Whose Got Two Thumbs, One One of Which Isn't Working? THIS GIRL!

I must be honest and say that part of the reason I haven't blogged about the D is because of a medical condition. For weeks now, I've had intense-yet-sporadic pain in my dominant hand that effects all five fingers and even extends up to my elbow! But on this high-deductible "health-insurance plan" I'm not running to the doc unless there's oozing or hallucinations. When I got back the results from my physical and heard that my white blood cell counts were extra-low, I figured with the hand pain and the wack immune system it could only be one thing--bone cancer (natch). Still suffering PTSD from last year's medical madness (and ensuing debt), I was still trying to get answers without running to the doc every ten seconds.

Plus, you guys know how much I love genetic anomalies and medical mysteries. Well, add to that a dash of hypochondria and an apathy toward my day job and I really can get to the bottom of a host of personal ailments.  Here is an email I sent to my doc last week:

Yes, y'all--I created my own visual aids. These are the lengths I will go to in order to avoid a co-pay in these trying times.

And yes, I called my doctor "K-Cho." We're cool like that.

Unfortunately, my excellent PowerPoint presentation couldn't get me out of living life on life's terms. Doc replied a couple hours later:

Wow, that’s an impressive email with nice illustrations! Unfortunately, hand and wrist pain is much better diagnosed by exam than xray. Plus the xray will be useless without correlation to the exam if an xray is even needed. Most hand/wrist pain don’t require xrays if there hasn’t been any trauma/injury.


And boy, was she right! I went into her office yesterday and a few simple tests revealed De Quervain's tenosynovitis. 


"I had a feeling that's what it was based on your description," she said.
"So what you're saying is that my diagrams were an excellent representation of where my pain was and I should perhaps enroll in medical school?"
K-Cho didn't answer, but I'd like to think that's because the answer was obvi.

Apparently this is common among athletes who grip tools (rackets, ski poles, etc) and those who do frequent manual labor, such as hammering. Since I fit into neither of those categories, I can only assume it's because of all the typing and playing Bejeweled on my bootleg phone--or....
"Um, could it be from too much....texting?" I asked tentatively.
Doc looked up knowingly and said, "Could be."

Guys, I have a textually transmitted disease (TTD). 


I thought I was careful. I always used T-Mobile protection! My phone is so broke and busted, it's always been tough to text, but I was willing to stick it out because we'd been through so much together. But now it's destroying my ability to pursue my livelihood! How can I hold a microphone with this level of pain?!

I've been prescribed a regimen of RICE, advil, and even rehabilitation exercises--and I am dedicated. I'm not dying, I'm living with DQT--a TTD that will no longer hide in the shadows.
But this means I've gotta lay off the hard stuff (emotional texts) and the soft stuff ("running 10 min late!"). But I've got one of those ergonomic cushions at the office, so I'll try to get in as much blogging as possible while I can!

I miss you. Call me!

There Will Be Blood Tests

Hey gang,

Sorry for the lack of posting, but trust me, I've got a good excuse: In the last week, I’ve had 9 vials of blood drawn. The medical mystery continues. I am weary and worried.
On Monday I got a call from the pituitary doctor, and almost lost it.

Yes, a call from the doctor himself. Guys, nothing will make your heart beat faster than an African drum quite like a personal phone call from a medical professional—especially when that professional sounds awkward and tentative.

“Hi Sojourner, it’s Dr. Cira.”
“What’s wrong?”
“So, I got the results of your endocrine bloodwork and your pituitary seems to be fine. That mass of cells isn’t doing anything harmful.”
“Okay….why are you calling me?”
“There were some other results in your tests that we wanted to share with you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your blood counts are very low—and it could be nothing, it does fluctuate from day to day—but I’d like you to go back to your regular doctor for further testing.”
“What about the [mumbling, cause I’m at my desk] test? I checked that box on the form. Did you get those results?”
“What? I’m not clear on what you’re saying.”
[I jump up and walk to the elevator.]
“The HIV test!”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten those results back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”

Guys, it’s never good when a doctor says “I don’t know.” Never good at all. Especially when they call you personally to tell you what they don’t know.

I went in to my regular doc the next day (I’m not fucking around, y’all; we gotta get answers ASAP), and she reviewed the results. She’s a really awesome young Asian woman, and since her last name is Cho, I sometimes call her Margaret when she’s being sassy.
I only met her a month ago, but seeing as we’ve been through so much already, I feel we’re at the nickname level.

Margaret informed me that it’s “quite common for African Americans to have lower white counts, and doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”

Wait, so what you’re telling me is that because I’m black I have fewer white blood cells? Is there a “Blacks Only” sign hanging somewhere in my blood vessels?

Because of the other immune-system cell counts, more blood was drawn. The lab technician was a really attractive, hip young dude who wore a flannel shirt and had a forearm tattoo. When he called me into the office, I was really confused and wary. “Um, you called my name? What’s up?”
He explained that he’d be taking the blood, and the first words out of my mouth were, “No you’re not. You’re going to go model for the next Urban Outfitters catalogue.”

I don’t know. It was the fear talking.

Up until now, I’ve kept my mom in the dark because I didn’t want to worry her. But now that it seems we’ve got no answers, I had to let my ICE contact know what’s up. When I told her about the tests, her first response:
“Did you take an HIV test?”
What on earth?! My own mother thinks I have the HIV? What kind of supportive, vote of confidence is that?! The woman hears one joke about wintercourse and suddenly I’m one of the leads in Rent.

When I called her out for her "helpful suggestion," she goes she says, “Well, maybe you just have Epstein-Barr.”
Um, thanks.
“It’s not fatal,” she says defensively.

So, with visions of terminal illness dancing in my head, I’ve been sleepless for days. Add to that the high quanitities of blood being taken, I’m practically a zombie. I’d kept Jewboo in the dark—well, not in the dark—more like, in a naturally lit room with the shades drawn. When I told him last night about my low blood counts, his eyes widened.

“I don’t have HIV.” I said.
He sighed in relief.
WHAT IS WITH EVERYONE CLOSE TO ME THINKING I HAVE HIV???
It’s funny how a near-death experience brings the truth out. Apparently everyone thinks I’m an unprotected-sex-having, intravenous-drug-using hot mess of a blacktress. At best, they’re all dramatic hypochondriacs who I can’t lean on in a time of crisis. Either way, I’m on my own.

*******Holy shit, this just in!!!*******
As I was writing this post, I got an email from the doc with my test results!!!

Your blood count and other tests are within the normal range indicating that there is no laboratory evidence of infection. Your HIV test is negative. When you review the results, you might notice some minor abnormalities that I have not mentioned, but please be assured that they are not clinically significant.

I’m gonna live, y’all!

This is the best day ever! I have a new lease on life! When I told my boss why I’d been all over the place, he goes, “Oh, I’ve been there. I wasn’t do anything those other boys weren’t doing those days. I know this is gross, but you know, I think the only way I beat the epidemic is that I was a top.”

Yes. That was said to me by the man who signs my checks.
Happy Friday, y’all!

Just Another Panicked Monday

Good morning, gentle readers.
I come to you today with a heart full of fear.

This morning the receptionist from the neurologist’s office called, asking me to come in for a follow-up appointment regarding my MRI. I am freaking the fuck out.

What can’t he tell me over the phone? Does he have to sit me down face-to-face so that he can hold me as I sob? I had the MRI on 5/24, so if it was really life-or-death, I would have heard back before now, right? My head was actually killing me yesterday, so I’m even more worried. When I asked the receptionist if I was going to die, she said no, but she certainly doesn’t have the security clearance to know for sure.

I cannot have a brain tumor right now—I’m just starting to follow my dreams!

This has me thinking of my life to date. I have begun composing several bucket lists based on how long I’d have to live.

Blacktress’ 3-Year Bucket List

• Quit job. Tell former-drag-queen boss about himself.
• Travel to Italy. Use the word “hospitaliano” at least once.
• Write a memoir titled “Eat Eat Eat”.
• Write 4 screenplays.
• Earn Oscar nomination for one of them.
• Have Ben Affleck and Matt Damon accept the award in my stead.
• Get a ½-hour special on Comedy Central
• Meet Nick Kroll
• Take a ferry to Staten Island (what goes on over there?????)
• Hang out with Marc Maron on the cat ranch.
• Find a closeted celebrity in need of a beard. Act as his beard until I become sickly and unattractive.
• Become best friends with Kathy Griffin.
• Get married, A Walk to Remember style.

Blacktress’ 18-month Bucket List

• Quit job. Tell former-drag-queen boss about himself.
• Find a wealthy benefactor to help me live my dreams in my final months.
• Write one screenplay that sells. Use money to produce the biopic Blacktress Like Me, in which I will star. Angela Bassett will play my mother.
• Visit every aquarium in the country.
• Go back to my native land of Africa and finally cash-in on that princess status I’ve been hearing about all these years. I’m probably just the ruler of a goat tied to a shady tree, but I’ll get to wear dramatic head wraps.
• Perform stand-up across the country, opening for such acts as Glenn Beck and Donald Trump. [this would be more of a stage-hijacking, but equally awesome.]
• Take a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. (what goes on over there?????) Use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.
• Hang out with Marc Maron on the cat ranch.
• Meet Kathy Griffin.

Blacktress’ 6-month Bucket List

• Quit job. Tell former-drag-queen boss about himself.
• Find a wealthy benefactor to help me live my dreams in my final months.
• Try to get a guest role on The Office as Stanley’s daughter or niece.
• Find a way to get on the Today Show and be interviewed by Matt Lauer.
• Find every man that’s done me wrong and tell him about himself.
• Take a ferry to Cape Cod. (what does it feel like to be rich?????)
• Hang out with Marc Maron on the cat ranch.
• Write and produce the solo show To Be Young, Gifted, & Blacktress. Receive posthumous Tony nomination, even though the show will not be performed on or off Broadway. (it’s just that good!)
• Meet Kathy Griffin.

Blacktress' Back-up Bucket List

Mop

Ice

Child-Size Beach

Aluminum

Construction Square Plastic

Gallon Square

Elevator

As you can see, there are several goals that repeat themselves. I will also be creating a will, in which I will bequeath several items to friends and acquaintances—such as the emergency contraceptive I received from Planned Parenthood and never used; Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs; and the entire Babysitters’ Club collection, including the mysteries and summer specials.

OMG MRIs are OOC

Happy Wednesday!!!
I know hump day isn’t usually happy (unless you’re humpin!), but this is my last day in the office for over a week, and I’m on cloud 9. Well, maybe cloud 7, seeing as I’m running on 5.5 hours of sleep.

Who has two thumbs and is dumb enough to schedule an MRI at 10:30pm? THIS BLACKTRESS!!!

By the time I got to the Radiology lab, I was ready to go to bed. Add to that the fact that I was wearing the equivalent of winter pajamas, and I thought I was in for an HMO-sponsored nap. I was given a brochure with a list of satellite-radio stations I could choose to listen to during the test. Because I love directing anxiety toward fake problems instead of dealing with the issue at hand, I deliberated for about 10 minutes. One of the comedy stations might be good, since I’m a bit tense, I thought. But if I have to stay still, maybe I shouldn’t listen to something that’ll make me laugh. Show tunes could be fun, but it all depends on the show, and then I’ll be stuck listening to the soundtrack to South Pacific.

Southern Gospel station might be the way to go—if there was ever a time I needed to get He Who Cannot Be Named on my side, it’s now. But if I really just want to be relaxed, maybe the vocal trills and belts of a woman who owes her life to the lord won’t be the way to go.
I continued to create a mountain out of a non-existent structure.

Canadian News & Information—that’ll be pretty boring. Keep that as your safety station.

I finally settled on 2000’s Pop Hits and felt a bit calmer having made a decision.

