When I have something on my mind, I mean really stuck in my brain, everything is about that thing. Songs and movies send me messages, the universe is collaborating and laughing at me because, even if I try, I will not get that thing, whatever it is, out of my brain. I'm not a paranoid schizophrenic; I don't really think the universe is conspiring, but it is easier to think that than to think my brain is stuck on something. (Although, the "shuffle" function of my iPod might be able to read my mood and create theme music for it... But I have heard other people say the same thing, so I do feel a bit less crazy for thinking it. Plus, you know, it is Apple... Isn't Steve Jobs kind of god-like? Omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and whatnot. Maybe they figured out how to capture that in the shuffle function.)
The worst part of my brain's tenaciousness is when I am trying to figure out a person. Every thing they do--the way they move, what they eat, the set of their mouth, the color of their shoes, the music they listen to at the gym--isn't just a clue to me, but also a clue for me. Just for me. As if they know I am trying to decipher them and they decide to play along. I'm sure this obsessing is part of the reason why I find it difficult to make friends. I assume so much from the clues and I am so negative in general that these clues either add up to, "I do not like you, Kayly," or "I'm such a jerk, Kayly." Although, a few times in my youth, they added up to, "I'm a really great guy. You should totally try to date me." And the clues were so, so veddy, veddy wrong.
I've been in counseling a million times and know all about "negative thought patterns" and "dysfunctional behavior," blah blah blah. Cognitive behavioral therapy does not float my boat, though, and this behavior is so deeply rooted in who I am that I'm not sure I can change it or get rid of it, anyway.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
My Kingdom for a Gloppy Glue Stump
From my laparoscopy, I have a cute little scar on my lower left abdomen which looks more like a scratch than something from a surgery. It hasn't bothered me in any way at all. I think this is partly because it is on part of my belly which never fully regained feeling after one or both of my c-sections. So: no itch, no pain, probably won't even leave a mark.
The hole they cut into my bellybutton is not really much bigger, and it is vertical (rather than horizontal like the other one) so it blends in with the "crease" parts of of the bellybutton.
Both of the incisions were sealed with that surgical glue stuff that they use. When they sent me home the glue in my bellybutton was a little "gloppy" looking, like maybe they were trying to make a cast of it with the glue. And the glue had mixed a bit with a bit of blood and a bit of "discharge" (which is their word for "liquid leaking from your body because we cut you open" and is supposedly normal) so within a few hours my bellybutton was disgusting to me. I know that it was normal. There was no [gag!] pus; it wasn't red or hot; there was no "foul odor" as I was warned of in the "If This Happens Get the Fuck to a Hospital" section of the instruction sheet they gave to me. But it looked disgusting. So I, of course, couldn't stop looking at it.
All of the attention paid to my bellybutton made me think of a very weird belief of my husband's. He's quite sure if someone pokes you in the bellybutton that it can just "come undone" and you can get infected and die or bleed to death. I always make fun of this and poke him repeatedly until he (half-jokingly) freaks out.
With this ridiculous story in mind, I watched in horror when, three days after my laparoscopy, the "gloppy" glue stump fell out of my bellybutton. I was quite sure my entrails--yes, this was the word in my fear: entrails--would come out of the half-inch scar, like scarves from a magician's sleeve, until I died, eviscerated for a lack of a gloppy glue stump.
PS If I repeatedly misspell laparoscopy, it is because Firefox thinks the correct spelling is spectroscopy and Blogger thinks it is spelled periscope. So fuck all if I know how to spell it.
The hole they cut into my bellybutton is not really much bigger, and it is vertical (rather than horizontal like the other one) so it blends in with the "crease" parts of of the bellybutton.
Both of the incisions were sealed with that surgical glue stuff that they use. When they sent me home the glue in my bellybutton was a little "gloppy" looking, like maybe they were trying to make a cast of it with the glue. And the glue had mixed a bit with a bit of blood and a bit of "discharge" (which is their word for "liquid leaking from your body because we cut you open" and is supposedly normal) so within a few hours my bellybutton was disgusting to me. I know that it was normal. There was no [gag!] pus; it wasn't red or hot; there was no "foul odor" as I was warned of in the "If This Happens Get the Fuck to a Hospital" section of the instruction sheet they gave to me. But it looked disgusting. So I, of course, couldn't stop looking at it.
All of the attention paid to my bellybutton made me think of a very weird belief of my husband's. He's quite sure if someone pokes you in the bellybutton that it can just "come undone" and you can get infected and die or bleed to death. I always make fun of this and poke him repeatedly until he (half-jokingly) freaks out.
With this ridiculous story in mind, I watched in horror when, three days after my laparoscopy, the "gloppy" glue stump fell out of my bellybutton. I was quite sure my entrails--yes, this was the word in my fear: entrails--would come out of the half-inch scar, like scarves from a magician's sleeve, until I died, eviscerated for a lack of a gloppy glue stump.
PS If I repeatedly misspell laparoscopy, it is because Firefox thinks the correct spelling is spectroscopy and Blogger thinks it is spelled periscope. So fuck all if I know how to spell it.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Arizona
I'm still not ready to have a long discussion about the shootings in Arizona, but last night I wept for the all of the people affected by the tragedy in Arizona. All of them. Even the shooter. My belief (formed from the facts available so far) is that the shooter has severe mental illness. Everyone around him saw it. People were scared of what the illness had done to him. But nobody tried to help him. When one is that ill, it is almost impossible to get the needed help. Hell, it's almost impossible when one's mental illness isn't anywhere near that severe and the shooter was so ill that he didn't even know he was ill, so how was he supposed to do it without help?
