Polyethylene Nightmare

I have just made a terrible discovery. I live with the plastic-bag man.

You know the guy who drives the car filled with old newspapers, or the lady who has forty-seven cats, or the neighbor who has seven cars, each in a progressively worse state of decomposition—I am married to one of “them”. And, I am afraid.

I went into the garage this morning to look for cake pans to bake a cake for my mom’s birthday, and what I found was shocking.

It started with me cursing as I removed a thirty-pound car seat stacked atop my early American pottery collection. How absolutely careless? But as I moved the car seats and luggage from their precarious perches on a pile of boxes boldly marked “FRAGILE!” I noticed that the boxes, bags, and packages had been pushed into a corner by an enormous plastic-bag covered mountain.

As I started digging into the monstrosity, taking up a mere third of the garage—I realized it was ONLY plastic bags. There was no substance to it, just bags. Seven months of grocery bags, taking over our garage. They were everywhere. Tucked into small spaces between packing boxes, filling cardboard boxes, overflowing from paper sacks, in old cups and used envelopes. It was like traveling through the recesses of the mind of madman. With every scrunched, wadded, knotted, ball of this material, I felt increased outrage and confusion.

How did it come to this? How could plastic bags take precedence over sanity? Am I somehow to blame? (This question courtesy of my Catholic nun.)

I have avoided the garage with the lame excuse that it is a man’s domain. But truthfully, I just don’t want to face it. Now, I see that my denial has led to an ugly secret. I am grateful that I did not uncover an affair or maybe a pile of pornography, but there is something about this discovery, which still feels like an indiscretion. I can’t put my finger on what he did that was wrong, but it is there—squished into a crevice in my brain.

Yes, I can see the humor in it. I can also see the insanity. But more than anything, I see the importance of the question that I always found inconsequential until now, “Paper or Plastic?”

Pill-Poppin' Mama

I have taken a break from writing while I do some drugs.

Truth be told, this whole pill-popping experience hasn’t been kind. I have been sick as a dog, not unlike someone slipped traces of radioactive waste into my icy white wine. Watching the kids in this particular state of misery has been challenging. My absolute low point was when I was unexpectedly purging, I had my head in a trashcan and my bottom on the toilet. The kids were in need of lunch, but I could not move, much less procure a meal. I managed to drag myself to the kitchen, grab a bag of Goldfish, and return to my throne.

I frantically shook the tiny orange aquatic creatures onto the tile. Twenty greedy fingers plucked them up off the floor for lunch. This is the point at which I thought this treatment might not be working for me, or my family. That moment, and the mouthful of painful sores which developed shortly afterwards. In addition, I have lost about 1/2 of my hair and a portion of my sight.

There have been some upsides to all this high-drug drama; I have lost weight and I always have something to obsess about lately. Not that I am ever at a loss for subject matter. The real trouble is that I don’t actually have many cocktail parties to discuss my medical condition or friends to bore to death with every disturbing detail. And if I did get an invitation, I probably wouldn’t be well enough to enjoy myself.

I was a concerned that my Rheumatologist might think I was a quitter or just weak for hoping to abandon this course of treatment. As it turns out, he is a reasonable man, and agreed that my condition was not livable. He reengineered the concoction a bit, and away I went with another fistful of prescriptions for the next month. It wasn’t exactly the solution I was had imagined.

Things have been better, but I woke up yesterday with painful mouth sores…again. I can tell you from personal experience, it is a truly rotten side effect. At this point, I am compelled to stop the insanity.

I realize that my disease is progressive and needs to be treated, but this is nothing short of torture. I am at peace with my RA, and this war against it is oddly disturbing. We are old friends and I understand it. I get the aching stiffness of a cold morning. I relate to the creaky joints and fatigue. It is familiar and while it requires my time and attention, it is not a mysterious chemical causing havoc and requiring monthly liver-function testing.

The final frustrating aspect of the drug treatment is that I voluntarily toss those pills into my mouth and gulp them down. It feels like a cruel betrayal to my body. I feel sadistic and selfish. I am conflicted every night that I swallow another round of the white oval enemies of my state. Maybe it is right, but it feels suspiciously wrong.

I need more classic therapy. Talk therapy. If I just have RA, then I slow down and focus and write and experience the world at the pace, which I have grown accustomed to. While the energy that the medication has afforded me has been wonderful, I feel panicky as I take advantage of it. I have had a manic quality about my time and my “to do” list. It has improved the quantity of wins in my personal race with the Jones’, but has the quality of my existence improved? I wouldn’t know because I haven’t had a moment to sit and discuss it with you.