In which I’m a geek with NEW CLOTHES!

Yesterday I went to my aunt & uncle’s to fix their network. They have cable DSL with a wireless modem. Basically all I did was run a couple of speed tests, call Charter and get their speed turned up to what they’re actually paying for, and change the outgoing mail server name on one of their two email accounts. Oh, and I deleted a bunch of junk they didn’t need, updated their security software, and installed Norman on the Vista machine. Easy peasy.

My aunt fed me a plate full of gourmet cheeses (OMG, the fucking goat’s milk brie! OMG!) and gave me three bags of clothes. My wardrobe literally doubled in one swell foop! I have tons of stuff to wear now! I have jeans! I have sun dresses! I have fancy stuff to wear to Christmas parties! It’s totally kick-ass!

I also don’t have enough room to put it all away. I have two laundry baskets full of clothes that won’t fit anywhere. Oh, the joys of overabundance. Hurumph.

When their network was happy, my aunt made pasta and we came over here to eat it and play pinochle with Gramma. I haven’t played pinochle in years. We even played double-deck, which was so fun I can’t even STAND myself.

I have a scrip for Darvocet that says I can take one every four hours. That’s six a day; I’ve only been taking two a day. But last night during pinochle the meds wore out, and damn if it didn’t suck, big time. I felt achy and sore all over like I’d been hit by very big, very soft bus. I didn’t dig it at all.

Yesterday morning, I suddenly had bruises in my calves from the stirrups… isn’t it weird how it took so long? (The day before, a muscle in my right foot spasmed non-stop for about ten hours… talk about annoying.) The body is so clever; it waits out the trauma to do the little stuff like have bruises.

The day after my surgery, an old friend of mine had a pacemaker installed. He and I, both high on Darvocet, spent a few hours texting each other jokes and cell phone pictures. (I am telling you, Darvo is a laff riot! Go get you some!)

Anyway, my aunt & uncle, they also loaned me four DVDs. So I’m going to finish integrating my new clothes into my room, make my bed, get a snack, and pop a vid into the laptop. I think my dog will probably be willing to cuddle with me while I watch a movie this afternoon. Dogs so totally rock.

In which I tell you all about it!

The alarm went off at ten of five. I got up, grabbed the clothes I’d laid out the night before, and went to take a shower. I took an antibiotic on my way through the kitchen.

Gramma drove me over to the hospital. I found Admitting, checked in, and was led by a volunteer to a room decorated with jungle wallpaper.

The nurse showed me around, said, “Oh, Dr. T will want a UA,” and then left so I could get into my backless gown and pee in a cup. When she returned, she covered me in heated blankets.

Gramma and I chatted for awhile about nothing, and I tried not to have a panic attack. (Having developed the stupid condition, I guess I’m stuck with it. Sometimes I get into a neurochemical feedback loop and have a hard time getting back out.) My nurse put in my IV. It hurt, so I said “Ow!” rather loudly. She took it out, talked with an adorable little student mini-nurse about how the needle had caught in the device somehow, and put in another. “You’ll probably have a bruise here,” she said, and taped my hand up.

I looked at the IV. “Eewh,” I said. “This grosses me out!” and put my hand under the blanket so I couldn’t see it any more. The tape was so tight my pinky went to sleep, so I loosened it without looking at it. I don’t mind looking at your IV, but the sight of a needle puncturing MY skin makes me feel all weird. Continue reading My Surgery →

In which I check in.

Apparently, making it to 39 without having ever been under makes me a statistical anomaly. Okay, I’m fine with that. I’m also greatly comforted by all your stories of not dying under anesthetic; thank you, guys.

My surgery prep sheet instructed me to take a laxative today. (Gah!) I had to go and buy some, because there weren’t any in the house. Really looking forward to that kicking in here during the next few hours… not.

This afternoon, a nurse called to say my lab work results indicate a bladder infection, so I had to walk over to the drug store and pick up some Cipro.

All these pills! Sheesh!

(I don’t think it’s a bladder infection, I think it’s the monster. Regardless, I’m on antibiotics.)

The hospital called too, to tell me how much I can expect their portion of the bill to be. You know what they said? FIVE. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. That’s just the hospital portion, and doesn’t include the SURGEON, ASSISTANT SURGEON, OR THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST. I hope they give me a steep goddamned discount.

In other news, I ordered DSL today. It’s only 256k but it’ll be in on Friday so I can spend the weekend in bed with my boyfriend, the Internet. My employer let me buy a used wireless modem for $20, too, which was way cool of them. Yay DSL!

In which suddenly I’m taking half the week off from work.

This morning I had a follow-up consultation with my doctor at 8:30.

My surgery is scheduled for the day after tomorrow! Ack!

I can’t eat anything after five on Tuesday, nor drink anything after midnight. I report to the hospital at six o’clock in the morning, for an 8 o’clock surgery to remove the tumor and do an ablation. They’re going to put me all the way under. Barring complications, I should be home in my own bed by two in the afternoon.

When all is said and done, I may find myself in debt to the tune six or eight grand… or maybe less. [You almost win, dad. Thank God I didn’t take you up on your bet.] I have applications – from both the doctor’s office and the hospital – that may give me a 40% discount from the former and up to 100% off of the latter’s invoices if I can prove myself to be poor enough. (I imagine I’ll be paying the anesthesiologist whatever s/he charges, because that bill will come from yet a third entity and I haven’t had anyone tell me to talk to that financial advisor.) Three bills for one procedure.

Most frustrating is that they can’t even tell me in advance exactly what it will cost. Until I get all my paperwork in, they can’t tell me what they’ll be charging me because the fees slide based on income. It’s all terribly vague, but apparently they’ll let me make payments. And the surgery has to be done, so one plunges onward in spite of obstacles.

I had to give blood and pee in a cup this morning. They poked me in the arm with a needle before I was even completely awake, which while necessary was rather rude of them, I thought. I also had to read a lot of forms and sign things and see two different financial counselors in two buildings. All before my eggs and toast with tea and milk.

I’m stoked about the ablation, because it means my periods will be lighter, or, perhaps, if I’m lucky, non-existent. Non-existent! Can you imagine?!? NO BLEEDING AT ALL!!! {cue: snoopy dance}

Let me tell you, the idea makes me positively giddy. No more eight or nine day-long periods. No more hideous flooding when I stand up after sitting for awhile. No more clotting! No more panic attacks from the fear of bleeding to death! I realize it sounds strange, but I really couldn’t be more excited about getting the lining of my uterus sanded out! (Fuck menstruation! It sucks.)

Okay, so they don’t really sandblast the uterine lining, they cauterize it with hot water. Whatever. Point is, relief from the hell I’ve been going though! Hurrah! {cue: ticker tape parade and dancing in the streets}

The idea of going under anesthesia freaks me out, of course, because someone has to be a member of that statistically significant set who never wakes up… though I suppose I won’t know if I don’t wake up, so maybe it’s no big deal. Also, it’s totally gross to think of one’s body as a non-conscious piece of meat in surgery, lying there all flaccid and inert while strangers do weird things to it. (Eewh! I’ve just grossed myself out. Heh.) I’ve decided not to think about it any more.

Long story short, I’ll be lying around in bed all day on Thursday and Friday, waiting for my liver to clear the drugs out of my blood. Y’all should call me and tell me jokes! I like jokes.

In which there’s another riveting post about my damned uterus! (Can I generate content, or can I generate content!) (Wait. Don’t answer that; I’ll probably cry.)

I had to call the clinic this morning to get my biopsy results, even though they promised they’d call me by Tuesday afternoon. The biopsy shows I have a benign prolapsed fibroid tumor, which is exactly what we were expecting the biopsy to show. (In other words, I don’t have uterine cancer. Yay!)

My uterus monster sucks. I want the fucker out, and I want it out before my next period because this month SUCKED SO BAD. OMFG. I couldn’t make it through my shift Monday and had to go home and sleep for 14 hours. I lost at a pint of blood in four hours that day; heavy bleeding is common with fibroids and believe you me when I report that IT SUCKS. I won’t even talk about the pain or how scary it is to bleed like that, nor about the general exhaustion and despair that accompany the whole process.

I’ve applied for Medicaid (thanks for the suggestion, amped!) and should hear back on that in the next day or two. Since I have no assets whatsoever, I may be eligible for some kind of coverage. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

I have no idea what the surgery will cost – maybe around six grand? – so it’s hard to prepare financially. No doubt I’ll be making payments for the next few years whether I’m eligible for any kind of benefits or not. I’d hoped to get new glasses and have my teeth cleaned and buy another car, and then maybe splurge on some clothes without holes in them, but I guess I’ll pay for surgery instead. (I am so sick of having my check spent before I earn it. Gah. Poverty may be spiritually enriching, sure, but a girl can bitch, can’t she?)

