms, what would prevent me from trying it?

It baffles me that such things are thought of as quackery. I've received a lot of flack for this opinion in the past, but, I would much rather use a natural, minimally invasive treatment than put another chemical in my body. I am not a fool - modern, western medicine is incredible and life saving. However, it does not make sense for me to choose a lab-created treatment whose side effects include liver damage or stroke over a plant that can be grown in my backyard.

I don't even want to know how much the pharmaceutical industry spends on advertising and lobbying activities each year. As a society, we are brainwashed into believing that the answer to all of life's problems can be found in a pill. Alternative medicine (even that term is dismissive) is portrayed as kookyfuck nonsense reserved for hippies or those too poor to afford the latest designer medication. However, we forget that before the advent of fancy drugs with names most of us cannot even pronounce, many common conditions were effectively treated with "natural" remedies.

Here is a fun anecdote from my personal experience: I get migraines. At one point, they were so severe that I was prescribed a daily medication as well as an abortive painkiller that I would take when my screaming demon would rear its ugly head. At this time in my life, I was working in a bakery and I did not take the abortive medication at work because it decreased my coordination (industrial mixers and loopiness DO NOT mix). One day, I was preparing a large batch of icing that contained peppermint oil. When I poured the peppermint oil into the mixture and the smell reached my nose, I noticed immediate relief of the pain in my head. It was so remarkable and unexpected, that I researched it when I arrived home that day. As it turns out, peppermint and lavender are used to alleviate headache pain. To this day, I have a bottle of peppermint oil on hand at all times and put a few dabs on my temples and underneath my nose when I start to get a headache. Not only do I smell minty fresh, but my symptoms are greatly improved.

Of course, I listen to my doctors and take all of my medications like a good girl. But I will not discount any natural line of defense unless I have tried it myself. Just as my pain is in my body it is "all in my head" as well. Anything that will treat both in one fell swoop is a friend of mine.

Comic Relief

someone walked inside of my mind, peeked around, and walked out with this image

My very dear friend sent this to me suggesting that it be my next embroidery project. She knows me well.

Really?

really.

I recently signed up for okcupid because I was sure it would be entertaining. Tonight, someone sent me a message asking only "are you ticklish?" 

That shit really delivers. 

I can smell a spin-off blog in the future. In the meantime, I will be dancing by myself in my bedroom. 

Braingunk

My name is Anna and my favorite color is blue. 

"I will be a good boy and never tell you the bad things I think about, the dirty little things. I keep them to myself." 


We all live in public, to a certain degree. Social networking sites allow us to expose our most interesting, inappropriate, and immodest intrigues to anyone bored/voyueristic enough review them. Most people skew the data in their favor by posting pictures of themselves with impossibly attractive people, highlighting their professional triumphs, or uploading a hundred pictures of their most recent vacation to Disneyland or some such shit.

Debbie Downer sez: "We all know said photo was taken in a booze-fueled haze in which will result in regret (and probably vomiting) the next morning, professional triumphs are exciting until you slump back into the drudgery that is your day job, and the omitted Disneyland photos most certainly picture one (or several) family members throwing tittybaby temper tantrums because they were too short to ride on space mountain."

Hopefully, I am not the first person to tell you, dear reader, that the world is not filled with too-tanned women contorting their cherry-red lips into the dreaded duckface pose in an attempt to look sexy. These people exist only on Friday and Saturday nights...when Monday morning rolls around, it's back to the dead eyes and smile-less lips.

The human experience is a never-ending roller coaster of ups and downs. Of course we want to present our best face to the world, but I find that to be dishonest. We all have flaws, both physical and emotional. And yet many of us feel uncomfortable when we witness a family member, friend, or acquaintance publicly discussing something painful, even if we have been through something similar or experienced something profoundly painful.

There will always be a faction that takes secret pleasure in such things - "I'm glad that isn't my life." While those people are assholes, I can't blame them. There is nothing wrong with appreciating the good things in your life, but it's more than a little fucked up to only be able to be thankful for your good fortune while watching someone else suffer.

There is another faction who wishes for public meltdowns. My heart breaks for these people. How empty your life must be to wish sadness and pain on others! My plea to the world: Gossips - please think twice before you revel in someone else's pain.

***

About two years ago, my life fell apart and I am still sifting through the rubble. At first, I was literally terrified to tell anyone about my experiences or true feelings for fear of being judged. Even if a well-meaning person asked how I was doing, I would turn red, clam up, and mutter "of course I am fine." I have since decided that continuing down this past is the most dishonest way for me to live. Not to mention that keeping everything bottled up almost caused me to implode. 

Yes, I am depressed. I have anxiety problems and PTSD. Oh, and let's not forget about the terrible insomnia. 

These things do not control me, though. Sometimes, I have bad days and go through "rough patches" Other days, I can function at the same level as the "norms." For what it's worth, every single experience, good or bad, has helped shaped me into the woman I am today. Even considering all of my faults (which I will willingly admit to), I like the person I have become. And I am not at all ashamed to talk about my faults, fears, painful experiences if I feel like it will help someone who is in a dark place. 

Moral of the Story: Be true to yourself. Don't be ashamed of anything you think or feel, especially the "ugly" stuff. Don't be afraid to ask for help. And do not allow yourself to be controlled by negativity or pain. Even though it can be difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel, it is there and you can reach it. But do not ever be ashamed to ask for help. 

My vocabulary is, like, so huge.

What?

I'm not trying to brag but my recent trip to the ER has exponentially increased my vocabulary. Do you see those words over there? Yeah...on the left.

I know what they mean.

