Hiding

Another before-I-begin moment. I had my second COVID vaccination today. So far, in the immortal words of Lizzo, I'm feeling good as h*ll. This is not bragging, so the Fates can just calm down right now. I'm just doing my little part to encourage anyone who might be needle-phobic.

Just a few minutes ago, I was thinking of my favorite scene by the amazing Fanny Brice. Ms. Brice was the inspiration for the Funny Girl films starring another gifted performer, Barbara Streisand. Fanny Brice was not known for her beauty, but was a natural comic with an ability to deliver a song with an emotional power that could break your heart in pieces and put it back together again. Part of her shtick was her Yiddish-accented humor. The scene I remember so fondly is one I've seen only one or two times. I've searched for it all over the web but haven't found it. If you should by any chance know where I can find it, please let me know! If need be, I'd be willing to buy a movie just for this scene.

The scene, to the best of my memory, unfolds thus: A new bride is waiting for her beloved to return from his day at work. She decides to play a sweet little game with him and hides in the closet when she hears his footsteps on the stairs.

Him, entering abode: Darrrrling, your Lover Bunch is home, where arrrre you?

Her, peeking out of the closet: I'm hiiiiiiding!

Him: Darrrrling, I have a surprise for you, where arrrre you?

Her: I'm hiiiiiding!

Him: Darling, I got that gold bracelet you wanted, where are you?

Her: I'm hiiiiding...in the front closet!

I know, it's all kinds of silly, but it amuses me. When I was unable to find it on video to show Trent, I acted out the skit with different voices, and it amused him too. It became part of our special language, with one of us, from time to time, saying, "I'm hiiiiding...in the front closet!" Yeah, we were corny like that.

So what made me think of this? Well, sometimes I think Trent's essence, or spirit, or energy, or whatever term works for you, likes to play little tricks on me. We always did love to hear each other laugh, why should anything be different now? And today, like on another recent occasion, I was convinced that he hid something from me. A couple of months ago, I was looking for an unopened bottle of an important prescription medication that I had ordered before it was needed. Naturally, I put it away in a safe place, which is perhaps a code for that stuff having gone right into the Twilight Zone. I really wish I had a dollar (okay, maybe five or ten) for every time I've put something in a safe place and had it either disappear forever or prompt a frenzied search for what I considered a safe place six weeks ago. 

When I was searching for my medicine, and trying not to freak out since I was entirely out and the prescription had no more refills, I remembered a time or two when I had done similar searches for medications for Trent. He was always so calm about it as I was breaking a sweat tearing everything apart. He'd tell me that he wasn't worried because he knew I'd find it eventually. At that point I'd either take a break from my search or just calm myself down a bit, and then go straight to the pills that had been invisible mere moments before. When I was searching for my pills a couple of months ago, I imagined him sitting with his feet up and telling me that he knew I'd find them soon. I chuckled and felt really calm, and decided to take a break. A few minutes later, I decided to look in place x, a place where I had already searched three times. There they were, sitting plainly on top of everything in the place they were located. I really just had to laugh and tell him thanks for playing tricks on me.

I had another moment this evening. I was looking for a zipper pouch that Trent used to carry a couple of gift cards and some pocket money. Since my sister is coming to visit in two days, I decided that I should put the little pouch in my purse so that Trent's money could perhaps get me a little something while she's here. That pouch was nowhere. I tore the joint apart. I removed lots of stuff to see if it was in my purse. Nowhere. I was really sad about it, too. It wasn't because I was afraid that I may have accidentally picked it up with something else and thrown money in the trash (which I took to the dumpster before I went for my vaccination), although the idea of throwing away money bothers me immensely. It's the fact that this zipper pouch, which says Heart of Gold, was something he really liked. The cards and cash were put in by his hands, the individual bills folded the way he liked. That's what upset me the most.

At some point, once again picturing him in his chair, I told him that I really wanted to find his little pouch. I took a break and reached for my purse, my thoroughly searched purse, and there it was. Yes, Trent's got jokes. even now. After the relief of finding this little pouch full of sentimental value, and other value as well, I could hear Fanny Brice saying, "I'm hiiiiding...in the front closet!" And I could hear Trent saying it as well.

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Jabbed

As we spend this weekend celebrating the anniversary of our nation's independence, my thoughts turn to some of the things that make this country what it is. One of the things that causes both happiness and strife is our freedom of choice. We have the choice to do or say so many different things, and some choices are restricted. I'm not here to discuss that in depth here today, but to talk about some choices of my own.

