When one lives, one experiences. Ven eyner lebn, onz ixpiryanzis
When one lives, one experiences. Ven eyner lebn, onz ixpiryanzis
It’s been some seven months or so since we last, well, hooked- up. You, me, Doc M., the hospital. It was, well, magical! I know you felt it too. You, so helpful, so giving. I miss your touch. That extraordinary effect you have over me.
For those of you not in the know, I’m talking about Botox. Not the ‘wrinkle-relaxer’ to iron-out the multitude of
well-earned, effin’ lines that surround my mouth and eyes kind of Botox. Oh no, I’m speaking of the genius who figured out that if you inject actual botulism, a poison, strategically and methodically into the muscles of people like me who suffer chronic pain (cervical dystonia, and occipital neuralgia), it will deaden the pain. Deaden the pain. Three such beautiful words.
May you never experience such pain and troubles. Ir zolt mir nit visn fun ken tzar un tsuris.
Botox, you quiet my nerve signals, as they are
effed up not so hotsy-totsy. When they are screaming to my brain, “OUCH, spasm, contract, OUCH,” your prickly approach allows my body to function, to feel like me. With you, I like me. Without you in my life, the pain gets so unbearable, that the contents of my body empty completely. Yes, both north and south partner up on this exercise in exhaustive depletion. This, in turn, causes dehydration, additional spasms, contractions, and OUCHES! Not the big-O I am seeking.
onabotulinumtoxinA, Botox, your injectables, make me closer to fine. You complete me. The biggest problem in our relationship — what most people fight over, gelt (money). The dreaded pharma co-pay. You see, your precious vials, while worth every cent my love, cost $1200. Since insurance makes us ‘go dutch,’ our chance encounters run $600 USD. Together, we need Dr. M. and his wise, slow hands. The best neurologist
a tier 3 kind of practice according to insurance, even though he is in my effing network in the city of brotherly love unites us. The ambiance of our darkened medical suite, the cost of the tincture, the scent of the isopropyl alcohol — can you hear the clamorous Ka-ching that distances us?
Don’t worry about it! Zok nit kin vey!
This is how my Mrs. and me, we approached this dilemma for the first nine months. Feel better. Life will be good. Until those credit card bills come thudding through the post. You or groceries, school, rent, life. It’s too expensive to exist. That puts our union, our relationship, in the ‘varbotn‘ (forbidden) category. This is not the frugalista, Yiddisheh momma speaking. This is a true pharmaceutical reality that divides our picture-perfect match. We are no better than the Montagues and the Capulets. A star-crossed pair. A schadchen (marriage broker) couldn’t make me a better match, find me a better find.
So, my dear Allergan, this is an open plea for help. You, your Botox! It works, I am your advocate! Your ambassador. A walking, talking example of Botox in action when I am lucky enough to be under your spell. Help me help you to help me feel better. I can be a better mama, a better spouse, a better worker, a better activist, a better all around human being on the planet. Your unique power to deaden the pain in quarterly injectable, installments, is no less than miraculous. No heavy opioid side effects. Instant ability to operate heavy machinery and make important life decisions. With you by my side, the pain, she is very manageable. Sleep is greatly improved. Appetite is back. Together with my occipital stimulator, I can almost consider myself to be, dare I even say it, N – O- R – M – A – L.
Allergan, Botox, Dr. M., hospital. Until we all meet again. There is no shame here. Only love.
“Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.” William Shakespear, Romeo and Juliet
Zie gezunt. Be healthy. Be well.
Had to reblog this from https://lifeintheboomerlane.com
Too funny to pass up! Read on!
Ivanka: J Darling, the school just called to remind us about the parent teacher conference this evening.
Jared: I dearest, you know I can’t. I’m negotiating a Middle East peace treaty this evening.
I: J, this is your child, my love. Isn’t that more important? Those people have been around a long time, right? Like before there was even air conditioning, I think. And they survived. Can’t the peace deal wait until tomorrow?
J: Trust me, I wish. But Big Daddy said I had to do it by this evening. He has some other stuff he wants me to take care of, so I have to get this out of the way. And anyway, tomorrow I’ll be solving the US opiate problem.
