The Sex Goose

Friday, February 27, 2009

(I cannot begin to thank you all for the comments, suggestions and support on yesterday's whine blog. But to try to thank you, I'm now going to write a post that will make you all terribly uncomfortable. You've been warned. You're welcome)

So our bed is broken.

It only took 2 months of marriage, but we broke the bed.

I won't say specifically how because your own daydreams of this may end up far more interesting than the truth, and I kind of want you to think I'm really creative in (the broken) bed. And because in not telling you, I totally just forced a really great image into your head and I find that wildly amusing. Yep, you're welcome.

Anyways, the problem is that now our bed sounds like there's a goose under it. When you sit down, it honks. When you roll over, it honks. When you reach for the remote, it honks.

So you can imagine when you do "other" things on the bed. It practically announces our activities to the entire zip code.

"Hello!" it says. "These two (married!) people are getting their "grove" on. If you know what I mean. Honk honk honk honkhonkhonkhonk."

Truly, it sounds like a goose and in case you wondered, sex geese are not quiet creatures.

Aside from the hilarity of the honking during the non-mentionable activities, the sex goose is a problem at other times. Like, for instance, on Saturday and Sunday mornings where I almost always get up before Slappy. Trying to get out of bed without the sex goose waking him up involves trying to slowly ease myself off the bed until I all but fall out onto the floor.

This plan never works and usually, I end up rousing Slappy enough that he rolls over and tries to cuddle me, which is sweet, except now have to navigate out of a cuddle and the sex goose to get out of bed without waking him up.

(I'm a freaking saint in the mornings, by the way. I don't want to talk to you or recognize the fact that you exist in the universe, but I respect the right to sleep in on weekends.)

Thankfully we have a protection plan for the bed so that we can get the sex goose removed, er, replaced, but I kind of wonder what life will be like without it. We've had 6 months of honking now (heh, what a great euphemism), I'm almost afraid I won't be able to deal with the quiet. Like it'll take something out of the romantic atmosphere without the soft-porn noises of the sex goose.

Or maybe I'm just sad because I'll have one less thing to blog about that will make you want to stick a fork in your ear and jiggle your brains, just to get out the mental image of how our bed came to have a sex goose in it in the first place.

Tough to say.

Growing Pains

Thursday, February 26, 2009

You may or may not have noticed that I haven't written virtually anything of substance in the past week or so. On the one hand, I was having a great time at Mardi Gras. On the other, I'm finding myself at a crossroads in life and I'm struggling to keep my head above water.

Yes, we've reached that point in the semester. The point where I fall apart and don't think I can handle it. But in all fairness, this is the toughest school semester to date and the toughest teaching year as well. It's like a perfect storm of chaos and my mind is not doing such a great job of processing it.

It's, of course, exacerbated by a lack of sleep and time. I have an exam on Monday, a quiz on Tuesday and oh yes, work everyday. I have virtually zero lesson planning completed, which is wonderful. I have gotten 6 hours of sleep for the past two nights and the increased dose of Neurontin is also not helping with the zombie-tired feeling. I'm tired, crabby and just in a constant state of panic.

I'm also on day 3 of a diet, which, as I'm sure you can imagine, is also really helping. I know you're tired of hearing about my weight and body issues, but I managed to gain another 2 pounds over Mardi Gras and I just want to shed it all this very instant. I am doing well at not starving myself, but boy is the urge ever there. I want results now. I want to fit into my pants now. I want to not notice all the extra curves I have now. And yet, I'm can't. The control freak portion of my mind (read: virtually all of my mind) is really unhappy about that.

I also have an odd nagging guilt about the blog. I noticed I was de-blogrolled from a blog of someone I considered a "friend" and I was surprised at how much it hurt. I also have this "follower" thing bugging me because, yes, I do want to follow you, but I can't follow some people and not others. I'm not good at choosing or at leaving people out. I'd either have to follow greater than about 50 blogs, or none, which is my current position. If that means you want to unfollow me, I understand, I might want to also.

