(original post date: March 30, 2011)
I have a friend who is rather tenured in the realm of senior citizenry.
She’s also doing quite well.
Her mind is sharp as a tack (and much sharper than mine, most of the time). Her body? Not so much.
Among other things, she suffers from arthritis in her right arm, and because she is right-handed, the pain is more than inconvenient.
It also sometimes keeps her up at night.
So, a few weeks ago, she consulted her doctor. And in response to her complaint, he suggested she “up” the dosage on the pain-killer he had prescribed a few weeks earlier.
You should know that my friend is not a fan of pharmaceuticals, and so her doctor’s suggestion that she essentially triple the dosage of a pain-killer didn’t settle well with her. But he assured her that it was still a very small amount of the drug, and so, she agreed to the plan.
… I phoned her the next day to see how she was feeling.
“I slept well,” she reported, not sounding particularly relieved, “but in my dreams, I was punching everything in sight, and when I wasn’t punching, I was lifting. And when I wasn’t lifting, I was furiously writing. When I got out of bed this morning, my arm muscles were so sore from all the activity that I could barely lift my first cup of coffee.”
When I laughed, my friend scolded me.
“It’s not funny!” she said. “You have no idea how sore I was!”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, smiling over the phone. “I really am. But it’s just so ironic. You take a drug to make the arm pain go away, and your arms are so not in pain while you’re sleeping that they’re just busy all night.”
My friend accepted my apology, and – beyond that – she appreciated my observation.
… And I’ve been thinking about it ever since: pharmaceutical side effects that are dream-centric.
Imagine the possibilities:
I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time thinking about how this country’s stupid political parties are wasting their time with ridiculous, counter-productive in-fighting.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream that I meet Sarah Palin, and we hit if off like nobody’s business. We go off into the wild and shoot a bunch of wolves. We laugh because we have no need for the wolves. We pledge to be BFFs forever (disregarding the redundancy therein) and from that point forward, we text each other every day.
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time worrying about how I am going to pay all my bills.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream that I get a letter in the mail. It’s a pen pal request from a man in prison. Bernie Madoff has learned of my schemes, and I am his new hero. I smile devilishly and pass the letter along to one of my staff members – a man dressed in a scaled costume and looking a lot like Dick Cheney. Then, I head for the hot tub, where I bathe with rich white men, all in handcuffs and fully dressed.
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time worrying about the situation in the Middle East and North Africa.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream of sitting at a grand table with the leaders of the “free” world. There’s a hosted oil bar, and it is free-flowing. We’re all drunk. As the waiters and busboys saunter by our regally upholstered chairs, we slip them million-dollar bills. Then we refill our glasses from the oil trough and laugh some more. Political power is such a gas!
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what happened in Japan. I feel so bad for the people there.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream I am at an amusement park, where I strap myself into a shiny round seat. The first part of the ride entails a tremendous amount of random shaking. Thereafter, it morphs into a log-flume. I am doused with water. Lots and lots of water. I emerge wobbly and laughing – shook and wet, but okay.
But I’m not okay. There’s a glow emanating from me. And it’s not a good glow. My system’s been compromised by something unnatural.
… I go to the doctor.
“Nothing’s working,” I say. “These prescriptions are all wrong.”
He shrugs.
I walk outside the clinic, and because this is California, I notice a little shop.
Medical marijuana, with promises of no more bad dreams.
… Rich white men did not invent marijuana. Few of them therefore will ever embrace its values.
Besides, it’s a plant that they don’t need to manipulate in their labs.
From a profiteering perspective, they have no use for it. And so they certainly are not going to explore its capacity to heal.
Instead, they’ll just keep inventing drugs that give people messed-up dreams and a boat-load of side effects.
And they’ll make money from it.
…Need an aspirin?
Showing posts with label pharmaceuticals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pharmaceuticals. Show all posts
Monday, June 3, 2013
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Doctors, Pharmaceuticals, and Why I'm Leery
A few weeks ago, I heard a television promo that was meant to be alarming. It was regarding the next “Dr.Oz” episode, and it featured a voice-over that could have brought a person out of a coma: THE INSOMNIA CRISIS, it began. And then: WHY DO WE HAVE IT?
(Loud promos, maybe? Just sayin’.)
Seriously, though, I could answer that “insomnia question,” and perhaps I will in another post. But right now, I want to talk about doctors.
I do not think that they are God.
Not even when they come with the name of OZ.
