mcgees.org

I remember when it used to not be a big deal to fall.  Ah, nostalgia!

Combine equal parts: can of shaving cream lying on side in doorway; two stairsteps down to ground; bare feet.  Step until oh, fuuuuuuuuuck.

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In possibly related news, about halfway through the walk until about two hours after my return home was the first time I wasn’t thinking about a shot of Dilaudid in I-don’t-know-how-long.  A certain course of action suggests itself.

A former colleague of mine had once written an expert program to help physicians diagnose different sleep disorders.  He thought the coolest (his word) occurred most frequently in otherwise healthy young men from Southeast Asia.  I don’t remember the name, but by his description, it is a degenerative neurological condition in which the sleep center of the brain is slowly destroyed.  One gets progressively more severe insomnia until the sleep center is gone, then is incapable of sleeping and dies (from lack of sleep) within a week.

The only sleep disorder I’ve found in Google that is correlated with being a young Southeast Asian man is SUNDS, but the details don’t match up.

SUNDS, though: “Sudden unexpected nocturnal death syndrome”.  That has been associated with an extension of the heart’s QT interval.  And I’m on medication that can cause lengthening of the QT interval, such that I have to have regular EKGs.

So yeah, panicked insomnia is fun.  I think, “Oh my God.  I am never going to be able to sleep, and I’m going to die.”  Completely rational, right?

Thought so.

I just knew that there had to be another reason for resenting being Southeast Asian — something other than Henry Kissinger alone.

Think the United States will start supporting the ICC when that fuck dies?

Thought not.

Wikipedia’s list of war crimes.  I think they forgot to list one of the possible crimes against peace: WAR.  Damn.  Am I missing something?  Isn’t war by definition a crime against peace?

Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah, aggression, treaties, blah blah.  Can a country (the U.S., to pick one at random) really sidestep this by claiming that another nation (pick one) is trying to weaponize a particular metal?  A metal of which the first nation has already weaponized and deployed approximately 1.86 trillion times as much?  And actually fucking used those weapons on Real Live People?

I did finally get to sleep yesterday, and slept my normal 3.5 hours.  You know how you can cut your foot on a piece of broken glass, and only then realize just how many steps you take in a day? Insomnia is like that.  We tend to take sleep absolutely for granted, like breathing.  And then we forget how to.  Fun stuff.

So, that was a fun night of soul-crushing insomnia.  As opposed to sole-crushing, which are already flat, whether you’re an icthyologist or a podiatrist.

I had begged for four more hours of sleep to augment the 3.5 hours I had been getting.  Like the old joke about the fortunate Russian balloonist, something got mangled in the transmission, and I actually got 4 fewer hours of sleep.

Yes, I had a night of -0.5 hours of sleep.  Or, as my Pentium claims, -0.499838 hours, which is apparently close enough for non-scientists.

As you can see, negative sleep leaves me in a state in which my only means of conversation is bad jokes (”Did you hear the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the dude wearing lederhosen?  You see, the dude wearing lederhosen thought the golfer thought himself to be Arnold Palmer.  He absolutely had no grapes, though, which is funny because horses named Thorndike can’t talk.”)

Successively blunter mechanisms — we are now at “cinder blocks” — have been wished for to pound my brain into submission.

Sigh.  Which is actually more characters in HTML (<b><i>Sigh</i></b>) than ””Sigh””, but is paradoxically much easier to remember.  I don’t want to hack Wordpress right now to give me four actual straight single quotes around that, so please use your imagination.

A certain patient Mississippi Penguin will wonder whether I succeeded in finding legal papers in the allotted interval.  The answer is, “No, that would be absurdly responsible.”

””Sigh””.  That’s “double-secret-bold-italic”.

Have I gotten a joke in for all my subscribers?  Answer: No, not close.

Quick, what’s the difference between a duck!?  Answer: Mohammad Chung.

III.I.72, which is entirely different from the cryptic percentage at the bottom of my sidebar that has been so far incomprehensible to readers, although if no one else, Karina should get it.  Entirely different.

Behold sentence fragments. Another.  Good device.  Will be used more later.

As Alan Ruck would say after being handed the phone: “Oh, darn….”

♪I had negative sleep, negative sleep, negative sleep, and I’m profoundly not stoned.♪

Shame on your browser if you see something different (and uglier) than the musical notes above.

Check the Passing the Torch post for what is actually more intelligent writing than this.  Give me four more hours: I’m going for Outlaw’s record, which I will rehabilitate with a eulogy for a dead hamster.  A mixed-race hamster.

Maybe it’s time for the serious stuff: a memorized Eddie Izzard DVD.

(My guess: the Russian balloonist is bothering you most.  Should we have a contest to determine who is most conversant in bad jokes?  The answer is not found in Mission: Impossible, but it’s worth entering anyway, as I’ll snail mail something bizarre from my apartment to the winner.  Honorable mention [and imaginary prize] to the person who successfully counts the number of obscure references in this post.)

Three days ago I cut myself on a clean, dry, stainless-steel knife.  The wound was on the deeper side of superficial.  I have been applying Neosporin several times per day, and there is no obvious sign of infection.

I have been experiencing moderate to severe joint pain in my left jaw joint for 24 hours.  I also have sensitivity along the vein adjacent to the cut, reminiscent of post-surgical vasculitis I once had.

I believe my last tetanus booster was no more than six years ago, when I was already an adult.  I expect that I have a minor cut and that I’ve been clenching my jaw due to qvibepr-related stress and that the other pain is unrelated.  But a part of me is worried.

I currently have no health insurance.

Thoughts?

So, I’ve kicked pain meds for the second time in my life.  This time was much, much harder than last time.

I did it by myself, with pretty much everyone I know on vacation or otherwise out of town.  I was dosing with Klonopin to keep from seizing, and I made it through.  This time, I went from 60 - 100 mg Oxycodone a day to zero.  I thought going down to 5 mg would be the hard part.  Turns out the hard part is 5 mg to zero.

Scary stuff.  And no fun at all.  Weird.  You would think that writhing in agony on your couch in cold sweats in an air conditioned studio apartment would be enjoyable.  But no, it’s not.

I have a feeling that in, oh, say, fifty years, we will look back at opiates (especially long-term) for pain control as we do leeches and bloodletting.  But it’s not fifty years hence, and we don’t, and doctors still prescribe them.

I had tickets to three successive nights of Eddie Izzard at the Kodak Theatre.  On the first day I had tickets, I stopped the pain meds.  I couldn’t drag myself to the bus to go see him on the subsequent nights, and he’s my fave.

So I’m in an interesting position, should I be in another major accident.  If I am taken by ambulance to the hospital, what then?  Do I tell them, “Hold the Dilaudid, I’m a former addict”?  What will they give me?  Naprosyn?

Anyway.  Yeah, I hurt less now that I’m off the pain meds.  I guess that my body would signal pain as a trigger to take more pills.  I’m not peachy-keen yet.  I’m not ready to go back to work yet.  But I’m better.  Thinking more clearly, more energy, alert enough to notice that my apartment is really horribly messy.

Sleep is still hard.  Regular readers know all the troubles I’ve had with sleep anyway, but sleep once one is off of Oxycodone is well-nigh impossible.  So I’m keeping weird hours, napping when I can, trying my best — trying my best — trying my best.  I have some friends in Australia.  That helps.

So, kids?  Don’t fuck around with Oxycodone, OK?  I’m not some stoner loser here.  I’m a college grad, computer wizard, 148 IQ, 99+ percentile mega man.  I’ve never even smoked a joint.  And these prescribed meds got me.  OK?  Think you’re too smart to get addicted?  Think again.  A brain is a brain, and a reward center is a reward center, and addiction has nothing to do with intelligence.

Seriously.  Avoid.

That is all.

Be well.

