The Blunt Title? Please Help Us Meet Taylor Swift THIS SATURDAY.

You know, I gave careful thought to whether or not I should write this post. I had a few reservations: Would there be enough time for it to even make a small round through the interwebzzz? Would people care enough to share it? And would some of my online friends think I was fangirling way too hard, not acting my age?

Then, I decided that, contrary to the belief that has driven my actions in past times—that a thing should not be done until it can be done perfectly—a thing isn’t worth doing because you know it will be perfect. It’s worth doing if there’s a good reason for it and if it’s something you want.

I want to meet Taylor Swift with my best friend…in three days.

Up until a week ago, I thought that Katlyn and I might be able to get last-minute tickets to Taylor’s concert in Atlanta. We had discussed sitting with our fingers poised on our mouses (mice?) all this week, waiting for someone to change their minds. We had entered every contest we could find. Listened to radio stations for hours, waiting for the right song to play or a code word to be said. We had posted all over social media.

Nothing…as far as I knew.

Then, as I was sleeping late, I had a crazy dream. I was with my husband, Ethan, and he was making this weird noise—a dull, repetitive, hum. I was quite concerned until I finally woke up and realized it was my phone vibrating under my pillow. I pulled it out, thinking it must be alerting me to take one of my medicines, but instead I saw at least four missed calls from Katlyn and a text saying, “Please answer!”

When I returned the call, Katlyn’s voice sounded unusually excited and unusually enunciative—which is 100% not a word, but the best way to describe how she talks when she’s explaining something, very excited, and/or in front of someone else. This should’ve been a tipoff, but cut me some slack for barely being awake.

Katlyn explained that a contest we had entered, held by MSM Group in Atlanta, had resulted in a pair of tickets (and more) for us, but not through the drawing.

MSM Group had asked that people like their Facebook page and send them an email with a bit of contact information to enter a contest for two tickets to see Taylor Swift in Atlanta. They neglected to mention that it was a random drawing, so many participants sent emails explaining that they were Taylor’s BIGGEST FANS and how badly they wanted to see her concert. Katlyn, and both of our mothers, told them something a little different.

They talked about how Katlyn and I have been “Swifties” since 2006, when Taylor really started to get big, and that the one major thing we’d never been able to do together was go to a concert—mostly due to my lupus and other health problems. Turns out, MSM Group has some ties to lupus through a friend of theirs, and our story made an impact on them. They had contacted Katlyn a few weeks before her call to me to discuss the possibility of doing this for us, then rounded up the tickets and organized the rest of the surprise: A limo for the evening and a nice dinner wherever we wanted to go.

Katlyn had been keeping this from me for weeks, diligently reminding me to enter contests and post on social media, all while knowing it wasn’t necessary. We then had to keep it a secret for ANOTHER week while the guys from MSM Group edited the video they had made of Katlyn calling me to tell me the news. (It’s really a must-see, with one small “bleep” moment from me…oops! Click here to visit MSM Group’s Facebook and watch the video.)

I keep saying that MSM Group’s generosity has been a huge blessing to us, but I haven’t fully explained that. Their outpouring of thoughtfulness and kindness has resulted in other warm and fuzzies that they probably didn’t even have in mind when they decided to do this for us.

Katlyn and I have always been incredibly close, ever since we met and became friends nearly 20 years ago. This past week, though, has brought us even closer. We have texted almost constantly, discussing outfits and signs, scheduling and dinner, and gushing over our chances of meeting Taylor. As a result, we talk about other things even more than usual. We’ve had 40-minute phone conversations about how our weeks are going. Katlyn’s living in Atlanta has seemed to make these things more difficult, but the past week has made me realize that nothing is too difficult to try for if it’s important to you.

Besides strengthening my relationship with my best friend, this gift has shown me that I have an astonishing number of people who care about me and are thrilled for good things to happen to me. I’ve had dozens of “likes” on my Facebook posts, plus comments, tweets, and messages from people congratulating me. People have shared our posts, saying things about me being their inspiration or how cool it is that this has happened to us. Friends have called in tears, saying I deserve this and how happy they are for me. Our moms have screamed their heads off in celebration.

Katlyn’s brother even wrote a post that made me cry. He talked about how proud he was of Katlyn for working so hard to make this happen for me, for us, and that has been a blessing to me, too—realizing that I have people who would commit to doing everything they possibly can to create luck and achieve dreams. What an incredible feeling!

When video was finally posted yesterday, we let out a huge sigh of relief because we could talk about it…but then, it was time to get to work. Now, we have another goal.

We figure this is the best chance we’ll probably ever have to meet Taylor, and we’re determined to make it happen. Call us silly fangirls, immature sycophants, plain old dumb, but share our posts while calling us whatever you want.

I could go through the list of reasons why we not only adore Taylor’s music but also admire her and look up to her, including but not limited to her remarkable business sense and unwavering philanthropy. Her influence spreads far and wide, well beyond the music industry.

However, I don’t really have time for all that. The concert is in three days, and we need to get this message circulated through cyberspace. The goal is for someone from Taylor’s team—dancers, security guards, Mama and Papa Swift or Taylor herself—to see it, someone who can make meet-and-greet passes happen for us.

To be honest, I don’t know how that would work. I know that the passes are usually handed out to concertgoers who catch the attention of these folks before or during the show, so I’m not quite sure how we would get passes if we were discovered online.

What I DO know, without a doubt, is that we certainly won’t get them if we don’t try.

The deal is that, whether or not we get to meet Taylor Swift on Saturday, we will have been blessed by the kindness of both strangers and friends. We will have stood within arm’s reach of one of our biggest role models, possibly gotten to meet one or both of her parents, and been escorted to and fro and treated to a nice dinner to boot. That’s a pretty good deal, if you ask me.

But, like I said, this is probably the best chance we will ever get. To not make the absolute most of it would be a slap in the face to those who have made it happen and who have supported us before and since.

Therefore, I am begging you: Please share this post or one of the others we’ve made. Get our story out there for someone from Team TSwift to find! I think it must be a pretty good story since all this has already come of it.

Taylor Swift has said that the tiniest little thing can change the course of your day, which can change the course of your year, which can change who you are.

I think the course of our lives has definitely been impacted in a positive way, but it actually already had been, just through our love for Taylor and her music. What has come to light during this experience is the extent of the love and caring my family, friends, and even acquaintances have for me.

Queen Tay also said, “In a relationship, each person should support the other; they should lift each other up.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as supported as I feel right now.

Thank you to everyone who made this wild dream come true, and thank you in advance for helping to make our wildest dream a reality.

