I am permanently blind, not from the Cialis-induced vitreous hemorrhage, but because of the PRP laser treatment inflicted by Dr. Michael O’Brien of Koch Eye Associates. I think his employer is as much to blame as Koch has advertised for PRP patients rather than eye tests to see if PRP treatment is prudent for specific patients.
But I still see it as my own fault for letting myself be scared into it. "O’Brien had said, "You’re probably right about the Cialis, but what if you’re not?"
Yes, three years later I remain angry and bitter about this, and other massive "wrongness" from the Koch offices and associates.
I suppress the anger and fight the negativity on a daily basis. Some days don’t succeed as well as others. This is a pattern that has enshrouded me for my entire life. I won’t get into why that’s so. Who wants to hear self pitying whining?
I’ve lost maybe eighty percent of my life to this, and maybe more. Nothing is the same and everything is different, every function, every relationship.
My blindness is legal blindness. The left eye is not dark, just greatly impaired by a few different factors. As long as I have that bit of vision left, as long as I can still find the fridge and the toilet and the keyboard, I can make the most out of what I have left.
I have to content myself with that.
I will content myself with that.
Showing posts with label anti-depressant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anti-depressant. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Big D's
Scientists actually know precious little about how the brain works. Intricacies of memory and thought often baffle the researchers. I understand the basics enough. As a science fiction writer I know generalities and specific details about many things, enough to give advance thought and theory but not an expert unless I specifically research a topic and I can often forget the specifics. My mind is limited and usually stretched too thin across too many things.
I understand the chemical imbalances of depression and when the depression is emotional. For months now, as the eyesight has been steadily deteriorating, the depression has gotten worse, with definite biochemical interaction to the despair of my situation.
My mind works by association, I pay attention to assorted random things and have made definite connection between lifelong cycles and my changing situation.
Constant lower sugar levels bring on a biochemical depression. This is now constant low sugar; the A1C numbers will still be higher than any level that any doctor will find acceptable.
I heard a news bit more than a decade ago and putting it into practice seems to have lent weight to the theory that fish and seafood acts as a natural antidepressant. It doesn’t cure me, but I do just feel better the day after eating scallops or whitefish or a tuna sandwich.
All of these fish sources male ,e dream. I am one of those who normally does not remember dreaming, but have never denied that I do. I have vivid dreams the nights of fishy meals. It took a year or so of my time traveling to England on business to realize that I was dreaming due to regular fish intake, not because of a tendency to eat hot custard deserts while there. My roommate always has vivid dreams when he has done a routine trip to Maine. He thought something about being in Maine made him dream, even when he returned that same night. I realized that his typical Maine lunch of seafood (usually tuna) was the true cause. He has no depression or dream issues otherwise.
I have come to believe that people who do not remember dreaming are more prone to depression. More recently, I’ve come to theorize that Vitamin D plays a major role in the chemical equation. The core of the belief if seasonal depression. Less sunlight, less Vitamin D, more depression.
In the last year and a half, as my mobility has decreased, my Vitamin D level has fallen from normal healthy levels above 25 to "insufficient" at 20 and finally to "deficient" at 13. I can’t see where I’m walking and can’t walk where I’m seeing. I don’t leave the house as often. It’s too much effort for too little result. There can be stretches of days where I just don’t leave the house and get no direct sunlight.
Vitamin D can’t be effectively gotten through diet. Sunlight or supplement is essential. Milk actually does not have enough. Online research indicated that the only equal is two servings of fatty fish per day. Besides lacing variety, such a diet can raise big stinks. Lack of vitamin D can produce bone problems, but also result in a variety of other debilitations, including muscle atrophy. I’m sure it has also contributed to the severity of the depression.
I’m taking the supplements as well as an antidepressant.
I’m still trying to pull myself back up.
I understand the chemical imbalances of depression and when the depression is emotional. For months now, as the eyesight has been steadily deteriorating, the depression has gotten worse, with definite biochemical interaction to the despair of my situation.
My mind works by association, I pay attention to assorted random things and have made definite connection between lifelong cycles and my changing situation.
Constant lower sugar levels bring on a biochemical depression. This is now constant low sugar; the A1C numbers will still be higher than any level that any doctor will find acceptable.
I heard a news bit more than a decade ago and putting it into practice seems to have lent weight to the theory that fish and seafood acts as a natural antidepressant. It doesn’t cure me, but I do just feel better the day after eating scallops or whitefish or a tuna sandwich.
All of these fish sources male ,e dream. I am one of those who normally does not remember dreaming, but have never denied that I do. I have vivid dreams the nights of fishy meals. It took a year or so of my time traveling to England on business to realize that I was dreaming due to regular fish intake, not because of a tendency to eat hot custard deserts while there. My roommate always has vivid dreams when he has done a routine trip to Maine. He thought something about being in Maine made him dream, even when he returned that same night. I realized that his typical Maine lunch of seafood (usually tuna) was the true cause. He has no depression or dream issues otherwise.
I have come to believe that people who do not remember dreaming are more prone to depression. More recently, I’ve come to theorize that Vitamin D plays a major role in the chemical equation. The core of the belief if seasonal depression. Less sunlight, less Vitamin D, more depression.
In the last year and a half, as my mobility has decreased, my Vitamin D level has fallen from normal healthy levels above 25 to "insufficient" at 20 and finally to "deficient" at 13. I can’t see where I’m walking and can’t walk where I’m seeing. I don’t leave the house as often. It’s too much effort for too little result. There can be stretches of days where I just don’t leave the house and get no direct sunlight.
Vitamin D can’t be effectively gotten through diet. Sunlight or supplement is essential. Milk actually does not have enough. Online research indicated that the only equal is two servings of fatty fish per day. Besides lacing variety, such a diet can raise big stinks. Lack of vitamin D can produce bone problems, but also result in a variety of other debilitations, including muscle atrophy. I’m sure it has also contributed to the severity of the depression.
I’m taking the supplements as well as an antidepressant.
I’m still trying to pull myself back up.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Pissing the Days Away
(Feeling it Out: The High Sugar, Part 1)
The most obvious sign of high sugar is the most obvious symptom of the onset of juvenile diabetes itself the insatiable thirst and frequent to constant urination. This makes sense with basic understanding of how the body works. The body senses the excess sugar as waste material that must be purged. It makes you thirsty to give itself the raw material of water to ease and speed the removal. In Type 2 onset, this is also present as a condition and symptom, but less prominent. Not being able to sleep through the night without a need to get up and pee is one of many subtle signs.
With some but surprisingly little exaggeration, when my sugar is really high–and I do not let it stay that way–you could pretty much stand me over a toilet with a garden hose to my mouth. At a critical high I remember (caused by having forgotten to take the insulin before work and not realizing it until after having eaten) I had to go every fifteen minutes. I’ve had nighttime surges that had me awake more frequently than every hour, and more frequently than every half hour if unable to get fully back to sleep in between trips.