When I was called down to the MRI area (I’m not sure what to call it. After half an hour of sitting in an empty waiting room that reminded me of The Malkovich, I was directed to an elevator by a wild-haired woman. It only went one flight below street level.) The night-shift radiologist was anything but pleasant. He was small and bored and didn’t even engage when I tried to crack a little jokey joke.

I don’t get how people who have chosen to enter a field in which they interact with sick and suffering humans think that it’s okay to have no personal skills. You’re dealing with people you’ll likely never see again at a time when they’re at their most vulnerable. If that’s not a call for compassion and warmth, I don’t know what is.

Okay, rant about human indecency is over.

I got into the pod and was told to “be completely still for 20 minutes.” He put a pair of big headphones that pressed right up against the part of my head that was hurting. Before I could wince, he caged me in and fired up the ol’ MRI.
“If you need something, kick your legs,” he said as he walked away.
Um…..

Don’t you want to know which radio station I’d like?????

Apparently, he’d already made the decision for me: house music remixed with sounds of a fire alarm and heat coming through rusty pipes.
It must have been some Euro-pop B-side. Wait, no—that was THE MACHINE.

I knew there’d be noises, but I had no idea they’d be so heinous. How can someone stay completely still when their ears are being bombarded with craziness? At worst, it sounded like the machine was breaking and about to cave in on me; at best, it sounded like I kept making the wrong choice on Family Feud or just stole something from a WalMart.

I probably won’t get the results until Monday. Til then, I’m going to go to a Midwestern wedding and try not to feel inferior to my fancy grown-up bride-to-be friend and the blondtourage I have somehow been invited to hang out with. I’ve gotten invited to drinks every night—and a couple of mornings—for the next 4 days. I really hope I don’t do a sober-girl cry in the bathroom—it’s just such bad form.

An MRI? WTF?! FML.

Hey gang,

Whew, it feels good to blog again! I know I just posted yesterday, but I’ve been in a 3-hour staff meeting that felt like an age. (But I didn’t want to gouge my eyes out—growth!) Not only were my boss and I not addressing each other the entire time, but I was also running on about 5 hours of sleep. I’ve got a lot of anxiety coming up—the usual blacktress drama, course—but I’m also dealing with some potential medical issues that have me a bit nervous.

As you know, I’ve been all over with the sinus troubles. Well, it seems that it's not normal for sinus pain to affect the neck and it's even less normal for a part of one's head that hasn't been hit or cut or otherwise traumatized to be painful to the touch.

I went to a doctor last night and it was a real hip, swanky place--all the receptionists looked like Urban Outfitter's models and the doctors were in cute Anthropologie outfits. I went in to see Dr. Ko, a cute Asian woman who was totes wearing invisalign. I explained my symptoms as she continued to look more and more puzzled. "Where's that Dr. House looking guy I saw in the waiting room? We need to get him in here." Luckily, she laughed and didn't think I was insulting her skills. "We call him that, too!" she said. "Yeah, he does specialize in complex cases." With no equipment in their hip office, she immediately referred me to a neurologist, not just giving me the info, but calling his office up and getting me in just 15 minutes later! The neurologist, a small Indian man with a touch of Asperger's and hair like Full House hottie Uncle Jesse, pressed his fingertips together a lot and pursed his lips.

"What do YOU think it is?" He asked.
"Is this some kind of trick question?"
"No. You'd know your body better than me."
I swear, what do these people get paid for?

He basically didn't know what was up, although he thinks I could have migraines. But the only way to rule everything out is to get an MRI. This is one mystery diagnosis.

How ironic. I’m becoming one of the very medical mysteries I love to watch on Discovery Fit & Health.

I'm now writing this in a flurry from my house, where I had to come back after work to change clothes before teh 10:30pm MRI. Apparently, even the underwire of my bra* will set off the machine, so I gotta rock a sports bra and ill-fitting sweatpants along with anything else metal-free that will keep me warm.

I liked how the "preparation list" featured--in 16-pt font, no less--the directive DO NOT WEAR MAKEUP IF SCANNING THE HEAD.

Oh yeah, cause I'm thinking about foundation and creating doe eyes at a time like this.

