So many things.

Let me start out by saying how grateful I am for having found an anti-anxiety drug that works for me. The absence of crippling anxiety that made me afraid to move is a huge relief. Unfortunately, if you peel back the anxiety, the depression is still there, and, while not as sickening as anxiety, it still slows me down and prevents me from doing things I want to do. I have been depressed for so long, at this point, that I don't really even know what it is I want to do. Every ounce of energy is spent just trying not to stay in bed all day. I have no means of relief from my physical pain except muscle relaxers, which knock me out cold. My TENS unit is useful only when I am actually wearing it, and the diclofenac I got at my last (and final) visit to my pain clinic is utterly useless.

I am living a largely sedentary existence, and it isn't because I want to. There are times that I don't eat, because it hurts too much to bend over to rifle through the contents of the refrigerator. There has got to be some other way to get around this pain and lead a more productive life. I made an appointment with a chiropractor. I am hoping that maybe he can help me out. I am hoping our insurance will pay for it. I'm also going to find out if my insurance would cover acupuncture.

I'm going to bitch about pain clinics, now, and explain why I've decided to go a different direction. I've been to three of these clinics, and it seems that they all operate the same way. They double- and triple-book appointment times, so that the waiting room is always jam-packed, and it is usually an hour or so after my appointment time that I am actually seen. They do three things: hand out prescriptions for opiates, perform injections, and refer patients for surgery if neither of those work.

When I finally get into an exam room, I get about five minutes with the doctor to tell him what's wrong. In the case of my last appointment, the doctor I saw wasn't even one I'd seen before, and he hadn't even looked at my MRIs. I told him upfront that I can't do steroid injections because of my mood disorder and high blood pressure, but he still tried to recommend a steroid injection. Then, he suggested an immediate injection of Toradol, which I know works, because I have gotten it in the ER for severe pain. "Thank the gods!" I thought. "They're going to actually do something!" Ten minutes later, the nurse practitioner came in and said, "Sorry, we're out of Toradol, here's a prescription for diclofenac. The doctor wants to schedule your injections for next week." And that was it.

I obviously did not schedule any injections. I think I have ample evidence that they simply do not work for me; I've tried them twice with no effect except to feel worse for two days following the procedure. I have a case manager through my insurance company. She called and asked if there was anything she could do. I told her I needed to find a pain doctor, so she mailed me a list of in-network pain clinics. But you know what? I've had it with pain clinics. I don't want to get hooked on opiates again, I don't want intervertebral injections, and, apparently, I don't qualify for surgery, and that is pretty much the extent of what pain clinics do. I'm done.

Next subject: breast reduction surgery. I went ahead and made an appointment for a consultation in April. On the paperwork I filled out, I had to tell them I am a smoker. They recommend three months being nicotine-free before they will do any surgery. That means no cigarettes, no vaping (unless it's nicotine-free), no patches, no gum, no nothing. Well, shit. I guess I need to figure out how badly I want this. I don't smoke nearly as much as I used to. I don't chain-smoke anymore, and a pack usually lasts me about three days. I need help with this, so I called my health insurance's quit smoking line. Well, that was fifteen minutes of my life I'll never get back. I got put on hold immediately. Then I was told that their quit-smoking program "doesn't have a contract with Ohio." I asked if it made any difference that my husband worked from home but that his employer was in Minnesota. She didn't seem to know. She put me on hold again. Then she came back and asked me a couple of more questions. Silence. I finally said, "Look, I've been on the phone 10 minutes with you and you haven't even asked me my name," and I hung up. So, next time I go to CVS to pick up one of my other scripts, I'm going to ask about their smoking cessation program and see how that goes.

As to the surgery, itself, it does scare me a little. Same as when I was facing back surgery, it would be my first surgery, and it would be a major one. Sucking enough tissue out of my saggy-ass H-cups to make them perky C-cups is a major undertaking. I kinda wonder what will happen to my tattoo. I'm grossed out by the fact that I'll have to have plastic drains put in. I'm worried about getting hooked on opiates again, because recovery from breast reduction is very painful.

But if it will help me in the long run, then it's worth it. If it reduces my back pain, makes me feel more comfortable in my own skin, and helps me find clothes that actually fit the right way, it'll be a big boost in confidence. Do I like smoking more than I hate my body? It's a tougher question than you'd think, and I'm still thinking on it. My consultation isn't until April 15, so I have some time.

