The only thing worse than a chronic hypochondriac is a chronic hypochondriac with a level 70 Google mage and a black belt in fact-based conclusion-jumping.

It’s been four weeks since the Weapon of Sperm Destruction was installed in my uterus. So far, things have been fine – but I’m hyper sensitive to any potential side effects I may or may not be experiencing.

As with any drug, there’s a big list of horrible things that could happen to you. Mirena’s list is really no shocking or different than other methods of birth control: there’s the possibility of weight gain, acne, back aches, spontaneous elliptical pregnancy, superhuman sensory deprivation, articulated hamstrings. No big deal, really.

Unfortunately for me, while I definitely do not want any spontaneous miracle births, I also do not want to experience anything on that list. If I start showing even a hint of a possibility of a chance of a symptom, I freak the fuck out. Not by a little, either – I mean, I go completely over the top in a wild orgy of fear and prevention.

Two days after the WSD was inserted, I got a zit. Big fucking deal, right – most adults struggle with bad skin from time to time and I am no exception. This time, however, my minor (and frankly invisible) breakout wasn’t just the result of a clogged pore or two; it was the beginning of the end of my clear skin because obviously that one pimple meant that 754 more were on their way. I am not exaggerating when I say tears were shed. I immediately started to research drastic acne cures, from the celebrity endorsed (Proactive), to the last resort (Accutane), and all the way up to the insane (saliva, cow dung, the blood of a virgin drawn by a white cat under a full moon). I was ready to start decorating paper bags to wear during formal occasions because obviously I was days away from becoming a hideous mass of oozing flesh. I gave some serious thought to having the device removed, because I am just that vain.

Of course, the pimple went away and has yet to be joined by its disgusting brethren. My skin is just as good as it was while taking Tri-Cyclen (birth control also marketed as an acne cure), if not better. My over reacting gave me a lot of knowledge I don’t really need and a bathroom full of skin products meant for teenagers who rub up against strangers on the bus, but I’ll take those over the horrors of bad skin any day.

I wish the list of medical freak outs I’ve had over the last month ended here, but that is sadly not the case. My stupid rain pants were tight the day before my cycle began – clearly I am gaining weight by the horseful. I had to pee really, really badly after drinking several litres of liquid and accidentally lost a drop of pee before I was fully seated – clearly I am losing control of my bladder and will have to start wearing Depends. My abdomen hurts – clearly some sperm swam up into my tubes and made a baby in my spleen. It never ends – I am a hypothetical encyclopedia of horrible potential conditions, each one less likely than the last.

Knowledge and explosive melodramatic hyperbole are dangerous things.

It’s IUD-Day.

Wish me luck.

Ed refuses to take pictures for some reason, so you’ll have to use your imaginations. Full recap when I return!

Not even an adorable kitten and fantastically awesome new boots can stem the tide of this panic attack.

Hooray!

Wait, no. Booooo.

I think I’ll get into the alcohol now.

That will clearly make everything better.

It was a doctorial extravaganza ‘round these parts today, and I didn’t have to take my pants off ONCE.

I had an appointment with a new foot doctor today. The doctor himself is nice enough, but his office gives me the willies – it’s not the cleanest or most high tech of places, and his two assistants were fighting with each other when I arrived. If there were such a thing, I would think I had fallen in with back alley podiatrists. It was kind of off-putting, to say the least. The doctor seemed pretty cool, and we chatted for a bit. He is puzzled by my self-diagnosis of stress fractures, and I got the feeling he is attributing my constant pain and clicky feelings to the diabetes I don’t have. He’s sent me off to get some x-rays at some hole-in-the-wall x-ray joint, for which I need to make an appointment (which is another negative point – most doctors I’ve seen are in cahoots with the same series of labs, which are drop-in-and-wait setups). I haven’t decided if I’m going to go back to him, or to my other foot doctor who abandoned me to my own devices. He may have been neglectful, but at least his office didn’t look like our storage locker.

Since I wasn’t getting x-rays done then and there (I had planned my morning around the drop in visit), I decided to go to the regular medical clinic to see a random doctor. I was fully planning on announcing my surprise demand for an examination of my lady parts – SURPRISE! Look at my vagina! – but he seemed cranky and less than willing to whip out the speculum there and then. He did, however, provide an excellent out – after only a dozen or so cysts, some of which have burst in a horrible and painful manner reminiscent of the alien birth in Alien, I’ve been referred to a gynecologist. Finally! A vaginal expert! I’ll get a phone call next week to arrange an appointment, and my delicate flower will finally get the service it needs.

Dr. Cranky did refill my prescriptions though, so the anti-baby and anti-crazy trains can leave the station once again. I tried to get a year’s worth of crazy pills out of him, but he crankily said “you shouldn’t be on those for that long”. I didn’t feel any sort of desire to explain to him exactly why I SHOULD be on those for that long and what happens when I’m not, so I just accepted the 3-month refill and went on my way. Eventually I will get a real family doctor, and then I can lay out the truth behind my insanities and how those little beige and orange pills keep most of my demons at bay. Until then – three more months of sanity is nothing to sneeze at.

Also, I bought some carrots.

That’s my hope, anyway. I either had a bad run-in with a razor blade, or a flesh-eating disease – there’s a small series of holes in my leg that are sore and not healing, so I’m trying to cure my wounds with bacon.

Get it? “cure”?

I’m funny when I’m diseased.

Also funny: showing Ed my spoils after an afternoon of shopping and receiving the following feedback: “That’s .. hm. It’s .. um .. yeah. It’s a shirt, alright.”

Hilarious!