Thank God I'm already married

As a child, I collected unicorns.
Sometimes, we get too close to that we love.

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So I went to the dermatologist last week; first time ever. I was blessed with good skin and hair, what can I say? Never needed a professional to take a closer look at anything.

(She said, flipping her Pantene-perfect ponytail; her freshly-scrubbed, makeup-free cheeks glowing. Or not.)

But time's a bitch and about 6 weeks ago, I noticed my skin was freaking-the-fuck-out. I looked like a reject for a Proactiv infomercial.
"Tsk-tsk," they said. "A little rough for the before shot, don't you think?"

Seriously, I woke up one morning and I had acne. Full-on acne. WTF? I mean, I was thankful to have avoided the stigma of unhappy pores as a teenager, but I've got enough shit going on right now, thankyouverymuch.

I bought some products, added an extra shower, even avoided the magnifying mirror, because I did not deserve that trauma. Nothing worked. I tried to determine what new ingredient I had encountered, and could find nothing suspicious. And I thought, maybe I just need to give it time to work itself out. It was almost a rash. Like a constellation of bumps and spots and splotches.

Look, Pegasus!

And I decided to just roll with it.

Until this... thing... showed up on my foot.

(BTW, I have nice feet too, as feet go. Or at least, I had nice feet.)

See, this is what happens when you take things for granted. Stop bemoaning the parts that suck (weight, crooked teeth, big nose, whatever) and revel in the magnificence that is the good stuff. Because eventually it will all 'catch ugly' if you don't take care of what the Good Lord and your Mama gave you.

Catch ugly and grow horns.

Specifically, a cutaneous horn.
And if you just did a Google Image search on that, don't blame me for losing your lunch. You know they only show the most extreme shit in those pictures. Because that's what the people want. Except me. I think there should be a warning label and an extra click or two to get to the freaky pictures.

These cutaneous horns normally appear in areas that are exposed to the sun. But sometimes, they show up in shady spots too. Like, for instance, my foot.

(Why yes, I do live in Florida, but no, I do not wear sandals or flip-flops. I also keep my keys, debit card and driver's license in my pocket at all times. These issues may be connected.)

It was a little spot by my little toe. In fact, you wouldn't notice it at first glance. It was all pale and tiny. I can't emphasize that enough. Pale and Tiny. I certainly wouldn't say cute, but it Did Not look like anything you saw in those pictures you wish you hadn't searched for. But it hurt when it was bumped the wrong way. And I developed a protective response whenever anything got within a foot of my, uh, foot.

So I looked for a dermatologist. I found a whopping eight in my area. And of those eight, the earliest appointment was in October. So I branched out and found someone about 40 miles away who could see me several months sooner. (There may be a need for dermatologists in North Central Florida. Time for a career change?)

Thanks to my father's skin cancer issues, I was awarded a full-body inspection from the good doctor. Luckily, she was super-nice and professional. I totally dug her and her nurse. Awesome service. I was prescribed some acne cream, which took forever to be approved by my insurance. I was "out of appropriate age range." Obviously, non-pregnant 30-somethings get acne too. Pay up, bitches. So we'll see how that works out.

The removal was fast and nearly painless. I don't know what kind of numbing agent they use, but it worked in like 15 seconds and they cut that little guy off and cauterized the area before I even finished getting worked up about it. The worst part was the needle, of course. My dentist needs to take some pointers from my dermatologist.

And the biopsy came back negative, so that's one less thing to worry about. 427 other things just moved up a spot!

You know what wasn't on the list? Turning 31. I had no problem turning 31 last week. When I turned 30 last year, I whined like a little bitch. Nothing like a little perspective, eh?

Well we ARE talking about the squirting of fluid.

Ejection Fraction - sounds like something they explained to the boys during those Extra Special Health Ed Classes back in 8th grade.

But no! Girls have Ejection Fractions too!

So, I have some heart problems, and no, no one can really tell me why. No clogged arteries or congenital heart defects. Guess I drew a winning ticket in the "Sucks To Be You Lottery!" And so young, well... I always was an early starter. Boobs in 4th grade, period at age 11, gray hairs at 20, what did I expect, really?