I’m going to the hospital tonight, after doctor’s orders.  I have a wound on my injury site, and they are worried about a bacterial infection tracking down to my dura.  I’ll check my email on my T-Mobile MDA (HTC Wizard).  If you want and don’t have it, email for my phone number or mobile email address.

I don’t believe in prayer, cosmic vibrations, or wishable luck, but if there is some action that would help you feel like you’re doing something, please go ahead and do it.  You have my blessing, and my thanks.  No sacrificing of animals, please.

My shoe is off, my foot is cold
I have a bird I like to hold
My phone is off, in bed I've rolled
And now my story is all told

I got the pharmacy troubles straightened out, and I’m feeling much better, so I deleted the last post.  I should be relatively human again.  I get to see Niall on the weekend.  I’m still in constant, terrible pain, and found out I will probably need spinal surgery, but I’m better.

Thanks, everyone.  I should be back to posting now.

There’s an eBay lot that I really, really want.  The auction closes in less than one hour (4:40 a.m. PDT is probably some sensible time in Johannesburg, where the seller resides), and the bidding is at 14% of my high bid.  I would love to get this lot for 14% of my high bid.

I can’t sleep, as you can probably tell, so I’ve been fiddling (they call it a “one tweak loop” in computerese) with the sidebar.  Let me know what you think — if you can tell the difference.

Firefox did not complain about the word “computerese”.  Wow.

Sunday, I lay down in the early afternoon, about 2 p.m.  I wake up, and look for about five minutes for my tiny, hard-to-find glasses.  I look at my phone, which said it had updated itself for DST.  It said 4:30.  I went to my computer.  It said 5:30.  Neither made sense, as it was dark outside.

I went to time.gov (bookmark that one) and found out it was 5:30 — the following morning.  So I slept for about 15.5 hours.

Kind of scary — weird things happen when you are sick — but a good way to accumulate shows on your DVR.  I started watching a Law & Order: CI episode I had previously given up on.  It’s a Logan episode, starring David Cross and, they said, Kristy Swanson.

I like David Cross.  I like his writing, I like his stand-up, I like his insight.  But I think it’s fair to say that he has no dramatic chops.  If we find out he’s the killer and has been lying about everything during the episode, it may be better, because the fact that I don’t believe a single one of his motivations could be viewed as a choice.  The episode is dreadful.  And Kristy Swanson?  Kept looking for her.  Beautiful, beautiful Kristy Swanson from when I was in high school.  Here is how I remember her:

Here are three more-or-less NSFW images.  SFFD fans, remember to check back when you are home.

Finally found her: she’s playing a bottle-blond floozy.  A latter-day Marilyn Monroe, a comparison they keep making more and more explicit.  And she’s — how to put this gently? — obese.  Not Monroe-by-today’s-standards-big, but obese.  Maybe some of it is a fat suit, and she certainly looks worse because of the Playboy-style caked-on makeup and garish lipstick, but her upper arms looks like they weigh as much as she used to in total.  IMDB reports she’s almost 40, now.

Really unfortunate.  I’m speaking as someone who has put on 120 pounds (British: 8 1⁄2 stone; Bushman: very much; elsewhere: 54 kg) in the last ten years, so I know this can happen, and I know what I’m talking about.  But this is really, really unfortunate.

Episode is half over.  I’m going to go drag myself back and try to finish it this time.

I am ill.  I am under the weather.  I am out of sorts.  I am avec cold.

I am sick as a dog.  And I am miserable.

I am having trouble breathing, have post-nasal drip, headaches, cough, pre-cankerous blooms inside my mouth (which are going to get much worse before they get any better), massive allergic symptoms, whole body ache (different from normal), fever,  and — get this — pronounced knee and thigh pain.

Niall has a constellation of symptoms strongly correlating to mine, including the leg pain, bizarrely.

We each started showing symptoms on the same day: two days ago, on Wednesday.  We had spent the preceding weekend together.  There is no solid proof of who infected whom, but assuming it was one of us to the other of us, and given that I spend my days immersed in high-tech culture while he spends his days immersed in germ culture, it is not difficult to surmise who is more prone to rhinovirus and influenza, and who is more prone to Michaelangelo and Concept.