Social media: Laura Ann’s Instagram + Katlyn’s Instagram + Laura Ann’s Twitter + Katlyn’s Twitter

To watch the video of Katlyn’s surprise call to me: MSM Group’s Facebook

Dancing ’round the kitchen in the refrigerator light, to TSwift music, in 2008.

Photo shoot in 2007 when we drove around town, listening to TSwift in between stops to take pictures.

Making one of our famous music videos to a TSwift song. 2007.

Why I CAN Believe We’ve Been Married for Two Years

Monday, we celebrated two years of marriage.

 

I got you socks for your new job (which I’m super proud of), and you got me a beautiful hotel room at that new job and treated me like a princess all day.

 

I’ll do better next year. You were disproportionately excited about the socks, anyway.

 

Most people, on their anniversaries, say things like, “Wow, I can’t believe it’s been X number of years!”

 

In our church, when a couple celebrates an anniversary, the man is liable to get called on to tell how many years he and his wife have been married. This results in answers like, “Not nearly long enough!” (You should get ready for that when we get moved back up there.)

 

But not me. Not us. We both remember every day of these past two years.

 

I remember the day, almost exactly two months after our wedding day, when you took me to my first appointment with a rheumatologist, and she confirmed the internist’s diagnosis of lupus. After the appointment, you took me back to campus for my Shakespeare class, and I called my mom as I walked to the elevator. We covered A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

I remember thinking that was so strange, because the first night I noticed my symptoms was nearly ten years prior to that day, when I had just finished a ballet performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

We laughed about that, that kind of spooky laugh that you do when you say something funny but it’s about a dead person.

 

I remember my next surgery after the diagnosis, my second shoulder impingement repair. You had been a part of so many surgeries before, but this time, you had to deal with all the real stuff that goes along with surgery. You had to lift everything, move everything, cook everything, clean everything. Of course, you were doing most of that, anyway.

 

I remember my college graduation a few months later, and all of us crossing our fingers that I would make it through the ceremony without any sort of medical crisis.

 

I did, and I walked across the stage with the most honor cords I saw on anyone that day. Between you, my family, my extended family and friends, and my sorority, I also had one of the loudest cheering sections. You can see that cheering section in the form of a rare, huge smile on my face in the photo you framed of me shaking the university President’s hand.

 

I remember the ER trip that summer, when I couldn’t breathe and felt like passing out, yet for some reason, I drove myself to the hospital. You came from work, I think, and we made notes on how we felt about the overall ER experience for future reference.

 

I remember buying a house just after celebrating our one-year anniversary, and hosting Thanksgiving in it barely two months later. It may be one of the dumbest things we’ve done so far, but everyone enjoyed it—and my candle arrangement on the bookshelves was BEAUTIFUL.

 

We stayed up all night, watching movies, and then went Black Friday shopping. Our two biggest hauls came from Home Depot and Victoria’s Secret, so, you know, take that as you will.

 

It took me almost a week to recover from those two days.

 

I remember deciding to build a house next to my parents’ so that you would have some help taking care of me, and so that we might be able to either have or adopt a child someday…soon.

 

I definitely remember my major, MAJOR, reconstructive knee surgery two months ago, and how we had to stay at my parents’ house until this weekend.

 

I remember you watching with patience and pride, every time I show you the progress I’ve made in physical therapy.

 

I remember finding out that, in addition to lupus, I also have fibromyalgia, Hashimoto’s, and a primary immunodeficiency—on top of the heart problems we already knew about and the congenital orthopedic conditions that continue to surprise us.

 

But more importantly, I remember—no, I still feel—all the days and hours and moments in between.

 

The days you’ve had to give up things you wanted to do or had planned to do because I was sick.

 

The nights I spent crouched over the toilet in a kitchen chair, wishing to throw up but having nothing in my stomach, passing out when I stood up and you having to drag me to the bed.

 

The 16 days I spent in the hospital because the above incidents turned out to be caused by severely low blood pressure, as in 60/30, as a result of the infusion medication my rheumatologist had put me on earlier that year. You spent every moment you didn’t have to work right beside my bed, and all the nurses told me how lucky I was.

 

The evenings I’ve tried to enjoy a glass or two of wine and my body rebelled, rendering me barely able to remain upright because I was so exhausted.

 

The meals I’ve started cooking but couldn’t finish, with the complicated recipes I so love to make my own, which you had to finish preparing, with me squeaking out instructions from the bed you’ve made for me on our couch.

 

The quiet tears I’ve cried as we’re going to sleep, but you always hear. Explaining, again, unnecessarily, while the tears turned to weeping, that sometimes the pain just gets to be too much. You, dashing to the freezer for every ice pack we have and asking if I’ve taken my pain medication, my anti-inflammatory, my muscle relaxers, and the laundry list of other medicines that keep me from losing my mind in pain.

 

I remember all the days I’ve waited for you to come home from work, craving your presence here with me, knowing the house won’t feel right until you’re here.

 

Sometimes most of all, I remember having to say “no” to you on so many things. Things that break a wife’s heart and make her wonder if she’s worth it.

 

I remember the fights—we’ve had some good ones, that’s for sure. We don’t truly fight often, but when we do, it shakes the earth.

 

But I also remember the great moments.

 

I remember riding as many rides as I could with you at Dollywood, some of them over and over. I remember the hotel suite we got, with the heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub.

 

I remember having stupid conversations that turned into laughing matches that far outdo our screaming matches.

 

I remember the times you’ve surprised me with my favorite wine, with hot and sour soup from my favorite Chinese restaurant, or with a clean house when I woke up from a nap.

 

I remember the time Bailey, Sandy, and Mickey all peed in the middle of the night, just as we were going to bed because we’d been up, talking. We were exhausted, and we tried so hard to be mad, but we couldn’t stop laughing as we grabbed towel after towel to clean up the mess and went to Home Depot to rent a Rug Doctor as soon as they opened.

 

I remember having philosophical conversations while you painted my toenails, and you then promptly covering me up with a blanket and ruining the paint.

 

I remember you tucking me into bed, me telling you to go hang out with your friends while I took a nap or went to bed super early. And I remember hearing you talk to them, hearing you give advice that reminds me I married someone who isn’t perfect but who tries to be a better man every day.

 

I remember hearing you say things about me, so casually—wonderful things—that most men would never even think to say about their wives. Things you may not even always say to me, but I know you say them to others.

 

I know because I also remember all the times your coworkers and friends already thought I was this incredible person by the time I even met them.

 

I remember all the funny or interesting articles I’ve sent you in Facebook messages from my phone—and I remember them because I sent them to you on Facebook, even though you chuckled at that when I started doing it.

 

I feel like I remember every moment of the past two years, and I’m glad.

 

A nurse recently told us we’d had a rough first two years of marriage, and, although it makes perfect sense to see it that way, we looked at each other like she was from Mars.

 

We didn’t expect it to be easy.

 

We sat in the parking lot of the wedding chapel in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, figuring out whether or not we could afford to be on our own, and it was close.

 

We didn’t know what I had, but we knew I was sick, and I asked if you’d be willing to take care of me, no matter how rough it got. That one wasn’t close.

 

This, of course, was after we decided to get married there upon arriving for your mother’s birthday celebration.

 

We passed all those billboards for wedding chapels, and I joked with my mom about it when I called her to check in. As I drove that stupid Volvo down the main strip, I chuckled and asked her what she’d do if we went ahead and got married.

 

She thought about it for a second. I could hear the wheels turning, because we were engaged and she was planning our wedding, which was only eight months away.

 

Then, after asking my dad, she said, “We wouldn’t hate it. Oh, wait, Daddy’s saying something…he says as long as you can wait until we can drive up there.”

 

We told them we’d decide when we got to the hotel and we’d let them know.

 

We sat at the hotel, pondering all the wedding chapel billboards we had passed, both coolly pretending we weren’t Googling to see which ones were open on Saturdays.

 

Once we settled on one, we realized we’d need a marriage license, and we didn’t know if we could get one on a Saturday. The desk clerk said there was a place that was open until 5pm, and it was 4:35. They told us we’d never make it through the traffic in time, and we almost didn’t, because once we got in the parking lot, we couldn’t find the door!

 

But, we walked into the dingy, low-ceilinged building at 4:58 and got our marriage certificate, which still lives in the green folder they handed to us that night at the chapel.

 

My parents went to the bathroom, threw on a nicer set of clothes, and drove like the wind up to Pigeon Forge, metaphorically throwing wedding-planning lists out the windows the whole way.

 

We met them in the parking lot at just past 11pm. We almost got married on the 16^th instead of the 15^th!

 

Do you remember how scared I was, walking down those rickety stairs? Being married on the rocks in front of a waterfall was so worth it. You and Daddy held me the whole way down so I wouldn’t fall.

 

We read our vows from our phones. I, the writer, had written mine months before and tweaked them that day, but yours were infinitely more beautiful, somehow, even though you’d written them only hours before.

 

I can’t wait for you to have them tattooed on your chest along with the tattoo you have, in Roman numerals, of the date we fell in love.

 

Our wedding date, September 15, 2012, is tattooed on my left lower leg in purple ink. It’s purple because there’s an undeniable intertwinement of our marriage and my illnesses. It’s not that they couldn’t exist without one another, but that they haven’t yet and they never will.

 

Soon, we’ll have new tattoos of a lyric: “Nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart.”

 

I think that about sums us up, because even though it’s a massive struggle every day, my fragility makes you a stronger person.

 

I thank you for that, and for all the memories.

 

I can believe it’s been two years. I’ve felt every moment of those two years, mentally and physically, with incredible intensity, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

On our second anniversary, 9.15.14.

Why Being Weak Makes Me Stronger

I think, sometimes, people think that those with diseases like lupus, fibromyalgia, Parkinson’s, or a thousand more, are weak.

 

After all, that’s listed in the top ten symptoms of almost every disease remotely similar to lupus or in the same category of severity—“weakness,” and I feel it every day.

 

But that should never be our defining characteristic. We are strong in ways that most people won’t even have to consider in the terms of their natural lives.

 

We tolerate needle sticks like they’re massages while others faint when giving blood or getting tetanus shots. We see tweets or statuses about someone’s cold or flu and wish for a day where we felt that good. We make decisions between treatments that might help us, but greatly increase our risk of cancer, or chemo, which, by all accounts, is just as terrible as the movies portray. We choose whether to drive to the store to get deodorant or take our pain medicine.

 

We are strong.

 

And on top of that strength, I have the aggressive streak of lore regarding redheads. It appears that my hair is getting redder and redder as I get older (according to my dad, and you should really pay attention if he notices something).

 

I didn’t choose the ginger life. The ginger life chose me.

 

The point is, I’ll go to battle if necessary. And I think I have to go to battle in the morning.

 

A little over six weeks ago, I went to an endocrinologist for the first time because my cortisol test revealed a serious problem while I was in the hospital. A follow-up visit for a new cortisol test was scheduled for June 26.

 

Although the endocrinologist and I didn’t totally hit it off, the visit was okay, except for one thing.

 

When I arrived in the exam room, the intake nurse measured me at 5’8” and 171 pounds, thus placing my BMI at 25.8—0.8 above “normal.”

 

This really wouldn’t be such a tragedy, and in fact, I would’ve taken it like a man and dropped a few pounds…if I was even remotely 5’8”.

 

I texted these measurements to a few friends and family members and received replies with numerous Emojis, the ones that are laughing so hard they’re crying. Others asked if the nurse was blind.

 

I have consistently measured within a quarter inch of 5’10” since I was 15 years old. I quickly, and, admittedly, not so very delicately informed the nurse of this discrepancy, but she was unmoved.

 

When the doctor was finished consulting with me, she brought me a sheet with all my medication information, instructions, and active medical problems. On that last list, oddly enough, “Systemic Lupus Erythematosus” wasn’t present.

 

But my BMI was.

 

MY BMI WAS LISTED AS AN ACTIVE MEDICAL PROBLEM.

 

Let’s be clear: I’ll admit that I’ve put on about 35 pounds since I started college five (FIVE!) years ago, but I don’t even feel the need to explain that, not to mention the fact that I was a little too skinny for someone my height.

 

Which is 5’10”.

 

I took the whole thing very personally, because I struggle to keep my weight within a healthy range. (FYI, 175 is the “overweight” line for a 5’10” woman. I had gotten down to 164, but bed rest brought me back up to 171 by the time of that visit.)

 

So, I sent an email through the endocrinology office’s online portal and received a phone call from the nurse manager a few days later.

 

She assured me that she had personally inspected every scale and that they were all accurate. She spoke to me as if I had an IQ at least 80 points below what it actually is, and, more insultingly, as if I had no experience with doctors’ offices.

 

I didn’t hesitate to express my ire at her comments, and eventually hit her with this zinger: “So, you’re telling me that your scales are accurate, and every other scale I’ve been measured on in the past eight years has been wrong? Your scales are the only ones that are correct, in the entire world?”

