It appears AstraZeneca was trying a new way to treat autoimmune diseases like my MS, and the way they chose was to extract allllll the immune cells from a person’s body, find the ones that were defective, cull them, and then pump the good ones back in.

A really effective way to accidentally kill someone in a clinical trial is to set off a cytokine storm, in which the body gets a rush of too many immune cells all at once. Immune cells go out rampaging, glorying in their numbers, driven mad with power, and they charge around destroying healthy organs in their path and the person dies.

So that looks like there’s another clinical trial to add to my list of clinical trials gone wrong.

TWIL: Clinical trials gone wrong

Three people died in this latest AstraZeneca Trial. That trial is cancelled. Oddly, that same technique is also being used on cancer patients, and the cancer patient’s trial is not cancelled. I would hate to think the cancer patients were continuing with the risky treatments because they were closer to death, but I suspect that’s the reasoning behind the decision.

The neurologist was particularly amusing this time.

First off, the doctor wouldn’t shake hands with me because I have the Eye Cooties. I usually prefer not to shake hands anyway, but he had heard from the nurse who took my vitals that I had a new medication that was going to kill the mites that are boning each other in my pores. (Per NIH: ”The gestation and development of the Demodex eyelash mite is a remarkably rapid process, with eggs hatching just 3 to 4 days after” [snicker] “being laid.” The babies conceived the day I went to the ophthalmologist are Grandmites now.)

Second, he has found a comic foil in his note-taking AI. I reported the latest fall (peony cage in the spring) and he said again how yoga can really help with balance, and I said again that I only fall when I’m gardening. Then I added I did totter a number of times in Kansas City. he said “I know I have mentioned yoga to you a number of times before,’ and I said, “It’s really not a problem,” and he leaned in to the computer and said pointedly, “Yoga AGAIN recommended to the patient.” After that I was somehow able to walk twice as far heel-to-toe than ever before, and he then pointed to the lesion in my cerebellum that affects my balance and said, “YYYYOOOOOOOGGGAAAAAAA” to the computer.

I did actually look up yoga studios near me.

Finally, and this wasn’t particularly funny, but it was encouraging. I read that elderly people (c’est moi) have immune systems that begin to weaken (c’est moi), and if they are on immunosuppressants, doctors will just take them off those drugs entirely. My drug was already cut in half. I anticipated he was going to suggest I be taken off entirely. Evidently they won’t consider doing that until I am 75, so ten more years to go.

I knew I was in trouble when the ophthalmologist began reeling off a string of code numbers for the technician to transcribe. 5-D-8-inner. 8-D-2-mid.

Then she turned to me and said, “Well, we’ve discussed your dry eyes before.”

“Yes,” I said. I remember I was surprised, because I don’t feel like I have dry eyes, but I have been assured it is an issue.

‘Well,” she continued, “your age and your dry eyes and your immune system all combine to make your eyes an ideal habitat for mites.”

“Everyone has mites,” I volunteered, thinking, honey, my husband is the expert on gross things that live on your face. This is not news to me. I was very cool about it.

“That is true. You have a lot of them, though, in your lashes.”

“Oh, the ones that cause blepharitis?” I said, casually. (See me using “blepharitis” and not just saying “eye styes.” So cool, so casual.) “I had two styes already this summer, but just a damp washcloth gets rid of them in a day.”

“And they will keep coming back,” she said, “unless you get rid of the mites that are causing them, and that requires a medication called XDEMVY. It is quite expensive, but if you need financial assistance you can apply for a grant.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking, coolly, I will not need a grant, madam, I can pay to kill my own mites.

And I continued to be cool UNTIL TODAY WHEN I READ FURTHER MITE DETAILS — specifically, how I went from a normal number of mites to Mite Overpopulation.

I go to sleep, and when the lights are off, this happens:

Mr. Mite crawls out of my eyelash pore or face pore (either will do).

Mr. Mite takes his penis (YES) which is inconveniently positioned on his BACK (YES) and through artful maneuvering inserts his BACK-PENIS into Mrs. Mite’s vulva (which is by her legs, as it should be). I first imagined Mrs. Mite might do a handstand inside my pore so her private parts protrude and then Mr. Mite might roll on her, but in reality they both climb up on an eyelash or face hair.

And then he ejaculates. THIS IS NOT COOL. I draw the line here. NOT. COOL.

If the positioning doesn’t work out then Mr. Mite’s baby mite batter just dribbles down the hair into my pore (AGAIN, SO. NOT. COOL.) and impregnates his wife in an indirect and disappointing way.

Then the babies are birthed into my pore, and New Mommy and Daddy Mite crawl onto my skin, and there they die. I am cool with that.

Even worse, when it occurred to me that the mites are not legally wed, that it’s just a mite Fuckfest On My FACE every night when the lights go out, just a back-penis / pore pregnancy FaceFuckfest, that was when I made plans.

Plans:

1. Do not turn out the lights at night.
2. Call to see if the eye doctor has submitted the prescription yet.
3. Get this image out of my head. It is a skinny mite penis. (See it below centered in the white dashed circle by the arrow I added because mite penises are very small). (Original non-annotated Image can be found on the IFLS web site.