I'm still having health issues. Poor appetite, frequent nausea and bloating, intestinal problems, extreme fatigue and foggy head, etc. My doctor did a bit of blood work and told me it all looked fine so he sent me back to see my Gastroenterologist. Of course, I knew that if I saw my GI, he'd want to perform an upper endoscopy on my panic-stricken self.

After over a month of feeling like the walking dead and worrying that I have some serious health problem, I agreed to see my GI. And, after he poked and prodded my abdomen, he told me he wants me to have the endoscopy.

I promptly began to cry, right there on the exam table. My doctor looked as if I had sprouted a second head. How embarrassing.

He told me he would sedate me for the procedure, just like he did for my colonoscopy a few years ago, and that I won't remember a thing. Well, amnesia does not comfort me! I don't want to simply not remember the procedure - I don't want to be aware of it in any shape or form. This idea that something is bearable because you won't remember it is ridiculous to me. Even if you don't remember it later, you still had to endure it while it was happening, so it's still a shitty experience that you have to have. Recall intact or not.

The bottom line is that - while 'normal' people often feel anxiety about such procedures - when you're afraid of vomiting, you are extremely unhappy about having a tube shoved down your esophagus, even with your throat numbed and under sedation. I don't want to be drowsy. I want to be asleep. Even numbing of my throat makes me anxious because it can feel like my throat is closing off and I can't feel myself swallow. I'm afraid of gagging on the tube, or vomiting from gagging on it, or even of just feeling afraid because there's a fucking tube in my throat. It seems terribly invasive and I fear I would be rendered completely out of control of myself, which I hate.

The GI doctor said he can also arrange for the anesthesiologist to give me Propofol (the same thing rumored to have been found in Michael Jackson's house) instead, which is faster acting and (in my understanding) more deeply sedating. It carries more risk of slipping into general anesthesia and having to be 'rescued' due to depression of the respiratory system but it may just be worth it. I have to speak about it at the surgery center about it to figure out what the best method of sedation is for me.

The procedure is scheduled for this Friday at 9am. I decided not to worry too much until my appointment (or at least the night before it) since I can't do anything about it anyway. I do feel anxious about it, sitting here typing, but the panic attack can wait. I suppose I've resigned myself, in a way, to having the procedure and the anxiety that will come with it. I just hope I'm thoroughly sedated and that it goes quickly, with little discomfort (physical or mental) and no complications. And, of course, that I don't have any tumors or the like!

Blah. Anxiety makes things so much harder than they have to be.

So, I'm turning thirty in a few months. And, to be honest, it scares the shit out of me. Is this a 'normal' reaction?

A few months ago, we had to euthanize one of our cats. On the heels of that experience came thoughts of my own mortality. It isn't that I've never thought of it before - certainly, I have, even as a child - however, I supposed I'd only thought of it on occasion and generally only if I was feeling stressed about some strange physical symptom.

Add Pepper's death to my already growing anxiety regarding the turn of my third century. Not that thirty is much more than a number, rationally. For me, it's more about accomplishment (or lack thereof, in particular) and life experience. I have, without a doubt, experienced much more 'internal conflict' than most people my age. What I've missed out on is the living. Most of my twenties were spent worrying and analyzing and attempting to attain something of inner peace. Obviously, it's not worked out so well yet.

A little over a month ago, I had a terrifying experience. I began suffering chest pains, shortness of breath, pain in my arms and back and a general feeling of unease. I was thrown into a panic. I feared I was having a heart attack. Having dealt with countless panic attacks since childhood, I knew this wasn't one. I waited overnight, hoping my symptoms would ease. They didn't. By early morning, I was willing to do something I never imagined - I was willing to go to the Emergency Room.

Since I'm emetophobic (which is having a severe fear of vomiting), I tend to avoid places where germs may be prevalent. Hospitals are certainly one of those places, particularly Emergency Rooms. I was so afraid that I might be dying that I was actually willing to go to this place which I had for years avoided like the plague.

I arrived in an absolute panic. My hands shook so badly while attempting to sign my name that I'm not sure even I would recognize the signature. I was hooked up to what seemed like fifteen different machines. I had blood drawn and EKG's taken, chest x-rays done and urine sampled directly from my bladder. Someone threw up right outside my open doorway (so much for waiting for my pulse to decrease). A few hours later, the very pleasant doctor informed me that my problem was likely GERD made worse by stress. I was relieved, yet I found myself wondering if they could have missed something important.

Having been awake for over twenty-four hours with little food or water and endured many hours of extreme anxiety, I was exhausted when I came home. I showered, trying to wash the germs from the hospital away. I ate a little food. Knowing I needed rest, I resisted sleep... fear of not waking up niggled away in the back of my head. I asked Chris to stay with me so I could nap and he, sweet man that he is, lay down with me until I fell asleep.

Obviously, I didn't die in my sleep that evening.

For several days after, I experienced that same fear before going to sleep, wondering if I would wake up again. It eventually passed and I got back to normal. I worked outside a lot, doing landscaping around our house and helped my gran with hers. We cleaned out the garage. I cleaned and organized boxes of old things for a garage sale at my dad's house.

Toward the end of the week before last, I had a really bad day, which would be the start of a really bad week, and something in me shifted for the worse. The neighbors on one side of our house had been letting their large dog shit all over the place and it wasn't the most pleasant thing to smell while I was mowing my side yard. I had a disagreement with my dad. I had a strange argument with a good friend of mine. It was just an all around bad day. I felt so down.

A few days later, I found myself at my dad's to help with the sale. I wasn't feeling very well, but I went anyway. I left in the afternoon to come home and relax. I felt off for the rest of the day but started my period the following morning so I just brushed it off as PMS.

A few days after that, it was Monday of this week. Chris woke me around 7:30am to ask me to check on Shadow, who is one of his cats. Shadow had been displaying quite aggressive behavior during the night and Chris was worried. After seeing him, I decided it would be a good idea to have him checked out by my vet in case it was caused by a physical illness or injury so I made an appointment for later that morning.

Shadow had other ideas. We ended up being nearly three hours late for the appointment. I'm not sure who is more traumatized by the hours spent trying to catch Shadow for transport - us or him. I have never, in all my time spent with housecats, seen that kind of aggression toward owners. It was as if Shadow was a feral cat. Chris sustained several deep scratches and a semi-superficial bite in the process. Eventually, after having witness Shadow ramping our kitchen wall sideways several times and shitting all over the place out of pure terror of us, we somehow managed to get him into an old vacuum sweeper box with the help of a broom (nudging, mind you, not hitting him). We taped both ends and off we went.

The vet wanted to keep Shadow overnight in order to make sure he was calm enough for them to draw blood and examine him. Chris and I were relieved at that, even if it was going to eat $216.50 from what little savings I have. A few hours later, the vet called us and gave us news that was both fantastic and horrible at the same time. Shadow is physically in good health; he's just mental. Great. Re-directed aggression toward his owner. Yay. The doctor prescribed Prozac (in a tiny little dose) and gave us the option of letting Shadow stay for two nights. We agreed, as I think we both were wary of what sort of cat we'd be bringing home.

It's been a bit like walking on eggshells since we brough home Shadow from the vet's office. At first, he was affectionate. Then, as soon as he saw Dorian (the other cat in the household), he immediately began growling at Chris. Strangely, he never showed much aggression toward me with the exception of when we were trying to catch him for transport to the vet's office. After speaking with the vet at length, we ignored Shadow altogether over the next two days. The damned thing is that Shadow almost immediately stopped growling (for the most part) at Chris and began following and watching him constantly.

Yesterday was the first day we showed him any attention (other than feeding him) since speaking with the vet. If he isn't aggressive and he initiates the affection, we provide him with a little petting and eye contact and then stop. I suppose the idea is to reintroduce him to Chris (in a way) and leave him wanting that contact, thereby reinforcing appropriate behavior and response. The instant he should show any aggression, even if slight, we go back to ignoring him until he settles in again. It's likely to be a long process before Chris and I feel completely comfortable with him. To see him so wild was frightening and I can't remember ever being frightened of a cat before then. We're trying to appear normal and calm, but I must admit that I often quickly look out of the corner of my eye to be certain that I know where he is when I'm in the same room with him.

