Fun with Acromioplasty - part one

I have had trouble with my right shoulder for fourteen years.

I had fallen in college and ended up with a tiny fracture in my right wrist. At some point a few years later, my right shoulder starting popping and grinding. I went to the Kaiser Permanente medical center, where the general practitioner referred me THE ONE orthopedist. The orthopedist did some testing, told me I had a torn piece of cartilage hanging down in the shoulder joint from the fall, and needed surgery to repair it. The orthopedist then referred me to THE ONE orthopedic surgeon.

Before I proceed further, I should explain that I'm not making some kind of odd Frodo, M.D. commentary. I don't know if they still work this way but, a decade ago, Kaiser had a single medical building in my city of residence, in which they housed their medical staff and equipment. If you got sick, you went to that office and saw one of several randomly assigned general practitioners.That general practitioner would conduct a basic review and testing and, if they felt it appropriate, they would send you to see a specialist. Oops, I mean, "the" specialist, because they only had one specialist in any particular category.

So, I was shuttled off to Kaiser's ONE orthopedic surgeon. He came in, read the written MRI report, and then proclaimed without any kind of physical inspection of my shoulder or review of the MRI images, that I could not possibly have this particular injury because it was only found in little old ladies or people who had fallen. He wouldn't listen to anything I said. All he wanted to do was give me an injection. I asked what the injection was, and then he rolled his eyes and said that he would use the needle to inject "medicine" into my shoulder. When pressed for details, he started talking about "walking the needle along the bone." I bailed, not only because he was incredibly demeaning to me, but because I found the idea of "walking the needle along the bone" in my shoulder to be terrifying.

I followed-up once with the referring orthopedist who apologized and said that the surgeon was a jerk, but that he was literally the ONLY ONE at Kaiser who could perform the surgery. I gave up on treating my shoulder. I couldn't bear the thought of going back to the jerk doctor, and couldn't afford to go out of network. I subsequently ignored my shoulder for fourteen years.

This year, as a part of a general clean-up of my life, I decided to address all of my unresolved physical ailments and therefore sought treatment for my shoulder. It had degraded to the point that I had notably reduced mobility and constant pain. I could barely lift my elbow above my shoulder line and my shoulder would pop and cause shooting pain in my arm if I extended my arm to the side or picked up anything heavy.

I had new, non-Kaiser insurance and selected a new orthopedist based on positive Yelp reviews. He ordered an MRI with contrast which, as far warning to any of you out there on the interwebs going down this same path, is not your typical MRI experience. I have had a good number of MRIs - brain, ankle, spine, kidneys, etc. - and usually contrast involves injection through an IV in the arm or hand. For a shoulder, the injection is made directly into the joint.

First, we had a little snafu where the imaging center had booked my appointment with the MRI technician but had forgotten to book any time with the radiologist. This meant that I had to wait around for two hours while they tried to fit me in.  They said that I could come back on another day, but I had already taken the time off of work and didn't want to have to do so again.

I was then shuttled off to the radiology department where I got to put on a typical hospital gown. The radiologist suited up in his lead armor and his assistant then pulled out a tray filled with GIGANTIC NEEDLES. If you are needle shy - like me - for goodness sakes, don't look around the room, and close your eyes as soon as you get on the table. Once I saw the needles, I turned away and started crying, and continued crying for the entirety of this stage of the test.

I had to lay on a table, very slightly on my left side. They shoved a small angled pillow under my right shoulder. The radiologist said that this position helped separate the shoulder joint and make it easier to get the needle between the bones. While this information would be helpful to a normal person, for me all I could think was, "OMG HE IS THREADING A NEEDLE BETWEEN TWO BONES OMG OMG OMG OMG!!!"

Once I was in position, the radiologist injected a local anesthetic into my shoulder using a small needle, which was not so bad. It was several injections in different areas. Next, he put a very, very long needle deep in my shoulder, where it remained for about 5 minutes. This process takes a while because the radiologist is trying to position the needle so that the contrast material gets inside the joint, and reaches all of the tissues around the rotator cuff, including the labrum. This involves moving the needle a little bit, taking an x-ray and checking the position, moving the needle a little more, taking another x-ray and checking the position, etc. While not overtly painful, it was uncomfortable pressure. I also happened to be wigging out at the gigantic needle protruding from my body, which I could see in my peripheral vision.

This contrast injection process, for me, was truly horrible. I would say that 10% of the unpleasantness was discomfort (not pain), and 90% was my being utterly terrified of needles and freaked out at the gigantic needle protruding from my body for an extended period of time.

Once the injection was made, they took me off to the MRI wing. The  walk down the hallway felt exceptionally long, partially because I was emotionally exhausted after all of the needles, and partially because I was concerned that the gown was insufficient to cover my tush. The MRI itself was easy. They give you earplugs, hand you a panic button in case you freak out or need to pee, and stuff you in a narrow tube that makes lots of loud noise. At various points, they told me to inhale or exhale and then hold my breath. 

Once the test was over and I met my husband in the waiting room, got a hug, and then proceeded to cry off and on for the next hour, while I decompressed from the terrifying needling I had received.

The MRI showed wear to the rotator cuff, pockets of inflammation, and a type III acromion, i.e., a little piece of bone in my shoulder was curved down and poking into my rotator cuff. The orthopedic surgeon said that surgery was necessary to clean up the joint and perform an acromioplasty, i.e., shave down that piece of bone so that it stopped chafing my shoulder tissues. He said that if surgery was not convenient in the immediate future, that I could delay and try physical therapy. He warned me that physical therapy was only a short term solution to reduce pain and improve mobility, but that surgery would be required to correct the problem. I chose to do the surgery immediately.

My next post will discuss the entire surgical procedure and recovery, including photos of the incisions and bruising, for any prospective acromioplasty recipients who want a very forthright idea of what to expect!

When being a plus is really a minus, part two.

Somewhat surprisingly, I received an immediate response from Target. It was signed by a specific person and seems to be a unique letter, so maybe I can actually help make a tiny change in the right direction for other plumpies, like me.  Come on, Target! <waves pompoms> 

As an aside, my Dad told me yesterday that I needed to lose my "flab" for health reasons. None of my medical conditions are weight related, but he is still right. However, the fact that what he said was true didn't make it hurt any less. Why does being told that I am fat carry such tremendous emotional weight?

Target's letter follows.

****

Dear <Pocketlesspants>,

 

I'm sorry to hear you're disappointed with the current availability of plus-size clothing at your local Target store.

 

Your comments are important because they help us learn more about what you're looking for at Target. We've partnered with many different designers so we can bring you the latest styles. To help us serve you better in this area, I've shared your comments with our buyers for further review with our design teams.

 

We appreciate the time you've taken to share your thoughts and feelings with us.

 

Sincerely

<Specific Polite Person>

Target Guest Relations

When being a plus is really a minus

I gained weight when I was diagnosed with epilepsy and started taking pills that controlled seizures but fucked up my metabolism and appetite. I had a horrible time adjusting, and then developed a series of additional illnesses and injuries that threw me into severe depression and limited my mobility. I ballooned. It is hard to eat well when (a) you are sad, (b) your pills turn off the receptors that tell you when you are full, (c) you spend every waking moment in pain, and (d) food tastes good. Be honest. We all know that pie is good for stopping uncontrollable tears, and that a cookie can put a little pep in your step to get through a rough day.

I am working hard to get my life in order. I am currently seeing six different doctors with different specialties. I take six different prescription medications which cost more than the rent on my first apartment. I have had four surgeries in three years and accumulated more scars than the rest of my immediate family has, combined. Each surgery brings me one step closer to a life without pain. I cannot exercise yet because of physical injuries but I am trying to diet until I can get back on my feet. Nothing official, but I try to eat half portions, have stopped drinking soda at home, don't snack before bed, eat more fruit and veggies, etc. I have lost 45 pounds and dropped from size 20 to 18. My size 18 pants are even baggy now everywhere - waist, butt, legs - so I think its time to test drive a 16. My shirt size also dropped from a 2, to a 1, and now just a plain ole XL. I want to buy new clothes, but...

Here is where it gets tricky. I hate clothes shopping. It makes my limited self-esteem flush down the toilet. 

Let's be honest. I don't like being fat. Society doesn't like my being fat either. I am not sure which one hates my fatness more. I am happily married but notice time after time how men will connect with thin women and avoid making eye contact with fat women. Shopping is another example of how plump women are shunned. For example, I went to Nordstrom Rack with my husband to find formal wear for a party. The men's section had plus sizes but the biggest size in the women's department was, literally, a size 12. Not a single garment existed in the entire store for a plump lady. We went to three other stores that day looking for plus size dresses, to no avail. TJ Maxx had a single dress in my size, but it was short and sleeveless and I wanted something more modest. The lack of clothing in my size at stores makes me feel angry, ugly, and unloved. The average American woman is a size 14-16. Why would retailers shun such a huge portion of the market?? The only rationale I can come up with is that designers and/or retailers are disgusted by fat women and don't want them wearing their brand, so they intentionally only make skinny sizes. The recent Abercrombie & Fitch debacle supports this theory. I felt so incredibly ugly after that shopping spree that I have not been to a clothing store since.

I do, however, urgently need new work clothes that fit, which is forcing me to address my loathing of clothes shopping. My compromise is that I am willing to look at Target because (a) I like them, (b) I like my husbands clothes that he gets there, and (c) we are already there once a week for groceries, so it is super convenient.

Unfortunately, even though Target does have a ladies' plus section, all they have in stock are sleeveless low cut blouses, a "bag" blouse with no shape whatsoever, a deep V-neck tee in two dull colors, and a single style of nondescript spandex pants in black and khaki. So, while I CAN get plus sized clothes at Target, the selection is dreary. 

I genuinely wish that I weren't fat, but I am and I would like to not be constantly punished for it!!! All I want to wear are simple, pretty clothes. Even if someone can't say that I am pretty, they should at least be able to say that my shirt is. So, I decided to send the letter below to Target today. I really really REALLY want them to have stuff I can wear. 

****

Dear Target,

I love Target. I shop at Target every week for groceries, entertainment, and my husband's clothes. I wish that I could buy clothing at Target too, but I am a plus size woman and your garment selection is terrible.

It makes me sad. I walk through the skinny women's section on my way to the plus size area and say to myself, "ooh pretty" or "wow look at those patterns." Then I get to the plus size area and hang my head in shame.  

(1) The plus size women's section is a tiny half aisle in the back of the store, and usually has a selection of two blouses, a tee, two pants, and a sweater. When the skinny section wants to put things on clearance, they put racks of skinny clearance items in the plus size area. Couldn't the space being used for skinny clearance items be used to offer additional plus items instead?

(2) The plus size women's clothing has the following common features: (a) Spandex pants, (b) Ankle pants, (c) Squares of cloth with arm holes, (d) Low-cut necklines,  (e) Super short sleeves, (e) black, white, brown, and snore. 

What is wrong with this, you ask? (a) I prefer straight leg pants that offers a more flattering silhouette than pants that cling to my badunkadunk. (b) Capri-pants are not flattering on plus size women. (c) Muumuus and potato sacks are not flattering on anybody. Please stop selling squares of cloth with arm holes as "shirts." (d) Just because my bosom is ample doesn't mean that I want to show it off.  (e) If it doesn't touch your bicep it is sleeveless, not short. Sleeveless shirts are not flattering on plus size women. (f) Target is known for having FANTASTIC patterns and color selections everywhere in the store, except the very drab plus size section. 

My husband buys most of his clothes at Target and he looks good in them. Not only does he have a huge selection of styles to choose from, but each style comes in a delicious array of colors. Also, as noted above, you guys have a great selection in the skinny women area. Why don't you offer larger sizes of your regular clothes? If you insist on having a completely separate line for plus size women, could you try to bring it up to par with the rest of your store by offering flattering styles and terrific colors and patterns?

I want clothing that complements my body. Monochromatic sleeveless low-cut bags aren't good enough. Moreover, being overweight is depressing. I don't like my body and I know that the world doesn't either. I am losing weight (45 pounds so far) and look forward to the day that I achieve a healthy weight. In the meantime, though, I would like to be able to go shopping and feel EXCITED about buying beautiful clothing, or at least look in the mirror in the morning and know that I look the VERY BEST I can, in spite of my weight. 

Please help me and the rest of plus size America look the very best we can, Target. Please upgrade your plus size women's clothing section!

Very truly yours,

Pocketlesspants 

Spielberg, Scurvy, and Vortices of Laziness

I saw Lincoln today and made a few revelations.

(1) Putting too many famous people in a single film creates a vortex of laziness.

I imagine that the thought process of these Hollywood bigwigs is something like, "Wow, this film is so elite that it can't possibly fail," so they don't try very hard. The end result in Lincoln is woefully uninspired performances almost entirely across the board. Its as if they weren't even trying!

