Last post I explained how my wife questioned my unadulterated anger issues. This was just two nights ago when – at the time – my anger stemmed from a thing called insomnia. I promised to pursue the question further. Today I do just that.
Today I am angry about something else.
Neurologists. Neurologists in general, really. My own neurologist(s) have bombarded me with medications in an attempt to cure chronic migraines and neck pain – all to no avail. I eventually turned more towards diet and exercise (again) which has helped “naddah” either. So the Chinese have it all wrong, too.
Like a shrink once said, (not my own shrink, of course), “I need to think of my migraines as a permanent disorder. Like being a paraplegic.” Yet being able to, um, walk and stuff. A fair enough trade off, I suppose. It’d really suck if I couldn’t walk, and I had migraines and neck pain all the time. The logic is sound: Learn to Live With It.
Rogue’s neurologist (for her epilepsy) told me today that I need to be prepared for Rogue to die, since I no longer want to follow the pill regiment that had stripped my dog – a former star athlete – of her former life. She was a freak of nature, a dog with a combination of athleticism and intellect I had never before seen. Truly, a worthy best friend.
Less than a year after her first seizure, and her first pill, all her greatness vanished.
Today the only thing Rogue can do is wag her tail occasionally, eat a lot, and seize while pissing and pooping simultaneously.
“By far, the worst epileptic patient I had ever seen,” her neurologist said.
(I may get a lot of knocks for my brash personality and overall jerkish behavior, but at least I can make people feel comfortable in their own skin – Doctors, not so much.)
She insisted that, considering her recent seizure activity, we continue the same medicine at the same dosage. I insisted (considering she can’t do anything but eat, sleep, wag her tail, and poop and pee while convulsing like a demon-possessed beast from hell) she start a strict tapering program.
“I really don’t want to,” she said.
“I've listened to you for 18-months now. I’m well read. Have done my homework on epilepsy. Have witnessed over 50 seizures. And while I’m not the Dog Whisperer, I know my dog. So we can do this one of two ways,” I said.
I told her that she will come up with recommended tapering plan for me. Or I will. But we are cutting back her pills, regardless.
And that’s when she dropped the “D” word.
“Well, remember, she can die because of this.”
My best friend took a nose dive down the stairs right before the doctor visit, actually. Her deteriorated hind leg strength and lack of coordination – caused by the 13 pills she’s taking daily – can kill her too.
I told her this, but failed to conclude said statement with ", bitch." like I wanted to.
“Have you thought about euthanasia?” (No, not the loud mouth girl in my 6th period class.)
I’m such a tactless, heartless jerk who typically has the audacity to say things like “my principal doesn’t use Facebook,” and “my department chair said I don’t teach things I actually do.” So, yeah, I’m off the cusp – normally. But I refrain from saying what I really want to say here. I can do that on occasion, despite wanting to give her a painful – not painless – death.
After sparing her life, she begrudgingly agrees to establish a “neurologist approved weaning program.” She must really want my money – over six thousand dollars so far and counting.
She went on to compliment my wife and me on our thorough seizure log of Rogue, as well as the regular check-ups, and overall upkeep of our dilapidated pet. She even said, “I don’t know if I could do this with my own pet.”
What? I’d cut off my arm for my girl. Right now, if it guaranteed a long, seizure free, healthy and happy life, my left arm would be gone. How can she be a vet and feel this way?
I left the place with a $120 bill, an audacious migraine, a sick dog, and a lot of anger.
But tonight I will be watching Charlie Brown's "Great Pumpkin" with Team Billings - so that should help some.
Today I am angry about something else.
Neurologists. Neurologists in general, really. My own neurologist(s) have bombarded me with medications in an attempt to cure chronic migraines and neck pain – all to no avail. I eventually turned more towards diet and exercise (again) which has helped “naddah” either. So the Chinese have it all wrong, too.
Like a shrink once said, (not my own shrink, of course), “I need to think of my migraines as a permanent disorder. Like being a paraplegic.” Yet being able to, um, walk and stuff. A fair enough trade off, I suppose. It’d really suck if I couldn’t walk, and I had migraines and neck pain all the time. The logic is sound: Learn to Live With It.
Rogue’s neurologist (for her epilepsy) told me today that I need to be prepared for Rogue to die, since I no longer want to follow the pill regiment that had stripped my dog – a former star athlete – of her former life. She was a freak of nature, a dog with a combination of athleticism and intellect I had never before seen. Truly, a worthy best friend.
Less than a year after her first seizure, and her first pill, all her greatness vanished.
Today the only thing Rogue can do is wag her tail occasionally, eat a lot, and seize while pissing and pooping simultaneously.
“By far, the worst epileptic patient I had ever seen,” her neurologist said.
(I may get a lot of knocks for my brash personality and overall jerkish behavior, but at least I can make people feel comfortable in their own skin – Doctors, not so much.)
She insisted that, considering her recent seizure activity, we continue the same medicine at the same dosage. I insisted (considering she can’t do anything but eat, sleep, wag her tail, and poop and pee while convulsing like a demon-possessed beast from hell) she start a strict tapering program.
“I really don’t want to,” she said.
“I've listened to you for 18-months now. I’m well read. Have done my homework on epilepsy. Have witnessed over 50 seizures. And while I’m not the Dog Whisperer, I know my dog. So we can do this one of two ways,” I said.
I told her that she will come up with recommended tapering plan for me. Or I will. But we are cutting back her pills, regardless.
And that’s when she dropped the “D” word.
“Well, remember, she can die because of this.”
My best friend took a nose dive down the stairs right before the doctor visit, actually. Her deteriorated hind leg strength and lack of coordination – caused by the 13 pills she’s taking daily – can kill her too.
I told her this, but failed to conclude said statement with ", bitch." like I wanted to.
“Have you thought about euthanasia?” (No, not the loud mouth girl in my 6th period class.)
I’m such a tactless, heartless jerk who typically has the audacity to say things like “my principal doesn’t use Facebook,” and “my department chair said I don’t teach things I actually do.” So, yeah, I’m off the cusp – normally. But I refrain from saying what I really want to say here. I can do that on occasion, despite wanting to give her a painful – not painless – death.
After sparing her life, she begrudgingly agrees to establish a “neurologist approved weaning program.” She must really want my money – over six thousand dollars so far and counting.
She went on to compliment my wife and me on our thorough seizure log of Rogue, as well as the regular check-ups, and overall upkeep of our dilapidated pet. She even said, “I don’t know if I could do this with my own pet.”
What? I’d cut off my arm for my girl. Right now, if it guaranteed a long, seizure free, healthy and happy life, my left arm would be gone. How can she be a vet and feel this way?
I left the place with a $120 bill, an audacious migraine, a sick dog, and a lot of anger.
But tonight I will be watching Charlie Brown's "Great Pumpkin" with Team Billings - so that should help some.