 

There was a few-second pause, and then a nervous chuckle. That chuckle made me feel as if I was on a morphine drip, except it was adrenaline instead of morphine, and I had just pushed the button for more.

 

The conversation continued in a similar fashion for about 10 minutes, at which point I said that I would most likely be obtaining my diagnosis from the cortisol stimulation test I’m having in the morning, and taking it elsewhere.

 

And this is why I feel like I’m going into battle in the morning.

 

Earlier tonight, I asked Ethan to do some online research on whether or not I have a legal right to refuse to be measured during my visit. I’m sure there are complex factors contributing to the answer to that question, but I decided it didn’t matter.

 

If they try to step me on the scale in the morning, I’m going to tell the nurse I’d like to decline being measured again. At nearly 23 years old, surely I haven’t grown, and I’ll freely tell them that stress-eating due to my husband getting a new job and it being “that time of the month” have added two pounds to my weight.

 

My fear is that, by their measurements, I’ll have shrunk. After all, the nurse initially measured me at 5’8” and a quarter, but when I expressed concern to the doctor, she redid the measurement herself and concluded that I was 5’8”.

 

So, even though the appointment is at 8am, I will be putting on makeup and making sure my hair is at least volumized and frizz-proof. I think I look more intimidating that way, although most people who know me will testify that I am intimidating about 92% of the time, anyway.

 

Even if it turns out that I can’t refuse to be measured, I will make my concerns known in a diplomatic, yet firm manner.

 

I will not let a nurse, a doctor, or a nurse manager bully me into anything, anymore, ever. I recently made this decision regarding pain management, and there’s no reason not to carry my conviction over into other offices.

 

I’m not going to let myself be treated for a weight problem when I don’t have one, and I won’t let my husband’s comments from the chair in the corner go unheard just because he’s in a t-shirt and jeans on his only off day all week, or because he looks like he’s about 15 years old.

 

I’m not going to be weak. I’m not going to be unnecessarily mean, but I’m not going to abide being talked down to, accept things that aren’t fair, or let myself be devalued simply because I’m weak.

 

Yes, I am weak. And that’s exactly why I have to be strong.

 

The Criminalization of Pain

Seriously, I’m in too much pain to be a criminal, even if I wanted to be…which I don’t, because orange is NOT my new black.

 

Facebook has finally figured out that I’m more interested in articles and blogs than I am in seventeen daily pictures of someone’s cat, or whether a hipster actually even went to a coffee shop if they didn’t post a picture of their drink, a crochet project, black-rimmed glasses, or any combination of those items.

 

There are many hot-button issues on the worldwide table lately, and because Facebook has developed this intimate, algorithmic relationship with my psyche, a few things have begun to stick out—some more important than others. I care more about making sure the girl in the cutoff shorts and crop top doesn’t get gunned down on the street for being a “tease” than I do about convincing her to not wear cutoff shorts and a crop top because it’s not modest by some definitions.

 

We all have our own niches, our own areas of interest and expertise, and it takes all of us to make the world go ‘round, etc., etc. Sometimes, those things just happen to fit in with what’s culturally relevant and blogs get shared more than they normally would.

 

Believe me, I have plenty of random thoughts on crop tops, feminists, and the fat acceptance movement—those last ones I shared today with a poor soul who made the mistake of bringing it up as I was sticking my Lean Cuisine in the microwave. But, because lupus is “my thing,” my niche, there’s something on my mind that’s more relevant to me.

 

But more importantly, I think it’s relevant to many people affected by diseases that cause physical pain. That’s right, folks: I’m about to write about pain meds.

 

Admit it—you’re already cringing a little, judging a little, or scooting a little farther toward the edge of your seat. I don’t blame you. I’m cringing a little myself.

 

I’m cringing because, on my kitchen table, there are about 20 pages of paperwork waiting to be mailed back to my first-ever pain doctor. Did you guys know those exist? I didn’t, because, despite numerous attempts at various treatments—one of which nearly killed me—my joint and muscle pain has continued to increase and my rheumatologist has continued to not only dismiss but also very nearly criminalize it.

 

A few months ago, I finally got up the nerve to ask for one Lortab a day. Lortab hasn’t done a blessed thing for me in years because of an acquired tolerance, but she didn’t bite when I threw out “Percocet.” So, for my constant, day-in and day-out, life-changing, fun-ruining pain, I got one Lortab per day.

 

I was paying the same price for a prescription of 24 pills as I would for a prescription of 30 pills, so I called the rheumatologist’s office to ask if the order could be changed. The nurse responded that she would check, but that the doctor probably just didn’t want me to have more than 24 pills at a time.

 

Are you kidding me?

 

First, I’m not suicidal. Not once have I circled that word on the chart I fill out before every visit. No suicidal thoughts, plans, or even dreams. Nope.

 

But more relevantly, I’m not a criminal. I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never been to rehab. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. But if I had, the place to be treated like a criminal would be in a courthouse or an institution—not in a doctor’s office.

 

When I mentioned narcotics for the first time, the look on my doctor’s face fell somewhere between suspicion and outright disdain. As she handed me that Lortab prescription, she looked vaguely as if she was letting a violent offender out on parole against her better judgment.

 

Look, I get it. I know the authorities are tough on doctors and that there have been even more rigid guidelines put in place pretty recently. I also get that doctors and nurses see a lot of patients whom they suspect are reporting pain to seek drugs.

 

On the flip side, I know that, within reason, medical professionals are supposed to treat the patient for the pain that they report. Well-founded suspicions have ways of bringing themselves to fruition, anyway.

 

These issues make up a big part of why pain doctors exist. Prescribing those types of medications comes with its own set of responsibilities and difficulties, enough to warrant dedicated practices. Part of these doctors’ jobs is to take the heat off the rheumatologists, the orthopedists, and others who see patients with chronic, unmanaged pain.

 

It must be a tough job. It’s hard to deal with folks who are in pain. We take it out on the wrong people, we’re unfocused, and sometimes, we’re loopy. These doctors take responsibility for us, make sure no one is abusing prescriptions, and handle what is probably an enormous amount of paperwork assuring the DEA that it’s all under control. I truly admire them, and I am completely in favor of strict, reasonable regulations and 100% willing to comply with them.

 

That makes it all sound pretty simple, right? It was, for the rheumatologist who visited me while I was in the hospital last month and, after a 20-minute assessment, determined that my biggest issue is my pain. He said that he would have referred me to a pain management clinic and was perplexed as to why my current doctor had not already done so, given the fact that I have consistently reported moderate to severe pain at every visit to her office.

 

“Nope,” I said. “Apparently, it’s a crime to be in pain.”

