The Return of the Human Lab Rat!

It's been some time since I filled you guys in on my amazingly unfathomable necrotic, skin-eating disease (which has thus far stumped my regular doctor, a dermatologist, several nurse practitioners, a legion of allergists, and my UPS guy {Hey, he had "Resting Therapy Face."}). And the ensuing human lab rat "study" that my allergist talked me into enrolling in for an experimental drug. (For all the horrific details, refer back to my older post. I'll wait right here until you're done reading.)

So, between being turned into a human pin cushion by sadistic nurse Carla (I kinda think she might have been blind whenever she tried to find my veins on a weekly basis), and then having two--count 'em, two!--mystery drug infusions, I still have my incomprehensible series of rashes. Oh sure, after the first infusion, I was miraculously healed up! Hallelujah! For about three weeks, then the itchiness and bumps came back with a vengeance. I suffered until the next infusion, hoping for the best. Again, it healed my skin, but this time for only a week.

Despondent, I asked the fresh-faced, fast-talking, hipster-slang-slinging, straight outta diapers research kid, Darren, what happens next.

Darren shrugs and says, "That's it. Now they want you to lay off any kind of drug that might help you for eight weeks."

"Eight weeks?!!? But...but...lookee!" I pulled my sleeve up to show him a gruesome run on my arm. "How am I gonna hold out for eight weeks?"

Another shrug, this time accompanied by a sly grin. "I know, right? It's kinda crazy."

Well, "crazy" doesn't supply relief. Don't get me wrong, the allergists never did cure my ailment, but at best, they were able to mask the symptoms with a succession of drugs (at least for a little while) by applying kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers' "throw-it-all-against-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks" methodology. Highly scientific. But, hey, I was desperate for relief. Even though a constant diet of Prednisone had turned me into the Michelin Tire Man.

I went home and suffered for another couple of weeks until I'd finally had enough and pulled the plug. I felt guilty, like a namby-pamby quitter, but to me it was unfathomable to sit and suffer for another six weeks for no particular reason. On the bright side, I wouldn't have Nurse Carla digging into my arm every week, spelunking for gold or whatever. Bonus!

So, I launched into my apology tour. Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers was compassionate and kind (just like his late TV namesake), of course. But then he hit me with some insanely bad news.

"Unfortunately, your last blood test showed some truly weird anomalies in your blood. The drug development company would still like to monitor your blood work."

"Wait.. What?... WHAT?"

"Your blood work showed something really strange..." While he went on to explain it in boring scientific bla-bla-bla that I wouldn't understand anyway, images of a creepy, maniacally laughing, giant Nurse Carla coming at me with a bazooka sized hypodermic with a needle the size of a bayonet burned into my brain. 

"...and while I don't *think* (inserted finger quotes) you're dying, everyone thinks it'd be best if we continue to draw your blood for the next couple of months and--"

"Dying? Wait...what? What's wrong with my blood??? TELL ME DOC!"

"It's just a weird anomaly that we've never seen before, but there's no need to panic. They just want to make sure--"

"YOU'VE NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE??? WHAT HAVE I BECOME?"

"There, there..." I barely felt his lame pat of condolences on my back. "Nothing to worry about, it's just--"

"AND IS CARLA STILL GONNA DIG INTO MY VEINS???"

"Hang on just a second." Suddenly, kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers zips out of the room and zips back in with a very inquisitive young woman. She introduces herself as the new nurse practitioner and starts questioning me about...well, everything.

Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally says, "Well, she just wanted to see you. At first, based on your blood work, she thought I'd made you up. That there was no way you could be alive."

"Wait...I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE???"

"There's nothing to worry about. We just--"

"BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS QUIT THIS STUPID STUDY AND SUDDENLY I'M DYING!!! I'M NOT EXACTLY INSTILLED WITH CONFIDENCE NOW!!! I JUST--"

"There, there, there. Nothing to worry about. We just bla bla bla..."

This went on for a while. And I STILL didn't get what was up with my blood. However, after two further months of Nurse Carla jackhammering at my veins, the "anomaly had cleared up."

Now calmed and relieved, I had one more stop to make on my apology tour, this time to Darren, research whiz kid.

Grinning oddly, Darren mumbled something nearly indecipherable. Either that, or I pretended not to hear what he said, the horrors just too much to process.

"What? I'm sorry, I didn't get that."

"I can get you into another study," he repeated, still grinning like he knew a very special, fun Big Boy secret.

"Great GOOGLY-MOOGLY! You gotta be kidding me! Why in the WORLD would I ever consent to doing another one of these??? The last drug turned me into some kinda weird-blooded, 50's sci-fi monster and didn't even work! Then having Carla use me as a voodoo doll every week is just--"

"We'll pay you."

"Okay."

(Stay tuned for the further adventures of "Stuart, World's Worst Human Lab Rat!")