When I was discharged, I was instructed to have some outpatient testing done - the first was the aforementioned ultrasound. The second is a hypercoaguability workup. (My mouth won't even allow me to correctly pronounce that word. Google doesn't even know it). From what I understand, which isn't much, hypercoaguability is essentially the opposite of hemophilia*. Certain factors, like the items shown in the above picture, can cause the blood to clot more easily. In my research, I also discovered that a previous thombotic event increases one's risk of future DVTs and emboli. (What came first, the chicken or the egg?)

EGG!**

Anyway, things like this make me appreciate anyone in the medical profession even more. They have to be able to explain the ins and outs of conditions I can't even pronounce. I am reminded of one doctor in particular who is treating me and happens to be bilingual. This person not only knows what these conditions are but can explain them in English and Hindi. How can anyone's brain hold that much information? Humans are truly amazing creatures.

Oh, and I am not able to have this testing done until I complete my current course of treatment with warfarin. Hopefully, this will be sooner rather than later, considering the good news delivered by my recent ultrasound.

*Autocorrect wants me to change this word to "pedophilia." Google, y u creepy? 

**There is a cemetery near my house that has a super-interesting egg-shaped monument. Every time I pass it, I compulsively say the word "egg" fearing that, if I do not, something horrible will happen. You can officially add OCD to my list of diagnoses. 

Read my lips...

...NO NEW BLOOD CLOTS

The ultrasound tech who delivered this information seemed like she is a lot more fun than George Bush so +1 for that. But the information is the important part. There were no new clots discovered in my right leg! Yay for clot-free veins! Yay for nice ultrasound techs! And, yay for me, just because!

The unfortunate part of this story is that something prompted this ultrasound. That means it is now storytime!!!!

***

Time is organized into decades, years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. This particular story takes place in a time no so very long ago in a place not so very far away.

Ok. It took place in my office, specifically in my cube, which is decorated with a nice kitty painting urging me to "Hang in there!" (thank you Beano Gee!). There are other this-es  and that-s, but the BeanoCat is the centerpiece. No cube is complete without inspirational posters.

Sadly, my hang-in-there cat must have been napping on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 11th at approximately 3:00 PM EST.

I was *not* coming back from a smoke break. Really, what kind of pulmonary embolism survivor would I be if I started smoking after being discharged? I would be a stoop, that's what I would be. I actually frolicked in a field of sunflowers until my feet fell off and my 15 minute break was over.

And then I passed out.

I have never really fainted before. The couches designated for that purpose would make one believe that fainting is a delicate, womanly thing. It's not. I hit the floor with a THUD and have a fat lip. I am just grateful that I didn't piss myself. Now THAT would be something that I could never live down.

Insommmmmmmmnia.

Mooooooon.

For every sleepless night, there is a reason. Tonight, I realized I do not remember how to do long division in my head. I was writing feverishly on my mental chalkboard but the answer to a simple problem would not compute. (It was 0.8, by the way. I used a calculator to figure it out. There was an explanation of why I was trying to determine this, but it is long forgotten).

After the shocking discovery of my lack of math ability, I spiraled into the whirlpool of anxiety. How could I forget to do something so elementary? Has my brain atrophied? Am I having a stroke? Maybe it's encephalitis...

Hell yeah, sentence diagram!

To calm myself down, I pulled out my mental dry-erase board and diagrammed sentences. Every memorable word uttered to me or by me was subject (lolpun) to my inspection. To my great satisfaction, I still am able to compete in this arena. Verbs and adjectives were flying all around in my brain and I was able to capture them and put them neatly on little lines. More than anything, I value order. And colorful pens.

I don't have a point, I'm just rambling. If I were forced to derive a point, I would probably say that my public-school education was not a complete waste of taxpayer funds. At least I know how to do something totally irrelevant to real life.

All of this was determined between the hours of midnight and 1 am. Where did the rest of the time go? I probably thought about pizza at some point, but who knows.

So, now, it's almost 5 am. The birds are chirping (gfy, birds) and soon daylight will start creeping into my room. I decided it would be wise if I began drinking coffee. That way, when it is time to go to work, I will be able to physically function even if I am mentally paralyzed. (Note to self: need more coffee. Almost fell down the stairs trying to get..coffee).

***

....If I am being honest, the real reason I am awake is because my chest hurts like hell. 

/story

Clotcrafts, part 2

The stones I used for these earrings remind me of all things lung. I'm not sure if wearing them would bring me good luck or bad.

Regardless, I'm glad I'm creative again!

Clotcrafts

I made my very own med-alert bracelet but, ironically, it broke.

Navigating a Ship in Rough Waters: The Emotional Impact of Physical Illness

My mental state pictured in one convenient graph

For fun, let's take a look at a parenthetical slice of my life - say, the dates of 05.28.2013 to 06.01.2013, the present day. For many, any given five day period is mundane, but not unpleasant. Beds are slept in, meals are eaten, work is completed, fun is had, etc., etc. Hovering over the baseline of complacency is never a bad place to find oneself.


Prior to lunggunk, I would like to think that I established a pretty nice emotional baseline for myself. After the stress of being in a mental hospital had passed and I had once again become reacquainted with my routine, any point above or below my baseline was not a make-or-break event that would determine the overall climate of my day. If something unpleasant happened, I would brush it from my shoulder like I would a little ladybug who chose the wrong landing pad. If something good happened, I would bask in the happiness that a pleasant experience evokes and then return to the commonplace task with which I was previously engaged.  It was a relief to feel like a normal person again. And then...

....enter stage right (lung), my new best friend and bitterest enemy: BLOODCLOT.

The physical pain I have been experiencing has been documented in my previous posts. Right now, I want to get back to that parenthetical time period referenced above. Let's talk about 05.28.2013, my first day back to work after being off for approximately a week...