I’m actually sick enough that I’ve asked Jenn to keep Niall with her over the weekend.  There’s no way I can be single parent and keep up with Niall this weekend feeling like this.

If I were not already disabled, I would have taken today off work.

Blech.  Ouch.  Blech.

I really hate insomnia, but never more than when it promises to decrease the joy I can have with my son the next day.  Er, later this day.  In about two hours.

Short sleep last night, no nap, a couple glasses of wine — I thought I was sitting pretty for a long winter’s nap.  But I have barely blinked.

If anyone has been calling me, by the way, I can’t answer it.  My phone was lost, then disabled as a security precaution, a replacement was ordered, the passive voice was used, and then the missing phone was discovered — which now belongs to the insurance company.  I’m wondering exactly how many days I should wait before someone miraculously “returns my missing phone” to me, to send it to the insurance company, so I won’t look like a total wanker.

I’m not hurting too badly right now.  I can probably take some more ibuprofen for the mild discomfort.  But I really wish I could just lie down and become unconscious.  Restfully, REMmingly, unconscious.  I’m writing train-of-thought right now, and hoping it will tire me so that I can go and collapse into bed.  I’m not actually alert enough to do anything really thought-intensive, like code or write cogently, just alert enough to stay awake.

Thanks to everyone for your support of late.  It’s much needed, and much appreciated.  So much so, that you can consider this a personal letter to you.

I’ll even sign it,

- Joshua

I refilled my ten-day pain med prescription today, exactly (almost to the minute) ten days after my last one.  For ten days I get 120 pills.  I finished my course with one pill left.  This may seem like nothing, but to me, it’s a Big Deal^®.

I also gave in and bought an adjustable cane.  My sciatica⁄pride ratio reached the tipping point.  Between that and the retro cap I wear (which looks vintage, and covers my hair color), I look like a (huge) old man.

OK, let’s run down my week so far:

1. Wife left me and took Niall (my fault)
2. Got dropped from the interview process of the job for which I was applying (my fault, essentially)
3. Worker’s Comp claim was denied, so I will have to sue the WC insurance company (not my fault)
4. Ditzy HMO doctor whom I saw twice while out of work due to work-related injury claims I never told her I was off work, and refuses to sign my disability slip (fuckin’ not my fault)
5. Paid over $100 (that I didn’t have until friends opened their wallets) to file my taxes (my choice)
6. Ran out of meds (that said ditzy doctor forgot to refill) and for which I don’t have insurance anyway (not my fuckin’ fault)

So, today:

7. Computer crashes (shit happens)

You’d think with my whole professional and educational life spent living at the whims of computer hardware, I would have a top-of-the-line backup system in place.  You’d be wrong.

I fixed it.  The computer, and recovered the data.  It took some effort, but I did it.  I’m doing a full backup tonight.

Next step would pretty much have to be “blindness”, right?  I’d say “death”, but that’s not always seeming like such a bad alternative this week.

I have a drinking problem.  A literal, mechanical drinking problem.  I choke on any beverage I try to imbibe.

It hasn’t always been this way.  I used to be able to drink a glass of water without drowning.  But now, probably about half the time, I’ll end up in a wheezy coughing and choking fit as the liquid tries to go down my trachea.

I don’t know what’s changed.  A year and a half ago, I thought this would be fixed by my Chiari decompression surgery.  It wasn’t.  I still cannot drink properly.  It might be weight-related — that’s my best guess at the moment.

There are all sorts of programs and support groups for people with alcohol dependency.  There are almost none for actual drinking problems.  So I guess I’m going to have to deal with this myself.  Ideas, other than “Drink more slowly”?

