"On Statin Island"

             About fifteen years ago, my cholesterol levels jumped overnight from normal ranges to extremely high levels. My doctor quipped that she thought I had the highest “scores” of any patient in her practice. Of course, such a dramatic change meant I started taking medication right away.

           Lipitor and I became friends. I faithfully took my pill every night and chose this relationship over my love for grapefruit juice. At the six month checkpoint, my test results showed a successful marriage between my system and this tiny pill.

            Our relationship hit troubled waters soon. I changed schools to a campus that required that I not only think quickly on my feet, but that I literally stand for hour after hour. My feet ached all the time. I experimented with different heel heights, discovering that wearing flats crippled my feet by the end of the day. An inch to three inch pitch took care of the problem for a few months.

            Then my legs began to cramp, too. During the nights, I’d awaken in screaming agony as my calf muscled twisted and knotted. In the mornings, I hobbled. It felt like I walked on gravel as I slowly moved from bed to bathroom. After about fifteen minutes, the pain always subsided.

            Within another year, my body aches and pains had shifted from my feet and legs to my entire body. I often felt as though I’d gone to sleep on a high, concrete platform—and that sometime during the night, I’d rolled off this perch and splatted like Wile E. Coyote onto the desert floor. My morning hobbling became an excruciating exercise.

            Naturally, it never occurred to me to mention this pain to my doctor. I kept thinking it would get better and rationalized that the long hours I spent standing caused the soreness.

            One weekend, my sister observed my crawl from bed.

            “How long have you been like this?” concern laced her voice.

            “I don’t know. It started with just my feet, but now even the tip of my fingers hurt,” I admitted.

            “It’s your cholesterol medication. Stop taking it today and call your doctor on Monday.”

            And she was right!

            My doctor pulled me off the medication and within six months, all of my aching and throbbing vanished. But my cholesterol levels skyrocketed again.

            My journey to “Statin Island” began at that point. When we tried a different drug, one of two things would happen. I’d react quickly with severe muscle pain (Crestor flattened me within three doses); or the drug would only lower my levels for the first six months, and then we’d have to adjust the medication to a higher dosage, which always resulted in side effects. My doctor tired non-statin options, but they weren’t strong enough to cut my scores.   

         

   For the last year, I’ve taken Livalo, and followed my usual pattern. For the first six months my lower levels made us optimistic, and I didn’t have any adverse reactions. Then my cholesterol climbed, so we increased the dosage. This time, instead of the pain going to my feet or legs, it seeped into my left hand. The gradual process tricked me into thinking that I needed to discuss the possibility of arthritis with my doctor at my next check-up. Then the discomfort began in my right hand, and grew from ache to agony.

             So, another drug bites the dust!

            I have six months to focus on getting my levels as low as possible through diet and exercise. If I can get below 300, it may open up options for different drugs that aren’t as strong. Ever the optimist, I know that at least this time around, I have no one to take care of but myself. I can spend an hour a day at Gold's Gym. I can eat a lazy breakfast of Irish oatmeal with fruit every morning. I can modify my diet because I have time to cook different recipes and experiment.

            I know that some kind of medication lurks in my future, but I’ll be prepared for my next visit to Statin Island.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Asking for Help"

         I hate asking for help. I’ve tried to figure out why, but it’s like peeling an onion. Just when I think I understand my motivations on one level, I reveal another layer. Seeking help makes me feel inadequate. I should handle each and every situation life dishes out with confidence. When I can’t, I feel disoriented and depressed. I realized recently that I differentiate between asking for aid and delegating responsibility. In one, I need someone else to take care of me (or my duties) in some way. I want and need to completely drop control. With the other, I still maintain some level of influence.  