Consider the graph above, paying attention first to the baseline. On this particular morning, I awoke feeling indifferent. I groomed as much as necessary, ate my "breakfast" of anticoagulants and psychiatric medications, dressed, and began looking for my ID badge to complete my wardrobe. When I couldn't find it, it induced a state of panic that was disproportionate to the situation. In this game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, a little point can be marked on the graph below the zero degree baseline.

If misplacing a plastic badge can provoke my generalized anxiety enough to produce a panic attack, you, dear reader, can only imagine how a more "serious" event would make me feel like I was mired in quicksand, sinking into a whirlpool of anxiety that would require more than an ativan to free me. This five day period has been full of these moments - my moods have been cycling so rapidly and unpredictably that I am unsure how I will be feeling five minutes from now.

The pulmonary embolism diagnosis was completely out of the blue. I'm sure that my preexisting anxiety problems do not "help" the situation, but this experience has rendered me largely incapable of controlling my emotional responses to both positive and negative stimuli. I am now hyper-aware of my own mortality. Because of this, all of my emotions have become more intense.

My baseline has been re-calibrated. When it was previously complacency/indifference it is now stress/anxiety. I either feel positive stress (excitement, elation, etc.) or negative stress (impotence, incompetence, etc.).

I pine for peace. Indifference used to be odious to me - now I would welcome it with open arms. Eventually, my physical problems will pass and I'm sure I will feel "normal" again. As for now, I have to navigate these rough emotional waves the best I can.

***

When I was a child, there was a chinchilla for sale in a local pet store. A warning sign was placed on his cage imploring the shoppers to not "poke, prod or blow on" the little rodent because, presumably, his moods were unstable. Recently, I have been thinking about this chinchilla and feeling sympathy for him. I hope he found a good home.

Preeeeeeening.

Home of the $5 fade

Sometimes all it takes to feel a bit better is a new haircut. For all of my preening needs, I visit Shady Cuts. Thank you Shady Cuts!

Hopeful Hopelessness

This is actually what I looked like at my desk today.

If I live to be exactly 82 years old, I will have survived 29,951 days. Really, every day does matter but if you consider one day out of almost 30,000, it is pretty inconsequential.

Today was not a Good Day.

Instead of outlining all of the insignificant facts that made this a Bad Day, I will talk about why I have recently been having more Bad Days than Good.

Since I am being exact with my calculations, I lost my husband to suicide 628 days ago (see my earlier post). Since that time, I have navigated the aftermath of his death (planning a funeral, buying an urn, finding ways to honor his memory), changed offices at my job three times, started dating someone, broke up with said someone, was admitted to a mental hospital, and then was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism.

Through all of these things, I was able to convince myself that life was still "okay." Until the pulmonary embolism.

When Ben died, I believed that my life was over, too. However, by finding ways to honor his memory, I love him more than ever and feel more happiness than sadness when I think of him. I don't need to talk about what an amazing person he was - anyone who knew him is aware of that. Anyone who ever saw us together understands how deep my love was for him. Nothing else needs to be said.

The pulmonary embolism diagnosis literally almost killed me. I am sitting at my computer typing because of sheer luck. Perhaps if the wind was blowing a different way that day, I would not have been so lucky. After being released from the hospital, I care so much less about things that should matter to me: work, relationships, even my own well-being. I suppose facing one's own mortality will elicit such a reaction. However, these feelings are distinctly NOT ME.

It frightens me how little I care. It frightens me that a future that was once bright and full of hope is now a black hole of negative energy. It's almost as if my life stopped that day in the ER when the doctor looked at me with a stony expression and explained that I have a clot in my lung. Being in the hospital was novel but, when I was released, I felt like I was swimming in dark waters without a life preserver.

The lights could have gone out and not come back on.

I plow through and do what is expected of me. I don't enjoy it. Mostly, I feel angered and annoyed. I am not such a fool to believe that anything is beyond hope but hope is just beyond my reach.

Through whatever tears I am unable to hold back, I remind myself that everything is temporary. My mood is temporary, my health problems are temporary, life is temporary. Today was bad, tomorrow may be great. Even my present exasperation cannot prevent me from believing in the future. By nature, I am a positive person. Even if tomorrow is bad, there is the next day. Or the next.

If all else fails, I will blame my anguish on my unexpectedly bad menstrual cycles. Hormones, hormones, hormones, cry, cry, cry.

MENSES! (NSFW and probably boys, too)

What is that cliche about a raincoat and a monsoon?

I can't say I wasn't warned but I am the queen of "it won't happen to me."

Well, it happened. It happened, I was not prepared, and I cried. I cried like a child who bought an ice cream cone and promptly dropped it. And then a dog came along and ate the discarded ice cream and I cried some more.

Life is haaaaarrrrd.

My imagination is very active and I watch an inordinate amount of Investigation Discovery Channel murder shows. When these two elements are combined, any amount of spontaneous bleeding transports me into the middle of an episode of 48 Hours Mystery in which I am the main character. I am the worst person to be on Warfarin.

.......TMI AFTER THE JUMP......

I'm just going to get right to the point. I am a woman. Because I am a woman, I have to deal with the monthly curse*. Typically my period is light and manageable, so much so that I am barely aware that any blood being expelled from my naughtybits. I figured this was the universe's display of kindness after being victimized by circumstance time and time again. This was one house of cards that I never expected to fall.

My menstrual house of cards was blown over in a huge way this morning. I won't get into too many gory details because I do have respect for anyone who is kind enough to read my ramblings. I will say, however, HOLY SHIT and leave it at that.

Every single healthcare provider with whom I have spoken about Warfarin has been very clear: blood thinners will cause VERY HEAVY PERIODS. Because I was too preoccupied with the gunk in my lung, I paid minimal attention to this warning. Let me tell you - today, lunggunk is the last thing on my mind. I am more worried about my ovaries falling out and taking the rest of my reproductive system with them.