I: And how will you do that?
J: Well, “Just say ‘no” has already been tried. I’ll have to come up with something else between now and then.
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Okay, so my inner Lorax is showing again. This time, I’m sharing my very favorite tree stump. My muses, they are still away on holiday and Gatsby and I are busy, meandering all over the place in an effort to keep him exercised while I’m at work, and me free from worry (huh!) while I am away from him. Where I really wish we were walking is out on the trails of our sort of, back yard, the Wissahickon.
On this particular trail, no matter the season, the kinder (children) have to jump on the stump and imagine, explore and pretend. It never gets old for them or for me. Photo ops abound. Well, okay, I admit, I too would enjoy a climb on, or even through this beauty. For me, stumpy here epitomizes all the good parts of childhood. Stumpy brings up images of bright red radio flyers, flowered banana seat bikes with multi-colored streamers, Keds sneakers and, skimming stones in the creek.
I can even taste the stale gum that comes with the pack of baseball cards. Do you hear the ice cream truck, or is it just me? This stump, it may just be the very best stump in all of the world. And we have it, right here, in our sort of, very big, backyard park. Nothing to kvetch (whine) about here.
Go out and be with the trees, my friends.
I woke up today, a good thing. So did you, because you are reading. Nu? Already, two good things. I looked at the news on my phone… Palm Sunday Church bombings in Egypt. Dozens killed. US Aircraft carrier heading over to get closer to North Korea. A deadly truck attack in Sweden. Sweden??
I took Gatsby on a walk on a nice sunny morning and I said, “G, we need to see some sign of hope.” On the way home, look what I saw.
The highest form of wisdom is kindness. di hekhstn far fun khkhmh iz guthartsikayt.
May we all wise up and have hope.
It’s a slippery slope my friends and we are headed down the rabbit hole fast. The latest for me, my Mrs. and our shanah maideleh kinder (sweet beautiful girls) is our invisibility in the upcoming Census. It’s been announced that there will not be an LGBTQ count in the 2020 census. To be fair, that’s the way I roll, it’s important that you know that we have never been counted before. But after the stunning momentum from the Obama administration, the proclamation to love out loud with all the legal rights and freedoms from the Supremes, government agencies, lefty liberals, and this Yiddisheh lesbian, we were hopeful that following the next Census, our government would see us. And after they see us, they would work to find ways so that we wouldn’t always be under some threat, be it physical, emotional or legal. They would see us and allocate the resources that are so important to our LGBTQ community. They would see us and help.
Congressional Democrats (much too many for mr t to count on his tiny little hands), along with several government agencies (Health and Human Services, the Justice Department and Housing and Urban Development) have all requested that mr t’s administration counts the LGBTQ population in the next Census (2020). Figuring, ‘Hey, wouldn’t be a swell idea to better understand sexual orientation, marital status, family status, gender identity and the location, size and socioeconomic status of this population? We are out ringing doorbells counting anyway?’
mr t and his slimy swamp mates, they say there’s no need for collecting data on us. A crowd of people, and not one real person among them. A groyse oylem, un nito ein mentsch. Their anti-gay agenda is clear as day, and I feel it as real as those hot flashes, vey iz mir (OMG). Gorsuch, poised for confirmation via the cowardly nuclear option, is an extreme threat to our civil rights for the next 4 to 5 decades. Well, you know what
f*ck that? WE ARE HERE. You cannot erase us.
You may say, Lisala, what’s the big mitziah (problem)? I can’t speak for everyone, but you know how loud I speak for my mishpocha (family). Coming out, ‘being out,’ makes you leave the cloak of invisibility behind.
If you are straight, you don’t know from this tsuris (trouble). Your are counted. You count. You matter.
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M’wah! It’s worth the click!
Sometimes, you just have to do the work, to get what you want. mal ir nor hobn tsu ton di arbet tsu bakumen vos ir viln.
My Gatsby, this boychik (little man) can persevere. You know that with the flick of a tongue, that pea was his. He worked hard for it. He did not mind the struggle. He was tenacious and he succeeded.
May we all have such a work ethic, as our boy Gatsby!
I’ve got it. Do you? Tell me!