In fact, I think when a doctor’s name is “OZ,” it’s a little creepy.
In fact, I should tell you (and Oprah) that I avoid doctors whenever possible.
I also turn off the radio when there’s a story about some current epidemic and its manifestations.
I figure, if I don’t know the manifestations, then I won’t exhibit any.
I figure, I’m best off not harboring fear.
And in my opinion, doctors – and pharmaceuticals – primarily exist to fill us with fear.
…Okay, okay, I admit it. I have an issue with doctors (and pharmaceuticals).
Let me tell you why.
When I was a junior in prep school, my mother still took me to the man who had been my pediatrician. Nothing wrong with that scenario. It made sense to all of us.
Problem was, though, said pediatrician was weight-obsessed. He had charts on his walls, and he seemed to worship them.
At the time, I was probably about 15 pounds over what his chart recommended for someone my age and height. And, in his eyes, this made me “fat.”
Never mind the fact that I was built strong and could maneuver a 1200-pound horse over a course of 3-foot jumps. No… I was “fat.”
So, said doctor prescribed a pill – new on the market. It seemed a miracle drug.
Mom agreed to the prescription, and so off we went.
Off we went, into a semester when I would quickly drop a great deal of weight but not remember what I learned in class. Off we went, into a semester when this drug – this drug that was constructed to “tell my brain” that it wasn’t hungry – would prevent me from eating. Off we went, and several months later (after I’d stopped taking the drug), I developed unusually swollen ankles that caught the attention of a nurse on staff at my prep school.
And so off I went, to the prep school’s doctor…
The prep school’s doctor ran a few tests, and then, he called my mom.
When he made that call, he had probably assumed that she knew I’d been sent to him that day. (She didn’t.)
“We’ve ruled out heart failure!” he told her, over the phone.
“Great,” she said, completely at a loss. “On whom?”
The prep school doc filled her in, and once he had clarified to Mom that he’d run some tests on me, he also let her know that he wanted to put me in the hospital for a day or two. For more tests.
And so, to the hospital I went.
I was a senior at that point. I’d just turned 17.
I don’t remember the tests or the details.
I do, though, remember the bottom line.
Prep school doc found the test results inconclusive, and so – because he had to draw a conclusion, I suppose, he decided that I was “carrying around too much weight.”
And so he prescribed more diet pills…
Seriously?
Okay, my first point: doctors who are working with minors should NEVER be allowed to prescribe diet pills. Ever. Diet is behavior, which is therefore wed to psychology, and while psychotropic drugs have their place, individuals should always and first be encouraged and empowered to change their behavior without drugs. Moreover, a drug that instructs the brain to tell the body it isn't hungry is inherently disrespectful of that brain.
I think that’s what pisses me off most about the whole pharmaceutical franchise. It is the lack of respect. It is the drug companies saying, “You don’t have the capacity to change who you are, but WE do. We can change you! We can help you!”
Powerlessness is not a prescription I want to fill, thank you very much.
Okay, my second point: that drug that my pediatrician put me on when I was 16? That drug – that drug that was oh-so-new to the market – was Pondimin, which turned out to be the fatal half of Phen-Fen.
The fatal half.
I’m lucky to be alive.
I still have a photograph taken of me from the summer I stopped taking Pondimin. Never have I looked so swollen, from head to toe.
And I was only 16 at the time.
I’ll reiterate what I said before: doctors should not be permitted to give “diet drugs” to minors. Ever.
I know, I know, the obesity epidemic is intense these days among children and adolescents.
But still: it’s not about drugs. It’s about behavior and paying attention.
That is our charge.
Change our behavior and pay attention.
I’m not saying that all pharmaceuticals are bad and no one should take them. But: if it is in our power to make the changes that otherwise inspire a drug prescription, then we should.
And if we don’t?
Then incompetent doctors and profit-seeking pharmaceutical companies will continue to have all the power.
Haven't they had enough already?
(Loud promos, maybe? Just sayin’.)
Seriously, though, I could answer that “insomnia question,” and perhaps I will in another post. But right now, I want to talk about doctors.
I do not think that they are God.
Not even when they come with the name of OZ.
In fact, I think when a doctor’s name is “OZ,” it’s a little creepy.
In fact, I should tell you (and Oprah) that I avoid doctors whenever possible.
I also turn off the radio when there’s a story about some current epidemic and its manifestations.
I figure, if I don’t know the manifestations, then I won’t exhibit any.
I figure, I’m best off not harboring fear.
