My Life on Lupron

*If you're just joining me, or have come aboard in the last couple of months, I have severe endometriosis. I've already had a radical hysterectomy at the age of 27. Since last fall, I have been in a lot of pain because of a reemergence of my endometriosis that we've found to be inoperable because of the locations of the endometrials. Now, I'm on a six month course of Lupron - a drug that shuts off all estrogen production/targets estrogen cells - to kill these little clusters of hell. 



Lupron is the effing devil.

I'm going into week three or four of Lupron and this shit is making me insane. Certifiably. I think?

Apparently, it feels weirder if you've had a hysterectomy. You get to actually feel it attacking the endometrials. I think it's like the "pew-pew" battles seen in Star Wars. Imagine tiny ships shooting little lasers into the endos, okay? They just load that little estrogen cell filled thing up with medicine, it gets full to bursting, then BOOM! They knock the hell out of that thing, draining all of the estrogen out and save the day!

The pew-pew fight moves on to another endo and the battle resumes. Some of the endos fight back, and that's when the swelling occurs. Can you tell I've had time to think about this?

Lupron puts you in menopause, which I'd already be in, but I went off of my meds for that keep me out of it.

Menopause and I don't mix, okay?

I'm having hot flashes that make me wish the Polar Vortex was still hanging out. Meanwhile, everything outside is swampy feeling. I get that I live near a damn swamp, but does the air have to feel so freakin' offensive? It's not just hot, it's like I step into a wet towel fresh out of the sauna from hell.

My apartment's thermostat is set to 75 degrees to keep the other inhabitants comfortable. However, all ceiling fans are going full blast at all times. I'm guilty of sticking my head in the freezer, sticking the ice pack thingies under my knees or arms to cool down, and yelling to an empty apartment, "Just stop moving! I have to cool off!"

I want to move to Antarctica.

I'm saying stuff out loud without meaning to. You know, more than usual. That self editing thing I'm really bad at? Oh God, it's just gone, if it was ever there. I've asked the kids to breathe quietly, to stop smiling so loudly, and then apologized. I've told the dog she's too fat, the cat that she's an embarrassment to felines, and then cried. I've told my husband he can't touch me, then cried when he didn't hug me. I've cried over insurance commercials.

To add insult to injury, my stupid hair is falling out and coming in gray. I'm pretty sure this crap is getting chopped off. Not that this is an irrational decision (ahem, people who have said that).

You see, I'm a hot flashin' mess. Not literally a hot "flashing" mess, but a hot flashin' mess. Whatever.

And the food. Oh, wow... the food. I'm going to turn into a Lemon Creme cookie before this is over with. Or a container of Hagen Daaz Salted Caramel ice cream. I have very little willpower.

Just a snack

I'm so damned ragey. I have rage. I can't write about it, or much else, though, because my brain ditched me somewhere around the time that damn needle was put into my buttcheek.

I have these thoughts? And when I think them? They sound awesome. Then, when I write them down? I can't decipher (see what I did?) them sober or drunk. Not that I'm getting drunk, because that causes more friggin bloating and less operational thinking.

So, what do I do with this rage? I thank baby Jesus in swaddling clothes that I'm on Prozac every single day and I try to stay away from the general public. True story.

It's been easy to stay away from the public for the last couple of weeks because it's either been raining or I've been so swollen, I've needed to stay inside. I can't waddle to the pool. But, with sunnier weather on the way and these fluid pills finally working, that hermit plan is kind of over. I need to remember, "inside voice."

I also make really awful memes. You're not seeing them because they, well, suck.

See?

Let's just hope that that the remaining five months of this crap are quick, without incident, and my kids finally get to go swimming because they have to get out of the house and stop leaving Legos and trains everywhere. 

I also need to keep, "Jessi, inside voice," on loop in my brain, I suppose. 

Sometimes, this female crap sucks. 

Hidin' my crazy

My friend Mac over at Homestyle Mama private messaged me earlier on Facebook saying that there needs to be an Autism Mama version of this song for me:

I laughed my ass off because it's pretty true both in and outside of anything Autism related.  Hell, even before the husband and kiddos, that whole song probably would have been true. I've never been shy about being outspoken and kind of ballsy and it's transferred over "some" into the world of advocating for my son. I mean, just a tad.

My grandmother has been telling me, much like the mom in the song, to "act like a lady" my whole life. The woman's even put me in pin curls and taught me to cross stitch (which I enjoy doing, to be fair). To basically "hide my crazy." Well, I can't. I try to, I really do. Honest.

I bite back swear words, I wear make-up, style my hair, put on cute clothes, all that jazz. Most days, anyway. She always tells me she wishes I would swear a lot less, she's been saying that since about 1998. Of course, she only says "shit" whenever she drops something. And, to be honest, she's not that great at hiding her own crazy, either. I hear she once hid from visiting friends in her gardening shed because she thought they were Jehovah Witnesses. Who does that? As I write this, I'm reminded of the time that I told some nut job that we were Jewish and I didn't want any of their religious pamphlets (they were there for the 10th time, okay?)... it was Christmas. We had decorated. In a big way. With a tree, by the doorway that I was standing in. Yeah...

I've been known to shoot off at the mouth. Or, as I like to call it, I have verbal diarrhea. Constantly. As soon as something pops into my brain, it comes out of my mouth. It's hard to check it. Sometimes I bite my tongue, but all serves to do is make me look nutty as hell.

I once, in a hormone fueled rage, asked a college "professor" for her teaching credentials. In the middle of class. The idiot had the nerve to give me a lower grade on a term paper than another student who had listed Wikipedia as a source. Really?

My husband will tell you that I am, by no means, sane. He'll say that, in addition to marrying the love of his life, he married his favorite sparring partner. No, we aren't violent, but we do spar verbally. We met in a class and I told him that the boats he raced were "ocean and lake polluting pieces of shit." He said that the sailboats I raced were great, for old people. Those are fighting words. I even swore at him when he proposed marriage. I mean, he did it as a surprise! I don't do surprises.

My sister attests that I'm crazy. We swear I come by it naturally. I mean, Mom, we love you, we really do.. but you're kinda nutty. In a good way. Swear.

I honestly think that as long as I keep my crazy in some sort of check I'll be okay. Certain school officials have known my propensity to fly off the handle and demand action. Fear can be good. Healthy fear of me? Even better. Sorry, but when someone tells me that my son getting his ass beat by another kid isn't assault and neither is him getting peed on, but him getting spit on is assault, don't expect me to handle that in a calm and rational manner.

Please don't take my admitting to being batshit as a reason to notify DCS. My kids are safe. Probably even safer due to my handling things in an off-kilter kind of way. I don't look at the world through rose colored glasses or really believe in bs-ing my way through things. Okay, that's not true. I bullshit, but I try not to sugarcoat. There, that's a better way of saying it. I speak up for myself and others when necessary. If that makes me crazy, I'll take it. In the meantime, I'm probably more vulgar, potty mouthed, and think differently than the other park moms. I'm okay with that.

I wish I could be just a little less dramatic
Like a Kennedy when Camelot went down in flames
Leave it to me to be holdin’ the matches
When the fire trucks show up and there’s nobody else to blame
Can’t get revenge and keep a spotless reputation
Sometimes revenge is a choice you gotta make
My mama came from a softer generation
Where you get a grip and bite your lip just to save a little face
 ...
Powder your nose, paint your toes
Line your lips and keep 'em closed
Cross your legs, dot your I’s
And never let 'em see you cry
"Mama's Broken Heart" Miranda Lambert