I am a nervous pooper. Anxiety gets the better of me, and I instantly have diarrhea. This rather inconvenient issue flares up whenever I have to speak in public, when I do something bad and am facing exposure, (yes, this still happens to me), and whenever a certain family member of mine calls on the phone or sends me an e-mail. In fact, just thinking about all this is making my guts rumble.
Excuse me - I'll be right back...
Okay, all better now. Where was I? Oh - right.
So I'm learning to deal with this side effect of my personality, and giving myself an internal therapy session, I suppose it's a sign of weakness. But this is not the case with my husband.
You see, he has the same disease, but his takes effect whenever something needs to be done. Nice, huh?
I ask him for help with the dishes, and POOF! he has to poop. It hits really fast - almost like magic. By the time he emerges, dishes are done.
Today we decided to clean up the backyard, and as I'm headed out the backdoor he hollers to me that he'll be out after he uses the bathroom. He eventually showed up after I had already gotten all the toys put away in the garage, the tent taken down from the boys' backyard camp out, and nearly had the picnic table dragged back to it's proper place.
I've decided that he's brilliant, and next time I get a disease, I'm going to make sure it suits my purpose.
Showing posts with label infirmities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infirmities. Show all posts
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Mind Over Uterus (Alternatly Titled "Shameless Overshare")
*A disclaimer. If you are a male relative of mine or are bothered by discussion of female anatomy or visits to gynecologists, please skip this post and come back tomorrow, when I promise to discuss none of those things.*
The mind is a powerful thing, and I hope that mine doesn't qualify me as crazy - but after this last week I may have to embrace the truth.
On Tuesday I once again convinced myself that there was something very wrong with my insides. Specifically, my reproductive system. The pressure, the bloating, the (excuse me for saying) excessive vaginal discharge, the heavier than normal menstrual bleeding... It had to be bad.
Normally, I try to stay away from any websites like WebMD or diagnose me dot com because I know that I am a raging hypochondriac and I need to just chill out. But this time I thought that one of those symptoms was so far out of my norm that I couldn't ignore it. So I googled my little heart out.
No one should ever google the things I googled.
I soon discovered that I had all the symptoms of ovarian cancer, (which are basically anything from abdominal pressure to eyeball twitches), and I panicked and called to make an appointment with a gynecologist.
This morning I stood in the bathroom ready to prepare for my appointment, and I had to wonder what was the appropriate level of personal topiary? You don't want to leave things untidy, but you also don't want to look like you're trying too hard. I spent a good hour in the bathroom shaving to perfection, taking extra care to avoid a repeat of "the Soul Patch Incident of 2007".
At 11:30 I headed out to the gynecologist. Part of me knew that I was about to have a very routine visit, the other part was wondering if my life insurance company would grant me an advance on my death benefit so I could take my kids to Disneyland before I succumbed to the inevitable.
I walked into that doctor office and wondered if I had gotten the wrong building. It was like a posh ski lodge with muted lighting, huge wood beams in the ceiling, a separate room for kids complete with two story play structure, and everywhere I looked there were women who resembled models from Hustler Magazine, except that most of them had baby bumps. That was the only indication that I was in the right place.
I approached the reception counter and told them my name and who my appointment was with and while I watched the girl type in my info, I gazed down the counter and noticed that all of the staff looked like Bratz dolls. They had gobs of make-up accentuating big eyes and full lips, their hair was teased into playful, spiky messes of intentional seduction, and not one of them could have been over the age of twenty-five.
I started to wonder if I had walked into some kind of cult reproduction of the Playboy mansion.
Then the receptionist handed me one of those vibrating pagers that you get at Olive Garden on Friday nights when 600 people all decided at 7:00 that they wanted crappy Italian food.
"I'm sorry? What's this for?", I asked.
"We'll page you when it's your turn," said Miss Thang.
"My turn to eat? Can I see a menu? I should have brought my husband."
Unamused, Miss Thang went back to her typing.
I sat down and tried not to look at all the pretty women sitting around me. Where were all the old people? The women with hairy upper lips or so many piercings and tattoos that it almost certainly guarantees some kind of diseased pustules on their girl parts? You know - the women who make you feel better about a stranger poking around in your downstairs because nothin' you got is going to be as bad as what the doc will have to deal with on them.
I realized that on this day, I must be that woman for all the sex kittens there.
Not that they were worried about anything with their perfect skin, stilettos, and expertly applied make-up. I actually felt kinda bad for the doctors and hoped they had some kind of system in place to keep themselves calm.
I tried to keep my eyes on my Parent and Child magazine, but I kept stealing glances at the other waiting patients until I felt my pager buzzing on my lap.
Dinner time!
I collected my things, met the nurse who was waiting for me in the hallway and was led to a scale that is not as polite as the one I have at home. I decided to take five pounds off for clothes. And another two for shoes.
Blood pressure, check, then into the exam room. I was given a lovely paper gown and blanket and was told to put on the gown so that it opened in front and lay the paper blanket across my lap.
And it's always a race, because some of those doctors, I swear they try to catch you standing there naked, trying to slip your arms into the holes without tearing it. Give a girl a minute to make herself presentable!
I had barely gotten my rear onto the table and the blanket around my legs when the doc knocked and opened the door. Phew!
He came into the room, and good grief, even the doctor was beautiful! A nice looking man with gray around the temples, dark eyes and a gentlemanly southern accent. He sat down and asked me all the standard questions, including whether I had any questions for him.
This is the part where I had to say things like "discharge" and "bowel movements". I tried to tell myself that he deals with this stuff all the time, but I couldn't look at him while I talked.
What on earth makes a man want to become a gynecologist anyway?
The doc took it all in stride, performed a thorough exam, including one of those obscene ultrasounds that do not take place on top of your stomach.
At the completion of his time with me he pronounced me completely healthy from a gynecological standpoint and suggested I go to see a gastroenterologist regarding my bloating, pressure, and general feeling of constipation in spite of my normal bowel functions.
Turns out I don't have ovarian cancer - just irritable bowel syndrome.
Which means a lifetime of Metamucil staring me in the face.
But at least I got my annual Pap taken care of.
So tonight the muscles in my left arm are sore, even though I haven't used them for anything out of the ordinary. I bet it's the onset of something sinister.
Damn that WebMD!
Monday, April 12, 2010
In Case Of Emergency, Dial All Of Your Relatives.
This one is going to be a rant because there is no other way around it. And sometimes that's what a blog needs to be - a place for me to vent my frustrations so that I don't do anything I'd later regret.
About a year and a half ago, I got a call from my son at school. Mr. Drama Queen. He calmly told me that he might have broken his arm at recess. Well, oh, my hell! Why was he the one calling me instead of a school administrator? I grabbed my keys and hit the road to rescue my kid. I got there and the school office is buzzing with activity, but none of it is over my son. The secretaries are all answering the phones and making chit-chat with other moms and teachers in the office, and my son with the possibly broken arm is sitting in a chair by himself with his arm cradled in his good hand.
Long story short - he was fine. Not a thing wrong with him. He bumped his arm a little and was sent to the office, likely because of the amount of fuss he was making. But let me tell you this - I was livid that those secretaries allowed him to call me and tell me that he might have a broken bone. Perhaps if anyone had been paying attention when he called or if they were using the space inside their heads for things besides storage of dirty gossip information, they may have caught on to the fact that my kid nearly gave me a heart attack.
Let's fast forward about three months to the next phone call from Cameron. He was really, really sick this time and needed to come home. Really and truly! I promise, Mom! Well, okay, I'll just wake up the two babies from their naps, load them plus Drew into the wagon and drag it up a snow covered hill for a half mile to come get him. Of course, as soon as I got Cameron home he was magically healed.
The next time Cameron called I was smart enough to make him let me speak to a secretary. I asked her about his condition and she confirmed that he was coughing pretty badly and should probably be picked up. So up the hill through the snow we went to get Cameron, who gave a total of one hacking cough during the remainder of the day. Starting to feel like those secretaries just don't want my kid in school. So I kept him home for two more days, just to be sure that he wasn't going to infect any of the other students with Nothing Disease. I place fair blame on Cameron for faking, but some of the blame should go on the women working in the office who should know when to actually think about and properly react to what's happening right in front of them.
Not long after that, Cameron called home again and was near death for the third time. I asked to speak to a secretary again and told her that our new rules were that Cameron either had to have a fever or had to have thrown up in front of at least one witness if he wanted to come home. Lacking that necessary testimony, I asked her if she had a thermometer to take his temperature with. She replied that, yes, they did and proceeded to check him and find that he was within normal range. Back to class he went.
What the heck happened to school nurses? Where are the sick rooms where you could lay down on a cot covered with crinkly paper until you felt better? I have a great idea! - Lets just let the kids call their parents once a week with symptoms of a major disease or life threatening injury! It'll do wonders for their education!
Today was the best though. This time it was gold medal at the Olympics, first prize at the county fair, promotion at work with accompanying ten percent raise kind of stuff. This one is the winner.