So, if I reach the point where I’m saying, “I can’t do this any longer,” it means I’ve hit rock bottom. I’m Wile E. Coyote plummeting over the cliff, holding the little useless “HELP!” sign in the air right before splatting on the rocky desert floor. Another onion layer reveals that a part of me resents having to ask for help. Shouldn’t those around me be aware enough to know the cliff edge looms? Shouldn’t they run some kind of interference before I find myself peddling in the air? Shouldn’t they volunteer to step in and thwart the Road Runner before he misdirects me into my downfall? Yes. I expect the people around me to read my mind, notice my body language, listen to how I say something, not just what I say. My husband, thank goodness, mastered the nuances of Liz Language years ago. However, he can only do so much by way of helping—he has a full-time job, after all.

My mother’s condition worsens in subtle ways, making it difficult to ask for help because I don’t know what I need. Many people with Huntington’s disease suffer from mood disorders. For my mother, anxiety crept into her daily routine. Later, depression made infrequent and unexpected visits. Eventually, these two moods dominated her days unless she took medication. Lately, other changes in Mom’s personality have begun to surface. Each one signals to me that her HD continues to progress. Medications may control or mask symptoms, but the underlying reality is that she’ll never get better. She’ll only grow worse.

In recent weeks, irritability slips into the room unnoticed. If I don’t smile as I help Mom get into or out of her wheelchair, if fatigue or frustration tinges my tone of voice as I try to figure out what she wants, if my temper flares, then Mom responds with a verbal cut edged with cruelty that I’ve never heard from her. If my mood is dark, she becomes paranoiac and worries that I won’t help her.

I’ve resorted to asking her doctors for help. It’s rare that I request an adjustment to her medications, and usually it’s to help her deal with the anxiety and depression. Today, though, I found myself complaining to Mom’s internist that she’s not sleeping. Her insomnia started with one or two wakeful nights a week, but has turned into four or five nights where she sleeps only two or three hours. She usually doesn’t “catch up” on her sleep by napping the next day, so we all run on a deficit. Not good for anyone’s moods. Of course, the doctor didn’t miss a beat. He instructed me on which medication to increase at night before Mom goes to bed. Nothing in his response made me feel inadequate for asking, or guilty for wanting peaceful nights again.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“On Statin Island”

            About fifteen years ago, my cholesterol levels jumped overnight from normal ranges to extremely high levels. My doctor quipped that she thought I had the highest “scores” of any patient in her practice. Of course, such a dramatic change meant I started taking medication right away.

         

   Lipitor and I became friends. I faithfully took my pill every night and chose this relationship over my love for grapefruit juice. At the six month checkpoint, my test results showed a successful marriage between my system and this tiny pill.

            Our relationship hit troubled waters soon. I changed schools to a campus that required that I not only think quickly on my feet, but that I literally stand for hour after hour. My feet ached all the time. I experimented with different heel heights, discovering that wearing flats crippled my feet by the end of the day. An inch to three inch pitch took care of the problem for a few months.

            Then my legs began to cramp, too. During the nights, I’d awaken in screaming agony as my calf muscled twisted and knotted. In the mornings, I hobbled. It felt like I walked on gravel as I slowly moved from bed to bathroom. After about fifteen minutes, the pain always subsided.

            Within another year, my body aches and pains had shifted from my feet and legs to my entire body. I often felt as though I’d gone to sleep on a high, concrete platform—and that sometime during the night, I’d rolled off this perch and splatted like Wile E. Coyote onto the desert floor. My morning hobbling became an excruciating exercise.

            Naturally, it never occurred to me to mention this pain to my doctor. I kept thinking it would get better and rationalized that the long hours I spent standing caused the soreness.

            One weekend, my sister observed my crawl from bed.

            “How long have you been like this?” concern laced her voice.

            “I don’t know. It started with just my feet, but now even the tip of my fingers hurt,” I admitted.

            “It’s your cholesterol medication. Stop taking it today and call your doctor on Monday.”

            And she was right!

            My doctor pulled me off the medication and within six months, all of my aching and throbbing vanished. But my cholesterol levels skyrocketed again.