Two weeks ago today, I received my first COVID-19 immunization, and my next jab is scheduled for a week from today. I know that people have varying degrees of trust, or lack thereof, in the vaccines, and vaccinations in general. There are various reasons why the family unit of Collins and Szatmari, and now just Szatmari, have made the personal choice to to partake of vaccines as available, appropriate, and necessary.

First and foremost, Trent was a transplant patient and was on daily doses of immuno-suppressing medications. This is a necessary treatment with the majority of transplants to prevent the recipient's immune system attacking the transplanted organ since the body will see it as something foreign to itself, unless perhaps it comes from an identical twin. This is a normal and expected response built into bodies, and generally encouraged, unless it will unwittingly kill us.

I have systemic lupus erythematosus, which is an autoimmune disease. The immune system of someone with lupus can and will attack the body's organ systems for no reason. It can attack any and all organs, and can result in permanent damage or death. With the two of us being immune-impaired, I've often said that we can catch a cold from across the street. Seriously, I've always been a bit uncoordinated and very unathletically gifted, and if you toss me something from a few feet away, chances are I will flub the catch while looking far less graceful than the dancing hippos in Fantasia, even if they were replaced by real hippos. But walk someone with some kind of germ through the room, and chances are great that I will catch it, no contact necessary. And the cold or intestinal scourge likes to make itself at home for far longer than normally reasonable and expected. Yep, germs have long considered us the perfect hosts. It's not always nice to be appreciated, however.

Trent never did get around to receiving the COVID vaccines, but would have done so. I delayed for several reasons, most having to do with the desire to avoid huge crowds in general, as well as large groups of possible carriers of everyday germs that would put me out of commission for a while. So, as I said earlier, I have myself on the road to better protection from COVID. And yes, I'll continue to wear masks around others out of respect for everyone's health. There are some other vaccines I plan to get after I've finished with these, and I want to explain why.

Around the third week of this April, I started having some symptoms I've had before with my lupus. I have a tendency to bouts of something known as costochondritis, which is a fancy term for inflammation of the joints where your ribs attach to your breastbone. The first time I experienced this, it hurt so much I thought I had pneumonia. Now I know how to tell the difference, and I do what I can to alleviate the discomfort. Generally it involves getting quality rest/sleep, and taking over the counter pain relief. Frankly, topical rubs aren't always a good choice because of delicate skin in the area.

A couple of nights into this delightful interlude, I woke up in incredible pain in numerous areas of my body, like shoulders, arms, hips, and knees. My first sleepy thought was that I was in an uncomfortable sleep position and it was screwing everything up. Well, that wasn't the case. For various reasons, when we moved into this apartment we got an air mattress. The air mattress was about halfway uninflated, so I had no support. When I tried to get up to use the bathroom, I was struggling like a turtle on its back. I had to use my tushy and feet to move the bed from the wall so that I could re-inflate the bed at 2:30 in the morning to give it enough resistance for me to stand up. Even though I got online and ordered a replacement right away, the situation continued a few days. I'm sorry to whine, but it made everything in my body feel so much worse.

A few evenings later, I was lounging around, content to do whatever I needed to make myself feel better. Suddenly, I started getting an intense, pulsing, repeating pain in what Carrie White was raised to refer to as one of her dirty pillows. I knew it wasn't the joints because it was a bit to the side. It was definitely a concern, and the pain pulsed for quite a while longer. When I woke the next morning, though, I discovered that it was an outbreak of shingles. They went along the side and over to my back, all the way to my spine. And boy, do they hurt. It's like the costochondritis said it was really kicking my butt and the shingles stood up and said, "Hold my beer."

You may not know a couple of things about shingles. They break out along nerve pathways and are lurking in your body if you ever had chicken pox. In addition to being incredibly painful, they can be dangerous. In fact, Trent's father had a shingles outbreak that led to sepsis and caused his death. A couple of months after my shingles outbreak, I have scarring from the breakouts, and another thing you may not be aware of, which is lingering and recurring pain. Just last evening, I had shooting pains in some of the breakout areas that reminded me of how much I'd like to get a shingles vaccination. I know that for many years parents have wanted their kids to get chicken pox and just get over that hurdle. Knowing what I do now, I'm also greatly in favor of vaccinating against chicken pox. I know it's a pain in the arm, but isn't protection from horrible pain or possible death worth getting jabbed? For me, it's a definite yes.

p.s. If you are anti-vaxx, this is not meant as a judgement of your choices. It's just an explanation of mine.


