Monday, May 3, 2010

Deeeelicious Drinkable Codeine

Whew! After a whirlwind weekend at Grandma's, I'm back home, doing laundry and coughing like I get paid for it.

So my mom lives in my childhood home, in the charming small town where I grew up. It's always interesting to go back home, isn't it? I mean, there was some author who said "You can't go home again" - but obviously his mother didn't love him, and probably ran off to some artist colony in the southwest and spent her golden years learning to spin imitation Navajo pottery. My mom loves me, so I can go home whenever I want. (For the record, my dad and stepmom live down the road and also love me - none of them have abandoned me for southwestern artist-colony glory. Yet.)

I would love to regale you with all the fascinating things I did while I was at my mom’s, but basically the kids played with my mom’s puppy, and when we went out for dinner I ogled all the Pentecostal Hair on display. I hadn’t seen it in awhile and forgot how tall it gets. When you don’t EVER cut your hair, like, from birth, it gets long and fluffy and without product (wait, does anyone know, can you legally/Biblically use product?) it is some *intense* hair. (My mom was pretty concerned because some of the Pentecostal Hair at the next table got rather aggressive near our salad bowl. Note: We did not have seconds on the endless salad.)

Today, I was all pimp-slapping my Muse around the room, trying to find something fun and interesting (other than product-less Pentecostal Hair) to write about. Then I went to the doctor because my not-breathing has really interfered with, um, life lately. As in LIVING as opposed to dying.

The good news: I’m alive. The bad news: I’m going to be on about 5 different medications to keep it that way. Curse you ASS-ma, curse you right in the FACE.

Normally, I blithely go about my life, partying like a rockstar, enjoying entire imaginary conversations with Lady Gaga, disco dancing while I vacuum, and playing with the Children of the Corn, all while in heavy denial that I have ASS-ma in the first place. I mean, they didn’t even diagnose me until the tender age of 20, so I was lucky to make it THAT far. (Seriously Mom, what sort of quack were you taking me to???)(Ahem.)

Oh sure, I carry an inhaler in my purse. But really it’s more for show. Sometimes the lid falls off and purse-trash gets wedged in there, and Cassanova finds it and I have to pry it out of his adorable little hands before he pumps all the live-saving meds out. Not that he’s done that before. (Okay at least twice.) Usually though, my ASS-ma and I have an UNSPOKEN agreement. I ignore it, and well, it doesn’t kill me.

Until it does.

Last time, it was right after a swingin’ Halloween out with my BFFs (back in the day of no children and $5 pitcher long islands) – all the second hand smoke triggered some sort of ASS-ma flare up that ended up with Your Favorite Writer medicated and steroid-ed into oblivion until the ASS-ma ceded defeat.

*And because you’re really REALLY good and patient. I will now regale you with a picture of the Halloween outfit (we just found these at Mom’s this weekend.) I went as an ironic mockery of sorority life as a “Princess” – my friend Roobs (in black) went as The Living Dead Girl (of Rob Zombie fame) and J was an Evil Fairy. I think. The long islands and inhaler meds took their toll….*



Aaaaanyway, so THAT was the last time the ASS-ma ruined my denial. THIS is the most recent time. Today I went in and they told me that the reason the meds I’m currently on aren’t working is because I am SO inflamed that they can’t get beyond the top of my lungs. Sigh. So they gave me a steroid shot in my hip (the kids were dazzled), a nebulizer treatment and checked my oxygen twice.

Since I’m pretty much keeping WalGreen’s in the red, I have to pick up all my shiny new medications, which include: high dose steroids, liquid nebulizer medications, antibiotics and (drum roll…..) *sing song voice* drinkable codeine. Which PS Drinkable Codeine = band name.

I’m hoping at least for sweet, sweet sleep tonight. Coughing myself out of a dream is VERY uncool ASS-ma.

And once I’ve kicked it back into obscurity (unless it one ups me with some pneumonia which totally = DOUCHEY) I will deny it all over again. I will *OWN* you, ASS-ma, believe it.

Comments, questions, got albuterol?

4 comments:

Ruby said...

Mwahahahaha! Oh that's totally not the picture I was thinking of! But hey, let's be honest here. That picture was taken BEFORE the long island pitchers! We were so entertaining!
By the way, that's a great question about the usage of Pentocostal hair care products. I know a woman's hair is her 'glory.' Anyone out there know the answer? Who am I kidding? Sammo, I'm guessing you don't have much of a Pentocostal following....

Sammo said...

You never know...they could be a huge part of my fan base! HA! Hustle up Guest Blogger....deadlines!

alonewithcats said...

I'm so embarrassed. As a non-sufferer, I always operated under the assumption that ASS-ma was spelled differently. Like, with a silent "H" or something. You're broadening my horizons, Sammo.

Sammo said...

That's what I strive for - horizon broadening activity, every day baby! (I do have much respect for silent Hs though...like not using "an" with "historic" = downfall of society.)