Friday, April 29, 2011

Fun With Poems

I was thinking the other day about poems. Whenever I come across one, I sort of have an inward-groan feeling, a kind of, "okay, let's get this over with." On a walk recently, I tried to think of a list of poems I have read and still remember. Here's what I came up with:

·        "Not Waving But Drowning," by Stevie Smith
·        "Richard Cory," by I don't remember who
·        "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," by Maya Angelou
·        "The Hollow Men," by T.S. Eliot
·        "The Triumph of Life," by Shelley (mostly because I wrote my senior thesis on it)
·        "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman
·        "One Art," by Elizabeth Bishop
·        "Ode to a Grecian Urn," by John Keats (mostly because it seemed we were always studying it and I never got what was so great about that stupid urn—or the poem)
·        "Howl," by Ginsberg (but I didn't like it)
·        A poem my sister wrote, but I can't remember the name

I can tell you the stories most of these poems tell, but not for all of them. And I can't remember more than two lines for any of them.

But, it was fun just thinking of the list, and then indulging in all the memories they brought—where I was when I first read them, how much (or if) I liked them, how much I talked about them in classes, and if I would say the same things now or if my opinions have changed.

How about you?

This Is a Good Idea

The Gillies blog has an interesting note on Better Place:

From Time, via The Climate Group:
When the enterprise launches in Israel later this year, drivers should be able to travel anywhere in the country in cars with a battery range of 100 miles (160 km). If they set off from Tel Aviv to the Red Sea, a journey of 200 miles (320 km), they will be able to pull into a Better Place station along the highway and exchange their low battery for a fully charged one. The process should take about five minutes. Otherwise, the car can recharge overnight via a plug that snaps into the little door above the rear wheel where gas would go if the car burned gas.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

End of the Line: Wednesday

Wake up later than I would like, but have a very good day. I take my walks, I do a little Pilates, then I take one more walk, because tomorrow, it's back to work, and the end of this surgery thread (I presume). I'm cleared to take my first run on Saturday—that should be interesting.

What I Learned
During the diagnosis process, there were many times I was utterly frustrated. The couple friends I told about my situation never failed to encourage me in pushing for a diagnosis, and then to get it resolved. Beloved was obviously wonderful, but I also need to shout-out to my friend Betsy. We take long walks on Sunday mornings (unless one of us is out of town) and Pilates on Tuesdays (unless one—or both--of us skips). Betsy heard about my plight in real time, and showed incredible patience, understanding, and never stopped reassuring me that I was doing the right thing by being aggressive in finding out what was happening.

Advice
If you are having an recurring ache or problem, remember that your doctors—wonderful though they may be—do not care as much about your health as you do. As in financial matters, you must be your own best advocate. There were many times I had to remind my doctor(s) where we were in the process and what they recommended for next steps. Take notes. Follow up. In my case, I never "knew" something was wrong, I just had an idea that maybe something wasn't quite right  I often felt silly or pushy…and worried pretty much the whole time that I might be making a meal out of something that wasn't a big deal.

Why Plans are a Bad Idea
There were many plans I had to put off during these past months, and that was frustrating—the last of which is that I now cannot take tomorrow off as I had long planned in order to watch the wedding (and if you don't know what wedding I mean, you are hopeless). Even so, I am so grateful!

Why I'm Grateful
·        I have good insurance.
·        I have good doctors.
·        I have a job where I can take time off and still get paid.
·        I live in a safe neighborhood so I could walk whenever, wherever.
·        It is absolutely beautiful this time of year, and I got to see spring!
·        I learned to have more patience, with myself and others.
·        National! Public! Radio!
·        Most of all, my fabulous friends and wonderful family. Calls, emails, surprise visits, surprise packages, flowers…even a snuggie!


What Surprised Me
·        I did not finish all my back-logged New Yorker magazines. I decided that if I couldn't find the time during my convalescence, I never would—so out they went (to recycling).

·        I did not watch any of the movies I ordered from Netflix. I barely got through Downton Abbey (through instant streaming), which I had already watched a lot of before my convalescence.

·        All my mental preparation for when my healing slowed down turned out to be useless…possibly because, as I realize in hindsight, my entire preparation was composed of "I hope that doesn't happen." 

·        I did not bounce back as quickly as I'd hoped. No amount of willpower will help sometimes. Just roll with it.

·        I can walk for long periods of time without worrying about catching up on my podcasts; instead, I AM constitutionally able to just walk and enjoy my surroundings.
·        I already knew that this world has a lot of sadness in it. Because I had time to read the paper so thoroughly every day, I now know it's even worse than I thought. Even so, most people are trying to be productive, and trying to make this world a better place.

Day Z: Tuesday

Wake up feeling nearly pain-free. Perhaps my pushing myself yesterday wasn't such a bad idea. My big project today is to go to Goodwill in order to donate all the clothes I no longer need. It's a breeze. I resist napping until late afternoon. I guess I'm at about 80% of normal, and it feels really, really good! The beautiful weather doesn't hurt.

Day Y: Monday

Wake up earliest I have so far--before 8. I start moving through my day--I want to be a little more aggressive with my activity level because I am going back to work soon! I go to a yoga class and at one point, become certain I'm pulling on my sutures too much. But I do my other exercises (a lot walking, a little Pilates) and feel so much better--I always forget that even if you "lose" some fitness ground, you can always build up again. At night, I find myself running up the stairs in my house, and am delighted!

Day X: Sunday

Happy Easter, if you celebrate it! We went out to brunch--another beautiful day and then back to ours, where I again--to my great surprise (especially after a 10-hour night)--fell asleep for three hours. I went out for a walk (Beloved has been working like mad and was taking a nap himself) and it was just gorgeous out. It was at the dinner hour and I passed house after house where family and friends were gathered to celebrate the holiday. I could hear the murmur of conversation, broken by laughter. It made me feel really warm and fuzzy, I tell you. When I get back, Beloved is up and we have a simple meal, but warmly shared, and we talk about how lucky we are.

Day Whatever: Saturday

Today, we are going on an adventure--my first real venture since surgery. We go to Beloved's sister's house and arrive at the tail-end (ha, ha) of a "doggie party" they are hosting. All the neighborhood dogs are there--the weather is absolutely beautiful and all the neighborhood kids and dogs are running around in the backyard. I talk to lots of nice people and even meet the author of "Mockingbird," which Beloved's sister gave me for Christmas and which I very much enjoyed (and highly recommend). I talked to a gastroenterologist and she explained what "actutely inflamed" meant, I blanched. I am more relieved than ever that they took the damn thing out!

At the end of the day, Beloved asked me how I was holding up, and if I were all tired out. I said I felt fine, then promptly slept for 10 hours straight.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Days Nine and Ten: Blending In

Yesterday was Day Nine and I felt much better. My walk took a shorter amount of time and I kept moving (albeit slowly) the whole day without much pain or problem. I feel more confident that I am on the road to recovery. I also talked to my mom for a long time. Sometimes when we talk, it’s more of an “mmm-hmmm, mmm-hmmm” conversation, but yesterday we really got all up into talking, and it was a real treat to be able to take the time and not feel pressured…even though she kept asking, “I can tell you’re doing something, what is it?” When I would tell her (laundry, putting away dishes, etc.), she would protest and tell me to sit down, I was just like my father.

Here’s a funny story about my father. I call him, “the man in motion” because he always is. He’s either cooking, tidying, working in his garden, or doing his train (he’s a trainiac and his model trains have infected our entire basement). One day, he had a medical test where something was inserted near his heart to monitor it. The doctor told him he had to take it easy or the thingie could move and he could die. My mom set him up in the living room and then went to do something. The next thing she heard was the vacuum cleaner. After she gave him the business and settled him back down, she went off to do something else. “Tck, tck, tck” she heard…he was wet mopping the kitchen floor. She gave him the business again and he promised he would sit still. Off she went only to hear, a few minutes later, the dustbuster going…she arrived on the scene to find him bent over (naturally) in order to tidy up some crumbs he had spied from the sofa. She told him he was going to give her a heart attack if he didn’t stop.


Day Ten is today. For the first time since my surgery, I got out of bed early. Sleep is still not coming easily, but still, I didn't like to get up so early! I went to my post-operative appointment with my surgeon and after he and I discussed how I’d been feeling (all very normal, and he suggested I take Benadryl for sleeping—duh, I should have thought of that), he said he had gotten the pathology (!) report back from the lab, and that my gallbladder had been not only inflamed, but acutely inflamed. I don’t know what the difference is between the two, but he was even more confident this would solve all my pain issues and that makes me very, very happy.

When I came back, I decided to take a nap, but couldn’t sleep, so instead I watched the rest of “Downton Abbey” which is magnificent! Mr. Collins, who knew you could be a romantic figure? And I’ve heard a second series is in the works. Excitement!

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Day Eight: The Worm Turns

Or Fortune’s face has turned, or something like that, because I feel a lot better.

It’s partly attributable to the pain meds, but in a strange way. I took them, and had the same night’s sleep as the previous two nights—fitful. And my pain level remained the same. Instead of this making me more impatient, I was intensely relieved. I realized that, in the words of Aimee Mann, “this is how it goes” for this story. It’s going to take longer than I wished and hoped to get back to normal. And, instead of this thought driving me to distraction, it brought me comfort. Likewise, all the things I kept thinking about as reasons to be grateful (and there are so many) suddenly transformed from items to beat myself with to thoughts that brought me comfort.

Right now, I feel pretty much at peace with the healing process. But mindful that there will be more bumps in the road.

I also figured out a shorter walk—one that takes only an hour. Yesterday. Today, it took 50 minutes and I felt much stronger. Progress!


I also think that I forgot to give a couple details that may (or may not) be interesting:

  1. I have four incisions. One in my sternum, and one in my belly button—these are the two places that hurt (but inside more than on the surface). The other two places are in my side. Sometimes, gallbladder surgery only requires one incision, but four is not unheard of.
  2. When I got home from the hospital, I was anxious to see how much I weighed—I can hear all the girls laughing already—I mean, I had gone 24 hours without food AND had lost an organ. Imagine my dismay to see I had GAINED 6 pounds  (which I have now lost—what that 6 pounds was I do not like to imagine).
  3. I know this sounds crazy, but I swear I could feel my other organs sloshing around down there in the first few days afterwards, like they were stretching out with all that room. It didn’t hurt—but it felt weird.
  4. My stomach has settled down now, but for a few days it was like a party in there. Anytime I ate anything, it was LOUD. Not painful, just noisy. One night, as I was laying on the sofa (reading) and Beloved was across the room (working on his laptop), I looked up and said, “Do you hear that?” He looked up and said, “are you serious?” It made me laugh.

Also, a big shout-out to my friends Joel and Joel, who made me homemade cookies! Joel stopped by as a surprise to deliver them on Tuesday night, and it really cheered me, just spending a few minutes chatting and laughing. I almost pulled a Lyndon Johnson and asked if he wanted to see my incisions, but I refrained. Just.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Day Seven: Child, Please

I get out of bed pretty early after another disappointing night’s sleep. I’m going crazy! And my muscles hurt, just from going on a walk! I talk to a friend and feel better. “Honey,” she says, “I sympathize with your wanting to be a bad-ass, but, um, it’s just Vicodin. I’m not saying it’s nothing, but it’s basically Tylenol. Take it as prescribed.” I decide I will go back on my pain meds. At least at night. The pain is completely manageable, but it's just always there. Even though I go through all the reasons why I should feel grateful--so many!--I still can't shake my little black dog. But, I also know these little dips are to be expected, and tomorrow will be a better day. And someday I will hike and run and take long walks and run up and down the stairs in my house like it's nothing. And maybe go to Vegas!

Day Six: Ho, Hum

Hey, dumbass! Skipping your meds is another dumb idea, because no sleep was to be had! I get out of bed and go on what I project will be a 30-minute walk but what is actually a 90-minute walk, because everything I do, I do.very.slowly. I try and tell myself that I’m just being “mindful” and that it’s a sort of yogic practice. But it’s very trying. I feel depressed. I look online and see this is a very common side-effect of general anesthesia, and it will wear off. I do what I always try and do when I feel low, and I keep busy. But everything takes forever and the only result is that I feel overtired, more in pain, and anxious about everything—what’s happening at work, all that’s sliding at home, and all those plans, still sitting there, idling! And when oh when will my condo sell?  Beloved arrives home and tells me that the guy who won the Boston Marathon didn't really, they won't count it, because he had a tail wind. That's outrageous!, I say. Will the guy who has a headwind who comes in a few seconds slower get a few second added? Ridiculous. Then he says that not everyone who qualified for Boston got in because it was over-subscribed, and that (I'm simplifying here) now the qualifying times will actually be much harder to achieve. Curses! I knew I should have done the Richmond Marathon in November and qualified then! Damn this gallbladder (not the SOLE reason I couldn't do it, but one of the big reasons I didn't)!

I tell him about an article I read about restaurants in Las Vegas and he asks if I knew that there was an art gallery there and I said I don’t know, I might have and forgotten, but it sounds new to me,or maybe vaguely familiar, and maybe I even went there when I was there with my friend Tina? (this is about the caliber of my conversational skills, and I wish I were joking--that's what I mean when I say I'm very.slow. In everything!). And then he told me about the cool fountains at the Bellagio, and I told him about this other article I read about how difficult they were to build, all of which results in him Googling flights and rooms in Vegas and then we talk about adding on a trip to the Grand Canyon and it’s all lots of fun thinking about all the things we can do and places we can go when I’m all healed up. And after all that, do you think I take my pain meds so the pain abates just enough to get to sleep? No, I don’t, because I’m afraid of becoming dependent on them and because I think (wrongly) that the sooner I’m off meds, the sooner I’ll be myself again.

Day Five: The Bumpies Arrive

Ugh. I suddenly feel convinced that I’m not getting any traction. I sleep late. A generous friend drops by a Nora Roberts book, “Us” magazine, and Good ‘N Plenty. Awesome! I talk to another sister. Beloved suggests a short outing, onto which I promptly add two more overdue errands we can run. This is the…fifth? sixth? bad idea I’ve had. I snap at him. He snaps back, wounding me mortally! He takes me home. I fester. We argue. I realize I am mad. We make up. I sleep, hard, for several hours, and wake up feeling much better, much more like myself. I apologize again, but Beloved—being Beloved—says there’s nothing to apologize for. That night, I decide to skip my meds.

Day Four: Rainy Day/Recovery Day

All day long, it pisses down rain (as my friends in England would say).It was nice, looking out the windows, because all the trees are now budded out. I spent the day much as I did the day before. Sleeping. Reading. Eating. Everytime I wake up, I feel so much better, it's amazing. Sleep heals! I went off the pain meds during the day, and only took them that night.

Day Three: Recovery Begins

Today I was on my own. Beloved had to go to work. I slept very late, then crawled down to the couch, which Beloved had now dubbed “Command Central.” I had my medicine, my magazines, and my favorite cover down there. I checked my work email. I checked my personal email, and sent a few. I really felt in pretty fine fettle.

I slept. I read. I took my medicine. I talked to my sister. I slept. I ate. I slept. Beloved arrived home and I was feeling so well that I suggested we order pizza for dinner. This was another bad idea.

Day Two: The Ped Gets Out

So I passed out, feeling very poorly, once I got into my room at 11:30 p.m. (not to belabor this point, but…). I knew the nurse was coming back at 2:30 a.m. to start me on more antibiotics. After being awakened by the beeping of the malfunctioning IV, then the beeping of the malfunctioning leg-squeezers (the nurse came right away both times), I woke up at about 2:10 a.m. and felt about a million times better—interesting what sleep can do! I got up out of bed, I brushed my teeth (heaven), and changed out of my hospital gown and into my pajamas. Ahhh, I felt like a human again. The nurse came in and I told her I felt like a new woman!

I went back to sleep and woke up at 5:30 a.m., in some pain. It was time for my pain meds, but I decided to see if I could wait one extra hour. I figured there was no time like the present to start weaning myself off the pain meds. This was stupid. I called the nurse at 6:30 a.m. but because I left it for too long, I didn’t feel better until after my next dose at 12:30 p.m. At 7:00 a.m., Beloved arrived. I told him how much better I was feeling. Then the resident and his assistant came by and they told me again about my inflamed gallbladder and I nodded sagely and asked when I could get out. They promised that after I had breakfast and “could tolerate it” (keep it down), I could go (I’d had nothing to eat the day before, just some ginger ale and beef boullion). The surgeon then stopped by and he gave a similar report, I asked the same questions, got the same answers. Then the breakfast came—they gave me everything because they weren’t sure what diet I was on. Since I need to be on a low-fat diet for awhile, I ate the grapes and the oatmeal, leaving the French toast and bacon (I know!) on the tray. So close, my lovelies, yet so far. After I ate, I got dressed. An hour later, they pulled out that mother-loving IV and let me go! I walked out with Beloved, very slowly.

The day before, every limb in my body cried out unto the heavens. On this day, just my trunk did. It felt s if a bomb had gone off inside my body. We got home, and I spent the rest of the day sleeping, waking up to take medicine and eat a bit, then go back to sleep.

One thing I forgot to mention: on the day of surgery, around midday, I felt a very sharp pain all along my right shoulder, and down my right arm. I thought I might be having a heart attack (excepting it was on the wrong side of the body. I think.), but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want anyone messing with me any further. The next day, I mentioned it to the nurse and she said that it was due to the general anesthesia, that getting it affected the blah blah blah, which made the shoulder really hurt because of blah blah blah blah blah. It made sense to me at the time, but I wasn’t, as Oprah would say, living my very best life just then in the listening department. I was just satisfied that there was a reason and that it would go away.

Day One: Surgery

Get to the hospital early and get processed through. All very professional and not much time to get worried (I’ve never even had a broken bone before, so I was really apprehensive about the surgery, even though I knew it was minor). As I was wheeled in, the anesthesiologist called out, “okay, start the joy juice!” “That sounds pretty good to me,” I said, laughing. The next thing I remember, the surgeon(s) and nurse(s) were leaning over saying, “all done—and you’ll be all healed up in time for bikini season.” “Honey,” I said, fighting through the fog, “if I ever had bikini days, they are long behind me.” Then I was in the recovery room, where I heard a nurse say, “on a scale of one to ten, what would you say your pain level is at?” I said,”uh, an 8.” Immediately I felt something wonderful go right to where my pain points were and after dozing for a few minutes, the patient liaison came by and said, “oh, good, you’re awake. Can you tell me who’s out in the waiting room for you?” I told her Beloved, and she asked if there was a message she could deliver to him. “Tell him I love him, I can’t wait to see him, and tell him I hope my parents don’t keep him on the phone too long.”

The next hours were boring. They wanted to keep me overnight because my gallbladder was inflamed and had been pressing up against my liver, so they wanted to douse me with antibiotics through my IV to make sure all was well there. But, they couldn’t find a bed for me and they let everyone else in recovery take what opened up because “I was doing so well.” I didn’t feel so good, but I could tell from the noises around me that I was better off then my fellows, so it made sense. Meanwhile, outside the recovery room, Beloved was giving them the business, saying I couldn’t be comfortable so he was just going to take me home. I passed the day people-watching, too dull-witted to read, too much in pain to sleep (after the first IV pain meds, I was just given a low dose of Vicodin—again, because I was doing so well and the more with it you are, the better they can tell that you’re coming out of the general anesthesia). They brought Beloved back for only infrequent visits, which “vexed me greatly” (name the quote). At the end of the first visit, the nurse pulled back the curtain, catching me stroking Beloved’s face. “Oh, no,” she laughed, “I can see you turning red. I embarrassed you.” “No way,” I croaked, “I won’t be ashamed of our love.” She gave Beloved the side-eye and said, “please tell me that’s the medication talking.” Beloved laughed and said, “Nope—that’s just her.” Later, when I was the only one left, the nurses told me how well I was doing…I could walk back and forth to the bathroom with assistance. It felt painful and the only assignment I can give the pain is that it was like I had done 10,000 abdominal crunches, plus my whole body including all limbs were asking, “Dude, what the hell happened?” The nurses encouraged me to stand up straight, and I felt like I’d rip my insides if I did, but I did it as best I could.

By the time I got a bed, it was 11:30 p.m.—about 12 hours after I woke up from my surgery. I took my pain meds and went right to sleep. I felt very poorly at that point.

Oh, but I have to mention two things:

  1. Nurses rock—this will have to be a whole other post.
  2. They have these leg compression thingies. They go on your shins and they regularly compress around the bottom of your legs, then go limp. They are awesome; I believe it’s to encourage blood flow, since none of my limbs or digits ever fell asleep, and I was in bed for a long, long time.


A Visit from My Niece

A few weeks ago, my parents came to visit. With them came my niece, whom I’ll call “Rachel.” Rachel is 8, and was on spring break. Perfect timing.

I had so much fun with Rach. She is a very easy-going, very articulate, and very funny. The first thing you need to know is how often she turns cartwheels.

“What do you want for lunch, Rach?”

“Clam chowder” (cartwheel, cartwheel). “Can I have a rootbeer to drink?”

“How much milk did you drink today?”

“Ohhh” (cartwheel, cartwheel).

“Just drink one more small glass, and then you can have all the rootbeer you want.”

“Oh-“ (cartwheel) “kay.”


“Wanna play ‘Ruckus’ with me?” (cartwheel)

“Sure.”

“Will you shuffle the cards and pass them out?” (cartwheel)

“Sure. Go find out if Grandma wants to play.” (cartwheel the whole way over)




Rachel loves to do what she calls “chitty-chat.” So there we were, chitty-chatting while she occasionally did cartwheels when suddenly she came out of a cartwheel to pronounce, very gravely, “your house smells like cinnamon.”

“It does?”

“Yup.” (cartwheel, cartwheel)

“Your other house did, too.”

“Well, I guess that’s a pretty good thing, huh. I’d hate to have a stinky house.”

“Yeah, it is a good thing, and I know, because I have a sensitive nose.” (cartwheel)


During one of our chitty-chats, Rachel told me about some extensive dental work she had done. We talked about it for a long time and then moved on to other subjects.

“By the way,” she said, “you have plaque on your teeth.”

“I do?” I asked, unable to resist bringing my hand up to my mouth.

“Oh yeah,” she confirmed.

“Oh, for heavens’ sake,” I said.

“Well, don’t worry too much about it. I’m sort of an expert on teeth, so I don’t think most people would even notice.”


Rachel hated drinking her milk every day. My mom and I would say all sorts of things to try and induce her to improve her attitude, to no avail.

“At least it’s not powdered milk, which is all we had when I was growing up,” I said. “It was deee-sgusting.”

“And just think about all the children in Japan,” my mom said.

“Why?,” asked Rachel.

“Well, they have a nuclear power plant problem and they can’t even drink their milk right now, because they’re not sure it’s safe.”

We talked briefly about the earthquake and tsunami and how terrible it all was while Rachel looked on, thoughtfully. Finally, she took a deep breath and said wistfully, “I wish I lived in Japan.”

“Why?,” my mom and I cried, horrified.

“Well, it might be bad, but at least I wouldn’t have to drink milk.”



When Rachel visited last year, we did a lot of walking around. She came up with a classification of streets—busy streets were “community streets.” Side streets were “neighborhood streets.” If we were deciding on the day’s activities, she would often ask, “well, how many community streets will we need to cross to get there?” At first, we couldn’t figure out what she meant. Later, I thought it was a brilliant, kid-sized way of figuring out city traffic patterns—and communicating how scary some elements could seem.

I was delighted to find out that she remembered her designations, and would occasionally call them out when we were walking around. But this year, there was glee in her voice. “Watch out,” she would holler, “here comes a community street!”



One night, we played “salon.” I was the client, and Rachel was the technician. We started making up personas along the way. I can’t remember mine (excepting the name of my husband, which was Prince George Von Vilkening Von Vilkenstein, which Rachel thought very funny), but Rachel not only owned and ran the salon (and attended to clients), but she also owned and ran a horse farm, and also a dog pound, and also, she had some clients in California—in the entertainment business. She also had two kids. I asked her what she did for fun, and she said, “well, I play with my kids, or go out to eat with my husband. But mostly, I play with my dogs and horses.” The game went on for several hours. By the time it ended, my hair had never been combed so thoroughly, my hands could not have taken one more spec of moisturizer, my feet were sopping wet (don’t ask), and there was water EVERYWHERE on our hardwood floors. But I couldn’t have been happier.


I sure do miss that kid. And her cartwheels, too.


Surgery: Background

I recently had surgery to remove my gallbladder. Even more recently, I decided to blog about it, in hopes that it will help others and help me retain my sense of perspective and good humor. I have resolved to make each entry three short paragraphs long only, so I’d better get going on this post.

Beginning in college, I would occasionally experience a particular kind of stomach pain. It felt like someone had inserted a sharp knife right into my sternum, and was very slowly turning it. The only treatment during an attack is to lay on a sofa, curl into the fetal position, and lean against the back at a 45 degree angle. And try not to breathe, because breathing hurts. It’s painful enough that you can’t read or even watch TV. You just wait it out. And when it passed, it was GONE. No residual soreness, no nothing. Just a sleepless night. It usually (but not always) struck in the middle of the night, but other than that, there was no rhyme or reason to the attacks. I’d eat a lot—attack. I’d eat normally—attack. I’d be busy and stressed—attack. I’d be relaxed and easy—attack. On no discernable schedule—sometimes months would pass by with no attacks. Infuriating! But occasional and not really noticeable in the life we all lead—too much to do, not enough time to do it all!

