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!

Hot Off the Presses!

I’m not the most topical of bloggers, but every now and then a breaking news item catches my eye and I just have to share. Today is, in the words of Monica, just one of dem days. We all know European news is the best, because the history of colonialism have made Europeans impervious to political correctness and therefore filled with more truthiness. Add to that their love for all things random and you’ve got today’s best news:

Burly rugby player has a stroke after freak gym accident… wakes up gay and becomes a hairdresser.
Yes, yes he did.

While training at the gym* on a typical day in 2005, young beefcake Chris Birch suffered a stroke after “trying to impress his friends with a back flip but broke his neck.” When he emerged from surgery he woke up a changed--and gay--man.

I love this pose—they’ve made him pose like a superhero. A really hip, punk, fierce superhero who uses the powers of blow drying to rid the world of dull, lifeless hair.

According to the UK journalist who broke the story, “Stroke association spokesman Joe Korner said: 'Strokes can have a big effect on individuals and lead to personality changes.’” Okay, that doesn't sound all that cray cray, but, um, stroke association? Is that what it’s called? Which association and where is it located? I feel like they needed to do a bit of fact checking.

Wait, I just checked. Yep, it's called The Stroke Association. Man, that's why I love the Commonwealth--they keep it simple. It's like Australia's attempt to acknowledge their colonization, killing, and enslavement of Aboriginal people with their yearly "Sorry Day."

Yes, that's what it's called.

Anyhoozle, just wanted to share that with you. This is just great!! How much do you want to be a part of their relationship?

They should form a British version of Blink-182.

*(Surprise, surprise--how many times have we said male sports were homosocial?)

Workplace Dynamics in a Post-Racial America

Guys, my boss won’t stop calling me “Ebony Beyond" and it's getting annoying.

Wait, have I not told you about this?

So, last week he was in a friendly mood and we were discussing drag names. [By “discussing,” I mean he was standing by my desk (cheating out, of course) but talking loudly enough that the whole office could hear him.] We went on a tangent about Bette Davis, during which I said, “If I was a drag queen, I’d totally be Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, all haggard and tragic and living in the past.” To this, massa replied, “No, your drag name would be Ebony Beyond,” before walking back down to his office.

(You know a former drag queen always knows to exit on a laugh line.)

It was funny at the time and maybe even amazing. I felt as though I’d been knighted, a la Judy Dench. We had a laugh about it the next day, and that was that.
Or so I thought.

Two days later, Massa began addressing me as “Ebony Beyond” in all email correspondence. At worst, it's a serious HR violation and I could sue the company for enough money to fund my dreams; at best, it's awkward. Here are some examples.* All of them have been copied and pasted directly, with no editing.:
I got to work (late) this morning and had this email waiting for me:
Hey Ebony---Do you have contact info handy for [so-and-so]?

[When I assured him I'd be able to get some information from an contributor, even though the contrib was being difficult, he gave the following reply.]
Ok---if anybody can reign ‘em in its Ebony Beyond Belief

And this one just takes the cake. The matter-of-factness with which he calls me Ebony and uses text-message language is just out of control.:
Ebony--- think we are covered—thanks though for jumping in. BTW are you thinking to revisit some of these artists in the subsequent issues—they seen deserving of additional coverage—esp the one you sent yesterday—omg hipster wc—who would have thunk it!

Um, did my massa write “omg” in business-related correspondence? I swear, this is the same one who will give you dagger eyes if you disagree with him in public. I feel like I work for Demi Lovato. I need to call up Obama at the UN and tell him what's going on--he'd have me sitting on a settlement in no time.

I guess I should be glad I have a nickname because it means I'm in massa's good graces. I got to work 2 hours late this morning because of a--you guessed it--doctor's appointment. I've been having back spasms and extreme pain that was so bad that I couldn't sleep at all on Monday night. And I don't mean "I didn't sleep at all" in a I-slept-but-tossed-and-turned-and-woke-up-a-few-times way. I mean I straight-up laid still on an incline and tried to stop the pain from shooting down my arm as I watched 1995 hit film Masterminds (Vincent Kartheiser's best work) and a portion of Terminator 3 (it just made my back hurt even more). It even hurt to lay down. Y'all, when it hurts to be lazy, you know something up!

At this morning's appointment I learned that my back muscles are so hard they're practically calcified. When the doctor touched my shoulders, she actually jumped back a bit and furrowed her brow, like she was in a scene from Aliens and a creature was gonna pop out. Good news: I got muscle relaxants. Bad news: I'll never leave the house again.

*I never thought I’d see the day when I’d search for “Ebony” in my Outlook inbox.

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!

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.

Post-Racial What-WHAT?!

Y'all, have you heard this news:

A Nigerian Couple gave birth to a White baby!!!

No, y'all, the baby is NOT albino.
The baby is not "just light-skinned-ed-ed."

Baby is straight up Caucasian--and momma said she wasn't with the milkman!!!

Dude, this is cray cray! This Obama at work!! HE IS BLOWING OUR MINDS!!!


If this doesn't prove that race is a social construct, I don't know what does. I can't wait for the Discovery Channel documentary on her--or when homegirl gets a book deal!