I had a fantastically real-seeming dream about publishing a book and having it printed on the most luxurious paper I’ve ever felt.  It was printed on the processed fibrous bark of some bush that doesn’t actually exist.  The paper was dense, smooth, almost velour-textured.  It gave crystal-clear impressions to the ink deposited on it, and was luxurious to fan through.  It was almost warm to the touch, naturally dyed (kind of taupe-colored), and exceedingly sexy.

This is one of the few multi-sensual dreams I’ve experienced, and the first exceedingly tactile, almost erotic, dream I can recall that did not involve strategic female fat deposits.  In other words: I had a booby dream about paper.

And now I’m on a search for ultrafine papers.  I use 28 lb. Crane’s Crest cotton paper in my regular correspondence.  This dream paper made that feel like 300-grit sandpaper.  Pointers?

It’s Saturday.  I was driving around town around noon trying to find a place that could fill a prescription, and I felt like crap.  I began a mental checklist of whether I had forgotten anything.

I got to “food”, and I thought about the last time I’d eaten.  It wasn’t Saturday.  It wasn’t Friday.  It wasn’t Thursday.  It was some time before then.  I think I’ve had some wine and energy drinks in the interim.

I told my mother the last time I’d eaten, who asked, reasonably, “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

I responded, “I’m not doing it on purpose, I’m just not remembering to eat.”

“Sounds like your meds need adjusting,” she answered.

Niall has been sick with a bad cold.  I took him to the doctor on Friday.  He was absolutely perfect, with tea party manners.

Dramatis Personae:
N: Niall
Dr: Pediatrician
J: Joshua

(Doctor enters)

N:  I am here today because I have a cold.  Is this the right doctor for a cold?

Dr:  Yes, this is the right doctor.  I’m Dr. Musavelar.

N:  My name is Niall.  That’s spelled N-I-A-L-L.  How is your name spelled?

Dr:  You can call me “Sadah” [ph].  That’s spelled S-A-D-A-T.  (Holds light up:)  Do you know what this is?

N: ???

J:  Remember, it’s to look in your ears.

Dr: May I look in your ears?

N: (Timidly) OK.  (Clenches face, squeezes eyes shut, and grits his teeth, but remains absolutely still.)

OK, precious enough?  On the ride home, he saw a sign that said “Dentistry” (he’s four.)

N:  Daddy, do you know what a dentist is?

J:  What is it?

N:  A dentist is a kind of doctor who counts your teeth.

He has signs of the early onset of pneumonia in his right lung, BTW.  If you post here, I’ll pass on your best wishes.

Are you aware that hypergraphia is a symptom of clinical mania?

I’m pretty much going to be grouchy like this all day.  I never slept for more than ten minutes at a time last night, and not at all until after 7 a.m.

Pain-induced insomnia and time warp.  I’ve been struggling to sleep, tossing and turning.  I looked at the clock: 1:47 a.m.  Tossed for a really long time.  Looked at the time again.  12:46 a.m.  So I’m guessing the first one was actually 11:47.  It’s now 1:44 (for real, this time) and I still cannot sleep.

Insomnia.  Insomnia.  Insomnia.

Anyone waiting for my manic swing, as documented here, to end: it has.  Blah.  Vomiting, chills, and depression.

I was a dick at the pharmacy yesterday.  My doctor called in a refill of my Compazine as I’m still on Flagyl, the latter causing nausea.  I drove up to the pharmacy window.

Tech: Josh, it’s too early to pick up your prescription.  You had a ten-day supply filled on the 27th.

Josh: What’s the dosage on that?

Tech: One pill every eight hours.

Josh: Which is three pills a day.  Seven days.

She picked up a calculator.

Tech: Well, to me, seven days is 21 pills.

Which of course just proves my point more.

Josh: OK, six and two-thirds days.  I should be able to pick it up.

Tech: The person who put this into the computer put it in as a ten day supply.

Josh: The person who put that into the computer isn’t very good at math.

Tech: (chuckling) I hope it wasn’t me.  Can you come back later?

Josh: You know, I’m really up a creek here.  I need my Compazine to deal with the nausea from my antibiotics.

So I called later, and spoke to a pharmacist.