Wanted to just let you guys in on this cause you mean the world to me. Without you, I'm just a creepy, possibly racist narcissist with too much internet access.


*Victoria and I have a secret!!!

Tuesday Snoozeday

Hey gang!

First of all, I'd like to apologize for my lack of bloggery yesterday. I was all set to wish everyone a Happy I'm Not a Mother's Day* but I was all kinds of busy.

The time is now 11:15 am.
I just had a camera in my nose.
What have you done today?

Dudes, I can't catch a sinus break! For the last couple months (well, since January, to be exact) I've had pain and pressure that extends from my brow bone to the back of my neck. Of course, my first thought was brain tumor, but a visit to a GP showed it was just a mild infection. I went back to this same doctor's office--but not the same doctor--about 2 months later because my nose was bleeding (gggguuuuuuuROSS!). As someone who's never had a nosebleed and loves to watch "Mystery Diagnosis" I was certain this was a tumor. The pain, the pressure, the erratic moods and uncharacteristic behavior (like gaining 14 pounds)--if that's not the work of an overgrowth of cells in my hippocampus, I don't know what is!^

This second doc, however--who didn't look a day over 28--said it was just irritation, and told me to get some saline solution.

Over the last two weeks, I've had pain, pressure, dizziness, and post-nasal drip. It was time to get to a specialist.

This morning at 10am I went to an appointment with Dr. Cory, a really pretty put together lady who looked like she was straight out of "Sex in the City" (but not Samantha). She came in and explained that she had a cold, which is why "I sound like a smoker." I asked her why she wasn't at home--should she really be near other people's mucous membranes at a time like this?
"My world can't stop for sickness," she says. "Too many things to do."
I hear that! She was clearly a strong black woman in a white candy coating.

I explained my symptoms and without missing a beat, she said, "Okay, we're going to put a camera in there and take a look-see." Before I could ask to see the birth certificate (my new way of questioning someone's credibility), she covered her mouth and nose with a surgical mask and sprayed my nostrils with a numbing spray.

Then, she reached for the camera.
A looooooooooonnnnnnnnngggggg thin chord with a tiny light on the end made it's way toward me like one of those evil creatures in Tremors. I was hoping the image would be projected onto a screen so I could see it, but the telescopic end was just for the doc to look through. Although the numbing agent made it okay for about an inch, as she reached up and back, I was convinced she was going to take a chunk of my brain. "Don't take the part that loves Jews!" I screamed as she wiggled the camera around.

She didn't.

So, turns out I have both a sinus infection AND allergies--in two different parts of my nose. How does that even happen? My nose is still numb and I can't smell anything.

As if this upstate work thing wasn't going to be rough enough, I'll be surrounded by nature and the elderly--two things sure to aggravate my nasal cavities--and I'll have a handler the entire time.

This means that I won't be able to hide in my hotel room if I get overwhelmed or bored, and I won't be able to send humorous blog posts. I'm going to be "live blogging/tweeting" it for work, but if you check out twitter.com/blacktress you'll find out the Sojourner Truth under the hashtag HowDidIGetHere

Okay, best get back to worky worky! I can't wait to get my prescriptions!


Oh, and in other news: The D has gotten so cold that even the elderly are gangsta.

For those who don't feel like clicking through, here's the gist:
Cops are hunting a pack of hat-wearing, gray-haired bandits who have made off with nearly $500,000 in a series of scams in suburban Detroit. Dubbed the "Mad Hatters" for their eccentric haberdashery, the gang of grannies is wanted for stealing credit cards and cash from unwitting shoppers across Michigan.

Maybe T-Baby's refrain wasn't so simple-minded after all. How the F&^% are they 'posed to keep peace when even the old broads are scamming folks?





*a new holiday I just made up. You can celebrate, too, by being remarkably self-centered, staying out past 10pm, and nurturing your dreams.

^I don't actually know what a hippocampus is.

I Am a Hot Mess

No, really. I'm sweating profusely and apparently have been running around with a fever of 101 for over 24 hours. I swear, I'm ridiculous. I don't know how I make it through this world. I'm so cracked out, it's a wonder that walls don't catch me off guard. I imagine this is what Snooki must feel like whenever she looks at her picture in a magazine.

