Success! I managed to make myself sick!

What skill! Few people can will themselves another step closer to the grave. I’m so good at it, I amaze me.

Spent the better part of the day before yesterday laying around the Mayo’s ER. I’d been resisting seeing a doctor for quite some time, having convinced myself that the chest pains that recently have visited were heartburn. These have been coming on about 11:00 p.m. or midnight, when I usually go to bed. But Tuesday after I’d made myself a magnificent midday meal—grilled coho salmon; corn on the cob; salad of shredded broccoli, avocado, and tomato; wine in a bottomless glass; two dishes of staggeringly delicious ice cream—the stabbing pain under the sternum would not go away. And boy, did that hurt!

So, since the 911 people will not take one to the Mayo from this part of town but instead will insist on delivering one to St. Joseph’s, where a) I almost died a few years ago, of neglect and b) the Church’s idea of medical care for women does not accord with mine, it was into the car for a quick schlep to the ER of one of the few hospitals around here that consistently ranks high in clinical care and patient safety.

Seven hours later…

They decided I wasn’t having a heart attack, thank God. Other than slightly (and not surprisingly) elevated blood pressure, apparently I have no cardiac issues.

No. The doc thought it was GERDS that probably has developed into an ulcer. Once they’ve decided there’s no emergency, they let me cool my heels interminably. Fortunately I’d brought an ARC from Poisoned Pen Press to edit. Managed to finish the entire book before I got out of there, bearing a prescription for omeprazole—the very same overpackaged horsepills I was complaining about the other day—and another for something called sucralfate. Omeprazole is Prilosec. I say to the guy, “I’ve already got this stuff at home, and in fact I’ve been taking it for the past two days” (what part of my chart did you not read?). He says no, don’t take that; this prescription is stronger.

Wise by now to the fact that neither Medicare nor my Medigap policy will cover a penny of a prescription filled in the Mayo pharmacy, I schlep to the Walgreen’s on the way to my house. Thought it was a 24-hour pharmacy, but no. Get there 15 minutes before they close.

Also wise to the fact that Medigap carriers will try to avoid paying for any prescription drug, no matter what, I ask the pharmacist if the things can be had over the counter.

She says the sucralfate is prescription-only (mercifully, it only costs $11—the alleged insurance covered $8 of the retail price), but, she says, “I don’t understand why he wrote a scrip for this omeprazole. It’s identical to the over-the-counter version.”

I say, “He said it’s stronger.”

“No, it’s  not,” she says. “It’s exactly the same: 20 grams”

“Hmm. So if I get home and discover the omeprazole I’ve already got is 10 grams, it’s OK for me to take two of them?”

“Sure.”

I finally reach home a little after 9:00 p.m. M’hijito has come over after work and fed the dog, and while he was here he discovered that I’d left a pan of chicken in the propane grill, which I was cooking up for Cassie. It was cremated, of course, and the grill was still merrily trying to reduce it to ashes.

Hilariously, he decided the result, toast-brown chicken chitlin’s, was edible enough for a dog, and so he retrieved the pieces, piled them on a plate, and stashed them in the fridge. He doesn’t realize, of course, that this is not a dog but a goddess visiting earth in furry disguise: hence the sobriquet “The Queen of the Universe.”

To rescue the pan, he filled it with soapy water and left it on the stove.

Well, the stink defied belief: cremated chicken is not something you want to invite into the house. 😀

The pan was brim-full of grease & water, which I couldn’t pour down the sink. Nor did I think I could carry it out to the alley to dump it without splashing it all over myself, the floor, and the flagstone patio.

Fortunately, I’d recently put the last of a bottle of distilled steam-iron water on a plant that’s sensitive to Phoenix’s gawdawful tap water, so dragged the empty gallon bottle out. It held most of the soapy greasy water so I could carry that and the rest of what remained in the pan to the garbage. What a mess!

Also fortunately, because I’d left the grill on “low,” the chicken and grease did not ignite and burn down the house…

I totally forgot. Forgot until I reached Walgreen’s and saw the text message from M’hijito on the new phone, and had he not come over and rescued the stuff, I probably would have gone straight to bed the minute I walked in the house and not remembered until the next morning. Or until the house burned down around my ears.

Speaking of forgetting, I forgot this morning’s SBA meeting. Told the painters I’d be here. Although…they did say they’d show up around 6:30, which would have given me time to get out the door to make the shindig. This pair works on mañana time. It’s 7:08 now. So presumably I’m not going to make it to Scottsdale by 7:15. Or at all.

So, anyway, back to the issue at hand: what ails me.

Booze, primarily. I have got to stop drinking.

And fat. About 15 pounds of overweight.

And indolence. Especially in this heat, the only exercise I get is wrestling with the pool equipment and the vacuum cleaner.

I don’t think I drink excessively, but I do have wine, beer, or whiskey every day. That’s because I happen to like a drink with dinner. And because I hurt myself: gave myself a fine fit of tendonitis that stretches from the hip all the way down into the heel, and it does hurt. What with the lovely new allergies to aspirin, acetaminophen, and ibuprofen, I can’t take anything for it…except booze. A glass of wine or a shot of whiskey works every bit as well as an aspirin, and it sure as hell tastes better.

Lately I’ve taken to fixing my large meal in the middle of the day, around 2 or 3 p.m. That’s when I get hungry, and besides, it’s less hassle and I have more energy then than late at night for cleaning up the mess. So this means I have a glass of wine around mid-afternoon. And then, usually, another glass of wine, because of course one glass doesn’t last until the food is cleared off the plate. Sometimes I might even have another half-glass, just to come out even.

This is probably not good.

Now that I’m stuffed, I don’t get hungry again until 9 or 10 at night. At that point, I’m likely to have a snack. And what am I going to wash it down with?

Yup. Whiskey & water.

Often I can’t finish a whole glass of branch water, especially at night when I’m running out of steam. However, the fact remains that I’m drinking some of it.

So, I’m officially off the sauce. Damn it.

As for exercise: That one escapes me. I can get a little exercise in the pool, but it’s not really big enough for laps and besides, my brain goes absolutely numb swimming back and forth and forth and back and back and forth and…. Plus I can’t stay out in the sun any length of time, because of all the interesting skin lesions a person who has spent her entire life in the subtropics develops. It is just. too. freaking. HOT to walk or run. Even after dark. The other day it was still 100 degrees at 10 p.m.

I hate, loathe, and detest gyms and even if I didn’t, I can’t afford memberships.

When fall semester starts, I’ll have a 7:30 a.m. class that will let out about 8:45. My plan is to toss a pair of hiking boots in the car and drive straight to one of the trailheads in the North Mountain park. Plenty of hills to walk up and down there, which is about the best way to get exercised in these parts. And when the weather cools enough that Cassie’s feet won’t burn on the pavement, she and I will be able to get back to our customary 45-minute daily constitutional.

And the fat? One of the approaches to GERDS is to eat a lot less food. Eat less, but eat more often. That would help. And since wine and whiskey load a fair number of empty calories onto your eating habit, I expect knocking off the booze will make some difference.

I’m not going back on Atkins. It may or may not be good for your health, but for a person who lives for pasta it’s not very sustainable.

And speaking of eating, the boys are still not here. I guess it’s time to conjure them up by trying to sit down to breakfast.

😉