It always seems arbitrary. That whole setting goals/resolutions/crap. It also seems pressured. The kiss at midnight, champagne celebration, big party scene. Well, I've been through a ton of these (ok, only 33 of them, but still). There are some that stand out as my favorites, and others I wished never had happened. Here are a few:
Best:
2002 Had dinner with my parents, dear friends from New Orleans, and my husband (although this was technically our first date). We met at my apartment in the avenues, drove to my parents house for dinner of prime rib, mashed potatoes, and Caesar salad. Then we went downtown to see my brother's band play at a fun bar. There J picked up most of the liquor tabs, he didn't drink to be the responsible driver, Kristina and I ended up on stage singing with my brother, and then J and I had our first real kiss at midnight. We went back to my apartment where my friends slept on a blow up bed in the adjacent room while J and I talked until dawn. He left the next day back to medical school. The rest is history.
Other fun times:
2000 Went to my friend, Kara's, house where she was a wonderful bartender of cosmos and other martinis. Sushi was ordered in. I met a really nice Scottish guy who later ended up becoming a boyfriend of one of my friends. I drove home and spent the countdown to midnight alone in my bathtub with a bubble bath of plumeria from San Francisco. I listened to the fireworks from downtown and savored choosing to be alone.
1980's Being up at the ranch with my cousins. We got a little cream de minthe from Pop. At midnight (or 10:00) we would take pans and bang them outside to welcome the new year. Then we would cuddle into bed.
Worst time:
1997 Travelled home from grad school. Went out to the old Green Street with sorority sisters and fraternity friends with a large cover charge. At the time I was just beginning to date he-who-shall-not-be-named and really wanted to give it a solid go (aka not do anything to jeapordize the potential of a future relationship). I met my ex who wasn't particularly smokin' hot, but we had a lot of chemistry. He wanted to hook up and I denied him. When I went home he called multiple times during the night cursing me. My parents had learned to move the phone to the office where they couldn't hear it, but I could.
This year J is barely making it home from work at 8:00 PM. We will be lucky if we make it til New Years. We will probably do something easy for dinner, drink some Veuve Cliquot, kiss and go to bed. I doubt we'll make it until midnight.
Life is so much easier without the pressure. I used to think it was just the pressure of being single, but it also exists when you are married. Price fixed meals at savory restaurants, first night buttons, fireworks, hot musical acts at bars with high cover charges...none of it is worth it. For me, New Years is about new beginnings, but on a smaller more comfortable scale.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
My Christmas Gift
Christmas came a day late for me this year. The thrill of anticipation, counting down days, and getting details set up just right for the expected visitor. My visitor was a 60-some year-old jolly man with white hair, fantastic hugs, obscene humor, occupation as a children's hospital chaplain, and my former bridesmaid. He and his wife were traveling on the East coast for Christmas visiting family when they decided to invest in the journey of traveling to Boston. They did so just for the sole purpose of seeing me. It was exquisite delight.
These two have become integral parts of my chosen family. Michael has guided me through terrible breakups, family drama, love drunkenness with my husband, and work mishaps. I advised him through marital issues, adult children antics, work challenges, and personal discovery. I didn't know if I liked him when I first met him almost 9 years ago. He was ambitious, happy, extroverted, and reflective. It only took me a few months to discover how similar we were. In many ways we mirrored our desired characteristics and our personal flaws. We navigated a very close friendship despite the 30 year difference. One of my favorite memories was during the rehearsal for my wedding Michael blurted out to the Priest, "Are we going to sing the song, 'I gave her a ring and she gave me the finger?'" While I thought my MIL was going to faint, while laughing I said a silent prayer of thanks that Michael and Father Stan were good friends.
When J would come into town we made a point of having dinner with Michael and his wife. We made dinner a few times and went over to their house as well. One thing was for certain: Scotch was always involved. The man was a connoisseur. He would host tastings by donning a kilt, educating the masses about regions of Scotland and the people who made each brand whilst describing the nose and the flavors left on stinging palates. This visit was no exception. Talisker 18 from the Isle of Skye flowed freely.
It was their 26th anniversary on December 26th and we were their invited guests for the celebration. I took an excruciating taxi ride downtown to the Union Club. They were staying in the 1863 establishment, originally designed to be a place of strategy during the Civil War. Its opulence and elegance was everything I could have imagined for it was on Boston Common, steps away from the Massachusetts State House. We talked and shared the liquid gold while J rushed from the hospital to meet us. A short walk to Winter Street and we entered Locke-Ober, a historic restaurant filled with dark mahogany corners, crystal stemware, brass railed bars, lush ruby carpet, and waiters in bow ties. We dined on Lobster Savannah, French white burgundy, bisque, and Caesar salad with fresh anchovies. Michael out did us all with the Baked Alaska. He also pocketed the cork to write down the occasion and date as a concrete reminder of great memories. Another shared quirk that was discovered. It was unseasonably warm for a Boston December night, but J offered Susan his coat for the walk back.
The following night I wanted to host them to dinner at our house. Its a tricky prospect given my recent surgery and unreasonable restrictions. But I was determined even if it meant defrosting soup my Mom made, throwing a salad together, but serving it with linen napkins by candlelight. It was our elegant invalid dinner party complete with a flannel pajama wearing hostess on pain killers and the others with colds. Susan was out for the count with her cold in full force, but Michael caught a ride with J after work. We finished off the small bottle of Talisker and opened a bottle of our collected wine selection (now we both have a cork). Alas the dinner ended early as we were all worried about Susan. I kept my tears in until the door shut as I do with all my good-byes.
These two have become integral parts of my chosen family. Michael has guided me through terrible breakups, family drama, love drunkenness with my husband, and work mishaps. I advised him through marital issues, adult children antics, work challenges, and personal discovery. I didn't know if I liked him when I first met him almost 9 years ago. He was ambitious, happy, extroverted, and reflective. It only took me a few months to discover how similar we were. In many ways we mirrored our desired characteristics and our personal flaws. We navigated a very close friendship despite the 30 year difference. One of my favorite memories was during the rehearsal for my wedding Michael blurted out to the Priest, "Are we going to sing the song, 'I gave her a ring and she gave me the finger?'" While I thought my MIL was going to faint, while laughing I said a silent prayer of thanks that Michael and Father Stan were good friends.
When J would come into town we made a point of having dinner with Michael and his wife. We made dinner a few times and went over to their house as well. One thing was for certain: Scotch was always involved. The man was a connoisseur. He would host tastings by donning a kilt, educating the masses about regions of Scotland and the people who made each brand whilst describing the nose and the flavors left on stinging palates. This visit was no exception. Talisker 18 from the Isle of Skye flowed freely.
It was their 26th anniversary on December 26th and we were their invited guests for the celebration. I took an excruciating taxi ride downtown to the Union Club. They were staying in the 1863 establishment, originally designed to be a place of strategy during the Civil War. Its opulence and elegance was everything I could have imagined for it was on Boston Common, steps away from the Massachusetts State House. We talked and shared the liquid gold while J rushed from the hospital to meet us. A short walk to Winter Street and we entered Locke-Ober, a historic restaurant filled with dark mahogany corners, crystal stemware, brass railed bars, lush ruby carpet, and waiters in bow ties. We dined on Lobster Savannah, French white burgundy, bisque, and Caesar salad with fresh anchovies. Michael out did us all with the Baked Alaska. He also pocketed the cork to write down the occasion and date as a concrete reminder of great memories. Another shared quirk that was discovered. It was unseasonably warm for a Boston December night, but J offered Susan his coat for the walk back.
The following night I wanted to host them to dinner at our house. Its a tricky prospect given my recent surgery and unreasonable restrictions. But I was determined even if it meant defrosting soup my Mom made, throwing a salad together, but serving it with linen napkins by candlelight. It was our elegant invalid dinner party complete with a flannel pajama wearing hostess on pain killers and the others with colds. Susan was out for the count with her cold in full force, but Michael caught a ride with J after work. We finished off the small bottle of Talisker and opened a bottle of our collected wine selection (now we both have a cork). Alas the dinner ended early as we were all worried about Susan. I kept my tears in until the door shut as I do with all my good-byes.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Catch-up
Y'all can stop holding your collective breath, holding candlelight vigils, and whatnot. I made it through the surgery just fine. I was just neglectful of posting the success on the blog. That is totally my bad.
The surgery itself was uneventful with the small exception of it taking a bit longer than expected as the herniation was bigger than what my surgeon expected. I spent 2.5 hours in the OR and 2.5 hours in PACU. They gave me dose after dose of meds and my pain was still awful. I've learned to accept that I'll never be pain free so on a scale of 1-10, a good old fashioned 5 is quite manageable. I asked to be put on the floor of my original admission, but was denied the request and got put on the surgical unit. There the nurses were habitually late with pain meds requested 30-45 minutes ago. The aides never identified who they were and their, "Can I help you," had the tone of an impatient teenager. My 2 days there felt like an eternity.
During my 2 day stay there were eventful things happening outside of my realm. For one, Mom somehow got lost on the Mass Pike. I find this extremely interesting because the hospital isn't even near an on-ramp. She called lost and was giving me unfamiliar street names asking how to get home. Because I was in the hospital my signal was weak and my GPS never did find the network. I was quite the site standing by the window (for a better signal) tethered to the IV pole, cursing my phone and becoming anxious about my Mom, and an open gown in the back, when my nurse came in. I gave up and hobbled back to bed. She finally found a fire station and went in to ask the nice men how to get home. She made it and then poured herself a large pineapple and vodka, easy on the juice. Its kind of like how chips are just a mere vehicle for salsa to land in my mouth. You go for the good stuff. Hell, I could have used a cocktail at that point too.
Another choice event was my home health nurse calling the physicians assistant and telling him what the orders should be for my pain. Good times there. Upon discharge, I was handed two scripts for pain meds along with a laundry list of things I cannot do for 2 months. 2 months. I have to say it again because it blows my mind: 2 months. No lifting anything over 4 pounds, no twisting, no torquing, no bending forward (they even drew me a diagram with stick figures showing what this looks like...because apparently I am daft), no driving, no household chores, no cooking, no laundry, no baths, no walking Edgar (as he pulls). etc.
Mom and I ventured to the pharmacy only to be told that they couldn't fill the oxycontin right now. They had to wait 24 hours. Are you freakin kidding me?!? My anger wasn't directed at the pharmacists, but at that stupid nurse who discharged me and my doc who wrote the script in the first place. I called the nurse and played lawyer. It didn't get me far but I felt better pointing out that she knew of a hospital policy of faxing the script a day in advance of the discharge, but didn't follow it. Humph. So there. Thank God for my bossy home health nurse. I called her as a desperate crying patient looking for help. She somehow talked another pharmacy into filling the script regardless of the guidelines. God bless the Lucy's in this Charlie Brown world.
The days blur together. Things I think happened actually never took place. And things that were real get mistaken for dreams. Mom was awesome making meals, doing laundry, making homemade candy (as is the tradition of the Temple legacy at Christmas), walking Edgar, and the best part is she washed the floors. This seriously was one of my top wishes on my Christmas list and it came true!!! However all good things come to an end like the last piece of sweet almond roca or the last drizzle of (also sweet) boxed wine and Mom went off to the airport. I think she was happy to return back home. "Are you sure you don't want to reschedule now and go tomorrow when the conditions are better?" We'd ask looking at the weather reports of heavy snow. "Oh, no. I'm certain its fine," she said carrying a bag bigger than she was out the door. Sure enough her flight was canceled, but she got re-booked on another one 2 or so hours later, waited on standby in Minneapolis, and took a taxi home at midnight from Salt Lake International.
Mom and J even got Christmas up while she was in town. It took 4 nights but who's counting, right? I am just so grateful that on the one Christmas without family we had a tree with lights all a glow and sparkling lights. They tried the first night, but I looked up the store hours only to find that it closed an hour before so they made the best of it and went to Costco. The second night it was race against the clock to get the tree, wreath, eggnog, and some cranberries to boot. J decided to saw the tree for better water uptake and began to drill the hole into the bottom when the electric drill lost power and he almost melted into a puddle of frustrated tears. The third night everyone was too tired so the tree just looked awfully pretty leaning up against the outside of our house. The fourth night we spiked the eggnog and the tasks were completed! The tree was a leaning spectacle of glory and J was ambitious enough to begin stringing the garlands (not my idea) when by garland #2, his frustration levels were maxed and now we (still) have a hanging garland draped from the ceiling over the TV, down by the candles, and onto the floor. That was over a week ago.
There was some miscommunication about the stockings. Ginny made my stocking for my first Christmas. It has a narrow patchwork front with my name and year of birth on the front and a red velvet backing. Its hung on the mantle every year and J got his own, also with his name embroidered, the first year of our marriage. I thought Mom was going to bring them, she decided to leave them home. I wondered if it was because my Dad was afraid he'd never get them back. Both he and Mom got theirs from Ginny after they married. In the dilemma of the missing stockings, Mom suggested we hang festive pillowcases. Pillowcases. I decided to embroider them. Its no pottery barn, but that class Mom made me go to after school when I was 6 paid off. J's looked like a lot of love went into it, something perhaps a 10 year old would do. They hung next to the fallen garland.
On Christmas Eve, we were invited up to our landlord's house (upstairs) for dinner with her family. I was excited, RSVP'd, and asked what we could bring. The dream was fun while it lasted until Jon reminded me that I'm not able to do stairs yet and my physical therapist agreed. The fear of me falling and wrecking my back caused me to cancel. She vowed to bring food down and said she felt so bad for me, but she understood. J came home that night in a puddle of goo. Some sort of virus was making merry in his sinuses and we settled on soup and bread for dinner. It wasn't the festive madness that Christmas Eve typically is for us. Usually we try to hit 2 to 3 family houses on Christmas Eve night. The best one we always look forward to is my dad's side of the family. Its low key, but high fun. Everyone still exchanges small gifts and its usually the dogs who make out like bandits. Treats, toys, etc. By report of my mom, this year was no exception and it was a blast.
I set my alarm for early Christmas morning. Even though I'm not supposed to cook (lifting and torquing issues), I had prepared a brunch casserole and wanted to give J a festive breakfast before he went off to see patients. Problem is, I slept through my alarms...3 of them apparently. J didn't. He got up and wasn't quiet about things (I heard the oven door slam in one of my dreams), but he got it in the oven. I woke from my slumber about an hour later. I could smell the eggs. A 30 minute casserole had been cooking for double the time. However, it was still edible. We both hoped for an early day which probably jinxed it. Poor J didn't come home until about 9:00. We opened presents and had a glass of wine. We talked to our parents and finally decided to do something for dinner. Hours before, I had made a Merlot reduction sauce (again, not supposed to cook and have a 2 -4 pound weight limit for lifting), and attempted salad dressing (harder than it looks with the shaking/whisking), and literally tossed potatoes into the oven for baking (can't bend forward). All of these were terrible ideas brought on by my compulsive need to make things special for Christmas. By 10:30, the steaks were mediocre (mine was awful), the potatoes were hard, and we decided a complicated salad would be too difficult but a handful of spinach would do just fine.
Usually I get the let-down feeling after Christmas just because of all of the activity is over. This year I just feel relief.
The surgery itself was uneventful with the small exception of it taking a bit longer than expected as the herniation was bigger than what my surgeon expected. I spent 2.5 hours in the OR and 2.5 hours in PACU. They gave me dose after dose of meds and my pain was still awful. I've learned to accept that I'll never be pain free so on a scale of 1-10, a good old fashioned 5 is quite manageable. I asked to be put on the floor of my original admission, but was denied the request and got put on the surgical unit. There the nurses were habitually late with pain meds requested 30-45 minutes ago. The aides never identified who they were and their, "Can I help you," had the tone of an impatient teenager. My 2 days there felt like an eternity.
