I recently had to change a medication after blood tests taken during a routine doctor’s visit determined that something was hinky with my “you’re screwing with your liver” numbers.   I was very enthusiastic to  make that change because livers are important, and it’s really hard to get another one!  They didn’t even wean me off the old one, just yanked it, Pfsshew!, and gave me two weeks to flush my system of that liver killing bastahd compound!

I am absolutely religious about taking my meds.  Having ridden the Kah-Ray-Zee Bomb ala Slim Pickens in “Dr. Strangelove”, I am fierce in my determination to keep wackiness at bay. 

Most unfortunately, this was my “step away from the edge” pill.  Alas, I have a predilection towards the blues, and I wish I was talking about Muddy Waters, but I’m not.   This particular visit to the Nether World of Woe is Me wasn’t nearly as devastating as some I’ve experienced in the past but included many of the recognizable patterns; lethargy (12 hours of sleep at a time), rendering myself incommunicado (I couldn’t EVEN visit OS because the sense of how out of it I was simply overwhelmed me), not checking email, making or returning calls, cozying up with Rocky Road ice cream, re-reading old fantasy novels I’ve read so often I know them by heart yet I required their familiarity and comfort, and listening to my therapist and friends tell me “Be patient”.  I basically turned my back on the world.  Good thing, because I made lousy company.

Oddly enough, what concerned The Boyfriend more than anything was that I was not writing. He’s a very, very smart Boyfriend.  I’m a lucky, lucky woman.

When I finally started taking my new, improved stop-your-whining-you-mewling-sissy medication, I knew it would take some time before its introduction to my system would make any meaningful difference.  My Medically Enhanced Metabolism eats through most medications like a ravening hoard of hyenas.  

I can almost hear my body boasting, “Look hardy, boyos.  Here comes the Tylenol.  We shall dine well tonight!”  Honest to god, I don’t even mess with ibuprofen any longer.  The Metabolism Rogues simply guffaw cheerfully, crying, “Avast ye, Mistress!  We shall make great sport with the Advil and put it to a quick death.  Remember what we did to Prozac?  Har har har!”  Luckily, the only time I really need anything for pain is when I have CRAMPS (in caps, okay, so don’t mess with me), and for my tendonitis.  I've got some serious Prescription Pills for those, and when introduced into my blood stream, the Metabolism Pirates are usually sailing less dangerous waters.  I can actually get some relief.

So, the clock is ticking down towards the new drug's announcement.   “Yo!  I’m working now!  Note the lightness of your step.  6 to 8 hours of sleep is more than enough.  Give your friends a call and see if they still remember your name.  You can stop pasting that fake smile on your face at work, and please, stop surreptitiously breaking up the pasta into little pieces while packing the groceries of customers who behave like asses!” 

I’m feeling a little better.  I’m sure it’s more of a psychic panacea knowing that drug is there, investing itself into my brain, where it will finally smack those misfiring bastahd synapses back into shape.

But wait, there’s more!  What, in the midst of living in this psychological black hole, do I decide to do? 

Adopt not one, but two cats from a shelter!

Natasha and Boris, 10 month old brother and sister (previously named Ollie and Sophie – how prosaic!).  What am I thinking?  I live in a studio apartment, I have weird work hours, and I have no money!  

My previous cat, Atticus, passed away very suddenly last September, having lived for 13 years with Feline HIV.  She had a great life, if I do say so myself.  But after her death, I needed some time.  I’ve never been without a cat, but I didn’t want to be like one of those men or women who jump from relationship to relationship with no down time to be on their own.  You know people like that, right? 

But this week the universe told me “Get thee some kitty cat.  In fact, get thee two so they can keep each other company, and make you howl with laughter when the big sister bowls over the doofus little brother as he sits unsuspecting in his little bed.”

Boris pretending he's not interested in that catnip mouse.

 Natasha.  So very regal, so very cool.  

 Breaking news:  If the pharmaceutical industry could find a way to distill the joy, laughter and happiness generated by felines, well…they’d have done it already.  I’ve had them less than a week and they have already lifted my sprits in a way that no man-made pill could possibly replicate.

The clouds are lifting, the brain cells are producing thoughts beyond eat a lot, work, sleep a lot.  I’m diving back into OS though I have so much catch-up reading to do I feel like a college student who waited until the night before the exam to study.   Back in the bad old days, I used to say “Wow, I must be sick if I can’t even smoke a cigarette!”  Now I say, “Wow, I must be screwed up if I can’t even post a piece of innocuous fluff on OS.” 

I don’t know if the AMA will back me up on this, but I discovered the cure for my current bout of the blues:  Good (street legal) Drugs, and Cat Love!  Bottle it and you’ll make millions! 

 My New Best Friends.