Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Valentine's Day, Older Lovers, and Ionic Bonding: A Love Story

Image result for heart drawn in salt

      Another year, another exciting Valentine's Day . . . It's so enthralling to be the belle of one's medical school. [sarcasm font]

      Seriously, it's only the much older guys who think I'm cute, as in the geriatric hospital patients.  Maybe I should date them. A friend of mine briefly dated a guy who was in his early fifties but looked more like he was in his late sixties.  She's a total knockout. None of her friends could see what it was that she saw in him. Alas, the relationship didn't work out, unfortunately for him. She's now dating someone who looks like he stepped out of an ad for The Armoury or some similarly GQ place hawking men's clothing. I don't know if this relationship will last any longer than the previous one did, but at least the rest of us have someone nice to look at in the interim.

      I didn't get an actual Valentine, but I received one dozen pink long-stemmed roses. I bribed my friend into telling me from whom they came. A married doctor much older than I sent them anonymously. He wasn't trying to be creepy. Chances are that his wife knew about it, and they're not prospective polygamists. He just felt sorry for me because he knew no one else would send me flowers. He's a nice guy. If I were going into the OBGYN specialty I would probably want to work with him.

    Guys my age (actually there ARE no guys my age in my cohort except for Matthew; I think there are only two other guys in the whole medical school who are still twenty-two, and I don't think I want to date anyone who's a first-year med student, as they're still all about cadaver and poop jokes, so I'll substitute it with "my cohort mates") think I'm a complete geek. It's probably because I am.

    I have degrees in music performance, but my real degree (the one that counted if I were to be eligible for medical school) is in biochemistry. So since I'm the consummate geek, I shall talk a bit about biochem.

    Most of us had to take chemistry at least in high school, I would assume. Most of us, therefore, know about NaCl, otherwise known as sodium chloride, otherwise known as salt. Salt exists via a classic case of ionic bonding. A sodium ion has a positive charge. A chlorine ion has a negative charge. And we all know that opposites attract. (This is oddly appropriate for Valentine's Day.) And sodium is floating around with just one of its eleven electrons in its outer shell, and it really doesn't want that one outer electron, but the slut chlorine ion really does want that electron in the worst possible way. Anyway, the sodium ion sort of gives it to the chlorine ion, and, sort of like the Biblical concept of marriage, the two shall be as one. 

     And it's a bond that's a whole lot tighter than any marriage I've ever seen. If you have refined close vision (I don't and never did because of preemie issues, but I used to look at salt with a magnifying glass when I was little, and later under one of my dad's microscopes) and you've ever spent much time looking at salt as we know it, you know that it exists in the form of tiny cubes. If a person took a hammer and smashed the stuff, it would still be in cubes -- just tinier cubes. You can't smash it into anything other than salt in the form of tiny cubes no matter how hard you try. Even something like rock salt,which doesn't look like tiny cubes, will begin to look like cubes if you just take out your trusty hammer and start smashing it. And no matter how tiny the cube, you can probably make it into infinitely tinier cubes if you have a strong enough hammer and a sufficiently sophisticated microscope-like tool with which to view it.

     The melting point of sodium (a metal) is 208 degrees Fahrenheit, or 99.79 degrees Celsius. The melting point of chlorine is - 150.7 degrees Fahrenheit, or - 101.5 degrees Celsius (if that seems strange to you remember that it's a gas, and what makes it a gas is primarily the extremely low temperature it would require before becoming a solid). The melting point of NaCl, or sodium chloride, or salt, however, is 1,474 degrees Fahrenheit, or approximately 801 degrees Celsius. Considering that the average house fire is roughly 1,100 degrees Fahrenheit, 1,474 degrees Fahrenheit is pretty damned hot. Basically, unless you have something really unusual inside your house that would cause it to burn especially hot, your entire house could burn down and your table salt would still be intact. The container holding it would be less than toast, but your salt would survive.  Pretty impressive, huh? Sodium and chlorine are far stronger once ionically bonded than they were previously. No court  nor religious institution on Earth can separate the bond they have formed without at least 1,474 degrees Fahrenheit to back up its authority. Whatsoever ionic bonding hath joined together, let no man put asunder. 

     Perhaps I should have forgone medical school and put my biochem degree to quicker use by manufacturing something like meth. I probably would have made a lot more money a hell of a lot faster, but that's really not my way of doing things. I'm much too far into the process of learning to remove appendixes, repair hernias,  and un-twist colons of small children to re-think my career options now.

     And, on an only marginally related note, salt cannot lose its savor. You know that passage in Matthew 5 where Jesus said, "Ye are the salt of the Earth. But if the salt hath lost its savor, wherewith shall it be salted?" or something like that?
Jesus apparently didn't study very much chemistry. There's really nothing that can happen to salt (other than heating it up to beyond 1474 degrees Fahrenheit, perhaps) to make it not be salty. My mom, who has greater faith than I, said that perhaps Jesus was talking about foods with naturally salty flavors or something different than NaCl. At any rate, we'll give Jesus a pass on this. He had bigger fish to fry than memorizing the chemical properties of salt.
     Many people say true love doesn't exist anymore. Some say it never did. They should try telling that to sodium and chlorine.

     Happy Valentine's Day.      

I do not own this video, which is actually just an audio with a still shot, but all the other videos at YouTube with Noel Paul Stookey singing the song were recorded too late in his career, and he had to sing the song in a lower key, and the song doesn't sound right in a lower key. Anyway, if you substitute "sodium" for wherever Noel Paul says "man" and "chlorine" for wherever he says "woman," the song sort of fits this blog -- if you're on drugs, anyway.

Monday, February 13, 2017

Lady Gaga Fat?

Image result for lady gaga super bowl

I don't have a dog in this particular fight as I'm not really a fan of Lady Gaga, though I acknowledge obvious vocal prowess and musical talent. I probably would not have chosen the outfits she chose to wear during her Superbowl halftime routine either for her or for myself. Nevertheless, calling her fat is absurd.  She's obviously very fit.

A Bit of a Catastrofuck

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This is not I, but it might just as well have been

I return to work this morning on a light schedule. I'll report to the office of the OBGYN practice before the first employee reports to work. My normal routine is to show up however early I need to in order to be sitting idly in my car [covertly studying, actually, as time is too precious to waste in this stage of the game], waiting with feigned thinly-veiled impatience for someone with a key to appear and grant me access to the office. It's little more than a game, but, just the same, it's a prudent self-promoting (or self preserving) act for a third-year med student to be the first one on the premises for any given day's assignment. It's a bit complicated for me at this point in my recovery, as it would be ill-advised for me to remain in any place with no restroom access for any extended intervals so I have to arrive a bit later for work and risk the chance of not being in the first car to arrive  in the parking lot. The risk of no restroom access  is attached to far graver consequences.

 Once inside,  I shall begin the all-important work of  trying to convince at least one conscious (all of the office patients should, in theory, be conscious; procedures requiring anesthesia or sedation should be in an ambulatory surgical center or hospital) patient to allow me to perform what is euphemistically termed an internal exam. I've performed my share of internal, i.e. vaginal,  exams on patients who are either drugged, whose view of what is happening to them is occluded by the fabric cover put in place to minimize patient freak-out factor during c-sections and other procedures, and on women in mid-to-late stages of labor who probably wouldn't care if the hospital janitor was the one performing the vaginal exam if it meant the baby would come out faster.  For some reason, conscious women seem reluctant when it comes to allowing medical students who look like they barely escaped high school probe their most intimate areas.  I was denied access by seven patients before my illness and surgical procedure. Here's to hoping the procedure and ensuing convalescence  has had a maturing effect on at least my appearance, though I'm skeptical.  Realistically, my best bet would be at least one sixteen-year-old patient in the office today [without her mother] who, with her limited perspective, thinks I look old.

Last night I experienced considerable abdominal cramping, ostensibly as a result  of my transition to a "full liquid" diet, which includes ice cream. I may have overdone the ice cream ever so slightly.  When the cramping, which had its onset at about 5:30 p.m., had yet to subside by 11:00 p,m., I made the choice to take a Vitamin V. It took car of most, though not all, of the discomfort. Hydrocodone has a soporific effect for most people. For me, it's an opposite reaction.  I cannot sleep after taking it. so I will work today after having been awake for twenty-six hours. Between the Vitamin V itself and the lack of sleep, I should not drive. My neighbor is giving me a ride to work, and I'll arrange transportation home. I'll head home at about 1:30. At that time I'll probably crash for the night.

