Why I'm Not Quitting My Day Job*

I don't think I've written about it yet, but for the past seven months, I have been an unwilling member of the migraine-afflicted. The doctor who diagnosed me—on the ass end of a three-day bitch of a headache, so brutal that it kept me from sleeping for the hugely better part of that time frame—surmised that I'd had migraines longer than that, claiming that most people do, but they think they have a sinus infection, or allergies, or whatever other ailment that doesn't necessarily RETURN on them with the general unwelcome-visitorness of a migraine.

Anyway, while I do enjoy spending time along the lovely shores of Denial, there are times when I have to suck it up and seek medical assistance, regardless. That migraine-diagnosing three-day crack whore of a headache in November was one such case, and so was this week, wherein I finally overcame my fear and loathing of the warnings in the label of the generic Imitrex my doctor prescribed ... because I had not one, not two, not three, but four—FOUR!—migraines in the expanse of a single week.

Fuck you, Migraine Fairy, and that's all I've got to say about THAT.

On the subject of pharmaceuticals, however, I have rather a lot more to say. Now, while I can certainly see why some people live in a perpetual state of "natural cure seeking", I prefer, if I'm going to be ingesting non-food items ANYWAY, to have something that has at least a bit of scientific research to back it up. That being said (with apologies to The Righter, as always, for that stupid, Big Brother-esque phrase), I don't purport to enjoy adding pills and sprays and whatever other format the medication du jour comes in to my health regime ... no, not in the slightest! But when the alternative is lying flat on my back for up to 72 hours at a time, with no books, no music, NO INTERNETS, and not even a wee little bit of entertainment of any sort (unless you count refreshing my flax-seed cold pack as "entertainment"—I do not), well.

Pass the damn pills, thankyouverymuch!

So after the fourth magic anti-migraine pill of the week—and I'll give them this, the makers of Dr. Reddy's abundantly over-packaged Sumatriptan Succinate Tables, they make a MOST effective migraine stopping potion!—I phoned My Lovely Lady Doctor (her nurse, actually), and after a lengthy discussion of my symptoms, treatments, and mitigating circumstances (hello, Age and Hormone Fairies! please help yourself to a nice big cup of arsenic! BITCHES!), the nurse consulted with My Lovely Lady Doctor and they came up with this brilliant plan: MORE. MEDICATION.

Mind you, it makes sense, and there IS, per my request, research to back it up. But. Given that part of my query involved hesitancy to take "too much" (whatever that might be) of Dr. Reddy's individually-wrapped silver migraine bullets, why anyone expected me to be delighted at the notion of adding ANOTHER set of machine-pressed pills to my arsenal is beyond me. Yeah, yeah, I'll be delighted when I've physically heard the door hitting the Migraine Fairy's ass and knocking her to the ground in a crumpled heap, sure. But meantime, it just means another trip to Drugs.com's Drug Interaction Checker to check interactions between the growing list of my meds—and also my supplements, because that's important to check, too—and oh my gosh, I am LAZY, people! And this is going to put a cramp in my weekend America's Next Top Model viewing!

*Ahem!*

So. Once The Exotic Neurotic defused my neuroses with a few neat links, including this one to Mayo Clinic's "Migraine guide", I was on board with the steroid prescription, albeit still somewhat unwillingly.

"You'd better freaking work," I told the box of medications, drawing at least one odd stare from passers-by as I exited the pharmacy.

Fortunately—for me, if not anyone who reads this blather—I then started seeing the warped side of the situation.

As I drove home, you see, I was happily recollecting the fact that the pharmacist—not as cute as the one I used to have, but still rather adorable, and quite likely fresh out of pharmacy school (and therefore young enough to be my biological offspring, BUT HE WASN'T)—was fetchingly close to knowing my name. This is quite appealing, because it implies that I'm adorable, too (or, yeah, the pharmacist might be good with the names of HIS BEST CUSTOMERS—shut up, KILLJOY!).

ANYway, I was thinking that if I was a pharmacist, I'd be more likely to memorize people's pharmacy code numbers than their names, being as I am: 1) THAT big of a geek, and 2) better with numbers than names (see #1). Then it occurred to me that, rather than numbers, it would be SO much fun to see if people could be classified by loosely-beaded combination-names of their various pharmaceuticals, which would take me from my standard name to something like: Norflutilevomethyltriptan.

Which, while it doesn't precisely trip off the tongue, is still a damn site better than it would be, if I were still on the anti-depressants and muscle relaxants in addition: Norflutibuprolevocyclomethyltriptan

This nonsense led me to the next logical—"logical", in my twisted little screw of a side-bar universe—step, which would be to make up stories about my imaginary clientele (the ones I would have if I was a pharmacist, that is). For example, in the case of Norflutibuprolevocyclomethyltriptan, I could certainly be glad if she'd lost the terrible muscle tension she used to suffer (that would be the "cyclo" part of the name), and hey! Isn't it marvelous that she's no longer depressed (that's the "bupro")—at least for the season?

Think about it! If I worked at a large enough pharmacy, I'd soon have the background for a veritable pharmacological soap opera: "As The Pillbox Turns", perhaps, or maybe "General Pharmacy", or ... ooh! I've got it! "The Sick and The Healthy"! Except, let's face it, what fun are the healthy?

It all went on inside the thankfully-confined confines of my mind for much longer than I'd like to admit, even here, in the fairly anonymous security of my blog anonymity. But! The end result of it all was that I did get over myself enough to take the medication, and it even seems to be working—with nary a side-effect to be seen, and part of the credit for that has to go directly to My Cute Pharmacist, who kindly pointed out that if I didn't want to be staring at the insomniacal ceiling, I'd take my doses of the "meythl" bit of my revised pharmacological moniker "as early in the day as possible". Also, you'll be relieved to know—as funny as I found it all to be when I was thinking of it—that writing it all out has convinced me of one overwhelming fact: it's very important that I do not quit my day job.

*At least, not in order to become a pharmacist!