Take One Fiddler on the Roof, Call Me in the Morning

It couldn't hurt

Whenever I suffer a nasty bronchial bout, as is this case right now, my doctor puts me on these cute little gems called predisnone.  Maybe you've tried them yourself.  If so, I hope you're still married.  Prednisone is the leading cause of marital discord in America today, for the simple reason that it makes you certifiably mischuga in every way.  Alas, it's the only medicine capable of calming the bark-a-thon inside my chest.  The side-effects are legendary in my home.  Forget the flatulence, the day-long jitters, the ability to move furniture with my mind.  That's the fun part.  It's the emotional component that sends my people running in terror.  Even the pharmacy knows to put the following warning on the bottle:  "FYI:  This pill turns you into a hateful bitch."

It's true, in the past, when hormonal loop-de-loops ruled my life, prednisone did tend to turn the SJG into a complete and utter loon. There have been so many hilarious incidents of steriod-induced rage that it's a miracle hubby and the kids ever agreed to let me back into the house, after the requisite "cooling off" period.  A day or two in the garage usually did the trick. 

The only incident my attorney says I can mention, however, is the one we fondly refer to as: "Mommy’s Fiddler on the Roof Breakdown." Christmas Day, 2002.  One of the cable channels decided to run counter programming for the Jews. I sat in the bedroom, hour after hour, balling my eyes out as those damn Cossacks drove the villagers out of Anatevka, Anatevka, underfed, overworked Anatevka.  Keep in mind that previous viewings of “Fiddler,” sans predisone, have triggered weepy, unbridled nostalgia.  On prednisone, the floodgates opened.  Quite simply, I came unhinged.  I missed my mother.  I missed my grandparents.  I missed everybody I've ever known. 

Cue “Sunrise, Sunset,” one of the few songs my mother ever dared to sing out loud, and only when accompanied by my father:  “Is this the little girl I carried?/Is this the little boy at play?/I don’t remember growing older?/When did they?”  As the music swelled, along with my eyes, hubby and the boys came in to witness my sad little sob fest. Hubby took one look at me and shook his head. “Why are you watching this? Turn it off.” “I can’t,” I said, powerless. “Fiddler” was a force much bigger than me. Scotty and Billy ran over and hugged me. (Sweet boys.)  “Mommy, why are you crying?” Scotty asked. “It’s just a movie,” Billy reminded me.“I know, I know,” I conceded. “But I can’t help myself.”  It felt good to cry, which is what I did for the next three hours. “Fiddler” is a long movie. I wallowed in melancholy and it was wonderful. 

And yet, ever since I donated my lady parts to science -- "Go ahead, take 'em, I don't want 'em" -- I can tolerate prednisone nicely.  I still shake a little.  I still move objects with my mind (I haven't touched the keyboard once today).  But that's about it.  No yelling.  No crying.  No threats of any kind.  All in all, it's pretty dull around here, which is fine by me.  The sooner I get better, the sooner I can get back out in the world and kick some butt.