For example, Daniel Day Lewis has undergone an interesting physical transformation but emotes only a bland pensiveness. Its feels like he never fully embraces the character and makes it his own. While Lewis remains adequate in the role, there is no spark. He is absolutely capable of more -- he was captivating in There Will Be Blood -- so it is possible that Spielburg has homogenized and tainted him. George Lucas has a similar effect on people, i.e., Natalie Portman. She is a highly capable actress but George Lucas managed to suck every ounce of her vitality and expression, thereby creating her utterly soulless, dead-eyed Amidala. 

As an aside, examples of other performances that are captivating to me are Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia (perhaps the most egregious loss in Academy Award history), Noomy Rapace in Prometheus, Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects, Russell Crowe in Gladiator, Harrison Ford in Blade Runner, Ivana Banquero in Pan's Labyrinth, etc.

Back to Lincoln! It is not just Daniel Day Lewis who fails to shine. Sally Field, Joseph Gordon Levitt, and Tommy Lee Jones are tediously one note. The most interesting performances are for three members of the House of Representatives. Michael Stuhlbarg's George Yeaman was by far and away the most captivating performance, followed by Lee Pace's Fernando Wood and David Costabile's James Ashley. James Spader's Bilbo is wildly entertaining, but Spader is unfortunately playing the same off kilter character he has been playing for the last decade in The Office, Boston Legal, The Practice, etc. 

(2) You can't call an apple an orange because you want to avoid scurvy. 

Sally Field presents us with a bitchy, half-crazed Mary Todd, and her character then complains during a carriage ride at the end of the film that no one will remember her as anything but a bitchy, half-crazed Mary Todd. During the same carriage ride, Mary Todd and/or Lincoln make sure to say that totally isn't true and she had a highly diversified personality and was an integral part of Lincoln's success. 

Well, gosh, if you wanted the viewer to think that Mary Todd was more than just a bitchy, half-crazed woman, the way to go about it is to portray her as otherwise using lines (!) and acting (!) instead of just making her bitchy, half-crazed, and useless, and then trying to command the viewer to draw a different conclusion at the end. This draws me to... 

 (3) Steven Spielberg is an emotional dominatrix. 

Steven Spielberg just can't stop himself from trying to control the viewer. He loves emotional manipulation and continually underestimates his audience's ability to understand the plot and to experience emotion based on subtlety and suggestion. 

Spielberg has a long history of doing this. For example, in A.I., William Hurt's character is given exceptional lengthy, monotonous speeches in a demeaning attempt to "explain" to the audience what is happening. In Saving Private Ryan, Spielberg felt the need to slap me over the head with modern-day cemetery scene at the end of the movie because, you know, I just didn't get it when Miller's last words were to tell Ryan to "earn this." I am soooo stupid that I needed Spielberg to clarify what "this" meant, by having Ryan explicitly ask his wife whether he was worthy of Miller's sacrifice. 

Spielberg's directing is the equivalent of taking everything that is implied, read between the lines, or cumulatively understood and shouting it in all caps. For example, if Spielberg had written Ahab's lines in Moby Dick, his famous speech would have read, "... to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee; BECAUSE I PLAN ON FIGHTING YOU TO THE DEATH, YOU STUPID WHALE, AND I REALLY FRIGGIN' HATE YOU FOR EATING MY LEG!!"

WHY ARE YOU YELLING?!!

We have a little cafe on the lobby floor of my eleven story office building. It is totally unremarkable and I frequent it only on busy days when I require sustenance, snub the canned goods lurking under my desk, and am too busy to leave the premises.

Last week I ran downstairs for a quick orange mango juice fix. Unfortunately, two women approximately my age prevented my easy access to the cooler. One woman was holding one of the cooler doors partially open with one hand, and grasping a bottle of water with the other. The other woman stood next to her, fully obstructing the other cooler door. The following conversation ensued.

MS. GRASPY: "I don't know how much it is."
MS. BLOCKY: "Do you know how much it is?"
MS. GRASPY: "Its a bottle of water."
MS. BLOCKY: "Did you bring enough money?"
MS. GRASPY: "I don't know how much it is."
MS. BLOCKY: "Does it say how much it is?"
MS. GRASPY: "Maybe I should get the bigger bottle."
MS. BLOCKY: "You should ask."
MS. GRASPY: "You should ask."
MS. BLOCKY: "Its a bottle of water."
MS. GRASPY: "I don't know how much it is."

pause

commence yelling

MS. BLOCKY: "HEY!! HEY YOU!! YOU!!"

Ms. Blocky grabs the bottle of water from Ms. Graspy and waves it in the direction of the employee at the cash register, located approximately ten steps away from Ms. Blocky.

MS. BLOCKY: "YOU!! HEY!!! HEY!!! HOW MUCH IS THIS?"

Employee makes eye contact with Ms. Blocky.

MS. BLOCKY: "HOW MUCH IS THIS? HELLO?!"

EMPLOYEE: "What is it?"

Ms. Blocky flails the bottle of water in the air.

MS. BLOCKY: "THIS!! THIS DRINK!! THIS DRINK HERE!!"

Flailing continues.

MS. GRASPY, helpfully: "ITS A BOTTLE OF WATER!"

EMPLOYEE: "Dollar seventy five."

MS. BLOCKY: "OH MY GOD!! NO, THIS IS JUST A BOTTLE OF WATER?! IT CAN'T COST THAT MUCH. HOW MUCH IS THIS?"

EMPLOYEE: "Dollar seventy five."

This exchange was followed by Ms. Blocky and Ms. Graspy bitching about how much the water cost for another minute, before they finally moved out of the way and bought the damn water. Although the total disregard for other customers who might want access to the cooler bothered me, and the rudeness bothered me, what REALLY pissed me off was the yelling. Seriously, the yelling. After much thought, I've developed a simple questionnaire to help you determine whether yelling is appropriate for your specific situation:

(1) Is someone in danger?

If you answer YES to this question, you are allowed to yell. Otherwise, shut your pie hole, walk your lazy ass over to the person with whom you wish to communicate, and converse at a normal volume level, you inconsiderate, disruptive jerk.

UVA Hospital: Day Six

Day Six was my last substantive day in the hospital. I made it through the night and was granted permission to sleep after the doctors made their morning rounds. I pulled up my blanket, closed my eyes and felt a refreshing darkness begin to pass across me when someone gently touched my shoulder. I opened my eyes and...

It was my sister!!!!

My youngest brother!!!

And my mom!!!

Holy crap. Their timing could not have been worse but what a treat after five days in the hospital to see people who didn't want to relocate my IV, didn't want to ask me if I had pooped, or weren't a horrible festering specimen of humanity.

[begin tangent]

Yes, they had to replace the IV once. The IV started out in my hand but, after two days, it became swollen and very painful. The IV nurse came by, shimmied the IV back and forth in the vein to make sure it was positioned properly (begin nausea) and then unsuccessfully tried to flush the line with saline (continue nausea). My IV had blown! The nasty thing got removed and a new one placed in my forearm (pile on the nausea).

[begin second tangent]

No one really LIKES needles, but I truly hate and fear them! Why? I had surgery several times in college. One of the times in surgical prep the nurse pierced the vein and blood whooshed out of my arm and pooled on the floor. ("Don't look!" she said, as I felt the blood run down my arm.) Another time, I was so dehydrated that the IV wouldn't take. They tried over and over to find a vein and finally started talking about putting one in my leg. At that point, I became an inconsolable sobbing mess. I knew it was bad because the parents of the kid in on the bed next to me tried to calm him down from his own personal woes by saying something along the lines of, "See? She has it much worse than you do." The anesthesiologist himself finally came over, put a teeny tiny little baby IV in my hand, and shot me full of sleepy juice. When I woke up from surgery, there was a real IV in my arm, but at least I wasn't conscious for any more prodding. Needles... are... horrible!

[conclude both tangents]

It turns out that my sister was in town for a conference and hadn't told me because she wanted to surprise me. Surprise! It was also why, when I asked my mother if she was going to visit me while I was in the hospital, she wouldn't commit. You guys know I love you even though you are SNEAKY BASTARDS!!!

My sister was six months pregnant at the time, and we had her climb into the bed and sit next to me so that she would be more comfortable. There was a monitor above the bed's headboard that showed live feed of both my brain waves from the EEG and the video of me from the room's camera. We were all watching my brain waves when we noticed that the camera was slowly panning over to my sister on the right. It stayed on her for a moment, then panned all the way to the left to my mother and brother in their chairs, then came back to me. A voice came over the intercom.

"MS. POCKETLESS PANTS?" Boomed the voice.

"Yes?" I said.

"WHO ARE THOSE PEOPLE?"

"My family!" I said.

"THEY ARE ADORABLE!" the lovely lady in the monitoring room boomed across the intercom.

"Thank you!" I said.

"I'M SORRY FOR BOTHERING YOU, BUT THEY ALL LOOK SO LOVELY."

Well, shucks! Nothing like a pregnant sister taking a load off her feet to brighten everyone's day.

They seemed to have a grand time watching my brain waves. My brother pointed out that my brain's activity on the monitor did not increase when I used my iPhone, and my sister enjoyed talking to the doctors. It was rather funny, as she was asking questions and they answered as if they were talking to a noob. Little did they realize that they were talking to someone with a doctorate in brainology! She forced them to talk tech with her. It made me think of a truly horrible scene from Grey's Anatomy in which a patient didn't understand the doctor saying that poor dad had congestive heart failure, and the doctor was forced to compare dad's heart to a car engine so that the son would understand. Conversation ensued along the lines of "So, if dad doesn't get an oil change, he will die?" Aiee!! So... take that, and reverse it, and you have my sister spanking a neurologist for talking to her like a she's not sure what part of the body the brain is in.

My family stayed until the sun got low in the sky, and then headed out to try to get home before dark. I got a few hours of sleep in before the evening rounds. The doctors told me at that point that I was being discharged the next morning.

The end result:

(1) They saw the "background noise" in my EEG that was worrisome.
(2) They were unable to induce any seizures.
(3) Because they had not been able to induce any seizures, I was not a candidate for VNS surgery at the present time.
(4) They removed the Keppra from my drug line-up.
(5) They tripled the dose of my Trileptal.

End of experience. I was not particularly excited about the end results, but this is how epilepsy treatment seems to turn out, i.e., "Hey, Pocketless Pants, we see there is something wrong with you and understand that it interferes with your life, but unless you're flopping around on the ground we can't do anything else. Plus, don't expect too much from your drug therapy. There's not enough research out there, we don't understanding how most drugs work, and its really just luck if something works for you. Kbye!"

UVA Hospital: Day Five

I have neglected my blog. In all seriousness, I was spaced-out and completely exhausted by the end of my hospital stay, and could not bring myself to type coherently after Day Four. I also walked away very, very... frustrated, and therefore gave up for a while. I have just returned from another trip to the University of Virginia and feel motivated to yammer about my crappy disease at the moment, so let's get this ball rolling!

On Day Five in the hospital, I managed to stay up all night. This meant that I had two nights in a row of sleep deprivation. It was excruciating! I know I drifted off, because my perpetual watcher had to ding the intercom bell several times to wake me up. I made sure to SLAM my cup back on the table after I took sips. I also had trouble hearing the tv over my roommate's various emanations, so I quite generously amplified the volume. I did keep my light off though - wouldn't want to keep anyone awake.

Was I being a a bitch? Yes! So very yes! I'm a nice and considerate person in general but come on! Being in the hospital was not easy, and by that point in the stay, I had lost the inclination to be a doormat when the offender was a disgusting, selfish, unclean, mean, inconsiderate, festering blob of a person.

Regarding my "unclean" comment above, I can't help but mention that by DAY FIVE (that's right, FIVE), my roommate had not (a) brought a toothbrush into the bathroom with her, (b) washed her hands after using the toilet, or (c) accepted the nurses' many (many) (many many) offers for wipes with which to take a sponge bath. In hindsight, I wish that, after she said no to the offer of cleansing goods, I had pulled out a sheet of paper and written a note to the nurses insisting that she bathe.

People like my roommate are the reason that we have food poisoning and epidemics. Also the reason that I hate touching doors and handrails and... blearg!

UVA Hospital: Day Four

Today I am TIRED!! I slept from about 6-8am, woke up for breakfast, and had just settled under the covers when the nurse comes in and says, "Sorry honey, the doctor ordered sleep deprivation." I had to stay up the entire day, and have a rough night ahead of me. I feel spacey, and when I close my eyes the world spins. I've downloaded Zombie Pizza for my iPhone and hope it helps get me through the night.

I'm a bit frustrated that my brain isn't "cooperating." Stagefright, not cool!