While we're chatting about colossally stupid decisions, my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, is full of people making them. There's the cranky old woman who decides to battle three demonic children on Halloween. Hey, there's the young woman who decides to go underground--deep, deep, dark underground--in search of her missing brother. How about the man who believes his wife is cheating on him, so decides she must die? The list goes on and on. If nothing else, my protagonists should make you feel pretty good about even your worst life decisions! (If that's not a Must-Read plug, I don't know what is!) Check it out here.

 

I Was a Human Lab Rat

As I lay on the doctor's table getting punctured, drained, and filled up with various mysterious fluids, I asked myself, how in the hell did I ever get talked into this? Good question!

I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Along with some friendly strong-arming by my allergist, Dr. Mr. Rogers.

Hold on, hold on, let's back up a bit. You guys remember my writing about my mysterious skin rash? You don't? Here: Necrotic Skin-Eating Disease and Dr. End of the World. Go on. Refresh your memories over my trauma. I'll wait right here.

Okay, well, the crazy thing is after numerous medicines, shots, and wild guesses, friendly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally--FINALLY--happened upon some shots that cleared me up! After several years of suffering, I actually enjoyed two months of blissful non-itchiness! Huzzah! (I can just imagine the non-vaxxers having fits over what I went through. "Gimme muh freedumbs!")

And then--as life always seems to have a particularly ironically, unfunny way of doing--my life of comfort was swept out from under me.

"Hello," I said upon answering the phone.

"Stuart, it's me, Dr. Mr. Rogers. You know...from the neighborhood? Well, remember how I cured you? I want to uncure you."

Sooooo many crickets. "What?"

"I've been blessed with being granted a test study from big pharma. You'd be a perfect candidate to test this drug out on."

The crickets came out again. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"We'll pay you."

Ka-Ching! Visions of thousands and thousands of dollars danced greedily before me. "Okay!"

So dumb. So, soooooo very dumb.

When I returned to Dr. Mr. Rogers' office, he was clearly excited and nearly cartwheeled out of our brief visit. Then the techs all landed on me. They ripped off my shirt and threw me onto an extremely cold table in a freezing office and attached all sorts of gizmos to my chest.

"Wait...what're we doing?"

"Oh, not much. Just an EKG."

Like that explained it all.

After shivering my way through the first test, the nurse said, "Huh."

I said, "'Huh.' That doesn't sound encouraging."

"Well, it says here you're having a heart attack."

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"Hang on a minute. I'll be back."

So she leaves me having a heart attack in the freezing office. When she comes back, she's got another nurse. "Oh," says nurse number two, "this happens all the time."

"My heart attack happens all the time???"

"You're not having a heart attack. The machine is just...finnicky."

"That's good to know... I guess."

They run another test. Same results. They bring in the nurse practitioner. Wash, rinse, repeat. She says, "Wow. Do you have a heart problem history?"

"No! Not until now!"

She brings in Dr. Mr. Rogers who whacks the machine a couple of times. "There. That oughta do it."

By the time they finally got a reading that "they'd take," there were about  eight people in the small room, and me shivering with my shirt off wondering if I was having a heart attack.

Then it was off to meet the research kid, Darren! Darren's this fresh-faced, young, snappy-talking kid who tries to be cool by calling me "man" all the time. "So, man," he says, "what do you do?"

"You mean when I'm not being strapped to tables?"

"Yeah, man."

"I'm a writer."

Blank stare. No acknowledgement.

"Um...a novelist."

Blinkity-blink. Cone of silence.

"And a part-time realtor."

"Oh, wow, man! Real estate's such a sweet gig, man!"

Kids today. Anyway, it was time to confront Carla, the resident research nurse.

"I'm Carla," she says through her two-pack-a-day voice while trying to jab and stick me with a needle to draw blood. "I don't like your veins."

After immediately bruising up one arm, causing a world of pain, she decides to switch to the other arm with not much success. I'm watching the needle stick out of my arm with no blood forthcoming. "Hm. Let's go back to the other arm. I really don't like your veins."

"They don't like you much either!"

By the time Carla was finished, I looked like a green and brown patchwork monster.

Then I had to pee in a cup. Now, I don't know about you guys but this is one of my least favorite things to do in the world. I'm never able to urinate on demand. And, of course, the cup is always this tiny little thing. How in the world do you stop the flow without making a mess? It must take a very special talent to master peeing into a cup. Maybe I'd better practice.

Anyway, the actual drug administration hasn't even begun yet. Even more frightening, it's not a shot like I first thought, but an infusion. Which kinda terrifies me. Especially with Carla brandishing the I.V.

And the pay sucks.

But I'll keep you guys posted on my new adventures in being a human lab rat, you lucky readers.

Speaking of lucky readers, why not mosey on over to my Amazon book page and have a look-see. Something for everyone (probably not, but I've gotta try!)!