And in my opinion, doctors – and pharmaceuticals – primarily exist to fill us with fear.
…Okay, okay, I admit it. I have an issue with doctors (and pharmaceuticals).
Let me tell you why.
When I was a junior in prep school, my mother still took me to the man who had been my pediatrician. Nothing wrong with that scenario. It made sense to all of us.
Problem was, though, said pediatrician was weight-obsessed. He had charts on his walls, and he seemed to worship them.
At the time, I was probably about 15 pounds over what his chart recommended for someone my age and height. And, in his eyes, this made me “fat.”
Never mind the fact that I was built strong and could maneuver a 1200-pound horse over a course of 3-foot jumps. No… I was “fat.”
So, said doctor prescribed a pill – new on the market. It seemed a miracle drug.
Mom agreed to the prescription, and so off we went.
Off we went, into a semester when I would quickly drop a great deal of weight but not remember what I learned in class. Off we went, into a semester when this drug – this drug that was constructed to “tell my brain” that it wasn’t hungry – would prevent me from eating. Off we went, and several months later (after I’d stopped taking the drug), I developed unusually swollen ankles that caught the attention of a nurse on staff at my prep school.
And so off I went, to the prep school’s doctor…
The prep school’s doctor ran a few tests, and then, he called my mom.
When he made that call, he had probably assumed that she knew I’d been sent to him that day. (She didn’t.)
“We’ve ruled out heart failure!” he told her, over the phone.
“Great,” she said, completely at a loss. “On whom?”
The prep school doc filled her in, and once he had clarified to Mom that he’d run some tests on me, he also let her know that he wanted to put me in the hospital for a day or two. For more tests.
And so, to the hospital I went.
I was a senior at that point. I’d just turned 17.
I don’t remember the tests or the details.
I do, though, remember the bottom line.
Prep school doc found the test results inconclusive, and so – because he had to draw a conclusion, I suppose, he decided that I was “carrying around too much weight.”
And so he prescribed more diet pills…
Seriously?
Okay, my first point: doctors who are working with minors should NEVER be allowed to prescribe diet pills. Ever. Diet is behavior, which is therefore wed to psychology, and while psychotropic drugs have their place, individuals should always and first be encouraged and empowered to change their behavior without drugs. Moreover, a drug that instructs the brain to tell the body it isn't hungry is inherently disrespectful of that brain.
I think that’s what pisses me off most about the whole pharmaceutical franchise. It is the lack of respect. It is the drug companies saying, “You don’t have the capacity to change who you are, but WE do. We can change you! We can help you!”
Powerlessness is not a prescription I want to fill, thank you very much.
Okay, my second point: that drug that my pediatrician put me on when I was 16? That drug – that drug that was oh-so-new to the market – was Pondimin, which turned out to be the fatal half of Phen-Fen.
The fatal half.
I’m lucky to be alive.
I still have a photograph taken of me from the summer I stopped taking Pondimin. Never have I looked so swollen, from head to toe.
And I was only 16 at the time.
I’ll reiterate what I said before: doctors should not be permitted to give “diet drugs” to minors. Ever.
I know, I know, the obesity epidemic is intense these days among children and adolescents.
But still: it’s not about drugs. It’s about behavior and paying attention.
That is our charge.
Change our behavior and pay attention.
I’m not saying that all pharmaceuticals are bad and no one should take them. But: if it is in our power to make the changes that otherwise inspire a drug prescription, then we should.
And if we don’t?
Then incompetent doctors and profit-seeking pharmaceutical companies will continue to have all the power.
Haven't they had enough already?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
In Your Dreams!
I have a friend who is rather tenured in the realm of senior citizenry.
She’s also doing quite well.
Her mind is sharp as a tack (and much sharper than mine, most of the time). Her body? Not so much.
Among other things, she suffers from arthritis in her right arm, and because she is right-handed, the pain is more than inconvenient.
It also sometimes keeps her up at night.
So, a few weeks ago, she consulted her doctor. And in response to her complaint, he suggested she “up” the dosage on the pain-killer he had prescribed a few weeks earlier.
You should know that my friend is not a fan of pharmaceuticals, and so her doctor’s suggestion that she essentially triple the dosage of a pain-killer didn’t settle well with her. But he assured her that it was still a very small amount of the drug, and so, she agreed to the plan.
… I phoned her the next day to see how she was feeling.