 

To make matters worse, it’s not just in the recesses of doctors’ offices that this attitude surfaces. It’s in conversations with friends who assume I have a regular prescription (because, hello, they can see how much pain I endure) and joke about how awesome it must be, or how much money I could make.

 

Let me clear something up: Pain medicine, taken on a regular basis, is not awesome.

 

I’ve had many a prescription for it because I’ve had many an orthopedic problem and many a surgery, and I will admit that some of the best presentations I gave in college were crowd pleasers partly due to the fact that I’d taken a pill before class for my knee or my shoulder or whatever had a knife in it that day. (Also, I’m just darn good at presentations.)

 

Sometimes, like anti-anxiety medications, pain meds can make difficult conversations easier or take the edge off a bad day you had at school or work on top of whatever pain you were having that resulted in you having to take the pill.

 

I’m not going to deny that, up to a point, they have benefits beyond relieving pain.

 

But what you need to understand is that, for people like me, it’s not a fun, every-now-and-then-when-I-need-a-little-pick-me-up sort of thing. When I’ve taken pain meds for extended periods of time like surgical recovery, bad things started to happen, too.

 

The paperwork on my table, once it gets mailed off, will be reviewed by a pain doctor and, if he accepts me, I’ll be contacted with an appointment date. I’ll probably get a prescription for a few Percocets a day, and I’ll have to go pee in a cup and have my pills counted once a month to make sure I’m taking them, or otherwise keeping them in my possession.

 

In a way, this is exciting. I’ll feel like doing the grocery shopping all in one day, the house might get cleaner, and the dogs will surely enjoy me being able to bend over to pet them more.

 

But I also dread having to take those little pills every day.

 

Constipation. They cause constipation, the kind where you have to take like a triple dose of Miralax or a heavy duty laxative every day just to keep from having your colon surgically emptied.

 

Balance problems. Not the semi-endearing kind, like that guy you knew in college who was always smoking pot and bumping into walls. Genuine postural impairment that causes you to fall into a puddle of your dog’s pee that she’s left because it’s raining outside and she’s afraid of wet grass.

 

Nausea. This one’s a wild card for some people, me included. Sometimes you get it, sometimes you don’t. Take the nausea meds along with the pain meds, and you’ll be taking a real good nap instead of accomplishing stuff while your pain is reduced. Don’t take them, and you just might end up sitting with your head in the toilet instead of accomplishing stuff while your pain is reduced.

 

Low blood pressure. That’s fun, especially if you have adrenal insufficiency and an autonomic dysfunction like me. Enjoy fainting, almost fainting, not being sure whether you’re in your own house or not, and being too weak to stand in the shower.

 

Of course, there are meds to counteract all these effects. I have about 12 other meds that have other exciting side effects to be counteracted, as well. Do the math. I probably make as many “judgment calls” in half a day regarding my meds as the cops on SVU do in a whole season regarding whether or not to shoot someone.

 

It’s. Not. Fun. It’s not being high, because—PLOT TWIST—the “euphoria” part goes away after a while and you just feel weird and loopy and like you’ve lost IQ points. It’s just about the pain relief.

 

It’s about getting a little normal back in your life, doing the things you do with less pain, and being able to tolerate doing some new things.

 

Maybe I can spend an hour cooking without crying by the time I sit down with my husband to eat what I’ve cooked. Maybe I can vacuum the house and go see a superhero movie with Ethan all in one day, or go out to eat, visit a friend, or run errands more than once a week. Maybe I can take my dogs for walks. Maybe I won’t miss my friends’ graduations. Maybe I can just crawl into bed without cringing.

 

If this doctor hands me a prescription, I want people to understand that it’s not some kind of golden ticket into the chocolate factory. It’s a life raft.

 

So, use your own judgment. Am I a criminal? Am I going to be selling these babies to the cool kids or the soccer moms or the guys on the corner in the city?

 

No. I need them too much. Despite their side effects, I want the life I can have with reduced pain. So if homeboy wants to step and try to get my meds, he’s going to need them after I punch him in the face—but he won’t get them from me.

 

Yeah, I really love this particular gif. Judge me.

 

Besides, did I mention this paperwork was LITERALLY like, 20 pages? I didn’t answer all those questions with painstaking accuracy for the sake of a criminal pursuit. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

 

No, it’s just the pursuit of the most I can get out of my life and the best I can put into the lives of others. After all, it’s not just about me…

                                         …To be continued…

1200 Calories

Thoughts on Valentine’s Day and Apologies for the Uncreative Title

Please live for more than two days, please live for more than two days…

 

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and we all saw a lot of “I love you,” and “To the best boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife EVERRRR,” and from the ever-annoying people who insist on making the holiday theirs, the now-trite “Single’s Awareness Day!”

 

I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that this post isn’t going to be sentimental—although you can count on anything that comes from my brain not being so far down the rabbit hole as “sappy”—but I am going to tell you that it will be different.

 

They tell me Valentine’s Day is about love. To me, this is like saying that Forever 21 is about clothing. Sure, it’s true, but we all know that Forever 21 is actually, in most cases, about cheap clothing for the 20-something woman who needs something different to wear to the bars or fraternity houses every weekend but doesn’t want to spend the kind of money indicative of the big-girl job she doesn’t yet have.

 

Let’s be real: If you have loved ones (which I expect you do, unless you are that terrifying, tiny Russian figure skater), every day should be “about love” to some extent.

 

The same goes for other holidays. We’re thankful for various things every day, but on the fourth Thursday of every November, we make a point of being aware and making others aware of our thankfulness.

 

These holidays are reflective of the culmination of a lifestyle and of simple, daily truths, not just the one day a year when we express our feelings.

 

So, to me, Valentine’s Day makes a lot more sense as a day to make our loved ones, the world, and ourselves more aware of our love and our appreciation for the love of others.

 

And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to share bits of my love—of our love—with all of you.

 

Because this is a blog about my journey with lupus and my marriage, I think that the best way to do that is to give some examples of the love I’m so thankful for from Ethan, many of which are often unduly impacted by my health.

 

~

 

For the times when I go to clean the kitchen, dreading the emptying of the trash can, and find that the bag has been taken out and replaced with a new one.

 

For the dent that’s only in one side of our mattress because I spend so much time there, and you spend so little because you’re at work, making sure we can pay our bills and I can even buy clothes from places other than Forever 21.

 

For knowing, sometimes better than I do, what medicines I’ve taken over the years and how they affected me.

 

For going to countless doctor visits with me and being my advocate when I can’t make them listen, because you know that’s the one and only place where I get tongue-tied.