Last night, in my hydrocodone-induced state of insomnia, I caught a few On Demand episodes of a TVLand "comedy" series Teachers.  It's fundamentally pretty stupid and  - at least I think - doesn't even pretend to be realistic. The characters appeared to be hyperbole versions of stereotypes. I think all the teachers were female, and I'm not sure anyone was over thirty-five. The principal was, of course, male. i don't know where this series was set, but in California, more than half of elementary school principals are now female.  I was a bit too drugged to determine if it was funny. I'll catch a few more episodes when I'm too ill or drugged to sleep or study.

On a totally unrelated note, I've been introduced to an app called "Confide." It allows conversations that cannot be saved, replicated, or forwarded. You really don't want to use it to harass a person (though doing so would be more prudent than doing so using conventional media), but it's a fun place to hold a conversation that you don't want to bite you in the butt at some time in the future.

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Wednesday, February 8, 2017

A Public Service Announcement: Order of Operations Problems and Common Core

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Are you smarter than a fourth (or fifth or sixth) ...:

I absolutely DEPLORE those "order of operations" problems that are posted on Twitter or Facebook or Pinterest or wherever mathematical idiots gather (I'm not implying that everyone who frequents any of those places is inherently a mathematical idiot; I am merely opining that the "order of operations" problems draw the math idiots out of the woodwork  the way Travelodge motels attract bedbugs.. Wherever they are presented. people who have a basic arithmetical background are bored by them and move on, as they mastered the concept by fifth grade. It's  others who have to argue over their incorrect answers for days.

This is not for my regular readers, who have intelligence. This is for the benefit of the great unwashed segments of our population who come here on occasion by hitting the
"next blog" button.

Just remember the "Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally" acronym/mnemonic device. First come expressions with parentheses. Next are exponential expressions. Next are those numbers that must be multiplied or divided. Last are the numbers to be added or subtracted. Once those operations have been satisfied, begin on the left and work to the right to solve or simplify the expression.

A Twitter friend of mine recently mis-solved one of these problems, then went on to deride others, saying that the reason they found the incorrect answer was because of Common Core.  I'm not a gynormous fan of Common Core, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the lady having found the incorrect answer, as whatever education she had was wrapped up long before a few educators and politicians got together, shared a bit of LSD, and in the midst of it devised Common Core.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry Since I Cannot

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I understand its use in recipes, but as for eating or drinking sweetened condensed milk straight, I'm not sure I'd wish it on Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer. One would think it would be slimy and would just sort of crawl down one's throat much as an under-cooked egg might.

    I should have been back at work by now but I'm experiencing minor complications related to not being able to tolerate any food other than clear liquids. I'm on a new medication that is making me fairly sick but should heal the internal wound. The worst drug I take only twice a day. I couldn't keep it down so I'm now being injected. It still makes me sick for two hours or so, but I cannot throw it up because it's not in my stomach.

     Meanwhile, I'm sitting around and not getting a whole lot smarter. I've taken and passed the bench exam. Practical experience is the hangup here. I probably have had more deliveries thn I'm required to have had by them time I've been present for several in the E.r., a few in the O.R., one in the hospital entryway, and one in the parking lot. that is probably covered. I've yet to perform a pelvic exam on a conscious patient, though. (I'm not exactly looking forward to it.) when we're in on a relatively routine scheduled abdominal surgery, they have us practice internal exams. There's something to be said to working the kinks out of probing body cavities on unconscious patients. Now that I know that, I will put in writing that NO medical students or anyone else will ever use me as a crash test dummy while I'm knocked out for any future procedures.  

     All things consideed, all i really need to do is a few internal exams on conscious patients. I should have everything else in this specialty covered. i'm a bit bummed because quadruplets were delivered (via c-section) yesterday, and i didn't get to scrub in because i'm not yet cleared to return. i got to hear all about it, which almost made it work. I did get to help with a triplet delivery in early December, but quads would have been even cooler. I don't think the quads fared quite as well as my triplets, though. They were quite small, and I'm not sure about their prognosis. Every baby added to the mix in a given pregnancy complicates things and increases the odds of mortality and of complications for all the rest. My supervising OBGYN wasn't the surgeon of record for the quads, but she assisted in the surgery. I haven't talked to her about it yet. I'm interested in hearing her take on the procedure. She usually calls a couple of times a week and stops by here about once a week because she lives in my complex.

