Imuran can be a real pain in the ass, but I’m more comfortable now than I’ve ever been.
After I was diagnosed via Live! television, my doctor prescribed one of the 5-ASAs (5-Aminosalicylates, mesalamine, usually?): Asacol, which she described to me as a internal topical drug. It worked nicely until I returned to work and my computer screen began dissolving in sparkly waves, much like the Scooby-Doo effect. Exit Asacol.
Next up on the relatively-harmless-for-twenty-or-so-years was Pentasa, a slightly milder, different 5-ASA stuffed in whopping big capsules. I took a dose of about 1500 mgs per day, which I think was three pills taken at varying times. It looked like I was pooping confetti. Or like I’d chugged a bottle of cake decorating dots – sadly, without the party colors.
Even with the party going on four times daily, Dr. K wanted to try Pentasa for a little longer. The cash price for the 500 mg pills was a little steep, so my mom (who works as a tech in a pharmacy) decided that we should try ordering from Canada. So we ordered online and waited, somewhat furtively, for the package to show up.
Pentasa is a pretty reliable drug. When it works, it works well. When it doesn’t, you generally get confetti-poop and a whole bucket of gut ache. A few days after my giant Canadian package arrived, Dr. K decided the Pentasa wasn’t working (which it wasn’t) and that we should try the next level of drug, immunosuppressors. She handed me a info sheet about 6-MP and we talked about the horrendous side effects, and she told me to stop worrying/sniffling/crying. (And fuck YOU, I thought, but she must see that/hear that all the time, for she did not respond to my psychic threats.) I sat on my hands thinking about the Pentasa (illegal? Law-bendy? No problem?). I think doctors have a privacy clause with patients, right? They can’t tell the feds that you buy your expensive meds from outside the country, (traitorous hooch) but how else did those busloads of people get caught?
A ha. Ha. Ahem.
So I went home with an unfilled prescription, to some roommates who had Cheetoes, bad romantic comedies, and beer, and to a heavy box of Canadian Pentasa. Because the best thing you can do in these cases is eat bad food and drink alcohol, and bust your gut even more laughing at stupid, pseudo-romantic lines like,
“Because someone once told me that the brown ones have less artificial coloring, because chocolate is already brown.”
aaaand cue the strings!
I think that box of pills is still stashed in my old bedroom at my folks’ house.