Tears and laughter ensued when I realized that there was not one single feminine sanitary product in my house. Oh, the irony!

Anyway, the moral of this story is: ladies, if you are on blood-thinners and the doctors tell you that your menstrual cycle may change, listen to them. And then go to the store and buy every single box of pads that they have on their shelves.

*Other acceptable euphemisms for menstruation:

• Aunt Flo 
• Lady business
• Laying an egg
• Girl flu
• Shark week
• Painting the town red
• The monster
• Monthly troubles
• Ragtime
• Red letter day
• Etc, etc, etc

Crossword Puzzles will Cure what Ails You

Is this why my cats have been screaming? I just thought they wanted  me to put food in their fat bellies.

I found the missing link in my recovery efforts: crossword puzzles. Yesterday, I completed eight crossword puzzles and, today, I feel better than I have in weeks. I'm sure my sudden reanimation has nothing to do with the addition of advair or painkillers to my daily pharmaceutical diet. I completely attribute it to word games and a new favorite pen. 

On my agenda today: 

• coffee
• more crossword puzzles
• falling asleep with my puzzle book on my face when I am stumped by a clue
• more coffee with a side of gatorade
• giving up on the clue that stumped me and cheating by looking for the answer in the back of the book
• !SHOWER! (a clear sign that I am feeling slightly better)
• pizza

Tomorrow, after I make my weekly visit to the vampires, I plan on doing laundry and cleaning my kitchen. Look who is almost feeling ok again!

Recovery day

All of the necessary elements for a successful sick day. Not pictured: cats, gatorade, Investigation Discovery Channel.

This post is not about lunggunk

I love you more than words can tell.

Grief is a futile emotion. You wish for someone who isn't here and who isn't coming back. You replay every spent moment in your mind and all the moments that will remain unspent. You feel guilt for every word uttered and every word left unspoken.

I miss my husband. I miss his voice. I miss his kiss, his touch, the look in his eyes when he was pleased. I miss his presence.

There is no worse feeling than loving someone who is no longer in this world.

Photos keep him alive. His music is a treat to my otherwise deaf ears. The only thing that is missing is his body when I roll over in the middle of the night, sleepily expecting him to be there. What I wouldn't give to kiss his shoulder blade...

Tonight, I will listen to the songs that remind me of him. He is not coming back but if I hold my breath and concentrate, I can feel his lips on mine. Ben was a better person than I could ever hope to be. His memory animates me and pushes me forward. To anyone who is pessimistic, I say there is a person out there who will complete you. Ben was the other half of me who was good, beautiful, and sweet. At thirty, I can confidently state that I met the love of my life. He is gone, but I will spend the remainder of my days loving him as well as I can.

Sometimes...

...all you want is a kiss from someone who is no longer here.

Complaining: Doing what I do best

How many things will I go through that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy?

I am like a puppy dog. I keep getting kicked but I salivate and wag my tail for more. Still, I am happy to be alive and am hoping to wave my stupid puppy dog tail for years to come.

This frog is a champion and he has my back. 

However, I am an American and have a right to bitch, cry, and moan as much as my strained heart desires. Because I learned today that my heart is strained - not by unrequited love, professional failure, or my cats' inability to find an appropriate place to vomit. My heart is strained because of motherfucking blood clots. 120 bpm may sound fun, but it's not healthy. Am I dancing, you may ask? No, I am not. I am recumbent on an exam table waiting for the doctor to see me.

I cried away most of my day: on the train, at work, and at the doctor's office. My body does not feel healthy and I do not feel normal. As strong as I pretend to be, I had absolutely no control over my tears today.

MY HEART HURTS. and not in a metaphorical sense. IT HURTS TO BREATHE.

The doctor saw me and took pity on me, I think, because I was hooked up to an oxygen tank and still sobbing. Pain sucks. The unknown sucks. And it certainly sucks when you think your death is imminent.

I learned that my the blood clot in my lung was bigger than I was initially led to believe. And the tissue damage was extensive. Why have I had so much pain over the past few months? Oh, because I have a giant fucking blood clot in my lung.

Death does not appeal to me. New blood clots aren't welcome in my veins.

I can utter those words a million times and they won't matter. I am scared, sick, and want a hug.

Breathing is fun

I added a new medicine to my collection today! My body is now comprised of 2% water and 98% pharmaceuticals.

Pulmonary Embolism Recovery: To ER or not to ER?

I want to rub his head for good luck. (That's what she said).

Surpassing "what is the meaning of life?" the above question has become the most profound and frequently asked by my little spark of consciousness over the last few weeks. Based on things I have heard from other pulmonary embolism survivors, this seems to be a common dilemma. So what is answer?

I haven't a clue.

When I was discharged from the ICU on 04.30.2013, I was thrown into an entirely new world in which every ache, pain, bruise, tickle, cramp, and flutter is a potentially fatal symptom that deserves immediate attention. As any anxiety-sufferer/hypochondriac will tell you, even the most seemingly insignificant unexpected bodily responses are symptoms of a disease that is murdering you from the inside out.

Even "well-adjusted" people who have suffered a pulmonary embolism rarely escape the experience psychologically unscathed. Trauma is trauma - some are better equipped to handle it than others, but it still leaves an imprint on one's mind. Anxiety is a totally normal response to an event that almost caused your demise.

So, to get back to the question - when should you go to the ER? I haven't found a good answer to this problem yet. However, the more I learn about my condition and my body, in general, I feel that I have become a better listener to my internal processes. I am becoming accustomed to the chest pain, fatigue, and shortness of breath. Over the past three weeks, I have paid close attention to the nature and duration of my pain. Deviations from the norm would be one factor that would invite me to consider the emergency room. Any new and troubling symptoms will probably prompt me to go without too much hesitation.

