Oh, my life is so exciting.
I hiked out to the hospital three times this week. Three. First to see a specialist in “osteoporosis and metabolic bone disease,” who didn’t seem to understand that I am less than fond of the location of said hospital, considering it’s a mile away from the nearest subway station (“You’re a runner, and you’re complaining about a mile?” Well, yeah, if I were in a position to run, a mile wouldn’t be a big deal, but if I were in a position to run, then I wouldn’t be here); then to get an X-ray of my hand to determine my bone age (as in: whether or not I am done growing… I should hope so), blood test, and find out that I had to do another 24-hour urine collection, which I just did two weeks ago, and I wanted to scream and cry when I heard that I was supposed to do another one; and then to go back to Dr. Tissues, who wouldn’t review my test results over the phone.
I’ve lost count of the number of labs and diagnostic tests I’ve had done since these stupid fractures happened. And the main reason why I don’t just say what the hell, who needs this is because for things like that, my insurance company has to pay, but I don’t. And my premiums and co-pays are so outrageously high that I figure they ought to foot the bill for something!
Anyway, the visit with Dr. Tissues didn’t really tell me much I didn’t already know, or at least, nothing that I didn’t know which I really needed to know. I have osteoporosis — major surprise there. I have a “borderline intraventricular conduction delay,” but apparently that’s just because I generally have a low heart rate and it is not a big deal, or harmful.
Oh, and I’m evidently anemic. Which is new, since I do get regular blood tests for my endocrinologist, and I’ve never been iron-deficient before, but this would explain why I’m so tired all the time. Coupled with the fact that I have forgotten how to sleep like a semi-normal human being, since depression does that to me.
Allow me to explain the difference between negativity and depression: I am generally not an optimist, but I wouldn’t call myself a pessimist, either. I am cynical, yes; I am snarky, yes. But that’s situational. I might get upset at something, get over it, and move on with my life. Depression is different in that it’s all-encompassing — no matter what I do or how, it follows me everywhere. It sort of makes me feel like finding a speeding train in front of which to jump, except that with my luck, I wouldn’t die, I’d end up paraplegic… which would put me in exactly the same situation I’m already in, only magnified by ten thousand.
Of course, since I’m so sick and tired of pretending I’m okay with this when I’m not, I actually told my therapist that little tidbit about the speeding train. (Although, if I want to find a speeding train, I’m in the wrong city.) Her solution: anti-depressants! Of course. You know, I really don’t think the situation is as complicated as she’s making it out to be: I am depressed because I can’t run. Messing around with my brain chemistry won’t change that.
And if one more person tells me that it’s not a good thing for me to use running as a drug, I’m going to lose it. Would they rather I use actual drugs?! (This whole anti-depressant pushing thing has me thinking the answer to that might be yes…) I mean, seriously. Everyone needs some sort of outlet. And as far as addictions go, this isn’t a bad one to have.
Unless you’re forced to turn into a couch potato. And are having everyone look at you as just an anorectic, which is so incredibly frustrating because even at my very worst, I never, ever wanted to identify myself that way… but I can’t seem to get away from it.
Maybe I should take up drinking. Hey, I’d gain weight from it, and then maybe everyone will leave me alone! Win-win!
About that dinner my friend wanted me to attend? Did not happen. For me, anyway; I just couldn’t face it. Not so much because of the food aspect, but because of the social aspect. Apparently, though, she really desired my company, which is bizarre, so we went to paint some pottery. To be honest, I didn’t want to go there, either, but it was kind of nice. It was just the two of us, so it wasn’t overly stressful the way it would have been with a whole big group. But I don’t think people with perfectionistic tendencies should paint pottery — I just know that when I get it back after it’s done being fired, I’m going to find a flaw that will drive me berserk every time I look at it!
So, yeah. That is my exciting life. I know, I know. I hate me, too.