Fertility is a sticky subject - it often goes up there with religion, politics and other things one doesn't discuss "in polite company," but it's been an issue with which I've become well acquainted - through my own journey and that of friends - over the last 15 years.
So it was with interest that I read this Newsweek article this week, about the American Fertility Association holding "Manicures and Martinis" at a chic nail salon in Manhattan. If you discount the oddity of having alcoholic drinks at a fertility info session, it sounds intriguing.
But I was more intrigued to learn about the target audience - women in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Of course, given the "martini" portion of the event, they couldn't very well target it to younger, college-aged women, but I couldn't help but think it should be something expanded to a younger crowd.
I had the rare luck of having a mom who thought understanding one's body was the key to living a long, healthy life - so she drug me to the gynecologist at age 15, when I was clearly having issues that didn't seem to be quite right. It was then that I was initially diagnosed with PCOS. It was then that I knew there was likely a chance of having a significant chance of fertility issues when it came time to having children. It was in the early days of PCOS as a named endocrine disorder and a lot of research and attention have been devoted to it since, but I dealt with it in my own way - I decided I simply wasn't having children. If I didn't want them, I couldn't be disappointed if they never came.
Clearly my thought process evolved over the years. And while I opted not to try having a baby until my later 20s, I did it with the knowledge that it may increase my chances of not conceiving. But fertility wasn't much on my mind - it was the pile of other related issues that come with having PCOS - and I was continually glad that I hadn't had to spend my 20s (or 30s) wondering what was wrong with me.
Back to the article. My opinion is based solely on my experience and the experience of friends, but I think the AFA should expand their campaign and target younger women as well.
I think too little attention is paid to educating young women - those in their late teens and early twenties - about their bodies - fertility included. It is just assumed that once they become "involved" (I don't need crazy people finding my blog) or married that they'll see a doctor and figure things out. Until then ... well, what's the need? I can't imagine how isolated I would have felt discovering my issues on my own and not knowing how or with whom to converse - like the failure of my endocrine system was to be some sort of scarlet A on my head, indicating that my womanhood was all messed up. In reality, it's just biology - but biology of the part wherein a woman's emotions (and often, identity) can be deeply rooted.
I love to see an extension of the campaign by the AFA about understanding how your body works - and what kinds of things are signs that things are not quite "normal" - targeted at college-aged-women. Include information about fertility, but also about how the body works and the power that understanding your body gives you as a woman. I could tell you some pretty shocking stories of things that happen when that kind of information isn't freely shared.
I consider myself fortunate. My mom paved the way for me to have a lifetime of knowledge at a young age, I was blessed with an inherent love of biology and all things physiological, and I was blessed with a child. Yes, my endocrine system is a mess. Yes, I hate some of the resulting issues - but I know what they are and what risk factors they bring. What I deeply wish, however, is that it hadn't been a taboo topic for my grandmothers' generations. Family lore indicates there were 'issues' - quite possibly genetic - but no one knows, because those sorts of things weren't discussed.
Regardless of the little tweaks I think the campaign needs, I'm glad to see it become an open subject of conversation. I plan on doing my own sort of "Your body - here's the deal" with Woodstock down the road. Sans the martinis, of course.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Hand of Providence
My Sunday School lesson this week is on personal revelation. As I've begun to study the materials and scriptures associated with it, I've become extraordinarily aware of just how much personal revelation, promptings and answers to prayer have played such a key role in my life over the last 12 months.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Random Thoughts from the Sofa
There is 8" of new snow on the ground outside the window in front of me and a frigid draft wafting in from the window to my side. I remain perched (or draped) on the couch, for Day 4 of my "stabilizing sojourn." I am finally starting to feel the affects of the anti-clotting meds - my body must be re-absorbing some of the clots, as the pain is now only significant if I sit (at all) or stand for a long period of time.
My stomach bears a tiny (or not so tiny - my first attempts at playing nurse weren't as successful in the bruise-reducing department) souvenier of each injection - eight thus far (though it feels like it has been double that many).
I am back to work - in my pajamas, wrapped in a lambswool blanket and fuzzy socks. There are half a dozen urgent projects, but any creativity or know-how has leaked out of my brain over the last few days. Sitting in church for 5 minutes yesterday (I lasted an hour - but only because it's rude to leave in the middle of the service) was enough to convince me that sitting at my desk for 8 hours today would be a nightmare gone bad. The subsequent snowstorm only reinforced that. Right now there are three things that could happen on the "terrible" scale - a) a car accident b) a fall down the stairs (thank heaven I got that out of the way two months ago) and c) something I'd rather not mention at the moment, because I'm thinking positive thoughts. Reducing the clotting factor helps the clots, but doesn't exactly help in case one is involved in any kind of bodily trauma.
Regardless, driving in newly fallen snow after a 2 1/2 week snow hiatus is just tempting fate, and I've already rolled those dice once in the last week.
So here I am, trying to manage a multi-sheet spreadsheet, write promotional copy and manage the world's slowest Internet project from my perch on the couch. Himself is home today - ostensibly he's watching Woodstock, but she has thus preferred her nearly-nonmobile audience of One on the living room couch, just adding to my inability to string two coherent thoughts together.
It's funny how quickly one's perspective changes when semi-confined. Suddenly, the veggies in commercially prepared pasta sauce count as real veggies. Woodstock having two food groups in a meal means it's well-balanced. Eating half a sandwich counts as a meal. And progress is measured in pain decibles rather than things accomplished.
It's 9:07 on Monday morning, and I'm already ready for the weekend.
My stomach bears a tiny (or not so tiny - my first attempts at playing nurse weren't as successful in the bruise-reducing department) souvenier of each injection - eight thus far (though it feels like it has been double that many).
I am back to work - in my pajamas, wrapped in a lambswool blanket and fuzzy socks. There are half a dozen urgent projects, but any creativity or know-how has leaked out of my brain over the last few days. Sitting in church for 5 minutes yesterday (I lasted an hour - but only because it's rude to leave in the middle of the service) was enough to convince me that sitting at my desk for 8 hours today would be a nightmare gone bad. The subsequent snowstorm only reinforced that. Right now there are three things that could happen on the "terrible" scale - a) a car accident b) a fall down the stairs (thank heaven I got that out of the way two months ago) and c) something I'd rather not mention at the moment, because I'm thinking positive thoughts. Reducing the clotting factor helps the clots, but doesn't exactly help in case one is involved in any kind of bodily trauma.
Regardless, driving in newly fallen snow after a 2 1/2 week snow hiatus is just tempting fate, and I've already rolled those dice once in the last week.
So here I am, trying to manage a multi-sheet spreadsheet, write promotional copy and manage the world's slowest Internet project from my perch on the couch. Himself is home today - ostensibly he's watching Woodstock, but she has thus preferred her nearly-nonmobile audience of One on the living room couch, just adding to my inability to string two coherent thoughts together.
It's funny how quickly one's perspective changes when semi-confined. Suddenly, the veggies in commercially prepared pasta sauce count as real veggies. Woodstock having two food groups in a meal means it's well-balanced. Eating half a sandwich counts as a meal. And progress is measured in pain decibles rather than things accomplished.
It's 9:07 on Monday morning, and I'm already ready for the weekend.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Some Kind of Joke
Mother Nature hates me.
She tortures me with mounds of snow, then teases me with what looks like sunshine behind thick, leaded smog that suffocates one slowly and prevents anyone who wants to live longer than a week from venturing outside.
Then, on the night Himself is supposed to arrive home from a week-long business trip, Mother Nature goes and forgets that The Frontier, no matter its winter weather, is a DESERT.
And deserts aren't supposed to get fog. Even deserts with big, polluted salty lakes to their west. Especially not fog so thick that one cannot see the major street mere yards from one's front door. Especially not fog that shuts down the airport - for hours.
The good news is, the air is not 5 times the government's definition of "lethal" today.
The bad news is, Himself is still indisposed on his business trip - having had to shell out money for another hotel room and more meals, and await the company's reimbursement [Side note: I bit my tongue and refrained from saying that renting a car and driving the 5 hours would be cheaper and faster than waiting - after all, Himself is likely glad for the delay - incapacitated wife, a dirty Woodstock (I can't bathe her without folding myself into a pretzel) and a house that looks, well, neglected at best].
Rumor has it he'll arrive sometime today, but the clouds overhead are thick and dark - a reminder that Mother Nature is in charge of this weather circus.
As one final blow to my psyche, the weather forecasters are predicting a snowstorm on Monday morning - just in time to make the morning commute miserable.
Forget about not hibernating, I'm changing my mind. Wake me up when it's sunny and dry and we let our lawns die on purpose because we live in a desert.
She tortures me with mounds of snow, then teases me with what looks like sunshine behind thick, leaded smog that suffocates one slowly and prevents anyone who wants to live longer than a week from venturing outside.
Then, on the night Himself is supposed to arrive home from a week-long business trip, Mother Nature goes and forgets that The Frontier, no matter its winter weather, is a DESERT.
And deserts aren't supposed to get fog. Even deserts with big, polluted salty lakes to their west. Especially not fog so thick that one cannot see the major street mere yards from one's front door. Especially not fog that shuts down the airport - for hours.
The good news is, the air is not 5 times the government's definition of "lethal" today.
The bad news is, Himself is still indisposed on his business trip - having had to shell out money for another hotel room and more meals, and await the company's reimbursement [Side note: I bit my tongue and refrained from saying that renting a car and driving the 5 hours would be cheaper and faster than waiting - after all, Himself is likely glad for the delay - incapacitated wife, a dirty Woodstock (I can't bathe her without folding myself into a pretzel) and a house that looks, well, neglected at best].
Rumor has it he'll arrive sometime today, but the clouds overhead are thick and dark - a reminder that Mother Nature is in charge of this weather circus.
As one final blow to my psyche, the weather forecasters are predicting a snowstorm on Monday morning - just in time to make the morning commute miserable.
Forget about not hibernating, I'm changing my mind. Wake me up when it's sunny and dry and we let our lawns die on purpose because we live in a desert.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A New Day
Yesterday was not good.
Today is ... well, better, and that says a lot after a day like yesterday.
After a morning full of doctor's visits, blood work, insurance calls and a run to the hospital pharmacy, the morning was gone, my leg was swollen and sore and driving was more of a chore that it should be. Not to mention both mine and Woodstock's tummies were dangerously near rioting.
I found a little Japanese cafe a few blocks from the hospital and decided to give into my weeks'-long craving for noodles and sushi. Woodstock, truly a child of her parents, adores Japanese food. She thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. I figured for $15 I could get each of us the entree we wanted (I wanted shrimp - it's not something she can eat yet) and there would be plenty for dinner, eliminating the need to stand for lengthy periods tonight.
It was the most delightful lunch I've had in ages. Woodstock and I sat side-by-side, her with her little bowl of rice, chicken terriyaki and vegetable tempura; me with my shrimp udon noodles and sushi. Every once in awhile she would ask for a "noo" (noodle), other than that Woodstock chattered happily ("num num nummy"), used her fork at least as often as not, refrained from scattering food on the floor or her clothes and delighted me with delighted exclamations regarding the food and the other patrons in the cafe.
The food hit the perfect spot of comfort and nutrition (sweet potato tempura are, after all, still a vegetable), the gray day outside seemed somehow brighter. My leg, propped on a chair next to me, ceased to hurt quite so much and we were restored for our journey home.
Upon departing, I received word that the insurance issues had been worked out and I would be receiving the necessary medication for the mere sum of $150. I think the mail order pharmacy thought I was insane when I shrieked my delight. After all, while $150 in one context is huge, when compared to $900 it feels almost free.
Woodstock is napping. We'll swap meals and I'll dine on teriyaki and she'll dine on noodles tonight. No work for me until Monday. A nap calls. My leg is again elevated, lessening the pain. I didn't kill myself or chicken out during the 4 a.m. injection.
Himself boards a plane for The Frontier late tonight. A dear friend in Virginia called to say "hello."
New days are glorious things. They don't wipe away all the pain and anxiety and frustration and worry, but they certainly heal one's soul through the little things - a delightful toddler, wonderful food and dear friends.
One day down, several hundred more to go.
Today is ... well, better, and that says a lot after a day like yesterday.
After a morning full of doctor's visits, blood work, insurance calls and a run to the hospital pharmacy, the morning was gone, my leg was swollen and sore and driving was more of a chore that it should be. Not to mention both mine and Woodstock's tummies were dangerously near rioting.
I found a little Japanese cafe a few blocks from the hospital and decided to give into my weeks'-long craving for noodles and sushi. Woodstock, truly a child of her parents, adores Japanese food. She thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. I figured for $15 I could get each of us the entree we wanted (I wanted shrimp - it's not something she can eat yet) and there would be plenty for dinner, eliminating the need to stand for lengthy periods tonight.
It was the most delightful lunch I've had in ages. Woodstock and I sat side-by-side, her with her little bowl of rice, chicken terriyaki and vegetable tempura; me with my shrimp udon noodles and sushi. Every once in awhile she would ask for a "noo" (noodle), other than that Woodstock chattered happily ("num num nummy"), used her fork at least as often as not, refrained from scattering food on the floor or her clothes and delighted me with delighted exclamations regarding the food and the other patrons in the cafe.
The food hit the perfect spot of comfort and nutrition (sweet potato tempura are, after all, still a vegetable), the gray day outside seemed somehow brighter. My leg, propped on a chair next to me, ceased to hurt quite so much and we were restored for our journey home.
Upon departing, I received word that the insurance issues had been worked out and I would be receiving the necessary medication for the mere sum of $150. I think the mail order pharmacy thought I was insane when I shrieked my delight. After all, while $150 in one context is huge, when compared to $900 it feels almost free.
Woodstock is napping. We'll swap meals and I'll dine on teriyaki and she'll dine on noodles tonight. No work for me until Monday. A nap calls. My leg is again elevated, lessening the pain. I didn't kill myself or chicken out during the 4 a.m. injection.
Himself boards a plane for The Frontier late tonight. A dear friend in Virginia called to say "hello."
New days are glorious things. They don't wipe away all the pain and anxiety and frustration and worry, but they certainly heal one's soul through the little things - a delightful toddler, wonderful food and dear friends.
One day down, several hundred more to go.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
A New Definition to "Bad Day"
Today's itinerary looked something like this:
9:45 a.m. Arrive at hospital to check-in for outpatient procedure
10:00 a.m. Have echo sonogram (aforementioned outpatient procedure) so that the doctor could prove that my severe leg pain was all in my head.
10:45 a.m. After a lovely chat with the u/s tech (while she wanded the veins in my right leg), she announces she must call the doctor. Uh oh. 'Tis not good when a doctor is involved in an u/s.
10:50 a.m. Beg the tech to show me the nearest restroom. The 40 oz. of water I've consumed today have suddenly hit my post-child-birthing bladder with a vengence. She tells me not to escape, as she's still trying to track down the doctor.
11:00 a.m. Doctor is found. News is delivered. DVT - deep blood clots behind my right knee. Turns out one can indeed have blood clots with only one major symptom (pain) and none of the others. Turns out, doctors can be very, very wrong. Turns out, doctors can be very, very surprised by u/s result (the u/s they ordered just to placate me because I wouldn't stop bugging them, by the way).
11:10 a.m. Told to head to the 4th floor for a specialist consult. Also told "this day is nowhere near ending, you might want to tell work you won't be back today." This cannot be good news.
11:15 a.m. Told by specialists brand-new, very harried receptionist that they cannot see me today. Too bad, so sad, go see your other doctor. (I later discovered that the specialist - with whom my doctor had chatted - had INSISTED on seeing me - but of course didn't relay the message to either me or the front desk).
11:25 a.m. Arrive at my doctor's office after having hormonal, emotional meltdown Numero Uno with my mother (who was at work) because Himself was indisposed on a business trip in a city 5 hours away.
11:40 a.m. See the doctor. At this point, my leg feels like it just might fall off. I am starving and thirsty and am terrified of the "Hospitalization" word uttered freely at the hospital. I am a single parent this week. Single parents cannot be hospitalized.
Noon. Doctor #3 explains all of the bad news, good news and "what this means for you" and explains that I will need to give myself 2 injections a day of a relatively new drug. Sends me to lab with paperwork for three blood tests. Gives prescription and directions to pharmacy at the hospital (not the one I was at previously) across the street.
12:30 p.m. Blood vials (all three) taken. Pharmacist calls my name and announces my prescription is filled. She says, "Your total will be $900." I, thinking she has mis-stated something, ask her what it is AFTER insurance. She explains that IS the post-insurance cost. Pre-insurance the drug is $4500 - or $150/day. Try to stay calm and sane and tell her I don't have $900 and she can keep the drug.
12:45 p.m. Have hormonal, emotional meltdown Numero Dos with my mother (again because Himself isn't answering his phone). I am one of the millions unable to find $900 more a month in the monthly budget - no matter what I cut out (other than finding free housing).
1 p.m. Call insurance to figure out why secondary insurance won't pay for drug. Sit on phone forever. Let Doctor #1 yell at insurance company about this "life and death" matter - he tells them she'll hospitalize me and that will cost them more than a few hundred dollars. I hope the insurance listens. Doctor #1 and Doctor #2 give me second consult - including the pros and cons of taking the cheaper medication. The cons outweigh the pros by far, and I opt to keep fighting the insurance. Doctor #3 has gone to lunch.
2 p.m. Doctor #1 realizes I haven't eaten all day. Sits down and has lunch with me (the lunch the Guardasil people have brought in - Heaven bless cervical vaccines!). I don't like lasagna much, but I was too tired, too frustrated and too emotional to care. I ate every bite. Sends me back to original hospital's pharmacy to buy a 1-day dose of the medication so I can start treatment while the insurance companies are still arguing with each other (and with the doctor).
2:45 p.m. Finally get drug. Pay $30 for one day's dose ($30x30 = $900, remember). Head back to doctor's office.
2:55 p.m. Sneak back into doctor's office so nurse can show me how to stab my tummy with a needle twice a day. Hurts like hell (the needle doesn't, the drug does - for 15 minutes afterward). She explains to be sure to do it in a different part of my stomach each time to "minimize the significant bruising that WILL occur."
3:10 p.m. Doctor #1 confirms I will not be traveling to Virginia - or anywhere via plane or long car trip - for a long time (as in months and months). Realize I will not see friends or ffamily for a long time. Nearly have emotional hormonal meltdown Numero Tres, but hold on to dignity. Doctor #1 hugs me.
3:15 p.m. Third consult of day with Doctor #1 and Doctor #2. Schedule bloodwork for tomorrow and in one week. Schedule follow-up for one week. Schedule consult with university superstar doctor who deals with these kinds of things more often than Doctors #1-3 combined. Talk about genetic testing to see what my clotting factor is - since I have ZERO risk factors for clots. Nada. None. Clots generally do not show up as surprise visitors.
3:30 p.m. Call insurance company again. They say to call back in three hours. No authorization yet.
3:45 p.m. Leave doctor's office - a full 6 hours after ordeal began. Can barely walk, I'm in so much pain. Have emotional meltdown Numero Tres, realizing that I'm supposed to walk the fine line between not doing anything that will raise my breathing or heart rate and spending too much time sedentary (after this weekend). Realize that my strict orders to "lounge with your feet up until Monday" (until drug starts working and to get my stress-related sky-high blood pressure down) cannot be followed, due to my current single parent status (Himself doesn't get in until late tomorrow) and my lovely, if active, toddler.
5 p.m. After picking up Woodstock, arrive home, exhausted, in pain and emotionally numb. Put Woodstock to bed since I interrupted her afternoon nap. Plug my ears when she throws her binky overboard and sobs "binty binty" for a full 20 minutes before she falls asleep. Feel like the world's worst mother - even though cry-it-out over a binky never bothers me otherwise.
6 p.m. After "lounging with my feet up" for an hour, have emotional, hormonal meltdown Numero Quatro - to myself (my poor mother has heard from me enough today), because I'm in too much pain to fix dinner, but only Chinese delivers and Woodstock can't have Chinese (peanut issue) - so I have to fix dinner regardless. Curse the fact that I am an independent adult who lives hundreds of miles from family. Curse Himself's first business trip in years. Try to work. All it does is raise my blood pressure and make me feel guilty for having to take today and tomorrow off. Injection site hurts like hell. So does head, after all those emotional, hormonal meltdowns.
Want to crawl up into ball and sleep. Not possible, but it sounds good. Feel like a whiny, selfish, dependent kid instead of a thirty-year-old employed parent and wife.
Really hope tomorrow is better.
9:45 a.m. Arrive at hospital to check-in for outpatient procedure
10:00 a.m. Have echo sonogram (aforementioned outpatient procedure) so that the doctor could prove that my severe leg pain was all in my head.
10:45 a.m. After a lovely chat with the u/s tech (while she wanded the veins in my right leg), she announces she must call the doctor. Uh oh. 'Tis not good when a doctor is involved in an u/s.
10:50 a.m. Beg the tech to show me the nearest restroom. The 40 oz. of water I've consumed today have suddenly hit my post-child-birthing bladder with a vengence. She tells me not to escape, as she's still trying to track down the doctor.
11:00 a.m. Doctor is found. News is delivered. DVT - deep blood clots behind my right knee. Turns out one can indeed have blood clots with only one major symptom (pain) and none of the others. Turns out, doctors can be very, very wrong. Turns out, doctors can be very, very surprised by u/s result (the u/s they ordered just to placate me because I wouldn't stop bugging them, by the way).
11:10 a.m. Told to head to the 4th floor for a specialist consult. Also told "this day is nowhere near ending, you might want to tell work you won't be back today." This cannot be good news.
11:15 a.m. Told by specialists brand-new, very harried receptionist that they cannot see me today. Too bad, so sad, go see your other doctor. (I later discovered that the specialist - with whom my doctor had chatted - had INSISTED on seeing me - but of course didn't relay the message to either me or the front desk).
11:25 a.m. Arrive at my doctor's office after having hormonal, emotional meltdown Numero Uno with my mother (who was at work) because Himself was indisposed on a business trip in a city 5 hours away.
11:40 a.m. See the doctor. At this point, my leg feels like it just might fall off. I am starving and thirsty and am terrified of the "Hospitalization" word uttered freely at the hospital. I am a single parent this week. Single parents cannot be hospitalized.
Noon. Doctor #3 explains all of the bad news, good news and "what this means for you" and explains that I will need to give myself 2 injections a day of a relatively new drug. Sends me to lab with paperwork for three blood tests. Gives prescription and directions to pharmacy at the hospital (not the one I was at previously) across the street.
12:30 p.m. Blood vials (all three) taken. Pharmacist calls my name and announces my prescription is filled. She says, "Your total will be $900." I, thinking she has mis-stated something, ask her what it is AFTER insurance. She explains that IS the post-insurance cost. Pre-insurance the drug is $4500 - or $150/day. Try to stay calm and sane and tell her I don't have $900 and she can keep the drug.
12:45 p.m. Have hormonal, emotional meltdown Numero Dos with my mother (again because Himself isn't answering his phone). I am one of the millions unable to find $900 more a month in the monthly budget - no matter what I cut out (other than finding free housing).
1 p.m. Call insurance to figure out why secondary insurance won't pay for drug. Sit on phone forever. Let Doctor #1 yell at insurance company about this "life and death" matter - he tells them she'll hospitalize me and that will cost them more than a few hundred dollars. I hope the insurance listens. Doctor #1 and Doctor #2 give me second consult - including the pros and cons of taking the cheaper medication. The cons outweigh the pros by far, and I opt to keep fighting the insurance. Doctor #3 has gone to lunch.
2 p.m. Doctor #1 realizes I haven't eaten all day. Sits down and has lunch with me (the lunch the Guardasil people have brought in - Heaven bless cervical vaccines!). I don't like lasagna much, but I was too tired, too frustrated and too emotional to care. I ate every bite. Sends me back to original hospital's pharmacy to buy a 1-day dose of the medication so I can start treatment while the insurance companies are still arguing with each other (and with the doctor).
2:45 p.m. Finally get drug. Pay $30 for one day's dose ($30x30 = $900, remember). Head back to doctor's office.
2:55 p.m. Sneak back into doctor's office so nurse can show me how to stab my tummy with a needle twice a day. Hurts like hell (the needle doesn't, the drug does - for 15 minutes afterward). She explains to be sure to do it in a different part of my stomach each time to "minimize the significant bruising that WILL occur."
3:10 p.m. Doctor #1 confirms I will not be traveling to Virginia - or anywhere via plane or long car trip - for a long time (as in months and months). Realize I will not see friends or ffamily for a long time. Nearly have emotional hormonal meltdown Numero Tres, but hold on to dignity. Doctor #1 hugs me.
3:15 p.m. Third consult of day with Doctor #1 and Doctor #2. Schedule bloodwork for tomorrow and in one week. Schedule follow-up for one week. Schedule consult with university superstar doctor who deals with these kinds of things more often than Doctors #1-3 combined. Talk about genetic testing to see what my clotting factor is - since I have ZERO risk factors for clots. Nada. None. Clots generally do not show up as surprise visitors.
3:30 p.m. Call insurance company again. They say to call back in three hours. No authorization yet.
3:45 p.m. Leave doctor's office - a full 6 hours after ordeal began. Can barely walk, I'm in so much pain. Have emotional meltdown Numero Tres, realizing that I'm supposed to walk the fine line between not doing anything that will raise my breathing or heart rate and spending too much time sedentary (after this weekend). Realize that my strict orders to "lounge with your feet up until Monday" (until drug starts working and to get my stress-related sky-high blood pressure down) cannot be followed, due to my current single parent status (Himself doesn't get in until late tomorrow) and my lovely, if active, toddler.
5 p.m. After picking up Woodstock, arrive home, exhausted, in pain and emotionally numb. Put Woodstock to bed since I interrupted her afternoon nap. Plug my ears when she throws her binky overboard and sobs "binty binty" for a full 20 minutes before she falls asleep. Feel like the world's worst mother - even though cry-it-out over a binky never bothers me otherwise.
6 p.m. After "lounging with my feet up" for an hour, have emotional, hormonal meltdown Numero Quatro - to myself (my poor mother has heard from me enough today), because I'm in too much pain to fix dinner, but only Chinese delivers and Woodstock can't have Chinese (peanut issue) - so I have to fix dinner regardless. Curse the fact that I am an independent adult who lives hundreds of miles from family. Curse Himself's first business trip in years. Try to work. All it does is raise my blood pressure and make me feel guilty for having to take today and tomorrow off. Injection site hurts like hell. So does head, after all those emotional, hormonal meltdowns.
Want to crawl up into ball and sleep. Not possible, but it sounds good. Feel like a whiny, selfish, dependent kid instead of a thirty-year-old employed parent and wife.
Really hope tomorrow is better.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Bring on the Medical Maladies
I think there is a sign on my forehead:
"PUT MONEY INTO HSA THIS YEAR. LOOKING FOR REASONS TO GO TO THE DOCTOR."
It's becoming ridiculous.
Since we rang in 2009, Himself (who has only been to the doctor 7 times in the 10 years I've known him - 4 of which have been since our move to The Frontier) and I (who went to the doctor all of twice last year) have been to the doctor FOUR TIMES (total, not each, but the new year is only 3 weeks old) this yeatr.
And I have to go again this week.
What's worse - they're not even for the same thing. It's ridiculous.
I'm beginning to think I cursed myself when I decided to try and divert, er I mean, withhold on a pre-tax basis, money into a Health Savings Account.
At this rate, even with the tax savings, we're going to bankrupt the medical budget sometime around St. Patrick's Day.
"PUT MONEY INTO HSA THIS YEAR. LOOKING FOR REASONS TO GO TO THE DOCTOR."
It's becoming ridiculous.
Since we rang in 2009, Himself (who has only been to the doctor 7 times in the 10 years I've known him - 4 of which have been since our move to The Frontier) and I (who went to the doctor all of twice last year) have been to the doctor FOUR TIMES (total, not each, but the new year is only 3 weeks old) this yeatr.
And I have to go again this week.
What's worse - they're not even for the same thing. It's ridiculous.
I'm beginning to think I cursed myself when I decided to try and divert, er I mean, withhold on a pre-tax basis, money into a Health Savings Account.
At this rate, even with the tax savings, we're going to bankrupt the medical budget sometime around St. Patrick's Day.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Tradition v. Testimony
Yesterday in Sunday School we had an interesting debate-lightly-disguised-as-a-conversation about tradition v. testimony - those who practice religion because it's "tradition" (everyone else in the family does it, so why not?) versus those who practice religion because they have a testimony of the core principles, ordinances and beliefs.
I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.
However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.
For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).
I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).
I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).
I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.
I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.
The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.
I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.
I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.
That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.
I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.
However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.
For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).
I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).
I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).
I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.
I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.
The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.
I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.
I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.
That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Why I Bake
A couple of years ago, a church colleague asked me, in astonishment, why I would even consider baking cookies from scratch. "All that time!" "All that mess!" She lamented.
To each his own, but I submit "All those ingredients!" as to why I still choose to make all baked goods from scratch.
Case in point:
Pillsbury® Ready to Bake!™ Big Deluxe Classics® refrigerated white chunk macadamia nut cookies
A four-inch list of ingredients than I know what to do with, words like "hydrogenated," several ingredients ending in -ose, high fructose corn syrup, "artificial" and "white confectionary chunks", to name a few - and an entire day's worth of trans fats in one cookie.
White Chocolate Cranberry Cookies (Modified from Grandma B's Chocolate Crunch Cookie Recipe)
Butter
Sugar
Eggs
Unbleached Flour
Salt
Soda
Vanilla
White choclate chips (cocoa butter, sugar)
Fresh cranberries
I'll take the mess and the time to know what, exactly, I'm consuming.
To each his own, but I submit "All those ingredients!" as to why I still choose to make all baked goods from scratch.
Case in point:
Pillsbury® Ready to Bake!™ Big Deluxe Classics® refrigerated white chunk macadamia nut cookies
A four-inch list of ingredients than I know what to do with, words like "hydrogenated," several ingredients ending in -ose, high fructose corn syrup, "artificial" and "white confectionary chunks", to name a few - and an entire day's worth of trans fats in one cookie.
White Chocolate Cranberry Cookies (Modified from Grandma B's Chocolate Crunch Cookie Recipe)
Butter
Sugar
Eggs
Unbleached Flour
Salt
Soda
Vanilla
White choclate chips (cocoa butter, sugar)
Fresh cranberries
I'll take the mess and the time to know what, exactly, I'm consuming.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Maybe I'm Not Going to Hibernate This Year ... Yet
Two years ago, the crisis of the moment was trying to figure out what to feed a family of six in our congregation that wouldn't kill them (or us). It was a small, ridiculous thing, but the whole month was one of turmoil and uncertainty that lead to a life-changing (good and bad) February.
One year ago, the crisis of the moment was very, very real. Himself was out of a job, I was neck-deep in a personal crisis and my worries the year before seemed rather elementary.
This January, the 10-day forecast on Monday showed 45-degree temperatures and sunshine EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sure we're having inversion and the air outside is bad enough to kill us - but it does nothing to diminish my desire to click my heels and sing each morning when I leave the house and discover SUNSHINE. We've not had three snow storms in a week all winter. The last storm melted off our driveway before we got around to shoveling it. My boss isn't insane. Himself likes his job. The future appears to be bright. Woodstock is as sweet-tempered as ever.
While I still hate winter and snow and being cold, for the first time in recent memory, I am tolerating January rather well. I'm also scared to admit this, because a) winter is far from over - Februrary is the snowiest month in The Frontier and b) I'm afraid that some big trial or challenge will be sent my way just to test my newly minted postive-January outlook.
If you excuse Himself's nearly 3-week mystery illness and my wicked insomnia and our combined total lack of appetite for anything respectable (food-wise), January is shaping up to be a fairly decent month.
Like I said, it's the little things that count mid-winter.
One year ago, the crisis of the moment was very, very real. Himself was out of a job, I was neck-deep in a personal crisis and my worries the year before seemed rather elementary.
This January, the 10-day forecast on Monday showed 45-degree temperatures and sunshine EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sure we're having inversion and the air outside is bad enough to kill us - but it does nothing to diminish my desire to click my heels and sing each morning when I leave the house and discover SUNSHINE. We've not had three snow storms in a week all winter. The last storm melted off our driveway before we got around to shoveling it. My boss isn't insane. Himself likes his job. The future appears to be bright. Woodstock is as sweet-tempered as ever.
While I still hate winter and snow and being cold, for the first time in recent memory, I am tolerating January rather well. I'm also scared to admit this, because a) winter is far from over - Februrary is the snowiest month in The Frontier and b) I'm afraid that some big trial or challenge will be sent my way just to test my newly minted postive-January outlook.
If you excuse Himself's nearly 3-week mystery illness and my wicked insomnia and our combined total lack of appetite for anything respectable (food-wise), January is shaping up to be a fairly decent month.
Like I said, it's the little things that count mid-winter.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I Have a Secret ...
...I'm wearing mid-calf, white fuzzy socks with lanolin and aloe underneath my dress boots today. My feet are warm for the first time in days.
And all day I get to feel like I'm breaking some sort of rule, because I'm wearing my microfleece slipper socks with a skirt.
It's the little things, when Inversion hits The Frontier, that keep me going.
And all day I get to feel like I'm breaking some sort of rule, because I'm wearing my microfleece slipper socks with a skirt.
It's the little things, when Inversion hits The Frontier, that keep me going.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Dear McNeil
Dear McNeil,
I would like to congratulate you on making dye-free infant Tylenol. However, I do have on small request, that I'm sure thousands of sleep-deprived mothers (and fathers) everywhere would loudly endorse.
Please, please, please consider making the medicine droptheper marks a color other than white. I realize, in an effort to only charge me a small fortune for infant Tylenol, that you are using the same dropper that you use in the regular (red) infant Tylenol. However, that is just the problem. The white marks show up fine when the dropper is filled with red liquid. However, the white, milky colored liquid of the dye-free medicine makes it virtually impossible to see either the air bubbles or the marks on the dropper.
I am venturing a guess that this is why red Tylenol was invented to begin with, but surely I could be persuaded to spend a medium fortune in order to get a medicine dropper that I can actually read. After all, no one actually ever needs Tylenol in the bright light of day when her child is blissfully silent (and still).
Rather, the need for infant Tylenol comes in the darkest point of night, when one's head feels stuffed full of cotton and is unable to remember the dosage amount (the same one, I might add, that one has been using for nearly six months). Of course, the lights are dim, to prevent having to wake anyone further. The child in question is not at her sweet, peaceful best, but rather a raging tyrant of teething toddlerhood, salivating, red in the face and wanting nothing more than blessed relief for the swollen lower gum.
This combines to make dosing a challenge already - half-asleep, half-lit, fully aware of the consequences of not fixing something rightthisverysecond. Which means that Murphy comes into play and the dropper ends up full of air bubbles, only half of which can be seen between the milky white dropper and the milky white medicine. Once one is relatively (key word here) assured that the dropper is full of more medicine than air, one has to concentrate very hard (quite a feat when one has been woken up on and off by aforementioned screaming toddler) on figuring out which line the medicine reaches.
Perhaps you haven't had to endure this. Perhaps your children (or children in the studies) only need Tylenol on a sunny day, after plenty of sleep, in a well-lit room. However, based on anedcotal evidence, I would guess this probably isn't the norm.
Again, I appreciate your commitment to making infant Tylenol as free of unnecessary ingredients as possible. I only ask that you reconsider the color of the lines on the dropper.
Regards,
Mother to a teething 16-month-old
I would like to congratulate you on making dye-free infant Tylenol. However, I do have on small request, that I'm sure thousands of sleep-deprived mothers (and fathers) everywhere would loudly endorse.
Please, please, please consider making the medicine droptheper marks a color other than white. I realize, in an effort to only charge me a small fortune for infant Tylenol, that you are using the same dropper that you use in the regular (red) infant Tylenol. However, that is just the problem. The white marks show up fine when the dropper is filled with red liquid. However, the white, milky colored liquid of the dye-free medicine makes it virtually impossible to see either the air bubbles or the marks on the dropper.
I am venturing a guess that this is why red Tylenol was invented to begin with, but surely I could be persuaded to spend a medium fortune in order to get a medicine dropper that I can actually read. After all, no one actually ever needs Tylenol in the bright light of day when her child is blissfully silent (and still).
Rather, the need for infant Tylenol comes in the darkest point of night, when one's head feels stuffed full of cotton and is unable to remember the dosage amount (the same one, I might add, that one has been using for nearly six months). Of course, the lights are dim, to prevent having to wake anyone further. The child in question is not at her sweet, peaceful best, but rather a raging tyrant of teething toddlerhood, salivating, red in the face and wanting nothing more than blessed relief for the swollen lower gum.
This combines to make dosing a challenge already - half-asleep, half-lit, fully aware of the consequences of not fixing something rightthisverysecond. Which means that Murphy comes into play and the dropper ends up full of air bubbles, only half of which can be seen between the milky white dropper and the milky white medicine. Once one is relatively (key word here) assured that the dropper is full of more medicine than air, one has to concentrate very hard (quite a feat when one has been woken up on and off by aforementioned screaming toddler) on figuring out which line the medicine reaches.
Perhaps you haven't had to endure this. Perhaps your children (or children in the studies) only need Tylenol on a sunny day, after plenty of sleep, in a well-lit room. However, based on anedcotal evidence, I would guess this probably isn't the norm.
Again, I appreciate your commitment to making infant Tylenol as free of unnecessary ingredients as possible. I only ask that you reconsider the color of the lines on the dropper.
Regards,
Mother to a teething 16-month-old
Thursday, January 08, 2009
On Miracles
I believe in miracles - big and small - things completely unexplained by rational thought. I've seen miracles in my own life. I am still alive because of a couple.
However, I've come to realize that miracles - and answers to prayers (another thing in which I believe strongly) - sometimes come disguised as something else. Like the Emperor's New Clothes, sometimes miracles can only be seen, and appreciated, by those looking with an open mindset, unencumbered by preconcieved notions, petty demands and a narrow definition.
Miracles are, well, miraculous - even the small ones can be amazing and wonderful and bring a person to her knees. Yet, there are times, when miracles, in all their wonder, are unexpected, unexplained and in one's limited scope of life, seem less-than-miraculous.
Sometimes miracles hurt. Sometimes they don't seem quite like the wonderful thing people make miracles out to be. Sometimes they don't seem right for us at all. Sometimes miracles and answers to prayers are inconvenient.
I've had some of those too.
Sometimes it takes realizing what the miracles bring to understand their miraculous nature.
Often, it means placing the miracle in God's hands and asking for guidance and praying for peace.
However, I've come to realize that miracles - and answers to prayers (another thing in which I believe strongly) - sometimes come disguised as something else. Like the Emperor's New Clothes, sometimes miracles can only be seen, and appreciated, by those looking with an open mindset, unencumbered by preconcieved notions, petty demands and a narrow definition.
Miracles are, well, miraculous - even the small ones can be amazing and wonderful and bring a person to her knees. Yet, there are times, when miracles, in all their wonder, are unexpected, unexplained and in one's limited scope of life, seem less-than-miraculous.
Sometimes miracles hurt. Sometimes they don't seem quite like the wonderful thing people make miracles out to be. Sometimes they don't seem right for us at all. Sometimes miracles and answers to prayers are inconvenient.
I've had some of those too.
Sometimes it takes realizing what the miracles bring to understand their miraculous nature.
Often, it means placing the miracle in God's hands and asking for guidance and praying for peace.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
It's the Little Things ...
I had to go to court yesterday with Erin. It was a particularly horrible experience, but before we got to that part it was like watching an episode of Judge Judy. I learned a lot.
1. Don't park in a handicapped space. It doesn't matter if there is nowhere else to park. It's still illegal and the judge is not going to make the towing company give you back your money. Bonus points if you plead with the judge after he's made a ruling that you just want your money back because it was "just temporary."
2. Don't shack up with someone who will run up a huge credit card bill taking you on cruises and vacations and paying for your dental work, then wants you to pay half. Bonus points if, in a moment of obvious rage, he sends a text that says, "Get out of my life. I don't want anything from you." (or something to that effect) Which gives you grounds to stop paying. Jury is still out on who pays for what. Moral is - probably a good idea to not run up a huge credit card tab with a live-in lover.
3. If you buy a car, you should probably pay for said car with a check that doesn't bounce. If it does bounce, you should probably pay with a certified check, not another personal one. If they serve you with a suit, you should take the option of pre-payment rather than wasting extra money and 34 seconds of everyone else's time saying you agree to pay in court.
4. Don't do business with Apollo Granite.
5. Make sure your filing is legible so you don't get a lecture about it from the judge, who has to continue the case because he can't read why you're even there.
6. If you are being sued in small-claims court by someone and you are in the wrong, just don't show up. It makes life easier for everyone, and Erin and I would have had a much better day (particularly Erin) yesterday had this happened.
Bonus (this one was learned today):
7. The speed limit is 35 on State Street. Thanks to the uniformed man with the flashing lights for pointing that out. Extra thanks for the yellow carbon-copy souvenir of my ignorance.
1. Don't park in a handicapped space. It doesn't matter if there is nowhere else to park. It's still illegal and the judge is not going to make the towing company give you back your money. Bonus points if you plead with the judge after he's made a ruling that you just want your money back because it was "just temporary."
2. Don't shack up with someone who will run up a huge credit card bill taking you on cruises and vacations and paying for your dental work, then wants you to pay half. Bonus points if, in a moment of obvious rage, he sends a text that says, "Get out of my life. I don't want anything from you." (or something to that effect) Which gives you grounds to stop paying. Jury is still out on who pays for what. Moral is - probably a good idea to not run up a huge credit card tab with a live-in lover.
3. If you buy a car, you should probably pay for said car with a check that doesn't bounce. If it does bounce, you should probably pay with a certified check, not another personal one. If they serve you with a suit, you should take the option of pre-payment rather than wasting extra money and 34 seconds of everyone else's time saying you agree to pay in court.
4. Don't do business with Apollo Granite.
5. Make sure your filing is legible so you don't get a lecture about it from the judge, who has to continue the case because he can't read why you're even there.
6. If you are being sued in small-claims court by someone and you are in the wrong, just don't show up. It makes life easier for everyone, and Erin and I would have had a much better day (particularly Erin) yesterday had this happened.
Bonus (this one was learned today):
7. The speed limit is 35 on State Street. Thanks to the uniformed man with the flashing lights for pointing that out. Extra thanks for the yellow carbon-copy souvenir of my ignorance.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Dr. Seuss Gone Awry
Being that my mother is a children's librarian, I promised her that I would read to my child(ren) and teach him/her/them to love books. Not too hard, since there is not much better than curling up with a spectacular book.
Except, 16 months in, and I'm already hiding books.
Bring on the criticism, but it's hard to feel like a bad parent, when I'm only doing it to for the sake of mental preservation. For the record, I haven't hidden all of the books, mind you, just a select few. One of which is Dr. Seuss's ABCs. After reading it no less than 8 times a day over the last three weeks, I've reached the breaking point in my sanity.
Actually, all of the books now hidden in various couch cushions are Dr. Seuss books - including The Foot Book, which Woodstock loves almost as much as hearing the words "goo goo goggles" and "zizzer zazzer zuzz."
According to my mom, kids love Dr. Seuss because of the lyrical quality of the books, the funny nonsensical words and the natural tendancy of (even sane) adult readers to exaggerate parts. They all combine to make a surpremely lovely experience for the children and their parents, until the repetition phase sets in.
Woodstock will drag her battered copy of Dr. Seuss's ABCs out and over, saying "Aay aay aay Book!" (A as in ABC). When I'm done reading it (or Himself is done reading it), she will hand it to us again and say and sign "More." The only possible way to break the chain is to momentarily distract her, shove the book under the nearest pile of junk and say, "All gone!" while trying to sound sympathetic. At which point you'd better hope that The Foot Book isn't anywhere to be found.
I've read these books so many times, I have them memorized. In fact, in the grocery store (near Woodstock's nap time) the other day, I could be heard reciting the ABC book from memory - just to hear her giggle. It apparently doesn't matter if I don't have the book, she still begs for more at the end, grocery lines or not.
So far, I've consented to read the book(s) multiple times daily, mostly for selfish reasons - who could deny the adoring, pleading look on her face and the warmth of a blessedly still toddler curled up in the crux of your elbow, bouncing up and down when you sing the alphabet song, pointing and repeating her favorite words over and over with you.
It's almost worth reading it a ninth time.
Almost.
Because even with all the syrupy sentimental cuteness, I do have a point at which the alarm bells start ringing, warning me of the impending arrival of the men in white lab coats.
Anyone want to read a great book to the world's cutest kid?
Except, 16 months in, and I'm already hiding books.
Bring on the criticism, but it's hard to feel like a bad parent, when I'm only doing it to for the sake of mental preservation. For the record, I haven't hidden all of the books, mind you, just a select few. One of which is Dr. Seuss's ABCs. After reading it no less than 8 times a day over the last three weeks, I've reached the breaking point in my sanity.
Actually, all of the books now hidden in various couch cushions are Dr. Seuss books - including The Foot Book, which Woodstock loves almost as much as hearing the words "goo goo goggles" and "zizzer zazzer zuzz."
According to my mom, kids love Dr. Seuss because of the lyrical quality of the books, the funny nonsensical words and the natural tendancy of (even sane) adult readers to exaggerate parts. They all combine to make a surpremely lovely experience for the children and their parents, until the repetition phase sets in.
Woodstock will drag her battered copy of Dr. Seuss's ABCs out and over, saying "Aay aay aay Book!" (A as in ABC). When I'm done reading it (or Himself is done reading it), she will hand it to us again and say and sign "More." The only possible way to break the chain is to momentarily distract her, shove the book under the nearest pile of junk and say, "All gone!" while trying to sound sympathetic. At which point you'd better hope that The Foot Book isn't anywhere to be found.
I've read these books so many times, I have them memorized. In fact, in the grocery store (near Woodstock's nap time) the other day, I could be heard reciting the ABC book from memory - just to hear her giggle. It apparently doesn't matter if I don't have the book, she still begs for more at the end, grocery lines or not.
So far, I've consented to read the book(s) multiple times daily, mostly for selfish reasons - who could deny the adoring, pleading look on her face and the warmth of a blessedly still toddler curled up in the crux of your elbow, bouncing up and down when you sing the alphabet song, pointing and repeating her favorite words over and over with you.
It's almost worth reading it a ninth time.
Almost.
Because even with all the syrupy sentimental cuteness, I do have a point at which the alarm bells start ringing, warning me of the impending arrival of the men in white lab coats.
Anyone want to read a great book to the world's cutest kid?
Saturday, January 03, 2009
You Know Those Moments When ...
...You think, "Oh dear," and you realize you suddenly have a long list of things to do that you weren't planning on?
That would be today.
Of course, I'm dealing with the whole thing in a very adult way. I am sitting in front of the laptop in my bathrobe, half frozen, drowning life in a glass (or three) of cranberry juice (praise Ocean Spray who went back to using sugar instead of HFCS!) and refusing to think about anything on the newly rearranged "to do" list and ignoring everything on the old "to do" list - including shoveling the driveway. I just did it yesterday (shoveling 2" of ice is much more difficult than shoveling the 4" of snow that now blankets the driveway, but really - does the universe hate me so much as to ensure that Himself has to work a 12-hour day EVERY SINGLE TIME it snows?!)
I've started a batch of laundry. That should count for something.
Other than that, today might be a good day to bury my head in the sand, forget reality and snuggle with Woodstock. Except my formerly snuggle-loving child now only wishes to snuggle at 1 a.m.
So much for productivity.
And on that note, Woodstock is hollering "all done! yight, yight yight!" (light) from her crib, which probably means I should at least thing about rescuing her and forraging for something to eat.
That would be today.
Of course, I'm dealing with the whole thing in a very adult way. I am sitting in front of the laptop in my bathrobe, half frozen, drowning life in a glass (or three) of cranberry juice (praise Ocean Spray who went back to using sugar instead of HFCS!) and refusing to think about anything on the newly rearranged "to do" list and ignoring everything on the old "to do" list - including shoveling the driveway. I just did it yesterday (shoveling 2" of ice is much more difficult than shoveling the 4" of snow that now blankets the driveway, but really - does the universe hate me so much as to ensure that Himself has to work a 12-hour day EVERY SINGLE TIME it snows?!)
I've started a batch of laundry. That should count for something.
Other than that, today might be a good day to bury my head in the sand, forget reality and snuggle with Woodstock. Except my formerly snuggle-loving child now only wishes to snuggle at 1 a.m.
So much for productivity.
And on that note, Woodstock is hollering "all done! yight, yight yight!" (light) from her crib, which probably means I should at least thing about rescuing her and forraging for something to eat.
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