During my last ER visit, which turned out to be an intense flare up of my existing PE symptoms, the nurse told me that, even though they did not discover any new clots, it is never a bad idea to go to the ER when you are experiencing shortness of breath and chest pain. The fact that she said that made me feel much more at ease. I do not want to be the girl who cried wolf, but, I have decided that is better to be safe than sorry.

Also, it's not a bad idea to have a list of phone numbers you can call to ask for advice before you decide to take the ER plunge. For example, if my problems are related to medication side-effects, I will call my pharmacist. If the symptoms involve chest pain or shortness of breath, I call the nurse at my doctor's office or the NurseLine through my health insurance. These have all been effective tools to make the decision easier.

I am still figuring all of this out and will probably never develop a 100% effective formula. I am learning to trust and listen to my body and, at this point, I think this is the best thing I can do for myself.

If there are any other PE survivors out there reading this, how do you make this determination? What prompts you to go to the ER? Or what helps you calm down enough to feel like you can treat your symptoms at home?

Migraines, Birth Control, and DVT

Attention, ladypals! This article suggests a correlation between migraines (especially migraines with aura), hormonal birth control, and an increased risk of thrombotic events.

This is a friendly PSA to be aware of the symptoms of DVT & PE.


scary!

Knowledge is Power!

Mine looked a lot like this, minus the arrow.

According to a bill I received in the mail, I was in the cardiac ICU for the duration of my stay in the hospital. This was news to me. Thankfully, I was not aware of this fact while I was there because I certainly would have freaked the eff out. Of course, the only time I was in the hospital (for non-crazy problems, lol), I would end up in the ICU. Knowledge is power, but sometimes, knowledge after the fact is preferable.

Oh, BTW, the bill is 30k and counting. Thanks Obama!

Hippy post! Hope you enjoy it!

Q: Note cards make me pine for school. My most frequently used accessories include red plastic-rimmed glasses, hair clips and cardigan sweaters. What am I?

Today is Saturday. While I could have slept in, I arose at 7:15 am feeling completely rested and alive (yay! I woke up alive again!). The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. My good friend, insomnia, decided to visit someone else last night (sorry for them, but hooray for me!). Why shouldn't I feel chipper?

The last two years have been difficult for me (sorry to all of my friends who have been around during this time & had to deal with my insanity! Kisses to you all!). Especially over the last few weeks, I have found myself in a Funk with a capital F. More than anything, I despise persistent sadness and anxiety. When you are diagnosed with a serious illness, it is so easy to fall into the welcoming arms of self-pity. However it is much more fulfilling to eschew this "easy" emotion and tap into a reserve of courage you didn't even know existed within you.

Every few years, especially when I am experiencing something difficult, I like to assess my place in life. When you work a 9-5 job, it's easy to forget what is truly important to you, what you want out of life, and the behaviors you should improve in order to be a better person. Typically, this is something I do privately, but I thought this would be a good place to share...

***

So...without further ado...WHO IS ANNA?

THE GOOD: 

This should be in my tool box.

I am compassionate, confident, and quick to flash a genuine smile. Laughter is the best medicine - that's probably why my pulmonary embolism did not kill me. I laughed it all the way into a non-deadly artery. I am funny, playful and easily amused. I balance this out by being dedicated and serious when it comes to the Important Things. I love, love, love my job!* I love communicating with others in positive ways. I am Strong, with a capital S, for real. My favorite past-times are being helpful and making crafty junk. (And then giving said crafty junk away to my friends. :) I love more things than I hate and I prefer to enter any situation with an open mind, free of bias. I find great happiness in treating others with respect, dignity and kindness. 

There is one in every bunch

THE BAD:

My temper can flare almost as quickly as I can flash a smile. I am often confused about people's intentions, which can create conflict at times. I can be demanding, short, and impatient with people, especially the ones who I care about the most. This has been the number one cause of the downfall most of my failed relationships. Sometimes, I expect too much when I should just let things naturally fall into place. (Can I blame this on being a combined Scorpio and INTJ)? Sometimes, I am too wrapped up in my own head space to be a good listener to anyone else. I hold myself to very high standards and feel disappointed in myself when I am not able achieve my goal.

Oh and I can't forget the crippling anxiety. This one I will blame less on conscious decisions and more on my wacky brain chemistry.

*Work is love made visible ~Khalil Gibran

***

WHAT DOES ANNA WANT?

It was only a matter of time before this made an appearance.

The Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs has been the background on my computer for some time now. My goal is to, one day, climb to the top of this pyramid like King Kong, hold a pepperoni roll in my hand and scream, at the top of my lungs (considering they are healed by that point), "I DID IT!!" Then I will fling my imaginary commencement cap to the ground, climb down from the pyramid, eat my pepperoni roll, and resume my day. 

This concise graph sums up basically everything I feel I need to live a happy, full life. I want healthy relationships with people who share common interests (duh). I want to reconnect with people I have lost touch with over the years. I want to heal my body and my mind so I can be the best damn Anna I can be. My job allows me the opportunity to help people in need - I want to continue my career with my current organization, and move up the ladder so I can eventually be more helpful to more people in need. I want to learn to accept myself for who I am - my problems, my shortcomings, my positive qualities are all a part of me. I can either take it or leave it. 

In a nutshell, I want what most people want: happiness, love, and the ability to make others feel happy and loved. 

How can I achieve my goals and be a better person? 

• I need to be a better listener - both to others and to my own mind/body. 
• I need to let go of the past and look to a future which will probably be great. 
• However, I cannot let go of the past completely. I can rebuild my life by creating a foundation with my happy memories, positive experiences and lessons learned from past mistakes. On that foundation, I can add new positive experiences and new lessons learned to create a "house" that is safe, nurturing, and inviting. 
• Everyone is allowed an angry outburst every now and again, but I do not want this to become part of my personality. You know, the golden rule and all (which, if people were more-self aware, empathetic, and in tune with their minds, would probably be the only rule we would ever need). 
• Everyone deserves to be treated with respect. From this point forward, I will think twice, no thrice, about any potential negative words that may come from my lips. 