Here's the thing - Tuesday, the day after taking Shadow to the vet, was the start of anxiety like I've not felt in a long time. I hadn't felt well all last weekend, not much appetite, tired, somewhat dizzy.

Tuesday morning, I woke with stomach pain. I figured it was stress and just tried to eat breakfast. I lay down in the afternoon and napped for a while. I thought I was feeling better afterward, so I got up and was going to shower and eat dinner. However, while I was showering, my stomach started hurting quite a bit. It was an odd sensation. The pain was in my upper left abdomen and it felt incredibly full of pressure, radiating down toward my navel. It hurt to press on it. I suddenly had thought of an enlarged spleen, intestinal blockages, tumors, bleeding ulcers and more. I threw myself into a panic attack right there in the shower. It didn't feel like an air bubble but instead of figuring that's what it was and moving on, I was stuck in the cycle of anxiety.

I took a stomach pill and lay down for the rest of the night. It gradually subsided but my fear did not. I lay awake til nearly dawn, shaking and terrified that if I went to sleep, I wouldn't wake up again. Finally, exhaustion took over and I slept. And woke, obviously.

Wednesday, I still had no appetite. I was tired and weak. Having not eaten much more than some cereal the previous day, I tried not to worry and assume I just needed food and better sleep. I didn't want to eat, though, since I wasn't hungry. I had some muffins and Gatorade to try to get some sugars into my bloodstream. I relaxed for most of the day, trying to recuperate. By nightfall, I was terrified again to sleep. Something in my mind kept whispering to me that I could die in the night. I was awake until the wee hours, shaking and afraid.

Thursday, I was determined to stop this nonsense. I still didn't feel well. Still no appetite. Still tired. By evening, I wasn't doing too badly. Until my throat began feeling scratchy. I first just brushed it off, hoping I wasn't getting a cold since I felt so run down. Within an hour, the thought crept into my head that it could be Swine Flu. I had read that vomiting had been occurring often in people who caught Swine Flu. I wasn't so much afraid of dying from it (although some people have), rather fearing the vomiting aspect of it. I was again awake until nearly dawn.

Yesterday, which was Friday, I was getting so tired of all of the anxiety. I tried to eat more, even though I still had little appetite. I drove my mom to drop off some things for her church. On the way home, I was struck by a dizzy spell that nearly made me stop the car. It finally passed and I tried to tell myself that I haven't eaten enough this week. After coming home, I showered (which felt like such an effort) and tried to relax. Mentally, I was feeling a little better. Until I opened an email from my mom warning me of the symptoms of ovarian cancer. I realized I have most of those symptoms. However, I've also had some of them since I was a pre-teen. Even so, the fear returned that I could have a serious disease. The fear returned that I could die in my sleep. Although I wasn't in a state of full blown panic, I still lay awake, afraid to sleep.

Today, I am tired. I'm dizzy. I still feel foggy-headed. I did manage to eat two meals, even though my stomach just feels sort of 'blechy' (for lack of a better word). I'm trying to drink more water. I helped Chris build a bamboo lattice for our morning glories and showered. Now, I sit here trying to write all of this out of my head or make some sort of sense out of it.

Is there actually something going on in my body or is it all in my head? It's so hard for me to tell. I'm always so hyper-aware of how my body feels that I'm not sure I can distinguish normal from abnormal feelings any more.  The fatigue worries me. The lack of appetite worries me. The disorientation is concerning. I constant feeling of 'blech' in my stomach worries me. However, I realize that these can all be signs of stress, anxiety and depression. I've struggled over my whole life with stress reactions in my stomach so you'd think I wouldn't worry so much. I just keep wondering if all the past months of stomach discomfort are just my stress and day to day anxiety or if there is something more happening.

Unfortunately, now I'm struggling with this strange, irrational fear of death that even I don't know whether or not to take my symptoms seriously. I've lost at least five pounds since last month. I'm not sure I should see my doctor about them because, after all, maybe I'm just becoming a complete hypochondriac. The line between anxiety and something real is becoming so blurred that I don't know what is real now. I feel a bit like I'm in a dream (again, anxiety can cause that) and It's not a pleasant one.