We all remember Cameron's head injury from last week, right? The one that bled a lot but stopped with a little pressure and did not need stitches or prayers or anything like that? Well, apparently some girl in his class, who obviously does not have brothers, hollered that Cameron's head was bleeding, so the teacher sent him to the office to get it taken care of.
You know what the office does? They call me, (I was vacuuming my car and did not hear my phone), they called Andrew, (also vacuuming), they called my mother, (no answer), they called my grandfather, my father, my sister, and finally, my aunt, bless her heart. She immediately jumped in her truck and drove fifteen miles to pick up my son from school. Meanwhile, I check my phone and see that I have two missed calls from the school and so I call them right back. The woman on the other end of the line tells me that Cameron's head is bleeding and someone ought to come look at it, but Aunt Lisa is already on her way to get him.
Let's all take a deep breath here. It's a little cut. He probably picked or scratched at the scab and made it bleed a little. No big deal. But now Aunt Lisa is on her way, so I have to come intervene. I met Lisa in the parking lot and we chatted for a while, because I'm fully aware that there is not an emergency issue going on inside, and then she went home and I went in to tell the office personnel where to stick it.
Inside the office, I find Cameron sitting on that same chair that he sat in with his not-even-close-to-being-broken arm all those months ago, and this time, with no bleeding head. Maybe it did bleed for a second earlier, but he's not even holding a tissue or anything with which to stem the flow, so it can't have been that bad. And again, no one is paying any attention to the kid with the supposed head injury. I guess that in our day and age with law suits over anything and everything, they are required to play it safe and call me, but we're talking about a picked scab here.
I choked back all the swear words that were crawling up my throat and asked if they had any first-aid supplies. Of course they did! (They why in the name of Florence Nightingale didn't they put them to use??) Any gauze? "Of course! Let me just find it.... Nope, probably not in this box labeled "Sterile Gauze Pads", it must be something else..." I had to explain to this secretary how to read a box label and what gauze was. I bandaged his not bleeding head myself and sent him back to class. Completely infuriated that they would call everyone in the valley who shared some of my DNA to come to the aid of my perfectly healthy and well child, I decided that it was not the moment to confront their stupidity and walked out of the office taking deep, calming breaths.
These are the people responsible for the care and education of my children. But not for long.
End rant.
About a year and a half ago, I got a call from my son at school. Mr. Drama Queen. He calmly told me that he might have broken his arm at recess. Well, oh, my hell! Why was he the one calling me instead of a school administrator? I grabbed my keys and hit the road to rescue my kid. I got there and the school office is buzzing with activity, but none of it is over my son. The secretaries are all answering the phones and making chit-chat with other moms and teachers in the office, and my son with the possibly broken arm is sitting in a chair by himself with his arm cradled in his good hand.
Long story short - he was fine. Not a thing wrong with him. He bumped his arm a little and was sent to the office, likely because of the amount of fuss he was making. But let me tell you this - I was livid that those secretaries allowed him to call me and tell me that he might have a broken bone. Perhaps if anyone had been paying attention when he called or if they were using the space inside their heads for things besides storage of dirty gossip information, they may have caught on to the fact that my kid nearly gave me a heart attack.
Let's fast forward about three months to the next phone call from Cameron. He was really, really sick this time and needed to come home. Really and truly! I promise, Mom! Well, okay, I'll just wake up the two babies from their naps, load them plus Drew into the wagon and drag it up a snow covered hill for a half mile to come get him. Of course, as soon as I got Cameron home he was magically healed.
The next time Cameron called I was smart enough to make him let me speak to a secretary. I asked her about his condition and she confirmed that he was coughing pretty badly and should probably be picked up. So up the hill through the snow we went to get Cameron, who gave a total of one hacking cough during the remainder of the day. Starting to feel like those secretaries just don't want my kid in school. So I kept him home for two more days, just to be sure that he wasn't going to infect any of the other students with Nothing Disease. I place fair blame on Cameron for faking, but some of the blame should go on the women working in the office who should know when to actually think about and properly react to what's happening right in front of them.
Not long after that, Cameron called home again and was near death for the third time. I asked to speak to a secretary again and told her that our new rules were that Cameron either had to have a fever or had to have thrown up in front of at least one witness if he wanted to come home. Lacking that necessary testimony, I asked her if she had a thermometer to take his temperature with. She replied that, yes, they did and proceeded to check him and find that he was within normal range. Back to class he went.
What the heck happened to school nurses? Where are the sick rooms where you could lay down on a cot covered with crinkly paper until you felt better? I have a great idea! - Lets just let the kids call their parents once a week with symptoms of a major disease or life threatening injury! It'll do wonders for their education!