***

The birds are still chirping and the sun is still shining. Every day is a learning experience and I am dedicated to keeping my eyes and mind open. 

This post is brought to you by Sesame Street, the letter H (for Heparin!) and Cathy Clark, who is, hands down, the most strong & inspiring person I know. Oh, and the number 3, because I like odd numbers. 

My Eyelips are Becoming Very Heavy

Oh, hello! It's insomnia, my oldest and dearest friend. Before lunggunk was even a twinkle in my femoral artery, my brain has had a habit of getting my days and nights confused.

I would bet my favorite llama that, during my years of sleepless nights, the thought of dropping dead due to a blood clot has probably helped tick down the minutes between the unacceptable and acceptable times to be awake. However, I wouldn't consider this prophetic...at 3 AM during any given bout of insomnia, I have already run the gamut of illnesses that will kill me or are currently killing me. Years of sleepless nights have allowed my creativity to flourish. Ebola? I had that back in 1998. Necrotizing fascitis? Oh, yes...I came down with that in college after I got a papercut editing a term paper.

At the point of the night in which I become bored with diagnosing my imaginary ailments, I attempt to be proactive and turn my energy toward thoughts of SelfImprovment™. Logic suggests that, if anxiety is causing me to lose sleep, then something in my life must be broken. What past events have led to this point? What can I do in the present to re-chart my course?

Helpful suggestions quickly give way to fantasies of fantastic abandon of any sense of responsibility I possess. Once you peel back the layers of rational thought, it only makes sense for me to sell all of my possessions, move to Ireland, and become a shepherd to live out my remaining days in peaceful, woolly bliss. If, on any given night, that seems like it would be too much work, I start to troll the Social Security website and consider applying for disability benefits. I could spend the rest of my life living on ramen and Folgers, right?

Eventually, even my fantasies begin to be tedious. This is when I spend hours scrolling through pages of shitty movies on Netflix in an attempt to numb my brain with whatever rot Hollywood has recently presented to the universe. Only a fellow insomniac would be able to accurately gauge how many hours I have spent ingesting the intellectual detritus that passes for entertainment in this country.

 In all honesty, watching television shows that even Fox had the good sense to cancel is my preferred method of murdering time. How can I feel any trace of self-pity when grown ass men are shooting teeny, tiny bullets at horribly rendered dinosaurs which, somehow, magically exist?

This effective approach is two pronged: First of all, crappy TV anesthetizes my brain to the point in which I temporarily forget about all of my earthly cares. Secondly, since it wasn't me who created said garbage pile, I feel a lot better about myself. Seriously, I would question my friends' loyalty if they allowed me to produce something like Cop Rock. (OMG, legit lolz at Cop Rock).

When the sun has partially risen and the birds begin to chirp, I know that I have successfully survived another sleepless night. And, of course, as soon as the light begins to creep in my window, my eyelips* effortlessly start to close....

* People actually call them this. Seriously. Search for #eyelips on twitter. 

This is my blog and I will cry if I want to

HA HA!

Dammit, Life! Yesterday was so good! I even went to bed with a smile on my face. Why do you mistreat me so? 

It is almost comical when the stars align with such precision that every possible thing that could go wrong will go wrong and at exactly the same time. My day started with so much chest pain that I had to call the doctor to reschedule my appointment. Isn't that funny? I was going to see the doctor about my chest pain but my chest pain prevented me from going. Hee, hee, hee. 

I didn't even get to have my coffee yet before I began to roll my sisyphean bolder of anxiety up and down and up and down the imaginary mountains that exist in my brain. 

We all knows what happens when too much anxiety is combined with Pulmonary Embolism injuries - TROUBLE BREATHING! After a cute little bout of hyperventilation, I collapsed, exhausted, on the floor causing a very nice bruise on my very sore ass. (Well, it was more like my outer thigh, but I wanted to use a swear). 

All of these events were so absurd to me that I could do nothing but laugh. And then I started thinking about all of the minor annoyances that one encounters in day-to-day life, and felt pretty lucky I don't currently have an ingrown toenail. (Seriously, that shit would probably push me over the edge by this point). 

An appropriate response to a passive aggressive letter

Here is a list of mildly annoying things that did not happen to me today:

• A bird did not poop on my head
• The cats did not vomit in the bathtub again, bless their little hearts
• I did not receive one passive aggressive email today
• Nobody carved the word "ASS" into the hood of my car
• My professionalism was not insulted by men who think it is appropriate to address colleagues as "dear" or "honey" when you are saying something they don't agree with
• I did not find any severed digits in my Campbell's vegetable soup
• All urine and fecal matter made it into the toilet, where it belongs
• NO PAPERCUTS

So it wasn't all bad. Hopefully the universe is not spying on me to make all of my nonexistent mild annoyances come true!

Tomorrow's episode: Is an ER visit in our protagonist's future? Or can she finally make it through a week without having to take a trip to the hospital? Stay tuned! 

Post title

Proof positive that there is room for improvement when implementing a plan for improvement

Irony = being too sick to go to your previously scheduled doctor's appointment. 

fml

The Fool, the Lovers and Death walk into a bar...

Eurydice visits the Oracle

Dear Diary,

I had a good day today! So many people told me that I looked nice (even a cute boy!) and two different people gave me presents! I went to dinner with my good friend who insisted on paying the check. Everything was perfect and I felt so loved! Oh, Diary, I am such a lucky girl. I hope I am always this lucky!

***

Valley Girl Annie may be onto something. 

