Drove the car yesterday for the first time since I came home sick.
It's hard to drive with manic/OCD/ADHD/oppositional defiance/clinginess/etc. If the other driver cuts you off, it's bad. I want to rip their head off. Also, I was afraid my heart would explode. Broken heart syndrome or one of those fucking heart attacks where there is no coronary artery disease. I did go to the ER last week. ER doc says, "When did you last have an ECG?"
"Don't know. Probably 2012."
"That's NINE YEARS."
Whoa, dude, you can do math. Heh. "Yeah. I had an echocardiogram in 2006."
He shakes his head. Doctors are terrible patients. Won't do what you say, know too much, will argue about everything.
ECG: "Enlarged right atrium." I shrug.
Echocardiogram. The tech and I banter. He knows my name, because local doctor, right? Technically the tech can't tell me results because he can't read it. But he shows me my valves and says cheerfully, "Not seeing any reason why I should be doing this." Tachycardia only. Heart enzymes come back negative.
Second ER doc takes over, shift change. He's head of the ER for years and we've ... um ... interacted. I consider it helpful to point out when the ER docs have missed something. He has not seemed to consider it helpful, which lowers my respect for him.
"We know that you think you have PANDAS."
My head did not blow off. We? You and the entire hospital medical staff? Bring it the fuck on. I didn't even kill him once, though I think he was a little singed by the lasers coming out of my eyes.
We negotiated. He added a quick test for influenza A and B and RSV and another covid test. Seems to not be strep A or else it's a different strain. Influenza A and B and RSV and covid all negative, so the list of things it isn't is getting longer.
He gives me a zithromax prescription, to cover shit like pertussis that might be resistant to penicillin and clindamycin.
"Is there anything else you can think of?" he says.
I shake my head and call my daughter, four blocks away, to come pick me up. Limp home. So bad that day that my heart and chest muscles hurt if I stand upright. I mostly lie down. Fucking sucks.
Anyhow, yesterday I drove maybe a mile. To see a building. I want it, for Dr. Liz's Post Covid Wellness Sanatorium, but I do not currently have 600K. Anyone who wants to invest, please contact me. Having learned what ROI stands for, I am working on the prospectus now. I think that our chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia and myalgic encephalopathy patient load is due to fucking double and our medical people are going to halve, so I can charge the moon. And at this point I plan to.
Also psychiatrists will be worth their weight in gold if they are any good. Probably even if they suck.
If I don't get my wishlist, I am looking at tiny houses to put in my lower forty to be a clinic. I could use a boat on a trailer, but the bad myalgic encephalopathies gonna have trouble navigating the rope ladder. One of those tiny houses on wheels would be good. There was one on Facebutt sales yesterday but that marketplace is a serious pussy tease. Half the time the fucking thing is gone before I sink my teeth in it. Annoying.
Driving was not that bad. I was running a little late, so checked pulse ox right before I went out the door. Oxygen 99 and fucking heart rate 110. I was not even fucking trotting. I feel like the goddamn honey badger right after being bitten by the cobra. Just wait, when the poison wears off I am going to eat every cobra for 100 mile radius. Yum.
I did not crash. I did not rip anyone's head off. Talked to the present owner for an hour, comparing notes. She had the place set up as a really fantastic yoga studio, opened.... yeah, December 2019. Fungk. "I just can't face starting up again." Double fungk. So it's pricey as fuck but the building is fancy, as in it's zoned commercial and someone with deeper pockets than me could put two stories of condos on top. Fantastic view of the sound, next house over is NOT commercial zoned, and the condos in the top two stories next door go for 500K each. Hey, I think I just wrote a prospectus. It also has some fancy ass air system that filters everything so's there ain't no pollen or dust mites inside. I fucked that up.... heh.
I went to look at the infrared sauna and the automatic massage table too. Want both. She has two of each. She had it set up so people could schedule on line, $35 for 30 min and cheaper by the dozen. I have not scoped out her website yet.
I could take medicare and tell the other insurances to go fuck themselves. If you are offering something "extra", you can charge a monthly fee in addition. The naturopath next door charges $80 per month. The "extra" would be the massage and the infrared. For your $120 per month, you'd get one of each, or if you hate the weird ass moving jade lumps in the massage table, you could have two infrareds. She had it turned on for me when I got there. I stepped in. Ahhhhhh, heaven for a lizard. Like the sun, radiant warmth. Throw me in that briar patch. I fucking need the infrared thing.
We spent an hour talking about business and myalgic encephalomyopathy, why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. I am still slightly manic/etc, but not nearly as completely fucking crazy as two weeks ago. B is comforting. "Even when you talk a mile a minute, it's still linear."
"I'm not psychotic."
"Yes, that." he says, "But man, it's exhausting to be around."
"You should try being a manic lizard."
"I can't imagine what it's like." he says.
"It's a fucking bitch."
I could certainly veer into psychosis easily and I see why people do when this shit hits the fan. But psychosis would get in the way of my WORK. Year of the Ox, remember? NOTHING is allowed to get in the way of my work.
If I can't go over it, can't go under it: well, fuck it, I am going through it.
I woke this am. The antibodies make waking up like being shot out of a cannon. Super adrenaline. Anyhow, once I stopped shaking, I thought about residency at OHSU. Someone told me the faculty were all scared of me. Heh. Now I am picturing it. Five foot four, eyes of blue, I am not afraid of you. Right now I weigh 129.8 pounds with clothes, no shoes. Ok, I have a red belt black stripe (used to be brown when I got it), but hello, I am not exactly physically intimidating. But I am picturing the other services in the hospital calling the Family Practice Department. "WTF?" they say. I musta morphed into honey badger mode when I was feeling protective of patients.
The meanest service is trauma surgery. They "discuss" cases by having a resident describe it in an auditorium and then the faculty will literally stand up and scream at each other or the resident or whoever is fucking present. You have to be tough to deal with all that blood and gore and the families are going to weep, wail and tear their clothes and hair. I had an ATLS class. In one part the trauma surgeon muttered, "The answer to that question for the test is X but that's really fucking wrong, in reality it should be Y, I fought that every step. Next round I will win...."
I am picturing the lions alerting but staying out of the way when I trot by on my appointed rounds....
And why am I not a trauma surgeon? I wanted to have kids. Therefore family practice.