Did Today Really Just Happen?

So I wrote this like two months ago and forgot to post it. Deal.


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OCD Nightmare #1: Visiting My Doctor. I had an appointment to go talk to my doctor about where things stand with my mood meds. I stopped seeing my psychiatrist ages ago, because (1) he was kind of a doucher and (2) I found out miles too late that he wasn't an in-network provider (O HAI SEE YA $600), so I just thought I'd see my regular MD, since we were really only dealing with medication here, not talk-therapy. But that means I have to go sit at a regular doctor's office amongst all the sick people for a minimum of 25 minutes before I'm seen, because they're always late, and my pits get sweaty, and my blood pressure rises steeply, both from the long wait (which pisses me off immensely) and from being around ill people. So I had the pleasure of doing that today, seeing my general practitioner for a followup appointment. She was on-call today, too, so she was extra late and THEN had to take an emergent phone call halfway through our session, so I sat there, BP at a good 180/100, certain I was actively in the process of catching a cold as I sat there waiting.

OCD Nightmare #2: The Prescription. After explaining to my doctor that nothing we've tried so far has even touched my OCD (and I'm on a laundry list of meds 8 mile long), I burst into tears and confessed that I feared nothing would ever work. My doctor said, "Well, it depends on how far you're willing to go." I asked her what she meant, and she actually--this actually happened--she actually said, "There's electroshock therapy." I was like,

She said, "It sounds medieval, but for stubborn mental or psychological issues, it can really work."

Hang on. I need a glass of wine.

OK.

So I was like, "Motherfucking electroshock therapy. R u srs." She was srs. She was dead srs. I was all, "Does it...hurt?" She kind of explained how it worked and I was like, "Um...can I just have some motherfucking Buspar instead?"

She prescribed the motherfucking Buspar.

OCD Nightmare #3: We Take the Kids to Their Doctor. Both tots needed shots today: Naomi needed her second flu shot and her first pneumococcal shot (we delay and stagger vaccines, but we do vaccinate), and Maya needed Hep A #2 and Hep B #2 (we're waaaay behind on those, oops). So we had the joy of waiting around in the pediatrician's office, where I think my blood pressure was by now 200/120 from waiting so long, steam by now roiling from my ears.

And I was in panic mode, since Maya had her hands all over everything--the handles of the chairs, the table, the fish tank. And Naomi kept wanting to touch my purse, and I was like,

NOT THE PURSE!!!

We waited forever, and finally we got called in to the actual doctor's office where we could wait some more. But at least they had Purell, so we could use some of that, which lowered my BP to a fine fine 170/90, I'm sure. Finally the medical assistant came in, the kids got their shots, which they took like pros and neither one  cried, and we were done. Thank God. Then, when I was putting the baby in her carseat, I bumped her head on the roof of the car and she burst into sobs. FML.

OCD Nightmare #4: Dinner. Then, the plan was, we were going to go eat at Applebees (I know, we party like rockstars up in here), but we pulled up and (1) saw how crowded the parking lot was, (B) realized it was 5:30 on a weekend night, and (iii) my anxiety inexplicably and immediately went through the roof, so instead we went next door and got some food poisoning Subway instead. Much better.

We go home and eat our food poisoning Subway and try to get Maya to eat some soup, but she is basically doing this at the dinner table:

I can only assume it's from the vaccines. She's doing weird shit like dipping her fingers in her soup and zoning out, which isn't normal for her. So after trying to get her to eat for an hour, we give up. We're calling it bedtime, 2-1/2 hours ahead of schedule.

OCD Nightmare #5: Poop. On a Hot Tin Butt. So, if you recall, Maya suffers terribly from constipation. It's truly terrible--it's gotten so much worse, and she holds in her poop so long that when she does go, it's truly like beholding the site of an assacre. Blood, shit, bloody shit, the whole nine.

So all day long we've been trying to get her to poop, since she hasn't in days. She's been farting like King Fart of Shit Mountain. She's been bent over, knock-kneed, waddling, hand between her buttcheeks, yet claiming she doesn't have to poop. We've been sitting her on the chamberpot every 30 minutes, telling her to JUST FUCKING POOP. It's like potty training all over again. But still she insisted she didn't have to go.

So then about 20 minutes following our fine fine Subway dinner and her two-sips-of-soup supper, she's waddling around again, knees together, butt sticking out, and if I know anything I know there's a duke in there the size of Manhattan. I take her to the potty and lo and befuckinghold, her draws are full of shit. Liquishit. She has sharted at least a half-pint into her favorite green unniepannies, and it has soaked through them onto the pajamas I had put her in. FML SO HARD.

She is hysterical. I am trying not to be, but come on, SHIT IN PANTS. I peel off her jammies and throw her underwear into the garbage. I did not think she could get more hysterical than she already was. I did not think there was a pitch higher than her voice had already reached. I was wrong. When I threw away her underwear, she went ballistic.

"BUT MOM! THOSE ARE MY NEW UNNIEPANNIES!!"

"No, those are your old ones."

"NO THEY ARE MY BRAND-NEW ONES! MOM!!!"

"No, they're your old ones, and they're getting too small anyway."

"THEY'RE NEW AND I WANT THEM! DON'T THROW THEM AWAY! DON'T THROW THEM AWAY!!!"

"The new ones I just bought you are purple and aqua, remember? These are green. These are old. These are too small. And anyway, you shat them. They cannot be saved. They are sullied beyond repair. No one can help these unniepannies now."

"MOM!! MOM! MOYYY-OMMMMM! PLEASE! PLEEEEASE! DON'T THROW THEM AWAY! MOM! PLEASE! NOOOOO!!"

"Maya. I am throwing these underwears out. They have been pooped in and I will not wash them. Not today, not tomorrow, not in this lifetime. You better be glad I am not throwing out the pajamas too, but luckily I grew up broke as a joke in a single-parent family and it had a negative effect on my hoarding tendencies and can't bring myself to toss out a perfectly good jammy. But these underwears are goners."

"BUT MOY-OMMM!! I WANT THEM! PUH LEEEEASE!!! DON'T THROW AWAAY MY UNNIEEPANNNIEEEWSSASSADLKFJSSFJSKDASHJFS:A:JASA;SLKFLL;SKFLSA;!!@@#215%&!"

Ad infinitum. Here she is shrieking, positively shrieking, so loud that I am certain the neighbors knew she had sharted her draws.

The OCD in me wants to just put her outside. Just, you know, just put my child outside, forever. Just not deal with it. Just put her in the garbage with the soiled unniepannies. Just not even deal. Because my kid has shit on her buns. Shit. On her buns.

But I have to deal. So I wipe her down. And if she wasn't falling asleep at the wheel, a full shower would have been in order, but we'll just do that tofuckingmorrow. Today was full of enough shit.

At least there was no semi-automatic ass-spray this time.