But in the past two years, the attacks have come more frequently. In October, an attack bad enough to send me to the emergency room occurred, and when I was sent home four hours later in worse shape than when I arrived, I decided to embark on a medical odyssey to Get To The Bottom Of This. After too many appointments and way too many tests, I was diagnosed with having gallbladder disease and a recommendation to have it removed.

I was overjoyed to have a diagnosis. That night, my Beloved and I discussed the pros and cons of surgery. I wanted to put off having the surgery, because our wedding and all our other plans (and there are many!) had been put on hold for SIX MONTHS while we sorted this thing out. Why not move forward and I could take care of this later? Beloved was not persuaded, but I was successful in saying we should at least sleep on it. Shortly after midnight, I woke up with an attack. When Beloved noticed me gone and came downstairs some hours later, I said, “yes, it’s happening again and yes, I will have the surgery.” “Is there anything I can get you?,” he said, as usual. “No thanks,” I replied, as usual. “Go back to sleep and I’ll come back when this has passed. The next day, I booked the surgery.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Update: Wardrobe Doctor


I am so pleased to say that my recent meeting with the wardrobe doctor was an unmitigated success, and an excellent use of my time and money.

  • Up until very recently, I have lived in small places so had to be crafty about the storage of my clothes (under-bed storage bins a favorite tool in this). Now I have plenty of closet space so they're all hung/put away and the first thing I realized when I started pulling it all out is how many clothes I had. I was appalled. Especially when I realized how similar they all were.

  • My wardrobe doctor is passionate about her work, and the first thing she did was explain to me what colors look good on me. I don't remember what my skin tone is called but I have a dress that I wore in Miami for my friend Joel's birthday celebration that has them all, so that's helpful. "Just remember this dress!," she kept saying.

  • I should never wear either white or black. I have approximately 13 white tee shirts, and 400 black suits. I also have at least four black-and-white summer dresses.

  • When she saw my white tee shirts, she said she didn't know what to advise me to do, "since they were all obviously new." When I replied that actually, they were purchased in London over 6 years ago, I was impressed by how clean I had kept them. She was appalled. "Do you mean to tell me you've been wearing white next to your face for all those years?!" She was truly in distress.

  • As I pulled out black suit after black suit, she put her head in her hands. "Honey," she said, "have you never considered scarves?"

  • When I pulled out one black sheath-with-a-jacket number, she said, "I can't—I don't know what to say, I really don't. Why on earth would you ever wear that outfit?" I said it was my funeral dress. She stared at me and then said, "that is the only right thing you could have answered. It's perfect. Keep it."

In sum, it's such a relief to pull things out of my closet and feel like it all goes together, has a little flair, and suits me. And it's nice to not have so MUCH—it's all very simple and straightforward. More than half my clothes are now headed to Goodwill. They are all in excellent—okay, not all, but most!—condition. I am so glad someone will make some great finds, but it kills me—thrifty person I try to be—that I was so wasteful buying all those clothes.

And I'm not totally reformed. Another piece of advice the doctor gave me is that I have more than enough summer dresses and I shouldn’t buy any more—"ever." Something deep inside me, though, says that can't possibly be true, so today, I bought one more. It will be so cool and light! And it's in one of my colors!

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

This Is How Phobias Get Started

You know how sometimes you read or hear a story and you just can't shake it?

I really like reading The New Yorker magazine. Every time I read it, I find an article about something I never thought about or completely new information on a topic I thought I knew a lot about.

I am currently reading the February 7 issue, which has a lot of spooky articles in it. One of the articles is called "Crush Point," which is about how crowds turn into stampedes. It is a fascinating look at crowd dynamics: people don't stampede; they get stampeded (an important difference when most incidents are blamed on unruly troublemakers). It's also so.freaking.sad.

Accompanying the article was a photo from a stampede that happened at a soccer match in England. Several people died. The photo was of a mesh enclosure people had been crushed against. The photo made me gasp. I won't describe it because it was too scary.

I've certainly been in lots of crowds and there have been times where I felt like I didn't have self-determination as to where I was going or how fast (the "Taste of Chicago" festival comes to mind). But I've never experienced anything truly frightening.

An expert in the article provided the following pointers if you're feeling unsafe in a crowd:

  • Move with the crowd, but on a diagonal (so you can work your way to the edge)
  • Keep your elbows bent (most people who die in stampedes die of asphyxiation because there is literally not enough room to take a breath)
  • If you do go down, try and cover your head

I can't really get over the article or that photo.