I think that sometimes I forget that putting myself out here in the blog world can be just as emotionally draining as putting myself out into the real world. I get the highs of praise and I get the lows of criticism. I get people wanting to be my friend, I get people telling me that I'm crazy. Sometimes it's a lot to deal with.

I don't know.

It seems like nothing in my life can go the smoothest or most reasonable way right now, everything has to be tough and convoluted. I desperately want to get past this period of turmoil because this isn't me and it's draining, emotionally and physically.

I just want to have a few minutes of free time where I'm not bickering with my husband (note to the unmarried: the first year of marriage is very difficult. Worth it, but very difficult) or trying to be prepared for what's class or teaching lesson is right around the corner. I need a break from a lot of things, I just don't know how to get one.

I think a lot of it is just life. It's growing up. It's putting on my big girl underwear and dealing with my emotions instead of wallowing in self-pity and writing epically long blog posts about absolutely nothing. It's moving forward, even when you really really just want to sit still, cover your ears and block out the world.

Growing up kind of sucks.

We interrupt this party for a health update

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

So, yes, it is Mardi Gras and believe me, we are living up to the fatness of Fat Tuesday today (that's a rant for another day). But I got some news yesterday that I thought you might be interested in.

My neurologist met with a neuro-radiologist to look at my CT scan. They've determined that the brain nugget (which I will show you a picture of some day) is in fact just a calcification within my brain. It is benign(!) and should not be a problem.

This is fantastically good news, and not to be ignored. But, I also spoke with the doctor to explain that despite being on a massive dose of the Neurontin, I was still having fairly constant headaches. He bumped me up to the highest dose (600mg 3 times a day) and said that I should come in and see him.

As usual, the news is a bit of a double edged sword. It is fan-freaking-wonderfully-tastic that it is not the cyst we thought it was. In fact, that's like the best news we could have gotten. And I am not in any way trying to undermine that fact. Holy crap what a relief.

But, we are back to the drawing board on why my head hurts all the time. And why the Neurontin isn't doing what it once (briefly) did. Which is kind of sucky. But still better than a brain tumor.

Hopefully the drawing board will be more productive. But still benignly so.


p.s. Daisy, whom I just sheltered and fed alcohol to for SIX DAYS, is now trying to encourage people to "follow" her so that her followers will exceed mine. I'm not necessarily whining for you to follow me as much as whining for you to not follow her. Because dude, that's not classy. That said, following me would not be the worst thing ever either (it's to your left if you're looking...). You know, but purely in the interest of winning proving her to be an asshole wrong.

Redacted

Monday, February 23, 2009

So, in light of the past few days, I'm going to have to revise some of my previous statements about Mardi Gras.

Last year, Mardi Gras sucked. I'm not going to sugar coat it. It sucked.

It was sort of a perfect storm of Slappy's bat-shit-crazy mother being here and me being rather very ill. And when you're with Lucifer his mom, in the french quarter for 14 hours with a 102 degree fever, you just might not enjoy it. I know, it's hard to imagine.

It could've been when Satan my MIL begged me for all the cool beads I caught. It could've been when she insisted that one chair would be fine for all of us and then sat in it all day, despite my being sick. It could've been that she made us stake out a spot for Endymion in the French Quarter, sit for several hours amidst total drunken chaos, some of it involving guns, and then called to say she was sitting in a hotel bar (note: not the hotel she was staying in because she was staying IN OUR HOUSE) and didn't want to see Endymion after all.

Could've been.

This year, however, things have been different. I will admit to leaving 2 parades early: one because it was really cold and one because I hurt all over. But the ratio of kind people to drunken obnoxious people has been totally reasonable. Our alcohol has been plentiful but not excessively so and the catches have been good. We went to Endymion, got totally hit on by an old man (more on that another time) and then last night Slappy, Daisy and I met up with NOLA Notes and Pontchartrain Pete for Bacchus, and guys? It. was. great.

Loved it.

