Prairie Landing
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
You go, Li'l Rhody!
Amid the shitload of health news that comes into my email box -- and it really is a shitload, I mean at least 30 news-related emails a day -- I noticed this happy development: Medical Marijuana? Rhode Island Says Yes. I notice that although old Governor Don plans to veto the law, the G.A. has enough votes to override him. That is so Rhode Island -- when funding's not involved, they say "Fuck you, Republican federal government!"
A second article I read deals with one of my pet theories, that there is some reason why practically everyone is nearsighted. Turns out not breastfeeding is at least one of the reasons. I actually have no idea whether I was breastfed or not. My mother-in-law thinks that's crazy, everyone should know. But I am NOT asking.
My real theory, which is hardly original, is that people are nearsighted because of too much time spent surfing the Net. All I know is my eyes were pretty good until we got DSL at work, and it's been downhill ever since. I found these yogic eye exercises that seem less freaky than usual. I might try them even though Colliculus will make endless mockery of me.
In high school I dated this guy for a month, who then stalked me for about 6 months. Two or three years later, in college, Noise Footprint and I visited a palm reader in a bad neighborhood in Wilmington (the Indian restaurant next door where we had planned to go was closed). She had a storefront that was her apartment -- plate glass window with a neon sign, but if you looked past the sign you saw wall-to-wall carpet, a big-screen TV and her noisy-ass kids sitting there with a million toys underfoot. She told me there was someone with the initials JD who was a major force in my life. I couldn't think of anyone, but when I got home, J.D. Stalker Dude called me out of the blue and apologized for being an asshole. Anyway, he swore by yogic eye exercises, which is probably where I got the idea from.
A second article I read deals with one of my pet theories, that there is some reason why practically everyone is nearsighted. Turns out not breastfeeding is at least one of the reasons. I actually have no idea whether I was breastfed or not. My mother-in-law thinks that's crazy, everyone should know. But I am NOT asking.
My real theory, which is hardly original, is that people are nearsighted because of too much time spent surfing the Net. All I know is my eyes were pretty good until we got DSL at work, and it's been downhill ever since. I found these yogic eye exercises that seem less freaky than usual. I might try them even though Colliculus will make endless mockery of me.
In high school I dated this guy for a month, who then stalked me for about 6 months. Two or three years later, in college, Noise Footprint and I visited a palm reader in a bad neighborhood in Wilmington (the Indian restaurant next door where we had planned to go was closed). She had a storefront that was her apartment -- plate glass window with a neon sign, but if you looked past the sign you saw wall-to-wall carpet, a big-screen TV and her noisy-ass kids sitting there with a million toys underfoot. She told me there was someone with the initials JD who was a major force in my life. I couldn't think of anyone, but when I got home, J.D. Stalker Dude called me out of the blue and apologized for being an asshole. Anyway, he swore by yogic eye exercises, which is probably where I got the idea from.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
The head doctor
Here's a post that's still on a healthcare-type topic, but at least it won't gross you out.
Every six weeks I go to the neurologist about my headaches. If you've never been to a neurologist I should explain what that's like. You'd expect them to be some of the freakier, more intimidating medical specialists, but it's actually just the opposite. They usually wear street clothes, sit behind a big, official-looking desk, and have relatively few medical-type items around, so you feel like you're getting your taxes done or hiring an architect. Maybe interviewing for an especially stringent day care program is more accurate, since they invariably have a lot of stimulating decorations.
This guy, whose name is Dr. Ho, has pen-and-ink streetscapes of Chicago all over his office. In the waiting room is one of those 24-by-36 posters of the Earth from space that was probably popular around 1980, plus a picture of the brain with the caption, "Technology has yet to improve upon . . . the world's fastest supercomputer." Every time I walk in there I want to laugh at these ridiculous posters. But I make an effort to be inconspicuous, because I feel like such a complete imposter surrounded by the people who must have a million more horrible afflictions than mine. Neurology is an incredibly bleak field, I think. All of the diseases are incurable and most are degenerative.
Every appointment, he asks a bunch of questions about the drugs I take. (Luckily he never bothers to ask if I'm still not drinking, because I gave up on that back in February.) Then we do a round of drunk driving-type tests in order to prove I haven't recently caught one of the degenerative diseases. This most recent time he asked me, "Do you have a stiff neck with this headache? A fever?" I'd had enough and said, "Look, there is no way I've had spinal meningitis for six months."
After we've ruled out a sudden case of meningitis, MS, Alzheimer's, or whatever other horrid disease he has in mind, he invariably expresses puzzlement and amazement that none of the things he's recommended have worked. I do not find this encouraging, especially once I hear his next recommendation, which is always . . . higher doses of the same stuff he's been prescribing me all along.
As you can see, I should probably try seeing someone else. I was going to try acupuncture, but my insurance doesn't cover it, and equally important, last month a large placebo-controlled study came out in JAMA showing it was no better than placebo. Interestingly, the placebo group did very well - a lot better than the people who got nothing else. Apparently having pins stuck into you randomly is just as effective as having a trained professional do it correctly, and more effective than nothing.
Every six weeks I go to the neurologist about my headaches. If you've never been to a neurologist I should explain what that's like. You'd expect them to be some of the freakier, more intimidating medical specialists, but it's actually just the opposite. They usually wear street clothes, sit behind a big, official-looking desk, and have relatively few medical-type items around, so you feel like you're getting your taxes done or hiring an architect. Maybe interviewing for an especially stringent day care program is more accurate, since they invariably have a lot of stimulating decorations.
This guy, whose name is Dr. Ho, has pen-and-ink streetscapes of Chicago all over his office. In the waiting room is one of those 24-by-36 posters of the Earth from space that was probably popular around 1980, plus a picture of the brain with the caption, "Technology has yet to improve upon . . . the world's fastest supercomputer." Every time I walk in there I want to laugh at these ridiculous posters. But I make an effort to be inconspicuous, because I feel like such a complete imposter surrounded by the people who must have a million more horrible afflictions than mine. Neurology is an incredibly bleak field, I think. All of the diseases are incurable and most are degenerative.
Every appointment, he asks a bunch of questions about the drugs I take. (Luckily he never bothers to ask if I'm still not drinking, because I gave up on that back in February.) Then we do a round of drunk driving-type tests in order to prove I haven't recently caught one of the degenerative diseases. This most recent time he asked me, "Do you have a stiff neck with this headache? A fever?" I'd had enough and said, "Look, there is no way I've had spinal meningitis for six months."
After we've ruled out a sudden case of meningitis, MS, Alzheimer's, or whatever other horrid disease he has in mind, he invariably expresses puzzlement and amazement that none of the things he's recommended have worked. I do not find this encouraging, especially once I hear his next recommendation, which is always . . . higher doses of the same stuff he's been prescribing me all along.
As you can see, I should probably try seeing someone else. I was going to try acupuncture, but my insurance doesn't cover it, and equally important, last month a large placebo-controlled study came out in JAMA showing it was no better than placebo. Interestingly, the placebo group did very well - a lot better than the people who got nothing else. Apparently having pins stuck into you randomly is just as effective as having a trained professional do it correctly, and more effective than nothing.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Colliculus's parents came to visit this weekend. Once again they spoiled us rotten, buying us dinner, the aforementioned grill, admissions to stuff, and literally everything else except train fare, which they no doubt would have insisted on buying if we didn't have fare cards already. They also helped us wash a couple of windows and plant some tomatoes I had been neglecting on the deck. They even bought the potting soil for the tomatoes. Damn, I married well.
I was thrilled that we were able to persuade them to go to BodyWorlds. This is a new exhibit in which almost every item on display is real, plasticized human tissue. It's not as gross as it sounds and really amazing. There are whole skeletons in which everything but the circulatory system is stripped away, or the nerves, or the muscles -- you get the picture.
A disturbing thing was that every so often, something about the setup would remind you that this wasn't just a display; it used to be a live person. Like the lungs would be black from smoking, or the person would have a knee replacement. The most unnerving one was the pregnant woman with fetus. She looked perfectly healthy and fit, as did the fetus. But I guess they weren't.
At the end there was a museum docent with a couple of random, plasticky organs you could pick up. A guy came over and started squeezing a lung with both hands, like a stressball, while he chatted with her about how the display was made. He asked, "So these are replicas, right?" She had to explain three times before he understood that no, they were real organs that had gone through the same process as everything else. The moment he got it, he put the lung right down. I poked it. It did feel just like a stressball. I didn't want to pick it up either, though.
I was thrilled that we were able to persuade them to go to BodyWorlds. This is a new exhibit in which almost every item on display is real, plasticized human tissue. It's not as gross as it sounds and really amazing. There are whole skeletons in which everything but the circulatory system is stripped away, or the nerves, or the muscles -- you get the picture.
A disturbing thing was that every so often, something about the setup would remind you that this wasn't just a display; it used to be a live person. Like the lungs would be black from smoking, or the person would have a knee replacement. The most unnerving one was the pregnant woman with fetus. She looked perfectly healthy and fit, as did the fetus. But I guess they weren't.
At the end there was a museum docent with a couple of random, plasticky organs you could pick up. A guy came over and started squeezing a lung with both hands, like a stressball, while he chatted with her about how the display was made. He asked, "So these are replicas, right?" She had to explain three times before he understood that no, they were real organs that had gone through the same process as everything else. The moment he got it, he put the lung right down. I poked it. It did feel just like a stressball. I didn't want to pick it up either, though.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
I'm super-busy at work again. I used to just have one client -- the drug that treated all the autoimmune diseases -- but now I'm on two new accounts. We had a competition at work to see whose account was the grossest and I DOUBLE-won. I'll spare you the horrific links but Google Image these infections if you dare:
Invasive aspergillosis
MRSA
Diabetic foot infection
There's no question that winning these contests is partly about luck and partly about desire to win. I've got the zest for the gross-out, no question. Then again, my coworkers who work on allergies, low testosterone and whatnot just can't hold a candle to fungal infections, inflammatory bowel disease and the other stuff I work on.
Colliculus's parents are coming to visit this weekend. They're going to buy us a grill!
Invasive aspergillosis
MRSA
Diabetic foot infection
There's no question that winning these contests is partly about luck and partly about desire to win. I've got the zest for the gross-out, no question. Then again, my coworkers who work on allergies, low testosterone and whatnot just can't hold a candle to fungal infections, inflammatory bowel disease and the other stuff I work on.
Colliculus's parents are coming to visit this weekend. They're going to buy us a grill!
Thursday, June 02, 2005
A story from Raleighwood
In NC we got to see the Militant Nudist's little bro, who still seems little even though he's 8 years older than I was the last time I saw him. MN tells me that Little Bro lives in a house belonging to a cat named Radar. Apparently the woman who lived there before moved away and Radar wouldn't leave, so instead of selling the house she decided to rent it out on condition that any tenants agree to live with Radar. They don't have to take care of him, they just have to live with him and let her come in and feed him Chik-Fil-A sandwiches and waffle fries three or four times a week.
Radar is a really filthy beast. He's big and fat and mean, and he stinks because he rolls in the sewer all the time. In addition to the Chik-Fil-A, Radar also tries to eat everyone's food. When he jumps on the sofa Little Bro uses his toe to shove him off, that's how gross Radar is.
But the rent's less than $500 for a big 2-bedroom house in Greensboro, so it's worth putting up with Radar's shit.
Radar is a really filthy beast. He's big and fat and mean, and he stinks because he rolls in the sewer all the time. In addition to the Chik-Fil-A, Radar also tries to eat everyone's food. When he jumps on the sofa Little Bro uses his toe to shove him off, that's how gross Radar is.
But the rent's less than $500 for a big 2-bedroom house in Greensboro, so it's worth putting up with Radar's shit.