During my 2 day stay there were eventful things happening outside of my realm. For one, Mom somehow got lost on the Mass Pike. I find this extremely interesting because the hospital isn't even near an on-ramp. She called lost and was giving me unfamiliar street names asking how to get home. Because I was in the hospital my signal was weak and my GPS never did find the network. I was quite the site standing by the window (for a better signal) tethered to the IV pole, cursing my phone and becoming anxious about my Mom, and an open gown in the back, when my nurse came in. I gave up and hobbled back to bed. She finally found a fire station and went in to ask the nice men how to get home. She made it and then poured herself a large pineapple and vodka, easy on the juice. Its kind of like how chips are just a mere vehicle for salsa to land in my mouth. You go for the good stuff. Hell, I could have used a cocktail at that point too.
Another choice event was my home health nurse calling the physicians assistant and telling him what the orders should be for my pain. Good times there. Upon discharge, I was handed two scripts for pain meds along with a laundry list of things I cannot do for 2 months. 2 months. I have to say it again because it blows my mind: 2 months. No lifting anything over 4 pounds, no twisting, no torquing, no bending forward (they even drew me a diagram with stick figures showing what this looks like...because apparently I am daft), no driving, no household chores, no cooking, no laundry, no baths, no walking Edgar (as he pulls). etc.
Mom and I ventured to the pharmacy only to be told that they couldn't fill the oxycontin right now. They had to wait 24 hours. Are you freakin kidding me?!? My anger wasn't directed at the pharmacists, but at that stupid nurse who discharged me and my doc who wrote the script in the first place. I called the nurse and played lawyer. It didn't get me far but I felt better pointing out that she knew of a hospital policy of faxing the script a day in advance of the discharge, but didn't follow it. Humph. So there. Thank God for my bossy home health nurse. I called her as a desperate crying patient looking for help. She somehow talked another pharmacy into filling the script regardless of the guidelines. God bless the Lucy's in this Charlie Brown world.
The days blur together. Things I think happened actually never took place. And things that were real get mistaken for dreams. Mom was awesome making meals, doing laundry, making homemade candy (as is the tradition of the Temple legacy at Christmas), walking Edgar, and the best part is she washed the floors. This seriously was one of my top wishes on my Christmas list and it came true!!! However all good things come to an end like the last piece of sweet almond roca or the last drizzle of (also sweet) boxed wine and Mom went off to the airport. I think she was happy to return back home. "Are you sure you don't want to reschedule now and go tomorrow when the conditions are better?" We'd ask looking at the weather reports of heavy snow. "Oh, no. I'm certain its fine," she said carrying a bag bigger than she was out the door. Sure enough her flight was canceled, but she got re-booked on another one 2 or so hours later, waited on standby in Minneapolis, and took a taxi home at midnight from Salt Lake International.
Mom and J even got Christmas up while she was in town. It took 4 nights but who's counting, right? I am just so grateful that on the one Christmas without family we had a tree with lights all a glow and sparkling lights. They tried the first night, but I looked up the store hours only to find that it closed an hour before so they made the best of it and went to Costco. The second night it was race against the clock to get the tree, wreath, eggnog, and some cranberries to boot. J decided to saw the tree for better water uptake and began to drill the hole into the bottom when the electric drill lost power and he almost melted into a puddle of frustrated tears. The third night everyone was too tired so the tree just looked awfully pretty leaning up against the outside of our house. The fourth night we spiked the eggnog and the tasks were completed! The tree was a leaning spectacle of glory and J was ambitious enough to begin stringing the garlands (not my idea) when by garland #2, his frustration levels were maxed and now we (still) have a hanging garland draped from the ceiling over the TV, down by the candles, and onto the floor. That was over a week ago.
There was some miscommunication about the stockings. Ginny made my stocking for my first Christmas. It has a narrow patchwork front with my name and year of birth on the front and a red velvet backing. Its hung on the mantle every year and J got his own, also with his name embroidered, the first year of our marriage. I thought Mom was going to bring them, she decided to leave them home. I wondered if it was because my Dad was afraid he'd never get them back. Both he and Mom got theirs from Ginny after they married. In the dilemma of the missing stockings, Mom suggested we hang festive pillowcases. Pillowcases. I decided to embroider them. Its no pottery barn, but that class Mom made me go to after school when I was 6 paid off. J's looked like a lot of love went into it, something perhaps a 10 year old would do. They hung next to the fallen garland.
On Christmas Eve, we were invited up to our landlord's house (upstairs) for dinner with her family. I was excited, RSVP'd, and asked what we could bring. The dream was fun while it lasted until Jon reminded me that I'm not able to do stairs yet and my physical therapist agreed. The fear of me falling and wrecking my back caused me to cancel. She vowed to bring food down and said she felt so bad for me, but she understood. J came home that night in a puddle of goo. Some sort of virus was making merry in his sinuses and we settled on soup and bread for dinner. It wasn't the festive madness that Christmas Eve typically is for us. Usually we try to hit 2 to 3 family houses on Christmas Eve night. The best one we always look forward to is my dad's side of the family. Its low key, but high fun. Everyone still exchanges small gifts and its usually the dogs who make out like bandits. Treats, toys, etc. By report of my mom, this year was no exception and it was a blast.
I set my alarm for early Christmas morning. Even though I'm not supposed to cook (lifting and torquing issues), I had prepared a brunch casserole and wanted to give J a festive breakfast before he went off to see patients. Problem is, I slept through my alarms...3 of them apparently. J didn't. He got up and wasn't quiet about things (I heard the oven door slam in one of my dreams), but he got it in the oven. I woke from my slumber about an hour later. I could smell the eggs. A 30 minute casserole had been cooking for double the time. However, it was still edible. We both hoped for an early day which probably jinxed it. Poor J didn't come home until about 9:00. We opened presents and had a glass of wine. We talked to our parents and finally decided to do something for dinner. Hours before, I had made a Merlot reduction sauce (again, not supposed to cook and have a 2 -4 pound weight limit for lifting), and attempted salad dressing (harder than it looks with the shaking/whisking), and literally tossed potatoes into the oven for baking (can't bend forward). All of these were terrible ideas brought on by my compulsive need to make things special for Christmas. By 10:30, the steaks were mediocre (mine was awful), the potatoes were hard, and we decided a complicated salad would be too difficult but a handful of spinach would do just fine.
Usually I get the let-down feeling after Christmas just because of all of the activity is over. This year I just feel relief.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Red Light, Green Light
When I was little I never understood the game, "red light, green light." The person in charge knows that they will be tagged and really it is to their advantage to just keep everyone on "red light." As an adult I still don't get it and yet somehow I keep playing the game.
After the big scare of an emergent admission Thanksgiving weekend, J sent out an email on Friday asking his attendings and program directors who they would seek out for a second opinion. Within hours the head of trauma spine surgery at one of the big teaching hospitals wrote he would be happy to see me on Monday in between surgeries. GREEN LIGHT. Talk about fast results.
On Monday J managed to get a block of time free to come with me to this appointment. For a doc, he spent a considerable amount of time explaining the mechanics of the back, what the surgery would do, and a few options in where to go from here. His pager went off numerous times and yet he didn't answer them. I was impressed eventhough he spoke doctor-speak most of the time and did most of the consulting with my husband. Hellloooo? I'm the patient? Right? When we pressed what he would do, his reply was: "If it were me, I'd have the surgery. (GREEN LIGHT) But if it was my wife, I'd have her do a nerve block." RED LIGHT Before I knew it, I had an appointment for a nerve block for later in the month. GREEN LIGHT
I told my home health team what happened and my pain nurse pointed out I already had 2 nerve blocks already. Why would I need a third? RED LIGHT They suggested I call my doc to see when surgery could be scheduled. The "biddys" as I like to call them, are the gatekeepers of the neurosurgeons office. The two older ladies are cordial to patients on the phone, but if you are sitting in the waiting room you hear them talk bad about whoever just called: "Whatever Mr. Wilson, like you will ever get another prescription refil,." or "Yeah sure Mrs. Montgomery, I'll jump right on it," as they crumple up the memo note. My faith was low, especially after one of the biddys told me that they were booked through the holiday season, but she'd talk with my neurosurgeon and call me back. BIG TIME RED LIGHT
When I didn't hear back from them in days and days my pain nurse joined forces with my primary care doc. They told me the plan was to just show up in the ER with a bag and be admitted. That way I would be forced onto the schedule. GREEN LIGHT Logical, right? Well, thank God I know the medical system because I know it doesn't work that way. I called my primary care directly to ask whose service I was going to be admitted to (hospitalist, neurosurgeon, ward team, her private patients) and why would I go to the ER vs. admitting? She paused. RED LIGHT. I suggested she do a doc to doc phone call and see if that would move things forward without me hanging out in the ER for 9 hours while they played "hot potato" with my care.
In the meantime, I thought I would let my school advisor know what was going on so we could figure out what to do about the upcoming weekend-in-residence. I got an email from my professor and the program director to "just take care of myself and we'll worry about school after." GREEN LIGHT
I heard back from one of the biddys within hours of the doc-to-doc and sure enough, my surgery had been scheduled. GREEN LIGHT It was scheduled for 12/11...the same week J was on vacation and booked to go to Utah. RED LIGHT He hasn't been home in almost a year and we decided almost two months ago that he should take advantage of the time off and go alone. I couldn't sit for 5+ hours on the plane. I asked, cautiously, if the surgery could be moved to the following week. It was a risky move as it seemed highly greedy of me. It felt like, 'Hey, can you rearrange the world just to put me onto the surgery schedule, but then can you also do it on my terms?' It was met with a resounding No. Ok, surgery on the 11th it is! GREEN LIGHT
Back in October after my original hospitalization, Mom offered to come out to help me the week after my surgery if one was needed. There was a condition: I kept down. I was hoping to see if she would be willing to extend the time and cover the surgery day and 1-2 days in the hospital. I even offered to buy her plane ticket for her. I'm telling you, this woman is a saint. She is currently on her way for a 10 day stay with yours truly.
J had another huge decision and it had the theme song of The Clash's, "Should I Stay or Should I Go." The man was angry he was forced into this decision, but I decided to isolate my real need first. I needed someone here with me who loved and cared for me greatly. Someone I could trust. Both my husband and my mom were solid choices. Once I got my needs met, he could decide what felt best to him.
When I tell you that he still hadn't made his decision until 3:00 AM and his supposed flight's scheduled departure was at 6:00 AM, I'm not kidding. That isn't an exagguration. The stress of it all left me with a little case of the sniffles, which I'm not labeling a "cold." We processed this decision for over a week with high intensity. He hasn't seen his mom, sister, or grandparents in over a year. As I lost both of my remaining living grandparents this year I completely understood the draw and pull of seeing them. BIG time. My grief probably got in the way and pushed the point of the importance of connecting with them. But, then again his wife is having surgery. His wife. Spinal nerve surgery. Then you layer all of society's conventions, otherwise known as "the shoulds," on top of the decision and what you end up with is just a plain big emotionally laden mess. I finally started packing for him at 11:00 last night. That way the man could do it his way and make the decision the very last possible minute but at least I knew he had things like socks, Christmas gifts for his family members, and his cell phone charger.
Even this morning as he was sitting on the plane he called to ask if we made the right decision. Mom and J will cross paths today in the skies. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at 12:20 and I'll be staying in the hospital for at least one night, maybe two. GREEN LIGHT
After the big scare of an emergent admission Thanksgiving weekend, J sent out an email on Friday asking his attendings and program directors who they would seek out for a second opinion. Within hours the head of trauma spine surgery at one of the big teaching hospitals wrote he would be happy to see me on Monday in between surgeries. GREEN LIGHT. Talk about fast results.
On Monday J managed to get a block of time free to come with me to this appointment. For a doc, he spent a considerable amount of time explaining the mechanics of the back, what the surgery would do, and a few options in where to go from here. His pager went off numerous times and yet he didn't answer them. I was impressed eventhough he spoke doctor-speak most of the time and did most of the consulting with my husband. Hellloooo? I'm the patient? Right? When we pressed what he would do, his reply was: "If it were me, I'd have the surgery. (GREEN LIGHT) But if it was my wife, I'd have her do a nerve block." RED LIGHT Before I knew it, I had an appointment for a nerve block for later in the month. GREEN LIGHT
I told my home health team what happened and my pain nurse pointed out I already had 2 nerve blocks already. Why would I need a third? RED LIGHT They suggested I call my doc to see when surgery could be scheduled. The "biddys" as I like to call them, are the gatekeepers of the neurosurgeons office. The two older ladies are cordial to patients on the phone, but if you are sitting in the waiting room you hear them talk bad about whoever just called: "Whatever Mr. Wilson, like you will ever get another prescription refil,." or "Yeah sure Mrs. Montgomery, I'll jump right on it," as they crumple up the memo note. My faith was low, especially after one of the biddys told me that they were booked through the holiday season, but she'd talk with my neurosurgeon and call me back. BIG TIME RED LIGHT
When I didn't hear back from them in days and days my pain nurse joined forces with my primary care doc. They told me the plan was to just show up in the ER with a bag and be admitted. That way I would be forced onto the schedule. GREEN LIGHT Logical, right? Well, thank God I know the medical system because I know it doesn't work that way. I called my primary care directly to ask whose service I was going to be admitted to (hospitalist, neurosurgeon, ward team, her private patients) and why would I go to the ER vs. admitting? She paused. RED LIGHT. I suggested she do a doc to doc phone call and see if that would move things forward without me hanging out in the ER for 9 hours while they played "hot potato" with my care.
In the meantime, I thought I would let my school advisor know what was going on so we could figure out what to do about the upcoming weekend-in-residence. I got an email from my professor and the program director to "just take care of myself and we'll worry about school after." GREEN LIGHT
I heard back from one of the biddys within hours of the doc-to-doc and sure enough, my surgery had been scheduled. GREEN LIGHT It was scheduled for 12/11...the same week J was on vacation and booked to go to Utah. RED LIGHT He hasn't been home in almost a year and we decided almost two months ago that he should take advantage of the time off and go alone. I couldn't sit for 5+ hours on the plane. I asked, cautiously, if the surgery could be moved to the following week. It was a risky move as it seemed highly greedy of me. It felt like, 'Hey, can you rearrange the world just to put me onto the surgery schedule, but then can you also do it on my terms?' It was met with a resounding No. Ok, surgery on the 11th it is! GREEN LIGHT
Back in October after my original hospitalization, Mom offered to come out to help me the week after my surgery if one was needed. There was a condition: I kept down. I was hoping to see if she would be willing to extend the time and cover the surgery day and 1-2 days in the hospital. I even offered to buy her plane ticket for her. I'm telling you, this woman is a saint. She is currently on her way for a 10 day stay with yours truly.
J had another huge decision and it had the theme song of The Clash's, "Should I Stay or Should I Go." The man was angry he was forced into this decision, but I decided to isolate my real need first. I needed someone here with me who loved and cared for me greatly. Someone I could trust. Both my husband and my mom were solid choices. Once I got my needs met, he could decide what felt best to him.
When I tell you that he still hadn't made his decision until 3:00 AM and his supposed flight's scheduled departure was at 6:00 AM, I'm not kidding. That isn't an exagguration. The stress of it all left me with a little case of the sniffles, which I'm not labeling a "cold." We processed this decision for over a week with high intensity. He hasn't seen his mom, sister, or grandparents in over a year. As I lost both of my remaining living grandparents this year I completely understood the draw and pull of seeing them. BIG time. My grief probably got in the way and pushed the point of the importance of connecting with them. But, then again his wife is having surgery. His wife. Spinal nerve surgery. Then you layer all of society's conventions, otherwise known as "the shoulds," on top of the decision and what you end up with is just a plain big emotionally laden mess. I finally started packing for him at 11:00 last night. That way the man could do it his way and make the decision the very last possible minute but at least I knew he had things like socks, Christmas gifts for his family members, and his cell phone charger.
Even this morning as he was sitting on the plane he called to ask if we made the right decision. Mom and J will cross paths today in the skies. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at 12:20 and I'll be staying in the hospital for at least one night, maybe two. GREEN LIGHT
Friday, November 28, 2008
Too Many Cooks
I figured this was an appropriate title of a blog entry the day after Thanksgiving even though the subject matter will have nothing to do with drumsticks, lumpy gravy, or green bean casserole. Hang with me. You'll see.