“I slept well,” she reported, not sounding particularly relieved, “but in my dreams, I was punching everything in sight, and when I wasn’t punching, I was lifting. And when I wasn’t lifting, I was furiously writing. When I got out of bed this morning, my arm muscles were so sore from all the activity that I could barely lift my first cup of coffee.”
When I laughed, my friend scolded me.
“It’s not funny!” she said. “You have no idea how sore I was!”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, smiling over the phone. “I really am. But it’s just so ironic. You take a drug to make the arm pain go away, and your arms are so not in pain while you’re sleeping that they’re just busy all night.”
My friend accepted my apology, and – beyond that – she appreciated my observation.
… And I’ve been thinking about it ever since: pharmaceutical side effects that are dream-centric.
Imagine the possibilities:
I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time thinking about how this country’s stupid political parties are wasting their time with ridiculous, counter-productive in-fighting.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream that I meet Sarah Palin, and we hit if off like nobody’s business. We go off into the wild and shoot a bunch of wolves. We laugh because we have no need for the wolves. We pledge to be BFFs forever (disregarding the redundancy therein) and from that point forward, we text each other every day.
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time worrying about how I am going to pay all my bills.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream that I get a letter in the mail. It’s a pen pal request from a man in prison. Bernie Madoff has learned of my schemes, and I am his new hero. I smile devilishly and pass the letter along to one of my staff members – a man dressed in a scaled costume and looking a lot like Dick Cheney. Then, I head for the hot tub, where I bathe with rich white men, all in handcuffs and fully dressed.
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time worrying about the situation in the Middle East and North Africa.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream of sitting at a grand table with the leaders of the “free” world. There’s a hosted oil bar, and it is free-flowing. We’re all drunk. As the waiters and busboys saunter by our regally upholstered chairs, we slip them million-dollar bills. Then we refill our glasses from the oil trough and laugh some more. Political power is such a gas!
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what happened in Japan. I feel so bad for the people there.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream I am at an amusement park, where I strap myself into a shiny round seat. The first part of the ride entails a tremendous amount of random shaking. Thereafter, it morphs into a log-flume. I am doused with water. Lots and lots of water. I emerge wobbly and laughing – shook and wet, but okay.
But I’m not okay. There’s a glow emanating from me. And it’s not a good glow. My system’s been compromised by something unnatural.
… I go to the doctor.
“Nothing’s working,” I say. “These prescriptions are all wrong.”
He shrugs.
I walk outside the clinic, and because this is California, I notice a little shop.
Medical marijuana, with promises of no more bad dreams.
… Rich white men did not invent marijuana. Few of them therefore will ever embrace its values.
Besides, it’s a plant that they don’t need to manipulate in their labs.
From a profiteering perspective, they have no use for it. And so they certainly are not going to explore its capacity to heal.
Instead, they’ll just keep inventing drugs that give people messed-up dreams and a boat-load of side effects.
And they’ll make money from it.
…Need an aspirin?
She’s also doing quite well.
Her mind is sharp as a tack (and much sharper than mine, most of the time). Her body? Not so much.
Among other things, she suffers from arthritis in her right arm, and because she is right-handed, the pain is more than inconvenient.
It also sometimes keeps her up at night.
So, a few weeks ago, she consulted her doctor. And in response to her complaint, he suggested she “up” the dosage on the pain-killer he had prescribed a few weeks earlier.
You should know that my friend is not a fan of pharmaceuticals, and so her doctor’s suggestion that she essentially triple the dosage of a pain-killer didn’t settle well with her. But he assured her that it was still a very small amount of the drug, and so, she agreed to the plan.
… I phoned her the next day to see how she was feeling.
“I slept well,” she reported, not sounding particularly relieved, “but in my dreams, I was punching everything in sight, and when I wasn’t punching, I was lifting. And when I wasn’t lifting, I was furiously writing. When I got out of bed this morning, my arm muscles were so sore from all the activity that I could barely lift my first cup of coffee.”
When I laughed, my friend scolded me.
“It’s not funny!” she said. “You have no idea how sore I was!”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, smiling over the phone. “I really am. But it’s just so ironic. You take a drug to make the arm pain go away, and your arms are so not in pain while you’re sleeping that they’re just busy all night.”
My friend accepted my apology, and – beyond that – she appreciated my observation.
… And I’ve been thinking about it ever since: pharmaceutical side effects that are dream-centric.
Imagine the possibilities:
I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time thinking about how this country’s stupid political parties are wasting their time with ridiculous, counter-productive in-fighting.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream that I meet Sarah Palin, and we hit if off like nobody’s business. We go off into the wild and shoot a bunch of wolves. We laugh because we have no need for the wolves. We pledge to be BFFs forever (disregarding the redundancy therein) and from that point forward, we text each other every day.
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time worrying about how I am going to pay all my bills.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream that I get a letter in the mail. It’s a pen pal request from a man in prison. Bernie Madoff has learned of my schemes, and I am his new hero. I smile devilishly and pass the letter along to one of my staff members – a man dressed in a scaled costume and looking a lot like Dick Cheney. Then, I head for the hot tub, where I bathe with rich white men, all in handcuffs and fully dressed.
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I spend so much time worrying about the situation in the Middle East and North Africa.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream of sitting at a grand table with the leaders of the “free” world. There’s a hosted oil bar, and it is free-flowing. We’re all drunk. As the waiters and busboys saunter by our regally upholstered chairs, we slip them million-dollar bills. Then we refill our glasses from the oil trough and laugh some more. Political power is such a gas!
… I go to the doctor.
“Doctor,” I say, “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what happened in Japan. I feel so bad for the people there.”
“Here,” he says, scribbling on a pad. “This will help.”
That night, I dream I am at an amusement park, where I strap myself into a shiny round seat. The first part of the ride entails a tremendous amount of random shaking. Thereafter, it morphs into a log-flume. I am doused with water. Lots and lots of water. I emerge wobbly and laughing – shook and wet, but okay.
But I’m not okay. There’s a glow emanating from me. And it’s not a good glow. My system’s been compromised by something unnatural.
… I go to the doctor.
“Nothing’s working,” I say. “These prescriptions are all wrong.”
He shrugs.
I walk outside the clinic, and because this is California, I notice a little shop.
Medical marijuana, with promises of no more bad dreams.
… Rich white men did not invent marijuana. Few of them therefore will ever embrace its values.
Besides, it’s a plant that they don’t need to manipulate in their labs.
From a profiteering perspective, they have no use for it. And so they certainly are not going to explore its capacity to heal.
Instead, they’ll just keep inventing drugs that give people messed-up dreams and a boat-load of side effects.
And they’ll make money from it.
…Need an aspirin?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Monday Reruns: Hormones from Hell
(original post-date: March 17, 2010)
The first symptom of menopause came early to me.
I was not quite 39 when I started having hot flashes. And while they were tremendously uncomfortable, I gradually learned how to deal with them. It’s about dressing in layers. It’s about getting ahead of the surge.
By my mid-40’s, I was nonplussed by my body’s unique sense of seasons, and I had no qualms about making public adjustments. Onlookers be damned, I’m going to take this jacket off and put it back on as many times as I please.
The next symptom presented itself as what I call “word issues.” While I rarely had challenges at the keyboard, I would find myself frequently stumped in live conversation. I’d be in the middle of a statement, and I’d feel compelled to stop.
“The next word,” I would say to my listener, “is an adjective. It has three syllables, and several R’s…”
A few more years passed and another manifestation of menopause became apparent: insomnia. Now, I must admit that for me, this symptom is a bit hard to detect. Fact of the matter is, I am relentlessly nocturnal. (I have been since I was a kid.) Particularly when I am on a creative jag, my productivity soars when everyone else is sound asleep.
For right-brain activity, I love the nine-to-five shift that begins after most people have had dinner. BUT, if I would rather sleep during the nighttime hours, I deeply resent my inability to do so.
(Moreover, as I watch late-night television, which features countless commercials for sleep aids, I apply that resentment to the ad copy. I don’t know which of the drugs boasts enabling one “to sleep in a non-habit-forming way,” but whenever I hear that line, I absolutely want to scream. I already sleep in a non-habit-forming way!)
Speaking of wanting to scream, this is where it’s become dicey. A couple of years ago, when I was dealing “only” with the hot flashes, the word losses, and the insomnia, I thought I was doing okay with menopause. I figured those symptoms were my cross to bear, and I was glad that no one else was suffering.
But then, SHE returned. The PMS bitch. The woman with absolutely no patience for anything.
I have a favorite anecdote that best describes the PMS bitch. It comes (as so many favorite anecdotes do) from my years as a waitress. Okay, so picture this: I’m working my station at my midtown Manhattan lunch place. It’s the informal, burger-in-a-basket type of restaurant, and the day in question is one of the month’s majority of days – which is to say, I am not in need of an exorcist. I pleasantly approach the party of four who are sitting in one of my booths. I deliver the four burger baskets, and one of the gentlemen looks up to catch my eye.