This is not a comfortable situation. I do not hesitate to shoot up to resolve the problem. If I get up a second time in the night ro pee, I shoot up no matter what. Often I shoot up if I wake at all without having an "innocent" cause such as having drank a lot just before bed. Most of the time, barring other issues such as insomnia, I sleep through. I feel healthy when I do that.
This is part of the very difficult balancing act. Other people often do not understand the true difficulty involved in "controlling" the blood sugar and maintaining balance.
If my sugar is too low, I cannot sleep at all. A night of higher sugar does not provide restful sleep. For purposes of sleep "normal" hours in duration and the actual time, I rest best when the sugar is starting at (by feel) a somewhat elevated level but is on the way down. Daytime function can also feel best under those circumstances.
Most of my sugar control problems have been the at night, either too high or too low, one extreme or the other.
Because I have managed by feel rather than testing numbers for so long, I tend to notice changes in my system rather then effects on numbers. One of my HP’s weaknesses is a tendency to blame any symptom on the sugar instead of other possible factors. Prozac acts as a diarrhetic on my system, creating excess urine from the amount of water taken with the pill. My GP waved that off as urination due entirely to high sugar. My body says otherwise in function, particularly as that first draining after a Prozac pill tends to be very foamy.
While the thirst and urine cycle is the most obvious sign, I always note that diabetics can get thirsty or piss more for other reasons. A handful of pretzels can trigger great thirst for the salt but not actually raise the blood sugar. Diet soda can be a diarrhetic, causing urination in quantities beyond the amount of fluid consumed.
The most obvious sign of high sugar is the most obvious symptom of the onset of juvenile diabetes itself the insatiable thirst and frequent to constant urination. This makes sense with basic understanding of how the body works. The body senses the excess sugar as waste material that must be purged. It makes you thirsty to give itself the raw material of water to ease and speed the removal. In Type 2 onset, this is also present as a condition and symptom, but less prominent. Not being able to sleep through the night without a need to get up and pee is one of many subtle signs.
With some but surprisingly little exaggeration, when my sugar is really high–and I do not let it stay that way–you could pretty much stand me over a toilet with a garden hose to my mouth. At a critical high I remember (caused by having forgotten to take the insulin before work and not realizing it until after having eaten) I had to go every fifteen minutes. I’ve had nighttime surges that had me awake more frequently than every hour, and more frequently than every half hour if unable to get fully back to sleep in between trips.
This is not a comfortable situation. I do not hesitate to shoot up to resolve the problem. If I get up a second time in the night ro pee, I shoot up no matter what. Often I shoot up if I wake at all without having an "innocent" cause such as having drank a lot just before bed. Most of the time, barring other issues such as insomnia, I sleep through. I feel healthy when I do that.
This is part of the very difficult balancing act. Other people often do not understand the true difficulty involved in "controlling" the blood sugar and maintaining balance.
If my sugar is too low, I cannot sleep at all. A night of higher sugar does not provide restful sleep. For purposes of sleep "normal" hours in duration and the actual time, I rest best when the sugar is starting at (by feel) a somewhat elevated level but is on the way down. Daytime function can also feel best under those circumstances.
Most of my sugar control problems have been the at night, either too high or too low, one extreme or the other.
Because I have managed by feel rather than testing numbers for so long, I tend to notice changes in my system rather then effects on numbers. One of my HP’s weaknesses is a tendency to blame any symptom on the sugar instead of other possible factors. Prozac acts as a diarrhetic on my system, creating excess urine from the amount of water taken with the pill. My GP waved that off as urination due entirely to high sugar. My body says otherwise in function, particularly as that first draining after a Prozac pill tends to be very foamy.
While the thirst and urine cycle is the most obvious sign, I always note that diabetics can get thirsty or piss more for other reasons. A handful of pretzels can trigger great thirst for the salt but not actually raise the blood sugar. Diet soda can be a diarrhetic, causing urination in quantities beyond the amount of fluid consumed.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Blood Sugar Downer
The change in Wal-Mart generic insulin manufacture has brought more frequent periods of discomfort with "low" sugar levels. I use quotes on "low" as acknowledgment that this is by feel, not by blood testing numbers.
Overall the sugar has felt lower with the Novolin than it had been with the Humulin formula. Since the toe problem that landed me in the hospital in the spring, I was making a concentrated effort for an overall lowering of the blood sugar. The change in insulin seems to have made a sharper change in that direction, unfortunately at a time when I was looking to slowly raise it again so I would feel overall better health.
People, including my GP, do not understand that last statement. Diabetics do. I do not feel as good when the sugars are lower. Diabetics who are good doobies and paint by numbers also report that they feel less well when their sugars are at better numbers. I’m still waiting for that lucky day when I meet a doctor who understands that how a patient feels is somewhat more important than what test numbers statistically say about their health. At least two of the three other diabetics with whom I have most recently spoken with in general terms report that they primary care givers and/or diabetic specialists have railed against missed target numbers without regard to how the patients were actually feeling, so I am not holding my breath on meeting the more compassionate and logical doctor. Both of those acquaintances were discouraged that no effort seems enough.
I have never recovered the feelings of wellness and functionality I possessed prior to "taking care of myself better." By the full chains of events, I would not be blind nor crippled by the collapsed ankle via Charcot foot if I had not started taking care of myself better. I My numbers had risen again and things got better, but never back to where they had been, even discounting the blind thing and the cripple thing.
I did make a renewed effort on my own after this spring’s hospitalization. The Charcot foot had nearly totally impeded circulation in the foot, allowing for the sudden infection and almost instantaneous gangrene and the collapse of the bone structure that has permanently impaired my ankle. My largest steps were to eliminate as much of the big (and hidden) source of sugar in my diet as possible, and letting my sugar levels stay at critically low feeling longer than I usually would.
I don’t need an A1C test to know I have succeeded. I don’t feel as well as I did prior to the hospitalization. Fatigue is constant. When the sugar hits a low feel level, the physical symptoms hit much sooner after the temperament issues than they used to. Those temperament issues are more severe and the "calm" times between are periods of severe depression that is biochemically impacted beyond the constant "useless gimp" feelings that are situational depression that anyone would feel in my situation. My thoughts are usually slower. I tire more easily. Stamina is gone. Neuropathy burns are more frequent. The depression had reached such an abyss that I found no choice other than to resume antidepressants.
Does this sound like healthier living?
It sure don’t feel like it.
Overall the sugar has felt lower with the Novolin than it had been with the Humulin formula. Since the toe problem that landed me in the hospital in the spring, I was making a concentrated effort for an overall lowering of the blood sugar. The change in insulin seems to have made a sharper change in that direction, unfortunately at a time when I was looking to slowly raise it again so I would feel overall better health.