In Utah or Indy, it was pretty easy to know who were the medical experts in the field. I'm not putting either location down. It was just easier to identify. Although there were several hospitals, you knew where to go for cancer, eyes, orthopedics, etc. Now that we live in the medical mecca, there are just too many choices. Everyone is an expert and everyone has an opinion.
Last week I had a follow up appointment with my neurosurgeon. He looked at my films, did another exam and remarked that he strongly suggested I mull things over with my husband and consider surgery. Herniated discs typically resolve on their own within 6 weeks so so. I'm on week 9 and still there hasn't been much relief. I decided to schedule a second opinion at the multiple suggestions of my pain nurse practitioner and my therapist.
"Oh no, you definitely want to go to the Baptist. Lemme put it this way: one does not go to the local community hospital for spine surgery. You want to go where the sheiks of the middle east travel for orthopedics. You want the best when working on your spinal column." Proclaimed my therapist, obviously not doing the traditional non-directive, reflective work that I consider good psychotherapy.
My pain nurse worked there for 12 years and put in a few phone calls to get me prioritized on the list. Upon requesting a prior authorization from my primary care, she called and left me some rambling message about staying with my neurosurgeon as he has been excellent with my care and has not been quick to cut.
Last Tuesday I went in for my 4th round of spinal injections. The prior weekend I was beginning to notice other problems.
"Hey, would you hold my right foot? It feels cold." I said to my husband one night while sprawled out on the couch.
"Just your right foot?"
"Yes, it feels colder than my left. Is it colder?"
"No. Let me ask you this: why would your right foot be colder than your left? Is it really colder or are you just perceiving it to be cold?"
Sometimes its helpful to have a logical doctor type in the house. Another symptom has emerged and it isn't a good one. When I mentioned this to my neurosurgeon on Tuesday along with the increase of pain his response was to emergently admit me to the hospital and do the surgery the day before Thanksgiving. Well, I panicked and said no. Flashbacks of my knee surgery flooded my brain where I went through a similar situation. Instead he wrote me a prescription for narcotics and said to call the next day and get the surgery scheduled. After the injections he watched me carefully and asked if I was going to pass out on him again. Even the nurses remarked, "Hey! Its the fainting girl!" when I checked into the cath lab. Good times there.
I managed to stay upright and left the hospital in a cab while talking on the phone to my husband.
"Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but hearing you had some distressing news." Said the cab driver. "I realize its not my business and you didn't ask my opinion but I too have had back issues. You don't want to get the surgery there. No, let me give you the name of my surgeon. He is short on the bedside manners but he knows how to wield a knife."
The following day I went outside to take the recycling out when I ran into two of my neighbors.
"How's the back?"
"Yeah, I heard about your back. Is it better?"
"Oh, she had a walker and everything but I notice you aren't using it anymore."
"A walker? No kidding?"
Notice I haven't had a chance to get a word in edgewise.
"Have you done the injections? My niece had those injections and it helped."
"Yes, I've had 4 rounds and it still isn't better. My doctor thinks I should go to surgery." I said.
"Surgery? My God, well you know who you should see is Dr. so-and-so at the Brigham."
"Or, I could give you my doctor's name at the General."
"You know in Indy we knew who to see but living here in Medical Mecca, everyone has an opinion. I even got a suggestion from the cab driver yesterday."
"Oh, is that why he was outside of your house yesterday for such a long time?" Good God, I'm beginning to think that this one neighbor is the sole neighborhood watch.
Seeking clarification I called my primary care for her thoughts. After all, she was from here, did her residency here and was in the medical community. She gave her input that I should only see a neurosurgeon, not an orthopedist, even though the surgery was essentially the same. She also said I should just stay with the doc I was with as he had an amazing reputation despite his practice residing at the community hospital. Chances are, I would be guaranteed he would be doing the surgery not some resident. That was a huge benefit. I felt like my mind had been made up.
That night my husband came home with more options. He had reached out to his program directors and attendings. They all had suggestions and offered to pull rank if needed to get me a consultation. They also agreed that time is of the essence as there is also a window of time that the surgery needs to happen before my nerves re-wire and think that this level of pain and sensation is the new normal. That deadline is 12 weeks on average. I didn't realize it, but my window is closing quicker than I thought. We decided to send the docs emails but aren't holding our breath.
I think its pretty safe to say that I'm on my way to the operating table. This Christmas could very realistically be: Ho, Ho, Ho, off to surgery you go!
In Utah or Indy, it was pretty easy to know who were the medical experts in the field. I'm not putting either location down. It was just easier to identify. Although there were several hospitals, you knew where to go for cancer, eyes, orthopedics, etc. Now that we live in the medical mecca, there are just too many choices. Everyone is an expert and everyone has an opinion.
Last week I had a follow up appointment with my neurosurgeon. He looked at my films, did another exam and remarked that he strongly suggested I mull things over with my husband and consider surgery. Herniated discs typically resolve on their own within 6 weeks so so. I'm on week 9 and still there hasn't been much relief. I decided to schedule a second opinion at the multiple suggestions of my pain nurse practitioner and my therapist.
"Oh no, you definitely want to go to the Baptist. Lemme put it this way: one does not go to the local community hospital for spine surgery. You want to go where the sheiks of the middle east travel for orthopedics. You want the best when working on your spinal column." Proclaimed my therapist, obviously not doing the traditional non-directive, reflective work that I consider good psychotherapy.
My pain nurse worked there for 12 years and put in a few phone calls to get me prioritized on the list. Upon requesting a prior authorization from my primary care, she called and left me some rambling message about staying with my neurosurgeon as he has been excellent with my care and has not been quick to cut.
Last Tuesday I went in for my 4th round of spinal injections. The prior weekend I was beginning to notice other problems.
"Hey, would you hold my right foot? It feels cold." I said to my husband one night while sprawled out on the couch.
"Just your right foot?"
"Yes, it feels colder than my left. Is it colder?"
"No. Let me ask you this: why would your right foot be colder than your left? Is it really colder or are you just perceiving it to be cold?"
Sometimes its helpful to have a logical doctor type in the house. Another symptom has emerged and it isn't a good one. When I mentioned this to my neurosurgeon on Tuesday along with the increase of pain his response was to emergently admit me to the hospital and do the surgery the day before Thanksgiving. Well, I panicked and said no. Flashbacks of my knee surgery flooded my brain where I went through a similar situation. Instead he wrote me a prescription for narcotics and said to call the next day and get the surgery scheduled. After the injections he watched me carefully and asked if I was going to pass out on him again. Even the nurses remarked, "Hey! Its the fainting girl!" when I checked into the cath lab. Good times there.
I managed to stay upright and left the hospital in a cab while talking on the phone to my husband.
"Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but hearing you had some distressing news." Said the cab driver. "I realize its not my business and you didn't ask my opinion but I too have had back issues. You don't want to get the surgery there. No, let me give you the name of my surgeon. He is short on the bedside manners but he knows how to wield a knife."
The following day I went outside to take the recycling out when I ran into two of my neighbors.
"How's the back?"
"Yeah, I heard about your back. Is it better?"
"Oh, she had a walker and everything but I notice you aren't using it anymore."
"A walker? No kidding?"
Notice I haven't had a chance to get a word in edgewise.
"Have you done the injections? My niece had those injections and it helped."
"Yes, I've had 4 rounds and it still isn't better. My doctor thinks I should go to surgery." I said.
"Surgery? My God, well you know who you should see is Dr. so-and-so at the Brigham."
"Or, I could give you my doctor's name at the General."
"You know in Indy we knew who to see but living here in Medical Mecca, everyone has an opinion. I even got a suggestion from the cab driver yesterday."
"Oh, is that why he was outside of your house yesterday for such a long time?" Good God, I'm beginning to think that this one neighbor is the sole neighborhood watch.
Seeking clarification I called my primary care for her thoughts. After all, she was from here, did her residency here and was in the medical community. She gave her input that I should only see a neurosurgeon, not an orthopedist, even though the surgery was essentially the same. She also said I should just stay with the doc I was with as he had an amazing reputation despite his practice residing at the community hospital. Chances are, I would be guaranteed he would be doing the surgery not some resident. That was a huge benefit. I felt like my mind had been made up.
That night my husband came home with more options. He had reached out to his program directors and attendings. They all had suggestions and offered to pull rank if needed to get me a consultation. They also agreed that time is of the essence as there is also a window of time that the surgery needs to happen before my nerves re-wire and think that this level of pain and sensation is the new normal. That deadline is 12 weeks on average. I didn't realize it, but my window is closing quicker than I thought. We decided to send the docs emails but aren't holding our breath.
I think its pretty safe to say that I'm on my way to the operating table. This Christmas could very realistically be: Ho, Ho, Ho, off to surgery you go!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Dr. Teeth
I have spent years of my life living in different states across this Nation. And while I think nothing of it to get a new primary care doctor when I move and establish care, I have always kept my same dentist back in Salt Lake. Why not? You only see them 2x a year and quite frankly, that's pretty easy to schedule in when you routinely go home to see family. My husband has the same mind frame I do, although we keep different dentists. "Routinely" has turned into "annually" in the past couple of years which sucks.
I've only had 2 dentists in my life. The first was Dr. Simonsen who talked about being a big helper and "mister toothy" and inevitably you got a prize at the end of the visit. I went to him (as well as my pediatrician) until I graduated college and was forced out of the practice. It made sense as I hung off of the exam chair that was made for pint sized people.
I tried one adult dentist who was on my plan when I paid out of pocket for insurance and was horrified that they, a) actually scraped my teeth, and b) never offered me fluoride to rinse with at the end. Horrified. To the point that I didn't consider him to be a real dentist. I wrote letters to both the dentist and the insurance plan about the sub par care I received. Dr. Simonsen never did either of those! Little did I know, that was adult dentistry.
So, I joined the rest of my maternal and paternal grandparents, parents, and other relatives into the practice of Dr. Sorbonne. It was comforting to have such a geeky guy with a squeaky clean image peering into my mouth. My hygienist was usually pregnant regardless of when you saw her and had a brood at home. She was happy, giggly, and could talk non-stop. This took the edge off of her ruthless flossing.
Typically our moms call the dentists the minute our plane tickets are booked for a trip home in hopes of a cancellation. I was fortunate enough to see my dentist last November when I took Edgar home before flying to Australia. When Ginny died around the 4th of July this year, I wasn't so lucky. However, I did see "The Jerry" and haven't cut or highlighted my hair since. Pathetic, I know. At any rate, J's dentist has been known to do special appointments like the morning of Christmas Eve just for J if that is the only time schedules will allow. However, last year nothing worked and as a result he hasn't seen a dentist in (gasp) 2 years. All of this gets compounded by my stupid back. I still can't sit so although J's vacation is in a few short weeks in the middle of December, the reality of me sitting on an airplane for 5 hours is impossible.
Believe it or not, we had foresight before all of this and in fact, J started asking his colleagues and mentors about dentists in the area about the time we moved here. One came highly recommended and he called. The wait time was 3 1/2 months out. I'm not kidding. But, he scheduled and finally I did too. After favorable reviews from my husband I was looking forward to going. How I was going to sit in that damn chair was beyond me, but I certainly knew that in this town rescheduling is NOT an option.
Luckily for me, the staff were considerate of the fact and I spent most of my 2+ hour reclining. I was escorted back through the busy office, offered a magazine, and the purple bib was clipped around my neck. Things seem really normal. Typical family photos line the wall so I can tell he has 2 daughters and 2 grand kids. Well, in walks my new dentist. Imagine Patrick Dempsey with salt and pepper wavy hair, looking appropriately messy, and it is quite obvious in his scrubs that he works out. Of course, he has a killer smile. He introduces himself to me.
"Ok, lets get this party started!" He says sitting down on the rolling stool and immediately turns on Jimi Hendrix. I'm not kidding.
The guy is doing things that I have never had a dentist do before like take measurements of my teeth, my bite, and my gum line. I finally ask what he's doing.
"Well, I'm pretty anal I guess, so I do this with every patient. But lets say you are in a car accident, God forbid. I can completely reconstruct your teeth to where they were. For example I know that your overbite is exactly 3 millimeters over your bottom teeth. Your mid line is perfect, and your gums are 2 to 3 millimeters, which is awesome. Any more than that and we know there's a problem." By now Jimi is over and on pops the Grateful Dead. "Bet you never had a dentist who liked to rock out to Hendrix while you were in the chair."
I couldn't answer him as he now was holding my tongue with gauze and examining the floor of my mouth. Again, a first for me. The guy even palpated my salivary glands and examined my jaw movement.
"Guess I'm just stuck in the 60's." I have to say it was a lot better than listening to the elevator music I was used to in dentists offices or the inappropriate Christmas station blaring in the waiting room. Its not even Thanksgiving yet, people! Come on!
He even gave me the name of his back surgeon in the area and spent a considerable time talking to me about his own back adventures. Turns out he also had the L5/S1 mess and hasn't had a problem since the surgery in '84. He also talked about how he loves dentistry, but hates being late which he apparently is due to how he's crammed back to back with patients. The guy was personable. Someone you'd like to go have a beer with.
The rest of the visit went according to plan. The hygienist cleaned and polished my teeth. She flossed (gently) and gave me a toothbrush. I even got molds for a new night guard so I don't keep mashing and grinding away my little to no enamel I have left on my molars. (J thinks is oh so sexy with my night guard, by the way. Ha ha.) I shattered 3 of them in my life. While I was sleeping and they were in my mouth. Not kidding. Its gotten better with me not working though.
Besides the psychedelic rock, the rippling hair, and the minuscule measurements of my teeth, the only other thing that struck me was the sticker shock of my bite guard. I remember my parents talking to me about how expensive orthodontics were, but holy cow. Maybe its just the town I live in or perhaps I've been in the dark ages for so long, but I wasn't expecting it to cost the same amount of a pedigree Scottie puppy with papers and genetic testing. Not kidding. Thank God they do payment plans.
At least I didn't get a parking ticket on a two hour meter when I only had enough change for one hour and I was there closer to three. That was a major bonus.
I've only had 2 dentists in my life. The first was Dr. Simonsen who talked about being a big helper and "mister toothy" and inevitably you got a prize at the end of the visit. I went to him (as well as my pediatrician) until I graduated college and was forced out of the practice. It made sense as I hung off of the exam chair that was made for pint sized people.
I tried one adult dentist who was on my plan when I paid out of pocket for insurance and was horrified that they, a) actually scraped my teeth, and b) never offered me fluoride to rinse with at the end. Horrified. To the point that I didn't consider him to be a real dentist. I wrote letters to both the dentist and the insurance plan about the sub par care I received. Dr. Simonsen never did either of those! Little did I know, that was adult dentistry.
So, I joined the rest of my maternal and paternal grandparents, parents, and other relatives into the practice of Dr. Sorbonne. It was comforting to have such a geeky guy with a squeaky clean image peering into my mouth. My hygienist was usually pregnant regardless of when you saw her and had a brood at home. She was happy, giggly, and could talk non-stop. This took the edge off of her ruthless flossing.
Typically our moms call the dentists the minute our plane tickets are booked for a trip home in hopes of a cancellation. I was fortunate enough to see my dentist last November when I took Edgar home before flying to Australia. When Ginny died around the 4th of July this year, I wasn't so lucky. However, I did see "The Jerry" and haven't cut or highlighted my hair since. Pathetic, I know. At any rate, J's dentist has been known to do special appointments like the morning of Christmas Eve just for J if that is the only time schedules will allow. However, last year nothing worked and as a result he hasn't seen a dentist in (gasp) 2 years. All of this gets compounded by my stupid back. I still can't sit so although J's vacation is in a few short weeks in the middle of December, the reality of me sitting on an airplane for 5 hours is impossible.