Worst part of today. My roommate is on her side of the curtain making big sighs. She turns out her light early and about half an hour later gets up and stomps around. I hear the sound of paper and scribbling, then a PHOOMP back into bed. At 11pm, a technician comes in to check our vitals. We chat about my iPhone lifeline and the show on tv. Nice guy! Then he moves over to my roommate. I hear normal
blood pressure machine sounds and then it gets quiet. Really quiet. Technician walks away, then comes back and says, "Is it ok for you to turn out your light? Your roommate might punch me if you don't."

Before I summarize the conclusion I think you will all share, let me note that I am sooooo quiet in here. I'm afraid and nervous and this amplifies my introversion. My roommate likes her tv loud, and is not shy about sleeping with both her tv and light on. Not to mention the incredibly loud bodily noises she emits.

So, really, did she demand that the technician have ME turn MY light off because I'm disturbing her sleep? REALLY? And was she such a child that she did it by passing a note? Even though I'm the one that has to stay awake all night, I turned off my light. But I did turn up my tv volume and am making no effort to be quiet. Hypocrite!!

Best part of today was getting an adorable photo of kitty sleeping on hubby and looking so amazingly happy. Smiles all around!

UVA Hospital: Day Three

Tonight I plan on staying up all night, to see if sleep deprivation will help spice up the seizure situation. Don't worry, they want me to seize, and I'm very safe here! I hope that my iPhone and one remaining unread book (Terry Pratchett, "Men at Arms") are enough to get me through!

I did score a cheeseburger today, and banana pudding. Score!

My roomie continues to fart, obnoxiously. You may think that all farts are obnoxious, but they're not! For example, those little accident toots that everyone makes sometimes, those are fine, sometimes endearing if the person is family and you can joke about it for several years. But this lady is really out of control. She woke me up with a really loud one last night, and tonight it is *faaaaaart* - "Mmmmmmmm". Repeat. ZOMFG. In other roommate news, she hasn't brushed her teeth or spongebathed in her two days here. Unless I am completely out of it. Which I doubt, because she has to be escorted to the bathroom/sink which involves a really loud pager and intercom.

Now that I've broached the bathroom topic solidly, here's how his works here. I realize that nature calls. I have to push a big red call button on my giant universal remote (tv, lights, stewardness, temperature, room service, foot massager... ok, maybe just the first three). The box beeps to confirm that my page was processed, and then the voice of God (or the nurse in charge of the monitoring station, they sound similar) speaks over an intercom built into my mondo remote.

"ARE YOU OK," booms the voice.
"Yes!"
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"Yes, thank you!"
"TELL ME YOUR NAME"
"But you're God, don't you know me?"
"SMARTASSES DON'T GET PUDDING."
"But I ate my meat!"

*insert sound of my name being scratched off the pudding list*

"Really, I'm ok. I just need to use the bathroom."
"WHAT?"
"I need to use the bathroom."
"WHAT?!!"
"I NEED TO PEE!!"
"Oh. No need to shout. The pee warden will be with you shortly."

Small pause. The nurse or patient care trainee comes over and escorts me the seven feet or so to the toilet and stand outside the door while I do my best to quietly tinkle. What happens next is like coming out of the bathroom in a restaurant and returning to a table at which mom awaits (Love you mom!!)

"ARE YOU OK?"
"Yup"
"DID YOU HAVE A BOWEL MOVEMENT?"

This being a hospital you have to answer. Even though you're sure they know anyway because they were standing outside the door! So every day you must be prepared to answer the following questions, several times per day:

(a) DID YOU HAVE A BOWEL MOVEMENT? (Pardon the caps, but it always feels like this question is asked too loudly)
(b) Do you have any pain or tingling?
(c) Can I get you anything?
(d) What is your name?
(e) What is your birthday?
(f) What is today?
(g) Where are you?

I have yet to say yes to (c) because I'm a chicken. But my roommate gets cokes and extra pillows and double cheeseburgers and sugar cookies. And, for the record, they do accept smartass answers to question (f), such as, "The day before tomorrow." Haha!!

I am wildly bored. And stressed out. I don't like sleeping in a room with the door open and only a blanket to snuggle. I don't like the constant flux of people coming and going (food services, housekeeping, anyone going past me to see my neighbor, nurses, residents, doctors, volunteers, etc etc) when I have nowhere to go. I dislike my roommate's barefeet and lack of manners and cleanliness. I don't like being tethered or being watched by someone 24/7 (yes, the video camera is monitored by a person who moves the camera with a joystick to follow me whereever I go). I don't like using the bathroom with someone right there (anyone else have a shy bladder?) But, all of this is in my best interest to find a bettter solution and better health for me. I'm doing this for me! And for you, since you're the ones that have to chauffeur me and cater to me and deal with my grumpiness when I don't feel well. For which I love you mightily!

UVA Hospital: Day Two

Today I got a roommate! She listens to VERY LOUD tv, and belches a lot. She apparently got moved out of another room
which had a child and family who "wanted more space." Hey!! I want more
room!

I got a visit from the big cheese neurologist today, together with the resident and main day nurse. We talked about background history, and they decided to stop all of my medicines to try to expedite seizure action. That was expected. As they left the room
and walked down the hall, the big cheese said, "She's interesting..."
but I couldn't hear the rest!! Drat!!

One more point if interest today was that I was "paged" five times by the person doing the video monitoring to see if I'm
ok. They aren't doing that to my roommate, so I wonder what I'm doing to
prompt it? I will ask the doctor tomorrow.

Otherwise, I am hot, have a headache, and feel slightly nauseous. Is this med withdrawal?

UVA Hospital: Day One

As many of you know, I am checked into the Epilepsy Monitoring Unit at the University of Virginia hospital. In brief, after several years and half a dozen or so medication changes, I just don't feel good. I'm tired all of the time, my memory is not what it should be, and I'm unable to live the life I want or fully enjoy the life that I have. After a "quality of life" discussion with my local neurologist and reaching an understanding that medications are unusually complicated for me, he referred me to the epilepsy specialists at the University of Virginia.

So here I am.