Loved it so much, we're doing it again tonight. This time we're bringing the food (McDonald's, because while the fried chicken kicked ass last night, I have now eaten Popeye's 3 times in the 3 days. And I'm fairly sure my entire body is going to go on strike if I so much as consider ever eating fried chicken again), the bead catching box (also known as the box that has caused many people to get hit in the face with beads) and hope to get some good stuff.

Apparently the recipe for a good Mardi Gras? Good company, good food, and Slappy's mother being 2000 miles away. Who knew?

Thank you for NOT smoking

Saturday, February 21, 2009

So I have an issue (shut up, so I have several. This is a different kind). An issue that several might take offense to, but I'm going to say it anyways.

I cannot STAND smoking.

I find it vile and disgusting. To an extent, I understand older generations than mine who smoke because it is addictive and because the danger was not present (most likely) when said people began smoking. It's sad and I wish we could encourage and help them all stop, but my grandmother smoked from age 20 to about 6 months before her death. And she was a nurse. I do empathize with the fact that smoking is very very difficult to give up.

That said, smokers my age and younger? You're just idiots. You are. You're ruining your health for a cigarette. It doesn't look cool. It doesn't make you cool. In fact, it makes you look stupid. STUPID.

Last night at the later parades a group of high school students (hey moron, if you don't want us to know you're in high school, perhaps don't wear your school's hat to Mardi Gras?) decided to weasel their way in front of us at the spot that Daisy and her friend had staked out hours before. And then they started smoking.

And perhaps this makes me an unkind person, but I cannot help myself. First I did the "polite" cough when they smoked in my direction. Then I got Slappy's attention about the smoking and he started blowing the smoke back in their face (which, while not wildly effective in terms of actual air quality, was both hilarious to watch and almost passive aggressive enough to get them to move). And finally I called to him and I said (and I quote) "Honey, it's almost like if I wanted to smoke, I'd go buy my own pack of cigarettes to destroy my lungs."

And low and behold, they moved.

For like 10 minutes.

I think we'll chalk that up to a moral victory nonetheless.

Can you keep a secret?

Thursday, February 19, 2009

How about two?

Okay, here goes.

I hate Mardi Gras. There. I said it.

I know. I need to get in the spirit. Cut loose. Have some fun. But I don't know. Mardi Gras and I do not see eye to eye. Mardi Gras means standing for hours at a time, yelling for people to throw things at you. Or if you have the luxury of having space to sit in, it's most likely near a very large group of very drunk people, who are always operating a barbeque or something else with fire and it's like a train wreck. You just know one of them is going to light another one on fire or something equally brilliant and in the end, half the people are going to be hurling just mere feet from where you're standing.

And then there's the beads. I will admit that I love getting the "special" catches, especially glass beads. However, having beads thrown at my head a) scares the bejesus out of me and b) makes my neck really really really sore.

The only thing that salvages Mardi Gras for me is the company. For example, Slappy. On Mardi Gras morning, he and I arise at the ass-crack of dawn, throw on whatever clothes seem like they might match, pour half a container of orange juice into a different plastic container and then fill up the rest of both containers with champagne. Then we take our humongous mimosas and a few beers (to barter) and walk to Zulu, which is a solid 2 mile walk. In the morning. But it's he and I (and not his mother!) and it's great fun.

This year, Daisy is joining the fun. Whether she'll take part in the Mardi Gras Mimosa fest is yet to be determined, but she's only been in town 10 hours and we're already having a kickass time. Or I think so anyways.


The other secret? Despite the fact that I really don't like Mardi Gras? I lied to skip my class tonight to go to parades with Slappy and Daisy.


Perhaps my third secret is that I'm crazy. But then, that's really not a secret at all, is it?

Sal Monella

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

So, I totally didn't mean to come across nearly as whiny as I did (and I'm sure you'll be surprised to know that the anonymous commenter that apologize right after I forbade apologies was my husband. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my life).

