ADD and Me

I should be somewhere else doing something else but I’m afraid that if I don’t write this down right now, I’ll forget. Again.

I see a neuropsychiatrist for migraine management. This particular practice deals primarily in head trauma and ADD/ADHD, but they’ll work with migraineurs as well and I happened to know a number of the folks there, including one of the doctors, through proximity in my former office complex, so they see me.

Dr. G. develops his own testing models and then rigorously tests them for veracity by having his staff and some-well known patients take those tests. Since they know me in a casual social context as well as knowing me as a patient, I got to take lots of tests. I hated them, but I was willing to help out.

A little less than a year ago, I finally asked for official testing and diagnosis for ADD. I suspect they’d been waiting for me to ask for some time. I took the test and I did quite well, but I was an anxious wreck for the rest of the day. A few days later, I took the drug and took the test again and the difference in the results was amazing. So was the lack of anxiety about it.

I asked about whether the difference was simply that I’d become familar with the test. They reminded me that I’d taken variations on that test many times before and was already familiar with it. They also pointed out the difference not only in the scores but in my response.

I tried the first drug. It had side effects which were not good. I tried the second drug. It was worse. I decided it wasn’t really that bad and I could keep on coping as I’d done all those years.

Since sometime in 2003, I’d been riding the drama-llama rollercoaster, with events over which I had no control (other folks’ disease and death–stuff of that nature) and that, combined with age, left me with insufficient strength to keep doing what I’d been doing. I tried another drug. Focalin, in case you’re curious.

That’s when life began to open up. I’m still working on finding motivation without panic to drive me, but I’m getting there. It’s also okay now for me to learn about my interaction with the world, so I’ve been reading sporadically about ADD.

One of the criteria for adult diagnosis is that the ADD should have manifested in childhood. I was a little concerned that maybe the diagnosis wasn’t quite right because nobody in the practice had explored that part of my history extensively. That might mean that I didn’t have “true” ADD and my use of Focalin was “cheating.” Hey, that’s how I learned to think. However, I’ve kept with the drug because these folks, in addition to their testing, have had plenty of time to observe me in both clinical and non-clinical settings.

I decided to contemplate my own youth and see what was there. “Does not pay attention is class.” “Is not working up to potential.” “Quit jiggling–you know it annoys your father.” “Don’t be so damned impetuous all the time,” my father’s favorite.

The more of these I recall, the more comfortable I am with my diagnosis and treatment. I’m not bad. I’m not a slacker. In fact, given what I was working with, I did one hell of a job of working up to my potential. It’s going to be okay. Of course, I still write run-on sentences.

Summer

All summer we sat at the table, side by side,
each of us grieving for what might have been
and for what could never be again.

The grief arose from different sources.
His was the grief of youth and mine of age.

It looked like we were wasting time,
playing computer games. They were the distraction
keeping madness at bay. 

What is said about that lonesome valley
isn’t always true. We were there together.

He’s going back to war.  I dread another grief
of what might have been or what
could never be again.

Here we go again

I’m back on the shoulder merry-go-round, but this time, it’s the one up the arm from my dominant hand.

Unlike last time, there is no acute injury involved. It’s just wear and tear on a rather poorly designed shoulder socket.

Funny conversation with my orthopaedist, who I hadn’t seen in eight years because he got it absolutely right on the first shoulder. He’d taken the time to re-read my file and remember exactly what went on last time. He knew the results he’d attained, so I got a very worried look from him when he asked, “So what has happened? What’s gone wrong?” Me: “I can tell you’ve read my file. But I can also tell you didn’t read my intake form. It’s the other shoulder.” We both got a laugh out of that one.

One of the things I love about this doctor is that he accepts that I know my own body and believes me when I tell him what I know about my condition based on my prior experience. Of course I’d already had the appropriate x-rays and, once again, they didn’t show anything because a shredding socket doesn’t show up on x-rays. But I know what this feels like. In fact, I know it all too well.

You know how a hangnail hurts all out of proportion to the actual injury? Well, imagine having some hangnails on the front of your shoulder socket. (Last time, it was all the way around.) In short, it hurts like hell.

I’d like to put off surgery for awhile. Fortunately, my doctor agrees with both my diagnosis and treatment plan, so I’m back to physical therapy. I have plenty of flexibility. That’s part of the problem. But I need to build some strength so muscles can help out in holding it all together.

What I learned this morning is that one of the exercises we’re trying isn’t going to work. In fact, it’s going to make things worse instead of better. It’s nice that this time I can be confident in my determination and act accordingly. It’s still going to hurt for a few days, though.

Eh

Not even up to meh. Just eh. And boy, oh boy, do I have a case of it.

There’s no reason for this, really. I’ve gotten over the sick, I have a little bit of work, the floors are done and even the weatherstripping on the back door has been replaced, so there’s no cold air coming in. Really, life is just fine. Even the weather is clear and sunny, if cold.

Darned if I know what it is. I’ll just be glad when it’s something else.

So now it’s the other shoulder

I saw my orthopaedist today. He’s a great guy and as pleasant as when we parted company just over eight years ago.

There are big differences between the left shoulder, which he repaired perfectly back in November of 1998, and the current discomfort with the right shoulder, which had me there today. The left one had a traumatic injury in 1990 and I lived with eight years of escalating chronic pain. This time, there’s just a little injury from wear and tear.

What’s really wrong with my shoulders is poor design. They’re a little bit too square and set back just a little bit too far. As a result, the ball at the top of the arm bone is always pushing forward against the socket. Eventually, the edges of the socket start to fray and the sensation is just as nasty as a hangnail.

Anyway, one of the reasons I like this doctor so much is that he believes me. I told him what I thought was happening and how the current sensation compared to the one before. Since he’d seen the inside of my left shoulder and gotten rid of all those frayed bits, and since the x-rays today didn’t show anything (they didn’t last time, either), he’s happy to prescribe a couple of sessions of physical therapy and let me continue my exercises at home after that.

I may yet end up with having surgery someday, but if I strengthen everything else, I’ll probably be able to put it off for awhile.

The knowledge which comes from experience is a wonderful thing. This time, it’s all much less scary.

Floors

Today brought a happy end to a project. All the carpet is gone from our house. All the hardwoods are installed. The steps are done and they worked out beautifully. The house smells better already and the rooms seem so much larger.

Although this project was not inexpensive, it will amortize very well. With so many beasties in the house and frequent furry overnight guests, carpet is not a sensible choice. Despite our best diligence, critter bodily fluids are going to land on the carpet from time to time from all possible orifices. Once that happens, others are drawn to the same places and carpets get nasty quickly.

The carpet which came with the house did not clean well. It was “contractor grade” and wouldn’t have lasted long in any event.

We have already learned in the downstairs, which had its flooring replaced back in the summer, that there is currently a good variety of attractive rugs of numerous sizes which have rubber backings and can go in the washing machine and dryer.

This house is such a delight. And it just keeps getting better and better.

So, today was a better day

I didn’t pull a rabbit out of the hat today, but the odds were against me on that one anyway. I did, however, make friends with the rabbit warden and a few other folks at the farm, which is a fairly good trick in and of itself.

It was a long day. It started at 4:00 a.m. and involved over 350 miles of driving, followed by a couple of hours of intense office work. And you know what? I enjoyed the hell out of it. I realize that it has been far too long since I have been able to take such pleasure in my work. It was a little hard getting back in the saddle again, but a few more like this and I should be riding quite well.

Having 5+ hours in the car by myself wasn’t bad either. It was nice to have quiet time. It was also nice to have good cell phone reception so I didn’t feel isolated while I was doing it. I didn’t do much talking, but the silence feels more respectful when one is reachable.

The other upswing is that The Sick was apparently properly embarrassed by its public exposure. It backed way down today. It’s not gone completely, but I feel like a human being again.

The final bit of this day was a follow-up phone call from a friend. It was a real joy to talk with her two nights in a row. And I love the ringtone I’ve given her. Tickles me every time it goes off.

And so, to bed. That’s the very best part of a good day.

The Sick

We’ve been having “the sick” around here since the middle of December. First, it was something that bore a strong resemblance to walking pneumonia. About the time that lifted, husband had to go to Cleveland for yet another funeral and he brought back with him–wait for it–the cold from hell.

As best as I can recall, I haven’t had a continuous run of the cruds lasting this long since sometime in the early 1980s. Wise choice, that. Wish I’d kept with it.

Like all things, both good and bad, this too shall pass. Either that, or I will, but I don’t think that’s very likely. This is the type of thing which comes around every once in a great while to keep me from getting too big for my britches.

Okay, I’m already too big for my britches, but that’s a separate issue. Of course, two of the more annoying side effects of this mess are that I can’t eat and I can’t smoke. Well, I can do a little of each, but I’m enjoying withdrawal on both counts and it’s making me grumpy.

Eh, I think this is the end of the run I’ve been on. Three years of non-stop stress and grief leaves one rather vulnerable to these things. If this is, indeed, the station at the last stop of the drama-llama express, I’ll deal.

Answering Buffett’s Question

In my twenties, I was as likely to ask it as answer it, but it was usually something along the lines of “Yeah, why don’t we?”

In my thirties, it was “because it’s more fun sober.”

In my forties, it was “who has time for either one?”

Now I’m fifty.  “I think those have become mutually exclusive activities and I’d fall asleep before I got part way through the first one.”

At least I haven’t yet reached the point of “What’s the question again?”

And then the coffee pot flooded

It really is beginning to look like one of those days.