The trip here was beautiful. Floyd drove me up here in my Taurus and mapquest's fastest route involved driving past quaint towns, on scenic byways, and past stunning landscapes like rocky crags near Old Ragtop Mountain. It was glorious! Parking at the hospital was a rather abyssmal end to the otherwise lovely drive. There was one garage that was packed, but the lady in front of us was driving crazy. She pulled into a ridiculously narrow spot between two long trucks and came a sliver away from ramming one truck's bumper. Oh so close. We drove up for what felt like a dozen levels before we scored an uber spot on the same aisle as the stairwell. But really, parking here was traumatic!! Even Floyd commented that it would have been soooo much better to have Mom driving with her handicap parking tag. Yes, I'll admit it, I would have mooched her phat parking priviledges.

Once I got here, I was funneled to the EEG lab on the basement of the primary care center, where they hooked up a bunch of electrodes to my scalp. The process involves measuring my skull, marking a bunch of Xs in red all over my head. The technician had to deal with my very long hair, and told me that the EEG tehnicians all fight over the bald men! After marking me up, she scrubbed each spot with a sandpapery liquid that she said (a) removed the outer layer of skin and (b) removed natural oils fromthe scalp. Then she stuck a pile of glue and conductive paste on each spot, applied the electrode, and dried it using a super super cold air blower. I then had a 20 minute EEG to get a base reading, which involves laying still, hyperventilating, and a strobe light. Afterwards, a neurologist gave me a physical. She really enjoyed using the reflex thingum on my left knee, which was not as anxious to reflex as my right!

On to the epilepsy ward I went, where they wanted to put an IV in my forearm. That sounded painful to me so we went with my hand. We had to choose a hand. I was trying to figure out whether my left or right hand was less critical for gaming, but the tech said, "Which hand do you wipe with?" *quiet pause* She won. I'll be honest - the IV frickin hurt. It felt like the vein in my hand was going to burst!! A little bit later I had to give away four vials of blood. Floyd walked away for a little bit whilst I was pumping up the vials. I can't blame him. I would have walked away too if I could.

Speaking of walking away, I am tethered to my bed. I have a box hanging around my neck into which the EEG lines feed, and that box is connected to an industrial strength black cable which connects to the recording/transmitting equipment. The tether was stuck around my little table on wheels but Floyd was kind enough to unravel it so that I could go pee. A note with regard to peeing here, I have another blog in the works for that topic alone!!

Floyd left before dark at my insistence to make his drive home easier, as the poor lad has to work this week. I almost fell asleep but fought it, because I didn't want to miss dinner, which consisted of chicken (too thick for me to eat - I like my meat thin), a roll, iced tea, and a smattering of corn and what I *think* was kale. The best part was the fresh sliced strawberry at the bottom of my yogurty-granola dessert. As you might guess, I am soooooo hungry right now. Soooooooo hungry!! I am ravenously looking forward to my cheerio breakfast!!!

A few other notes. I am visited by a nurse about once every two hours. I was given a gigantic 32 ounce sippy cup of water which has a locked lid. Thr sides of my bed stay up and are covered with padding. The room is a bit warm. I have a sock with a thumb hole cut in it over my hand to keep the IV from accidentally tearing out. And, I have three wristbands. One with my name. One classifying me as a fall risk (BRIGHT YELLOW) and one noting that I have medication allergies (FIREHOUSE RED). Sigh. We'll
see how things go tomorrow after the doctors review my first night's data!

What's in the queue?

I've been playing the game Scramble in my iPhone, which is a variation on Boggle and suchforth. You have a square made of up letters, and make words by using letters that touch one another either on one side or diagonally. Its simple and fun!

Having played this game a little over the last week, I have a problem with the letter "Q." In Scramble, every letter gets its own separate block, except for Q! Q becomes "Qu" in these word games. They can't be separated! Does Q suffer from separation anxiety, or does U just refuse to leave Q alone?

Either way, the U seems completely redundant. When you pronounce the letter Q, the sound of the U is inherent. Why not just make things easier on everyone, and leave off that silly U? Think of the difference this would make. Imagine all the time it would save to not have to include that extra letter! Imagine how much ink would be saved in not having to print it! Wouldn't it be grand to not have to devote time teaching an archaic mode of spelling to generations of schoolchildren? Wouldn't people learning English as a second language breathe a sigh of relief to not have to remember "Q before U?"

Here's to Qince! Qick! Qit! Qarterly! Qeen! Qart! and Qery! Muahahahaha!

You cannot resist the kitteh belly!

Yes, I will admit it. Looking at lolcats makes me happy. I mean, seriously, how can this picture not make you smile?

Dr. Quinn, open heart surgeon

I'm sure you all saw the horror on television. Jane Seymour, her eyes a vacant stare as she paints a red heart with a thick brush, and then paints over it, again and again. The camera pans back out, and you see that she is surrounded by identical paintings, stacked on the table, hanging on the walls, strewn in disarray on the floor. What kind of sweatshop is this? Is this "The Shining," crazy lady style?

It turns out that this is a hapless attempt to hock Valentine's jewelry with some sort of fundraising thingum on the side. But, could this commercial be more poorly done?

She sits in a room, surrounded by copies of the same heart picture, and yet the entire voiceover and demeanor makes it seem as though she is thinking the design through and creating it for the first time. She then goes to Kay Jewelers to make a sales pitch to have them produce her freshly designed heart pattern as jewelry, but is actually wearing the finished necklace at the meeting. Wtf? Did anyone else get the oogies from this?

Insomnia

I had really bad insomnia the other night.

Let me clarify what "really bad" means. My typical night for the last few months or so involves tucking in around midnight, falling asleep, and waking up about 5-10 times a night. I never sleep through the entire night, and I invariably wake up tired and fighting to get out of bed in the morning. I am actually used to this, and while I realize that this is not an ideal sleep pattern, I feel a bit ambivalent about the elusiveness of that well-rested feeling.

Last night, I simply could not fall asleep. I was really quite tired and closing my eyes provided a cool, comforting feeling, but that was about it. One of my doctors told me that if I had insomnia, that I should do something to avoid just laying around feeling frustrated. I tried the computer, but I was completely unable to focus, so I put it away. Then I tried television. I started off with Animal Planet's "Dogs 101." I learned that the extra skin on a Sharpei is because they were bred as fighters, and having all those hapless creases ensures that the creature biting the dog would end up with a mouthfull of skin and not vital organs. I also learned that the Pharoah Hound physically blushes when it is happy, instead of wagging its tail. However, all of those adorable puppies failed to induce contented snoozetime.

Next I pulled out the backlog of "The Closer" on Tivo. Three episodes went down the hatch. While I got hit with waves of impending unconsciousness, sleep never came. I tossed in an episode of Psych, and an episode of House, and even caught part of "The Knife Show" and their watermelon knife collection (the mere existence of this show being blogworthy in and of itself). Nothing.