Believe it or not, we had foresight before all of this and in fact, J started asking his colleagues and mentors about dentists in the area about the time we moved here. One came highly recommended and he called. The wait time was 3 1/2 months out. I'm not kidding. But, he scheduled and finally I did too. After favorable reviews from my husband I was looking forward to going. How I was going to sit in that damn chair was beyond me, but I certainly knew that in this town rescheduling is NOT an option.
Luckily for me, the staff were considerate of the fact and I spent most of my 2+ hour reclining. I was escorted back through the busy office, offered a magazine, and the purple bib was clipped around my neck. Things seem really normal. Typical family photos line the wall so I can tell he has 2 daughters and 2 grand kids. Well, in walks my new dentist. Imagine Patrick Dempsey with salt and pepper wavy hair, looking appropriately messy, and it is quite obvious in his scrubs that he works out. Of course, he has a killer smile. He introduces himself to me.
"Ok, lets get this party started!" He says sitting down on the rolling stool and immediately turns on Jimi Hendrix. I'm not kidding.
The guy is doing things that I have never had a dentist do before like take measurements of my teeth, my bite, and my gum line. I finally ask what he's doing.
"Well, I'm pretty anal I guess, so I do this with every patient. But lets say you are in a car accident, God forbid. I can completely reconstruct your teeth to where they were. For example I know that your overbite is exactly 3 millimeters over your bottom teeth. Your mid line is perfect, and your gums are 2 to 3 millimeters, which is awesome. Any more than that and we know there's a problem." By now Jimi is over and on pops the Grateful Dead. "Bet you never had a dentist who liked to rock out to Hendrix while you were in the chair."
I couldn't answer him as he now was holding my tongue with gauze and examining the floor of my mouth. Again, a first for me. The guy even palpated my salivary glands and examined my jaw movement.
"Guess I'm just stuck in the 60's." I have to say it was a lot better than listening to the elevator music I was used to in dentists offices or the inappropriate Christmas station blaring in the waiting room. Its not even Thanksgiving yet, people! Come on!
He even gave me the name of his back surgeon in the area and spent a considerable time talking to me about his own back adventures. Turns out he also had the L5/S1 mess and hasn't had a problem since the surgery in '84. He also talked about how he loves dentistry, but hates being late which he apparently is due to how he's crammed back to back with patients. The guy was personable. Someone you'd like to go have a beer with.
The rest of the visit went according to plan. The hygienist cleaned and polished my teeth. She flossed (gently) and gave me a toothbrush. I even got molds for a new night guard so I don't keep mashing and grinding away my little to no enamel I have left on my molars. (J thinks is oh so sexy with my night guard, by the way. Ha ha.) I shattered 3 of them in my life. While I was sleeping and they were in my mouth. Not kidding. Its gotten better with me not working though.
Besides the psychedelic rock, the rippling hair, and the minuscule measurements of my teeth, the only other thing that struck me was the sticker shock of my bite guard. I remember my parents talking to me about how expensive orthodontics were, but holy cow. Maybe its just the town I live in or perhaps I've been in the dark ages for so long, but I wasn't expecting it to cost the same amount of a pedigree Scottie puppy with papers and genetic testing. Not kidding. Thank God they do payment plans.
At least I didn't get a parking ticket on a two hour meter when I only had enough change for one hour and I was there closer to three. That was a major bonus.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Traffic
As a landlord, I can completely appreciate the availability of my tenants to give access to such people like electricians, handymen, plumbers, and the like to solve whatever problem may be occurring at said residence. As a tenant, I get the inconvenience just to get things fixed. "Could you be home between the hours of 8-4? We'll fit you in." Gee, let me just take a day of paid time off to do this, no problem. Knock on wood, my house has been in great shape with really responsible tenants whom I wish would live there forever and ever and ever until I want to come back. However, I digress. I just had to get that little magical thinking/superstition thing out of the way.
I believe my landlord is quite grateful I've been laid up. I can give 24/7 access to the house and it is not a true inconvenience for me whatsoever...I mean not in the traditional sense. This week has been a zoo.
First, we had the oil dudes show up. Now, I had never in my entire life heard of actual oil STILL being used to heat houses until I moved here. It was like someone telling me that they use the back fat of a pig or whale to heat the house. I suppose I thought that the method went extinct somewhere when the EPA was created. Not so much. Just move to the East where all things historical reign. I could almost charge admission to families visiting the area and show them the large oil tank in my basement and the 5x6 bright red oil shut off valve in my kitchen. They could make the stop after visiting Paul Revere's house. The problem with my money making scheme, its not so novel around these parts. Just about every house in the neighborhood has oil tanks and there is free enterprise among oil providing companies in the area. Its not like the electric company where you only have one choice. Good hell.
So, the oil dudes show up. They are trying to figure out the leak in our bathroom radiator. I, myself, would have called a plumber to do this, but my landlord assured me these were the right guys to call. At 5:00 on Wednesday some burly dude with a handlebar mustache and a wrench large enough to clobber Col. Mustard in the library, rings my doorbell. There were no introductions made or identification shown. Just a: "I'm here about a problem." For all I know he was the singing barbershop quartet hit man, but I let him into my house like a stupid trusting soul and showed him to my bathroom. It took maybe 5 minutes for him to work his magic and he was out the door. Edgar didn't even get a chance to smell the dude. He did let me know there was a small flood in the basement, to which I said I would let my landlord know.
I don't do stairs well these days, but I decided that I should venture down the rickety timbers to check it out. And, well, since I was going down there I may as well throw a load of laundry in at the same time. Down I go to find that yes, there were some small standing puddles of water and damp concrete, but it didn't stop me from throwing my load of towels into the washer. I did curse my overestimation of my abilities as I hobbled back up the stairs one at a time.
Later that night I let my landlord know who looked discouraged and exhausted from a long days work. It seems a lot longer now because of daylight savings and it gets dark at 4:00. What the hell? I have reached the conclusion that just about everyone in New England must have Seasonal Affective Disorder. How could you not thinking that you are a slave to your company working until dark every night not seeing the light of day? To add to my vision I like to think that the cafeteria at work only serves gruel. She also mentioned the fire marshal is going to stop by as well on Friday.
Sure enough bright and early two very good looking gentlemen in tight tee shirts with "Watertown Fire" embroidered across their chests ring my doorbell Friday morning. Edgar is going nuts and I'm regretting my post-wake up wardrobe selection of a Rush Pike '94 tee shirt, flannel pj bottoms, and hospital socks.
"Oh hey, lil doggie. Weez here about checkin tha fuhrnace fourh fiah code." The first guy said in perfect South Boston drawl.
"Ok, sure, come on in." Once again letting strangers into the house. Edgar is rooing and standing firmly behind me like a fierce protector. "Don't mind him. He's all talk."
The two guys follow me into my very messy house to the basement door. Again, 5 minutes later they emerge to have Edgar still grumbling and pacing.
"Hey, remembah tha one cohl abou' tha' dawhg?" The first guy says to the other and they both start to laugh. "Yeah, it waz so funny. Ourh captain reached dohwn to pet it and it bit him in tha crawtch."
Both are wiping their eyes with laughter in the middle of my kitchen that looks like a tornado hit it.
"Yeah, he had ta goh get a tentus shaut an' everythingh."
"Hey, yous not from ahround hereh, are ya?" The second guy says after regaining his composure. I wasn't aware we were having a chit chat visit and began to wonder if there were kittens in trees these guys had to go rescue or something.
"No, I'm originally from the West. We just moved here a couple of months ago."
"Whll, hey! Welcome to tha neighbahood. Its really nice hereh. Its just yous an' yah huzband?" He looked at my left hand. Well, that was a good sign I thought. Maybe he was checking me out, all bed-head, morning breath, and all. (At least this is what I'm telling myself to boost my ego.)
"Yup, and Edgar." I gesture to my black mop of a dog who is still protesting these strange men in his house.
"Ehdgah. What a ghreat name. Like tha poet? I'z read a lot a him in college. Mahjohd in English lit." Oh good God, the fireman is a scholar. I was expecting him to launch into "The Raven," at any minute.
"No, no, he just looked like an Edgar."
"Hey, youh gettin caught up on tha Sopranos?" Motioning to the tv, paused on Uncle Junior's face.
"Yeah, yeah, I should be studying." It was only at this moment did I notice the bright red huge firetruck parked outside my house. How I missed this earlier I'll never know.
"Noh kiddin? What cha studyin'?" The guy picked up one of my text books.
"Getting my masters in organizational development and psychology."
"Wow. Good luck tuh yah then." He puts it back down on the table. I'm beginning to wonder how busy this department really is as they took the one fire truck from the station leaving the rest of the crew just to go check a furnace and if perhaps I should offer them tea for our visit since it doesn't seem to end.
"Wells, it waz a pleasure." The poet fire dude hands me some signed document indicating everything is up to snuff. I almost expected them to imitate the SNL skit of Mark Wahlberg and say, "Say hi tuh yah mutha fohr me." But instead I got a handshake.
I believe my landlord is quite grateful I've been laid up. I can give 24/7 access to the house and it is not a true inconvenience for me whatsoever...I mean not in the traditional sense. This week has been a zoo.
First, we had the oil dudes show up. Now, I had never in my entire life heard of actual oil STILL being used to heat houses until I moved here. It was like someone telling me that they use the back fat of a pig or whale to heat the house. I suppose I thought that the method went extinct somewhere when the EPA was created. Not so much. Just move to the East where all things historical reign. I could almost charge admission to families visiting the area and show them the large oil tank in my basement and the 5x6 bright red oil shut off valve in my kitchen. They could make the stop after visiting Paul Revere's house. The problem with my money making scheme, its not so novel around these parts. Just about every house in the neighborhood has oil tanks and there is free enterprise among oil providing companies in the area. Its not like the electric company where you only have one choice. Good hell.
So, the oil dudes show up. They are trying to figure out the leak in our bathroom radiator. I, myself, would have called a plumber to do this, but my landlord assured me these were the right guys to call. At 5:00 on Wednesday some burly dude with a handlebar mustache and a wrench large enough to clobber Col. Mustard in the library, rings my doorbell. There were no introductions made or identification shown. Just a: "I'm here about a problem." For all I know he was the singing barbershop quartet hit man, but I let him into my house like a stupid trusting soul and showed him to my bathroom. It took maybe 5 minutes for him to work his magic and he was out the door. Edgar didn't even get a chance to smell the dude. He did let me know there was a small flood in the basement, to which I said I would let my landlord know.
I don't do stairs well these days, but I decided that I should venture down the rickety timbers to check it out. And, well, since I was going down there I may as well throw a load of laundry in at the same time. Down I go to find that yes, there were some small standing puddles of water and damp concrete, but it didn't stop me from throwing my load of towels into the washer. I did curse my overestimation of my abilities as I hobbled back up the stairs one at a time.
Later that night I let my landlord know who looked discouraged and exhausted from a long days work. It seems a lot longer now because of daylight savings and it gets dark at 4:00. What the hell? I have reached the conclusion that just about everyone in New England must have Seasonal Affective Disorder. How could you not thinking that you are a slave to your company working until dark every night not seeing the light of day? To add to my vision I like to think that the cafeteria at work only serves gruel. She also mentioned the fire marshal is going to stop by as well on Friday.
Sure enough bright and early two very good looking gentlemen in tight tee shirts with "Watertown Fire" embroidered across their chests ring my doorbell Friday morning. Edgar is going nuts and I'm regretting my post-wake up wardrobe selection of a Rush Pike '94 tee shirt, flannel pj bottoms, and hospital socks.
"Oh hey, lil doggie. Weez here about checkin tha fuhrnace fourh fiah code." The first guy said in perfect South Boston drawl.
"Ok, sure, come on in." Once again letting strangers into the house. Edgar is rooing and standing firmly behind me like a fierce protector. "Don't mind him. He's all talk."
The two guys follow me into my very messy house to the basement door. Again, 5 minutes later they emerge to have Edgar still grumbling and pacing.
"Hey, remembah tha one cohl abou' tha' dawhg?" The first guy says to the other and they both start to laugh. "Yeah, it waz so funny. Ourh captain reached dohwn to pet it and it bit him in tha crawtch."
Both are wiping their eyes with laughter in the middle of my kitchen that looks like a tornado hit it.
"Yeah, he had ta goh get a tentus shaut an' everythingh."
"Hey, yous not from ahround hereh, are ya?" The second guy says after regaining his composure. I wasn't aware we were having a chit chat visit and began to wonder if there were kittens in trees these guys had to go rescue or something.
"No, I'm originally from the West. We just moved here a couple of months ago."
"Whll, hey! Welcome to tha neighbahood. Its really nice hereh. Its just yous an' yah huzband?" He looked at my left hand. Well, that was a good sign I thought. Maybe he was checking me out, all bed-head, morning breath, and all. (At least this is what I'm telling myself to boost my ego.)
"Yup, and Edgar." I gesture to my black mop of a dog who is still protesting these strange men in his house.
"Ehdgah. What a ghreat name. Like tha poet? I'z read a lot a him in college. Mahjohd in English lit." Oh good God, the fireman is a scholar. I was expecting him to launch into "The Raven," at any minute.
"No, no, he just looked like an Edgar."
"Hey, youh gettin caught up on tha Sopranos?" Motioning to the tv, paused on Uncle Junior's face.
"Yeah, yeah, I should be studying." It was only at this moment did I notice the bright red huge firetruck parked outside my house. How I missed this earlier I'll never know.
"Noh kiddin? What cha studyin'?" The guy picked up one of my text books.
"Getting my masters in organizational development and psychology."
"Wow. Good luck tuh yah then." He puts it back down on the table. I'm beginning to wonder how busy this department really is as they took the one fire truck from the station leaving the rest of the crew just to go check a furnace and if perhaps I should offer them tea for our visit since it doesn't seem to end.
"Wells, it waz a pleasure." The poet fire dude hands me some signed document indicating everything is up to snuff. I almost expected them to imitate the SNL skit of Mark Wahlberg and say, "Say hi tuh yah mutha fohr me." But instead I got a handshake.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
Its been an eventful week. For one, I went back to the neurosurgeon for more spinal injections. That visit went something like this:
"So do you hurt here?" Dr. presses sharply on my back. "As in, does it aggravate the pain?"
"Well that certainly doesn't feel good." I'm wincing.
"Yes, but does it aggravate it?"
"Um, yes? I mean it doesn't make the shooters come." I'm getting frustrated with this whole subjective pain scale anyway.
"Aggravation?" As if repeating it 3x will make it better.
"Yes."
Dr. decides to inject only 2 of the 3 sites that hurt. I don't get it.
"Could we do all three?" I ask as he's swabbing betadine all over my lower back and pelvis.
"No. I'm concerned about the level of steroids you've had already. That level messes up a lot of body functions."
"Yes, but it hurts and I just want to feel better. What happens if I come back for my follow up and I'm still hurting. Are we then doing surgery?"
"Are you pushing for surgery because if you are, then I'm not going to do it." (Did you catch the I'm-in-charge-and-you-can't-make-me line?)
"No, I can't see why anyone would push towards surgery. I just want to feel better. I don't care how it happens. Would we do more injections?"
"I see that you are emotional right now and frustrated. Medicine is an art and a science. Now my intuition, or the art part, is telling me only to do 2 of the 3 sites."
I could have pointed out that we were both arguing from emotional sides, but I decided to let it go. Later after the awful, awful sadistic injections, I was instructed to go sit in the waiting room of the cath lab. Since I cannot sit, I stood. In the waiting room there was a family who was waiting for their 87 year old mother who apparently had a heart attack and went down in front of a few family members. I stood there listening to their stories, trying not to be intrusive, when a nurse came by and said, "Honey, are you ok? You don't look so well." I couldn't respond because I passed out. Yup, I went down in front of the startled family thus re traumatizing them. The staff put me on a gurney, gave me juice and crackers, took my vital signs and asked where my responsible adult was who was taking me to and from the appointment. I responded that my husband could not get time off work so I just took a cab. Let me tell you the kind of lecture that followed. It was all very embarrassing. They made me lie there for awhile and then had me stand and then followed me out to the cab. Way too much drama and I still have a big question mark as to my plan of action with my back.