So, is this a normal reaction to turning thirty? Do people really freak out this much or am I finally just losing my mind?

One of our cats was diagnosed with Chronic Renal Failure several months ago. The vet changed his diet to a special low-protein food and said that Pepper could possibly live a few more healthy years before the condition advanced. We knew we would eventually have to euthanize him when he started having more issues from it but we hoped to have another year or so with him, providing that his quality of life was good. After making those changes, Pepper started perking up and acting more like himself. He seemed to be feeling well most days and was happy.

Several days ago, he began behaving like he didn't feel very well but we didn't assume it was too bad since he had bad days here and there. Around 1:30am yesterday morning, he had a seizure. I knew, in the moments that soon followed, that it was time to have him euthanized. I struggled with that knowledge while I read about what was happening to his body at this stage of CRF and it was clear that his body was trying to shut itself down. I decided to call the vet at 8am sharp to get him in as soon as possible. We discussed what the best course of action was and agreed that euthanization was the humane and loving thing to do for him.

I tried to get some sleep since he had someone to watch over him until it was time to take him to the vet's office. I read. I tossed and turned. I cried. I was anxious and hoping I wouldn't have a panic attack while we were at the vet's office.

At 8am, I made a 10 o'clock appointment, which was the earliest opening. I tried to spend some time with Pepper but he was so restless that he just didn't want to stay still, so I just let him roam the house if he wanted to. When it was time, Chris helped me to gather up the carrier and some old towels for wrapping him to bring him home. I was planning for the worst.

The ride there was so long. I struggled to make small talk. I could hear him crying now and again in his carrier and I fought not to cry. I was trying to hard to be OK with it.

The vet's office was running late, so we didn't see the vet until nearly 11. The wait was maddening. After a brief exam and hearing our options, we told the doctor that we didn't want Pepper to suffer and we knew he would from this point on if he was kept alive. He gave us what seemed like an eternity alone with Pepper while he prepared everything. Pepper doesn't fare well at the vet; he never has. He was crying but was too weak to really put up a fight and so just clung to us, probably hoping we'd eventually take him home as we usually do. It broke my heart into a million pieces. I had to leave the room when the vet started arranging him for the injection, as I couldn't bear it, so I asked Chris to stay.

The other clients in the lobby stared at me while I paid the receptionist. The fee for the office call was omitted and only the fee for the euthanization was charged. I wanted to yell at a man whose dog was still constantly barking, even while we had been sitting there with our ill cat who was upset by it.

I went back into the room and Chris put Pepper back into the carrier. We came home to bury him.

Not much time has passed once Chris had a hole dug beneath one of our lilac bushes. I took Pepper out, having checked to see if he was already cold and finding that he wasn't, and wrapped him in a fresh towel since the one he was in had urine on it. He was still so warm, and he seemed to just be sleeping. I asked Chris to give me a few minutes alone. Once he had gone into the garage, I secured the towel and picked up Pepper and cuddled him to my chest like he was a baby, just like he liked me to. I looked down into his little face and stroked his forehead, just like he had always liked. Try as I might, the tears kept coming anyway. I said what came to me and covered his face.

Chris came back outside and helped me to arrange Pepper into a little ball inside a box. I had the strange thought that I was trying to make him comfortable because the box was nearly too small and that it was silly because he's dead. Habits are odd. I placed the box in the ground and told him, "Goodnight." Together, Chris and I shoveled the dirt back into the hole and replaced the sod.

I showered and lay down by around 3pm, and fell into a restless sleep. When I woke up, the last night's and morning's events hit me like a ton of bricks. I ate some cereal. I called my uncle to see about my elderly neighbor's brother having his furnace lit before he comes back from spending the winter in Florida with his son. I changed my bed sheets, very aware that Pepper was not there to get in the way of it. I called Will, who very patiently listened to me talk and let me cry. I watched some T.V. Chris did some things he needed to do. We went to bed around midnight and I tossed and turned before I finally fell asleep.