***

Usually, my first thought upon waking is, "oh, good. I am alive." Then I think, "oh, shit. What if today is the day that the blood clot is going to finish what it started." After having this internal dialog and my customary pot of coffee, I am sufficiently anxious before I even start work. However, something felt different today. Yeah, the cat puked in the bathtub. And, yeah, I still had to take a breakfast-sized amount of medication. But for the first time since my diagnosis, my gross lunggunk was not the first thing that I thought about after my alarm jolted me from blissful nothingness. (Full disclosure: I did happen to have a pretty racy sex dream. And I did wake up smiling. So what? Don't judge me.)

"They" say to take one day at a time. I suppose "they" are pretty wise. 

However, I would be betraying myself if I wasn't questioning what is around the corner. Let's face it - I have bad luck. When I have a perfectly ok day, I feel like it is only a matter of time before the shitstorm blows onto my shores. 

My suspicious nature causes me to question everything. But, tonight, I will let myself bask in a day that is not at all tragic. I'm crossing my fingers for another racy dream and a day whose lowest point is cat vomit in between my toes. 

What was once nice is now ugly.

I miss having lily white arms. Yes, that is a giant bruise, in case you were wondering.

What is an Anxiety?

So, it's ok if I am vomiting bile?

I have been the proud owner of an anxiety problem since I was old enough to think abstractly. Those cyclical thoughts - "I need money, I don't have money, I need money" - have been a good friend of mine since I've been on my own. When I was a kid, it was probably more like - "I want a Milky Way Bar, I don't have a Milky Way Bar, I need a Milky Way Bar."

Anxiety over money is easy to talk yourself out of.

1) I have none.
2) I am not a stone.
3) Even if I were, you couldn't squeeze coins, blood, water, mucus, etc. out of me.
4) If all else fails, a good "go fuck yourself" works quite well.
5) If you really need money or whatever, I will trade you my three goats for six months of deferment. My goats produce the best cheese, I am not lying.

Health anxiety is an entirely different animal (please read this sentence in a Sean Connery accent). You can beg, plead, cry, offer sexual favors, etc. but your condition is really up to the gods. My tongue is made of silver and I have been able to talk myself out of every major problem I have ever had, except this one.

The fact that I have to deal with some type of object in my lung that is completely unwelcome is five degrees above stressful. There is something inside of me over which I have no control. Anyone who knows me understands that I am a control freak and I would remove the offending substance with my own hands, if  I could. This is not possible without blooding my nicest outfit. And as of now, my nicest outfit is my only outfit because I have neglected laundry chores.

The point is that I freak out, start having trouble breathing, start having chest pain, and then everything becomes worse because of anxiety. Anyone who doesn't believe that anxiety is real needs to listen to my heart rate at 140bmp when I am resting. Perhaps then they would believe it. Anyway, this cycle continues until I can control my stress.

How do I do this?

Ativan. God bless the Ativan.

Expensive shit

Why is my life worth 20 k? If I didn't have insurance, what would have happened to me?

Deal with it

"I asked for MERLOT!!!"

Here's a riddle: 

Q: I am black and blue, itchy, irritable as hell and close to unzipping my own skin in an attempt to crawl out. What am I?

A: Either that extremely angry koala above or someone who was not properly educated on the side effects of warfarin.

***

I have to admit that said koala has pretty nice chompers. However, I am more likely the someone who was not properly educated about warfarin, since I'm not a marsupial and all. It's very possible I missed important instructions between being dosed with morphine and then going to a PCP who probably doesn't know what "a warfarin" is. 

God bless the internet. I would hate having to pay $25 just to have someone tell me that, yes, warfarin is causing my bruising, itching, and rage toward anything or anyone who attempts to breach the barrier I have erected around my "personal space." What can I do about it? Stop taking it and die? Or fucking deal with it?

Can you guess my choice???

A Day in the Life

Tea, anyone?

Have you ever wondered what a week in the life of a pulmonary embolism survivor is like? Oh, you have? Great! I will tell you!

***

Thursday, May 2nd: Went to my first appointment with my brand-new primary care provider and did not like her at all. This is mostly due to her hands off approach and the fact that she does not want to see me again until AUGUST. If I am having difficulty breathing and chest pain on a daily basis, it would be nice to at least pretend that I have access to a doctor who will take my concerns seriously. Hmmph. During this appointment, though, my warfairn was increased to 10mg/day and I was told to continue the twice daily Lovenox injections.

Friday, May 3rd: Said shortness of breath, chest pain and dizziness prompted me to take a return trip to the ER in an ambulance. What was the main problem, you ask? Dehydration. Whoops! Who would have thought that I actually need to drink water? The good news: a chest x-ray showed (read my lips) NO NEW CLOTS!

Saturday, May 4th & Sunday, May 5th: I don't really remember either of these two days. I'm guessing they consisted of more chest pain, naps, crappy TV, pajamas, and probably pizza. Actually, knowing me, definitely pizza.

Monday, May 6th: This was my first day back to work after being in the hospital! But first, I had to go to the lab to have my blood drawn. By this point, needles have become old hat to me. After being poked and prodded, I was off to my office like a good little worker bee. Going back to work was a positive step for me  - it provided some normalcy after one of the craziest weeks of my life. Plus, I love my job so I was glad to be back.

Tuesday, May 7th: The nurse from my PCP's office called with the results of my INR. It was in a therapeutic range so I was told to discontinue the Lovenox injections (yay!) and decrease my warfarin to 7mg/day. I also spoke with the nurse regarding my concerns about pain management and she indicated that the doctor didn't really specify in my chart what I am to do. Grrrr. Daily chest pain is scary, especially for a hypochondriac such as myself. Don't they get that?!?

