To medicate or not to medicate?

27 10 2009

I had weaned off most of my meds, which I THOUGHT was a good thing. So of course, it wasn’t. Turns out that all the nausea, vomiting and fatigue reared their ugly little heads again because I stopped the reglan and the cimetedine. {Side note: I’m refusing to capitalize drug names. While I realize they are proper nouns, I feel like it gives them too much heftiness. They’re not family names or deities. They’re drugs.} I’ve had to start them back up, and I don’t like it. I hatehatehate all this wretched shit coursing through my veins. It makes me feel drugged. And not in a whoa-man-I’m-seeing-some-awesome-lollipops-in-the-shape-of-penises-on-the-wall way. It’s more like a why-the-fuck-can’t-I-remember-what-day-it-is-and-where-are-my-socks-again? thing. I’m just dumb and numb. Dumb and numb dumb and numb dumb and numb. See? I’m being both right now.

The other thing I’ve hated about being drugged is the dreams. I’m terrified to fall asleep, which is why I have this stupid blog. This way I don’t have to. (Fall asleep.) My dreams are vivid and deep and real and often very terrifying. Not so much with gory bloody monster chases or anything, but with creepy and involved plots and themes. For instance, one night, I dreamt that for whatever reason, I was becoming involved with one of my exes again. I guess I’d split up with Eric, and it made sense to rekindle an old flame. But in the dream (and NOT in real life, which is why he will remain namless,) he was very controlling and scary and I felt trapped in the relationship. Mostly because he kept me locked up in his truck. When it came time to have dinner with his parents for the first time after getting back together, we went to his mom’s house after he got off work. She hadn’t gotten home from work yet, but had the crock pot going and left a note with instructions for us to get things ready (set the table, warm the rolls, etc.) According to Ex, he knew what was for dinner, and the mamma was apparently being really cool about the fact that I am now vegetarian and gluten-free, which I was nervous about, because this family is all about eating their animals. In fact, they take great pride in killing the animals they eat (and that’s in real life too. The boys are all hunters.) So on the list of instructions, she requested that we put the pot-pie in the oven and heat it up. I found the pie on the counter. The main ingredient: Black widow spiders. I acted cool, like I knew it was a delicacy. But I was crying like a baby on the inside. The dream got more and more gothic and twisted, and I woke up in a cold sweat.

I wake up in cold sweats really often. Even if the dreams aren’t particularly scary in content, they’re scary in that I feel as though I’m drowning in them. Like, it’s another world that I may not make it out of this time. It’s always a crap shoot. Will I wake up and return to real life or not? My dad’s theory is that the dreams are not in fact due to the drugs, but rather that they are just the first signs of the AIP symptoms of hallucinations, confusion and dementia. Somehow, he means this to be comforting. Somehow.

I don’t buy that, though. I know it’s probably the drugs doing it, which leaves me with a conundrum and a half. The meds make my days sorta tolerable. As long as I keep on top of the reglan, I only spend the first half of the day sick as a dog, spitting into plastic bags. And then I have my late afternoon and evening to spend wallowing in self-pity because I up-chucked my way through the first part of the day and I don’t have time to do anything productive, and then I usually take a nap or something and then, with my mom’s help, cook dinner, watch TV, wrestle Adelaide into bed, wait for my husband to get home from work, watch more TV, and type type type away. But without the reglan, I get Saturday:

Saturday I woke up in massive amounts of pain. I thought I’d be OK without morphine for 24 hours (ha!) so I didn’t take any before bed. So after kicking myself for that really awesome decision, I drugged up and hunkered down. I fell back to sleep eventually, woke up long enough to spit up some nothing, then drifted off again. Until 3:00 in the pm. When finally my mom coerced me to sit upright and try to get a little something into me, which did help, long enough to get me out of the bed and into the living room, and start medicating big time. All so that ten minutes later, I could throw up all those hard-earned pills.

Not my best day. And I’ve learned my lesson, thankyouverymuch. I’ll be taking the stupid drugs regularly until I find a shaman who heals me and I can write a book and go on tour and tell you that you’re all schmucks, duped by western medicine into keeping pharmaceutical CEOs rich. Which will absolutely happen, by the way. Don’t think it won’t.

And one more thing: I’m sure I’ll get emails with various interpretations of the black widow dream. I’m interested, but know this: While I believe ahundredpercent that dreams give us good information, I’m not so sure about these dreams. If there’s something I’m supposed to learn from them, I think it’s this: If I want to wake up ever again, don’t fall asleep. Wha-ha-ha-ha-haaaa! [Supposed to sound like a creepy echo laugh.]

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One response

27 10 2009
Nancy Fritts

I’m hoping there will be a shamun at Duke! I realize that trying to be positive thinking and hopeful while fighting this damn disease has to be impossible! So I’m praying really hard on your behalf that something GOOD will come of this trip! As always your writing is riveting and I do hope you get to write that book someday

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