People, including my GP, do not understand that last statement. Diabetics do. I do not feel as good when the sugars are lower. Diabetics who are good doobies and paint by numbers also report that they feel less well when their sugars are at better numbers. I’m still waiting for that lucky day when I meet a doctor who understands that how a patient feels is somewhat more important than what test numbers statistically say about their health. At least two of the three other diabetics with whom I have most recently spoken with in general terms report that they primary care givers and/or diabetic specialists have railed against missed target numbers without regard to how the patients were actually feeling, so I am not holding my breath on meeting the more compassionate and logical doctor. Both of those acquaintances were discouraged that no effort seems enough.
I have never recovered the feelings of wellness and functionality I possessed prior to "taking care of myself better." By the full chains of events, I would not be blind nor crippled by the collapsed ankle via Charcot foot if I had not started taking care of myself better. I My numbers had risen again and things got better, but never back to where they had been, even discounting the blind thing and the cripple thing.
I did make a renewed effort on my own after this spring’s hospitalization. The Charcot foot had nearly totally impeded circulation in the foot, allowing for the sudden infection and almost instantaneous gangrene and the collapse of the bone structure that has permanently impaired my ankle. My largest steps were to eliminate as much of the big (and hidden) source of sugar in my diet as possible, and letting my sugar levels stay at critically low feeling longer than I usually would.
I don’t need an A1C test to know I have succeeded. I don’t feel as well as I did prior to the hospitalization. Fatigue is constant. When the sugar hits a low feel level, the physical symptoms hit much sooner after the temperament issues than they used to. Those temperament issues are more severe and the "calm" times between are periods of severe depression that is biochemically impacted beyond the constant "useless gimp" feelings that are situational depression that anyone would feel in my situation. My thoughts are usually slower. I tire more easily. Stamina is gone. Neuropathy burns are more frequent. The depression had reached such an abyss that I found no choice other than to resume antidepressants.
Does this sound like healthier living?
It sure don’t feel like it.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Limping Along
The last general update friends and acquaintances have asked about is life in general. Pre Charcot foot, the passive answer was "Hanging in." Now it is "Limping along."
This summer is the first season in seven or so years that I have not bowled in a league. The timing of the hospitalization interfered with the season start, and the "Crow boot" I must now wear will take some finagling and readjustment. I do intend to resume in the fall.
Mobility issues have me more limited, and my third- and fourth-floor townhouse-style apartment is less than ideal for someone who can no longer see nor feel stairs. I moved the computer to the dining room to get it on the main floor, but have not yet gotten the desk down stairs. As a result, I feel as though I have lost both the office and the dining room and the house feels like much less than what I bought.
This adds to the emotional depression that I feel funny admitting "aloud." People seem amazed at how well I’ve been dealing with the adversity of the last few years, so admitting that it has been and continues to be a struggle illogically feels as though I am letting some people down. The disabilities that have afflicted me have also catalyzed a new level of emotional depression.
The depression is worsened biochemically. Especially since the early Mat hospitalization, I have been keeping the blood sugar at lower levels. This has been good for circulation to the foot and behind the eye, but not good for temperament and feeling happy. The prednisone intake also contributes to those factors.
I stopped taking the generic Prozac after the hemorrhage, when the side effect of "suicidal thoughts and feeling" would irregularly arise. The quality of life issues have not improved, so I continue to avoid pharmaceutical anti-depressants.
I am adjusting to and struggling to accept my increased limitations. I force myself to adopt gratitude for what I can still do.
Most of the things I can still do cannot be done for as long. Gone are the days of 12+ hour exerting days; my stamina is not what it used to be. Gone are the marathons on the word processor; my eyes burn out after a couple hours.
What is not gone is my drive and the fiery will. This feeds the cycles of frustration as often as not.
I am working to do more with myself. I’ve been getting back to posting more regularly on the blog and am working on keeping up with short story submissions again. The next step with the fiction is to get some partially-done short stories finished
I’ve done a couple spots of yard work recently, minor accomplishments but more than most people in with my limitations would attempt, I think.
So I have had to slow down, but I have not stopped. Don’t cringe at the thought of a blind gimpy guy swinging a powered hedge trimmer over rough terrain. Just don’t get too close.
This summer is the first season in seven or so years that I have not bowled in a league. The timing of the hospitalization interfered with the season start, and the "Crow boot" I must now wear will take some finagling and readjustment. I do intend to resume in the fall.
Mobility issues have me more limited, and my third- and fourth-floor townhouse-style apartment is less than ideal for someone who can no longer see nor feel stairs. I moved the computer to the dining room to get it on the main floor, but have not yet gotten the desk down stairs. As a result, I feel as though I have lost both the office and the dining room and the house feels like much less than what I bought.
This adds to the emotional depression that I feel funny admitting "aloud." People seem amazed at how well I’ve been dealing with the adversity of the last few years, so admitting that it has been and continues to be a struggle illogically feels as though I am letting some people down. The disabilities that have afflicted me have also catalyzed a new level of emotional depression.
The depression is worsened biochemically. Especially since the early Mat hospitalization, I have been keeping the blood sugar at lower levels. This has been good for circulation to the foot and behind the eye, but not good for temperament and feeling happy. The prednisone intake also contributes to those factors.
I stopped taking the generic Prozac after the hemorrhage, when the side effect of "suicidal thoughts and feeling" would irregularly arise. The quality of life issues have not improved, so I continue to avoid pharmaceutical anti-depressants.
I am adjusting to and struggling to accept my increased limitations. I force myself to adopt gratitude for what I can still do.
Most of the things I can still do cannot be done for as long. Gone are the days of 12+ hour exerting days; my stamina is not what it used to be. Gone are the marathons on the word processor; my eyes burn out after a couple hours.
What is not gone is my drive and the fiery will. This feeds the cycles of frustration as often as not.
I am working to do more with myself. I’ve been getting back to posting more regularly on the blog and am working on keeping up with short story submissions again. The next step with the fiction is to get some partially-done short stories finished
I’ve done a couple spots of yard work recently, minor accomplishments but more than most people in with my limitations would attempt, I think.
So I have had to slow down, but I have not stopped. Don’t cringe at the thought of a blind gimpy guy swinging a powered hedge trimmer over rough terrain. Just don’t get too close.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Imprisonment
I must confess that I am not the best patient in general, but that the events at Sturdy specifically made things worse.
Sturdy Hospital seems to have a great reputation among the people I know, although I never asked anyone I know who is more from the Attleboro than Providence area. Sturdy’s good reputation earned specific regard for the emergency room and trauma care.
I had one surge of frustration in the ER Friday night. When I needed to urinate, that simple objective was blocked due to footwear. They didn’t want me moving without the skid-pad socks or something so didn’t want me using a bathroom. I remember having a flare of temper about that simple bodily function becoming a "project." My fever was at a height and I accept full blame for the flare up. Both from my emergency care that night and from the retina reattachment surgery of last January, I have no complaint or criticism of Sturdy Hospital or its employees.
I’ll admit it; sometimes I can be difficult. Throughout the weekend, , I had been poked and bled out continuously. That will sour anyone’s temperament.
Intravenously, I was fed various antibiotic cocktails. It seems the IV monitor sensed emptiness continuously, and the machine made rude, awakening noises.
I was restricted to the bed by the hospital’s fear of a trip-and-fall lawsuit rather than by my disabilities.
So I may very well have been testy by imprisonment and restriction and sleep deprivation. Unfortunately. Justifiable complaints flooded me fast and furiously after those first nudges.
It took an entire day to stop the "nurses" from putting an unwashed urinal bottle on my food table.
By machines, staff or another patient, I was being woken constantly and always either too hot or frigidly cold.
The Charcot foot was back to maximum swelling and pain; this was the probable cause for the toe infection.
I could get answers to no question.
My insulin regiment had been changed, then changed back and the on-duty person clearly did not understand how insulin worked.
Even after constant explanations and instructions at every dose all weekend, the staff could not get the eye drops required post-retina reattachment right; this increased the prednisone that gave me so many other problems.
My blood sugar was being lowered by number management rather than how I felt. This always results , in depression and irritability on biochemical levels.
The final slice to my frayed nerves was the guy down the hall, the one who insisted on drama queen screaming every time the nurses did whatever it was they were doing, any time day or night. His screams were fake, like those of a four year old who screams out for the attention of being potentially hurt rather than because he was hurt.
Maybe my harsh judgment of this other patient was unfair, considering I am both insensitive and have an extremely high pain threshold. But when I called out "Shut up and take it like a man, you wuss!" all the fake cries of "Ouch! Oooh! God damn it, lady!" ceased instantly.
So by the time Dr. Paz interrupted my already cold breakfast on Sunday morning, I was alert to problems because I had seen problems, and of no mind to tolerate further ones....
Sturdy Hospital seems to have a great reputation among the people I know, although I never asked anyone I know who is more from the Attleboro than Providence area. Sturdy’s good reputation earned specific regard for the emergency room and trauma care.
I had one surge of frustration in the ER Friday night. When I needed to urinate, that simple objective was blocked due to footwear. They didn’t want me moving without the skid-pad socks or something so didn’t want me using a bathroom. I remember having a flare of temper about that simple bodily function becoming a "project." My fever was at a height and I accept full blame for the flare up. Both from my emergency care that night and from the retina reattachment surgery of last January, I have no complaint or criticism of Sturdy Hospital or its employees.
I’ll admit it; sometimes I can be difficult. Throughout the weekend, , I had been poked and bled out continuously. That will sour anyone’s temperament.
Intravenously, I was fed various antibiotic cocktails. It seems the IV monitor sensed emptiness continuously, and the machine made rude, awakening noises.
I was restricted to the bed by the hospital’s fear of a trip-and-fall lawsuit rather than by my disabilities.
So I may very well have been testy by imprisonment and restriction and sleep deprivation. Unfortunately. Justifiable complaints flooded me fast and furiously after those first nudges.
It took an entire day to stop the "nurses" from putting an unwashed urinal bottle on my food table.
By machines, staff or another patient, I was being woken constantly and always either too hot or frigidly cold.
The Charcot foot was back to maximum swelling and pain; this was the probable cause for the toe infection.
I could get answers to no question.
My insulin regiment had been changed, then changed back and the on-duty person clearly did not understand how insulin worked.
Even after constant explanations and instructions at every dose all weekend, the staff could not get the eye drops required post-retina reattachment right; this increased the prednisone that gave me so many other problems.
My blood sugar was being lowered by number management rather than how I felt. This always results , in depression and irritability on biochemical levels.
The final slice to my frayed nerves was the guy down the hall, the one who insisted on drama queen screaming every time the nurses did whatever it was they were doing, any time day or night. His screams were fake, like those of a four year old who screams out for the attention of being potentially hurt rather than because he was hurt.
Maybe my harsh judgment of this other patient was unfair, considering I am both insensitive and have an extremely high pain threshold. But when I called out "Shut up and take it like a man, you wuss!" all the fake cries of "Ouch! Oooh! God damn it, lady!" ceased instantly.
So by the time Dr. Paz interrupted my already cold breakfast on Sunday morning, I was alert to problems because I had seen problems, and of no mind to tolerate further ones....
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Dropping the (Eye)ball
The surgeon/doc who performed the retina reattachment and vitreous exchange prescribed four medications via eye drop.
The first was an antibiotic that she discontinued after a week. Knowing I no longer needed it quelled the imaginings of maladies in the eye, such as some alien pillar of disgust growing out of my eye or a more realistic fear that if something happened behind the eye that the eye might have to be removed.
I know longer have enough reading vision even with glasses to know what most of the other three are by name. I know them by what they do.
The first dilates the pupil. The pupil can stiffen and work less ably following reattachment, so this helps keep it nimble, so to speak. It has the side effect of increasing glare and over exposing things. I am not sure how standard this is as I had documented pupil function issues prior to the reattachment surgery.
Glaucoma numbers among the risks of retina attachment surgery. The second drop keeps the eye pressure down. This drop was not doing the job for me, so the doctor prescribed an additional job to do the same thing. My eye pressure had not reached the danger zone of over 30, but post op was not at my usual good range of 14-18 either.
The third drop is prednisone. This is the first medication that I can ever remember having adverse reaction to. I should say adverse reactions. I’m in stomach acid overload, suffer frequent vertigo and generalized weakness, further insomnia and fatigue, and am having nervous symptoms including worse mood changes and tics that have been driving many of the people around me nuts, even more than normal. Prednisone can also increase eye and blood pressure, so I am needing medication for my medication.
But I continue to take it with the hoped of long term recovery.
The course of drops also diminishes my vision when applied, so I am really hoping the long term gains pan out.
In the meantime, I can only hope most people can’t quite differentiate my increased mood changes and tics from the old oddities.
The first was an antibiotic that she discontinued after a week. Knowing I no longer needed it quelled the imaginings of maladies in the eye, such as some alien pillar of disgust growing out of my eye or a more realistic fear that if something happened behind the eye that the eye might have to be removed.
I know longer have enough reading vision even with glasses to know what most of the other three are by name. I know them by what they do.
The first dilates the pupil. The pupil can stiffen and work less ably following reattachment, so this helps keep it nimble, so to speak. It has the side effect of increasing glare and over exposing things. I am not sure how standard this is as I had documented pupil function issues prior to the reattachment surgery.
Glaucoma numbers among the risks of retina attachment surgery. The second drop keeps the eye pressure down. This drop was not doing the job for me, so the doctor prescribed an additional job to do the same thing. My eye pressure had not reached the danger zone of over 30, but post op was not at my usual good range of 14-18 either.
The third drop is prednisone. This is the first medication that I can ever remember having adverse reaction to. I should say adverse reactions. I’m in stomach acid overload, suffer frequent vertigo and generalized weakness, further insomnia and fatigue, and am having nervous symptoms including worse mood changes and tics that have been driving many of the people around me nuts, even more than normal. Prednisone can also increase eye and blood pressure, so I am needing medication for my medication.
But I continue to take it with the hoped of long term recovery.
The course of drops also diminishes my vision when applied, so I am really hoping the long term gains pan out.
In the meantime, I can only hope most people can’t quite differentiate my increased mood changes and tics from the old oddities.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Post-Op: Blurred Vision and Mind
The retina reattachment surgery lasted somewhere around four hours. I’m not sure exactly how long as I was completely unconscious, and can’t really see clocks, watches, or my cell phone display well enough to ever really know what time it is anyway. Four hours is a longer session for the procedure. The results may be disappointing to undetermined in final analysis, but I do know that this doctor tried his best.
I left the hospital with the eye bandaged and covered by a plastic shield. The shield was more than an eyepatch; the hard plastic would ensure that the eye wouldn’t squish on itself in my sleep. I was specifically told to sleep on the left side. I assume that would allow better drainage of blood.
They sent mer home with a course of four eye drops, a combination of antibiotics and a steroid and other goodies. I can’t see the bottles well enough to know what they are. The doctor dropped one of them the following week, but added another to reduce the increased pressure in the eye, a condition caused by the drops.
I do remember what one of the four drops I am, still taking is: prednisone. ‘Ve most definitely been feeling the side effects of that one. These include increased irritability (like most people can tell from my normal levels;) worsening of my insomnia (like most people can tell from my normal levels;) and increased mood changes, mental disturbances and other nervous ticks (like most people can tell from my normal levels.) The prednisone has also hit mer with excess stomach acid bad enough to lead to vomiting, elevated blood pressure, and is the med responsible for the heightened eye pressure in the eye getting the drops. I am happy to report with a sound knock on wood that I have had no bleeding or bruising issues and have not developed irregular periods. That last one would be pretty freaky.
These side effects have added to the stresses of needing to cope with (hopefully temporarily) further reduced vision and the bad foot and the need to accept that I will probably never be "whole" again. I’m working on that, but ask for patience from those who must deal with me while I may seem a bit (more) off.
I left the hospital with the eye bandaged and covered by a plastic shield. The shield was more than an eyepatch; the hard plastic would ensure that the eye wouldn’t squish on itself in my sleep. I was specifically told to sleep on the left side. I assume that would allow better drainage of blood.
They sent mer home with a course of four eye drops, a combination of antibiotics and a steroid and other goodies. I can’t see the bottles well enough to know what they are. The doctor dropped one of them the following week, but added another to reduce the increased pressure in the eye, a condition caused by the drops.
I do remember what one of the four drops I am, still taking is: prednisone. ‘Ve most definitely been feeling the side effects of that one. These include increased irritability (like most people can tell from my normal levels;) worsening of my insomnia (like most people can tell from my normal levels;) and increased mood changes, mental disturbances and other nervous ticks (like most people can tell from my normal levels.) The prednisone has also hit mer with excess stomach acid bad enough to lead to vomiting, elevated blood pressure, and is the med responsible for the heightened eye pressure in the eye getting the drops. I am happy to report with a sound knock on wood that I have had no bleeding or bruising issues and have not developed irregular periods. That last one would be pretty freaky.
These side effects have added to the stresses of needing to cope with (hopefully temporarily) further reduced vision and the bad foot and the need to accept that I will probably never be "whole" again. I’m working on that, but ask for patience from those who must deal with me while I may seem a bit (more) off.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Snowblind
The first setback on the vision recovery was due to a high blood pressure, low blood sugar moment in November 2010.
The second occurred the first week of February 2011. I was back on the Prozac, which calms the biochemical temper. This time the stress seemed rooted in overexertion. New England had been hit by massive snowstorms six weeks in a row, and that added responsibilities for someone responsible for multiple properties. The plowing and shoveling took a greater toll for an inferior finished hob. {;laces to put the snow had run out. Neighbors’s tempers and frustrations with the winter grew. As a middle aged guy out shoveling, I had been popping aspirin to avoid dying of a heart attack in the snow. I hate the cold.
The exertion and the aspirin probably played together to let the blood flow a little too freely, and while I did not drop into the temper issues, my sugars were surely running at relative lows during that time.
Another floater popped, accompanied by dirty gray tendrils that clouded the vision. This was not a minor floater like a fleck of pepper in my vision, but a big dancing hairy creature. It moved in and out of my vision from above when I moved my eye.
The doctors call this a hemorrhage, but these floater formations are nothing like the original vitreous hemorrhage that had filled my eye with blood.
The new shadow and cloud only added to the ongoing problems when the last floater pop had mostly subsided. It had happened while I was plowing the last property after the storm. I struggled to drive the eight blocks home. I knew from the incident the prior November that I would not be able to drive again for several weeks or longer, and future shoveling would be impossible as I had a hard enough time seeing well enough to get myself around the house.
Despair set in. U continued to bowl as normal with stalwart partners providing the transportation, but that was about all I could do.
Eventually the floater dissolved into general obstructing haze. The snowstorms stopped with that one, so I never did have the crisis of how to uphold my responsibilities to the tenants and the homeowners.
Aren’t I lucky?
The second occurred the first week of February 2011. I was back on the Prozac, which calms the biochemical temper. This time the stress seemed rooted in overexertion. New England had been hit by massive snowstorms six weeks in a row, and that added responsibilities for someone responsible for multiple properties. The plowing and shoveling took a greater toll for an inferior finished hob. {;laces to put the snow had run out. Neighbors’s tempers and frustrations with the winter grew. As a middle aged guy out shoveling, I had been popping aspirin to avoid dying of a heart attack in the snow. I hate the cold.
The exertion and the aspirin probably played together to let the blood flow a little too freely, and while I did not drop into the temper issues, my sugars were surely running at relative lows during that time.
Another floater popped, accompanied by dirty gray tendrils that clouded the vision. This was not a minor floater like a fleck of pepper in my vision, but a big dancing hairy creature. It moved in and out of my vision from above when I moved my eye.
The doctors call this a hemorrhage, but these floater formations are nothing like the original vitreous hemorrhage that had filled my eye with blood.
The new shadow and cloud only added to the ongoing problems when the last floater pop had mostly subsided. It had happened while I was plowing the last property after the storm. I struggled to drive the eight blocks home. I knew from the incident the prior November that I would not be able to drive again for several weeks or longer, and future shoveling would be impossible as I had a hard enough time seeing well enough to get myself around the house.
Despair set in. U continued to bowl as normal with stalwart partners providing the transportation, but that was about all I could do.
Eventually the floater dissolved into general obstructing haze. The snowstorms stopped with that one, so I never did have the crisis of how to uphold my responsibilities to the tenants and the homeowners.