The second thing that happened was that I made it to school this weekend. Administration was highly accommodating and put a couch in the classroom for me. I had a great time. Exhausting, but great. The next class is about Self as Practitioner. There are a lot of assessments and understanding of styles and impact of it. It seems to be highly introspective so you could see my confusion when one of the assignments is for all 13 of us to work on a business plan for a consulting agency. Ummm, is it me or does that not meet the learning objectives? Somehow I became the mouthpiece for the class leading this revolution. The same thing happened 10 years ago when I was at Tulane and they took away choice of our professors when registering for classes. I was the voice for that one too. How is it that I end up in these stupid roles?
The third thing that happened was this morning and standing in line for 40 minutes in my pajamas to vote. The line wrapped around the school and I truly believe that history will be made today. It won't be the outcome that is historic for me, although it will be noteworthy that a minority (either racial or gender) will be in office, but it will be the record turn out. I've always had a passion for getting out the vote, or GOTV as they call it in poli sci circles. It makes me proud to see people actually caring. It also made me wish I kept my status in Indiana to vote there by absentee. However, even though it would have been legal, I wouldn't have felt very ethical about doing it.
And the fourth thing that will happen today is visiting the perinatal psychiatrists. Who would even dream that there is a speciality out there like this? Its a complete dream come true like believing in unicorns or something. I suppose living in the mecca of advancing medicine is like living in Oz and having little green men running around everywhere. If you dream it, it exists. Now, while it is a dream come true, I will not be visiting Glinda today but more like her sister. I have experienced zero compassion from them. Originally I had an appointment in early October, but J canceled it as I was in the hospital. They rescheduled it and then canceled only to reschedule to today. When I realized that J could not make it and getting down there for me would be a feat I tried to reschedule. They told me that if I couldn't make it they would never see me and deny rescheduling me ever. Even as I explained the circumstances of the rescheduling they were rigid beyond belief. I was within policy of the 24 hours and yet no leeway. Oh yeah, we're off to a raging great start with a therapeutic alliance that needs to happen between psychiatrists and patients. But, I will make it there and stand with my walker for my one hour intake assuming that they are on time, that is. I'll make sure my point is made. For their sakes, I hope I don't pass out.
"So do you hurt here?" Dr. presses sharply on my back. "As in, does it aggravate the pain?"
"Well that certainly doesn't feel good." I'm wincing.
"Yes, but does it aggravate it?"
"Um, yes? I mean it doesn't make the shooters come." I'm getting frustrated with this whole subjective pain scale anyway.
"Aggravation?" As if repeating it 3x will make it better.
"Yes."
Dr. decides to inject only 2 of the 3 sites that hurt. I don't get it.
"Could we do all three?" I ask as he's swabbing betadine all over my lower back and pelvis.
"No. I'm concerned about the level of steroids you've had already. That level messes up a lot of body functions."
"Yes, but it hurts and I just want to feel better. What happens if I come back for my follow up and I'm still hurting. Are we then doing surgery?"
"Are you pushing for surgery because if you are, then I'm not going to do it." (Did you catch the I'm-in-charge-and-you-can't-make-me line?)
"No, I can't see why anyone would push towards surgery. I just want to feel better. I don't care how it happens. Would we do more injections?"
"I see that you are emotional right now and frustrated. Medicine is an art and a science. Now my intuition, or the art part, is telling me only to do 2 of the 3 sites."
I could have pointed out that we were both arguing from emotional sides, but I decided to let it go. Later after the awful, awful sadistic injections, I was instructed to go sit in the waiting room of the cath lab. Since I cannot sit, I stood. In the waiting room there was a family who was waiting for their 87 year old mother who apparently had a heart attack and went down in front of a few family members. I stood there listening to their stories, trying not to be intrusive, when a nurse came by and said, "Honey, are you ok? You don't look so well." I couldn't respond because I passed out. Yup, I went down in front of the startled family thus re traumatizing them. The staff put me on a gurney, gave me juice and crackers, took my vital signs and asked where my responsible adult was who was taking me to and from the appointment. I responded that my husband could not get time off work so I just took a cab. Let me tell you the kind of lecture that followed. It was all very embarrassing. They made me lie there for awhile and then had me stand and then followed me out to the cab. Way too much drama and I still have a big question mark as to my plan of action with my back.
The second thing that happened was that I made it to school this weekend. Administration was highly accommodating and put a couch in the classroom for me. I had a great time. Exhausting, but great. The next class is about Self as Practitioner. There are a lot of assessments and understanding of styles and impact of it. It seems to be highly introspective so you could see my confusion when one of the assignments is for all 13 of us to work on a business plan for a consulting agency. Ummm, is it me or does that not meet the learning objectives? Somehow I became the mouthpiece for the class leading this revolution. The same thing happened 10 years ago when I was at Tulane and they took away choice of our professors when registering for classes. I was the voice for that one too. How is it that I end up in these stupid roles?
The third thing that happened was this morning and standing in line for 40 minutes in my pajamas to vote. The line wrapped around the school and I truly believe that history will be made today. It won't be the outcome that is historic for me, although it will be noteworthy that a minority (either racial or gender) will be in office, but it will be the record turn out. I've always had a passion for getting out the vote, or GOTV as they call it in poli sci circles. It makes me proud to see people actually caring. It also made me wish I kept my status in Indiana to vote there by absentee. However, even though it would have been legal, I wouldn't have felt very ethical about doing it.
And the fourth thing that will happen today is visiting the perinatal psychiatrists. Who would even dream that there is a speciality out there like this? Its a complete dream come true like believing in unicorns or something. I suppose living in the mecca of advancing medicine is like living in Oz and having little green men running around everywhere. If you dream it, it exists. Now, while it is a dream come true, I will not be visiting Glinda today but more like her sister. I have experienced zero compassion from them. Originally I had an appointment in early October, but J canceled it as I was in the hospital. They rescheduled it and then canceled only to reschedule to today. When I realized that J could not make it and getting down there for me would be a feat I tried to reschedule. They told me that if I couldn't make it they would never see me and deny rescheduling me ever. Even as I explained the circumstances of the rescheduling they were rigid beyond belief. I was within policy of the 24 hours and yet no leeway. Oh yeah, we're off to a raging great start with a therapeutic alliance that needs to happen between psychiatrists and patients. But, I will make it there and stand with my walker for my one hour intake assuming that they are on time, that is. I'll make sure my point is made. For their sakes, I hope I don't pass out.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Damn Tub
I blame the tub. I could blame genetics, my stubborn tenacious nature, my knee surgeon, or anything else that remotely seems relevant in my way to explain what happened, but I think I'll settle on the claw foot tub. If it wasn't so damn wide, I wouldn't be in this mess. I realize its not entirely true, but whenever doctors or nurses or literally anyone asks what happened I always go back to the story of the tub.
About a month ago I simply leaned over the claw foot tub to move the shampoo bottles off of the windowsill. Perhaps my hips weren't squarely aligned, perhaps I didn't counterbalance very well, but I felt a snap of sorts, sharp pain and I literally went down in agony. Somehow I made it to the bed moaning, groaning, and gasping. I stayed lying prone for 5 hours on heat, ice, Advil, and Tylenol debating if an ER visit was warranted. I tried to get out of bed twice to pee. I fell because my legs couldn't support my weight with the pain the first time. The second time J lifted me there and I almost passed out with the pain so I hung out on the floor of the bathroom for about a half hour. I didn't want to be labeled as a drug seeker in the ER or as a drama queen. I've been on the other side of the ER and the word "cynical" doesn't even begin to describe how the ER caretakers view the world. Finally I gave in and told J I needed to go to the hospital.
He pretty much carried my weight as I hung onto his neck and he guided me to the car, 8:00 on a Saturday night. The car ride was excruciating and it was a joke trying to get me into a wheelchair to transport me into the triage area of the ER. I looked miserable and yet I could see the looks of disbelief on the nurses faces as they checked me in. I bought myself a MRI, a semi-private room in the ER, and concoctions of pills to try and manage the pain. When they took me to the MRI and the tech tried to move me I grabbed her so hard in my pain I left bruises. "Gee, I don't think your pain is managed, "was all she could say rubbing her arms while I apologized profusely. J and I spent a romantic night in the ER, a hot Saturday date if you will, listening to my roommates come and go. First a man with an abscess in his ass, unsure if it was caused by a bug bite or a sliver from his porch. Then we had two girls from a rugby game with a broken nose and needing stitches. The amount of narcotics given to me should have snowed any other person into respiratory distress, but I just sat there able to carry on a normal conversation and keep awake. This told them how high my pain threshold was and how much pain I was in. Clearly I wasn't going to just get a script of vicodin and sent on my way. By 3:00 in the morning they decided to admit me. It was just going to be for a day or two to get my pain under control.
I was moved upstairs and shared a room with a little old woman who did not speak English and was clearly scared. She snored while she slept and had conversations in her native tongue. I asked for ear plugs on the second night and somehow they hunted them
down. But when a private room came available, without asking, they just moved me. I was so grateful, but I felt bad for the woman. Did she think I was abandoning her? She was probably happy to get the room to herself. My one or two days of pain control turned into 11. I was on the hospitalists team (read: not interesting enough of a case to be assigned to a team of residents and interns). This meant I got "real" doctors, not those in training, but I also got their egos. Every 12 hours a new doc would come on service and switch up my meds because only they knew what they were doing. By the 3rd day my husband had enough. His frustration limits had been hit and he couldn't watch me be under medicated for my pain control because they were all afraid. He began to do the math himself and advocating for certain orders. The minute he got involved I began to improve. You can see his math to help educate the attendings on how to do proper pain control.
J came nightly and we ordered two dinner trays so we could eat together and get caught up on the day. Often he would speak to the hospitalist and confirm the plan of care. He would always bring chocolate so I could have something to offer the staff when they came into my room. I have to say, environmental services and the food service people were so greatly appreciative and I sometimes would get an extra dessert, a shout out hello from them passing in the hall w
ay, and my room looked nice. One hospitalist stopped by to eat 4-5 pieces of candy as "lunch" in between several admits waiting for her in the ER. And once a night nurse and I had a shared candy break and get to know you session during my 2:00 AM meds. Chocolate was a brilliant plan. J also brought a few gifts from home: a pumpkin (to remind me its Fall), flowers, aster (again, its Fall), a stuffed animal dog toy of a squirrel (from Edgar, really for Edgar when I came home), cookies, truffles (beginning the staff quest for more chocolate). J had a hard time giving up control, realizing that he wasn't the doctor writing orders and then watching his wife struggle with her pain. It was a humbling journey. In the end, we found out that I have a herniated disc of L5/S1, which is essentially right near your sacrum. I can't sit; I can only stand and lie down. Neurosurgery gave me injections in my spine to help decrease the swelling and instructed me to follow up in 3 weeks or so after discharge to see if I've progressed or if surgery will become part of the discussion.
In addition to the pain, my bowels became a source of discussion...several discussions while I was in the hospital. I'm normally on the slow side but with the amount of narcotics on board, I'm at a heavy stand still. The regimen I'm on now still has little progress, but a normal person would be essentially living in the bathroom. It was so slow I have gone through 4 clean outs in bowel preps normally reserved for people going for colonoscopies. I should be squeaky clean. Not so much.
I had some great caretakers and some not so great ones. One personal care aide, Mohammad, was exemplary. He was kind, considerate, respectful, and treated me with dignity. Mohammad was in his 60's and had 5 children. He was not originally from the States. He helped manage the embarrassing moments, the vulnerable situations, and took interest in me as an individual. He got to know my husband and would inquire about my dog. He asked me questions about my knee scars and talked about the surgery in ways a personal care aide couldn't. My husband caught on and asked what he did. In Afghanistan he was a premier orthopedic surgeon. People came from all over to get surgery and care from his expertise. When he moved to America, he looked into doing another residency, but decided it was too much work. Giving up his career to be in America was worth it, he said. He was just happy being able to take care of patients. Here is a man who was used to giving orders in an OR and now was finding meaning in giving patients sponge baths and changing bedding. He said that sometimes you have to give up something to get something greater and he was happy with his choice. I couldn't imagine how hard it was. I found out later from his son in law, who also was a care aide and studying to go to medical school, that Mohammad was going to school to become a physicians assistant in addition to working full time. The man was incredible and I looked forward to seeing him everyday. I cried a little saying goodbye to him when I was discharged.
My discharge was tenuous at day 11. They wanted to keep me longer or transfer me to rehab. If anyone knows, rehab is a nursing home with physical therapy. That's about it. To
avoid this, my mom put on her Supermom cape and flew out to stay with us for about a week. She cooked several meals and put them in the freezer, cleaned, took Edgar for walks, drove me to my doctor's appointment, got my home health visitors in line, did all of our laundry, made sure my medication schedule was accurate and on time, navigated the small winding roads of Boston to get to the pharmacy and get my prescriptions, found her way to the grocery store and stocked our fridge, and most importantly, just took care of me.
My medication schedule is a nightmare to keep straight. I look like a poly pharmacy all by myself. One med for the zinging pain, another for the burning pain. Muscle spasms? Are they caused by the myoclonic jerking of the morphine or the reactions to my pain? Don't
worry...there's another Rx for that. Oh, and are all of these causing reflux because I'm flat on my back while digesting all of these meds? Don't worry, they gave me something for that too. And don't forget my bowels. I've got more meds for that. This is just a photo of one of my 3 daily med dosings. I keep a journal of what I take and when otherwise I would never keep things straight. Its no wonder old people have a hard time. Look at how Western medicine works! They give you more pills for every side effect the first pill causes. I hate being on so much medication. I've been asking for help on how to come off of the morphine. I need a schedule and my first doctor wasn't helpful (she got fired by my mom, me and my pain nurse from home health). My second doctor clearly fell into the realm of not knowing pain management either because her schedule she wrote out scared the beejesus out of my husband and my pain nurse. The pain nurse wrote out a different schedule and got it approved by the doctor. I'm about 4 days into the weaning and its going pretty well. I can't wait to not feel so foggy all the time.
In addition to feeling so young and spry with my medication requirements, they've added insult to injury. I was discharged with a walker. Yup, like those you see 90 year olds using in nursing homes. A walker. I wish I could say it is the aerodynamic speed cruiser 2000, but really I just need to add the two tennis balls on the back legs and I'm granny. Its hard to feel all cool and sexy to your husband when you are tethered to a walker and need a pill box to keep your meds straight. The only thing I can do is laugh. I have been letting the sucker gather dust the past few days and only use it when I'm going out of the house. But, as you can imagine, going out of the house is rare as I cannot sit. Can't sit to go out to dinner with my husband, let alone stand a car ride without being reclined. I have to take baby steps otherwise I get those zingers down my butt so I would get run over if I tried going to Costco with my walker. Could you imagine? And then, I can't carry anything. I need a basket or something because carrying my purse on one shoulder misaligns my spine and that is dreadfully painful. Incapacitated? Yup, that's me.
The home health team has been a God send. I have an amazing pain nurse who has held several jobs in premier hospitals and helped write the pain management guidelines for the State. She said that medical schools aren't teaching how to deal with pain. They aren't. They threw narcotics at me when my true pain is originated in my nerves. Narcotics only work on 30% of nerve pain. No wonder I was still functional and in pain with such high doses. She advised that I be prescribed nerve pain pills and wouldn't you know, I was a different person within a matter of a few days. Docs are so afraid of dependence they don't give the right dose to begin with in traditional pain cases. Its the under medicating that causes the dependency. No wonder we have a problem with opioid dependence in the United States. I've also been assigned an incredible physical therapist. She is helping me work out my muscle spasms. Once I got these under control I was able to tell the difference between nerve pain and muscle pain. I couldn't believe it. Once I identified the difference I realized I've been in pain for a long time and just ignored it. That was an emotionally painful realization.