I really wasn't trying to guilt trip you as much as I was trying to see if I had turned a corner in a wrong direction that was driving you away (whoa, unintended car metaphor). Now that we've established that perhaps it's because, like me, the never comments reader, y'all are busy, we can just move on. In fact, let's pretend like I didn't have an entire blog of insecurity and finding out if you were still my friends. (Yes, I am in 1st grade.)

And now, the long-promised salmonella story.

Back in January, I flew to Los Angeles for a weekend to go to an open house for the grad school (the #1 school in the country!) I will most likely be attending in the fall (because I am a money-tree). After the open house I drove 2 hours to visit with my family. While there I got to meet the brand new baby, and just generally enjoy some family time.

On Sunday, my last family meal before leaving, instead of going to the sandwich shop I really wanted to eat at, we went to the Elephant Bar (where ironically, the person who threw the fit about going to the sandwich shop ORDERED A SANDWICH).

Now, I tolerate the Elephant Bar, primarily because they have stellar mojitos. However, since it was a meal with family and I was driving, no alcohol was imbibed. Instead, I decided on the chicken, shrimp and sausage jambalaya.

Let me stop here and say, look, I know that you never order jambalaya outside of the South. I know. It's never as good. However, while unauthentic, it's usually a palatable meal and I wanted to see how (un)authentic this jambalaya might be. Trust me, I regret the decision.

Surprisingly, the jambalaya was actually fairly edible. The portion was huge and after eating for what seemed like a lifetime, I was pretty happy with the quantity of leftovers I'd have for dinner that night.

And then I decided to have just a little more, I cut a piece of chicken in half and started chewing.

(You see where this is going, right?)

As I'm chewing this bite of chicken, I look down at the other half, still on the plate. The other half, still completely RAW in the middle.

It took a moment to process the fact that I had raw meat IN MY MOUTH and that I had possibly just eaten a meal full of it. To be honest, the texture of the raw chicken was unnoticeable with the texture of the jambalaya in general.

I managed to not hurl all over the table but instead, spit out the bite and FREAKED OUT. Because, hello? Fear of vomiting over here? She does NOT do salmonella.

The manager came out after we alerted the server and offered free dessert, and while the idea of eating in general was horrifying, we got some cobbler (and it was goooood). They comp'ed my food and told me that if I came down with anything, they'd pay my medical bills (I don't suppose one can claim a brain nugget a month later as a complication for raw meat, can they?).

Obviously I did not get salmonella. But I swear, I'm just waiting to realize that I have one of the packages of peanuts full of it because, hello, this is me we're talking about, and if it can happen to anyone, I'm the one.

Feedback

Monday, February 16, 2009

Hello?

Is this thing on?

So here's the thing, lately, I've gotten a rather significant increase in the number of visitors to this site (and by the way, we're approaching 100,000 visitors, check the site meter box on the bottom right and be sure and let me know if you're the one!), and simultaneously, a noticeable drop in comments.

I had two people ask specifically how I cut my face open with a sweatshirt (to quell your interest, it was the small metal opening to the strings that cut my face) and yet, only 2 commenters on the post about Slappy shaving his head for cancer research.

That said, those 2 commenters plus 5 others have managed to get him to 300 dollars so far, but still, I don't know, I think our relationship needs some therapy. I think our channels of communication are clogged.

So I'm asking for your opinion: what has happened with this blog that has reduced the comments to nil?

Would you like a health update? My head hurts almost every day. I have heard nothing back about the brain tumor cyst nugget from the neurologist yet, and it's been almost a week since I dropped off the CT. Yes, I am freaking out a little bit here and there. Where here and there is every moment I'm not doing something important.

Would you like a stupid update? I dropped my calculator in a full bathtub. It wasn't my fault. It was in the case and it slid right out of the case and right into the tub. And in case you wondered, it was a TI-89 super-expensive calculator. SUCK.

