Red Eye at Midnight, Ophthalmologist's Delight*; ROID Rage or Just Extreme Pain. This may be it for me, or maybe not.

This was the closest approximation of my eye I could find on google images, and I wasn't up to taking a selfie.  The similarity ends more or less with the discoloration and sweling,  I don't have the fullness of face for the resemblance to  extend further. but I expect neither the discoloration nor the swelling to go noticed by children I will encounter by in the work setting to escape theur comments or questions to me or to their parents in front of me. I'm prepared to deal with their questions and comments,

*I was making a silly rhyme here as opposed to offering sound medical advice; a person might actually be better-served with a painkiller and a strong cup of coffee.

Life is a series of ups and downs. We've all experienced both. Right now I'm in a down of major depths, the likes of which I haven't experienced since either the compound femur fracture,  though even with my flair fir drama, I must concede that thi current misfortune,  while it could have ended more tragically than did my either of my previous catastrophes.



I've called everyone I could call in my home area in effort to call in favors in terms of obtaining painkillers legally. The doctors who treated me in southern California knew quite well that over-thrr-counter pain relief would not be sufficient for pain management for this scleritis or sclerosis or whatever it is I have  (I cannot see well enough to read the form) and should have prescribed something for me while I was there. Now the doctors who saw me are off for the long weekend, and due to new rules, a prescriptions can no longer be called in for Level II restricted substances. If I were willing and able to make the trip to southern California and back, they would likely be happy to give me the meds I need. Since the previous trip there and back, however, very nearly killed me and half of those into whose paths I ventured,  Furthermore, no one I've asked is willing to drive me. We have adequate medical care here is the reason given of the eight people I have asked already. I'm in no hurry to repeate the adventure. I'm in no hurry to repeat the trio, however. Jake probably would be willing to transport me, but he has a work shift that is non-negotiable in another state.

I've called my father in Boston and my mother in wherever Rice University is.  My assumption is that my dad warned my mom dad after I spoke with her that he would soon be hearing from me. Both offered lukewarm words that might have been taken as sympathy.  Both claim (perhaps righfully so) that there's really no way they can help me right now. Neither is in a positio to hop into a car and drive me to LA and back , not am I totally in condition to make the trip even as a passenger.  There are scads of doctors my dasd could have called who woukld,  despite the current war against vicodin, have been willing, based in my dad's request alone, to have written a script for easily enougb vikes to get me thourgh the weekend until i coud be evaluated by a local physician or surgeon,  to concure that the need for further meidcation. Had that been asking to much, tons of doctors would have been willing to breifly evaluate me before giving me the prescription. My dad has done siilar facors for many of them. I don't understand his reluctance to ask any colleagues ti return favors.

Furthermore, why is it that, though I am an adult at very nearly twenty-three years of age, whenever I have done anything of which either of my parents disapprove of anything I have said or done, they feeel most free to speak using both tone and words of rebuke to me, as a parent might  to a minor child, yet when I need something from them I'm an adult and on my own, and they're already doing far to muc for me is it stands, and I need to learn to stand on my won two feet and solve my own problems? Had the worst happened and had I suffered a fatal accident coming down the Grapevine, I suppose it would have been my own responsibility to order my own coffin or arrange the cremation. Mty parents want to have things both ways: they want to be able to yell at me and discipline me verbally as though I were a child, but then they want no responsibility  in assisting me when I have a real problem, sometimes not even of any fault of my own.  Does anyone blame me for feeling as I do? Incidentally, Matthew would admit that he is not treated in this manner.

If something here seems totally out of place, as in even more out of place than what appears in my usual posts, please blame the assistive technology upon which I'm relying to get this post done. I've never dictated a post before (except when my brother was acting as my personal secretary) and at would seem from the way things ae going now that I do not speak with particular  clarity. I would think that dictating would produce fewer typos than does my typical typing, but such is not the case.

The eyes were  diagnosed with sclerosis, or at least I think that's what my paper indicating the diagnosis said. Or might have been scleritis. Either way, it's apparently bad. I had issues while attending a medical conference . I received prompt at free medical care, but those in charge did something they really should not have done, which was to have rolled me in a wheelchair out to my car.  I was less qualified to drive than what I would presume would be the average person with a back of 0.15.  People continually honked at me on the freeway, and I assume it wasn't because they though I was hot.  If they made obscene gestures, I was unable to see them.  I pulled over in a little city of Castaic, found what appeared to be a respectable neighborhood, and napped for maybe half an hour. Things seemed briefly better for a short time, but then it was back to where I was before. When I reached Lebec, I pulled over and booked a hotel room. I should have booked the room for a weak but didn't want to be considered AWOL as far as my job was concerned. I had an 11:00 am checkout time. I set my alarm for 10;30 and had everything essentially ready to go except for putting on real clothing, packing up my toothbrush and throwing my alarm clock in my suitcase.

I knew once I was on my feet that I was not good to go but felt I had little choice but to go.  I dragged my suit case to the car, locked myself into my car, and slept for almost three hours.  I then departed. It was a distaster compounded by a fiasco increased by a debacle. Only those little bumpt between lanes let meknow when i had crossed into someone else's lane. k know I was endangering others besides myself. for that I feel most huilty but wasn't sure whay else to do. Had I called 911, they probably would have tossed me into the drunk takn rather than sending me into the hosptial, and I probably would have been arested rather than sent to the hosptial despite a blood alcohol od 0.00 and no prescription painkillers in my system,  The war on painkillers has grown so virulent that it's damned tough to get the good stuff even in real need. if you ever have open-heart surgery in California pray for a compassionate surgeon, because otherwise you're not likely to  be prescribed  anything stronger than Tylenol.