"Um, what are you talking about, Blacktress?" you may asking yourself. Let me explain:

I started feeling a bit rundown on Friday, but chalked it up to a "vacation" spent in the D, and a hard-core work week. Saturday night I was feeling so rough that I stayed in the house. At the time, I was watching a marathon session of "Private Practice" online, so naturally, my first guess was a brain tumor. After all, that would explain why I was both dizzy and crying profusely. Jewboo came over really late that night, and even at 2am, I was still unable to sleep, as no amount of Advil or Sudafed would take away the pain and confusion.

Sunday was a fog, but I met with my comedy gals and met up with Jewboo at a friend's birthday party. As we grabbed dinner, I found myself oddly full after eating a turkey burger and fries. Gentle readers, my stomach is often a bottomless pit, and this was no NYC-diner-sized burger. The fact that I was stuffed should have been my first sign--well, the third, after the searing pain and dizziness.

When we got to the karaoke party, I was feeling less than fabulous, and within minutes I was totally sweating like Whitney Houston.

Whitney needs to change the lyrics to "IIIII-EEEE-IIIIIIII will always love A COOL TOWEL....."

Guys, it's a blustery 19 degrees with a wind chill in NYC, and this Sunday night karaoke party wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. There was no need for me to be sweatin' like a ho in church.

When I wasn't able to sleep last night and the pain still hadn't subsided, I decided to call up a professional. I got an appointment for 6pm tonight, and it went something like this:

Dr. Enghart: What brings you here today?
Me: Well, it really went off and poppin' on Saturday night. It started out as pain--
Dr. E: What do you mean, "popping"?
Me: Oh, sorry. I mean, it all started on Saturday night. So, I started by feeling pain in my neck, but what was weird was that when my head would pound, I'd feel it in the back of my skull and my brow bone. Is that strange? Am I making sense.
Dr. E (typing intently as I speak, staring at his computer): Yes, yes. Have you had a fever?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Dr. E: How's your appetite?
Me: I ate a really small burger yesterday, which was worrisome.
[A beat. Dr. E doesn't say anything for a few moments.]
Dr. E: Okay, why don't you get up on the bench and let's take a look.
[He pokes the mini flashlight-thing in my ears, nose, and throat. Uncomfortable with the silence, and feeling as though I need to prove my right to pay him $30 to tell me I have a sinus infection, I start babbling.]
Me: I know it hasn't been many days, but I'm not really a headache person. I also don't get dizziness, and I don't have winter allergies, and it's so much pressure, I figure it must be a sinus thing.
Dr. E: And you said you didn't have a fever?
Me: No
[He sticks a thermometer in my ear. It beeps in 30 seconds]
Dr. E: 101.3
[He looks at me, unsure of how a grown-ass woman such as myself could not only not know she had a fever, but could be standing and blabbing with such a high temperature.]
Me: I guess I have the vapors!
[He doesn't laugh]
Me: Actually, I did notice I had been sweating a lot.

He does not respond.

Me: So, does that mean I shouldn't do my Jillian Michaels twenty-six-minute metabolism-boosting workout for the next few days?
Dr. E: No, you shouldn't.

I get off the exam table and he proceeds to write out several prescriptions, most of which are for OTC products from Whole Paycheck--I mean, Whole Foods. Homey had me get a neti pot and some spicy nasal spray, and I looked at the paper like Nicholas Cage in Knowing, and he wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic (I sweat just like Whitney, and also share her preference for a medicinal cure). With a high-dose pill waiting to be picked up, I felt a lot more confident in his skills.

So, now I'm at home, beginning my evening cocktail of pills: antibiotic, sinus spray, homeopathic sinus pills, advil PM, and then my evening antidepressant--you know, just for good measure.

I'm gonna rest up so that I'm somewhat fresh before tomorrow night's commercial class. How fitting that, after 2 hours of trying to sell the relief of sinus pain and pressure, I'd suffer from my own sinus oppression. Irony.