Would you like a random update? Daisy is most likely coming to New Orleans to stay at my house from Thursday until she leaves. A trip for both Mardi Gras and because I've pretty much decided we're best friends forever. You can throw up over there. But seriously, she's awesome.

So, now, you tell me (the comment link is just below where you're reading now in case you're struggling with that part), what do you want more of? What do you want less of?

Bring it on. I can take it (not really, but I'm going to try).

Bald is beautiful

Thursday, February 12, 2009

This Sunday is Slappy's 27th (gasp!) birthday.

I know what you're all thinking. What an old man What can WE get for him? (shut up and pretend like you were thinking that).

I have just the thing.

Each year on March 18th, people all around the country shave their heads in a wonderful fundraising campaign for childhood cancer research called St. Baldrick's Day. This year, my husband will be one of the head shavees.

That's right, he's going bald (much to his mother's dismay by the way).

St. Baldrick's Day is much more than just head shaving, it's a party. The children in the oncology wards often come to the event, sometimes they even get to help with the shaving (which seems really unsafe, but hey, it's not my head) and most importantly, they forget for a while about the tragic and terrifying diseases that plague them.

You're probably wondering what this has to do with Slappy's birthday huh? (so technically nothing, but bear with me)

Well, he's not just shaving his head, he's raising money first. If he reaches his goal of $500, he will shave his head. (So technically he's totally doing it either way, but this way makes it seem more important)

So far I am donating $105 from my tax return (So technically this is bet money that I owe him and he decided this would be a much better place for me to give it, and also? Don't make 100 dollar bets.) and Slappy is matching it. That puts him at $210 (you're welcome for the math).

Here's where it all comes together. As a nice way to honor Slappy's birth and as an even better way to donate to an incredibly crucial cause, I'm hoping some of you will be willing to contribute to his fundraising page and help him reach or exceed his goal. You don't have to give a lot. I know we're in a time of financial hell. Even 5 dollars helps, and there's no minimum donation amount. And if Slappy gets to his $500 early, there's no need to stop donating. Exceeding goals is a good thing.

If you're interested in donating all you have to do is leave you email address in the comments section OF THIS POST and I will email all of you the link to donate. Or send me an email at: overflowingbrain@gmail.com and I'll get the information out to you. (I'm not directly linking his page here because that's a little too public with the names, etc, and this way I can control who sees that information, etc. Yes, I am a victim of identity theft, why do you ask?)

I'll post periodic updates about his total raised as we get closer to the day and I will put some sort of device on the sidebar of the blog to link to this post and the St. Baldrick's Foundation. Slappy has also eluded to a deal where if his donation goal is met or exceeded you might get a picture of his beautiful baldness, but that remains to be seen.

So, now do you see what shaving heads and Slappy's birthday have in common?

Yea, me neither. Leave a comment and donate anyways.

Catastrophilic

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

So, last night in my chemistry lab we had to melt glass. Specifically, we had to do this:



Not pictured in this video is me burning the shit out of 3 of my fingers (like, blister-esque burns), which was legitimately not my fault. I tried to tell my professor that the place she told us to melt was not the right place and we would all burn ourselves, but until every single person in the room screamed something profane and dropped their piece of flaming hot glass (to which she twice responded: "be careful, that's hot." REALLY? IS IT?), she maintained that she was right.

And then she admitted that maybe she was wrong. She wasn't sure because SHE'D NEVER DONE IT BEFORE. If I die in the next 4 months, it won't be a sudden death from the brain tumor nugget, it'll be from that Chemistry lab.

Or maybe just from life in general because, I swear to you, catastrophe's like an epidemic right now.

Slappy met me for lunch today and surprised me with food from one of our favorite little po-boy shops. We sat down to eat, I grabbed my bottle of diet rootbeer, opened it, and it EXPLODED.

Everywhere.

Especially on my white shirt.

The one that I had to wear for parent-teacher conferences tonight.

It was pretty great. And cold. And wet. And strong-smelling.

I really, truly, cannot wait to see what Thursday has in store for me. I probably shouldn't mention that I have a biology exam and am dropping off my tumor-ridden CT scan at my neurologist's office for him to review.

