One More Week

One more week and I will finally see the rheumatogolist.

One more week and perhaps maybe a little more light will be shed on whatever the heck is going on in this crazy 5 ft. 3.5 in. body of mine.

I've been counting down the days for nearly two months.

(I would insert a rant regarding big business in the health care industry and it's contribution to this extended time of circling around in a holding pattern, but I won't. Not today, anyway.)

Today. I went to see my doctor for a stupid UTI, of all things. Conclusion: Megan doesn't drink enough water. I, for the life of me, can't figure out why I have a significant, reoccurring issue with consuming H2O. But, there you have it. So, this afternoon I've resorted to tricking my brain to drink it by imagining the little water molecules and their journey through my body. I imagine each of the molecules having little watering cans full of smaller versions of themselves approaching every cell and sprinkling them with a bit of their love. Yea. Let's see how long that trickery works.

However, the reason I'm bringing up this, dear I say, yucky topic is because the doctor said something interesting in that she believed this dreaded UTI may have something to do with the significant increase in pain I've had the last couple weeks. I guess my body only has so many little army dudes running around so whenever the infection started some resources had to be reallocated thus taking away from the troops battling my pain/inflammation.

(BTW, I see many comparisons between the immune system of human bodies and the U.S. Government, but, let us not digress.)

She also seemed optimistic and took my rogue tears in stride whilst spouting words of encouragement that the rheumatologist will help us get things figured out with an appropriate plan of action.

I have to trust this.

I have to believe that some course of action will get me up and moving normally again.

Until then, I will just keep rereading Joe Rizzo's words of encouragement and follow it with my rally cry.

I am Megan effin' Nashvegas, dammit! RAWR!!!!

The Kinks - "Tired of Waiting for You"

You have what?

People ask questions because I'm hobbling around.

Some I shrug off with what has become my favorite response, "Oh, you know...I turn 30 and suddenly it all just starts breaking down on me, am I right!?! *awkward giggle*"

I feign humor and shrug it off because it's much easier then saying, "I have the human parvovirus (B19)..."

"You have WHAT!? I thought only dogs got that!?"

Or, they sort of back away with this fearful look in their eye as if the virus will lunge out of me and swan dive into their bodies.

These responses are my reasoning behind this blog and sharing some of my very personal details with all of you. No one really understands what it is because no one has ever heard of it. Why is this?

Parvo (as I will now start referring to it as from here on out since you know I'm now discussing the human version, however, feel free to still picture me as a scared pitbull you found behind the dumpster) is actually far more common than you think. How can that be? Because those of us lucky enough to not get over the virus in a few weeks, develop symptoms that become diagnosed by doctors as something else.

Lupus.

Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA).

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

Fybromyalgia.

We all know someone with the above, or have at least heard the names. Interestingly enough, some of the studies I've read show that many people with RA test positive for parvo.

And, yes. This scares the hell out of me. The unknown of where this is going makes me want to hide away in a cave with a barrel of bourbon (I'd also grow a gnarly beard just for the effect, if it were at all possible.) This blog is my way of working through it. My current bodily shortcomings are constantly on my mind distracting me from everything amazing in life. I'm hoping that dumping it all here for whoever gives a damn to read will help.

Trust me. I know there are worse things that I could have and I deal with that guilt of letting this thing bring me down so much as well. I know so many other things can be wrong in my life. But this IS what is wrong in my life. This is my lot. Here is me owning it.

Enjoy this tune. Ralph McTell - "Streets of London"

Where's My Punk Spirit?

I'm starting this with selfish intentions. I need an outlet to bitch. I need an outlet to moan and whinge and *insert other verbs for spouting words of the "woe is me" nature*

I have been diagnosed with the human parvovirus (B19). No, it's not like the parvo of stray dogs although if that will help you remember, then, please, by all means, go to town on the imagery. It's the same virus referred to as "Fifth Disease" or "Slap-Cheek Syndrome" in children. How do you get it? The same way you get most germs... kids' boogers on door handles, someone sneezing in your face, etc.

It started with fatigue and a random fever lasting a few days. A day after, I broke out in a rash all over my body that I quickly explained away with stress, despite the fact that I had never experienced a stress-induced rash before. Ultimately, the virus has transitioned into pain. Lots of it. It started with my feet feeling the bottoms were bruised when I walked because they were so inflamed. Since then, the symptoms have moved to my hands, knees, part of my spine, shoulders... Three months after my doctor conducted blood work and diagnosed me with an offhand comment, "Oh, this will pass in a few weeks..." Four months after the initial onset, I'm feeling worse than ever.

I cry.

A lot.

My days have been altered significantly beginning with the very simple act of putting my feet on the floor and standing up out of bed followed with the dreaded task of convincing myself to take a step forward. Simple acts we take for granted every single day have completely different meanings to me now.

I now understand the need for shoehorns and have added it to my list: Swollen feet plus slip on shoes plus fingers the bloody hurt too much to help pull the damn things on. Yea. Shoehorn. I need one.

Belt loops! How did I ever pull the jeans over my lovely booty before without hooking my finger into the belt loop!?

Asking a friend to open my twist-top beverages...

Requesting for my husband to offer his assistance so I can get up off the ground...

Forget about all the words I say in the shower as I attempt to squeeze shampoo into my hand, or get face wash out of a bottle that was made with, what seems to my hands, titanium...

..and the commentary. I know people mean well. I know they voice things out of concern. Yes, I AM walking slow and stiff today. No, I do not feel good. Now, please excuse me so I may shed these few tears somewhere private that have sprouted out of nowhere.

I will find a way to carry on without so much of this feeling sorry for myself. I know this.

I think I'm still in a grieving period for the healthy body that I was terribly critical of before (Sorry, body! You really are beautiful!)

I'm closing this first entry with a link to the song inspiring the title of the blog. I sing the chorus when I'm feeling especially candy-assy...

"Where's my punk spirit?"

Cheers, lovelies.