It’s Time for Steroids
If I have learned anything from the latest lung biopsy scare after the lymph node surgical biopsy following two lymph node needle biopsies sandwiched between episodes of anxiety, inflammation, and IBS flares, it’s to trust myself when I say it’s time for steroids.
It’s day three of my dose pack, and despite the excessive hanger and steroid insomnia, I feel human again. For the first time in almost two years.
In my adolescence, I used to get a steroid dose pack every year around May when Ohio River Valley pollen and GE Plastics pollution landed me at the doctor’s office with a raging sinus infection. It suppressed the inflammation and made the pain and pressure go away while the antibiotics took the time they needed.
Now doctors look at me like I’m begging for Vicodin and a Shetland pony when I ask for help getting inflammatory shit under control. “We don’t like to prescribe steroids. Only as a last resort.”
I. Have. Brain. Cancer. If I don’t qualify for a little pain relief, who the fuck does?
I’m not mad at my doctors. Just so frustrated that every little thing feels like a fight for me.
I don’t know when this “steroid steward” thing happened, or if it’s a regional phenomenon or what, but I miss palliative care so much. They’d call me once a month, and make my life as tolerable as possible. I need to find this kind of care here.
I understand better than most what risks come with steroid use. When I request it, I’m way beyond needing a little help. I’m desperate. I haven’t taken steroids since Boomer had a surgical liver biopsy in 2022 and I needed an assist walking across the University of Illinois campus while their veterinary building was under construction.
Did I mention I have a brain tumor and sometimes my body needs help?
This post is entirely self-serving. For the next time I need to be more assertive. I can be a bitch with or without ‘roid rage.
Sometimes I need a reminder.