     I'm getting bored, but I'm trying to enjoy the boredom when I'm not puking my insides out, because I know that there will be a time in the not-so-distant future when i will wish that I had the luxury of being bored. I'm reading up on my present and future specialties.

     I don't know if this is routine at all and would like to consult an attorney, but the doctor whose shoddy scoping technique punctured my colon sent a paralegal to my condo with a document for me to sign which would, if I read it correctly, waive my right to seek any compensation for the injury to my colon caused by him. I have no intention of suing him, but I think it's positively cheeky of him to ask me to sign a document stating that I waive my right to do so. The action almost seemed threatening. I would like to show it to my surgeon and to my preceptor, though it makes no difference; I have no intention of signing it.  I found the action very bizarre.  If he's trying to intimidate me because i'll do a gastro rotation next year, he's out of luck. I've been assured he'll have nothing to do with my gastro rotation. If it looks like his colleagues will be in any way prejudiced against me, I'll petition to do my gastro rotation elsewhere. Since I'm likely going into pediatric general surgery, there would be some justification for doing the gastro rotation at least partly in a pediatric setting. There's a really good pediatric gastro program near my parent' home, and the adult gastro program is good there as well. For that matter, I could petition to go somewhere exciting like Scotland or Catalonia. It's possible to be granted up to two visiting clerkships. I'll probably take advantage of that opportunity whether it's for gastroenterology or for something else. 

     In any event, I'm not intimidated by the guy. If he leaves me alone, I will leave him alone. He would be wise to do so.

     There were two Mormons fighting it out on Dr. Phil today (technically yesterday). It was rather amusing (what I caught of it, anyway) and is supposed to be continued tomorrow. I will record it because it comes on at a time when I'm usually tossing my cookies.

     On a totally unrelated note, I have a theory that of the neurotypical population with intelligence above the "intellectually disabled" range (the 'mentally retarded' before Rosa's parents became irked and challenged the clinical use of the designation "mentally retarded" in court; I personally don't see what that accomplished, as once the youth of today or tomorrow realize that "i.d." is the new "m.r." they'll begin taunting each other on the playground with that, and then we'll be back to square one) children who are picky eaters tend to have higher IQs than do children who are not picky eaters.  I think it's somehow related to greater cerebral density and increased synapses coexisting with a larger number of taste buds on a person's tongue. Who knows if there's anything to it? If I were going to be stuck at home much longer, I'd write a grant and conduct a study, but I hope to be paroled from this state of disability sooner rather than later, at which time I will be far too busy to trifle with such matters.

     Among my multitude of readers, has anyone eaten flan? did you like it? Has anyone ever eaten or drunk sweetened condensed milk straight? Was it a near-death experience for you?

Friday, February 3, 2017

Am I Dead to You?

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Here's my tombstone in case anyone was wondering.

My mom would say it's in poor taste to allow elements of my life that should remain private for the benefit of those who have offended me  to make their way into this blog. Unfortunately for her as well as for those who may have offended me, my mother is not the author of this blog. The author of the blog is, instead,  22-year-old big girl, otherwise known as a legal adult, who is allowed to make decisions without consulting her mother, much less following the advice her mother might give her.

Part of this issue with my mother is that she (my mom) lost her own mom at the age of fifteen (my mom was fifteen, not the mom she lost).  She didn't have the benefit of her mom's advice.  She therefore feels all the more compelled to push her sage wisdom, acquired through years of doing things her own way without following the advice of anyone, and learning from the consequences and successes,  onto me. The only real cognitive dissonance I'm feeling in this scenario is that, from what I've been told of my mom as a young teen, older teen, and young adult, she didn't listen to her mom's advice all that much while her mom was here to give it. Evidence leads to the point of view that she was not suddenly going to have become a hell of a lot more receptive to the advice of her own mother or of any other adult. My mother liked to do things her own way and to learn by trial and error.