Aren’t I lucky?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Stepping up from the Setback
The first setback in the vision recovery in November 2010 showed various effects. I was back to being uselessly blind for several weeks. Bowling teammates had to identify pins after the first ball. Driving had to stop. Reading was impossible and the TV unclear. I was back to being a toddler who wanted to do so much but couldn’t quite figure out how to get out of the car seat restraints.
The direct effects of the vision ranged from symptoms between retinapathy and vitreous problems. It started as a chunk of a floater with spider-leg tendrils. The chunk faded to a cloud within a few days. The cloud lessened over the following weeks.
My peripheral further diminished. Everything seemed darker. Gridlines were wavy at the edges, to the point that doorframes looked jagged in the middle. My color sense diminished, though I did not quite notice at the time.
I have been off the generic Prozac; diminished capacity depressed me but I did not look at that as a biochemical problem needing biochemical solution. The fact that this setback had resulted in one of my infamous low sugar rages convinced me otherwise. I resumed because the Prozac did control those breaks when my sugar was down.
Things improved by December. In my infinite wisdom, I decided I would drive to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I’m a Polack, kinda-sorta. Christmas Eve is supposed to be important. I had missed the prior year. I was better. I thought there was no reason to miss another. I was, after all, better....
The direct effects of the vision ranged from symptoms between retinapathy and vitreous problems. It started as a chunk of a floater with spider-leg tendrils. The chunk faded to a cloud within a few days. The cloud lessened over the following weeks.
My peripheral further diminished. Everything seemed darker. Gridlines were wavy at the edges, to the point that doorframes looked jagged in the middle. My color sense diminished, though I did not quite notice at the time.
I have been off the generic Prozac; diminished capacity depressed me but I did not look at that as a biochemical problem needing biochemical solution. The fact that this setback had resulted in one of my infamous low sugar rages convinced me otherwise. I resumed because the Prozac did control those breaks when my sugar was down.
Things improved by December. In my infinite wisdom, I decided I would drive to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I’m a Polack, kinda-sorta. Christmas Eve is supposed to be important. I had missed the prior year. I was better. I thought there was no reason to miss another. I was, after all, better....
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Storm of the Eye
When November 2010 rolled around, I had settled to my new status quo of being legally blind but functional. The vitreous hemorrhage induced thirteen months before by a dose of Cialis had left me legally blind, but I could do most things, even if with great difficulty. I am a strong person, too strong by some accounts. I’d rolled with some pretty severe punches and salvaged what I could. I was writing more short fiction and getting published more. I could drive myself, at least to places where I knew where I was going without having to distract myself by looking for landmarks instead of concentrating on the side of the road. I could read with the aide of eyeglasses so powerful I could burn ants with them on sunny days. Refocusing between different lighting and distances took time, but the eyes did adjust. I was off the generic Prozac, and dealing with my handicap and my usual seasonal depression. The drug had begun to mix with life’s circumstances to give me"suicidal thoughts and feelings," so I had thought it best to stop.
I had reclaimed enough of my life to satisfy my self control and self sufficiency issues.
I lost that to a diabetic "low blood sugar, high blood pressure" moment.
This time it exceeded the biochemical rage. Something in the eye popped and a large floater let loose. My vision hazed over in a smear of gray and a large dancing chunk of a black.
It may have been scar tissue that released from the inner eye. It may have been a retinapathy thing. I called my doc at Joslin Center. He wasn’t concerned enough about it to push up my next appointment. The release of floaters, it seems, is to be expected in an eye that had been so traumatized.
The visual effect matched the cloud from the original vitreous hemorrhage, only this time in gray rather than blood red.
Driving and reading were lost to me again. When bowling, my teammates needed to tell me what pins remained standing after the first throw. The TV became indecipherable jumbles of quick motions in black and white.
The momentary loss of self control led to a more sustained period of self control and self sufficiency. The depression, now a combination of seasonal effect, helplessness, boredom, and a natural downswing of shame for the biochemical temper loss, worsened..
I had reclaimed enough of my life to satisfy my self control and self sufficiency issues.
I lost that to a diabetic "low blood sugar, high blood pressure" moment.
This time it exceeded the biochemical rage. Something in the eye popped and a large floater let loose. My vision hazed over in a smear of gray and a large dancing chunk of a black.
It may have been scar tissue that released from the inner eye. It may have been a retinapathy thing. I called my doc at Joslin Center. He wasn’t concerned enough about it to push up my next appointment. The release of floaters, it seems, is to be expected in an eye that had been so traumatized.
The visual effect matched the cloud from the original vitreous hemorrhage, only this time in gray rather than blood red.
Driving and reading were lost to me again. When bowling, my teammates needed to tell me what pins remained standing after the first throw. The TV became indecipherable jumbles of quick motions in black and white.
The momentary loss of self control led to a more sustained period of self control and self sufficiency. The depression, now a combination of seasonal effect, helplessness, boredom, and a natural downswing of shame for the biochemical temper loss, worsened..
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The Long and Winding Road
In October 2009 I took a Cialis to counteract the ill effects of taking antidepressants that I needed after having gotten my diabetes "under better control." I woke the following morning to see a vitreous hemorrhage gushing blood in my only good eye.
Blood filled the center of the eye and an existing cataract. I got scared into PRP surgery, with sessions before and after the cataract procedure. As neither doctor involved bothered to tell me that both PRP laser and cataract surgery increase risks of diabetic retinapathy, I was foolishly surprised when retinapathy developed while I was still undergoing the PRP
I was also not told of lense options for the cataract. I did not understand why I had NO reading vision while old men I knew had no problem reading with their new cataract lenses.
By summer of 2010 I was finding my new groove in life. I could not do some things at all, could do others with increased effort and caution, and could almost carry on with other things like my old self.
The more familiar I had been with what I was doing before going blind, the better I could handle it blind .
This blog is one guy’s personal and subjective experience, but it contains important take aways for general readers, particularly diabetics and eye patients. I have been accused of being a caustic cynic long before I ever started blogging.
By law of averages alone, I can’t be as dumb as I look. One important objective of this bit of cyberspace is to throw out ideas and experiences that should be given some thought by patients.
These warnings include:
Ask every question of your doctors, because they may not tell you.
Do your own thorough research on any procedure before undergoing it. Be sure to include the term "risk factor" or "side effect" in your search terms.
Diabetic light sensitivity may be caused by the routine dilation treatments during exams.
You have a right to your medical records and you should be familiar with them.
When you find a good doctor who is knowledgeable about his field and honest to you when he just doesn’t know, hold on to him. No one knows it all and the arrogant doctor who pretends to know everything can do you more harm than someone who recognizes and admits his limitations.
Treat people who developed physical handicaps late in life as you did before, and like they were whole people. Blindness and amputations are not catchy. Humor is what we gimps usually need most.
Appreciate those around you!