“Could I have a slice of raw onion?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply, smiling. “I wouldn’t think of enjoying a burger without a raw onion!”
I then skip merrily to the kitchen where I retrieve the succulent garnish, and I deliver it to him quickly and cheerfully.
Okay. Same scenario on one of two days during that same month:
I pissily approach the booth where four obnoxious, irritating people are taking up space in my station. I slam their burgers down in front of them.
One of the jerks looks up at me and asks for a raw onion.
I sneer at him, make an abrupt about-face, and stomp back to the kitchen. En route, I mutter, “Fucking asshole should have asked for the onion when he ordered the burger.”
Notice the difference? (I realize it’s subtle; feel free to read those paragraphs a second time…)
Needless to say, I never liked that hormonal so-and-so who used to possess my body and spirit on a monthly basis for anywhere between 24 and 48 hours. But at least I knew when to expect her, and I knew that she would leave fairly shortly. I also knew that she wasn’t me, and that I could control – to a degree – how much she interacted with others.
That bitch is still not me, but she has become the fourth manifestation of menopause. The problem now is that she has absolutely no schedule. Soy as I might*, I cannot control or anticipate her arrival. She just shows up (most recently, in Rite Aid, when I was trying to find cotton balls).
The good news, I guess, is that she doesn’t seem to stay for very long. For that matter, I sometimes go an entire two months without a visit from the hormonal hellion.
But still… I don’t like her, and I am so over this stuff!
My sister once theorized that all these menopausal issues prove that God is a man. Her reasoning? A woman would not do this to another woman.
I don’t know… it might depend on that woman’s “time of the month.”
But I shouldn’t imply that I’m at odds with my sister’s sense of feminism. In fact, I share it. In fact, I have my own theory around the same general subject area. I believe that if men had periods, tampons would not only be free, they’d be delivered. And by now, the boys in charge undoubtedly would have found a “cure” for menopause.
---------
*Yes, I meant to say “Soy.”
The first symptom of menopause came early to me.
I was not quite 39 when I started having hot flashes. And while they were tremendously uncomfortable, I gradually learned how to deal with them. It’s about dressing in layers. It’s about getting ahead of the surge.
By my mid-40’s, I was nonplussed by my body’s unique sense of seasons, and I had no qualms about making public adjustments. Onlookers be damned, I’m going to take this jacket off and put it back on as many times as I please.
The next symptom presented itself as what I call “word issues.” While I rarely had challenges at the keyboard, I would find myself frequently stumped in live conversation. I’d be in the middle of a statement, and I’d feel compelled to stop.
“The next word,” I would say to my listener, “is an adjective. It has three syllables, and several R’s…”
A few more years passed and another manifestation of menopause became apparent: insomnia. Now, I must admit that for me, this symptom is a bit hard to detect. Fact of the matter is, I am relentlessly nocturnal. (I have been since I was a kid.) Particularly when I am on a creative jag, my productivity soars when everyone else is sound asleep.
For right-brain activity, I love the nine-to-five shift that begins after most people have had dinner. BUT, if I would rather sleep during the nighttime hours, I deeply resent my inability to do so.
(Moreover, as I watch late-night television, which features countless commercials for sleep aids, I apply that resentment to the ad copy. I don’t know which of the drugs boasts enabling one “to sleep in a non-habit-forming way,” but whenever I hear that line, I absolutely want to scream. I already sleep in a non-habit-forming way!)
Speaking of wanting to scream, this is where it’s become dicey. A couple of years ago, when I was dealing “only” with the hot flashes, the word losses, and the insomnia, I thought I was doing okay with menopause. I figured those symptoms were my cross to bear, and I was glad that no one else was suffering.
But then, SHE returned. The PMS bitch. The woman with absolutely no patience for anything.
I have a favorite anecdote that best describes the PMS bitch. It comes (as so many favorite anecdotes do) from my years as a waitress. Okay, so picture this: I’m working my station at my midtown Manhattan lunch place. It’s the informal, burger-in-a-basket type of restaurant, and the day in question is one of the month’s majority of days – which is to say, I am not in need of an exorcist. I pleasantly approach the party of four who are sitting in one of my booths. I deliver the four burger baskets, and one of the gentlemen looks up to catch my eye.
“Could I have a slice of raw onion?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply, smiling. “I wouldn’t think of enjoying a burger without a raw onion!”