I’m waiting to hear from Medicaid before scheduling surgery. The nurse I spoke with today was all weird and vague and useless, so I’m not even really clear on what my next step is supposed to be, but I think it involves scheduling a follow-up appointment and getting referred to the hospital.

During my appointment last week, the doctor was all, “You have to have this out within the next month, and if you start running a temperature you’ll need to get in here right away.” But today, the nurse made it sound as if her interest in helping me was tied directly to my insurance, which of course I don’t have. I’m not certain but I think she may have been trying to tell me, in code, that I need to call a lot and complain a lot so that her office can report to Medicaid that the problem is, in fact, an emergency. Hard to tell, but I have called three times in just as many days to complain about pain and bleeding, so they have records of that.

The whole thing sucks, and ruminating upon it gives me anxiety attacks.

In other news, living with Gramma rocks, and in the near future I shall write a post about exactly how excellent she is. And today I rode the bus to work and it was all amusing and shit because [A] I haven’t lived in a town with public transportation for over a decade, and [B] there was a cute boy, who got on and off at the same stops I did, eyeballing me in that style specially reserved for public buses and trains. I’ve been losing weight since I got here because I’m not eating like a pig, and that plus getting ogled makes me feel double plus good awesome!

In which there’s an actual reason for it.

The short version: I went to the gynecologist yesterday, and it turns out I have a giant fibroid in my uterus and need to have surgery within the month.

The long version contains way TMI and (to protect those of you who don’t want to know any more about my uterus than you already do) is concealed after the break! Continue reading OMG. WTF. BBQ. →

In which there’s a bug.

I woke up at 8 o’clock in the morning on the first day of the new year running a temperature and wanting to puke. It went downhill from there, and I spent the whole day battling the stomach flu.

What’s that? Oh, well, of course it was both ends. Why wouldn’t it be?

AmmZon went to the store and got me a gallon of water and some orange Gatorade so I wouldn’t dehydrate. The aches and pains sucked.

You have no idea how far the bathroom is from my room. It’s, like, a jillion miles. Uphill. In the snow.

Update: Mid-afternoon today I roused my sick-ass self for a trip to Drug Town, where I bought three packets of Thai noodles and two bottles of Powerade. I spent four dollars. I came home, ate some noodles, and was so exhausted by the ordeal I had to sleep for five hours. My guts still hurt, but the fever’s broken and I once again have control of my excretions. Happy fucking new year, indeed.

In which I bitch and moan. A lot. About stupid sophomoric shit. All because I made the mistake of examining myself nude in the big motel mirror after my shower this afternoon.

I heard when I was a kid — and I have no idea if this is true or not — that one forms all of one’s fat cells as an infant, and that their density determines how fat one can become as an adult. Really fat Michelin Tire babies are capable, therefore, of growing up to be hugely obese, while skinny babies aren’t. Or something. Anyway, the point is, I guess I wasn’t a very fat baby.

Now I’m 37, and although I’m not dimensionally all that big, I think I’m carrying about as much fat as my body can possibly carry. I’ve suddenly developed this weird spare tire above my hips, and my ass, believe it or not, has developed dimples. Of all things. Six months ago I was pudgy but smooth; suddenly, I’m barely bigger but I’m dimply and bumpy and I’m grossing myself out.

You have to understand that I am a very, very sedentary person… for a variety of perfectly reasonable reasons:

• I work sedentary desk jobs.
• I live in a state where the majority of the time it’s either really fucking hot or really fucking cold out. (Iowa isn’t like Oregon where you can just go out and do stuff.)
• I don’t like to exercise for the sake of exercising. It’s excruciatingly boring, plus I think I don’t make those nifty endorphins that sporty people go on and on about. I don’t feel good after exercise, I just feel hot and pissed off, usually.
• I tend to enjoy things like reading, writing, thinking, making music, watching films: not exactly athletic pursuits.
• I’m left-handed and a bit awkward so I never really developed feelings of confidence doing physical things. (For instance, in grade school, my P.E. teacher claimed he couldn’t teach me to hit a ball with a bat because I was a lefty. Ditto tennis. And even bowling. And when I was able to learn how to do something, I generally wasn’t any good at it anyway.)
• I live in the country, so I drive everywhere because literally nothing’s within walking distance.
• My spouse is also sedentary. (He hasn’t realized it yet. He worked construction for a long time so he got his physical activity at work, but he’s been doing truly physical labor less and less and less over the years and, like me, he’s never learned the habit of doing physical stuff in his free time for the purpose of being healthy.)
• The only physical activities I like are the ones I don’t notice I’m doing (like walking for transportation or dancing or sex), yoga, and swimming. I couldn’t care less about any of the rest of them. Honestly.
• I’ve never made an effort to be physically active because, I think, I don’t actually know how.