 

For not allowing others to disrespect me in my own home—or anywhere else, for that matter.

 

For bringing me an ice pack before I’ve even asked for one, because you saw me wincing as I sat down on the couch.

 

For surprising me with mushroom cream pasta because I’ve been doing more of the cooking lately.

 

For remembering and purchasing my favorite flowers, even though you know you will have to be the one to take care of them and see that they don’t die immediately.

 

For getting out of bed to check the locks…again.

 

For always saying, “Love you, bye,” even if you’re just going to the mailbox.

 

For using your precious off days to go to all-day affairs that are important to me, or spending them here at home instead of out, doing normal-person activities.

 

For always being able to fix my (and my parents’) electronics and accomplish basically anything with a laptop and a couple of cables.

 

For not complaining about the fact that we could’ve taken a really nice vacation with the money we’ve spent on my medical bills just in the last three months.

 

For encouraging me to write that book.

 

For still being my best friend, despite now also being my husband, caretaker, and constant provider.

 

~

 

And because we were and are best friends, I can’t bear to end this post on a serious note. So, above all:

 

For being the kind of guy who will one day, in the hopefully-not-too-distant future, be a dad like this (especially 2:30):

 

 

 

A belated but heartfelt happy Valentine’s Day to all, from the Tippses.

 

 

Rare snow days, exactly four years apart: 2/13/10 and 2/13/14.

 

(And Bailey.)

 

“Where’s my candy, Mom?”

That Was Fast.

We’re only five days into the new year, and I’m already on my first emergency room trip. (Oh, and it’s my brother’s birthday. Great. Another family dinner I’ve ruined/missed.)

Yesterday morning, when I woke up, I was having this vague pain in the middle and to the right of my abdomen. Throughout the day, it worsened and localized to a spot between the bottom of my ribcage and my right hip bone. The pain became sharp, and it hurt to cough or twist to the left.

As night approached, I realized I hadn’t eaten much because I felt sick every time I ate. The pain was getting worse and worse, but I knew better than to take any medicine. I went to bed, noticing that it hurt more to lie on my left side. The pain continued throughout the night and I didn’t sleep well.

Ethan came home from work early, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, but I’m glad he did. When he got home, I woke up and realized the pain was worse, even though I was lying still. He threw his work clothes and all his jeans into the washer as I tried to get up and move around.

The pain only worsened, and it finally occurred to me: This sounds exactly like appendicitis.

I immediately started Googling and reading everything I could find, and I’m really afraid that that’s where my pain is coming from.

So why am I blogging instead of going to the ER, you may ask?

BECAUSE ALL OF ETHAN’S CLOTHES ARE IN THE WASHING MACHINE. And most of the ones I need.

Not to worry, the load is almost finished and we’re all packed up and ready to go. I feel like I’m leaving to go have a baby.

Of course, yet again, I’m missing a birthday dinner. I hate that. I’m especially going to hate it if it’s NOT my appendix and they send me home with no real explanation. That’s my worst fear.

Every time I go to the ER and it turns out to be “nothing,” I flash back to all the times I went before I was diagnosed with lupus and not only did they tell me there was nothing acutely wrong with me, they told me that I was in “perfect health.”

I’m not so sure it’s any better to have them tell me, “It’s probably just some sort of lupus thing; see your rheumatologist.” But I at least feel that they take me a little more seriously now that I have a legitimate disease to back me up.

You know, this isn’t how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon. I’m sure it’s not how Ethan or my parents wanted to spend theirs either. But I guess that’s just what we do.

I put up with people putting laundry in at the WORST POSSIBLE TIMES, and they put up with countless hours in uncomfortable chairs and listening to people screaming in the next room, with watching me go through painful procedures and be poked and prodded, and worst of all, hospital food.

We’re just Tipps for life.

If I’m Too Young to Be Married, You’re Too Old to Have Bad Manners.

Risking It

I hope the title of this post got your attention. It’s what I used to say to people who were rude enough to tell me to my face that I was too young to be married. I guess some of us have grown up a little bit since then.

First, I want to say that this is not designed to be a rebuttal to the near-viral post “23 Things to Do Instead of Getting Engaged Before You’re 23,” but I am tempted to compose one of those when the smoke clears, as well.

Since I started this blog, I’ve mostly written about lupus and mentioned marriage in a peripheral context. It can be hard to write about marriage without being trite, unimaginative, or even offensive, but I’m about to take that risk.

I’m taking that risk partly because I’m tired of being offended. I’m tired of being talked down to and discriminated against because I got married before some magical birthday that would have made me “old enough,” “experienced enough,” or “accomplished enough.” I’m tired of that discrimination being an acceptable, and even popular, thing for single people in my age group to do.

What would happen if, suddenly, people who married before the aforementioned magical age started a campaign based on the premise that those who aren’t married are too unattractive or don’t have inviting enough personalities to find mates?

That may sound extreme, but so do some of the accusations I’ve heard and read recently in various blogs, articles, tweets, and Facebook posts. Writers put all young, married people in one group, labeling us with terms like “uneducated,” “desperate,” “immature,” or worse. They accuse us of using marriage as a cop-out, or as a way to hide from life.

These things may be true and applicable for some couples who marry young (or old). But to those who married for the right reasons, especially those who happen to be highly educated and mature?

To us, it is almost unimaginably offensive, and is way past the point of acceptability regarding judgments you have the right to make about another person’s decisions.

Bonfire of the Vanities

Less importantly, I find myself in a state resembling disbelief that so many people are willing to confidently doubt the mental faculties of such a large demographic simply because they didn’t wait longer to get married.

I get pretty touchy when people insult my intelligence. I have a certifiably genius-level IQ, and no decision I’ve ever made will make that any less true, nor will your opinions of those decisions. But even if I wasn’t quantifiably intelligent, getting married at the age of 21 shouldn’t be anyone’s determining factor in assessing how smart I may or may not be. If it is, that person may or may not be the one who isn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

To me, there is little difference between these types of assumptions and the widespread idea that people who are overweight are less competent, or dumb, or lazy.

There have been studies to prove that this often mistaken, snap judgment affects hiring and firing, dating, and other aspects of the lives of those who are overweight or obese.

Somehow, I don’t think it would be nearly as socially acceptable to post sarcastic, critical, careless remarks about how you are smarter, prettier, or more successful than that entire group of people just because you are of average weight.

Do some people get fat because they’re too lazy or immature to take care of themselves? Sure. And some people get married young for the wrong reasons, too. But none of those assumptions is safe to make in every case.