Blood filled the center of the eye and an existing cataract. I got scared into PRP surgery, with sessions before and after the cataract procedure. As neither doctor involved bothered to tell me that both PRP laser and cataract surgery increase risks of diabetic retinapathy, I was foolishly surprised when retinapathy developed while I was still undergoing the PRP
I was also not told of lense options for the cataract. I did not understand why I had NO reading vision while old men I knew had no problem reading with their new cataract lenses.
By summer of 2010 I was finding my new groove in life. I could not do some things at all, could do others with increased effort and caution, and could almost carry on with other things like my old self.
The more familiar I had been with what I was doing before going blind, the better I could handle it blind .
This blog is one guy’s personal and subjective experience, but it contains important take aways for general readers, particularly diabetics and eye patients. I have been accused of being a caustic cynic long before I ever started blogging.
By law of averages alone, I can’t be as dumb as I look. One important objective of this bit of cyberspace is to throw out ideas and experiences that should be given some thought by patients.
These warnings include:
Ask every question of your doctors, because they may not tell you.
Do your own thorough research on any procedure before undergoing it. Be sure to include the term "risk factor" or "side effect" in your search terms.
Diabetic light sensitivity may be caused by the routine dilation treatments during exams.
You have a right to your medical records and you should be familiar with them.
When you find a good doctor who is knowledgeable about his field and honest to you when he just doesn’t know, hold on to him. No one knows it all and the arrogant doctor who pretends to know everything can do you more harm than someone who recognizes and admits his limitations.
Treat people who developed physical handicaps late in life as you did before, and like they were whole people. Blindness and amputations are not catchy. Humor is what we gimps usually need most.
Appreciate those around you!
Friday, October 28, 2011
Getting By
On Dr. Negrey’s recommendation, I saw Retina Specialist Dr. Michael O‘Brien with Koch Eye I did tell O’Brien that two Doctors in two states had been satisfied with monitoring the left retina for a period of years rather than rushing me into PRP laser procedure. I even had that in writing from one of them via communication with my GP.
My mental state was not good at this time, now late October 2009. For weeks I had been seeing out my only good eye through a sheen of blood that had become a murky red over time. There was no relief from this, and no break. When the hemorrhage first happened, I could at least see, even if that was only in technicolor red. Now everything was red fog. I saw only by motion or sharp contrast as everything else was blurred by the blood in the cataract.
This carried a devastating emotional impact. I had worked and fought hard to be self sufficient. I lived an active life. People counted on me for things, including being "the strong one." Now I could not drive. I could not see the TV. Once the blood "in the cataract" had gone from bright to foggy, I could no longer read, thus was unable to review my first anthology publication. I managed on the computer only with the aide of a magnifying mouse and setting screen setting to larger resolutions on a 32-inch TV as a monitor. I listened to a lot of audio books, nut found little of the older and esoteric science fiction that crowded my to-read shelf. With teammates driving me in, I continued bowling. The gutters formed sharp contrast to the lane and I would straight ball down the center, then try for spares by approximate lane position once my teammates told me what pins were still standing.
As much as I tried to maintain a can-do spirit, the disability wore on me.
Negrey had already marked my records as will be blind without PRP, without my fill awareness.. O’Brien , naturally, agreed with his associate. One eye was dark, and the other was obscured by a blood filled cataract.
N a state of depression and uselessness, I let myself get scared into their course of treatment: a few laser sessions with the PRP, cataract surgery which would solve an old problem, and clear the new problem, then some mop up PRP once O’Brien had better view of the retina.
The PRP sessions started on November 2, 2009.
My mental state was not good at this time, now late October 2009. For weeks I had been seeing out my only good eye through a sheen of blood that had become a murky red over time. There was no relief from this, and no break. When the hemorrhage first happened, I could at least see, even if that was only in technicolor red. Now everything was red fog. I saw only by motion or sharp contrast as everything else was blurred by the blood in the cataract.
This carried a devastating emotional impact. I had worked and fought hard to be self sufficient. I lived an active life. People counted on me for things, including being "the strong one." Now I could not drive. I could not see the TV. Once the blood "in the cataract" had gone from bright to foggy, I could no longer read, thus was unable to review my first anthology publication. I managed on the computer only with the aide of a magnifying mouse and setting screen setting to larger resolutions on a 32-inch TV as a monitor. I listened to a lot of audio books, nut found little of the older and esoteric science fiction that crowded my to-read shelf. With teammates driving me in, I continued bowling. The gutters formed sharp contrast to the lane and I would straight ball down the center, then try for spares by approximate lane position once my teammates told me what pins were still standing.
As much as I tried to maintain a can-do spirit, the disability wore on me.
Negrey had already marked my records as will be blind without PRP, without my fill awareness.. O’Brien , naturally, agreed with his associate. One eye was dark, and the other was obscured by a blood filled cataract.
N a state of depression and uselessness, I let myself get scared into their course of treatment: a few laser sessions with the PRP, cataract surgery which would solve an old problem, and clear the new problem, then some mop up PRP once O’Brien had better view of the retina.
The PRP sessions started on November 2, 2009.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Better Living Through Chemistry, Part 2
My GP told me the list of things he would want me on even before doing any bloodwork to determine actual need. If I raise specific concerns about specific drug side effects, he does not communicate, he simply shrugs off my concerns.
We live in an age where the public learns about new conditions and diseases on TV when a drug is developed for them. In so many cases, we learn even more about the disease and the dug a couple years later when lawyers start advertising for class action suit clients. This seems a very prevalent trend with drugs marketed to diabetics, particularly the fat Type 2’s who want to avoid the needle.
When I told him that my new healthier living and lower blood sugars had triggered massive depression that had me disinterested in sex, my GP gave me a starter bottle of antidepressants and a three-pill sample pack of Cialis.
Just like a pusher, he would get me hooked for free and the investment will pay off before long.
I did not take either drug right away.
I had brought my difficulty to the GP’s attention as a lack of drive. He insisted it was not drive but function because I am a diabetic and diabetics have function issues.
I know myself, and what was going on. Instead of taking one of the Cialis, I forced myself to look at porn on the internet. My lack of drive had been so far lost that "forced myself" is an accurate description.
The images worked, and so did my function when my brain got engaged. I most certainly did not need the Cialis. Boner pills work on function, not drive. Ugly housewives should keep that in mind before slipping Viagra into their husbands’ drinks.
I did not take the antidepressant until I failed to have an apartment fully ready for an incoming tenant. This was the first time in 6 years I had failed in that. Just a couple years before, I had turned over 6 apartments in one month. The failure just wasn’t me. With reservations rooted in the stigmas and concepts of such a drug making me something other than myself, I started on the generic fluoxetine.
The fluoxetine worked. This depression derived from biochemical problems related to the lowered blood sugar. Things were going relatively well for me; I had no reason to be depressed and no life events had been making me that way.
The fluoxetine made me urinate a lot. My GP told me that was a sign of my being such a bad diabetic. I have been a diabetic since I was four. I know "sugar spillover" peeing when I’m doing it, and what I had mentioned to the GP wasn’t it. If I took the fluoxetine with a couple ounces of water, I gave back a couple cups. If I took it with a full glass of water, I would be standing over the toilet for several minutes in the production of sudsy pee.
