Thursday, October 24, 2013

At least...

My best friend makes the most incredible peanut peanut butter cookies on the planet.  I don't even care much for peanut butter cookies, but her peanut peanut butter cookies are amazing.  She does makes them kind of small, though, in my opinion, so when I was with her and she made them I felt even more of a glutton than usual because my idea of a single cookie size is about three to four times the size of her magical peanut peanut butter cookies.  And, well, her husband finds them at least as magical as do I, so I would basically steal them from his belly because I wanted them in mine.  Like five or six at a time.  Not just one.  Or perhaps two.

When I lived in Alexandria and was relatively close to Bettina, she could make me double batches when she came for a visit and I could eat them all, without having to share.  Anyway, the other day I broke down and asked her to send me the recipe.  Even after swearing off of ever trying to make cookies again, I asked for the recipe.  What was I thinking?

After.  Last night, after everything was mixed and was cooking and I was starting to clean up, I took another look at the stuff clinging to all the measuring cups.  Delayed response.  A puzzle working its way forward.  Until.  Yep, I messed up.  None of the measuring cups had the right stuff inside of them.  I used the wrong cups for the flour, the white sugar, the brown sugar, and the peanut butter.  I got the butter (one stick) and the egg (one shell) correct.  SIGH.  It is not that I burned the cookies but that they would not actually bake.  Apparently, having at least close proportions matters in cookies.  Matter a lot.

At least I have the comfort of a fluffy white lavender cloud even if I do not have the comfort of peanut peanut butter cookies.

I spent most of the "work" day weeping with the pharmacist and weeping with the doctor's office answering machine and weeping with my doctor's nurse.  The annual refills from August turned out not to be annual refills.  I was following my plan.  I have an alarm every two weeks on Thursday to remind me to call the pharmacy to order the innards medication and an alarm every two weeks on Sunday to remind me to go pick up the innards medication that go along with the alarm that goes off four times a day every day to actually take the innards medication.  Only when I called so the pharmacy could order the innards medication, I got a call back to hear that I actually had no refills of the innards medication.  So, I called and left a message about the missing refills.  Then the pharmacy called back to ask about all my other medications because I had forgotten that it is the end of the month.  Yes, I wanted them.  We hung up.  Another call.  Most of the annual refills are not actually annual refills.  So I called the doctor's office about all the other medications.  Then the pharmacy called again to say ... rather gently ... that the refill on my anxiety medication was limited.  The anxiety medication I have been on daily for 18 months.

For 18 months, I have gotten limited refills and I have to call and call and call because somehow my records never seem to show that I cam actually on the medication.  So, I called the doctor's office again and finally received a return call from the nurse, who said that she would have to talk to the doctor again about the anxiety medication refill ... the addictive medication that helps me but would make me very, very, very ill if I miss a dose, even the small dose I take because I react so strongly to many medications and only need a little bit to have the fragile balance it gives me without side effects that would make everything worse.  The doctor and I had two appointments just to weigh the pros and cons of this decision and yet somehow its not in my records, so I am just ... a drug seeker.  SIGH.  I wept to the nurse that I need to have the anxiety medication not be a problem I have to solve every 15 or 20 or 40 days, whatever limited number is chosen.  I wept to the nurse that I have talked about this my last three appointments and that I needed to not have to beg for a medication that even the doctor does not believe she could wean me off of but told me it would still be good for me.  This ... this ... is most definitely not good for me.

But at least I can do this:

Yep, I built a fire and dragged the GREEN chair over to the fireplace and am currently roasting myself and my puppy dog as my tears dry.

Amos doesn't really mind if I get him a bit wet.

I am Yours, Lord!  Save me!

1 comment:

Becky said...

Jesus knows the number of your tears.