I then skip merrily to the kitchen where I retrieve the succulent garnish, and I deliver it to him quickly and cheerfully.
Okay. Same scenario on one of two days during that same month:
I pissily approach the booth where four obnoxious, irritating people are taking up space in my station. I slam their burgers down in front of them.
One of the jerks looks up at me and asks for a raw onion.
I sneer at him, make an abrupt about-face, and stomp back to the kitchen. En route, I mutter, “Fucking asshole should have asked for the onion when he ordered the burger.”
Notice the difference? (I realize it’s subtle; feel free to read those paragraphs a second time…)
Needless to say, I never liked that hormonal so-and-so who used to possess my body and spirit on a monthly basis for anywhere between 24 and 48 hours. But at least I knew when to expect her, and I knew that she would leave fairly shortly. I also knew that she wasn’t me, and that I could control – to a degree – how much she interacted with others.
That bitch is still not me, but she has become the fourth manifestation of menopause. The problem now is that she has absolutely no schedule. Soy as I might*, I cannot control or anticipate her arrival. She just shows up (most recently, in Rite Aid, when I was trying to find cotton balls).
The good news, I guess, is that she doesn’t seem to stay for very long. For that matter, I sometimes go an entire two months without a visit from the hormonal hellion.
But still… I don’t like her, and I am so over this stuff!
My sister once theorized that all these menopausal issues prove that God is a man. Her reasoning? A woman would not do this to another woman.
I don’t know… it might depend on that woman’s “time of the month.”
But I shouldn’t imply that I’m at odds with my sister’s sense of feminism. In fact, I share it. In fact, I have my own theory around the same general subject area. I believe that if men had periods, tampons would not only be free, they’d be delivered. And by now, the boys in charge undoubtedly would have found a “cure” for menopause.
---------
*Yes, I meant to say “Soy.”
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Greed is Not Good
I recently had lunch with a delightful friend who we’ll call Anne, and – as usual – our conversation traveled all over the map. We meet for lunch about once every six weeks or so, and invariably, just around the time we are settling the check, one of us will look at her watch and say, “My God, would you look at the time?”
But before we got to that pre-parting rhetorical question, Anne had shared with me the details of her husband’s recent experience as a forward-thinking landscape architect who, in my opinion, is probably a genius.
I’ll get to that in a minute (his experience, I mean).
First, though – since this post is essentially about money – I should share the context of my perspective.
I feel no draw to money.
I am not driven by it. I don’t crave it. I don’t make decisions based on it. And I just think it’s grossly overrated.
Which brings me to my own personal definition: Money is something other people need for me to have.
I’m not recommending this definition on anyone, and frankly, there are months when my relationship with money puts me in the “fear place” for a few too many days, but… read it and weep, that’s just me.
Now, to Anne’s husband’s story…
I’m going to give the cliff notes here, because whenever terms like “venture capitalists” or “stock options” are introduced into a story, I pretty much start hearing Charlie Brown’s teacher talking. (As in, “WAH. WAH. WAH?”) But I got the gist of the story, and the gist is this:
Anne’s husband created a company, and within that company, he combined his skills as a landscape architect with his appreciation for our planet’s precarious balance. His passions led to patents, and as his creations generated income, he grew a staff. A staff that he respected and hoped would feel nurtured.
Anne’s husband wisely knew that he did not want to be CEO of said company, so a CEO was hired.
As venture capitalists came forth, the CEO recommended that insiders reduce their stock values. And Anne’s husband’s stock values always got reduced the most.
The longer the CEO was there, the more he had his way, and the less the company resembled the vision of Anne’s husband. Ultimately, Anne’s husband realized that the change was irreversible, and – to keep from becoming physically knotted into perpetuity – he moved on (still holding stocks).
Recently, the company that Anne’s husband created was sold, and Anne’s husband received his cut, as per his reduced stock values. His cut was impressive, but it was about one-tenth of what he should have received. To this day, he can drive through neighborhoods, pointing out the environmentally positive impact of his inventions. But his cut… not so big.
And that’s the story (or at least, that’s the story I came away with).
I also came away from this story with a question: should GREED be classified as a mental illness?
In anticipation of exploring this theory, I did some googling, and here’s what The Free Dictionary provides for the definition of mental illness: Any of various conditions characterized by impairment of an individual's normal cognitive, emotional, or behavioral functioning, and caused by social, psychological, biochemical, genetic, or other factors, such as infection or head trauma.
