Dr. Quack visit
We went to see Dr. Quack, with the Evil One trying to strike again. It had only been one day that I skipped, but apparently there was backlog. I am taking milk of magnesia, a laxative. I don't care if I'm getting dependent on laxatives, I just refuse to again endure what I did last time. And I think that with proper tactics, I may be able to overcome any such dependence.
Dr. Quack expected me to begin taking the Rifampin a while ago, but I'd understood him to say that he'd tell me when to start taking it. Apparently the major side effect is that every fluid I emit will be colored orange. Yes, even.
I'm to take them on an empty stomach. I started yesterday. 300 mg for 15 days, then 600 mg.
As far as I know, none of the results but one of the four small vials that are drawn from me weekly has ever been forwarded to him. He called them to request that he get results.
But on the basis of the May 10 results he's seen, he wants me to start taking 1000 mg of magnesium malate daily, because apparently I'm shedding calcium.
He wants the home nurse to draw for parathyroid hormone the next time she saps me. I'd say the odds are not good of him ever seeing the results.
He wants me to calendarize my subjective impressions of my symptoms. He wants me to start doing grip strength metrics again, thinks I must be depressed to have stopped, may not have bought my story about constipation and the awful cough (which came back for one week after I said I thought I was through it).
But most importantly he gave us something to judge him by. He said that five or six months after starting the daily ceftriaxone infusions, we should expect to see improvement. That would be September 2. I have made a calendar reminder for myself.
I subjectively feel that my pill swallowing may be improving slightly. Maybe my stability too. But it's hard to say, because I felt this after being nearly killed by the most recent constipation plus cough. The recovery from that may be all the 'improvement' I perceived.
My vision work right now centers around the concept of 'bottoming out.' It doesn't matter whether it's true or not, in terms of its effect, but I picture an airplane which has almost struck the ground in a dive pulling out straight and level before gradually beginning to rise again (It has engine trouble). That plane is me, I hope. I tell myself I am bottoming out.
I hate this constipation issue passionately. If I could cure this, I might skip the cure for whatever is attacking my nervous system. What I endure while yet still functioning seems astounding to me. But not when I consider what others suffer.
Left grip is 24 pounds (20, 24, 21), right grip is 55 pounds (55, 51, 45). Getting worse on the right, not sure why.