This country treats mental illness as a weakness instead of an illness. Until we start recognizing it as an illness and stop stigmatizing those with the illness, we'll always have many people wandering the streets who are on the edge of this kind of breakdown. Had somebody reported their worries to a mental health hotline, impressed on his family the need to seek help, told the police that they believed he was a danger to himself or others, maybe 8 January would have been a normal day in Tuscon.
Here are some phone numbers for anyone who needs help or knows of someone who needs help.
It's eight pages, so click through until you find what seems to be the most appropriate number.
This country treats mental illness as a weakness instead of an illness. Until we start recognizing it as an illness and stop stigmatizing those with the illness, we'll always have many people wandering the streets who are on the edge of this kind of breakdown. Had somebody reported their worries to a mental health hotline, impressed on his family the need to seek help, told the police that they believed he was a danger to himself or others, maybe 8 January would have been a normal day in Tuscon.
Here are some phone numbers for anyone who needs help or knows of someone who needs help.
Mental Health Hotline Numbers and Referral Resources
It's eight pages, so click through until you find what seems to be the most appropriate number.
Friday, January 07, 2011
Not Happy About Today's Horoscope
I kind of believe and kind of don't believe in horoscopes. But the Yahoo horoscopes seem to consistently relate to whatever my current situation seems to be. Here is today's:
Daily Extended for January 7, 2011 (Today)
Capricorn
12/22 – 1/19
Overview
There's one simple way to make the next few weeks of your life easier: Let go of all the things you can't control. Yes, this is easier said than done, but once you start to make the effort, you will immediately get a taste of the freedom it brings. Sometimes, guilt can keep you from moving away from old setbacks, bad relationships or other unpleasant dramas. If you're feeling guilty, ask yourself why. There's no way to go back in time. The only option is to keep going forward!
I don't like. Where's the "don't like" button?
Thursday, January 06, 2011
My Panties
I know that caught your attention, but this is really just a TMI, girl talk post. Feel free to click away if the words "tampon" or "uterus" make your squeamish or blush. In fact, go look at this to clear those words from your mind.
My laproscopic surgery is next Wednesday the 12th. In preparing for the possibilities of anything from them finding nothing to the horribly unexpected "total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy" (removal of uterus with cervix, tubes and ovaries) I have been reading some sites' lists of stuff I might want for recovery. I figured I'd prepare for the worst and then it won't happen. (That's always been my theory and it's always worked for me.)
Two of the things I had to buy gall me. Menstrual pads and granny panties.
I find pads gross for many reasons I won't enumerate, but if I have bleeding after the surgery I will not be able to use tampons, so I bought a pack of the hated items and hope I do not have to use them. I didn't even buy the cloth kind or the eco-friendly disposables, because I reallyreally don't even like the bad, plastic-y kind, but at least they lock "stuff" into their chemical goop. (By the way, I highly recommend Natracare tampons. They're just like old school Tampax or o.b.--depending on whether you get the applicator or not--but no dioxins, plastic or rayon. And they're an ethical business.)
And granny panties? Nuh-uh. I have never worn them, so buying a "7 pairs for the price of 6 100% cotton Hanes Briefs" pack at Target was somewhat shaming for me as someone who takes great pride in not haven "given up" on my looks and clothes. Even worse? They apparently only make such things in little girl patterns and colors. There was not a pack of all white briefs and there were no black briefs at all. So now I own seven pairs of 100% cotton granny panties which make me look like a very over-sized toddler. The worst? I bought them a size too big so they will be super comfy. Lets hope this doesn't lead to something awful, like a fondness for the damn things. Right up there with a taste for human brains in my book. Scratch that. At least zombies are cool, for crap's sake.
My laproscopic surgery is next Wednesday the 12th. In preparing for the possibilities of anything from them finding nothing to the horribly unexpected "total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy" (removal of uterus with cervix, tubes and ovaries) I have been reading some sites' lists of stuff I might want for recovery. I figured I'd prepare for the worst and then it won't happen. (That's always been my theory and it's always worked for me.)
Two of the things I had to buy gall me. Menstrual pads and granny panties.
I find pads gross for many reasons I won't enumerate, but if I have bleeding after the surgery I will not be able to use tampons, so I bought a pack of the hated items and hope I do not have to use them. I didn't even buy the cloth kind or the eco-friendly disposables, because I reallyreally don't even like the bad, plastic-y kind, but at least they lock "stuff" into their chemical goop. (By the way, I highly recommend Natracare tampons. They're just like old school Tampax or o.b.--depending on whether you get the applicator or not--but no dioxins, plastic or rayon. And they're an ethical business.)
And granny panties? Nuh-uh. I have never worn them, so buying a "7 pairs for the price of 6 100% cotton Hanes Briefs" pack at Target was somewhat shaming for me as someone who takes great pride in not haven "given up" on my looks and clothes. Even worse? They apparently only make such things in little girl patterns and colors. There was not a pack of all white briefs and there were no black briefs at all. So now I own seven pairs of 100% cotton granny panties which make me look like a very over-sized toddler. The worst? I bought them a size too big so they will be super comfy. Lets hope this doesn't lead to something awful, like a fondness for the damn things. Right up there with a taste for human brains in my book. Scratch that. At least zombies are cool, for crap's sake.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
It's my job to worry.
I was trying to remember where I had heard a quote something like my title when, for no particular reason, I remembered one of the quotes I had to memorize for Mr. Lavelle's notoriously difficult AP English final in high school. In 1990. (Looking back, I realize now that the final was actually really easy. A gift to us, the students he had made think all year long, but we all liked the mythology behind "the hardest final ever" which never changed a single freakin' question from year to year.) Mr. Lavelle was my favorite teacher ever, so in his honor:
So, "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!"
