H’okay, so. It seems that ever since I started taking Ortho-Cyclen, my moods had greatly improved during the three weeks of pillnommin’. More high-spirited than usual, skipping around all tra-la-la like, and everything was good. Better than usual. But then on the off week, I would always take a total nose-dive and be highly irritable, crying, screaming, depressed and all sorts of nasty things. I didn’t notice how serious it was, or that it even was cyclical, until Kev moved in and I started paying more attention to my behaviour. After our most recent blow-up event, I realized that it happens every single time. Not PMS or PMDD, because it doesn’t “fade shortly before your period”, but started as soon as my progesterone dropped low enough to start insulting my uterus’ interior decorator.

I decided that I’d try a little experiment this month, and just not go off the pill at all. And so far, it seems to be working. Not being a totally raging hormonal bitch, AND helping to save our environment by not littering landfills with feminine hygiene products? Pretty sweet. Getting cancer because I of taking birth control nonstop? Yeah, well, who needed a uterus anyway? To the garbage heap with that worthless POS!

Now, it makes me wonder. I reckon this little experiment is suggestive that I will be a wonderful, happy, bubbly Miss Optimistic sort of person should I ever find myself in a knocked-up state. The post-partum depression is going to fucking kill me, though. So no screaming hellspawn until I can afford a full-time, live-in nanny for the first two or three months. I hope she cooks and cleans. I’d like that.

Tuesday: I was grocery shopping, trying to be ever-mindful of healthy options (cos of getting FAT), when I saw that naked tilapia filets were on sale.  I made a mad dash to the freezer, slamming the end of my foot into the side of the shopping cart wheel.  I hit the floor and stay there for five minutes, then hobble to the check-out line, where I collapse again under waves of nausea.  Get checked out, then wheeled out to the car.  Few hours later, after the screaming pain didn’t subside, I went to the ER for an xray.  Nothing was broken, but I am afraid I just might lose a toenail over the whole ordeal.

Wednesday: Skip class cos of walking hurts like a bitch.

Thursday: Go to class.  Hobble around campus, slowly, because none of the fucking busses are stopping for Lil Miss Bum-Foot.  It only hurts if I step the wrong way (which I do often), but it could be worse.

Friday: Nursing a hangover most of the morning.  The rest of the day is uneventful.

Saturday: Now that my foot feels better, I decide to try out my new bike (bought for health reasons, cos of getting fat).  I hop on, and I don’t even make it past the house because a rather comical display of stupidity and shoddy workmanship.  I lose my balance, so I pedal to try and balance again, but the chain slipped off the gears and I lose control, crashing into an embankment and twisting my ankle with a loud POPPOPPOP on the way down.  Lucky for me, I didn’t make it far from the house so my screaming was easily heard.  Bike was thrown into the truck unceremoniously, and I hobbled over and slide in the front seat, and head over to the ER.  Again.  For the second time this week.  For the same goddamned foot.  ARRGH.

Good news, it isn’t broken, according to the ER doc.  Which surprises the hell out of me, with all the noise it made.  Just not allowed to put any weight on it for about five days.  Which is good, because I can’t.  Thank goodness Dad had some crutches hiding in the garage.  I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do about class next week, seeing as if I can’t use crutches well.  I can get around the house just fine, but trying to do all the walking I do campus on crutches is a good way to make yet another trip to the ER for a sprained wrist on top of everything else.  Arrgh.

We’ll see how tomorrow goes.  See if I can stay out of trouble… hah.

One of the many benefits of student life at the University of Kentucky is the fact that basic healthcare is free.  Oh no, they don’t give you a choice.  They take your tuition first, and then say “Oh, by the way, you get thisnthisnthis”.  Which is pretty cool if you use it.  One of these days I will actually use the Johnson Centre.  One of these days.  Maybe quite a bit, if I’m allowed to sneak Kevbo in with me.

So it’s getting close to time where I should have my annual pipe-checking event.  Dial up the clinic, get an appointment in great time (less than a week, and not because they didn’t have earlier spots).  Sweet.  I’m set.

Go in today, and I find out my doctor is some T. Dale dude.  Didn’t think anything of it until the nurse mentioned that he used to work at the hospital down in Cynthiana.  “Oh,” I think.  “I wonder if that’s…”  and then he walks in.  And wouldn’t you know it?  I know the guy.  And this is a guy I vowed to punch in the face the next time I saw him (not expecting to really see him again).  See, the burning hatred stems from the time I put my hand through a window and nearly severed the tendon on my right index finger.  I go into the ER, and instead of doing what a SMRAT doctor would do (which would be sending me straight to some specialists in Lexington), Dr Dale decides he can stitch it up himself and all will be fine.  But all wasn’t fine! Oh no!  I have a horrible sunken-assed scar that, eleven years later, still hurts like a motherfucker if I even just think about it.  Seriously, you don’t even have to touch it to make it scream.  It hurts just to think about.  As a matter of fact, I feel like gnawing my knuckle off as we speak.