Today was the best though. This time it was gold medal at the Olympics, first prize at the county fair, promotion at work with accompanying ten percent raise kind of stuff. This one is the winner.
We all remember Cameron's head injury from last week, right? The one that bled a lot but stopped with a little pressure and did not need stitches or prayers or anything like that? Well, apparently some girl in his class, who obviously does not have brothers, hollered that Cameron's head was bleeding, so the teacher sent him to the office to get it taken care of.
You know what the office does? They call me, (I was vacuuming my car and did not hear my phone), they called Andrew, (also vacuuming), they called my mother, (no answer), they called my grandfather, my father, my sister, and finally, my aunt, bless her heart. She immediately jumped in her truck and drove fifteen miles to pick up my son from school. Meanwhile, I check my phone and see that I have two missed calls from the school and so I call them right back. The woman on the other end of the line tells me that Cameron's head is bleeding and someone ought to come look at it, but Aunt Lisa is already on her way to get him.
Let's all take a deep breath here. It's a little cut. He probably picked or scratched at the scab and made it bleed a little. No big deal. But now Aunt Lisa is on her way, so I have to come intervene. I met Lisa in the parking lot and we chatted for a while, because I'm fully aware that there is not an emergency issue going on inside, and then she went home and I went in to tell the office personnel where to stick it.
Inside the office, I find Cameron sitting on that same chair that he sat in with his not-even-close-to-being-broken arm all those months ago, and this time, with no bleeding head. Maybe it did bleed for a second earlier, but he's not even holding a tissue or anything with which to stem the flow, so it can't have been that bad. And again, no one is paying any attention to the kid with the supposed head injury. I guess that in our day and age with law suits over anything and everything, they are required to play it safe and call me, but we're talking about a picked scab here.
I choked back all the swear words that were crawling up my throat and asked if they had any first-aid supplies. Of course they did! (They why in the name of Florence Nightingale didn't they put them to use??) Any gauze? "Of course! Let me just find it.... Nope, probably not in this box labeled "Sterile Gauze Pads", it must be something else..." I had to explain to this secretary how to read a box label and what gauze was. I bandaged his not bleeding head myself and sent him back to class. Completely infuriated that they would call everyone in the valley who shared some of my DNA to come to the aid of my perfectly healthy and well child, I decided that it was not the moment to confront their stupidity and walked out of the office taking deep, calming breaths.
These are the people responsible for the care and education of my children. But not for long.
End rant.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Akin to the Bog of Eternal Stench
Drew has had what the doctor called a "stomach bug" for four days now, and I can't go on without sharing some of our experiences with you. And you know you can't live without reading about our household's bodily functions.
Drew has had the flu before, so this is not the first time he's experienced vomiting, but his reaction to it is always the same: run. My queue to grab the barf bucket is when Drew is laying lethargically on the couch or recliner and he suddenly jumps up and starts running around in circles. By the third time he pukes, I usually have the moves mastered to ensure that at least some of his stomach bile doesn't hit the rug.
We were doing fine with this routine all day on Tuesday, and then Wednesday came and he was fine! Hooray! I was no longer glued to Drew's side, ready to whip the bucket under his chin. (Asking the kid to run to the toilet would be completely insane at this point.) And then Thursday came and we had diarrhea to deal with. It wasn't anything that his diaper couldn't carry the burden of, and I was glad to have only been 12 hours into potty training when this whole thing started. If we'd been on day three, this episode would have been a huge set-back.
Half-way through Thursday, the vomiting decided to make a come-back and Drew and I handled it like pros. At that point, I had washed my hands so many times that I'd gone through two bottles of liquid anti-bacterial soap and all the skin on my knuckles. Stinking dry weather. So I knew I could live through it as long as nobody else caught it, whatever it was.
Today came, and we were once again free from any symptoms of flu or various "stomach bug" until about an hour ago when I was monitoring lunch in the kitchen, and I heard an eruption in Drew's pants. We're talking Mount Etna. I asked Drew if we could go change his diaper, and he yelled, "No, I not. I draw!" And he pulled out the crayons and some paper. I decided it was just as well, I would pull Bryan and Trent out of their high chairs and put them in their cribs before I attempted disaster clean-up. I managed to get Trent down and was headed back for the kitchen when I heard Drew crying, "Owie!" in the kitchen, trapped by the baby gate. I could tell just by the way he was standing there that we had a major flood on our hands. Or running down his legs, rather. He said he could wait right there while I laid Bryan down, because the last thing we needed was a curious toddler's help.