Hubby finally woke up around 7am and asked me what I was doing, and I said, "Being awake." Finally, around 8am, I finally managed to drift off and catch a few hours of oblivion.

This kind of insomnia is brutal. My eyes hurt too much to keep open, but laying down is pointlessly frustrating because most of my body is begging for rest but some part of my brain refuses to comply. Its like the starving part of my brain meekly requests more sedating gruel, and is then punished relentlessly for asking. I waver between extreme agitation at my state of being, and ambivalence. I'm trying to accept things, but the whole concept is kind of elusive and nonsensical to me.

What do you guys do when you have insomnia? Anyone tried hot milk? Taking a bath? Give me your ideas!

Metro central and the anti-coal brigade

So we took my mum out yesterday to the pre-Broadway production of West Side Story (additional blog to follow), and upon arriving at Metro Central, we found the ENTIRE station to be plastered with bright yellow posters showing a mermaid, a little green alien, and a bigfoot holding on to an iridescent jagged black rock, Vanna-style. Every single ad spot was taken up by the ads, including all of the regular square ones, as well as additional banners hanging from railways, and wrapped around columns. Every so often, you would find the tag line for the ad campaign, "In reality, there is no such thing as clean coal."

Neutral as I feel towards coal, I have to admit its an effective ad campaign. Not only do the fantasy creatures get your attention, but the tag line is good, and they just so happen to have plastered Metro Central right at inaugeration time, when Metro is expecting "crush numbers" of people to pass through.

When you google that catch phrase, you get two sponsored ads at the top:

www.thisisreality.org
“Clean” coal is like a healthy cigarette. It doesn't exist.

and

www.coalcandothat.com
"Clean Coal: America’s Energy Future"

Who knew there were such strongly opposing forces regarding coal? Its like the plastic bottle vs. aluminum can war from a few years ago, regarding which type of container makes your soda taste better and last longer. Eek!

Facebook vs. the exposed bosoms of motherhood

In the news today is a story about some mom who got pissed off that Facebook removed photos of her breastfeeding her kid. It snowballed into a tens of thousands of moms uniting to protest Facebook, including a "nurse-in" outside of their headquarters.

Seriously?!? Did I read this right?

Yes, dozens of news stories and forum posts go on and on about this and I am completely befuddled by the ridiculousness of it all. In particular, I fail to understand the actions and words of many people protesting Facebook. Let's go over some of the breastfeeders' arguments as to why breastfeeding photos should be permitted.

(a) Breastfeeding is natural.

So are sex and taking a dump. Oh, and vomiting and the female monthly cycle. Would you be as supportive of people posting photos of themselves having sex and pooping and doing all of their other natural bodily functions all over Facebook, as you are of breastfeeding? Some people take this further and say that breastfeeding should not be deemed objectionable because other mammals breastfeed in the wild. Animals in the wild breastfeed, but the omnivores among them (like humans) also kill their prey. So it seems that killing other species for food is natural since it is found in the mammalian wild. So let's toss some photos of people killing cows and chickens since hey, we have to eat, don't we? Killing other animals for food is natural, just like breastfeeding!

(b) Breasts are not obscene.

It doesn't matter what you think is obscene. What matters is that Facebook has a terms of use (noting that the breastfeeders in question explicitly agreed to in order to gain access to the site) which says that you cannot use their site to "upload, post, transmit, share, store or otherwise make available any content that we deem to be harmful, threatening, unlawful, defamatory, infringing, abusive, inflammatory, harassing, vulgar, obscene, fraudulent, invasive of privacy or publicity rights, hateful, or racially, ethnically or otherwise objectionable." So if Facebook thinks that a breastfeeding photo is obscene, it is their right to do so. Its a free country, ya know, and your standards of what qualifies as obscene or sexual are not necessarily going to be the same as Facebook's. Everyone has a right to their own opinion. Opinions are not facts. So you can think that the photos of your tot suckling on your boob are fine, and Facebook can disagree. Deal with it. It is Facebook's website! If you don't like it, then leave. Facebook is not a dictator telling you what you can and cannot do with your life - they are setting guidelines for what you can or cannot do on their virtual property.

(c) Other media outlets show more explicit sexual behavior that doesn't get censored, so why should breastfeeding photos be censored on Facebook?

This argument makes no sense at all to me. Ok, you campaigning mothers out there. I guess that when little Sally tells you that she wants to wear a see through shirt with no bra to school, you're gonna say yes if she argues that teenagers wear far more revealing clothing on television. And when little Sally tells you that its ok for her to be having sex because she is using condoms but other girls out there have unprotected sex, then you'll let her do it, right? Yes, I'm exaggerating, but its an extension of the logic in this argument. Don't use someone else's bad example as justification for your own. Facebook has no control over what other media outlets allow or disallow. If you don't like what you see on a particular channel or in a particular magazine or whatever other media outlet, then walk away from it and choose to support another media outlet that meshes better with your personal taste.

If you are trying to force an entity to change their opinion so that it matches yours, then you, good sir, are a harsh lil dictator. Does it make you feel better to exert control over others? Does it make you feel better about yourself knowing that others agree with you? So why, you ask, is it ok for Facebook to tell you what the rules are, and not ok for you to smack them around for it? Facebook said, "Hey, this is my house party and you need to abide by my terms while you're here," and you said "Ok" in order to get through the door and enjoy Facebook's heated pool and wicked awesome h'or d'oeuvres. Your being there, however, doesn't give you the right to rearrange the furniture and demand that the chef make pizza rolls instead of pigs in a blanket.

• Do I think that there is anything wrong with breastfeeding? No! I think that breastfeeding is a magnificent part of motherhood.

• Would I breastfeed in public? Goodness no. If I wouldn't expose my boob in public without a baby attached to it, then I'm not going to expose my boob in public with a baby attached to it. I don't see how having a baby suckling makes any difference with regard to whether the boob itself it ok to flaunt.

I think that there are two separate issues here. (a) Whether it is ok to breastfeed in public, and (b) Whether it is ok to have boobs exposed, and the answer that Facebook seems to have provided is yes, it is ok to breastfeed in public, but no, having boobs hanging out all over the place is not. Contrary to some of the obsessive comments made by breastfeeders opposing Facebook, Facebook is not telling you that breastfeeding is bad. The two issues are not inseparable. You don't have to have the majority of your boob visible to the entire world in order to breastfeed. Many laws in the United States protect the rights of mothers to breastfeed in public, but I hardly believe that the intent was to have a parade of exposed bosoms gadding about.