Josh: You know, there is a real problem here.  If your staff can make this kind of error, then they can make a dosing error with something I give to my child.

Pharmacist: (broken English) No, it was computer error.

Josh:  Uh uh.  A computer did not divide twenty by three and get ten.  A person did that.

Pharmacist: No, sometime computer make mistakes, and we have catch up.

(I’m really hoping her Latin is better than her English.)

Josh:  Oh, so the computer made this error, is that right?

Pharmacist:  Yes.  We have to put numbers in right columns or computer makes mistake.  I’m very sorry.

So that’s apparently the definition of a computer error.  An “ID-ten-T” error.  I think I need a new pharmacy.

Maybe an unnecessary post, but if you’re worried about me — or employing me — or now, wondering if you should — or married or related to me, however much you might have wished you weren’t this past week, you might want to read.

Detox is not easy.  It’s especially not easy on your own, but one can do it.  At least, I could do it.  I tapered myself off.  I got very agitated, very moody, said some very rude things that I shouldn’t have, made some very poor choices with compensatory drugs I otherwise eschew (e.g., alcohol), but otherwise got through it.  My father, who, bless his heart, reads this blog, informed me that “now you [Joshua] know what it’s like to quit smoking”.  Egads.  Trainspotting to get off nicotine.  And this stuff is legal?  And, as far as I know, subsidized.  What the hell is wrong with this country?

This was nine months of daily Oxycodone, Oxycontin, or Hydromorphone, post-surgically.  The constipation was bad, but the diarrhea has not abated since the detox.  But if you’re a stranger, and you’re looking for support, it can be done.  Warn your family.  Write with a Sharpie on a white t-shirt “I’m detoxing, I’m going to be an asshole for a while.”  Or something.  Whatever you come up with.  With any luck, the detox will hurt your relationships less than the habit.

But a moment on reward centers.  Of the brain.  I still can’t get out of the habit to think, following some large or small accomplishment, “now I deserve an opiate!”  Press the lever.  Get the jolt.  Starve to death.

Poppies are not fun.  A hundred years from now, we’ll look back on it the way we will on leeches, bloodletting, and chemotherapy.  The best we had, but as bad as the disease.

Thanks for bearing with me.  mcgees.org is back.

That took some work.  Time for … um … damn … a cup of tea, I guess.

This is an italic post.  Deal.

I’ll do this Lucas style.  You don’t get to see the first seven chapters.  At least not yet.

For a world-famous hospital, Cedars-Sinai is abysmal about returning telephone calls.  I called with enough time to get a refill on my Hillbilly Heroin.  I’m post-surgery-times-triplicate, remember.  Couldn’t get my neurologist to return my call.  I’m not sure the message ever made it to his desk.  And I’m not brave enough to really stand up for myself on the phone.  To tell the lady that it is really important to me that the doctor get this message, so that I won’t be in pain.

So that I won’t be in pain.  And so that my entire nervous system doesn’t rebel against me.  But I don’t mention that part.

I get a call back at 4:30 p.m.  The office is open until 5:00.  They’re an hour away.  But my prescription will be waiting for me, and there will probably be someone still there.

You need to titrate off Oxycodone.  You can’t just stop.  You can’t go from months on end, to a day without.  It’s approaching 24 hours.  Is the worst over?  Maybe I should just be done.  No.  I’ve gone off Dilaudid before.  The nights are worse.  I’d be facing a couple nights torment, at least.  And this goddamn pain.  In my neck, down my arm.  Down my arm, which the surgery should have fixed.

I have Pearl Jam’s Live at the Gorge seven-disc boxed set.  You read that right.  Seven discs.  Awesome.  Pearl Jam is a drug.  Sugar is a drug.  Benzodiazapines are drugs, and I’ve already taken two milligrams to blunt the withdrawal.  Seriously considering nicotine.  I don’t fucking smoke.