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Two Stories and Some Unsolicited Advice

I'm feeling like now may be a time when I'm able to share a couple of stories with you related to the loss of my husband Trent. I want to editorialize for a moment, though, for some important information. I decided years ago that I would prefer cremation to burial, and mentioned it to Trent in a casual conversation early in our marriage. He agreed, letting me know that he'd like the same. We also shared our feelings about extreme life saving or  extending measures, which neither of us wanted. I'm so grateful that we had the foresight to make these feelings known to one another. It saved a great deal of worry and stress when I had to make various decisions. 

Did you know that even for someone whose identification indicates them as an organ donor, permission must be given by the family member or other person entrusted with making decisions at such times? Which is why I implore you - have those conversations now. Do it for yourself. Do it for the person you love and give them the final gift of knowing that their wishes will be honored in any way possible (I'm still trying to figure out how I can scatter a bit of Trent's ashes in Disney World without getting arrested or banned for life). Some day, when the big decisions need to be made, they can be done with the confidence that our loved one is meeting their end on their terms, and there'll be less possibility of fear, bewilderment, or guilt for those left behind.

Now on to my stories. The evening of Trent's passing, I had already notified various friends and family as to what had happened. I decided to text some friends and advise them to tell their children so that mutual friends wouldn't accidentally break the news to the kids, which would be a terrible shock. So they went ahead and told the kids, who were all very upset. Now, this family includes a pair of identical twins, Noelle and Natalia, who had a relationship with us that was not like those they had with other people. For some reason, each twin picked out one of us as theirs. I'm absolutely certain that this didn't involve any discussion, it just happened. Trent belonged to Natalia, and I belonged to Noelle. I'm using the past tense simply because of Trent, those girls and their siblings and parents still have my heart forever.

Shortly after I texted their parents, I received a message asking if the family could call me. They needed to talk to Katrina to make sure what they were being told was true.. I girded myself and said of course, knowing that I had to do what I could to help them deal with this loss. My phone rang with a video call, and I was shown the family members in various states of distress. There were many tears being shed, but I managed to hold mine back. Suddenly, the just-turned-five Natalia had her face right in front of the phone, with her twin standing behind her. With an angry look on her face, Natalia asked, "Katrina!!! Did Trent die?" I very calmly told her that yes, Trent had died and I was very sad, just like she was. In the background, Noelle chimed in. "But you didn't die." I assured her that no, I didn't. During the entire call, Noelle was making the rounds of all her family members, soothing them and passing out tissues. It melted my heart to see this sweet little girl being strong and taking care of her family.

A couple of days later, I knew I had to make an appointment to speak with someone at a funeral home. I had already done some research online and sort of knew what I wanted done, but the formalities must be observed. Maybe that's a good thing. It gives us the opportunity to step out of our grief for a short time while we're required to attend to business. On my good days, I'm not a huge fan of speaking on the phone. If you're reading this and worrying that I don't feel good about it when I'm talking to you, just stop it right there. If I take the step of talking to you, it's because I want to. And the worst is calling total strangers about something really important.

On Monday morning, I found myself nervous at the idea of making the call about Trent. Knowing how effective it can be to mentally switch gears, I decided to look at Facebook for a few minutes before making the call. I must insert two facts here. One, I had the media volume turned up on the phone, which I don't usually do as a general rule. Two, somehow the auto play function had gotten turned on in my Facebook feed. In the midst of memes and recipes and other stuff, a concert video began to play. It was Willie Nelson singing Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I'm Gone. It was one of those truly perfect moments, one that makes you believe that the person who is gone is telling you to just chill and have a laugh or two. When I called the funeral home I was relaxed enough to relate the story. When I was there a couple of days later, I learned that the delightful woman who helped me loved the story so much that later the same day, she played the song while she and her coworker were transporting someone in the hearse. You know, you just have to laugh sometimes, and I think the people who leave us behind would like to see us living joyfully. Or, as I often say, that's my story and I'm sticking to it!

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Please, May I?

I'd like to start by saying that no, I didn't fall off the face of the earth, at least not unless the flat-earthers were right all along. It just seems like I fell off the planet. Life has a way of happening that sometimes leaves us unable to do the things that we really love. In the terribly long time since I last wrote for you, and for me too, let's be honest, a lot of water has flowed under the proverbial bridge. 

