raptus regaliter
That means, for the non-cognoscenti (and me, I'm not one either, I just know a few things)--"royally screwed".
And yes, yes, we are.
The diagnosis is in.
catdancer met with her neurologist today. He said he had good news. She now has a working diagnosis.
Great. Marvelous. We've been praying to know what's been going on. Doctor, Doctor, what is it, tell her what it is.
He said...somatoform conversion disorder. (Here's another, even more annoying take on it.)
And for me? That is so fucking dismissive.
Okay, what in the hell was the major "psychologically distressing event", then? Let's go look.
December, 2005. When she first started manifesting symptoms. We know it was late month, before Christmas/Yule. So what was happening then?
Well, we were still at the house with La Roommate. But we'd been there for a while, and La R liked her, it was always me she had the problem with. Nothing had changed.
We were still living with Dick and Jane. And okay, life with Jane? Always a big fucking stress. But again...nothing new.
Sir had some teeth pulled. Got a pretty clean bill of health, too. *stares measuringly towards La R for some time...* Hmm. But even then, surgery, not wau-he's-gonna-die. That was this year.
Essentially? Me ranting--which, let's be honest, most of the time, my girl listens, makes the appropriate comments, if it's something she's interested in, we talk about it, if it's not, she listens and lets it all go--which is, btw, fine with me...but for her?
December, 2005. She had a good job. She had a job she loved. She could still dance, she could still care for herself, there's little mention of that much, honestly. Missing a few days of work, here and there, mostly from illness. December? No major new stress.
So January 2006. I was slowly dying. There's no better way to put it. That *might* have been a major life stress, save that as usual, *I didn't tell her*, and, in fact, I was so *good* at not even *hinting*, she was shocked stupid when I told her afterward.
But even so, the after-reaction? Not that huge. Mostly hitting me with things.
February 2006. I started having leg problems. Again, mostly me, not her. By March, the leg was seizing, and then walking by itself, and that started the diagnosis towards the meralgia.
Again, me, not her.
Okay, so maybe I'm in the wrong year. What about December 2004? No, that doesn't make sense either.
But no, nothing in 2004 seems to match, either. So I have no idea. Major stressor? That precipitated this? NO CLUE. And that is the chief indicator of Somatoform Conversion Disorder, so....
That, and her doctor wants her to follow up with him, every two months.
YEah. Let that sink in. Doc's just told her, it's all in your head, bye now. Save he wants her to see another neurologist--he's urging her to get a second opinion--and he wants her to see him every two months, as a 'follow-up'. So...she's got this thing...but...he wants to see her anyway?
Why?
So much in this makes nada for sense.
This? Is my cousin. I kid you not, this is still what he looks like, only he's not blue. I laugh my ass off every time I watch it, because that wry look, that square head, the hair--it's so damned him. Hee.
And a very large-screen trailer: Space, the final...attempt at bilking this Paramount juggernaut. We hope. (Yes, I'm very cynical today.)
Going through old entries, I found this again. Hee hee hee. And we're still in winter, so hey, tossing up another link to the cold cure post wouldn't be bad.
And that's the news from the front lines, people. I'm signing off for the night.
And yes, yes, we are.
The diagnosis is in.
catdancer met with her neurologist today. He said he had good news. She now has a working diagnosis.
Great. Marvelous. We've been praying to know what's been going on. Doctor, Doctor, what is it, tell her what it is.
He said...somatoform conversion disorder. (Here's another, even more annoying take on it.)
And for me? That is so fucking dismissive.
Okay, what in the hell was the major "psychologically distressing event", then? Let's go look.
December, 2005. When she first started manifesting symptoms. We know it was late month, before Christmas/Yule. So what was happening then?
Well, we were still at the house with La Roommate. But we'd been there for a while, and La R liked her, it was always me she had the problem with. Nothing had changed.
We were still living with Dick and Jane. And okay, life with Jane? Always a big fucking stress. But again...nothing new.
Sir had some teeth pulled. Got a pretty clean bill of health, too. *stares measuringly towards La R for some time...* Hmm. But even then, surgery, not wau-he's-gonna-die. That was this year.
Essentially? Me ranting--which, let's be honest, most of the time, my girl listens, makes the appropriate comments, if it's something she's interested in, we talk about it, if it's not, she listens and lets it all go--which is, btw, fine with me...but for her?
December, 2005. She had a good job. She had a job she loved. She could still dance, she could still care for herself, there's little mention of that much, honestly. Missing a few days of work, here and there, mostly from illness. December? No major new stress.
So January 2006. I was slowly dying. There's no better way to put it. That *might* have been a major life stress, save that as usual, *I didn't tell her*, and, in fact, I was so *good* at not even *hinting*, she was shocked stupid when I told her afterward.
But even so, the after-reaction? Not that huge. Mostly hitting me with things.
February 2006. I started having leg problems. Again, mostly me, not her. By March, the leg was seizing, and then walking by itself, and that started the diagnosis towards the meralgia.
Again, me, not her.
Okay, so maybe I'm in the wrong year. What about December 2004? No, that doesn't make sense either.
But no, nothing in 2004 seems to match, either. So I have no idea. Major stressor? That precipitated this? NO CLUE. And that is the chief indicator of Somatoform Conversion Disorder, so....
That, and her doctor wants her to follow up with him, every two months.
YEah. Let that sink in. Doc's just told her, it's all in your head, bye now. Save he wants her to see another neurologist--he's urging her to get a second opinion--and he wants her to see him every two months, as a 'follow-up'. So...she's got this thing...but...he wants to see her anyway?
Why?
So much in this makes nada for sense.
This? Is my cousin. I kid you not, this is still what he looks like, only he's not blue. I laugh my ass off every time I watch it, because that wry look, that square head, the hair--it's so damned him. Hee.
And a very large-screen trailer: Space, the final...attempt at bilking this Paramount juggernaut. We hope. (Yes, I'm very cynical today.)
Going through old entries, I found this again. Hee hee hee. And we're still in winter, so hey, tossing up another link to the cold cure post wouldn't be bad.
And that's the news from the front lines, people. I'm signing off for the night.