It suddenly occurred to me today that when I have my larproscopy on January 12th, it's possible that rather than finding nothing and leaving me to wonder what to do with this pain and other "stuff," or finding endometriosis and/or adhesions which may cause me to lose my uterus, that a third possibility is that I might lose it all. Or most of it. It honestly hasn't popped into my thoughts the whole time I've been agonizing over whether or not to have my uterus removed if they find nothing when they open me up. (The doctor said that sometimes some people find relief from pelvic pain of unknown etiology by having a hysterectomy. I won't be doing that as there are too many other things that might go wrong: cystocele, hernia, worsening of my IBS, greater surgery aggravating my autoimmune illness/inflammatory response, vaginal, vaginal vault, urethral, small intestine or rectal prolapse and, ironically, pelvic pain.)
This lead to a rather intense anxiety attack with much sobbing. The thought of taking hormones for the rest of my life, when I am not yet 40 and my family has a life expectancy of around 80 or 90 years, usually, terrifies me. I like the way I look, flaws and all, but I do not want to gain more weight, I don't need any drier or pimplier skin and I am not fond of synthetic hormones to begin with. (But the nearest bio-identical doctor is near Philly. Too far for me to travel for a doctor's appointment; I grumble over traveling to Hershey, for crap's sake!)
All of this on top of the mystical proclamation that recovery will take four to seven days to four to six weeks depending on what they have to do, leading me to wonder how employed people plan for this shit.
So, I worry, but that is nothing new. It's my job to worry.
Not tho' the soldier knewAnywho, that totally has nothing to do with this post, but it's weird what you can suddenly remember 20 years and some months later when you honestly can't recall what you ate today.
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
[Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade"; Googled only for correct punctuation]
So, "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!"
It suddenly occurred to me today that when I have my larproscopy on January 12th, it's possible that rather than finding nothing and leaving me to wonder what to do with this pain and other "stuff," or finding endometriosis and/or adhesions which may cause me to lose my uterus, that a third possibility is that I might lose it all. Or most of it. It honestly hasn't popped into my thoughts the whole time I've been agonizing over whether or not to have my uterus removed if they find nothing when they open me up. (The doctor said that sometimes some people find relief from pelvic pain of unknown etiology by having a hysterectomy. I won't be doing that as there are too many other things that might go wrong: cystocele, hernia, worsening of my IBS, greater surgery aggravating my autoimmune illness/inflammatory response, vaginal, vaginal vault, urethral, small intestine or rectal prolapse and, ironically, pelvic pain.)
This lead to a rather intense anxiety attack with much sobbing. The thought of taking hormones for the rest of my life, when I am not yet 40 and my family has a life expectancy of around 80 or 90 years, usually, terrifies me. I like the way I look, flaws and all, but I do not want to gain more weight, I don't need any drier or pimplier skin and I am not fond of synthetic hormones to begin with. (But the nearest bio-identical doctor is near Philly. Too far for me to travel for a doctor's appointment; I grumble over traveling to Hershey, for crap's sake!)
All of this on top of the mystical proclamation that recovery will take four to seven days to four to six weeks depending on what they have to do, leading me to wonder how employed people plan for this shit.
So, I worry, but that is nothing new. It's my job to worry.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
MPT (Medical People Time)
So after more than two weeks for two blood tests (one of which was pointless as I'd just had it done) I finally called the gynecologist's office myself. His nurse just called me back and said everything is "normal." Bloodwork, ultrasound, etc. So I said, "Well, what's my next step? Because obviously everything is not normal in there." And she said she'd let the doctor know, but I should rest easy tonight knowing I don't have a tumor. Well, then, maybe they should have let me know that before two weeks plus had passed. And, also? DUH! Something is wrong they just don't know what it is yet...
ARGH!!!
ARGH!!!
Weepy Patriotism
These past few weeks, I have been feeling blinding anger about the new TSA procedures which include the "backscatter" machines and the "enhanced" pat downs. (Remember the last time we added the word "enhanced" to something in the "War on Terror?")
I've been fighting the good fight, so to speak, over on Facebook because, apparently, a lot of people don't mind giving up their rights for an illusion of safety.
So I've been pretty exhausted as far as writing anything here. But I do want to state one thing unequivocally here for posterity.
Over my lifetime, because of my über liberalism, I have been accused many times of being the antithesis of a patriot, literally called a "traitor." Yet I doubt many of those people (who usually call themselves patriots) would say what I'm about to say and feel the truth of the emotion behind the words.
I would rather die with my Constitutional rights intact than fly "safely" without them.
I've been fighting the good fight, so to speak, over on Facebook because, apparently, a lot of people don't mind giving up their rights for an illusion of safety.
So I've been pretty exhausted as far as writing anything here. But I do want to state one thing unequivocally here for posterity.
Over my lifetime, because of my über liberalism, I have been accused many times of being the antithesis of a patriot, literally called a "traitor." Yet I doubt many of those people (who usually call themselves patriots) would say what I'm about to say and feel the truth of the emotion behind the words.
I would rather die with my Constitutional rights intact than fly "safely" without them.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
My PSA for the day
I'm sharing this, not because I agree with the author, but so I can comment that sexual assault has many different forms and it isn't always for sexual pleasure or about committing violence. I, too, have been sexually assaulted, but I understand that sexual assault is about power; power being taken away from the victim and given wholly to the perpetrator.
Yes, the case of the mother who was not informed what was going to be done to her, nor allowing her to consent to it is sexual assault. Her breasts and her labia were touched without her consent and without any warning. It traumatized her. That's it. That's sexual assault. If a person came up to you on the street and cupped your groin and breasts and you called the police, they WOULD arrest the person who committed the act.
Yes, the case of the mother who was not informed what was going to be done to her, nor allowing her to consent to it is sexual assault. Her breasts and her labia were touched without her consent and without any warning. It traumatized her. That's it. That's sexual assault. If a person came up to you on the street and cupped your groin and breasts and you called the police, they WOULD arrest the person who committed the act.
I understand some sexual assault is violent or more physically invasive than what happened to this woman, but we spend years telling our children, "If someone touches your 'bathing suit areas' without your permission it is not okay," then we tell adults, "Hey, touch away, no permission needed. It's open season on my vulva/scrotum. Have at it!"
The fog creeps in on little cat feet.
For months, I have been excited about a new study the University was going to be conducting on behalf of the Army and NIMH. The original job posting seemed to imply there would be travellers hired in addition to people centrally located to certain bases. The study is close to my heart because of both my own mental health struggles and my respect for our soldiers and my belief more needs to be done to protect their mental health. One of the big requirements for the job was public speaking experience, which I have in spades. The study was postponed so they could revamp a few things and then they reposted the positions. The new posting clearly states that a firm requirement of the job is living within 30 miles of specified bases. None of the bases are anywhere near me.
So the job search I had been half-heartedly conducting while I waited to hear about said study now must proceed in earnest.
The thing is, with no degree and the "gap" of having been a stay-at-home-mother and the tight economy leaving fewer jobs and even fewer people wanting to take chances on unproven workers--like myself--the prospects seem a little bleak. Add to that my unwillingness to go back to retail--oh god, especially during the holidays--and I am, in a word, screwed. (Nearly 25 years of on and off full- and part-time work in retail has left me with a horrible, nasty, disgusting taste in my mouth. After having done "real" and meaningful work, I just cannot go back to that hell.)
Between the health questions swirling around me and this new wrench in the work works and full-on Autumn pounding me over the head with its short days and dead flora...like the poet says, "The fog creeps in on little cat feet." He forgets to say that before it moves on, you need to figure out how to kicks its ass the hell off of its "silent haunches."
Thanks to a few reminders from my bestie I finally bought a light box to try to help with the seasonal aspect of my depression. I have noticed my sleep patterns shifting a bit back towards a normal person's. Maybe a tiny bit more energy throughout the day.... But it is hard to judge its effect on my mood, because I don't know what it would be right now if I were not using the box. Ah, the paradox of the afflicted. Is it me or the "meds?"
For now, I guess, ONWARD! (Meaning not that I might give up on living, but that I may fall prey to total inertia. So here's to one foot in front of the other, y'all.)
So the job search I had been half-heartedly conducting while I waited to hear about said study now must proceed in earnest.
The thing is, with no degree and the "gap" of having been a stay-at-home-mother and the tight economy leaving fewer jobs and even fewer people wanting to take chances on unproven workers--like myself--the prospects seem a little bleak. Add to that my unwillingness to go back to retail--oh god, especially during the holidays--and I am, in a word, screwed. (Nearly 25 years of on and off full- and part-time work in retail has left me with a horrible, nasty, disgusting taste in my mouth. After having done "real" and meaningful work, I just cannot go back to that hell.)
Between the health questions swirling around me and this new wrench in the work works and full-on Autumn pounding me over the head with its short days and dead flora...like the poet says, "The fog creeps in on little cat feet." He forgets to say that before it moves on, you need to figure out how to kicks its ass the hell off of its "silent haunches."
Thanks to a few reminders from my bestie I finally bought a light box to try to help with the seasonal aspect of my depression. I have noticed my sleep patterns shifting a bit back towards a normal person's. Maybe a tiny bit more energy throughout the day.... But it is hard to judge its effect on my mood, because I don't know what it would be right now if I were not using the box. Ah, the paradox of the afflicted. Is it me or the "meds?"
For now, I guess, ONWARD! (Meaning not that I might give up on living, but that I may fall prey to total inertia. So here's to one foot in front of the other, y'all.)
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Mean mothereffin' reds...
The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of.--Holly Golightly
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Drink Recipe: F*ck Me Gently with a Chainsaw
F*ck Me Gently with a Chainsaw
a.) On Election Night tell all of your Facebook friends this:
a.) On Election Night tell all of your Facebook friends this:
"couldn't decide if I should venture into the cold and cry into (an admittedly delicious selection of) beers or put my cozy jammies on and hide under a blanket on the couch. I've opted for the latter accompanied by a heap of Peanut Chews, a huge Iron Man cup of HFCS containing ginger ale and Hoarders and NCIS on the DVR. No live TV for me tonight."
b.) Immediately start checking Facebook, Twitter and online news media and commence live-blogging for close to four hours until everything is pretty much over.
c.)pour
- 2 oz Knob Creek into a shot glass
d.)then in a highball glass mix:
- splash of unsweetened orange juice
- 2 maraschino cherries, muddled and a splash of juice from the jar
- splash simple syrup
- 1-2 shakes Angostura Bitters
- 2 (or 3 or so) oz Knob Creek
- some ice
Directions
Shoot c, then sip d.
Alternate names for this drink are "shot of bourbon with ghetto old-fashioned back" or "Post Election Sorrow Drowner: Democrat Version."
Monday, October 18, 2010
blahg-er is blah
Words haven't been floating around in my head so much the past week or so. Images, ideas, pictures, maybe other people's words if I feel like reading for a bit but I'm just not chatty. Not in real life, not on paper, not on the screen. Or in a box with a fox eating lox.
I think the stressing out over the lady parts and the fact that I fucked up and missed my ultrasound on Wednesday and now have to wait until Election Day for the damn thing is just too much to think about so my brain has decided to just not think the way it normally does. Or I had a stroke. (Ah, just kidding. )
So Election Day promises to be... interesting? As I've said before, I do not have the good luck with which my husband has been blessed. For him November 2 is a promising day. For me? It's a terrifying prospect of Republithugs and hysterectomies.
On the other hand, if they see something during my ultrasound, even if it's not good, at least I'll have an answer and hopefully a treatment will be decided for me. Because if they see nothing then I have to decide if I want to roll the dice on a hysterectomy since "it may or may not help with the pain of unknown causes." I'll probably vote no; Nate feels the same. But we are both also hoping for an answer. Ack! This whole thing is just one big-ass conundrum. I don't want to have something "wrong" with me, but I know something is wrong because I don't feel "right." But the doctors--so far--say it is nothing, basically.
As a side note: I finally disconnected my Tumblr account from my Facebook account because I was overwhelming too many people with posts. I know I'm usually too prolific for some people, so the addition of tumblahgblahgblahg to my normal load of blergh scared some people off from reading my page at all anymore.
I think the stressing out over the lady parts and the fact that I fucked up and missed my ultrasound on Wednesday and now have to wait until Election Day for the damn thing is just too much to think about so my brain has decided to just not think the way it normally does. Or I had a stroke. (Ah, just kidding. )
So Election Day promises to be... interesting? As I've said before, I do not have the good luck with which my husband has been blessed. For him November 2 is a promising day. For me? It's a terrifying prospect of Republithugs and hysterectomies.
On the other hand, if they see something during my ultrasound, even if it's not good, at least I'll have an answer and hopefully a treatment will be decided for me. Because if they see nothing then I have to decide if I want to roll the dice on a hysterectomy since "it may or may not help with the pain of unknown causes." I'll probably vote no; Nate feels the same. But we are both also hoping for an answer. Ack! This whole thing is just one big-ass conundrum. I don't want to have something "wrong" with me, but I know something is wrong because I don't feel "right." But the doctors--so far--say it is nothing, basically.
As a side note: I finally disconnected my Tumblr account from my Facebook account because I was overwhelming too many people with posts. I know I'm usually too prolific for some people, so the addition of tumblahgblahgblahg to my normal load of blergh scared some people off from reading my page at all anymore.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
It ain't Grey's Freakin' Anatomy, people.
So if you know me, you know I've been bitchin' about an annoying health "thing" for a while now. This post is about that, and poo--lots of poo, and lady parts. You've been warned...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For about five months or so I've been suffering from chronic diarrhea which on some days is annoying and on others interferes with day-to-day life. Since I was very young, I have suffered from Irritable Bowel Syndrome with chronic constipation, so the turn five months ago was concerning, but I didn't go to the doctor. But the other month Nate said to me, "Between the diarrhea and the increased joint pain, this is the sickest I've ever seen you. You should see a doctor." Nate never suggests going to the doctor, so I made the appointment.
They horrified my fecal-phobic ass by making me do myriad versions of "sample" collection. I'm still traumatized. I'm not joking.
All cultures and tests, including the bloodwork and urine were "totally normal." "Probably just your IBS. Here's some IBS meds." They didn't seem to be worried that thirty-some years of constipation had suddenly done a 180° . Surprisingly [/sarcasm], the meds have not been helping.
This whole thing got me pondering another problem I've been having, but assumed was just due to my advancing--ahem!--maternal age. Shorter, heavier periods; debilitating cramps pre-, peri- and post-menstrually; lower back pain during the same time period which leaves me wondering why I was such a cry-baby during labor. Putting that together with the immediate problem and the history of "lady troubles" in my family, I decided a call to my friendly gynecologist's office was, perhaps, in order.
Today I called, told the receptionist my symptoms and was promptly put on hold. I thought she was trying to find an appointment for me. She came back on the line and told me the doc-on-call or the triage nurse would call me back for the fastest available appointment. Huh? Well, that didn't sound very good.
A nurse called me back and asked me repeatedly about fibroids and my family history of endometriosis and so on...told me they'd see me on the 6th and that they might want to do an ultrasound for the fibroids and "maybe check some other things." She didn't seem interested in the poly-cystic ovary syndrome at all, so I'm guessing that is probably not the problem. Gah. Fine.
I'd already talked to Nate and Dawn and Vicki about the possibility of endo and my fear of having a hysterectomy and perhaps even oophorectomy.
All I'd ever wanted was to be a stay-at-home mother of two children. Nate wanted a stay-at-home mother to seven children. We compromised on five. I then set my heart on five. We had names selected and everything. Due to various health problems, all of my docs and Nate decided for my stubborn butt that I was done with my baby-making. I often miss the ones we never had. The miscarriage and all of the babies my friends and family are recently cranking out don't help quell my baby-lust. A final judgment on the closing of the baby factory will definitely break me for a while.
I loved being pregnant, nursing, raising my children. I hate being told I cannot do something. The possibilities are not pretty. I was just coming to terms with being in perimenopause but it gave me years to get used to the idea. So while it would be nice to be rid of the suck going on in my belly once and for all, it would be quite difficult if the result is removal of some of my lady bits.
One possible plus: I told Nate if I am seriously done being pregnant forever and part of my lady-ness is taken away, then he will be paying for the tummy tuck of my dreams. Buh-bye c-section flap. (Am I right, ladies?) I think I convinced him when I said if any of his "man parts" had to be removed, I would totally let him get the red, fast convertible muscle car he would surely long for. He seemed to consider this a reasonable argument.
Stay tuned. My appointment is October 6th.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For about five months or so I've been suffering from chronic diarrhea which on some days is annoying and on others interferes with day-to-day life. Since I was very young, I have suffered from Irritable Bowel Syndrome with chronic constipation, so the turn five months ago was concerning, but I didn't go to the doctor. But the other month Nate said to me, "Between the diarrhea and the increased joint pain, this is the sickest I've ever seen you. You should see a doctor." Nate never suggests going to the doctor, so I made the appointment.
They horrified my fecal-phobic ass by making me do myriad versions of "sample" collection. I'm still traumatized. I'm not joking.
All cultures and tests, including the bloodwork and urine were "totally normal." "Probably just your IBS. Here's some IBS meds." They didn't seem to be worried that thirty-some years of constipation had suddenly done a 180° . Surprisingly [/sarcasm], the meds have not been helping.
This whole thing got me pondering another problem I've been having, but assumed was just due to my advancing--ahem!--maternal age. Shorter, heavier periods; debilitating cramps pre-, peri- and post-menstrually; lower back pain during the same time period which leaves me wondering why I was such a cry-baby during labor. Putting that together with the immediate problem and the history of "lady troubles" in my family, I decided a call to my friendly gynecologist's office was, perhaps, in order.
Today I called, told the receptionist my symptoms and was promptly put on hold. I thought she was trying to find an appointment for me. She came back on the line and told me the doc-on-call or the triage nurse would call me back for the fastest available appointment. Huh? Well, that didn't sound very good.
A nurse called me back and asked me repeatedly about fibroids and my family history of endometriosis and so on...told me they'd see me on the 6th and that they might want to do an ultrasound for the fibroids and "maybe check some other things." She didn't seem interested in the poly-cystic ovary syndrome at all, so I'm guessing that is probably not the problem. Gah. Fine.
I'd already talked to Nate and Dawn and Vicki about the possibility of endo and my fear of having a hysterectomy and perhaps even oophorectomy.
All I'd ever wanted was to be a stay-at-home mother of two children. Nate wanted a stay-at-home mother to seven children. We compromised on five. I then set my heart on five. We had names selected and everything. Due to various health problems, all of my docs and Nate decided for my stubborn butt that I was done with my baby-making. I often miss the ones we never had. The miscarriage and all of the babies my friends and family are recently cranking out don't help quell my baby-lust. A final judgment on the closing of the baby factory will definitely break me for a while.
I loved being pregnant, nursing, raising my children. I hate being told I cannot do something. The possibilities are not pretty. I was just coming to terms with being in perimenopause but it gave me years to get used to the idea. So while it would be nice to be rid of the suck going on in my belly once and for all, it would be quite difficult if the result is removal of some of my lady bits.
One possible plus: I told Nate if I am seriously done being pregnant forever and part of my lady-ness is taken away, then he will be paying for the tummy tuck of my dreams. Buh-bye c-section flap. (Am I right, ladies?) I think I convinced him when I said if any of his "man parts" had to be removed, I would totally let him get the red, fast convertible muscle car he would surely long for. He seemed to consider this a reasonable argument.
Stay tuned. My appointment is October 6th.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Are we fucked?
By we, I mean liberals. And if you're not with me, you're against me, so stop reading, lol.
First: GREAT convention, GREAT and historic acceptance speech. BLAH BLAH BLAH...
McCain picked a hockey mom with five kids (one w/Down's Syndrome), a blue-collar oilman husband, a kid going to Iraq, and who is adamently anti-choice, a hunter and a lifetime NRA member. Sure she has zero--really: ZERO!!--experience and she is, as I mentioned, ADAMENTLY anti-choice. But she is a 44-year-old SUPERMOM. (She went back to work days after giving birth this past spring!) So here come the Hillary-bots, right? Am I wrong?? PLEASE feel free to explain my faulty logic, as I really need to think differently right now. I went to sleep with such hope and woke to this...this...SHIT!!
My intellect wants to say something profound here, but my gut is SCREAMING:
FUCK McCain and the Hillary-bots he rode in on!!!!
First: GREAT convention, GREAT and historic acceptance speech. BLAH BLAH BLAH...
McCain picked a hockey mom with five kids (one w/Down's Syndrome), a blue-collar oilman husband, a kid going to Iraq, and who is adamently anti-choice, a hunter and a lifetime NRA member. Sure she has zero--really: ZERO!!--experience and she is, as I mentioned, ADAMENTLY anti-choice. But she is a 44-year-old SUPERMOM. (She went back to work days after giving birth this past spring!) So here come the Hillary-bots, right? Am I wrong?? PLEASE feel free to explain my faulty logic, as I really need to think differently right now. I went to sleep with such hope and woke to this...this...SHIT!!
My intellect wants to say something profound here, but my gut is SCREAMING:
FUCK McCain and the Hillary-bots he rode in on!!!!
Monday, April 07, 2008
And then to bed.
I still haven't figured out how lunch works tomorrow. A stupid little thing which has been nagging at me. Strange since there is so much else to be worried about. For example how much one on one counselling I will get and how much group is involved. Or what group will be like. Or what "activities" means exactly. And how tired I will be after a full day of baring my soul to strangers. Telling the same stories yet again. I am bored with the stories. I just want to know how to deal with this crap in my life, but I don't really want to have to tell the stories AGAIN.
I have library books overdue and library books to pick up and recycling to drop off and prescriptions to pick up and soccer practice yet again tomorrow night. And the prospect of doing these on what is sure to be little sleep and a full day of counselling does not make me chipper at all.
I sincerely hope this program helps to get me somewhere. I fear the depression will soon be creeping back if not. And that fear is dangerous to the cycle of depression. I got "healthy" and now I need to actually get healthy with that energy I regained. The window will soon close and I'll have to start all over again. I know, I know, negative Nelly. This kind of thinking is what does me in every time.
Okay, how about:
I WILL get healthy.
Did it sound convincing?
I have library books overdue and library books to pick up and recycling to drop off and prescriptions to pick up and soccer practice yet again tomorrow night. And the prospect of doing these on what is sure to be little sleep and a full day of counselling does not make me chipper at all.
I sincerely hope this program helps to get me somewhere. I fear the depression will soon be creeping back if not. And that fear is dangerous to the cycle of depression. I got "healthy" and now I need to actually get healthy with that energy I regained. The window will soon close and I'll have to start all over again. I know, I know, negative Nelly. This kind of thinking is what does me in every time.
Okay, how about:
I WILL get healthy.
Did it sound convincing?
Friday, March 28, 2008
Going Out with Friends Long Not Seen
Tonight will be the first night I will see a few old friends since the ECT. I'm nervous. It's like a coming out party or something, and I feel worried that I will not fulfill expectations. Can I show them I'm "happy enough?" Will I piss anyone off with my still occasionally poor memory? Will I get drunk and embarrass myself? (We're going to a brewpub, and lately beer--and just beer, not liquor or wine--gets me pretty high after one or two.) Maybe I'll stick to their home brewed root beer and water.
Some of them I've seen once or twice in the past year because of the "holing up" which took place as the depression deepened. I feel as if I will be on display or something tonight. None of these people know anyone else who has had ECT most likely. I'm the specimen for their collection. These friends are all about the warmest most non-judgemental people you can imagine, but I still worry.
I still regret not seeing some good friends who moved back to Wisconsin while I was "all about Kayly." I feel deep sadness about losing such good and decent friends. I know we can still exchange emails, cards, etc., but it's not the same as New Year's Eve parties, drop-bys, and other various invitations.
My nervousness is extending to what clothes and shoes to wear and how to do my hair and whether or not to put makeup on. These are not concerns I usually have when I see my friends. I've even come up with conversation topics, in case conversation is awkard and lags. Here is the list so far:
Some of them I've seen once or twice in the past year because of the "holing up" which took place as the depression deepened. I feel as if I will be on display or something tonight. None of these people know anyone else who has had ECT most likely. I'm the specimen for their collection. These friends are all about the warmest most non-judgemental people you can imagine, but I still worry.
I still regret not seeing some good friends who moved back to Wisconsin while I was "all about Kayly." I feel deep sadness about losing such good and decent friends. I know we can still exchange emails, cards, etc., but it's not the same as New Year's Eve parties, drop-bys, and other various invitations.
My nervousness is extending to what clothes and shoes to wear and how to do my hair and whether or not to put makeup on. These are not concerns I usually have when I see my friends. I've even come up with conversation topics, in case conversation is awkard and lags. Here is the list so far:
- Obama
- Obama
- the PA primary
- Obama
Yeah, I'm a little one-track-minded lately. Nervous about 4/22, too.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I'm OLD!!!!!
Based on phone calls and information I've received today, I believe Holden is getting into the SciTech magnet school we've been been hoping for. Which is great; YAY! But it made me realize my little boy--who stands about my height, wears his dad's size shoes, has just started listening to the "classic rock" sounds of Nirvana ("Mommy, did you know Kurt Cobain of Nirvana [like I have to have it explained to me, lol!] killed himself five days before I was born?" [Yes, infact I found out on the way to the hospital, and it freaked me out, but that is another story.]) and dresses more stylishly than most rock stars, right down to his beautiful long hair and, by now, trademark fedoras--is NOT a little boy anymore. What with multiple girlfriend wannabes and his playing the field and the fact that his first day of high school will occur in less than six months and all of the other stuff that goes with being almost 14, he is now definetly NOT a "little boy" anymore. WAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!
Here he is at six months after he was baptized at Nate and my wedding.
And here he is at about 3½ years old being a goof.
And when he was about 5½.
His first day of kindergarten.
In Japan lighting incense at a Shinto shrine shortly before his 13th birthday.
And with some Japanese cherry blossoms.
And in the Badlands listening to his MP3 player in August '07.
And then, as I finish writing this, my best friend, who has an evil sixth sense timing-wise, sent me this article. Uh, thanks, Vick. By the way, I emailed it to both of my sons, told them to consider it homework, quizzed them on it, and poured myself a LARGE glass of red wine.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
a bit more personal this one is
I am having much better days, much more optimism, much more "get get up get up and go go go," much more day light (literally, as I am both waking much earlier and actually opening all of the blinds and letting in the sunshine, both very new for me), much more ability to plan for the future. But I am still having these brief periods where, in a flash-outta-nowhere, blackness hits and I cry. I guess that this is a kind of "withdrawal" to the process of having been depressed for so long, who knows.
I do know that I am actively searching for a job and want to get out there as soon as possible so I can maintain my good hours and "daylight savings-account balance" to keep from slipping back into bad habits that in turn would lead to the old depression. It's a vicious cycle as depression always is. So far nobody has called for an interview. This amps up my anxiety, which leads to either a) an as-aforementioned crying jag or b) a Klonopin and a glass of red wine. (Sure one or the other would do the trick, but together: bliss! Plus the added bonus of everything being astoundingly amusing! Chill with judgyjudgy--this happens about twice a week at most.How much beer do you drink/pot do you smoke/food do you scarf when you feel bored/blue/angry?)
It's been suggested that I volunteer somewhere, a good deed that would be indeed, however...