School has been a saving grace for me. It is what I work on while I'm flat on my back. I read, I finish papers, I do small assignments, I post to the threaded discussions. It is what is keeping me sane. The program director is worried that if I miss another weekend in residence that I will not be able to keep up with the contact hours and I'll have to withdraw. Right now I have all A's. Withdrawing scares the hell out of me. My follow up appointment with my neurosurgeons is Wednesday and if they throw me into surgery ASAP, missing another weekend may be a reality. Going back inpatient may be another reality. Going back up on the narcotics may be another reality. I've decided I don't like reality.
About a month ago I simply leaned over the claw foot tub to move the shampoo bottles off of the windowsill. Perhaps my hips weren't squarely aligned, perhaps I didn't counterbalance very well, but I felt a snap of sorts, sharp pain and I literally went down in agony. Somehow I made it to the bed moaning, groaning, and gasping. I stayed lying prone for 5 hours on heat, ice, Advil, and Tylenol debating if an ER visit was warranted. I tried to get out of bed twice to pee. I fell because my legs couldn't support my weight with the pain the first time. The second time J lifted me there and I almost passed out with the pain so I hung out on the floor of the bathroom for about a half hour. I didn't want to be labeled as a drug seeker in the ER or as a drama queen. I've been on the other side of the ER and the word "cynical" doesn't even begin to describe how the ER caretakers view the world. Finally I gave in and told J I needed to go to the hospital.
He pretty much carried my weight as I hung onto his neck and he guided me to the car, 8:00 on a Saturday night. The car ride was excruciating and it was a joke trying to get me into a wheelchair to transport me into the triage area of the ER. I looked miserable and yet I could see the looks of disbelief on the nurses faces as they checked me in. I bought myself a MRI, a semi-private room in the ER, and concoctions of pills to try and manage the pain. When they took me to the MRI and the tech tried to move me I grabbed her so hard in my pain I left bruises. "Gee, I don't think your pain is managed, "was all she could say rubbing her arms while I apologized profusely. J and I spent a romantic night in the ER, a hot Saturday date if you will, listening to my roommates come and go. First a man with an abscess in his ass, unsure if it was caused by a bug bite or a sliver from his porch. Then we had two girls from a rugby game with a broken nose and needing stitches. The amount of narcotics given to me should have snowed any other person into respiratory distress, but I just sat there able to carry on a normal conversation and keep awake. This told them how high my pain threshold was and how much pain I was in. Clearly I wasn't going to just get a script of vicodin and sent on my way. By 3:00 in the morning they decided to admit me. It was just going to be for a day or two to get my pain under control.
I was moved upstairs and shared a room with a little old woman who did not speak English and was clearly scared. She snored while she slept and had conversations in her native tongue. I asked for ear plugs on the second night and somehow they hunted them
down. But when a private room came available, without asking, they just moved me. I was so grateful, but I felt bad for the woman. Did she think I was abandoning her? She was probably happy to get the room to herself. My one or two days of pain control turned into 11. I was on the hospitalists team (read: not interesting enough of a case to be assigned to a team of residents and interns). This meant I got "real" doctors, not those in training, but I also got their egos. Every 12 hours a new doc would come on service and switch up my meds because only they knew what they were doing. By the 3rd day my husband had enough. His frustration limits had been hit and he couldn't watch me be under medicated for my pain control because they were all afraid. He began to do the math himself and advocating for certain orders. The minute he got involved I began to improve. You can see his math to help educate the attendings on how to do proper pain control.J came nightly and we ordered two dinner trays so we could eat together and get caught up on the day. Often he would speak to the hospitalist and confirm the plan of care. He would always bring chocolate so I could have something to offer the staff when they came into my room. I have to say, environmental services and the food service people were so greatly appreciative and I sometimes would get an extra dessert, a shout out hello from them passing in the hall w
ay, and my room looked nice. One hospitalist stopped by to eat 4-5 pieces of candy as "lunch" in between several admits waiting for her in the ER. And once a night nurse and I had a shared candy break and get to know you session during my 2:00 AM meds. Chocolate was a brilliant plan. J also brought a few gifts from home: a pumpkin (to remind me its Fall), flowers, aster (again, its Fall), a stuffed animal dog toy of a squirrel (from Edgar, really for Edgar when I came home), cookies, truffles (beginning the staff quest for more chocolate). J had a hard time giving up control, realizing that he wasn't the doctor writing orders and then watching his wife struggle with her pain. It was a humbling journey. In the end, we found out that I have a herniated disc of L5/S1, which is essentially right near your sacrum. I can't sit; I can only stand and lie down. Neurosurgery gave me injections in my spine to help decrease the swelling and instructed me to follow up in 3 weeks or so after discharge to see if I've progressed or if surgery will become part of the discussion.In addition to the pain, my bowels became a source of discussion...several discussions while I was in the hospital. I'm normally on the slow side but with the amount of narcotics on board, I'm at a heavy stand still. The regimen I'm on now still has little progress, but a normal person would be essentially living in the bathroom. It was so slow I have gone through 4 clean outs in bowel preps normally reserved for people going for colonoscopies. I should be squeaky clean. Not so much.
I had some great caretakers and some not so great ones. One personal care aide, Mohammad, was exemplary. He was kind, considerate, respectful, and treated me with dignity. Mohammad was in his 60's and had 5 children. He was not originally from the States. He helped manage the embarrassing moments, the vulnerable situations, and took interest in me as an individual. He got to know my husband and would inquire about my dog. He asked me questions about my knee scars and talked about the surgery in ways a personal care aide couldn't. My husband caught on and asked what he did. In Afghanistan he was a premier orthopedic surgeon. People came from all over to get surgery and care from his expertise. When he moved to America, he looked into doing another residency, but decided it was too much work. Giving up his career to be in America was worth it, he said. He was just happy being able to take care of patients. Here is a man who was used to giving orders in an OR and now was finding meaning in giving patients sponge baths and changing bedding. He said that sometimes you have to give up something to get something greater and he was happy with his choice. I couldn't imagine how hard it was. I found out later from his son in law, who also was a care aide and studying to go to medical school, that Mohammad was going to school to become a physicians assistant in addition to working full time. The man was incredible and I looked forward to seeing him everyday. I cried a little saying goodbye to him when I was discharged.
My discharge was tenuous at day 11. They wanted to keep me longer or transfer me to rehab. If anyone knows, rehab is a nursing home with physical therapy. That's about it. To
avoid this, my mom put on her Supermom cape and flew out to stay with us for about a week. She cooked several meals and put them in the freezer, cleaned, took Edgar for walks, drove me to my doctor's appointment, got my home health visitors in line, did all of our laundry, made sure my medication schedule was accurate and on time, navigated the small winding roads of Boston to get to the pharmacy and get my prescriptions, found her way to the grocery store and stocked our fridge, and most importantly, just took care of me.My medication schedule is a nightmare to keep straight. I look like a poly pharmacy all by myself. One med for the zinging pain, another for the burning pain. Muscle spasms? Are they caused by the myoclonic jerking of the morphine or the reactions to my pain? Don't
worry...there's another Rx for that. Oh, and are all of these causing reflux because I'm flat on my back while digesting all of these meds? Don't worry, they gave me something for that too. And don't forget my bowels. I've got more meds for that. This is just a photo of one of my 3 daily med dosings. I keep a journal of what I take and when otherwise I would never keep things straight. Its no wonder old people have a hard time. Look at how Western medicine works! They give you more pills for every side effect the first pill causes. I hate being on so much medication. I've been asking for help on how to come off of the morphine. I need a schedule and my first doctor wasn't helpful (she got fired by my mom, me and my pain nurse from home health). My second doctor clearly fell into the realm of not knowing pain management either because her schedule she wrote out scared the beejesus out of my husband and my pain nurse. The pain nurse wrote out a different schedule and got it approved by the doctor. I'm about 4 days into the weaning and its going pretty well. I can't wait to not feel so foggy all the time.
In addition to feeling so young and spry with my medication requirements, they've added insult to injury. I was discharged with a walker. Yup, like those you see 90 year olds using in nursing homes. A walker. I wish I could say it is the aerodynamic speed cruiser 2000, but really I just need to add the two tennis balls on the back legs and I'm granny. Its hard to feel all cool and sexy to your husband when you are tethered to a walker and need a pill box to keep your meds straight. The only thing I can do is laugh. I have been letting the sucker gather dust the past few days and only use it when I'm going out of the house. But, as you can imagine, going out of the house is rare as I cannot sit. Can't sit to go out to dinner with my husband, let alone stand a car ride without being reclined. I have to take baby steps otherwise I get those zingers down my butt so I would get run over if I tried going to Costco with my walker. Could you imagine? And then, I can't carry anything. I need a basket or something because carrying my purse on one shoulder misaligns my spine and that is dreadfully painful. Incapacitated? Yup, that's me.
The home health team has been a God send. I have an amazing pain nurse who has held several jobs in premier hospitals and helped write the pain management guidelines for the State. She said that medical schools aren't teaching how to deal with pain. They aren't. They threw narcotics at me when my true pain is originated in my nerves. Narcotics only work on 30% of nerve pain. No wonder I was still functional and in pain with such high doses. She advised that I be prescribed nerve pain pills and wouldn't you know, I was a different person within a matter of a few days. Docs are so afraid of dependence they don't give the right dose to begin with in traditional pain cases. Its the under medicating that causes the dependency. No wonder we have a problem with opioid dependence in the United States. I've also been assigned an incredible physical therapist. She is helping me work out my muscle spasms. Once I got these under control I was able to tell the difference between nerve pain and muscle pain. I couldn't believe it. Once I identified the difference I realized I've been in pain for a long time and just ignored it. That was an emotionally painful realization.
School has been a saving grace for me. It is what I work on while I'm flat on my back. I read, I finish papers, I do small assignments, I post to the threaded discussions. It is what is keeping me sane. The program director is worried that if I miss another weekend in residence that I will not be able to keep up with the contact hours and I'll have to withdraw. Right now I have all A's. Withdrawing scares the hell out of me. My follow up appointment with my neurosurgeons is Wednesday and if they throw me into surgery ASAP, missing another weekend may be a reality. Going back inpatient may be another reality. Going back up on the narcotics may be another reality. I've decided I don't like reality.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Dark Side
Growing up, I was exposed to an upper middle class lifestyle with a lot of perks. My brother and I enjoyed back stage passes to big rock concerts, exclusive dinners for the US Gymnastic Olympic Trials, condos and skiing at Deer Valley, and even a vacation to Disneyland. The perks were all due to my father's job. While he was schmoozing with execs, we knew to be on our best behavior and still have fun. It was a love/hate experience. It was a lot of fun but it just felt, well, phony.
When I tell people I'm married to a doctor, a set of assumptions pop into their heads. They assume there is a lot of money for one. I should set the record straight here that during all of J's training I was always the breadwinner when working full time. This is very difficult to do when you are a social worker. Social worker, folks.
Furthermore, not all medical practices are reimbursed equally. Here's a good rule to follow: procedures to bill = money in the pocket. This is why surgeons, radiologists, gastroenterologists, etc, make quite a bit of cash. Your general primary care doc, you know, the one you go to when you have green snot, vomit, and odd chest pain? Yeah, that one? They make next to nothing. Another good rule to follow is to follow market demands. If pharmaceutical companies, bio tech industries, and medical equipment organizations have something to market then that specialty generally earns more. Palliative care doctors (aka Dr. Death) don't exactly spawn repeat customers from the drug companies. They also function as general practitioners in the last stages of life.
It is a bit annoying when people assume so much. Doctors have not had a income adjustment to the quality of life since the 1970s, but school costs have risen significantly. Our student loans are the equivalent of a second mortgage. Needless to say, I will not be the country club wife, with hobbies of shopping and lunching, and tennis lessons. And you know what? I am way ok with that. I am actually quite proud of J's choice not to sell out and be seduced by the dark side. He is staying true to the roots of medicine; serving those who need care and being ethically aware.
Last night one of J's friends from medical school was in town for a conference. He chose a different path: Radiology oncology. These are brilliant individuals who like physics theory and the human body. They are not well known for their human relation skills. J's friend invited us down to the hotel where a talk was just finishing up. Something about proton accelerators and chest wall tumors. We grabbed a free Sam Adams and excused ourselves from the break-out session to catch up.
As this session was ending, Dr. Rad-Onc suggested we catch one of the other parties around town: the aquarium, science museum, or museum of fine arts. I had to pause for a moment because with my profession I'm just grateful for a continential breakfast at one of my conferences. Here the sponsors have enough in their advertising budget to rent out several huge attractions for a private party, have it catered, free bar, and live entertainment. What is ironic about this is that these individuals have enough money to pay for admission to these attractions and yet companies shell out big bucks for them.
Typically we avoid all drug rep dinners. The "educational component" are an exchange for the free steak and wine. Its product pushing by college grads who do not know how these chemicals work but are taught the "research" that was sponsored by the drug companies in the first place. Are you really going to think about that drug when prescribing because it is in the best interest of your patient or because its in your memory from the dinner?
Right or wrong, we headed with our friend and his growing entourage to the aquarium. What I first noticed was my incredible concern for the penguins. Here they are tired from being gawked at by children all day long and now they have a sound system pushing baselines into their faux ecosystem. Poor guys! They just want to sleep and instead Phillips, yes the electric light bulb company, is pushing their new MRI/gamma ray/technology gadget, and have taken over their habitat. We had drinks, a flight of nations hors d'oeuvres and wandered the usual $20-something admission attraction. We hung out there for awhile and then went to the science museum. There the reception was catered by Wolfgang Puck. I never did find out who sponsored this event. By 11:00 we were saturated, morally conflicted, and tired. I was more than tipsy. It was time to go.
Dr. Rad-Onc invited us back to crash another party tonight sponsored by someone else. The dark side is quite alluring, but I think we'll abstain. While I know that the big wig companies don't feel the financial impact of me crashing the party and having 2 glasses of wine and a small plate of dim sum, but I feel it in my soul.
When I tell people I'm married to a doctor, a set of assumptions pop into their heads. They assume there is a lot of money for one. I should set the record straight here that during all of J's training I was always the breadwinner when working full time. This is very difficult to do when you are a social worker. Social worker, folks.
Furthermore, not all medical practices are reimbursed equally. Here's a good rule to follow: procedures to bill = money in the pocket. This is why surgeons, radiologists, gastroenterologists, etc, make quite a bit of cash. Your general primary care doc, you know, the one you go to when you have green snot, vomit, and odd chest pain? Yeah, that one? They make next to nothing. Another good rule to follow is to follow market demands. If pharmaceutical companies, bio tech industries, and medical equipment organizations have something to market then that specialty generally earns more. Palliative care doctors (aka Dr. Death) don't exactly spawn repeat customers from the drug companies. They also function as general practitioners in the last stages of life.
It is a bit annoying when people assume so much. Doctors have not had a income adjustment to the quality of life since the 1970s, but school costs have risen significantly. Our student loans are the equivalent of a second mortgage. Needless to say, I will not be the country club wife, with hobbies of shopping and lunching, and tennis lessons. And you know what? I am way ok with that. I am actually quite proud of J's choice not to sell out and be seduced by the dark side. He is staying true to the roots of medicine; serving those who need care and being ethically aware.
Last night one of J's friends from medical school was in town for a conference. He chose a different path: Radiology oncology. These are brilliant individuals who like physics theory and the human body. They are not well known for their human relation skills. J's friend invited us down to the hotel where a talk was just finishing up. Something about proton accelerators and chest wall tumors. We grabbed a free Sam Adams and excused ourselves from the break-out session to catch up.
As this session was ending, Dr. Rad-Onc suggested we catch one of the other parties around town: the aquarium, science museum, or museum of fine arts. I had to pause for a moment because with my profession I'm just grateful for a continential breakfast at one of my conferences. Here the sponsors have enough in their advertising budget to rent out several huge attractions for a private party, have it catered, free bar, and live entertainment. What is ironic about this is that these individuals have enough money to pay for admission to these attractions and yet companies shell out big bucks for them.