For me, the key word there is “normal,” so let’s run with that for a moment…
I love it, The Free Dictionary includes, as the first definition of “normal” (as a noun): Something normal …HAH! (Thanks for the clarification there!)
Okay, so let’s back up to the definitions of “normal” as an adjective, since that’s the appropriate context. Definition #1: Conforming with, adhering to, or constituting a norm, standard, pattern, level, or type; typical
See? There’s that “norm” again.
This brings me to the conclusion that no one actually knows what is “normal” (and, frankly, that works for me), but I still think that greed is a mental illness.
Greed is anti-social, obsessive, and self-serving.
Greed doesn’t care who gets hurt.
Greed is narcissistic.
Greed is NOT good.
Hmm… with all the pharmaceuticals out there, available to offset this or that mental malady, do you think they’ll develop one to cure (or at least reduce the manifestations of) greed?
I doubt it.
Because the pharmaceutical companies are right there among the greedy.
I’m so glad I don’t care about money, and I truly pity the folks who put it at the top of their lists.
They’re missing the magic and grace of life.
They’re missing my normal.
But before we got to that pre-parting rhetorical question, Anne had shared with me the details of her husband’s recent experience as a forward-thinking landscape architect who, in my opinion, is probably a genius.
I’ll get to that in a minute (his experience, I mean).
First, though – since this post is essentially about money – I should share the context of my perspective.
I feel no draw to money.
I am not driven by it. I don’t crave it. I don’t make decisions based on it. And I just think it’s grossly overrated.
Which brings me to my own personal definition: Money is something other people need for me to have.
I’m not recommending this definition on anyone, and frankly, there are months when my relationship with money puts me in the “fear place” for a few too many days, but… read it and weep, that’s just me.
Now, to Anne’s husband’s story…
I’m going to give the cliff notes here, because whenever terms like “venture capitalists” or “stock options” are introduced into a story, I pretty much start hearing Charlie Brown’s teacher talking. (As in, “WAH. WAH. WAH?”) But I got the gist of the story, and the gist is this:
Anne’s husband created a company, and within that company, he combined his skills as a landscape architect with his appreciation for our planet’s precarious balance. His passions led to patents, and as his creations generated income, he grew a staff. A staff that he respected and hoped would feel nurtured.
Anne’s husband wisely knew that he did not want to be CEO of said company, so a CEO was hired.
As venture capitalists came forth, the CEO recommended that insiders reduce their stock values. And Anne’s husband’s stock values always got reduced the most.
The longer the CEO was there, the more he had his way, and the less the company resembled the vision of Anne’s husband. Ultimately, Anne’s husband realized that the change was irreversible, and – to keep from becoming physically knotted into perpetuity – he moved on (still holding stocks).
Recently, the company that Anne’s husband created was sold, and Anne’s husband received his cut, as per his reduced stock values. His cut was impressive, but it was about one-tenth of what he should have received. To this day, he can drive through neighborhoods, pointing out the environmentally positive impact of his inventions. But his cut… not so big.
And that’s the story (or at least, that’s the story I came away with).
I also came away from this story with a question: should GREED be classified as a mental illness?
In anticipation of exploring this theory, I did some googling, and here’s what The Free Dictionary provides for the definition of mental illness: Any of various conditions characterized by impairment of an individual's normal cognitive, emotional, or behavioral functioning, and caused by social, psychological, biochemical, genetic, or other factors, such as infection or head trauma.
For me, the key word there is “normal,” so let’s run with that for a moment…
I love it, The Free Dictionary includes, as the first definition of “normal” (as a noun): Something normal …HAH! (Thanks for the clarification there!)
Okay, so let’s back up to the definitions of “normal” as an adjective, since that’s the appropriate context. Definition #1: Conforming with, adhering to, or constituting a norm, standard, pattern, level, or type; typical
See? There’s that “norm” again.
This brings me to the conclusion that no one actually knows what is “normal” (and, frankly, that works for me), but I still think that greed is a mental illness.
Greed is anti-social, obsessive, and self-serving.
Greed doesn’t care who gets hurt.
Greed is narcissistic.
Greed is NOT good.
Hmm… with all the pharmaceuticals out there, available to offset this or that mental malady, do you think they’ll develop one to cure (or at least reduce the manifestations of) greed?
I doubt it.
Because the pharmaceutical companies are right there among the greedy.
I’m so glad I don’t care about money, and I truly pity the folks who put it at the top of their lists.
They’re missing the magic and grace of life.
They’re missing my normal.
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