GET. A. LIFE. …or just enjoy the one you have.

These unfair criticisms are also unnecessary wastes of time. If your life as a single twenty-something (or whatever-something) is so fulfilling and superior to mine, then why don’t you quit using your time to berate my choice and get back to doing all those things I supposedly can’t do as a married person?

Speaking of which, I am hard-pressed to think of things I am literally prohibited from doing because I am married.

Is there a particular reason why I can’t take Ethan to Europe with me? (PLOT TWIST: It’s not my relationship status that keeps me from traveling—it’s my illness.)

If Ethan was called to join the military, I would worry, but I would support him.

We’ve actually talked about getting tattoos (no, Mom, you won’t have to see them), and not the matching kind. But if the matching kind is yours and your spouse’s thing, more power to you.

I was accepted to law school and planned to attend (until my lupus worsened), all within a year of getting married, which I did at the beginning of my senior year and still graduated with top honors.

Oh, and I’m still working on taking the reins of my dad’s family business. It is a major responsibility, and I’m glad that I have the support of my husband in that venture.

So, what does being married prevent me from doing?

Apparently, I’m missing out on things like kissing people I don’t know in bars, sleeping with at least 10 different types of guys, dating several people at once, and experimenting with a same-sex partner.

I’m sorry (not really), but none of those things appeals to me, nor would they have appealed to me before I got married or even before I met Ethan.

Why Now? Why This Blog?

You may be wondering what prompted me to write this, after enduring the posts and articles for this long.

In a moment of what might be called temporary insanity, I posted one such blog entry to my Facebook and expressed my opinion about the views it contained. (Yes, it was the near-viral “23 Things to Do Instead of Getting Engaged Before You’re 23” blog, but this is something I’ve had in the works since before that post was a twinkle in its author’s eye. You can read that post here, if you wish.)

The response to my post was overwhelming and almost entirely positive. I had two friends who respectfully disagreed with parts of my statement, and at least 12 who agreed wholeheartedly. Over 25 others have already “liked” the status.

But it wasn’t the remarks from the two friends who challenged me that inspired me to write this post. It was an elegantly stated comment from a woman I’ve had the pleasure of knowing since I was a child, and the whole thing was fresh and thought-provoking, but the part I want to focus on went like this:

“From an older woman: This writer is rude, no doubt. I think she doesn’t understand that we are not all in competition with one another.”

Let me repeat that: Marriage is not a competition.

It’s not like Iron Bowl day in Alabama, where you have to either root for one side or the other (or be looked at like an alien if you don’t care). It’s not a courtroom where you’re either defending or prosecuting. You are not Elle Woods.

Marriage shouldn’t be a polarizing issue at any age, so it shouldn’t be something that so many people can blatantly disrespect and tear down simply because it happens at a younger age for some than it did for them.

I have no problem with you if you’re over 25, or 30, or 40, or 100 and not married. I don’t feel compelled to make any judgment about you, negative OR positive, simply based on your marital status. I have no right.

And neither do you.

The Takeaway 

Marriage isn’t for everyone, at any age. I would never criticize anyone for NOT being married, or pretend that my lifestyle is in any way objectively preferable to theirs.

Be confident enough in yourself, your choices, and your life to simply be yourself without attacking others. Discover what it means to truly be an adult, and keep your focus on yourself. Let your decisions be about you and your happiness, not about a false sense of superiority you hold over people who made different choices from you.

Like I said in the article I wrote about this issue for the opinion section of my college newspaper, my marriage, my age, and the relationship between the two are simply none of your business. Start acting like it.

Enjoy your own life, and let me enjoy the beautifully fulfilled one I’ve found.

It’s My Life–Don’t You Forget

Lately, I’ve been watching a lot of Long Island Medium and reading Theresa Caputo’s book, There’s More to Life Than This.

In case you’ve never heard of Theresa or her show: Basically, she has the gift of being able to communicate with the dead. She only communicates with souls who “walk in God’s light,” and she only delivers helpful or positive messages to their loved ones still in the physical world.

Theresa being a medium isn’t really the point here, though. I’m thinking more of what she says at the beginning of every episode of her show.

“This is not just my job—it’s my life.”

Recently, someone who doesn’t know me particularly well told me that lupus seems to take over my life, my relationships, and my conversations.

Ask anyone who does know me, and they will tell you that it’s extremely difficult to offend me, embarrass me, or otherwise make me feel uncomfortable. I haven’t always been that way, but at this point in my life, “thick skin” is probably an understatement.

But that comment stuck with me.

It would be like me telling one of my best friends, who is Chinese, that it seems like being Chinese just pervades every aspect of her life. Or even like telling Ethan that being male rather than female just seems to impact everything he does.

Like, REALLY?!

It’s also rare than I’m rendered speechless, and when I am, it’s usually because I’m formulating the perfect response to make the other person wish they’d never been born. (I’m a rhetorician, what do you expect?) That’s what I did to this…person…but I’m still not sure if they walked away with a real understanding of how out of line they were.

So, let me be clear. Yes, lupus does affect every aspect of my life. Every day, every minute, every breath I take. Every choice, every move, every conversation. Everything! And by bringing that up to me, you’re only telling me something I already know and don’t consider a negative thing.

I’m sure there are some diseases that don’t affect their sufferers every day. I won’t name any, because I don’t feel qualified to make that judgment about someone else’s life. But regardless, lupus isn’t one of those diseases.

Even while lupus is in remission, every decision you make is geared toward not inducing a flare. Trip to the beach? Nope, not unless I can stay indoors the whole time, and maybe not even then. Going out two nights in a week? No, unless by “going out” you mean driving to the McDonald’s drive-thru and someone else can drive.

Does lupus come up in conversation more often than I’d like? Absolutely! Do I feel like I talk about it too much? Yes. But what I’ve found is that I get stranger looks when I don’t explain the things I say than I do when I try to help people understand me.

For example, I was in physical therapy earlier this year, and my therapist was asking me consultation questions like what I do, what my environment is like, and where I work. I was a little hesitant to tell her that I work exclusively on my laptop and phone, and from my bed, but I did. She gave me the most perplexed look, but I didn’t want to make our conversation all about lupus, so I kept my mouth shut.

The therapist kept asking questions, and I could clearly see in the wording of every query she made that she was mystified as to why anyone would work from their bed. Finally, I told her I have lupus. That’s it. “I have lupus.”

I love to tell this story because, later in the conversation, the woman ended up asking me, “So, you being in your bed a lot—is that due to the lupus?”

Cracks me up, every time.

