“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

 

“The Waiting Game”

 

            Waiting.

            Waiting for a delivery takes a special kind of patience that I don’t have anymore. In the past, I would fill the hours by reading a book or watching something on television. Perhaps I’d do a few easily interrupted household chores to help pass the time.

  

          Today, I await our new Amana refrigerator. The Home Depot called last night and gave us a four hour window. I’ll receive a more specific time within an hour of delivery. At that point, I can shift all of the food into the sparkling clean and dutifully awaiting cooler.

            In the meantime, I linger around the house. I haven’t gone outside to water the gardens, as is my usual routine, in case I miss the phone call. I’ve tried playing Bejeweled Blitz and Zuma’s Revenge to keep me busy, but in the back of my mind, I listen for the truck’s sighing brakes.

            With my luck, the refrigerator will arrive late this afternoon, making me miss my workout at the gym and preventing me from picking up something to eat for lunch.

            With my luck, I’ll be the last delivery before the driver heads into his home base. That means an extra late start on chilling the new fridge and a delay in getting some groceries (which I haven’t bought for this week, of course).

            And so Impatience chats with me as I wait. Her ADHD keeps me on edge, though, and emphasizes that waiting just isn’t my game.

    

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Debate"

          I struggled to lug my books, my outfit for the day, and a poster for a history project. My car, parked in a space by the science building, stood lonely in the lot. Most of the other members of the dance team entered the school in the predawn hours from another part of the school, but I always used this isolated slot since it made leaving at the end of the day faster because my final class of the day was biology.

         I didn’t see or hear him.

         In seconds, he covered my mouth and began to pull me down while his hands pulled at my pants. My books and clothes flew into the air. Instinct kicked in, and my elbow connected with his stomach; my fist swung down into his groin. I heard him grunt as he shoved me away. My knees hit the cement, the impact causing me to gasp as pain shot through me. His footsteps pounded as he raced away. I kneeled in place, my hands against the cool concrete, tears splattering the gray surface. Cautiously, I eased back and scooted crablike against the wall. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see anything, waiting for my pulse to return to normal.

         Somehow, I collected my belongings, organizing them fanatically into a neat pile. I pulled out tissue from my purse and dried my tears. Once I could breathe again, I made my way into a nearby bathroom where I washed my face and smarting hands.

         I told no one of the attack. In my confusion, I felt that I’d get blamed because I elected to park in an isolated place, different from the other girls.

         I wasn’t raped, but I felt shame.

     I wasn’t physically hurt beyond bruised knees, but I felt damaged.

        In a matter of moments, I knew what it meant to be a victim of violence.

         And so my tolerance these days with men spewing mindlessly about women, rape, and choice brings to surface an experience I’ve neatly tucked deeply away. For four years, I kept my experience private. I confided in no one, not even my parents. I carried with me the haunting possibility of what could have happened that early morning. A different reaction on my part, a little more determination on my attacker’s part, and everything would have changed.

         My personal experience left me knowing that choices must always exist for women. Period. No discussion. No debate.  



High school me!

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Defense Mechanisms"

Digication e-Portfolio :: Social Studies, Mr. Young :: 8. PersonalityDigication e-Portfolio :: Social Studies, Mr. Young :: 8. Personalitybu.digication.com 

Defend and Protect at all costs    

bury unpleasant thoughts and feelings under, down, below    

refuse to accept reality    

deny, deny, deny    

change existence and rewrite your life    

fabricate your lies until they morph into your new reality    

regress or act out    

childishly punch the wall of your frustration    

disconnect from your follies    

forget, forget, forget    

place each dissonant thought into a strongbox    

locked away even from yourself    

project your pettiness and bitterness onto the wholesome    

react in opposition with your infantile impulses    

blockade your imperfections behind fantasy    

beat your spouse, kick the dog—never harm yourself    

Defend and Protect at all costs    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Go Spurs Go!’

            I just don’t get it.

            The frenzied, obsessed, crazed behavior of Spurs fans puzzles me.

            One day, they love their team. Their besotted comments flood social media constantly with tweets and status updates on the magnificent players and coaches. As I scroll down my Facebook Home page, I’m bombarded with pictures of Duncan, Ginobili or Parker doing some heroic deed. My friends plaster praise and promote their team with profuse passion.

            Then a game turns sour, and so does the support for the home team. Fans feed their frustration by frantically documenting play-by-play groans and curses. The favored player from two nights before becomes a target for malicious venting. And I don’t even want to touch the comments spewed about the refs.

            The Spurs often do a back-and-forth win-lose dance during playoffs. I suspect it increases viewership. It definitely augments revenue to go into more games. Professional sports are, after all, big business.

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman