Current theory: viral hepatitis. Also, the L word.

11/2/2015. 9:11:26 PM.

A title that I mistyped several times as “viral hepatits.” Which is funnier, if nonsensical.

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Thank you based Science—anything but a convenience.

Temperature: 55°F. Weather: Mostly Clear.

As usual we begin with a rant

Again, thank you very much, Father, for going back off the deep end and showing me just how callous you can be about things. It’s really telling that you were literally the last person to ask how I was after my procedures.

He didn’t show up to provide a ride, as he’d promised he would; luckily, I had already planned for this eventuality. My aunt also had a total flake moment; she’d sided with his “science is just a convenience and we don’t really need it” remark, and took personal offense that I hadn’t taken her offer of being over her place after the procedures and being there ore. First off, if she’d been where I had gotten my “sit around” ride, she couldn’t have babysat as she’d been doing all day; second, I don’t know the layout of her house; third, most importantly, she doesn’t have a car. The place would not have performed the procedure if I had not had an actual ride.

Both of those would have put me out $200.

Having backup in place weeks in advance wasn’t distrust on my part. It was fucking smart.

Meanwhile in Nowhereland

The procedures went, from what I hear, smoothly. The doctor had me knocked completely the hell out for both of them. I remember a needle of stuff in my IV that made my legs very heavy, followed by being wheeled into the room where the procedures and told to turn on my left side, but hey, what the fuck is movement, and, you know this bed is really feeling like a marshmallow like now?

The next thing I’m aware of I’m back out in the first room, the first doctor asking me how I was feeling.

I had…a lot of nonsensical gibberish there. I had no idea what was going on.

“Need a Coke?”

THAT, I understood. Three minutes into the Coke I understood things again. It was time for the information…

And the Verdict Is—

That I don’t have anything lethal! …that we know of. The doctor calls me with pathology results in two weeks.

That’s the good news!

The bad news is that SOMEFUCKINGHOW, on top of lifelong IBS I’ve acquired a case of GERD that has progressed so far that it has not only inhibited nutritrient absorption and retention in my body (hence the ridiculous weight loss), but also progressed far enough that it’s started wrecking the lower half of my digestive system, which is why the painful brick acid sensation in my guts—and the back spasms I’ve been having have been quieted by the Bentyl because they had nothing to do with my back: yes, it is in fact more of my gut attacking me.

My entire digestive tract has been reduced to one raw, throbbing mass of meat. We can’t call it an ulcer because that would imply a single isolated location of bad. It has no protection and can’t heal on its own. For the next five months I’m going to be on ridiculously strong medications that are going to reduce my stomach to a very, very non-adventurous blob. It’ll take five days for THOSE to kick in.

So far, so good…at least for the next two weeks.

Washed out on the way to the work shift.


They always happen after I’ve been left or ditched—the nightmares, that is—and getting back to sleep is a trial because I tend to fall back into them.

This time it was a combination of the ditch and the almost aggressive way I’m misgendered at work. No matter what I do it’s in one ear and out the other.

These things always leave me dizzy and exhausted. I’m not sure my “breakfast”—a double espresso used to shoot my meds—will do much against it.

And now I get to pull a mad long shift…

An attempt at work after the hospital.


They’ve decided to take a gamble on my condition at work today. I’m far better than I was the last time I gave it a shot but… They’ve also put me on full duty after I’ve basically been forced into bedrest for the last five days.

That, I’m not so sure I can handle.

I’m noticing how green and spring-like things got while I was out. I feel like I missed the important part of the season change.

Time to see how much sick and squishy this place will put up with.

Frankly, I’d rather be writing.

Almost a week removed from the collapse at work.


Tesla the kitten. We're all sure she's an evil genius.

I just woke up and am not photogenic so here’s my friends’ kitten, Tesla.

I think I am now in the “medications do weird things to me” phase of treatment.

I dreamt Pharrell was in my kitchen with a bunch of judges and we were trying to learn two things: how to make a good turkey flat wrap with country music on the side, and an indie 8-bit concept-punk game. (Yes it was sponsored by tumblr, why do you ask)

At one point he panicked and I had to talk him down from using HAM, which was banned… So naturally, red versus blue bass pumped low riders follow and we do that instead of the contest.

What hell, medications.

Gotta Hand It To Me???

I’ve developed a very annoying problem since stopping a couple meds in the last few months.

It began life as a plain ol’ twitch—the thumb on my left hand would just sort of tick-tock back and forth once in a while, and I’d just have to ignore it for a while until it stopped. For a while, that went away, and I figured I’d be done with the problem.

Except now I have a weirder, more painful problem.

Instead of a periodic tick-tock twitch in the thumb, now sometimes, the entire thumb—and sometimes, the whole damn hand—sometimes just…fists up.


I’ll be going about the usual business, when suddenly, there’ll be a series of painful stabbing sensations in the hand, and the thumb will just…snap into my palm, like I’m attempting to make a fist but a couple steps in the middle get missed. On bad days, the thing goes to the entire hand, and I could be in the middle of writing an entry—like this one—and the hand just slaps shut like a…hm. Uh.

Ya know, that simile was going somewhere at one point. The point is, the hand just suddenly goes WHAM shut, completely independent of me trying to do anything with it. In fact, in the course of writing this, the thumb has done that seven times, and the entire hand twice.

It’s gotten common enough that I routinely forget to bring it up to my doctor. You’d think “AUTO-FIST FUNCTION ON HAND ENABLED WITHOUT PERMISSION” would hit priority, but it slips my mind…until I’m doing something that requires the fine control on that hand and suddenly I’ve just squashed the thing because my hand’s turned into a fleshy mousetrap.

MOUSETRAP! THAT was the simile that I was trying to remember earlier. Ah-DOY.

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