What could possibly go wrong?

In a twist of irony...

Monday, February 9, 2009

(I know, IRONY, you are all shocked and dismayed that it's happened again)

In the middle of teaching my last class today, I split my pants. Like ripped a 7 inch (yes, I measured) long tear right down the ass. Like, ripped it so much that I couldn't even get up out of my chair to get a sweater without baring my entire butt to my class.

I will admit that was not entirely because the pants did not fit well, but a combination of that and catching the pocket on the chair when I went to sit down. But also? It does not help the weight complex even one tiny bit.

Also, when one rips their pants in a classroom full of 14 year olds, you might as well go ahead and putt the scarlet letter of B right on your chest.

Because your (growing) ass? It is (ironically!) going to be the butt of every joke in the next year or so.


p.s. I also cut my forehead open on a sweatshirt tonight. But I don't think that has much to do with gaining 10 pounds as much as it has to do with being spastic.

In Gratitude and Hope: A Letter to my Heart

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Dear Heart,

First, mad props to you for being perhaps the only part of my body that has worked solidly for the past 25 years. I mean really. Last week the ER nurse said my EKG was "better than normal" so keep on keeping on. No complaints in the blood pumping arena. You rock.

Second, I have to extend a huge thank you for the major leaps and bounds by which you, and I suppose I, have grown in the past few years. Remember a few years ago, back in say, 2004, when we didn't believe in love? I remember thinking it was just something that you were obligated to say by a certain stage in a relationship. To me, it wasn't an emotion, it was a pretend state of being. It was how you kept a relationship together, by saying those 3 little words.

And then that cold June night when yet another body part (ankle, thankyouverymuch) fell apart (this time at least it was solidly someone else's fault...) you did something completely foreign. You opened yourself up and let that silly boy in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shirt in. You let him become something special, and you let real emotions, not pretend states of being, emerge.

It wasn't love at first site, or even love at first conversation, but soon it was love and it was powerful. I remember being scared because my heart was truly in that relationship unlike it had ever been before, and the stakes were simply too high. I ended every single argument, no matter how insignificant, with a question: "are you going to break up with me?" because I knew that both you, and I, could not have overcome that hurt.

And now almost 5 years later, that love continues to grow and flourish in entirely new ways, in a marriage. Yes, it needs care and attention like nothing I could've ever imagined (side note: who forgot to mention that marriage is like having a toddler? Seriously, with the need for constant attention and effort), however it's worth more to me than anything else. It has given rise to completely new feelings, highs and lows.

It has made me afraid to travel without my husband or be apart from him for any long span of time, because I feel like our hearts are so intertwined that if anything happened, you'd simply shatter into a billion worthless pieces without him. This love you've let me feel, you've allowed into my life, and it has completed me.

Now, now that you've gotten your ego patted heart, I have a simple request.

Since October, as I'm sure you're aware, about 10 pounds have taken up residence on our body. It's not anyone's fault but mine, but no one is having a more difficult time with it than me. Because now when I look in the mirror, I can't seem to love myself.

Sometime in the last 5 months and 10 pounds, you've lost the ability to allow love for what looks back at you in the mirror, and it is devastating. I want nothing more than to rediscover a love for myself, and not a conditional love, because we've done the years of mental anguish over being overweight. I need to rediscover a love for myself that doesn't rely on what the image in the mirror is, but rather on who that person is and other non-visual cues.

I simply want to find the same love for myself that I have for my husband (or even for my cat for that matter). I don't know where it went, but it's time for it return.

I can't begin to list all the ways that you have made my life worth living again in these last 5 years. I truly can't. But heart, we both know that even the greatest love cannot overcome a lack of love for oneself and I would be remiss if I didn't beg for help. I want to love me and I want to feel that others do as well. Even if my jeans are too tight and I can't even fit into my workout clothes (oh the irony).