I can't begin to tell you how many times I've thought, "Hey, this would make a good post for The Lunatic," but never managed to sit down and write. I don't want to bore the pants off of you, especially because now that The Plague (okay, COVID) is calming down, many of us need to start wearing pants again. I also don't want to complain. Maybe just sort of, kind of, explain.

The last few years have been more challenging than usual for me. I have dealt with symptoms that ended up being related to tachycardia, which is fancy talk for my heart just beating way too fast for no discernible reason at all. With Trent experiencing a bad bout of arthritis while my physical situation was worsening, let's just say that I was a worn-out mess. With medication, I've made a lot of improvement, but I still have frequent bouts of what I refer to as running out of gas. This means getting weak, breaking out in a sweat, and hoping like heck I can find a place to sit down so that I don't fall down or barf or both.

Trent and I took the huge step of moving from Colorado to Florida last August. I know, Florida...but we could no longer afford to live in Colorado unless we learned some magical way to live without doing stuff like eating. Call me selfish, but over the years I have grown quite fond of food, so there you go.

In the middle of January of this year, Trent's health declined. I really don't feel able to talk about it very much right now, but in early February I had to say goodbye to my best friend and companion of more than twenty-one years. Some days are easier than others, and then there are the moments when I'm typing these words and can't read the computer screen through the blurring tears. For years, I've wondered why people will say, when they lose someone close to them, that they loved them. I am going to make a conscious effort to use the words I love him, present tense, because Trent died, but my love for him did not.

So now that I've given you this very pared-down version of life at Chateau Lunatic, I come to ask you a favor. May I have the honor of sharing my musings and ravings with all of you again? I'm not making any firm promises, but I hope to write once or twice a week if you find that agreeable. Please, may I?





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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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You're Doing it All Wrong

We all make mistakes. It's a part of being a human and imperfect. I spent many years, however, being told in various ways that I was a mistake, as was most everything I seemed to do. I was too stupid or too loud or too quiet or too unrelated to the family or too in the way. I suppose being told I was wrong for so many years and in so many ways shaped some aspects of my personality. For example, if I make a mistake, I will be the first to admit it and take responsibility for my actions. I didn't go through years of beatings or screaming and not learn something from it, after all. I also, though, developed an intense dislike of the superior attitudes some people have about what they believe or how they do things. Okay, you like the way you do things and it works for you. But that doesn't mean that nobody else is doing it right.

I see a lot of this on the internet lately. In the interest of being helpful and sharing useful tips with others, there are lots of people who are eager to tell us about how we are doing everything wrong. A word that is often used in these articles is hack. No longer a gagging sound, a hack is a brilliant and different way of doing something you've been doing successfully for years. You just didn't know that you're doing it all wrong.

I've been thinking about some of the things I've read that I'm doing all wrong, and occasionally there are gems, like threading your charging cord through a binder clip so it doesn't always slip down to the floor. Not only is this a convenience and a time saver, but for the occasionally clumsy it prevents bending over to pick up the cord and conking your forehead on the bedside table. In the interest of complete transparency, let me state that this has not happened to me. Nope, I'm the one who leaves the drawer open just a bit and hits it with her leg when getting up to use the toilet, resulting in a gloriously vibrant bruise that hangs around for six or eleven weeks.

Anyway, some of these I'm-so-smart posts really irk me. I've read two different versions of how I am incorrect in my methods of eating bananas. Yes, I apparently don't know the first or second thing about eating that delectable fruit. There's a wonderful thing about bananas. They have a peel which makes them quite portable and able to last without refrigeration. When you peel a banana, you have the option of only doing so part-way so that you have something to keep your fingers from getting smeared. Well, I read recently that I am doing it all wrong. I should be eating the whole banana, peel and all. Uh-huh. If I so much as eat one of those stringy things inside the peel, it feels like the lining of my whole mouth has been removed. Nope, no going to eat the peel. Next?

The other banana tip also has to do with the peel, more specifically with how one removes it to release tastiness inside. You see, I peel my bananas from the stem end down. This, I am told, is wrong, wrong, wrong. I should be peeling it from the bottom as it is much easier that way. Uh-huh. I tried it once. It was not easy. It resulted in a smashed banana end and required a sharp knife to actually get the peeling underway. I also read that I should be peeling from the bottom because that's the way monkeys peel them. Well, monkeys scratch their behinds and then sniff their fingers. Monkeys pick skin and other stuff off other monkeys and eat it. I do not feel the need to behave like a monkey. (And I really like monkeys!)

