Tag Archives: mental weirdness

No End to the Colitis

And the drugs make me more okay with that than I should be.

After two weeks on lower than the usually-given doses of prednisone, I’m feeling much better. My liver is mostly back to normal too. Unfortunately, my intestines are not. Because the lower dose hasn’t cleared up the colitis, on Tuesday my doctor decided it was time to bump me up to the full dose. (He was being optimistic and hoped I could get away without it.)

So, as of yesterday, I’m steroided-up, plus taking pills to control the side effects of that (pills to decrease the strength of my stomach acid and massive antibiotics). Hopefully, this will do the trick quickly.

In the meantime, I’m very calm and chill about all of this. Apparently, I’m among the minority of people who have an unusual reaction to prednisone. For most people, it winds them up, heightens anxiety, and provides lots of energy. For me? I’m super mellow, unfazed by pretty much everything to the point where I don’t feel safe driving long distances or in heavy traffic. It’s rather a pity because I was warned prednisone would make me want to scrub the house from top to bottom, and I was looking forward to the motivation. Instead, I’m smiling at dust bunnies and thinking how cute they are. This is probably better for my mental health because otherwise I’d be stressed about the colitis.

Six Reasons To Celebrate Having Half A Working Face

I can’t laugh. Or smile really. Well, I can but it feels weird and probably looks weirder. But I still have to make fun of my situation because it’s either that or mindless rage, and mindless rage will only get you so far. So here I go.

Top 6 Reasons Why Half A Working Face Isn’t All Bad

6. I should be able to get half off any Botox injections.

5. My jaw hurts if I speak too much so I now have a socially acceptable reason to not talk to people.

4. Everyday can be Talk Like a Pirate Day when you have a good excuse for wearing an eye patch.

3. Since I can now raise one eyebrow independently of the other, I could be the main character in a YA novel.

2. Not even Alan Rickman can sneer as well as I do.

1. Everyday I suffer, I know I’m still alive.

An Ode to My Soon to Be Departed Left Ear

When it comes to left ears, you’ve always been (p)earless.
In the face of Betty’s attack, you’ve always stayed (f)earless.
So rather than mourn you, I celebrate and stay (t)earless.
And never, my dear, will I remember you (ch)earless.

Alas, prior to surgery I must remain (b)earless,
So empty is the glass I raise to you, (d)earest.


What do you want? I never claimed to be Shakespeare.

left ear

Planning the Unknown

Brief update: Insurance approved my CT scan, so tomorrow I get to be injected with radioactive dye, then I have a hearing test. Bring on the fun!

My editor emailed me the other day about some marketing strategies to consider for the release of the next book in my urban fantasy series. And while I’m considering her suggestions, I can’t silence the nagging voice in the back of my head (or is it in my ear?) that whispers: “What’s the point? Should you really be concerned with selling books under the circumstances?”

I hate that voice. It’s the same voice that asks me why I would consider replacing my shoes that are falling apart with new ones when who knows how much more walking I’ll be doing anyway, and how I dare I be so stupid as to consider writing a new series when I might not be around long enough to finish it.

I hate that voice because I realize some of the things it tells me are just good sense.

But it’s also a terrible way to live.

Mostly, I’ve been trying to carry on as much like normal as possible. I can’t go around constantly imaging Betty’s swinging a pendulum over my head and that every day it’s getting closer. (Honestly, I have no idea if that Poe reference is appropriate here, but I blame my mother for letting me listen to Poe stories at a very young and impressionable age for why that’s the image that came to mind.)

It’s not as though the doctors have told me I have X amount of months left to live. No one has yet suggested I start reading up on estate planning. (I feel silly even typing that.) And yet, I feel the need to be realistic and practical. Actually, it’s not a need. It’s who I am, and I can’t change my personality.

So when does realistic interfere with normal? And when do those options collide with the opposite end of the spectrum? The voice that tells me: “Go on and eat another brownie, buy the damn shoes, live it up while you can!”

Every decision becomes a philosophical debate in my head.