Subject the Third: Fucking cancer, and the death of a Facebook friend. I only met her once in real life, briefly, at a science fiction convention. She and her husband really seemed like the kind of people I wanted to hang out with. I always enjoyed CJ's posts. She made a paper crane every day and posted a picture of it on her page. Seeing them made me happy. I wish I had made more of an effort to reach out and talk to her and talk with her online, but, you know, you never expect these things to happen. (I should know better, but I don't.) She died peacefully of an extremely aggressive form of brain cancer. They removed one tumor, and things were looking up for a bit, but then they found two more, which were inoperable. In a matter of weeks, she was gone. I've reached out to her husband, of course, checking on how he is through Facebook messages. I am one of just many voices.

Fucking cancer. There are so many people in Matt's and my circle of friends who have had to deal with it, or lost someone to it way too soon, that it seems like a statistical anomaly. How can I possibly know so many people who have, or have had, some form of cancer? Matt and I had lunch with another friend last week who has lung cancer (never smoked a day in her life). She doesn't talk about it. She lives an incredibly busy life and does all sorts of amazing things like drawing comic strips and self-publishing children's books and working on a Master's thesis. She made it clear that she doesn't want anyone to treat her any differently, and so, we don't. But the elephant is still in the room. Another close friend of mine is in remission right now, after going through hell traveling to Illinois every weekend for several months for a special, targeted radiation treatment only available there. And, of course, there was Matt's dad's cancer scare, and Matt's own cancer scare. My grandmother died of asbestos-related lung cancer, my grandfather and great-uncle died of prostate cancer. What the fuck?

It's made me very melancholy, thinking about mortality. Thinking about how it doesn't seem to matter how healthy and active a person is --death can strike at any moment. I am scared to die. I am more scared of losing loved ones. What if that lump in Matt's jaw hadn't been benign? What if Matt's dad ends up with a malignancy? Even my beloved cat died of cancer, and I miss him every day.

Subject Number Four: Cat-tastrophe. Around Yule time, we took in one of the neighbor's cats, because they didn't want him anymore. Apparently they didn't understand that kittens grow into cats, and cats need to be neutered or else males will spray and females will go into heat, and both those things rank among the most annoying things in the world ever. They kept leaving the cat outside all day with no food or water. We finally got sick of the poor thing mewing piteously at our door, so we took him inside one day. We asked if they wanted him back, and they said, "no." Well, all right then. Our Robin has recovered completely from the flea infestation and upper respiratory infection he had when we got him, and has become a part of the family, but I always worried about his sister.

Well, his sister ended up being neglected just as badly as Robin had been. Skinny, flea-bitten, bad upper respiratory infection. She came to our porch and meowed to be let in. Well, shit. What were we gonna do? We couldn't have five cats. We already have four, and that's two more than we're supposed to have in this apartment. It just so happened that some friends of ours had recently lost a furry member of their family, and were more than happy to take her in. So they came, and they and cat-burgled Robin's sister (now known as Ginger), and took her straight to the vet, and then to her new home.

Just like with Robin, right? Except we, uh, didn't exactly tell them we were taking her. I saw "Trish," the female half of the couple, while I was outside, a little while after the deed had been done. She hadn't even realized the cat was gone. Then she decided to open up to me about her troubles, about how she was on methadone because of a painkiller addiction, which hit really close to home. She'd had cancer, she said, and she showed me her scars. She asked how the other cat was doing. I told her he was doing great. Trish suggested we have "play dates" with the sibling cats. "Sure, that sounds fun," I said. Oh, gods, what have I done?

The next day, I saw Trish again, and she was completely distraught because she couldn't find her cat anywhere. I suggested she might have jumped to the ledge next to the balcony and gone around to the steps on the other side. I told her I'd look for her. She hugged me, and said "Thank you." But she will never find her cat.

I was torn up inside with guilt, not for stealing the cat, but for what I knew Trish was going to go through. Blaming herself for not paying attention. Wondering if her cat was okay, or if she had died somewhere. I wish I could give her closure. I wish I could tell her, "We did the right thing for the cat. We took her to a place where the people can give her proper care." But I couldn't say any of those things. Instead, I explained that when a cat goes into heat, she will try anything to get out of the house, and find the nearest tom. She seemed to accept that explanation. I just hope she doesn't run out and get another cat, because I'm not doing this again.

Loki tells me that sometimes, the sneaky, two-faced, underhanded thing is the best thing to do. It's how I feel, too. I just can't help but empathize with Trish, because I can tell the reason she couldn't take care of the cats is because she can't even take care of herself. The only reason I feel remorse is because of my empathy for Trish and her situation. There was a time when I had a cat, but I didn't have a stable place to live, myself, and I had to give her up. It broke my heart. Then again, I don't think everyone thinks of animals as true family members the way I do. Hello, repressed maternal instinct...

So, that's about it. I'll close by saying that I learned a lot about myself these past few days, and that I have a lot to think about for the near future.