One of my favorites (I write this sarcastically) was a video that included a bit about how to take care of little kitchen mishaps that can occur when knives and fingers try to occupy the same space at the same time. Instead of cleaning the cut and putting on a bandage, it is apparently quicker and more convenient to do this:

1) find an onion
2) peel the onion and discard the peel
3) slice the onion
4) carefully remove some of the thin membrane in between the layers
5) wrap the delicate membrane around the cut
6) put away the onion
7) mop up all the blood in the kitchen (optional, as required) 

I don't know, maybe I'm just lazy. I'm sticking with the bandage.

And if you're wondering (or even if you're not) what made me write about this, I read an article from some fancy doctor saying that I'm probably pooping wrong. No, it was not about squatting devices or frequency, something we got in an argument over with one of Trent's Nephrologists who said humans don't need to do it more than once a day. No, this wrong-pooping had to do with the paperwork done to finish the job. I thought the poop expert was going to say to rinse, not wipe, but I was wrong. Gag warning! He said you should wipe and find absolutely nothing on the paper. That was it for me. I laughed at myself after unthinkingly saying that I had had enough of this crap. And then I decided that maybe someone who is such an incredible smartypants as I am should quit reading about everything I'm doing wrong. 



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Probed

I seem to have become a fascinating subject for various members of the medical profession of late. After Doctor Mike threatened me with the dreaded colonoscopy, I finally caved in and did the home colon cancer test. If you've never done it before, it's like a game of Beat the Clock meets Let's be Kids Who Play With Poop. Not to be too graphic, it involves using the toidy and then racing to finish your paperwork before the you-know-what slips under the water. Ick.

Well, I dropped off the bio-hazard at the doctor's office, making sure Dr. Mike knew I had done my duty (see what I did there?) so that I wouldn't need to have the dreaded colonoscopy. Of course I failed the test, and the process toward the colonoscopy had begun.

I have never had a colonoscopy before, but Trent has, and I knew that preparing for one isn't the most fun you'll have all year. Maybe that's why I wasn't eager to make an appointment. But those pesky people got right in touch with me to schedule the procedure. Sigh. Once again, foiled by efficiency. 

Let me say right here, for the record, and quite clearly, I wasn't afraid of the procedure itself. Heck, they give you some Valium-like medication to make the process much easier. It's the getting ready that stinks. It's the drinking glass after glass of laxative after not eating all day. And the griping pains and ickiness in the bathroom. And the vomiting. And then doing it again at four a.m. the day of the procedure. Seriously, there's got to be a better way. Like put me in the hospital, knock me out, clean me out, and then check me out. I know, what a whiner. Really, I was okay until the vomiting.

Luckily, the facility is close to home, so I managed the trip without losing my belly. Part of me was eager to meet the doctor, because his first name is Tamas, like my cousin. I figured he had to be Hungarian. Not only was he Hungarian, but born and raised not far from Budapest! Having some common ground to talk about lessened the stress quite a bit.

When I was wheeled into the procedure room, yet another person, the sedation nurse, quizzed me to make sure that I was of sound mind to make the decision to have the procedure. I knew that the doctor was at the foot of the bed even though I had taken off my glasses and couldn't see very well. I answered politely when asked my name and date of birth. When I was asked why I was here, my mouth, the smart-alecky one, blithely said (while I looked straight at the doctor whom I couldn't really see) that I was there because there was an alien who wanted to do some anal probing. Thank goodness they laughed, because you really don't want to irk someone who's about to put a camera up your backside.

When the nurse injected the happy juice, I said, "Oh, now that's nice!" And then someone said to give me more. I actually have one or two brief little memories of the procedure, but nothing traumatic, so don't let it scare you. And the worst thing post-procedure was the same as pre-procedure, vomiting. But there's a lovely injection for that. I went home feeling light and happy and delightful and wanting to sing and dance. I have apologized to my family and Brutus D. FatCat after coming down from this incredible high. They've been very forgiving because apparently I was quite entertaining.

It took a few days for the drugs to get out of my system, but I eventually got back to my version of normal. I received a phone call the other day telling me that the solitary polyp that was found, removed, and tested, would have become malignant eventually, but I'm clear of any problems. That was a great relief.