I look forward to such a great future, but only as long as you continue to do your job, and I continue to try to do mine too. Without you, in so many ways, I'd be nothing. And that's not something I'll soon forget.

With all the love you'll allow me to give,

Katie


(P.S. This is a series on BlogHer, like last year's Letter to my Body)

Do you know what's a REALLY bad idea?

Friday, February 6, 2009

Googling "colloid cyst in Foramen of Monro"

Do you know why?

Because "[a]lthough colloid cysts are histologically benign, they can acutely obstruct both foramina of Monro, resulting in sudden loss of consciousness, coma, and death."

Sudden. Death.

Awesome.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Props to Daisy for a very well-timed e-card.

Excuse me while I wallow horizontally with a monster headache that surely can't be rooted in stress. Surely.

Since our last meeting...

Thursday, February 5, 2009

So you're probably curious about the whole emergency room experience and the boob doctor stuff, and since I'm feeling way too worn out to be clever and creative, I'm going to tell you all about both, in painful detail. Consider this warning that this is probably going to be boring. Though, I'm kind of a train wreck right now, it's almost impossible not to watch me crash and burn.

Wednesday afternoon I was feeling mostly fine. I had not yet gotten the UTI taken care of, but only because it seemed to get significantly better. And I had a mild headache, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I went to physical therapy, got about half-way through and in the middle of an exercise where I was literally sitting and doing almost nothing but shifting my foot from side-to-side, I suddenly became extremely lightheaded. I laid down and still could not shake the lightheadedness. I didn't pass out, but my eyes did the roll back in the head thing and my pulse was like 110 at the peak. It was not pleasant and was wildly embarrassing.

And my head was enormously painful. Like insane levels of hurt.

Soon I got really cold and couldn't stop some random chills. At one point I was lying under 2 heating pads, 2 blankets and was still freezing my ass off. Eventually I called Slappy and had him pick me up because driving was out of the question.

We came home, ate dinner and I was no better. My left hand wasn't working well, my head hurt and I couldn't stop the full body chills. So we went to the emergency room. The brand-spanking-new emergency room. The emergency room that took me back within 10 minutes, gave me a room with a flat screen tv and where I saw a doctor (Dr. Coffin, dude, what a horrible last name for a doctor) almost immediately.

Within no time I had blood drawn, an IV started and had peed in a cup.

In a wonderful show of meanness the male nurse and my husband played a joke on me where they told me that my pregnancy test was positive. And then after they shocked my heart back into rhythm and I punched them both in the face stopped being jackasses, I got a CT of my head.

The urinalysis showed bacteria, protein and blood, which means, hello, I have a UTI. The head CT came back clean except for this little tid-bit: "Hyperdensity is seen in the region of the foramen of Monroe..A colloid cyst would be a consideration."

Awesome. Just awesome. A cyst in my brain. GREAT.

So they gave me compazine for the headache, which made me feel both extremely exhausted and slightly agitated all at the same time and Cipro for the UTI. And then I was discharged to sleep it off at home. And I did. I woke up at 7:15 to go get my car, peed and then nearly keeled over and died, because ironically, the UTI was infinitely worse this morning. Like if you measured the amount of pee verses the amount of blood, I'm pretty sure my urine has a perfect ratio of 1:1. It's not good.

And I tried to get ready for work, but knew that there was no way I could do it. So I went and got my car and then came home and slept off and on (okay, more on than off) until about noon. My bladder is still a mess, and if I had to guess, based on the level of exhaustion and back pain, I'd go ahead and say it's probably in my kidneys too. Like a wonderful little infection party. I'm loving it, believe me.

And that about rounds out the ER experience. On to the boobs.

I went to the boob doctor at 1:30, though I didn't get seen until 3, which was not my favorite thing. But, the doctor insisted that I did the right thing by coming in, even only a week after having last been in. She felt the very same lump I did and was glad that I didn't ignore it. (Validation! I am not completely crazy!)