When I was a kid, I played outside and ran around a lot like kids do. When I lived in Oregon, I went out and did things like hike Multnomah Falls or Mt. Hood because that’s what you do when you live somewhere like that. When I was in college, I walked everywhere because that’s how college works.

Now I’m old and married and fat and I live a lifestyle that is self indulgent and lazy, and I’m ready to admit now that I don’t know how to change it.

I don’t look like I feel; I look like a fat white married chick who’s pushing forty. I look like a Midwesterner, and not like the clever, funny, friendly, hip, talented, sexy creature I really am. I hate being vain. I do. I never cared about this process (of getting fat and dumpy) until one day I’d passed some limit I didn’t even know I’d set: it suddenly appears that I have become too fat for me to stand my own self.

There are problems elsewhere as well, as long as I’m listing the many obstacles to achieving any kind of beauty. For instance, my skin is still lousy. I thought it would have cleared up by now, but it hasn’t. I still have oily skin and blemishes, and I’ll always have scarring. Oh, and another peeve is the upper lid on my right eye; it will apparently always be a little heavy so my gaze is lopsided. I will always have this huge Morgan nose, of course. And I will always have this soft Hall jawline, if one can even use the word in reference to the slope between my jaw and throat. And my hair, oh JOY, is still falling out and has been for a few years. (My paternal grandmother had extremely thin hair; I think I’ve inherited some female pattern hair loss gene. Christ.) At first I’d thought the hair loss was anxiety-related, but it hasn’t stopped and my hair keeps getting thinner. And, if all that weren’t enough, my two upper front teeth are overlapping more and more as time goes by (because teeth move toward the front of the mouth and crowd each other out, that’s just what they do), and obviously I didn’t deserve nice, even teeth because I was already just so pretty.

I’ve never had hopes of being a great beauty, but damn this is an awful lot of strikes against one girl. I made peace with my nose and chin in my early twenties (mainly because my excellent eyebrows and my awesome ass made up for any other shortcomings), but the rest of it is pissing me off. Especially the hair — that’s just insult to injury. And my ass, well, it’s pushing 40 like the rest of me.

I almost wish I had a fundamentally weaker sense of self-worth, or at least self-image, so that I’d have freaked out earlier rather than letting this fat thing go so inexcusably far. It’s just that I’ve always generally been pretty much at peace with how I looked, rationalizing, as all average-looking girls do, that I had a killer personality and great talent and I totally put out on first dates, so I didn’t have to worry about not being beautiful… even though women are still judged more on their looks than their worth.

The plan:

Doesn’t exist. Umpteen times I’ve started these very small, easy exercise regimens in the past six or seven years. Some were so simple it’s weird I didn’t do them, like: ‘do 25 sit-ups before bed three nights a week,’ or ‘go to low impact step aerobics at the rec center twice a week.’

Perhaps I had to get truly grossed out with myself before I could develop the gumption to do something like eat differently or work out. We’ll see. In my heart of hearts, I believe I need to make drastic changes to the whole shape of my life because the inertia is just too great… for instance, I’ve walked more since we’ve been in Indy than I have in the past year. It’s like they tell addicts: one has to change one’s playground and one’s playmates to effect real change in behavior. I have tried before to eat better and exercise, but it lasts a few weeks and then it’s the dead of winter and I never go anywhere and no one sees me so I forget even to be vain and it’s freezing in that old house so I end up baking sweets and cuddling up with a book and some cake. Or a whole milk latte. And then I have great intentions again but the next thing you know it’s a hundred and ten degrees outside with a humidity index of 98% and all I want to do is lie in front of the box fan with a very cold cocktail, and it’s too hot to eat dinner so we don’t and then the sun goes down and we drive to town for whatever’s available at ten o’clock at night which is usually something fried in Whirl like Torino’s or McDonald’s food.

I know I need to make changes, but I have never tried to form a new habit that I didn’t actually want to form, so I don’t know how. (Obviously I’ve started various new habits over the years, but they were things I genuinely wanted to do.) I might have to develop a whole new form of humility and join Curves or something, and force myself to become genuinely emotionally involved in the process. God knows I can’t buy pre-packaged diet food systems, because they’re none of them vegetarian.

Gack. Just… gack.