Do yourself a favor - if your doctor suggests a colonoscopy, please work up your courage and have one. Any discomfort is a small price to possibly save your life.



p.s. from The Lunatic: When I made my wisecracks about probing, my doctor started to mention some Hungarian scientists and I replied that I had heard that they went to Einstein to get someone to warn the US government about nuclear weapons development in Germany. The doctor then said that Einstein was once asked by reporters if he believed that any aliens had landed in the US. His reply was, "Yes. And they're both Hungarians!" 



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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Thank you for reading!

Matters of the Heart

Some of you may not know why I've been away so long. In a nutshell, I've been feeling pretty awful for many months now. I have had progressively worse experiences with weakness, breaking a sweat, shaking...and all with minimal to no activity. What scared me the most was when I walked to the neighboring grocery store and almost didn't make it home. I found myself thinking that if I made it a few more steps, I could lean on a tree, railing, stop sign, you name it. When I was maybe 100 yards from my front door, I felt my body giving out on me as the world started to turn black. Luckily for me, a neighbor helped me into her car and blasted the air-conditioning until I recovered. Frankly, I haven't gone very far on foot since - it has felt too scary and too risky.

Since I have lupus, I've been assuming for quite a long time that it was the root of my problems. The f-word that I hate to use, a flare of the lupus, was probably what was making me so tired and weak and sweaty and sickly. I was pretty unhappy about it, but finally acknowledged that I had to suck it up and probably take some steroids so that I could feel better. When you don't have enough strength to shower and do anything else on the same day, something has to change.

So I saw Dr. Mike and told him that I was having a stinking flare and that I felt awful and I needed help. And then he stopped me in my tracks by telling me that it wasn't the lupus, it was my heart. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. They ran an EKG that showed nothing other than a fast heartbeat, and I was given a recommendation to see a cardiologist. Incidentally, I decided to have an upbeat, positive attitude, because I've only lived this long out of sheer meanness and a stubborn inability to give up.

I have to admit that I was a bit worried about going to see Dr. Claudia, though. I was worried about getting the usual medical sermonizing. Katrina, your heart isn't working well because you're too fat. You need to lose weight, Katrina. You have to give up sugar, salt, and fat. If anything tastes good, you can't have it. Only skim milk, and no butter. I imagined myself having an impassioned discussion with the doctor and telling her if I can't have butter, just kill me now, because margarine ain't no friend of mine.

Well, none of the feared lecturing happened. When I met with the doctor, she said she was fairly confident that I didn't have a  blockage because the blood flow to my limbs was good. My EKG was unremarkable, but my pulse was 120. Dr. Claudia said that when we hear hoof beats we look for horses, not zebras. So we started with me wearing a monitor for two days. There was nothing much of note on that, other than my pulse going as high as 167 with little to no activity. Then we did an echocardiogram, which was sort of fun for me, because I was able to watch my poor little valves opening and closing more than twice per second. 

The view of my heart showed a strong and healthy organ (and yes, I do in fact own a heart, so quit calling me a heartless whatever the heck). There were no signs of damage from the runaway heart rate, thank goodness, just the normal slight thickening that would be expected at my age. So with no answer, it was time to rule out the zebra, which would be an adrenal tumor. In some 30-odd years in the medical profession, Dr. Claudia has only seen or heard of three people with this problem. Strangely enough, the diagnosis is made through a 24 hour urine collection which looks for byproducts of excess Adrenalin. 

This test was negative too, so it was up to me to determine what action, if any, to take. I had been told on a previous visit that a cardiac surgeon would treat tachycardia (fast heartbeat) surgically. They would go in to the heart and kill off the areas that make the heart beat, and then install a pacemaker to make the heart able to beat at all. And since the heart can't beat if the pacemaker isn't there, you're screwed if the batteries run out. Or as I say, cancel Christmas. (Dr. Claudia says don't buy any green bananas.)

Trent asked my doctor why I was feeling so weak and tired all of the time, and she said it's pretty simple. It's like I'm running a marathon 24 hours a day. So now I'm taking a tiny pill twice a day, a beta blocker, to slow down my runaway train of a heart. Okay, it's not exactly like a runaway train, it's more like a car that you parked on one of those steep hills in San Francisco and you forgot to set the parking brake. Whoops! After only a few days on the medication, I'm having a bit less distress, and I'm looking forward to feeling more like my normal self soon. Hahahaha! I just said normal! Okay, my version of normal!

I hope this means that I am, in the words of Gene Autry, back in the saddle again!

XOXOXO,

The Lunatic
AKA Katrina





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