(Sometimes my posts may contain a little more personal body info than you wanted to know, but what the hell, you can tell me all about how old you were the first time you had to walk to the chalkboard with a social studies book hugged to your crotch. I won't judge.)

According to the Cleveland Clinic, "Ejection fraction is usually expressed as a percentage. A normal heart pumps a little more than half the heart’s blood volume with each beat. Left ventricular ejection fraction (LVEF) is the measurement of how much blood is being pumped out of the left ventricle of the heart (the main pumping chamber) with each contraction. A normal LVEF ranges from 50-70%. "

When I was initially admitted to the hospital in February, they performed an echocardiogram and it was documented my EF was 15-20%. To which I said, "So we're looking at 15% away from DEAD, that's what you mean." But of course, I didn't really say that. I focused on being entirely pleasant and low-maintenance while I was in the hospital. Since then, I've learned to talk up and ask questions. My cardiologist tries to pretend he doesn't see the little notebook and pen in my hand, but he FAILS.

So an EF of 15% is pretty effing awful. I mean, that's lower than any grade I ever got in Chemistry, and I guarantee you those numbers were l-o-w. The next echo was in May, at the 3 month mark. And I was up to 20-25%! Um... whoo! Hey, any increase, right? But I could do better.

And then from mid-May to mid-July I pretty much turned into a blob of self-pity and stopped exercising and starting eating fast food again. I blame the heat. And losing half my paycheck. That's how we self-medicate in my family.

Then on July 17, I was blubbering about dying young and how Sara Rue was losing too much weight and wouldn't be able to play me in the movie, and Mike kinda said, "Alright already, go walk on the treadmill. Let's do this!" And we had a Joe Swanson Story moment and ever since then, all 4 weeks of since-then, I've walked on the treadmill. 6 days a week. And I'm up to 45 minutes a day, at 2.5 mph and an incline of 2.0-3.0. And when I told the docs this on my visit Monday, the assistant cardiologist said, "That's better than most regular Americans!" I wonder if she's lived in Texas?

So, kudos to me on getting off my ass and watching SYTYCD while strolling in the comfort of my air-conditioned living room. (Ack, 6 more weeks until the Fall season starts... hooray for streaming Netflix!)

The appointment I had at the Heart Failure Clinic on Monday was at the 6 month mark. Time for another echo. Luckily, in the past 4 weeks, I was able to lose the weight I gained from my 2 month pity party. Best not to dwell on how much I could have lost if I'd just stayed on the healthy train. What's done is done.

The thing about having an echo done is, it's basically an ultrasound. And since your heart is under your left boob, you're hanging out topless with a stranger for like 20 minutes in a variety of positions while he rubs cold jelly on a wand and then shoves it against your poor chest and belly. Oh, they try to drape you, but come on, there's definitely some "tid bit nipply" going on.

(And how awkward is it for Mike to sit in the room while some dude is pawing at my boobs with Astroglide? And taking pictures! Grainy, black-and-white, subterranean-dwelling creature pictures, true. But still. If he was getting some testicle screen shots taken, how would I feel? Hmm... I'd probably tweet the experience. Never mind.)

On Tuesday, we found out that my test on Monday indicated an EF of 30-35%. In six months I doubled my EF! Right On! Unfortunately, the numbers are still too low and they want me to get a consult with the physio guys about implanting an ICD/Pacemaker. Well, hell. I mean, I'm all for preventing SCD, but still. Surgery. Yuck. And this will totally disrupt my exercise routine. (Ha! Can't believe I just wrote that sentence, and meant it sincerely.)

Tune in next time when I go into detail about having my horn removed. Oh yes, you read that right. I was a horned beast! Until 1:30pm this past Monday. Man, I was naked with strangers a lot on Monday...

Like Little Winged Peeping Toms

What are these things, and why are they staring at me?

Maybe a grasshopper?

It's hard to tell, but it had a sort of curlicue tail going on.
Kinda like a butt antennae, really.

Surprisingly, the legs are creepier than the eyes.
Ooh, smudges! Possibly nose prints!