This morning, I woke feeling bit better. I decided to go shopping for a few grocery items I needed before the sale on them ends. I cursed loudly at several people who were being either rude or stupid (or both) and was basically in a horrible mood. After we came home, I went to check in with my neighbor to make sure my uncle didn't have any problems in lighting her brother's furnace and I actually started to feel better, sitting there talking and playing with her silly dog.

Then I had to come home and there it was again, that heavy weight in my chest. I showered, ate even though no longer felt like eating, washed dishes and checked email. And the feeling got worse, and worse... and worse.

So here I sit with leaky eyes again, trying to write this feeling out of my head, trying to stop remembering how horrible it was to see Pepper so pitiful and scared, and the knowledge that he's gone now. I know he was 'just a pet' and that to some, my grief seems melodramatic, but he was with me for more than ten years and him being gone is a huge change in my whole routine. The reminders are endless and the wound is still fresh. I know I'll be O.K. I'm just not O.K. right now. I have to mourn the loss before I'll feel better. I've lost pets in the past but it had been so long ago that I had forgotten how bad it can feel.

Pepper was eighteen years old, which is a pretty ripe old age for a cat as the majority of cats only live to be between twelve and fourteen even in the best of environments. He was pretty healthy for most of his life, except for a short period of urinary trouble which led to a surgery, and he was spoiled. We gave him a good home and he gave us as much happiness as we gave him. He was a quirky, outgoing cat who, while he could make me so angry that I wanted to strangle him at times, made me laugh.

Eventually the memories I have of him will make me smile and I look forward to that. Those memories hurt right now. I'll miss him but I know we did the right thing for him, and knowing that his decline was fast and his end even faster eases my mind somewhat. I would have hated to see him suffer as much as he could have.

Goodnight, Pepper. Sweet dreams. I love you, you little pain in the ass.

Have I broken my 'gee-I-have-not-posted-a-blog-in-months' record yet? Bleurgh!

Things are stressful, as usual. The house remains a constant source of stress, not to mention fatigue. We spent about two weeks clearing out the garage (all the crap the previous owners left is finally at the dump!) and it took me nearly three whole days just to pressure wash the inside of it. Mind you, it's about two cars wide and three car lengths long, not a small space. And even the floor was disgustingly filthy. After that, we had a garage sale - a stupid thing to call it since you're not selling the garage, rather the stuff inside of it - which made us a decent amount of money but nowhere near as much as I'd hoped. Living too far out of the city has its drawbacks and lack of traffic is one of them (when you want traffic, that is). At any rate, I now have stuff to pack up for delivering to the local Good Will and then perhaps my garage will finally be in order.

We installed yet more carpet. Only a small room and part of a hallway to go and then I will never again install carpet if I can help it. Still have to finish the kitchen cabinet doors - it's the job I'm dreading most. Bleh. It's sometimes quite discouraging if I think too hard about all the things (big things!) that still need to be finished before winter. And then about all the rest of the things that will need doing after that. Right at this moment, I feel very much like plopping my ass down in the middle of the floor and crying that I don't want to do any more work on the damned house! Silly, perhaps, and childish but I'm burned out with the work on the house. Doing it all yourself rather than hiring out is a bitch, but is necessary to saving money.

Other than the house being a drain on my very soul, my family is driving me ever closer to insanity and I am, as usual, fucking tired. How's that for optimism?

The moles I had removed came back fine and I plan to keep an eye on the others that are still attached to my body. It was a relief, although those little bastards left rather painful holes in my back, and I hope to never have reason to have more pieces of my flesh sliced off. Alas, the incisions (though painful and irritating) healed without much trouble and the scars are flattening out nicely. My sister, who has always tanned frequently, saw my scars perhaps a month after the procedure and seemed quite disturbed by them. When she asked what I'd done to myself (yes, I sliced my moles off all by myself with the help of only a mirror and a pocket knife!) and learned about the procedure, I warned her to start being more careful about all the tanning she does. She of course, being young and stupid, totally dismissed it. Meh, whatever. At her age, I was certainly aware of the risk and gradually started trying to be more careful (even if I still stupidly got sunburned). I have to remind myself some times that I was young and stupid, as well. Perhaps I'm just older and a little less stupid now. One can hope on the latter, anyhow.