She ultrasounded the whole boob and apparently it's just a fibrocystic mass, but one that covers about a full quarter of the already deformed boob (So if they took out a quarter, and now a quarter of it is fibrocystic obnoxiousness, how much of the original boob would that have been? It's like the world's sickest math problem). There's nothing that can or needs to be done about it right now it just needs to be monitored in the same way we already are for eternity. I apparently also need to a) cut back on the caffeine again and b) drink more water.

It's almost like I've been dehydrating myself and my body's not happy.

So the plan is to drink more water, take better care of the UTI stuff and call the neurologist about the brain cyst, because it might be nothing, but I'd like to hear that from my neurologist. I've also decided that my Lenten resolution this year would be to cut out caffeine, including chocolate. I might die, but my boobs will be better in the end. And that's pretty important.

So, in short, tried to pass out but failed, was dehydrated with UTI, probable cyst in brain and big fibrocystic mass in boob. All in a day's work. Okay, 2 days, but still. I think it's impressive.

God laughs last. And hardest.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

So I really did plan to tell you the salmonella story today. But instead I'm at the emergency room because I tried to pass out at physical therapy with a massive headache.

In case you wondered that was the sound of my credit card weeping.

Mountains and Molehills, revisited

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Another day, another heaping helping of irony.

(If you're a man, especially if you're a man who knows me in person and doesn't want to hear about my boobs, stop now. Really, you'll thank me later. I promise. Come back tomorrow for the Great Salmonella Story. No really, I'm serious about that too.)


So last week I had my last check up with the breast boob doctor. I'm sorry, I can't use the word breast. It sounds way too grown up and you can call me a lot of things, but "way too grown up" is not one of them.

Anyways, the scar revision procedure from November was more successful than initially anticipated, but, look, they cut off a quarter of my boob (you're new here? Run, run away Read here or here for more info), there's always going to be some deformity there. I mean really, there's only so much to be done.

On this last appointment she went ahead and ultrasounded the area to make sure the scar tissue underneath was normal and I was sent on my merry way with an appointment in May for my regular every-6-months-for-the-rest-of-my-life appointment. Well, guess what? I get to go back sooner.

Because there is a new lump. A much MUCH bigger one. And I would completely brush it off if:
a) it was in the area where the previous surgery had been and could easily be chalked up to scar tissue
b) it was in the area that was ultrasounded last week
c) it wasn't in the same damn deformed boob

It's probably nothing, but the exact same thing could be said for the last lump, and while it wasn't the scariest something that could be in there, it was something, and it was pretty much the scariest thing besides the scariest something.

And so I called today, asked for my favorite nurse (that sentence there is such a sad commentary on my life. I have a favorite nurse at my boob surgeon's office. I'm pretty sure I need mental help.) and when she was busy, I left a message with the receptionist. I explained my history, explained the current situation and asked for an appointment. To which she said, "this week or next?" To which I said, "RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND As soon as is humanly possible" which translated to Thursday afternoon.

I'm willing to throw this 45 dollars down the not tax-deductible drain for peace of mind.

Because my mind? SO not at peace.

(And also, just for a laugh, guess what rotation Slappy is on at work right now? Breast surgery. I'm actually not kidding at all. God, on the other hand, is probably laughing his ass off.)

Groundhog's Day

Monday, February 2, 2009

Today we plucked a groundhog out of his home, made him stand up to see if he could see his shadow (which, let's be honest, he can't, because he's a GROUNDHOG) and then made a totally indeterminate prediction about the next 6 weeks of weather.

(Whose idea was this? Seriously.

Why can't it just be like, Human Shadow Day or something. Why a groundhog?)

Regardless of the stupid tradition that gave the movie I seem to be living its name, I can't help but feel a bit of irony over reliving one of a kajillion past experiences.

See, after calculating all my medical bills from 2008 and suffering a medium sized stroke anxiety attack over the absurd amount of money wasted, I now, just two days later, have a raging UTI.

Because, you know, I wasn't spending quite enough on my health yet in 2009.