I make it to the office.  There’s someone there.  I get my Oxy scrip.  I even get my parking validated.  Free.  Awesome.  All this effort, though, and it would have been no extra to get my Lyrica refilled, too.  My non-narcotic Lyrica, to block the nerve pain.  The nerve pain that should be gone, but isn’t.

Driving away, calling my family, on four different phones, to let them know, mission accomplished.  But of course it isn’t.  An hour there, an hour and a half back.  Then drop off the scrip.  Then waiting for half an hour.  That’s where I am now.

There are lyrics jumping out at me from these songs, songs I know by heart, that have never resonated in me before.  I find myself at tears on the drive home.  Maybe it’s the songs.  Maybe it’s the pain.  Maybe it’s the withdrawal.

It’s all three, of course.

“I’d Rather Be Blading,” the license plate says.  “Sports Chalet.”  No kidding.  Endorphins.  When I upgraded to the X-Acto a few chapters ago, it cut really deep.  It’s been months, and it hasn’t healed.  Scarred.  Probably won’t ever heal fully.  Two big stripes and a bunch of little ones, just wristward from the crook of my elbow.

Where does the 710 North go?  Get a sudden urge to not change lanes, to just drive.  There are hours of music left.  Surely it leads somewhere with a pharmacy.  They have all-night ones, you know.

Play C-3.  Let the song protest.  Realize I’m completely out of the loop.  I don’t know anything that’s happened in the world in the last half year.  NPR was my lifeline.  Not a lot of radio reception at home, and sitting at my desk to read The Guardian is painful.  That damn pain again.

Feel the resonance of distance.  In the blood the iron lies.  Never understood that before.  I need to get back into the world.  I need to start reading news, listening to BBC, something.  Rewrite the lyric.  Feel the resonance of distance.  In their blood my iron lies.  I can handle the pain.  I’m driving, aren’t I?  I’ll go to Zazzle, get the t-shirt made.  Get it shipped to me.  Let my shirt protest.

And where the hell does all this perspiration come from?  I haven’t consumed this much fluid in the last three weeks.  I could wring out any garment.  That’s the great thing about comedy.  You can talk about any of the big subjects.  Death, religion … clammy weather.  But the weather’s not clammy.  It’s dry.  I’m clammy.

My family are almost done eating.  Jenn has promised to go get my meds.  And I’ll be dosed again.  My neurologist is a good guy.  He refilled my scrip.  He wants to see me in two weeks, and he’ll titrate me further.  Get down to 5 mg Q4.  That’s down from 15 mg Q4.  Big difference.

Damn.  I must look crazed.  Can’t help when I’m happy, look insane.  You can’t look crazy driving up to a pharmacy window to drop of an Oxy scrip.

I know why my friend wouldn’t watch the season finale of “Lost” a second time, even though I hadn’t seen it.  Sometimes you wish actors were just not as good.  Sometimes you wish writers were not as good.  Good music is good, though.  And family is good.  And changing into dry garments is good.

It will be all right.  Give me another month, and I’ll be off the meds.  Gently.  It should be easy.  I’ve gone off Dilaudid.  Just, not all at once.  Take me down gently.  Mom’s climbed up a tree.  Let me down gently.

Compulsive typing is painful.  Had to vent.  Must go rest.  Must go “neck-neutral”, as I’ve trained my family.  Have a down pillow just for that.  It’s yellow.  It’s stained, now, too.  That’s my fault.  But it’s soft.  Soft pillows.  And soon meds.  Meds, and no pain.

Bear with me.

Any botanists, amateur or professional?  What is it in Southern California that has been making my nights miserable for the last month or so (early June to early July) when the windows are left open?  Is there something releasing pollen late at night?  Is there some reason I have to megadose on Benadryl to make it through the night?  Something in San Gabriel / Pasadena to set one’s allergies on full alert?  Note I’m allergic to most weeds, trees, and grasses.

Why do I want to know?  Simple curiosity?  No.  “Find it and kill it”. 

…at 59% of my current weight.

I’m out of the hospital, and the site, with comments, should be working again.