            My journey to “Statin Island” began at that point. When we tried a different drug, one of two things would happen. I’d react quickly with severe muscle pain (Crestor flattened me within three doses); or the drug would only lower my levels for the first six months, and then we’d have to adjust the medication to a higher dosage, which always resulted in side effects. My doctor tired non-statin options, but they weren’t strong enough to cut my scores.   

         

   For the last year, I’ve taken Livalo, and followed my usual pattern. For the first six months my lower levels made us optimistic, and I didn’t have any adverse reactions. Then my cholesterol climbed, so we increased the dosage. This time, instead of the pain going to my feet or legs, it seeped into my left hand. The gradual process tricked me into thinking that I needed to discuss the possibility of arthritis with my doctor at my next check-up. Then the discomfort began in my right hand, and grew from ache to agony.

            So, another drug bites the dust!

            I have six months to focus on getting my levels as low as possible through diet and exercise. If I can get below 300, it may open up options for different drugs that aren’t as strong. Ever the optimist, I know that at least this time around, I have no one to take care of but myself. I can spend an hour a day at Gold's Gym. I can eat a lazy breakfast of Irish oatmeal with fruit every morning. I can modify my diet because I have time to cook different recipes and experiment.

            I know that some kind of medication lurks in my future, but I’ll be prepared for my next visit to Statin Island.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Asking for Help”

         I hate asking for help. I’ve tried to figure out why, but it’s like peeling an onion. Just when I think I understand my motivations on one level, I reveal another layer. Seeking help makes me feel inadequate. I should handle each and every situation life dishes out with confidence. When I can’t, I feel disoriented and depressed. I realized recently that I differentiate between asking for aid and delegating responsibility. In one, I need someone else to take care of me (or my duties) in some way. I want and need to completely drop control. With the other, I still maintain some level of influence.  

So, if I reach the point where I’m saying, “I can’t do this any longer,” it means I’ve hit rock bottom. I’m Wile E. Coyote plummeting over the cliff, holding the little useless “HELP!” sign in the air right before splatting on the rocky desert floor. Another onion layer reveals that a part of me resents having to ask for help. Shouldn’t those around me be aware enough to know the cliff edge looms? Shouldn’t they run some kind of interference before I find myself peddling in the air? Shouldn’t they volunteer to step in and thwart the Road Runner before he misdirects me into my downfall? Yes. I expect the people around me to read my mind, notice my body language, listen to how I say something, not just what I say. My husband, thank goodness, mastered the nuances of Liz Language years ago. However, he can only do so much by way of helping—he has a full-time job, after all.

My mother’s condition worsens in subtle ways, making it difficult to ask for help because I don’t know what I need. Many people with Huntington’s disease suffer from mood disorders. For my mother, anxiety crept into her daily routine. Later, depression made infrequent and unexpected visits. Eventually, these two moods dominated her days unless she took medication. Lately, other changes in Mom’s personality have begun to surface. Each one signals to me that her HD continues to progress. Medications may control or mask symptoms, but the underlying reality is that she’ll never get better. She’ll only grow worse.

In recent weeks, irritability slips into the room unnoticed. If I don’t smile as I help Mom get into or out of her wheelchair, if fatigue or frustration tinges my tone of voice as I try to figure out what she wants, if my temper flares, then Mom responds with a verbal cut edged with cruelty that I’ve never heard from her. If my mood is dark, she becomes paranoiac and worries that I won’t help her.

I’ve resorted to asking her doctors for help. It’s rare that I request an adjustment to her medications, and usually it’s to help her deal with the anxiety and depression. Today, though, I found myself complaining to Mom’s internist that she’s not sleeping. Her insomnia started with one or two wakeful nights a week, but has turned into four or five nights where she sleeps only two or three hours. She usually doesn’t “catch up” on her sleep by napping the next day, so we all run on a deficit. Not good for anyone’s moods. Of course, the doctor didn’t miss a beat. He instructed me on which medication to increase at night before Mom goes to bed. Nothing in his response made me feel inadequate for asking, or guilty for wanting peaceful nights again.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman