This is (Probably) Your Brain on Drugs

The key to becoming a master writer?
Hemingway: Writing drunk and editing sober.

Upon hearing this, the glowing bits in my liver were like:
- HA HA!
- Sucks to suck

...among other things, because I am sure they are sentient beings and can like, talk and stuff.

But I now realize I don't need to drink, because I am in a state of perpetual confusion! Prescription pain killers: the pregame of choice!!! I now get to double up on the fun because my doctors pity me and I admitted to feeling anxious over having to take Vicodin every 4 hours because that is hardly enough time for a good nap or to forget one is about to be in pain. So, now we have a once-every-12-hour "base" of Oxy and the occasional Vicodin.
I have gone from 0 to Real Housewives of Orange County in a matter of days. Truly impressive.

Once upon a time, I could say: All I need in life is Gatorade and Tylenol. Then it became: I run on Gatorade and Vicodin. Now it would be most accurate to say: In my bloodstream one will find Gatorade and (insert any narcotic Prep school boys snort in the locker room). Oh, and pita chips.

Oh lord, I cannot think. I just want to make weird sounds, roll over, and take another nap because really what else am I capable of these days? I must say I have become fantastic at napping, sweating, and "totally not crying" as in "I am totally not crying during 'Prince of Egypt' because of my newfound narcotics-inspired appreciation for music". I don't know why people take painkillers when they're not supposed to because I actually feel crazy. Maybe I am just a "high functioning crazy".
I should not give myself too much credit. We will go with "functioning crazy".

Lately I've been giving myself points for interacting with human brings outside of the house. This requires me to actually leave the house, so... fuck? Is it socially acceptable to walk around in a blanket as Linus so artfully did? I don't want to be a style-biter or worse, bullied by a tyrannical 9-year-old girl with a bad haircut.
These are the things I concern myself with.

Back to the point system -- Doctors and hospital staff aren't supposed to count but today I've decided that they do because my doctor and nurse told me they loved me in two separate instances. I don't know if it was to see if they could get a react out of me, drug zombie, or I am actually in a relationship with my hospital as I've suspected all along. It would make sense, as I've felt guilty "cheating" on hospital with the other hospitals I've been visiting.

If people can fall in love with ostriches and mailboxes, surely I can be in a relationship with my hospital? Let's not even explore the logistics of that as I've already carried this a bit too far for my liking.
Besides, I'm only back at my hospital to do screening tests for a clinical trial I'm ditching it for next week (hopefully). And get more drugzz, obviously.
The screening tests cover a host of things, but they're mostly concerned with how not pregnant I am. Under the clinical trial's exclusions, amidst all the blood, goo, heart, mind specifics that can disqualify a person, for those who still have some shred of a uterus one must be really, really unpregnant. If there are degrees of "not being pregnant", clinical trial patients should be on the "vagina dentate" end of the spectrum.
Me, clueless, is all: So uhmmm, do I just pick up a pregnancy test?
...Because I have long awaited the day my mother and I would go pregnancy test shopping together.
*drinks bleach*
Clinical trial facilitator: Uh, no.
She informed me I had to go to "legitimate testing center" where they send the requesting facility a report indicating if the eggo is in fact, preggo.

Unfortunately, the testing center we went to was run by a woman who, even after being corrected multiple times, was convinced I was born in 1998. So I am a little bit worried about the results getting...anywhere. Or getting a call from child services. Fortunately the other tests are being handled at a facility where the receptionists have proven themselves capable of entering numbers/can read and stuff.

Things are looking up.

Vicodin Consulting

I write to you in fever and Vicodin haze. 


It seems things have taken a turn for the worse since I've last posted, as my mutant inhabitants have rendered me (at times) incapacitated, writhing in pain, calling out for some god, spirit, cereal mascot to intervene. The pharmaceutical gods have smiled on me, however, and now I get Vicodin!! 

I have also tapped into the alternative medicine font for pain relief. I am always amazed by the ability of properly placed acupuncture needle to reduce pain; the ability of peppermint oil to cool fever heat. Apparently, acetaminophen can be harmful to the liver in large doses! Which is super, not just because of the whole "my liver is already fucked" thing, but because I will probably be on some form of the drug for at least a month or two as I wait for a clinical trial spot to open up, which happens when they kill off a patient or see a cohort (group of patients) through a full treatment cycle. Of course I was not informed of this by my oncologist, who prescribed the acetaminophen, because he really likes for me to learn things on my own. Or at least that is what I tell myself.

...to convince myself he still possesses some iota of usefulness as I attempt to finagle a treatment plan with the combined efforts of my family and friends. 
So anyway, some creativity is needed on the pain relief front.

In order to circumvent the lack of guidance in this whole "finding a clinical trial so my tumors shrink and I do not die" thing, I have transformed myself into a clinical trial consultant. The job, like so many other glamorous consulting gigs, has a large travel component -- involving flying around the country to less-than-desirable locations to conduct industry research and facilitate deals. By "conducting industry research", I mean determining whether any of the information provided before the visit via phone, email, idiot nurse or clinicaltrial.gov posting is at all factual or rooted in reality. By "facilitating deals", I mean pitching my disease profile to oncologists while not-so-subtly begging them to test unproven toxic chemicals on my person. Unlike most top consulting firms, company X ("my body") provides no training or any actual benefits. Though company X's clinical trial team promises to cover all the bases of a proper consulting experience: schmoozing, analysis, long hours, and pretending I can solve complex problems in front of others. 

Tomorrow I arrive in the culinary capital of the world: Rochester, Minnesota. Frequent guests of the hotel I'm staying at boast proximity to the very best in Midwestern fine dining. This apparently refers to the Red Lobster and Olive Garden in the neighboring strip mall. 

This is of course assuming I even make it to the hotel in question, as I managed to book a flight on what is probably the only airline in history to receive multiple 'zero out of ten' customer reviews. This is all because I insisted on a direct flight, as any less time I can spend not catching pneumonia in a freezing cold cabin with wheezing old men is worthwhile. Side note: fevers are wildly useful if you find yourself in need of a makeshift radiator when dealing with what can only be the airline's best take on an adventure in Antarctica. There is some sweating involved, but I am told sweaty is the new "not sweaty", so ..

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I meant to update sooner, but waking up around 5:30 every morning to writhe, cry, take drugs, and pray for some medically induced coma to befall me until I get into a clinical trial has a less than positive impact on one's ability to focus. I learn something new every day! If all goes well, you will have another Vicodin-fueled post coming at you soon. 

To tide you over, I'll leave you with some highlights of my Ohio trip:

sticky-handed oncologists, naps on stone slabs, and a pizza guy with an affinity for left-handers. yow-za.