Typically we avoid all drug rep dinners. The "educational component" are an exchange for the free steak and wine. Its product pushing by college grads who do not know how these chemicals work but are taught the "research" that was sponsored by the drug companies in the first place. Are you really going to think about that drug when prescribing because it is in the best interest of your patient or because its in your memory from the dinner?
Right or wrong, we headed with our friend and his growing entourage to the aquarium. What I first noticed was my incredible concern for the penguins. Here they are tired from being gawked at by children all day long and now they have a sound system pushing baselines into their faux ecosystem. Poor guys! They just want to sleep and instead Phillips, yes the electric light bulb company, is pushing their new MRI/gamma ray/technology gadget, and have taken over their habitat. We had drinks, a flight of nations hors d'oeuvres and wandered the usual $20-something admission attraction. We hung out there for awhile and then went to the science museum. There the reception was catered by Wolfgang Puck. I never did find out who sponsored this event. By 11:00 we were saturated, morally conflicted, and tired. I was more than tipsy. It was time to go.
Dr. Rad-Onc invited us back to crash another party tonight sponsored by someone else. The dark side is quite alluring, but I think we'll abstain. While I know that the big wig companies don't feel the financial impact of me crashing the party and having 2 glasses of wine and a small plate of dim sum, but I feel it in my soul.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Crazy Busy
I've. Been. Busy. There, I admit it. I no longer have a full plate. I have a buffet. What's crazy is that I'm considering adding more.
On my birthday earlier this month I decided it would be a great idea to pursue another masters. After some highly disappointing rejections from doing organizational development as a full time job, I recognized that Boston is not the land of where you can spin your educational degrees. Either you have it, or you don't. I do not have a degree in organizational development...but I will!
My first masters in social work was in an accelerated 16 month program. I thought I was crazy for attempting this and truly it sucked the life out of me, but also enriched me in ways I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. 16 months to achieve a masters. I always was one to work part time through school. I worked in various jobs from a receptionist to a pastry chef and a vet tech in high school and college. It was such an amazing breath of fresh air to just concentrate on school when I was in New Orleans. I had never been happier because I was so balanced and focused.
A decade later (ouch, that one makes me cringe) I return to school as one of those non-traditional students. You know, the older person always with his/her hand raised and always, always prepared. This was the person I loathed in my previous academic careers. Oh. My. God. I've turned into that person. I cannot wait to tackle the 260+ pages of reading a week. I actually offer my opinion in class. I am prepared for my assignments. This is a drastic change for me as I used to wait until the night before papers were due, watch back to back Law and Orders on TNT, clean my room, and then somewhere around 11:00 PM I'd start on the paper only to finish it at 5:00 or so and have a roommate turn it in during class so I could catch up on my sleep. I have turned a corner somewhere.
Whilst I thought 16 months was crazy (and still do), you can officially take my measurements for a straight jacket now. I'm now enrolled in a 10 month Masters of Arts program for Organizational Development and Psychology. I'll have my second masters by June 1st. C.R.A.Z.Y. What makes it even more psycho is the fact that it is a program supposedly designed for working adults. The program has attracted such talented individuals who are already the Vice Presidents of some national companies from around the country. Somehow they are making their weekly business trips to Antwerp for a company merger and going to school. I don't know how successful they feel about it, though and that is a huge point. I truly anticipate a few dropouts before the end of this first month.
In the meantime of drowning in action process models, papers, discussion boards, and online lectures, I'm considering taking a full time job essentially creating a new program in medical social work. I'm beginning to wonder how smart of an idea this truly is. Something will have to give whether it be the housework, individual down time, sleep, eating, my marriage, social supports, etc.. To say I'm concerned is an understatement, but (un)fortunately, I don't have the time to think about it.
On my birthday earlier this month I decided it would be a great idea to pursue another masters. After some highly disappointing rejections from doing organizational development as a full time job, I recognized that Boston is not the land of where you can spin your educational degrees. Either you have it, or you don't. I do not have a degree in organizational development...but I will!
My first masters in social work was in an accelerated 16 month program. I thought I was crazy for attempting this and truly it sucked the life out of me, but also enriched me in ways I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. 16 months to achieve a masters. I always was one to work part time through school. I worked in various jobs from a receptionist to a pastry chef and a vet tech in high school and college. It was such an amazing breath of fresh air to just concentrate on school when I was in New Orleans. I had never been happier because I was so balanced and focused.
A decade later (ouch, that one makes me cringe) I return to school as one of those non-traditional students. You know, the older person always with his/her hand raised and always, always prepared. This was the person I loathed in my previous academic careers. Oh. My. God. I've turned into that person. I cannot wait to tackle the 260+ pages of reading a week. I actually offer my opinion in class. I am prepared for my assignments. This is a drastic change for me as I used to wait until the night before papers were due, watch back to back Law and Orders on TNT, clean my room, and then somewhere around 11:00 PM I'd start on the paper only to finish it at 5:00 or so and have a roommate turn it in during class so I could catch up on my sleep. I have turned a corner somewhere.
Whilst I thought 16 months was crazy (and still do), you can officially take my measurements for a straight jacket now. I'm now enrolled in a 10 month Masters of Arts program for Organizational Development and Psychology. I'll have my second masters by June 1st. C.R.A.Z.Y. What makes it even more psycho is the fact that it is a program supposedly designed for working adults. The program has attracted such talented individuals who are already the Vice Presidents of some national companies from around the country. Somehow they are making their weekly business trips to Antwerp for a company merger and going to school. I don't know how successful they feel about it, though and that is a huge point. I truly anticipate a few dropouts before the end of this first month.
In the meantime of drowning in action process models, papers, discussion boards, and online lectures, I'm considering taking a full time job essentially creating a new program in medical social work. I'm beginning to wonder how smart of an idea this truly is. Something will have to give whether it be the housework, individual down time, sleep, eating, my marriage, social supports, etc.. To say I'm concerned is an understatement, but (un)fortunately, I don't have the time to think about it.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dining Differences
Last night my husband and I took advantage of restaurant week here in Boston. It should be noted that the city is so dense and has so much culture that restaurant week actually spans two weeks, not just one. They do exclude the weekends, capitalist bastards. Oh well. It was quite the feat just putting a plan in place and following through with it as J and I are well known for our dreams of doing stuff, but never actually doing the activity because we're so overwhelmed with options.
For example, last weekend we spent two days talking about going to a beach, or Walden pond, or a National park, or the city, or downtown, or a historic tour, or...well, you get the idea. In the end, we finally made it to Costco and Trader Joes. Yes, folks, that was our final outing.
We've been tracking and counting down restaurant week here as it was one of our most favorite things to do in Indy. There was some serious web browsing and research as to which restaurant we should dedicate our finances and taste buds. In the end, we chose Harvest.
A very interesting phenomena occurs when we are out to dinner. I've noticed this doesn't happen just to us, but it happens to most people. We do not order the exact same item even if it is what we really want. God forbid we should have two orders of duck on the table. Turns out there is a Harvard professor who actually wrote a book on this. I ran across it at the Harvard Coop (kind of like their bookstore). Its all about how we sabotage our own happiness. I know, a really uplifting subject, right?
So here we are in the elegant courtyard of a restaurant in Harvard Square last night at the only available reservation left: 8:30 PM.
J: "So what are you going to get?"
A: "I was thinking of starting with the corn soup with Chantilly mushrooms and crab."
J: "Damn."
A: "You know, you could get the same thing."
J: "What else were you thinking about for your entree?"
A: "The sole with the heirloom tomato and cannelli beans."
J: "Well, I guess I'll get the pork then."
A: "Why not order what you want?"
In the end, we did both end up with the soup and it was delicious. There were some striking differences between restaurant week here vs. in Indy. For one, the crowd was remarkably divergent. Our dining partners were decked out in Topsiders without socks, button downs with V-neck sweaters, long hair with product (guys), long hair without much make-up and product (girls), pre-labor day white trousers, hobo bags, messenger bags, and theoretical discussions. It was about as obnoxious as the wine pairings with each course. Somehow it fit, but seemed pretentious none-the-less. One thing was for certain as we eavesdropped on our dining companions and sipped our Willamette valley pinot noir: we certainly weren't in Kansas (or anywhere near it) anymore.
For example, last weekend we spent two days talking about going to a beach, or Walden pond, or a National park, or the city, or downtown, or a historic tour, or...well, you get the idea. In the end, we finally made it to Costco and Trader Joes. Yes, folks, that was our final outing.
We've been tracking and counting down restaurant week here as it was one of our most favorite things to do in Indy. There was some serious web browsing and research as to which restaurant we should dedicate our finances and taste buds. In the end, we chose Harvest.
A very interesting phenomena occurs when we are out to dinner. I've noticed this doesn't happen just to us, but it happens to most people. We do not order the exact same item even if it is what we really want. God forbid we should have two orders of duck on the table. Turns out there is a Harvard professor who actually wrote a book on this. I ran across it at the Harvard Coop (kind of like their bookstore). Its all about how we sabotage our own happiness. I know, a really uplifting subject, right?
So here we are in the elegant courtyard of a restaurant in Harvard Square last night at the only available reservation left: 8:30 PM.
J: "So what are you going to get?"
A: "I was thinking of starting with the corn soup with Chantilly mushrooms and crab."
J: "Damn."
A: "You know, you could get the same thing."
J: "What else were you thinking about for your entree?"
A: "The sole with the heirloom tomato and cannelli beans."
J: "Well, I guess I'll get the pork then."
A: "Why not order what you want?"
In the end, we did both end up with the soup and it was delicious. There were some striking differences between restaurant week here vs. in Indy. For one, the crowd was remarkably divergent. Our dining partners were decked out in Topsiders without socks, button downs with V-neck sweaters, long hair with product (guys), long hair without much make-up and product (girls), pre-labor day white trousers, hobo bags, messenger bags, and theoretical discussions. It was about as obnoxious as the wine pairings with each course. Somehow it fit, but seemed pretentious none-the-less. One thing was for certain as we eavesdropped on our dining companions and sipped our Willamette valley pinot noir: we certainly weren't in Kansas (or anywhere near it) anymore.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Hocus Pocus
Boy, how does one really follow up the last two postings that were both extremely dark? Well, I can begin by reassuring my readership that life out here isn't as dark as it was. Its still a bit more overcast and shadow dwelling than I prefer, but it certainly isn't as bleak. What changed? I don't know. Time? Perspective? Magic?
I like that last one. A little bibbity bobbedy boo, if you will. If it were only that simple, right? But seriously, I got a really nice shot of hope the other day by finding out that research shows that I can get pregnant on my current anti-depressants and not cause any harm to the fetus. I swear, only at Harvard would there be a whole perinatal psychiatry program. Talking about being in the right place at the right time. Seriously, that news was like angels singing down from heaven above.
I like that last one. A little bibbity bobbedy boo, if you will. If it were only that simple, right? But seriously, I got a really nice shot of hope the other day by finding out that research shows that I can get pregnant on my current anti-depressants and not cause any harm to the fetus. I swear, only at Harvard would there be a whole perinatal psychiatry program. Talking about being in the right place at the right time. Seriously, that news was like angels singing down from heaven above.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Who Am I and What Have You Done With Me?
"In search for your destiny, you will often find yourself obliged to change direction."
(The Fifth Mountain ~ Paulo Coehlo)
This past week has been rough. Ok, "rough," doesn't begin to cover the truth. That makes it sound like I've been frolicking about fields of daisies with friendly elves and bunnies compared to what it has really been like. The toll of all of my losses have begun to accumulate and weigh heavily: the loss of my professional identity and belief that I was a solid professional when I left my job from hell, the loss of two of extremely close and influential grandparents, the loss of a home and space I loved that represented happiness, the loss of yet another career momentum and direction, the loss of an anticipated job offer, the loss of staying connected to family of origin through important rituals like weddings... Granted, several of these are self-inflicted through choices, but they are losses none-the-less. When one is faced with so many losses it is easy to find your perspective shifted unconsciously from expecting happy doors to open to simply pure dread and anticipating when the next shoe will drop.
That perspective changes the way you view the world. All of a sudden life is not filled with opportunity, but instead isolation. It is not a pleasant way to exist. It brings everything under a microscope to be questioned, examined, and calls for judgement to take place. In this past week I have questioned my purpose in life, my true desires, my own limitations, my marriage, and even my own will.
After my last post with failure being out in the open, I wrote to mentors and friends asking for a different perspective on the latest loss and being rejected. I shared my sorrow, my hopelessness, my grief, and self-scorn. One wrote, "Job, Shmob. Something is trying to find you and it wasn't that job. Yeah, I know, easy for me to say. But I do have to look at your life and see that the universe is helping you to shift your focus. You're right that a career is different than a job, but sometimes, it's "just a job" that shows you something new about yourself." At times I forget that just as much as I'm trying to find my destiny, my destiny is also trying to find me. It was a blissful reminder.
Others reminded me that while it may seem like a failure now, it opened up doors and awareness I didn't have before. It would have been a short term solution, but may have perpetuated a long term problem. "Problem" being not being 100% clear about my intention and life desires. Going along blissfully in ignorance is not a solution. And not knowing what you want is a massive problem. I am able to tell you what I don't want better than what I do want. I have ideas, but no lines in the sand or force. Furthermore, I feel so deserted its hard for me to muster my strength and will anything. I worry that anything I put on the table right now as a potential solution is just a band-aid. Its like putting a band-aid on someone who needs a kidney transplant.
My friends and family have been my best allies. It is clear how much they love me and want me to be happy. They don't want me to lose who I am and compromise what I hold dear. They rage at the thought of me selling myself short and compromising too much. I think that the problem is right now, I don't know who I am or what it will take for me to be happy. They have been my fierce cheerleaders, advisors, and sounding boards. I am so lucky to have them.
Its ironic that my presentation I gave at the job interview was on managing transitions. Change may be the physical situation, but transition is the psychological adjustment to the change. People have no problem with change; its the transition people resist. All beginnings start with endings. Endings must be grieved. I must be on the verge of a lot of beginnings, then, because the losses are swallowing me whole.
I can imagine I've been a nightmare to live with. Hell, I haven't liked living with me this past week either and I can't exactly leave me. I'm certain my conversations have been filled with projections: accusing decisions are being made through fear, wondering where the strength is in our vows to get through this, anger and rage about compromise and purposefully inflicting loss, insolence about violated plans (not agreements or commitments, just plans), accusations of selfishness. I will not discredit me solely; I believe there is validity and truth to what I ask and perceive as well. If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck then it is a duck. I'm certain I have acted as the crazy woman perfectly this week. Crazy isn't the right word: grief stricken is 100% accurate.
(The Fifth Mountain ~ Paulo Coehlo)
This past week has been rough. Ok, "rough," doesn't begin to cover the truth. That makes it sound like I've been frolicking about fields of daisies with friendly elves and bunnies compared to what it has really been like. The toll of all of my losses have begun to accumulate and weigh heavily: the loss of my professional identity and belief that I was a solid professional when I left my job from hell, the loss of two of extremely close and influential grandparents, the loss of a home and space I loved that represented happiness, the loss of yet another career momentum and direction, the loss of an anticipated job offer, the loss of staying connected to family of origin through important rituals like weddings... Granted, several of these are self-inflicted through choices, but they are losses none-the-less. When one is faced with so many losses it is easy to find your perspective shifted unconsciously from expecting happy doors to open to simply pure dread and anticipating when the next shoe will drop.
That perspective changes the way you view the world. All of a sudden life is not filled with opportunity, but instead isolation. It is not a pleasant way to exist. It brings everything under a microscope to be questioned, examined, and calls for judgement to take place. In this past week I have questioned my purpose in life, my true desires, my own limitations, my marriage, and even my own will.
After my last post with failure being out in the open, I wrote to mentors and friends asking for a different perspective on the latest loss and being rejected. I shared my sorrow, my hopelessness, my grief, and self-scorn. One wrote, "Job, Shmob. Something is trying to find you and it wasn't that job. Yeah, I know, easy for me to say. But I do have to look at your life and see that the universe is helping you to shift your focus. You're right that a career is different than a job, but sometimes, it's "just a job" that shows you something new about yourself." At times I forget that just as much as I'm trying to find my destiny, my destiny is also trying to find me. It was a blissful reminder.