In an interesting turn of events, when I examined my bottle of warfairn I had filled at my local Rite Aid, I noticed that the dosing instructions were incorrect. As such, I had been taking 1/2 of the dose that was prescribed to me by my doctor. I contacted the pharmacy, they admitted their mistake and apologized for any "inconvenience." It certainly would have been an inconvenience if I developed more clots and dropped dead! I still need to write a few angry letters to anyone who is masochistic enough to listen to me.

Wednesday, May 8th: More chest pain, more anxiety. At this point, I am at a loss of what to do because my PCP does not seem concerned but I feel like I am having a heart attack. I decided to do what I do best: nothing.

Thursday, May 9th: After I finish my workday, where did I find myself? Back at the ER, of course! I was having so much trouble breathing that I thought I was going to die. Plus, Creeps really wanted to visit the hospital cafeteria again. The food really grew on him.

I really can't say enough good stuff about the ED staff at Allegheny General Hospital. They are thorough, understanding, and compassionate. No matter what your medical history is, chest pain and shortness of breath are terrifying things. Just knowing that I was in such capable hands calmed my nerves considerably.

The "normal" test were performed: EKG, blood work, chest x-ray. Fortunately, the results were all good and my INR was still in an appropriate range. The doctor explained that, because of the significant damage to my lung, my recovery will take at least a few weeks. During that time, I can expect a degree of pain and difficulty breathing. Anxiety, he said, will only make it worse because panic attacks can mimic the symptoms of a PE. It's like a vicious cycle - my chest will start hurting, I will freak out, then I will have trouble breathing, and freak out some more. The more I freak out, the worse the symptoms will be.

He suggested that I keep my anxiety under control by taking Ativan when I start to have symptoms. He also prescribed pain medication. These two meds have worked wonders at keeping anxiety and pain at bay. Sometimes, all you really need is an understanding physician who expresses genuine concern for your symptoms.

Friday, May 10th - Sunday, May 12th: I've been following the recommendations of the ER doctor and have been able to effectively manage the pain and anxiety associated with it. I'm still not feeling great, but now I feel like I have the tools to deal with my symptoms. Also, I bought ice cream and cookies at the store. Ice cream will cure anything that ails you.

***

After a cycle of naps, meds, ice cream, more naps, another dose of meds, and a cookie supper, I will be ready to tackle anything that is thrown at me next week! 

Speaking of Lovenox...

Below is photographic proof of how much a two week supply of this medication would cost if I did not have prescription drug coverage.
Tell me why again that universal health care or, at the very least, expansion of Medicaid is a bad thing? America is one of the wealthiest countries in the world. It seems criminal that anyone would have to worry about obtaining access to a medication that can save their life.
/rant (for now)

The Wild and Wonderful World of Anticoagulants

I am thirty years old and my bedside table looks like a pharmacy at a retirement community. Every morning, I take about 10 pills for various ailments. Because I typically chase these little goodies with strong, black coffee, I lovingly refer to the combination as my breakfast. According to the box, Cheerios can promote heart health but I would rather rely on my blood-thinners for that task. In case anyone is curious, I am going to tell you about the various substances I have been putting in my body to prevent an untimely death.

Heparin

Heparin was my very first anticoagulant. (Awwwwww, how precious). This was given to me in the hospital via an IV almost immediately after the doctors discovered my pulmonary embolism. I was on a constant drip for 24 hours until my INR was at a therapeutic level. 

INR = International Normalized Ratio. After a person is diagnosed with a clotting disorder and is put on anticoagulants, the INR is checked frequently until it is stable. It is indicative of the blood's tendency to clot and is used to measure warfarin dosage. In my case, I am still getting weekly blood tests as my dosage of anticoagulants is being fine-tuned.

Lovenox

After Heparin was discontinued, I was placed on Lovenox injections twice daily. These continued until I was on warfarin, an oral medication, long enough for it to be effective. Lovenox injections are administered subcutaneously, typically in the belly or any other area where there is some extra chub. My first injection was given to me by a nurse in the hospital, but they instructed me on how to do it myself so I could continue them at home. I'm not really afraid of needles, plus the poker on this is a very fine gauge, so there was minimal pain with insertion. However, after a week of shots, there are enough bruises on my belly to resemble a large galaxy. It would be pretty if it wasn't so painful. 

Warfarin

Warfarin is probably the most commonly used drug in the treatment of deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary emboli. Like Heparin and Lovenox, it is an anticoagulant but it is taken orally (yay!). I started warfarin after Heparin was discontinued and used it in conjunction with Lovenox until my INR was stable enough to be considered therapeutic. At first I was on 4mg, then 10mg, and now 7mg. This may change when I have my next round of blood tests. My physician anticipates that I will be on this medication for 4-6 months, unless it is discovered that I am genetically predisposed to a clotting disorder. In that case, I will likely remain on it the rest of my life. 

One strange thing about warfarin is that it interacts with leafy, green vegetables that are high in vitamin K. Since I hate vegetables, this is good news for me because I now have a valid excuse to skip the salad. 

There are some pretty serious side effects associated with this medication, the most serious being an increased risk of bleeding. Upon my discharge from the hospital, I was instructed to go back if I fell or was injured in any other way because of the chance of internal bleeding. This worries me because I am clumsy and accident-prone. Plus I have cats who like to scratch the shit out of me in the middle of the night. The last thing I need is to wake up covered in cats and blood. It's stressful enough to have to wake up to the cats as it is. 

A less serious side effect that I have noticed is fatigue. I'm sure that the excessive tiredness I have been feeling is at least partially related to having a lung injury but it is probably largely due to medication. Again, this is one thing that I don't exactly mind because I have an excuse to sleep all day. Who doesn't want to sleep all day? 

***

For at least the next few months, anticoagulants are going to be my new best friend. It's always a good thing to keep the kind of company that will save your life.