I think I'm just rambling now. My brain threatens to give up on me some days. I'm sure there has been good stuff along with the shitty stuff, but I'm feeling blechy so I can't recall much off hand. It's there, and I am thankful for it. I'm just worn the hell out.

And I still haven't given my GYN the go ahead.

I seriously doubt that anyone but me still even reads this pseudo blog any more. Hell, I can barely keep up with it, myself.

When did I become so terribly emo and boring? Pretty soon I'll be going on about cupcakes of doom or something.

I know, I know - the time spans between posts are getting longer and longer. I've had so much going on this year that by the time I sit down to relax, I don't feel like blogging. I don't think anyone reads here anymore (which is fine since I rarely write!) but I'll update anyway.

I've still been working on the house. It's been a challenge, to say the very least. We've spent hours upon hours painting and cleaning. We've laid carpet. We've laid tile. We've mowed and edged and torn plants from the soil. We've dismantled a pond (in the front yard, of all places). We've built (from scratch!) and hung kitchen cabinet doors. Yesterday, we spent the evening building a wall (which is finished except the molding).

The home improvement store where I've shopped for the renovation supplies has fucked up my service so much that I think I've spoken with nearly every manager employed at that particular branch. Between inaccurate information and ordering incorrect parts, the employees have made it into the top 10 on my idiot list. They probably started cringing when they saw me walk toward their departments. There is one part we still have to pick up for our shower, and even that took over a month in order to get the correct one. I have very honestly fought the taste for violence in dealing with those people and will be glad when I don't have to deal with that store again. To say the least, I've started shopping at Home Depot, instead.

This past year, there have been family dramas (nothing new there), financial worries, memorial services, run-ins with old flames, drama-loving neighbors, chiropractic visits, a stray cat sneaking into the house constantly, inadequate sleep, anxiety and a countless number of minor injuries sustained while renovating the house.

The funeral weirdness did pass, as I'd hoped. The man's passing still saddens me, however. His girlfriend is struggling terribly and, as much as I want to help, I realize there is nothing more I can do. I've offered what I have to give and it has been taken, so that is enough even if it isn't. It's just difficult for me to watch another person suffer and be unable to give her relief. Too empathetic sometimes, perhaps.

Oh, and I'm having several moles on my back and shoulder removed, which worries me a bit. I used tanning beds in my oh, so stupid late teens. I never had many moles and these have sprouted within the past few years (except one that's been there since my teens). They're likely nothing to be concerned about but... I'll feel better if/when they're gone and I'm told they're absolutely 100% benign. While I'm phobic of vomit/ing, I'm not a hypochondriac. I just know that I'm at a higher risk for skin cancer due to the tanning beds and sheer number of years that I baked in the sun when I was younger. And fucking around with suspicious looking moles is just stupid when they can simply be removed before they cause a problem. Highly preventable and easily taken care of.

Speaking of vomit-related fear, I'm still putting off the laparoscopy suggested by my GYN. Suspected endometriosis, which would explain my menstrual issues. When I asked about having tubal ligation, she told me she could do it in the same surgery with no problem. I do want permanent birth control (no need for babies as crazy as I am) but the surgery is frightening. I still don't want to do it, and for what is probably the most ridiculous reason on the face of the planet. I'm terrified of waking up sick from the anesthetics. Stupid phobia, yep. So, I still feel like my insides are falling out every month and I still worry about pregnancy. Chris is snipped; however, he had swimmers for a long while after the procedure so relying solely on his vasectomy is a bit risky. Pregnancy after both of us being fixed is still extremely remotely possible but highly unlikely. So, more worries on top of all the others.

In a nutshell, I'm fucking tired. And my chiropractor will likely yell at me again at my next visit.

I find that this video, for reasons I can not begin to grasp, still makes me feel better. I could probably watch it for half an hour at a time without realizing how much time has passed.

Therapy, anyone?