I knew when I smelled it that I should have undressed him in the tub, but I ignored that instinct and laid him on a towel to change his diaper. When I lifted his shirt, it was too late for any kind of civilized clean-up, so we did the best we could with the tsunami of yellow filth sloshing all around, and all the while, Drew kept crying, "Owie, owie.." I pulled his shirt off as carefully as I could, and then the cries of owie became even louder. He pointed to his mouth, and sure enough, his mouth was covered in diarrhea. It's really hard not to laugh when someone else has diarrhea in their mouth. I should have just cut the shirt off.
I got him into the shower and cleaned up with a nice, baby fresh smell which was contained to just the bathroom, and I left him there, standing in the shower stream, soaking in the heat and steam, while I went out and stared at the pile of soiled clothes sitting on the towel. I couldn't make up my mind if I should just dump them all in the trash or try to salvage them. In the end, I decided that the orange shirt was one of my favorites and needed to be passed on to Trent because it would match his hair so nicely, but I couldn't stand the thought of rinsing the clothes first, so I just shoved them all in the washer by themselves for a double wash, double rinse in hot water.
I am really finished with this "stomach bug". Drew's docile temperament while sick is no longer worth the smell, or the hand scrubbing, or the general state of heightened tension as we wait for the next explosion from one end or the other. On the up side, if he has to be hospitalized for dehydration, then the nurses can take a turn at clean-up! And now, I have to go light every candle in the house.
Drew has had the flu before, so this is not the first time he's experienced vomiting, but his reaction to it is always the same: run. My queue to grab the barf bucket is when Drew is laying lethargically on the couch or recliner and he suddenly jumps up and starts running around in circles. By the third time he pukes, I usually have the moves mastered to ensure that at least some of his stomach bile doesn't hit the rug.
We were doing fine with this routine all day on Tuesday, and then Wednesday came and he was fine! Hooray! I was no longer glued to Drew's side, ready to whip the bucket under his chin. (Asking the kid to run to the toilet would be completely insane at this point.) And then Thursday came and we had diarrhea to deal with. It wasn't anything that his diaper couldn't carry the burden of, and I was glad to have only been 12 hours into potty training when this whole thing started. If we'd been on day three, this episode would have been a huge set-back.
Half-way through Thursday, the vomiting decided to make a come-back and Drew and I handled it like pros. At that point, I had washed my hands so many times that I'd gone through two bottles of liquid anti-bacterial soap and all the skin on my knuckles. Stinking dry weather. So I knew I could live through it as long as nobody else caught it, whatever it was.
Today came, and we were once again free from any symptoms of flu or various "stomach bug" until about an hour ago when I was monitoring lunch in the kitchen, and I heard an eruption in Drew's pants. We're talking Mount Etna. I asked Drew if we could go change his diaper, and he yelled, "No, I not. I draw!" And he pulled out the crayons and some paper. I decided it was just as well, I would pull Bryan and Trent out of their high chairs and put them in their cribs before I attempted disaster clean-up. I managed to get Trent down and was headed back for the kitchen when I heard Drew crying, "Owie!" in the kitchen, trapped by the baby gate. I could tell just by the way he was standing there that we had a major flood on our hands. Or running down his legs, rather. He said he could wait right there while I laid Bryan down, because the last thing we needed was a curious toddler's help.
I knew when I smelled it that I should have undressed him in the tub, but I ignored that instinct and laid him on a towel to change his diaper. When I lifted his shirt, it was too late for any kind of civilized clean-up, so we did the best we could with the tsunami of yellow filth sloshing all around, and all the while, Drew kept crying, "Owie, owie.." I pulled his shirt off as carefully as I could, and then the cries of owie became even louder. He pointed to his mouth, and sure enough, his mouth was covered in diarrhea. It's really hard not to laugh when someone else has diarrhea in their mouth. I should have just cut the shirt off.
I got him into the shower and cleaned up with a nice, baby fresh smell which was contained to just the bathroom, and I left him there, standing in the shower stream, soaking in the heat and steam, while I went out and stared at the pile of soiled clothes sitting on the towel. I couldn't make up my mind if I should just dump them all in the trash or try to salvage them. In the end, I decided that the orange shirt was one of my favorites and needed to be passed on to Trent because it would match his hair so nicely, but I couldn't stand the thought of rinsing the clothes first, so I just shoved them all in the washer by themselves for a double wash, double rinse in hot water.
I am really finished with this "stomach bug". Drew's docile temperament while sick is no longer worth the smell, or the hand scrubbing, or the general state of heightened tension as we wait for the next explosion from one end or the other. On the up side, if he has to be hospitalized for dehydration, then the nurses can take a turn at clean-up! And now, I have to go light every candle in the house.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