Others reminded me that while it may seem like a failure now, it opened up doors and awareness I didn't have before. It would have been a short term solution, but may have perpetuated a long term problem. "Problem" being not being 100% clear about my intention and life desires. Going along blissfully in ignorance is not a solution. And not knowing what you want is a massive problem. I am able to tell you what I don't want better than what I do want. I have ideas, but no lines in the sand or force. Furthermore, I feel so deserted its hard for me to muster my strength and will anything. I worry that anything I put on the table right now as a potential solution is just a band-aid. Its like putting a band-aid on someone who needs a kidney transplant.
My friends and family have been my best allies. It is clear how much they love me and want me to be happy. They don't want me to lose who I am and compromise what I hold dear. They rage at the thought of me selling myself short and compromising too much. I think that the problem is right now, I don't know who I am or what it will take for me to be happy. They have been my fierce cheerleaders, advisors, and sounding boards. I am so lucky to have them.
Its ironic that my presentation I gave at the job interview was on managing transitions. Change may be the physical situation, but transition is the psychological adjustment to the change. People have no problem with change; its the transition people resist. All beginnings start with endings. Endings must be grieved. I must be on the verge of a lot of beginnings, then, because the losses are swallowing me whole.
I can imagine I've been a nightmare to live with. Hell, I haven't liked living with me this past week either and I can't exactly leave me. I'm certain my conversations have been filled with projections: accusing decisions are being made through fear, wondering where the strength is in our vows to get through this, anger and rage about compromise and purposefully inflicting loss, insolence about violated plans (not agreements or commitments, just plans), accusations of selfishness. I will not discredit me solely; I believe there is validity and truth to what I ask and perceive as well. If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck then it is a duck. I'm certain I have acted as the crazy woman perfectly this week. Crazy isn't the right word: grief stricken is 100% accurate.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Failures
When I was in graduate school I dated a guy who kept all of his rejection letters because it was "character building." At least, that is what he called it. I called him delusional. While failing is character building, in an extreme psychotic optimistic point of view, hanging onto those unsubtle reminders of your shortcomings, is not.
I have to remind myself that the Universe or God or whatever has a plan. Que Sera Sera, right? This is an easy life motto to have when things are going your way, but it sucks rotten eggs when you don't get what you really want.
When I was rejected from a job I really wanted this past week, I debated about blogging my experience. Why pour lemon juice, salt, and carbonic acid into my already gaping wound in front of the masses? I should instead go quietly into the night and lick my wounds in private only to emerge with a small scar later and pretend like nothing ever happened. That was my first instinct. Let my failures be private; let my successes be public. However, that's not real.
Real is the feeling of being ashamed and embarrassed by not being awarded the position. "The" position, mind you, not just "a" position. That was my first reaction. Its raw and ugly, but its real. I can console myself by stating that there is a reason why I didn't get it; reasons I don't know now, but it is for the best. I can also re-frame things into a place of self-reflection as to what the larger meaning is behind this and what life lesson I need to learn.
Self-reflection can often quickly spiral down to self-massacre. Examining every detail of the exchange, revising answers to questions, analyzing minutia from degree qualifications down to simple interview wardrobe selection. The process is nauseating and disheartening. And then, you get to the real meat of the issue: Is this really what I wanted? Did I really believe that this would not just make me happy, but bring fulfillment in my life?
If I were to have succeeded in securing this role, I would not have questioned anything. I would have opened a bottle of champagne, taken myself out to a nice restaurant, and reconstructed the budget to allow small indulgences. A gift for myself, I would rationalize, because I deserve it. But did I really? If I had succeeded I would not have learned anything. And that, would be the ultimate failure.
I have to remind myself that the Universe or God or whatever has a plan. Que Sera Sera, right? This is an easy life motto to have when things are going your way, but it sucks rotten eggs when you don't get what you really want.
When I was rejected from a job I really wanted this past week, I debated about blogging my experience. Why pour lemon juice, salt, and carbonic acid into my already gaping wound in front of the masses? I should instead go quietly into the night and lick my wounds in private only to emerge with a small scar later and pretend like nothing ever happened. That was my first instinct. Let my failures be private; let my successes be public. However, that's not real.
Real is the feeling of being ashamed and embarrassed by not being awarded the position. "The" position, mind you, not just "a" position. That was my first reaction. Its raw and ugly, but its real. I can console myself by stating that there is a reason why I didn't get it; reasons I don't know now, but it is for the best. I can also re-frame things into a place of self-reflection as to what the larger meaning is behind this and what life lesson I need to learn.
Self-reflection can often quickly spiral down to self-massacre. Examining every detail of the exchange, revising answers to questions, analyzing minutia from degree qualifications down to simple interview wardrobe selection. The process is nauseating and disheartening. And then, you get to the real meat of the issue: Is this really what I wanted? Did I really believe that this would not just make me happy, but bring fulfillment in my life?
If I were to have succeeded in securing this role, I would not have questioned anything. I would have opened a bottle of champagne, taken myself out to a nice restaurant, and reconstructed the budget to allow small indulgences. A gift for myself, I would rationalize, because I deserve it. But did I really? If I had succeeded I would not have learned anything. And that, would be the ultimate failure.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Beauty In the Eye of the Beholder...
J: "Ooh, Van Halen." As he flips through the music channels on our cable.
Me: "Its classic rock? When did it become classic rock?" Noticing the channel.
J: "Its been classic rock since like 1987. It was on Z 93. Ooh, you have to admit he's kind of sexy."
Me: "David Lee Roth?!?"
J: "Yeah!"
Me: "You have no taste in men."
J: "You're right."
Me: "Its classic rock? When did it become classic rock?" Noticing the channel.
J: "Its been classic rock since like 1987. It was on Z 93. Ooh, you have to admit he's kind of sexy."
Me: "David Lee Roth?!?"
J: "Yeah!"
Me: "You have no taste in men."
J: "You're right."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Concept of Family; Redefined
Nothing like a good month of life altering events to raise the emotions in a family. A death and now a wedding. My brother and his fiance are days away from the "I do's."
I remember being this close to my wedding and honestly, I wasn't that panicked. I was more concerned about the details and things going right. A bunch of wasted energy, truly, as things still went wrong no matter how much time I spent worrying about them. But, emotions run high.
After returning from Ginny's farewell, both J and I spent a good portion of our time playing creative finances to see how we could fund the plane fare to get me back to Salt Lake over Pioneer weekend. No matter how we flipped the budget, it just isn't in the cards for us. Perhaps I was dreaming a bit thinking it was even possible. Living on one salary that doesn't kick in until the end of the month, a rent payment that outweighs the SLC mortgage, and all of the moving expenses has its challenges. I find myself counting change for bus fare, coasting down hills without A/C in the car to improve gas mileage, and packing J lunch just to save a few dollars. I couldn't tell you the last time I went to Starbucks.
I dreaded telling my family that I wasn't going to make it...especially my brother. It went as well (0r as poorly) as it could be expected. I haven't spoken to him since my dreaded phone call. Honestly I'm afraid of the intensified guilt I would feel talking to him. I also don't know if he would even take my call.
I feel good about my decision on a rational level, but I also know come Thursday night about the time of the rehearsal dinner I'll feel waves of sadness that will intensify by the time of their nuptials on Friday. That's pretty damn natural. My parents spent a lot of their energy instilling the value that family comes first. For a marriage that has lasted over 35 years, I think they've done a pretty good job. What a shift to realize that instinctively your concept of family shifts to your partnership quite quickly. I would do anything to fiercely protect J and the success of my marriage. I'm honored that he chose to be my family.
I'm thrilled that my brother found someone who loves and values him. You can see how much he adores her too. When you are with them, its tangible. Perhaps my absence during their wedding is a larger message about family, the success of values, and faith in marriage. I may be physically absent during their wedding, but it certainly isn't a statement about my belief and support for their marriage.
I remember being this close to my wedding and honestly, I wasn't that panicked. I was more concerned about the details and things going right. A bunch of wasted energy, truly, as things still went wrong no matter how much time I spent worrying about them. But, emotions run high.
After returning from Ginny's farewell, both J and I spent a good portion of our time playing creative finances to see how we could fund the plane fare to get me back to Salt Lake over Pioneer weekend. No matter how we flipped the budget, it just isn't in the cards for us. Perhaps I was dreaming a bit thinking it was even possible. Living on one salary that doesn't kick in until the end of the month, a rent payment that outweighs the SLC mortgage, and all of the moving expenses has its challenges. I find myself counting change for bus fare, coasting down hills without A/C in the car to improve gas mileage, and packing J lunch just to save a few dollars. I couldn't tell you the last time I went to Starbucks.
I dreaded telling my family that I wasn't going to make it...especially my brother. It went as well (0r as poorly) as it could be expected. I haven't spoken to him since my dreaded phone call. Honestly I'm afraid of the intensified guilt I would feel talking to him. I also don't know if he would even take my call.
I feel good about my decision on a rational level, but I also know come Thursday night about the time of the rehearsal dinner I'll feel waves of sadness that will intensify by the time of their nuptials on Friday. That's pretty damn natural. My parents spent a lot of their energy instilling the value that family comes first. For a marriage that has lasted over 35 years, I think they've done a pretty good job. What a shift to realize that instinctively your concept of family shifts to your partnership quite quickly. I would do anything to fiercely protect J and the success of my marriage. I'm honored that he chose to be my family.
I'm thrilled that my brother found someone who loves and values him. You can see how much he adores her too. When you are with them, its tangible. Perhaps my absence during their wedding is a larger message about family, the success of values, and faith in marriage. I may be physically absent during their wedding, but it certainly isn't a statement about my belief and support for their marriage.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Domestic Diva Preparing to Depart
While I was gone, J sustained himself with frozen burritos and yogurt. He would tell me of his plans for dinner when I would call him.
Me: "So, have you had dinner?" Noting that it was now 11 o'clock his time.
J: "No. I might have a spoonful of peanut butter before I go to bed."
Me: "Are you kidding me? You did live by yourself and cook for yourself before we married."
J: audible sigh "Yeah, well I did have two yogurts at 4:00 for linner."
Me: "You didn't have lunch either?"
J: "I thought of making a burrito that we bought at Trader Joe's, but they go in the microwave. Our house doesn't have a microwave."
Me: "So put it in the oven."
J: "On a plate?"
Me: "No. On a cookie sheet."
I don't know what happened when the I-do's went into effect, but somehow my husband forgot how to turn on a stove. Ok, that truly isn't fair. It didn't happen immediately after the wedding. It happened after I left my job from hell and became a semi-permanent homemaker.
As the unspoken deal (or briefly mentioned arrangement) went after I left said hell, he was ok with my new part time jobs and more time at home in exchange for him not having to worry about pesty little things like dinner or laundry. I have to admit, once I settled my internal feminist battle, I really embraced my new full time role of nurturing. I began to actually enjoy making grocery lists, sorting laundry, using fabric softener, etc.. We took a huge hit financially, but our quality of life improved dramatically.
Every once in awhile my inner Gloria Steinem freaks out and I start to worry about equality being reflected monetarily in the long run, but then I figure out I just need a little bit more acknowledgment of appreciation. A recent study showed that a full time homemaker would be earning a salary of over $120 K for duties performed. Yeah, I'd say that earns a bit of appreciation...with interest. Once I get that appreciation I feel fine about the arrangement. Don't get me wrong, J would HAPPILY be the house husband.
Ever since I've been home, in Boston, I've been a cooking mad-woman. Every day I typically ask J if he has a craving for dinner. His usual answer is, "not really." I was shocked when he asked for salad the first day I was home. I set about researching the Brown Derby's Cobb Salad. The thing calls for 4 types of lettuce, herbs, a special dressing, two meats, an egg, tomato, avocado, and expensive cheese. My "no cook" salad put me in the kitchen over hot burners for 3 hours. However, it was so greatly appreciated.
The following day I made the awesome chicken enchilada recipe in this month's Real Simple. I also thought to make a fresh berry cobbler. I used Ginny's recipe on that one. Things were going great until I realized that I couldn't tell if the berries went in first or the batter. My first thought: call Ginny. I almost had fit of panic when I realized I couldn't call her. This simply wasn't right. My next thought was: call someone else in the family who makes cobbler. After eliminating all of my aunts, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, etc, I could only rely on my Mom. I began to call all of her numbers unsuccessfully. Now I was alarmed. Who else could advise me on cobbler? I finally called my Dad, who thankfully, was with my Mom. She cleared things up, johnny-on-the-spot. Jon appreciated the cobbler as well.
This next week I'm moving forward with my job quest. Part of me is sad, I hate to admit it. I LOVE my professional identity, but I also relish my time dedicated to domestic life. Who would have thought I would say that? Not me. Once I get this particular job of my dreams, J and I will be back to staring at one another at the end of a long day amid piles of laundry and wondering who remembers how to turn on a stove.
Me: "So, have you had dinner?" Noting that it was now 11 o'clock his time.
J: "No. I might have a spoonful of peanut butter before I go to bed."
Me: "Are you kidding me? You did live by yourself and cook for yourself before we married."
J: audible sigh "Yeah, well I did have two yogurts at 4:00 for linner."
Me: "You didn't have lunch either?"
J: "I thought of making a burrito that we bought at Trader Joe's, but they go in the microwave. Our house doesn't have a microwave."
Me: "So put it in the oven."
J: "On a plate?"
Me: "No. On a cookie sheet."
I don't know what happened when the I-do's went into effect, but somehow my husband forgot how to turn on a stove. Ok, that truly isn't fair. It didn't happen immediately after the wedding. It happened after I left my job from hell and became a semi-permanent homemaker.
As the unspoken deal (or briefly mentioned arrangement) went after I left said hell, he was ok with my new part time jobs and more time at home in exchange for him not having to worry about pesty little things like dinner or laundry. I have to admit, once I settled my internal feminist battle, I really embraced my new full time role of nurturing. I began to actually enjoy making grocery lists, sorting laundry, using fabric softener, etc.. We took a huge hit financially, but our quality of life improved dramatically.
Every once in awhile my inner Gloria Steinem freaks out and I start to worry about equality being reflected monetarily in the long run, but then I figure out I just need a little bit more acknowledgment of appreciation. A recent study showed that a full time homemaker would be earning a salary of over $120 K for duties performed. Yeah, I'd say that earns a bit of appreciation...with interest. Once I get that appreciation I feel fine about the arrangement. Don't get me wrong, J would HAPPILY be the house husband.
Ever since I've been home, in Boston, I've been a cooking mad-woman. Every day I typically ask J if he has a craving for dinner. His usual answer is, "not really." I was shocked when he asked for salad the first day I was home. I set about researching the Brown Derby's Cobb Salad. The thing calls for 4 types of lettuce, herbs, a special dressing, two meats, an egg, tomato, avocado, and expensive cheese. My "no cook" salad put me in the kitchen over hot burners for 3 hours. However, it was so greatly appreciated.
The following day I made the awesome chicken enchilada recipe in this month's Real Simple. I also thought to make a fresh berry cobbler. I used Ginny's recipe on that one. Things were going great until I realized that I couldn't tell if the berries went in first or the batter. My first thought: call Ginny. I almost had fit of panic when I realized I couldn't call her. This simply wasn't right. My next thought was: call someone else in the family who makes cobbler. After eliminating all of my aunts, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, etc, I could only rely on my Mom. I began to call all of her numbers unsuccessfully. Now I was alarmed. Who else could advise me on cobbler? I finally called my Dad, who thankfully, was with my Mom. She cleared things up, johnny-on-the-spot. Jon appreciated the cobbler as well.
This next week I'm moving forward with my job quest. Part of me is sad, I hate to admit it. I LOVE my professional identity, but I also relish my time dedicated to domestic life. Who would have thought I would say that? Not me. Once I get this particular job of my dreams, J and I will be back to staring at one another at the end of a long day amid piles of laundry and wondering who remembers how to turn on a stove.
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