People honked at me a lot. I tried to politely wave.  They probably thought I was attempting to flip them off but was too limited in range of motion to have possessed the motor coordination to stick my middle finger up by itself.

I pulled off periodically when things were at their worst, but all it really accomplished was to delay the agony of the inevitable. I stayed in the slow lane that has that sand-papery stuff on the right. Also, at least people only on one side of my were in any danger from me. I stopped and called several people, thinking maybe someone would understand the danger I was posing to others even if they didn't care about me, but no one picked up.  I seiously considered calling 911, but was more fightened of ending up in the drunk tank than  of death itself, and,  while this speaks horribly of a me as human being, even than of causing the injury or death of another person. I tried to minimize the chances of injury or death to others by driving slowly, driving with my emergerncy flashers on,  remaining in the right lane, and pulling off at the very worst times. Still, I took foolsih risks with the wellbeing of others, and you may lecture me about my self-centeredness and inexcusable negligence if you wish. I get it;  I was inexcusably negligent. Through nothing short of the grace of God  I made the normally six-hour trip that took me closer to eleven hours. It's odd to me that in the roughly nine of eleven hours that I drove with my flashers on, no one called, or at least no CHP responded to the call. I've lost some faith inthe California Highway Patrol. not that their inaction excuses my poor judgment in any way.  I'm not sure of the exact time. I can only estimate. I dragged myself and my suitcase and my body into my condo at around 1:00 a.m.

Within a few hours I made it up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I remained for I think twenty-six hours, at which time I felt that I needed a change of scenery, plus it was time to take my steroid, which needs to be taken with food in order to avoid acute gastric distress. I decided to watch TV in order to distract myself from pain and misery. The romote control device was nowhere to be found, which is not an unusual situaion. Matthew, who isn't an ordinarily creative preson, can think of more creative places in which to stash a remote control than Da Vinci could ever have come up with to create the subtle nuances of his murals.

I dragged myself, with considerable effort,  upstairs to retrieve the remote from my TV.  It did not work on the downstairs T.  I went to Matthew's room to find his remote and try it. It didn't work, either. In a fit of anger than may have been roid rage or may have been just insanity on my part, I pounded Matthew's remote cotrol against the coffee table until the romote broke. It made me feel a little better; not better enogh, but a little better all the same, although the level of my anger frightened me.  It may have been roid rage or it may have been latent insanity waiting for an opportunity to come out. In the end, maybe it doesn't matter. Perhaps I'm not sufficiently sane to do this job or even to continue to function as a human,

No one with the authority to issue a painkiller prescription is answering calls or texts. Assuming I don't quit medical school and, thus, never achieve the status af having the authority to write prescriptions, I shall remember the kindness offerred by each person I called and will reciprocate if given the opportunity. My dad, who cannot prescribe for me now because he is out of state, and precriptions must be presented in hard copy, suggested that I am depending too much upon prescription meds to solve my problems.  I wish for him the worse case of scleritis or sclerosis (whichever it is) as soon as possible, and I wish that no one will give him anything stonger than Tylenol for the pain.  And if he were to have a simultaneous 1.4 millimeter kideny stone, that would be icing on the cake.

I recognize the fact that this is not the fault of anyone out in cyber land. I texted a friend from across the continent who was in a poistion to offer nothing more than moral support and who typically might respond (not definitely, but might) but he was apparently too busy either to notice or to respond.  I have to accept the idea that I am twenty-two -- amost twenty-three-- now, and my problems are now mine and no one else's. I cannot expect everyone else to come running eiher physically or through the Internet, anytime I have a hangnail or a case of scleritis. Still, I'm having a hard time with parents and aunts and uncles I considered to be close to me not caring when I am in pain and distress. Maybe when I reach the magically mature age of twenty-three, I will suddenly possess the emotional strength and maturity to deal with extreme pain and nothing at my disposal to help with it. For now, I am lacking in that capacity. I don't even know if I care to live another day. Ironically, I haven't access to a single vicodin tablet, but there is probably enough acetaminophen to off me and a dozen others in no time in my medicine cabinet even as I type.

I HATE, with a passion beyond my capacity to express, every doctor in my jursidiction with the oower to prescribe narcotics.  I feel that not one of them, nor anyone else, for that mateer, cares in the least about my pain or anything else about me.  If this sounds like self-pity, it is. I'm feeling extremely sorry for myself now.

I'm now in the waiting room of  the E.R. and am exposing myself to every germ breeding in the central coast in order to prove that I am not a drug seeker beggin for my next fix. With any luck, someone in the E.R. will recgnize me as a clinical rotation med school student and might possibly accelerate me through the process.  With my typical luck, however, I  will be here until sundown at the very least. It's very important to keep the drug-seeking medical studente away from the goods for which they went into medical school in the first place to gain access.  Perhaps most of them  know what we don't, which is that selling drugs on street corners would have required far less of our time in terms of education and would have paid us a hell of a lot more.  Situations such as this current one in which I am mired, cause me  gravely to question why anyone with even  half a brain ever bothers doing anything the correct and ethical way.