So, for the two or three of you reading my blog (*waves at family*), this is my opinion. I respect the opinions of those who disagree, even if I don't understand them, or even if I think they are based on faulty logic or no logic at all. Goodness knows that I have no proper justifcation for some of my opinions, and my purple-loving friend points this out to me all of the time. So, if you disagree, good for you! Diversity is the spice of life.

Star Trek takes one step closer to religion

So for you "normal" people who don't follow Star Trek happenings, there is a new movie featuring the shenanigans of the crew in their noob days, which is potentially coming out this upcoming spring. Whilst perusing a fan site, this photo showed up. Yes, some dude kit bashed his pez dispenser collection to make a menora, complete with tag line "to boldly go where no Jew has gone before!"

If I weren't smiling with glee at the silliness of it all, I would be more concerned about the unsettling meshing of Star Trek with religion. Eep!

Talking as a form of social domination

One of the greatest mysteries of the second x chromosome is the fact that it gives so many women the ability to talk nonstop and suppresses any sense of courtesy while their lips are moving. I guess there is some chance that this behavior is achieved through environmental instead of genetic influences. However, the net result is the same regardless of the source.

A straightforward example is the fact that most women insist on talking in the bathroom. Women bounce in amidst the throes of active conversation, toss their belongings on the counters without a care, go about their personal business, and depart, leaving a trail of words at every inch. Even worse is when you're already in your stall, doing your thing, and another woman comes in, takes the time and effort to peer at your shoes, makes a determination as to whether they can associate said shoes with a name, and says, "Hey, so-and-so, is that you?" ZOMG!! NOT COOL!! I'm not sure about you, but my sphincter stops immigration from Bladder Island to the Mighty Empire of Commodia when someone shouts my name. It feels like a pissing contest, quite literally, as the one women uses words to inhibit another woman's bladder, thereby making sure that only she is able to mark her territory.

Women use talking as a form of domination in other ways, as well. Let's use group conversations as an example! I see this at work all of the time. A gaggle of ladies gets together and starts talking, and before you know it, they are all talking at the same time. They're not listening to each other except in the most superficial of ways (i.e., they hear someone mention their child and then they start talking about how awesome their children are) and slowly, voices will drop out until you only hear one voice left. The victory has several layers: (a) one women has forced the other women into vocal submission, and (b) by forcing the other women to hush and listen, they ensure that their topics of discussion and their stories receive precedence, thereby making them more memorable. I see this happen at luncheons, at meetings, and during good old idle chatter when said women get distracted from their work. I understand group conversation dynamics, but when men or mixed company are involved, they take turns, and I just don't find this with ladies!

For me, this means that I find one more reason to stick to myself and not hang out in groups. I can't function in these kind of conversations, and I end up just retreating into own thoughts. Whoever talks the longest and loudest is rewarded, and whoever is interested in listening or shows common courtesy just gets ignored, which is the psychological equivalent of being trodden upon.

Venturing into unsettling territory

So upon the recommendation of hubby, I watched an episode of The Venture Bros. called "Dr. Quymn, Medicine Woman." He thought I would enjoy the off-kilter, hodgepodge humor of the show, based on my non-defensible appreciation for other hinky shows like Aqua Teen Hunger Force (for whom I do applaud opening their movie with a heavy metal song by pierced, tatooed, and mean looking nachos and other snacks who, instead of inviting people to the concession stand, threatened parents with screaming babies and badly behaved children, and those whose cell phones ring during the film). But on to the point!

In brief, Dr. Venture meets up with a childhood friend, Dr. Quymn, in the rainforest. He is trying to steal artifacts from the natives and is caught, but she rescues him. The rest of the episode passes with Dr. Venture trying to get into Dr. Quymn's pants and, by the end, he succeeds. Then, low and behold, her jealous lesbian bodyguard storms into the room and starts beating on Dr. Venture, so he -- being a puny little stick of a man -- calls for his bodyguard. The two bodyguards end up in leaping about, machetes in hand, and a lantern gets knocked over which sets the tent on fire. The ruckus causes Dr. Venture's tween sons to run in, and Dr. Quymn to fall to the floor twitching, at which time one of Dr. Venture's sons begins BEATING HER WITH A CHAIR and shouting that she must be the monster they have been looking for. Dr. Quymn's bodyguard breaks off from the fight, picks Dr. Quymn up in her arms, and announces that Dr. Quymn has epilepsy. Dr. Venture then says something along the line of "Ewwww, I almost had sex with that."

Admittedly, Dr. Venture is not presented as a particularly admirable figure or a role model, but that isn't really the point. I was diagnosed with epilepsy almost two years ago, and I'm still terrified of how my friends, employers, co-workers, and acquaintances may think differently of me if they know that I have epilepsy (because no, I have not told them all), or if they see me have a seizure. Having a seizure in front of someone also makes me vulnerable in ways that I am not comfortable, as my consciousness is impaired and I won't remember the event. I'm sure that I will be posting a lot of blogs about epilepsy on here, but my two primary points of contention for this specific episode are (a) watching someone smash an epileptic with a chair while they seize makes me even more terrified of what might happen to me if I have a seizure and am not in secure company, and (b) hearing someone change from lust to disgust the moment they find out the object of their infatuation has epilepsy, nay, the utter depersonification of an epileptic to something below contempt (i.e., not "her," but "that"), is horrifying. The only punishment that Dr. Venture receives for his heartless behavior is that he doesn't get laid. Which hardly seems sufficient, seeing as the robots in his lair can apparently be shagged.

Was it really wrong for Venture Bros. to demean an epileptic in the guise of comedy or am I being overly sensitive? Would it have been ok if she fell over and her bodyguard said "Oh, she has diabetes, her blood sugar is off," or used some other illness-related reason? Honestly, I think that the writers chose epilepsy specifically because many people do find watching an epileptic fit to be mysterious and violent, and it was a convenient excuse for Dr. Venture's naive son to mistake her for the monster for which they were hunting. Of course, exploiting an illness' stigma makes it all the more painful to see.

The moment that Dr. Venture uttered the words, "Ewwww, I almost had sex with that,"(1) hubby gave me a hug and realized that I would no longer be watching this show.

(1) I realize that this is probably not an exact quote, but it is close and conveys the disgust and contempt that Dr. Venture had for Dr. Quymn at that exact moment.