The good news is, I didn’t punch him in the face.  The bad news is… I didn’t punch him in the face.  But I guess I figured out why he did a shitty job on my hand.  Maybe he just wasn’t used to working on that end.  *ting!*

Haha, wow.  Hello, world.  Did you enjoy reading that??  *freak*

Fair, productive day so far.  I have my paper for tomorrow almost finished… just need to wrap up the ending and clean up the edges to make sure it doesn’t sound like a retarded seventh-grader wrote it (which is about how I feel right now, and not for lack of self-esteem… just out of sheer exhaustion).  Then to just get caught up on my German.  Half ugh, half yay.  I still rather enjoy it, but for the life of me, I can’t remember any of the fucking verbs.  I think, should I ever attempt a trip to  Germany or Austria, I’ll just resign myself to being the idiot that says weird shit like “me plate” and “you car?”

At least I can sound like a proper caveman.  Can you imagine if I said “I plate”?  Pah!

Anyway, I failed to mention last night that Dad is back home, because I was freakin’ tired.  I twittered it, though, so you can’t say you weren’t informed… you can only say “I didn’t look hard enough for the information.”  So take that.  But yes, Dad is home, and sore, but I’m happy to have him back to Diddly-Dadding around.

Now I guess I should actually start working on that homework I was talking about.  But not before “wow”ing over how amazing it is to feel so loved by such a wonderful manboy.  Sometimes I get so happy I could barf.  And I hope it’s not like, barf barf.  I would think love-barf should be made of glitter and roses.  But I don’t think glitter is something a body synthesises.  Maybe roses, if you’re a vessel for the Holy Virgin, but glitter?  Nah.  I digress!  No one has brought me such happiness, fulfillment, and contentment before.  It’d almost be like ‘peace’ were it not for us both being kind of childishly chaotic.  I think it’s as close to ‘peace’ as either of us will ever get.  And it’s pretty damned nice.

Yesterday afternoon and evening were a bit better.  Dad was very much dad-like again, which is always a comfort.  And according to Mom, who wrote me a nice note before crashing out to catch some sleep, his night went much better as well. He slept more easily, and for longer stretches of time, and his respiration stayed in a good level.  She’s confident enough to try and work tonight… good deal, considering yesterday morning she was thinking of taking a leave of absence to keep a closer eye on him.  He should be able to come home Monday as planned.

Wish I could say the same for my night.  I came home, sat in the car for a while, left again, came back, had a beer, and then had a mild panic attack.  Which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing had I not been on the phone at the time.  I needed the release, without worrying about reigning it in for the benefit of party-two.  He wanted to stay on the phone with me.  I got nagged about hanging up, he wanted to stay that much.  I guess that should be a comfort, but… I don’t know.  There’s a very, very delicate balance between “leave me the fuck alone” and “please don’t go”.  A sort of, please be there, allow me the comfort of knowing you’re there, but don’t be so present that I should worry about what you’re thinking when I need to worry about calming myself down.  I guess it’ll take some practice.

After that episode, and after I had fully recovered (took about an hour?), the night went alright.  Still feeling a bit overwhelmed by this whole mess of life, but the worst of it has been expelled.  Like having a zit on yer ass, I reckon.  The pressure is off but it’s still going to hurt for a bit.

In other news, thanks to Kev’s inquisitiveness, I found out that Peter Heppner has indeed released his solo effort, imaginatively titled “Solo”.  International release dates are, unfortunately, still being negotiated.  But with the glory of the Inter-tube, who needs international release dates?  Soulseek to the rescue!  It’s not as great as Wolfsheim — only a few songs pack a somewhat similar sort of punch — but it’s still pretty good.  ‘Alleinesein’ was probably his best choice for a debut single, and definitely my favourite.  ‘No Matter What It Takes’ is also pretty striking.  The rest?  Well, it’s going to take some time to bond with.

To those who commented on LJ, thanks for your words.  Your thoughts and prayers mean a lot   Now, if you have a weak stomach, you probably ought to think on not reading this.

Dad went into surgery this afternoon as I was out gathering overnight-supplies and running other general errands.  Rushed to finish everything up as quickly as possible so I could meet back up with Mom.  So we sat.  And sat.  And munched the little bit of protein I brought up.  And sat.  TV. Sat.  Wait.  The surgery lasted nearly four hours, which is pretty freaking insane for a laproscopic procedure.  But well, the doc did say it was quite possibly the worst gallbladder he had ever seen.  Full of rocks, pus, infection, nasty, and all sorts of fun… which burst as they were pulling it through one of the incisions.  So they spent a good hour, hour and a half, flushing out the infected-explosion.

But he came out and went back to his regular room on second floor.  He’s looking good, in a lot of ways.  All should be clear, but there is still the chance that they didn’t get everything all flushed, so they’re probably going to keep him til Sunday so they can closely monitor him and drop the big-shit antibiotics.

And nowww… I think I’m going to get some solid food, a nice stiff drink to settle my nerves, and start looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

Dad went in for his scan today… got all prepped up and, well, didn’t get the scan cos of turning green-to-white with every shade in between, and nearly hitting the floor.  He was taken over to the ER, where he had a CT scan, which showed that yep, it is his gallbladder, and it’s chock full o’ rocks.  Then there’s the persistent fever he’s had since last night on top of that, meaning infection.  I overheard his Doc saying his abdomen was “red hot”, IE, on the precipice of getting critical.  On the one hand, I’m not worried much, because I’ve been-there and done-that already, narrowly missing the complication of pancreatitis.  On the other hand, Mom is worried.  And that worries me.