“If it hurts just a little/Be glad of it,” Donna Summer suggested in 1982, the year before the disco queen was caught in an enduring scandal that muddles her memory even today. I’m trying to keep that philosophy in mind while preparing to do all manner of things that are going to pack a punch.
At home, Crankenstein and I are on the cusp of undertaking our biggest, most intimidating repair job yet — and no, it’s not marital counseling (though we’re not looking forward to that, either). We’re about to sign a financially painful contract for foundation work, and while I’m eager to get it out of the way so we can proceed with delayed renovations, I’m also angry.
I’m angry that the sellers of our house deliberately concealed the issue to pad their pockets. I’m mad at the clueless inspector who didn’t know his ass from his elbow. And I’m upset with myself for listening to him when I questioned his expertise from the start — not to mention irritated at Crankenstein for being completely removed from the whole transaction other than choosing the house.
But mostly I’m angry about time. It was already a limited commodity due to a medical goose chase that culminated in a Parkinson’s diagnosis (which itself will shorten our stay in the house), and so much of ours was wasted by people who were greedy or unserious. When I wasn’t busy with — and frazzled by — the PD situation, I was occupied with all this house stuff we would’ve approached differently with accurate information in hand.
Then there’s my upcoming MDS appointment, which I might write about later this week. There seems to be a minor issue with the carbidopa/levodopa, probably because of my j-pouch. We knew that might cause some hiccups, so it’s not a huge surprise, just a disappointment. Additionally, my wrists and fingers are doing weird things overnight (with rigidity and flexion) once my bedtime pill wears off, which Crankenstein has also noticed when she reaches over in her sleep to hold my hand.
Mostly I’m concerned about needing levodopa so frequently, since it happened faster for me than it should’ve, at least on paper. But, as Crankenstein notes, it’s not necessarily odd between my inferior absorption and a diagnosis that was likely quite delayed. The other “hurts just a little” aspect of this next appointment is that the doctor’s going to ask if I made a decision on antidepressants. I’ll probably agree to try one, more for Crankenstein’s sake than my own, despite being sick of medication. That’ll bring me up to 23.5 pills per day, which is tedious.
Finally, there’s potential trouble on the horizon at Cranky Lesbian, where I’m making a few technical changes that could temporarily inconvenience readers or cause a behind-the-scenes headache for me. If you experience any difficulty accessing the site, or if anything looks more screwed up than usual, please let me know. There’s a ‘contact’ page over there, and I’ve also put one here as a backup in case I accidentally break Cranky Lesbian.