Confession time: When released from the booby hatch I had the courage to finally come clean with my husband about a shameful secret: Over the past 4-5 years I've run up an astounding credit card debt. My credit rating is still very good (probably better than yours, even) as my payments are always well above the minimum and on time. But my spending was tootoo much. The accounts are closed; the cards are cut; and only one account has a balance to be paid. But, oh! what a balance! So my entire spending allowance is now going towards payments, along with a tidy sum from the household budget.
I've also had to cut out triple-venti-flavored-lattes ($5.09 each), netflix ($16.99 a month), my monthly donations to Feminist Majority ($10) and WXPN ($20), my stack of 5 gossip mags every week (about $15 a week), the stack of monthly magazines from Borders (approx. $50 a month), my couple or five books a month ($30-$75 a month), couple or six CDs a month ($25-$75 a month), various miscellaneous donations every month or so (anywhere from $10 to $75 a month--luckily, as a couple, we still budget for philanthropy every month, so we are not snubbing the needy altogether, just not going into debt for it as I have been stupidly doing), stacks of various perfumes, makeups, shoes, clothes and personal care products I honestly and truly DO NOT need (untold sums of money), massages occasionally (about $65-$80 every other month or every third month), magazine subscriptions ($?), meals out ($?), and lots and lots of wine ($?).
So yes, I need to get paid. And well. (Well, "well" in terms of someone with little or no skills and a not-so-hot work history.) Then I can pay off my debts and maintain a bit of my previous spendthrift ways.
Nate has been amazingly wonderful about my having created this mess and then hid it from him. At his suggestion--and I agreed--the new counsellor I've scheduled with specializes in generalized anxiety disorder and depression and also addiction problems, so I can figure out why I can't control myself when I have a little plastic card in my hand.
So now you all (all one or two of you who read this, and who already know this anyway) know my secret shame and the anxiety I'm causing myself with it until I have a real, live grown-up job.
I do know that I am actively searching for a job and want to get out there as soon as possible so I can maintain my good hours and "daylight savings-account balance" to keep from slipping back into bad habits that in turn would lead to the old depression. It's a vicious cycle as depression always is. So far nobody has called for an interview. This amps up my anxiety, which leads to either a) an as-aforementioned crying jag or b) a Klonopin and a glass of red wine. (Sure one or the other would do the trick, but together: bliss! Plus the added bonus of everything being astoundingly amusing! Chill with judgyjudgy--this happens about twice a week at most.How much beer do you drink/pot do you smoke/food do you scarf when you feel bored/blue/angry?)
It's been suggested that I volunteer somewhere, a good deed that would be indeed, however...
Confession time: When released from the booby hatch I had the courage to finally come clean with my husband about a shameful secret: Over the past 4-5 years I've run up an astounding credit card debt. My credit rating is still very good (probably better than yours, even) as my payments are always well above the minimum and on time. But my spending was tootoo much. The accounts are closed; the cards are cut; and only one account has a balance to be paid. But, oh! what a balance! So my entire spending allowance is now going towards payments, along with a tidy sum from the household budget.
I've also had to cut out triple-venti-flavored-lattes ($5.09 each), netflix ($16.99 a month), my monthly donations to Feminist Majority ($10) and WXPN ($20), my stack of 5 gossip mags every week (about $15 a week), the stack of monthly magazines from Borders (approx. $50 a month), my couple or five books a month ($30-$75 a month), couple or six CDs a month ($25-$75 a month), various miscellaneous donations every month or so (anywhere from $10 to $75 a month--luckily, as a couple, we still budget for philanthropy every month, so we are not snubbing the needy altogether, just not going into debt for it as I have been stupidly doing), stacks of various perfumes, makeups, shoes, clothes and personal care products I honestly and truly DO NOT need (untold sums of money), massages occasionally (about $65-$80 every other month or every third month), magazine subscriptions ($?), meals out ($?), and lots and lots of wine ($?).
So yes, I need to get paid. And well. (Well, "well" in terms of someone with little or no skills and a not-so-hot work history.) Then I can pay off my debts and maintain a bit of my previous spendthrift ways.
Nate has been amazingly wonderful about my having created this mess and then hid it from him. At his suggestion--and I agreed--the new counsellor I've scheduled with specializes in generalized anxiety disorder and depression and also addiction problems, so I can figure out why I can't control myself when I have a little plastic card in my hand.
So now you all (all one or two of you who read this, and who already know this anyway) know my secret shame and the anxiety I'm causing myself with it until I have a real, live grown-up job.
Ten good reasons to hate Hilary
"Senator Clinton is not even willing to acknowledge that she voted for war. She says she voted for diplomacy despite the title that said 'Authorisation to use US armed forces in Iraq'."--Obama
Nobel winner: Hillary Clinton’s ‘silly’ Irish peace claims/Clinton's experience claim under scrutiny
"We must stay the course” in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and asked for more troops to finish the job. “We have to exert all of our efforts militarily, but the outcome (in Iraq) is not assured”
November 29, 2003 Hilary visits the troops In Iraq and AfghanistanClinton’s Efforts on Ethanol Overlap Her Husband’s Interests
Hillary flip-flop on torture inspired after meeting generals
Kenyan Elder says Obama dress cultutral, not religious (Note the blogger says he got the pics from Clinton who was apparently offended by--or thought we should or would be--Muslim garb.)
She's a cunt. (And this is not anti-feminist of me, so stuff it. McCain is a dick and an asshole, does this mean I hate men and lower g.i. processes?)
To quote Gail Collins: While Barack Obama may understand the audacity of hope, only Hillary Clinton really gets the audacity of audacity.
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