But if I had stayed silent and not explained the parts of my life that are nothing like a normal person’s, that therapist might have been so stuck on on wondering why this girl she’s working with spends so much time in her bed that she couldn’t focus on helping me fix my shoulder.

I feel that way about people I encounter who aren’t in the medical field, too. I don’t want to be secretive, private, and leave my friends or even my acquaintances wondering why I say no to invitations, refuse a second glass of wine, or don’t respond to texts in the middle of the day.

The fact that I have a thick skin and don’t care what people think about things that are none of their business doesn’t mean I don’t care if they think that I’m rude or neglectful. (That’s an interesting balance that I’ve come to learn is intriguing to other people, and maybe I’ll write about it someday, but it’s just me.)

Yes, Extremely Inconsiderate Person Who Shall Remain Nameless, I do talk about lupus a lot. I think about it a lot. It affects everything I do in and with my life. And, no, you didn’t insult me or even provide any valuable criticism. You overstepped a boundary and made yourself appear ignorant in my eyes and in the eyes of those who have taken the time to understand what life with lupus is like before opening their mouths with comments about it.

And if you do understand but you still feel compelled to chastise me for being self-aware, realistic, and willing to express myself, then you may be the one who needs to reevaluate how you handle your life.

The thing that I’ve had to accept over the past year of knowing what was wrong with me is that lupus isn’t just a part of my life. It’s not something I can compartmentalize and only deal with when it’s glaringly necessary or convenient. It’s always, all the time.

“Compartmentalization is a joke.” – Dexter Morgan

So, if I ever get my own television show on TLC and the camera crew is willing to move into my home so that I don’t have to go anywhere and not bother me when I’m sleeping, I guess that’s what I’ll say at the beginning of every episode.

Lupus is not just a disease that I have—it’s my life.

This Thanksgiving, I’m Thankful for Lupus.

This is probably the worst time I could possibly have picked to finally catch up a bit on my blogging. It’s not that I haven’t had plenty of thoughts—I’ve just been either too busy or too sick (mostly both) to write cohesively.

 

But I’ve had plenty of thoughts.

 

Last Tuesday, I celebrated a year of lupus diagnosis. That may sound odd, but the term “celebrate” was chosen carefully, and it is certainly the most accurate representation of my feelings not only now, a year later, but when the doctor first told me I had lupus.

 

As I’ve mentioned before, having lupus but not knowing is exhausting—physically, mentally, emotionally, and even financially as the visits to every kind of doctor imaginable add up. But, for me, the worst part of it was always the guilt.

 

While I was in school, I sent dozens of emails to professors, desperately explaining whatever infection or reaction or random ailment I was having that would keep me from attending class or taking an exam.

 

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been sketching out on plans with friends because no matter how much I wanted to go to a movie or walk around the mall, when the time came, I rarely felt like getting up.

 

Particularly in the past several years, I’ve missed out on events with my family—birthday dinners, church events, concerts—that I had promised to attend, not expecting to wake up with some new medical horror that day.

 

That stuff weighs on you after a while. The skepticism in the responses of professors, the hurt on the faces of friends, and worst of all, the disappointment in the voices of family members who were counting on you to be somewhere.

 

Knowing I had lupus didn’t make it any easier to constantly ask for favors from my teachers or forgiveness from friends and family. It just helped me get over the guilt faster.

 

Ethan can testify that, after my diagnosis, every time I sent an email telling a professor I wouldn’t be able to come to class or submit a project, I still closed my eyes as I clicked “Send” and had a minor panic attack shortly thereafter. He’s seen me cry and cry because I was too sick to keep promises to the people we care about most.

 

But I finally realized that it WAS better. It was so much better to be able to say, “I’m having a lupus flare-up and I need to stay home to avoid getting worse,” instead of struggling to find words to explain symptoms and conditions I didn’t understand. With family and friends, not even that much is necessary anymore. All I have to say is, “I’m not up to it today,” and the ones who truly care will be disappointed, but won’t show it as much as they will show their support and their compassion.

 

And let me tell you something. That’s glorious. Most people don’t consider being diagnosed with a serious chronic illness something to celebrate, but most people haven’t lived through it or through the life that came before the knowing. Besides getting married, there’s been nothing else in my life so far that was so worth celebration!

 

Like I said, now is probably the worst time for me to sit down to write a blog post. It just so happens to be a day of celebration that’s a little more universal—Thanksgiving.

 

Who decides to host a 15-person Thanksgiving dinner in a house they just moved into two weeks ago? Crazy people, that’s who. Crazy people like Ethan and me. We just finished removing the painter’s tape from the living room (actually, I just noticed a piece we missed), and we have people arriving in under five hours.

 

We’ve been up all night, making the house look as lived-in-yet-presentable as possible, and we’ve just started cooking. The turkey is roasting, the chocolate chip pie is done. That’s two dishes down, four to go.

 

Not only does it happen to be Thanksgiving and not only do I have over a dozen people showing up here in a few hours, but I also have a terrible infection of some sort that may or may not be pneumonia or a sinus infection, or both. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 

So, 500 milligrams of clarithromycin twice a day for 10 days. Cough syrup that’s not doing anything for me because my doctor thinks that literally everyone will get addicted to codeine and narcotics and refuses to prescribe a decent cough syrup. Drug interactions with the antibiotic that make even ME shudder. It’s been a while since I’ve been this sick, and we’re a little out of practice.

 

I guess Ethan and I probably look a little shell-shocked this morning, but surely it can’t be as bad as the way we looked last year when we traveled to Tennessee for Thanksgiving dinner just days after finding out I had lupus.

 

Anyway, I’ve been given strict orders to take a nap while he goes to the store for firewood and milk. It went something like this:

Ethan: “You should try to sleep some. You look real sick, like under your eyes. Like you haven’t slept at all.”

 

Me: “Mmmph.”

 

Ethan: “Of course, I know you’ll put make-up on and it’ll be fine because you look beautiful without it, anyway.”

 

Me: “Mmmph.”

 

But, nap or no nap, I’m in a warm house with a fireplace, food, and entertainment. I have a husband who didn’t dream of asking me to run the errands even though he’s the one who should be here cooking. My entire family will be here later today, as I was just reminded by my sweet oldest brother who texted me to say that he and his family are so excited about the day.

 

And the best part is, if I end up in yoga pants and a sweatshirt by the time we break out the chocolate chip pie, everyone will understand with no explanation necessary—lupus stuff.

 

Well, maybe not. Maybe the best part is that I’ve gotten some really great pictures of Ethan, the dog, and the turkey having a fight.

 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 

 

Bailey is NOT about that turkey life.