It's not a toomah! or is it?

Have you heard that Trump has decided to take Oxymacmillion Dectracide?  OK, not the proper spelling, but I am guessing you have heard of his decision to self-prescribe this RX.

My own personal stash of
 Hydroxycholoroqine (real spelling!)

Um, I have some of that RX in a bottle in my house.  I am NOT currently taking it.  I also cannot pronounce it, or spell it.  

I want to thank Trump for taking this med because whenever I go back to the doc and they ask me "But have you tried Oxymacmillion Dectracide?" I will be able to intelligently say, "Oh, is that the shit that Trump started taking to avoid covid?  Yeah, I already tried that and it didn't help me."  

Backing up the bus a bit, a hippie-looking rheumatologist (cut and paste job because that is a bitch to spell) I saw a few years ago wondered if I might have Lupus.  Hair loss, exhaustion, swollen joints (pst . . . this can also be from the wonderful world of celiac,.  Blood work:  hang on, another autoimmune disease might be lurking, since I have celiac I am susceptible).  He had me try Trump's new drug of choice:  Oxymacmillion Dectracide.  It did nothing.  

Poor little swollen pinkie.

I told you back in the fall about my pinkies having big puffy knuckles.  They felt broken.  I saw a new doc:  Dr. Run-late.  She said I had cysts.  Lupus?  

She prescribed Oxymacmillion Dectracide. (me nodding, not realizing I had taken it before from Hippie doc till the pharmacist pointed it out).  I took it for a few weeks because it was a higher dose and maybe it would help.  Then I said, forget it.  Unlike Trump, I don't want to take stuff I don't need.

Dr. Run-late suggested having the cysts removed.  There were x-rays and MRIs and MRIs with contrast.  I probably glow in the dark now.  

Rings were cut off of my fingers.  Sadly.  

There was a doc visit when I brought along a baby I was sitting for and Coach left work to meet me there and they announced, "Oh, Dr. Run-late is running too far behind to see you.  You can come back in a few hours."  What?  Who does that?  

Eventually Dr. Run-late suggested surgery to remove cysts or just draining them with a very large needle.  We opted for the needle, but Coach explained 'me' to the doc.  "She can't do big needles."

Doc Run-late said, no prob.  She would partially sedate me.  This was all about two weeks before Christmas.  Pop some pills, have a friend drive you, etc.

Becky, my other babysitting friend, was good enough to drive me - neither of us had tots to watch.  I urged her to run errands and come back.  "Dr. Run-late does not follow a schedule."  

Becky got her nails done, came back, and found me super sleepy and beyond pissed off.  I was a combo of Sleepy and Grumpy dwarfs, but taller.  I explained to Becky . . . "I braced myself for the gi-normous needle.  They jabbed it in there good and hard.  Nothing."  

FYI if Becky and I chose not to social distance and she was sitting in my study with me, she would be saying 'That's what she said' and then cackling, but alas - I am alone.  Not that I have ever written a post while hanging out with Becky, but isn't it heartwarming to know your friends think of you even when you are't within 6 feet?

Dr. Run-late:  "Oh, this is not a cyst.  This must be a tumor."  (totally might be off on the terminology here because I was all doped up and this was in December).  Basically she thought it was liquid and it isn't.  Needle = useless.

Now, just trying to forget 'bout it.  Coach and I both looked at each other though at home:  

"But she took all those pictures, contrast, rings cut off?  W.T.F?"

Did I mention the timing of all of this?  Right before Christmas when it is also birthday season over here.  I slept all afternoon - on my day off instead of getting shit done!  People, I love a good nap, but ARE YOU KIDDING?

So, don't worry about me while my pinkies sometimes creak with pain while I type away at these posts.  Meanwhile, I secretly enjoy one more nonsensical aspect of our president, who is taking something that has proven NOT to prevent covid 19.  

May he inexplicably develop tumors on his pinkies the size of golf balls (not at all what the meds do, but who takes something for kicks?)

I have another finger story for you, but it involves the middle, the boss, the swear finger.  Totally different story line.  I think you'll enjoy it.  Shall we say next week, or are you too busy trying to identify a closet you have yet to organize during our at-home time?  

Have a good weekend, and hope you survive the anticipation of another finger dilemma over here, which I think I will follow closely with the story of Curly's haircut . . . from last year.  Get excited.