I prevented the potential headache side effects by taking the fluoxetine at night.
I had only one other side effect that first winter on the generic Prozac. Before the fluoxetine, I had function but no drive. On it, I had drive but no function.
The Cialis beckoned.
We live in an age where the public learns about new conditions and diseases on TV when a drug is developed for them. In so many cases, we learn even more about the disease and the dug a couple years later when lawyers start advertising for class action suit clients. This seems a very prevalent trend with drugs marketed to diabetics, particularly the fat Type 2’s who want to avoid the needle.
When I told him that my new healthier living and lower blood sugars had triggered massive depression that had me disinterested in sex, my GP gave me a starter bottle of antidepressants and a three-pill sample pack of Cialis.
Just like a pusher, he would get me hooked for free and the investment will pay off before long.
I did not take either drug right away.
I had brought my difficulty to the GP’s attention as a lack of drive. He insisted it was not drive but function because I am a diabetic and diabetics have function issues.
I know myself, and what was going on. Instead of taking one of the Cialis, I forced myself to look at porn on the internet. My lack of drive had been so far lost that "forced myself" is an accurate description.
The images worked, and so did my function when my brain got engaged. I most certainly did not need the Cialis. Boner pills work on function, not drive. Ugly housewives should keep that in mind before slipping Viagra into their husbands’ drinks.
I did not take the antidepressant until I failed to have an apartment fully ready for an incoming tenant. This was the first time in 6 years I had failed in that. Just a couple years before, I had turned over 6 apartments in one month. The failure just wasn’t me. With reservations rooted in the stigmas and concepts of such a drug making me something other than myself, I started on the generic fluoxetine.
The fluoxetine worked. This depression derived from biochemical problems related to the lowered blood sugar. Things were going relatively well for me; I had no reason to be depressed and no life events had been making me that way.
The fluoxetine made me urinate a lot. My GP told me that was a sign of my being such a bad diabetic. I have been a diabetic since I was four. I know "sugar spillover" peeing when I’m doing it, and what I had mentioned to the GP wasn’t it. If I took the fluoxetine with a couple ounces of water, I gave back a couple cups. If I took it with a full glass of water, I would be standing over the toilet for several minutes in the production of sudsy pee.
I prevented the potential headache side effects by taking the fluoxetine at night.
I had only one other side effect that first winter on the generic Prozac. Before the fluoxetine, I had function but no drive. On it, I had drive but no function.
The Cialis beckoned.
Better Living Through Chemistry, Part 1
Diabetes, in my experience, doesn’t directly affect many things. It does, however, indirectly affect everything.
The hemorrhage was in October 2009, but the seeds that led to the hemorrhage had been planted in 2005. After having stumbled across an internist’s practice following a car accident, I looked at it as fate and solution to possible midlife crisis to do as some people urged me by "taking care of yourself better."
As of that time, I was hale and hearty and healthy and had only some mild diabetes related problems only in conjunction with other risk factors.
I had been having the eyeball checked every six months. It looked bad, but my eye doctor at the time–the esteemed Harold Woodcomb–had determined that as bad as it looked, it was entirely stable and did not need laser treatment like they do to diabetics. I lived an active life. I treated the diabetes by feel. I took the needle in the morning and forgot about being a diabetic in favor of a life that rejected notions that as one doctor put it to me "if you’re a diabetic, then you’re not healthy." If the sugar felt low, I ate. If it felt high or I had telltale systems od high sugar, I shot up without hesitation.
The numbers in 2005 were scarey enough that the first lab results prompted a call from a very frightened nurse and a comment from the GP that he did not understand how I had never been in a coma: A1C 15, meter based umbers over 600.
I worked with the doctor to lower the numbers. This was mostly by increased insulin consumption; my diet has always been pretty good.
Thus I began my road to good health. The numbers never got to where the doc wanted them, but they lowered with steady speed and on the inside of a year I could no longer work long days or eventually even very many full days because as soon as I are anything, I crashed. Even a light meal triggered naptime. I would wake up in early evening in bed with no recollection of having gone to bed after lunch.
I no longer felt healthy and the dual high doses of insulin triggered my body on a two-days per day biorhythm.
The lowered blood sugar triggered biochemical depression. I started sleeping 8 hours a day twice a day. My sex drive diminished, with what I recognized as utter lack of motivation, that symptom you hear about in all those antidepressant ads that run constantly on TV, "no longer have interest in the things you love doing."
I mentioned this to my GP. He denied any root cause from depression. Ever willing to promote better living through chemistry and to earn the vacations and perks that ht endless parade of drug reps in his office provide, he gave me a starter bottle of antidepressant and a three-pill sample pack of Cialis.
Thanks, doc.
The hemorrhage was in October 2009, but the seeds that led to the hemorrhage had been planted in 2005. After having stumbled across an internist’s practice following a car accident, I looked at it as fate and solution to possible midlife crisis to do as some people urged me by "taking care of yourself better."
As of that time, I was hale and hearty and healthy and had only some mild diabetes related problems only in conjunction with other risk factors.
I had been having the eyeball checked every six months. It looked bad, but my eye doctor at the time–the esteemed Harold Woodcomb–had determined that as bad as it looked, it was entirely stable and did not need laser treatment like they do to diabetics. I lived an active life. I treated the diabetes by feel. I took the needle in the morning and forgot about being a diabetic in favor of a life that rejected notions that as one doctor put it to me "if you’re a diabetic, then you’re not healthy." If the sugar felt low, I ate. If it felt high or I had telltale systems od high sugar, I shot up without hesitation.
The numbers in 2005 were scarey enough that the first lab results prompted a call from a very frightened nurse and a comment from the GP that he did not understand how I had never been in a coma: A1C 15, meter based umbers over 600.
I worked with the doctor to lower the numbers. This was mostly by increased insulin consumption; my diet has always been pretty good.
Thus I began my road to good health. The numbers never got to where the doc wanted them, but they lowered with steady speed and on the inside of a year I could no longer work long days or eventually even very many full days because as soon as I are anything, I crashed. Even a light meal triggered naptime. I would wake up in early evening in bed with no recollection of having gone to bed after lunch.
I no longer felt healthy and the dual high doses of insulin triggered my body on a two-days per day biorhythm.
The lowered blood sugar triggered biochemical depression. I started sleeping 8 hours a day twice a day. My sex drive diminished, with what I recognized as utter lack of motivation, that symptom you hear about in all those antidepressant ads that run constantly on TV, "no longer have interest in the things you love doing."
I mentioned this to my GP. He denied any root cause from depression. Ever willing to promote better living through chemistry and to earn the vacations and perks that ht endless parade of drug reps in his office provide, he gave me a starter bottle of antidepressant and a three-pill sample pack of Cialis.
Thanks, doc.
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