In that regard, I am a bit of my mother's child. I will ask for advice at times, and will even take the advice if it comes from a reliable source and the advice seems sane and sound and I've pretty much exhausted all other options that won't land me dead or in jail. Mostly, though, I figure things out for myself.  The school of hard knocks probably has a higher success rate than does any other school in the nation. 

I do listen to advice at times. I have a few sources who have consistently steered me in a good direction and who are not especially pushy in giving the advice. It is to these people that I turn in times of turmoil. Medical school is not an especially great place to learn by trial and error, as the error may result either in harm to a patient (someday . . . right now, thinking about harming a patient is about the closest anyone will allow me to do) or in irrevocable damage to my own reputation or relationships with others who control my future.  I cannot afford to be consistently at odds with administration even if I'm right and they're wrong (which is, admittedly, not usually the case, but it has happened that way at least once). I need to learn to play nicely with those in charge of my program. I already play relatively nicely with my peers, though my lack of tolerance for the slower learning curves of some of those around me has a tendency to make me less than popular with some of said peers if I don't watch my words carefully.

I've found it a good practice to run potential courses of both dialogue and action by individuals a bit older and wiser than I before actually saying or doing things when I have the luxury of time. One of my human sounding boards - one of the wisest and most reliable -- is temporarily unavailable to me because sometimes real life gets in the way of advising fans who have become friends. I may need to wing it a bit and try hard not to say or do anything that will screw up my professional or, for that matter , personal life, though I haven't done too horribly on my own from a personal standpoint. I'm not pregnant, incarcerated, or doing anything that is likely to result in my becoming pregnant or incarcerated in the immediate future. The  solidity of my continued education and professional life is more at stake. I can do this on my own, though. I'm 22, and 22 is the new 30. For the most part, I'll keep my mouth shut except when a response is clearly expected, and I'll think something like, "What would Billie Jean King say or do?" when I'm in a situation when I must say or do something. It helps that I will leave for Canada to complete a portion of my education there in about six weeks.  I'll still be accountable for my words and actions while I'm in Canada, but the distance will, I suspect, act as a bit of a buffer. As long as I don't orchestrate some act of anarchy against the system in which I will be working and studying there, the fallout probably will not follow me back here. I think I can accomplish that for the nearly three months that I will be there.

In terms of allowing things that should remain private to creep into the annals of my blog . . . What would YOU do if a person sent back to you all of the Christmas gifts you gave to her family in December, including one relatively substantial gift to a Godchild that cannot be returned to the store from which it was purchased because the store has a thirty-day limit on returns?  Would you hold a garage sale, which I can't exactly do, as my community is gated, and garage, yard, and estate sales are forbidden within the complex? Would you donate all the returned gifts to the United Way, or to the local Mormon missionaries, or perhaps to the Scientologists?  Would you write the person who sent back the gifts off your Christmas card list forever?  Would you go scour your own home to find any articles she may have given to you in the past (there wouldn't be many, but I think she gave me a box of paper clips last summer; she didn't give me a Christmas gift this year; she did make a quilt for me several years ago; am I obligated to return it? I REALLY like the quilt, but if holding onto it would be even more of a breach of etiquette than those I have apparently already committed, I don't need the etiquette police at my door) and return them to her in tit-for-tat fashion? Would you consider yourself fired as a Godparent, or wait for official word? Who has to OK firings of Godparents - just the parents, or must the baptismal officiant or maybe even the archbishop OK the deal? Could this even involve the Vatican and the Pope in some fashion? And what form would the official firing take -- an amended copy of the baptismal certificate with your name crossed off and someone else's written in its place?  A picture of you (or me in this case) with 666 superimposed upon my forehead, unless it's already there and it's just I who cannot see it?

And it's early in this game. The mother of my Godchildren is just one of many whom I may have offended with my most recent blog.  I may be dealing with far more rancor than just that of a disgruntled mother of Godchildren. Only God really knows just how many people I offended in my previous blog in which I noted the absence of communication from relatives of the side of the family that typically acknowledges my existence.  It appears that, with one known exception, I am dead to these people.

Thursday, February 2, 2017

I'm Truly Not Trying to Approach This Topic from the Perspective of Self-Pity, but, Rather, from the Outlook of Reality as It Appears from My Present Corner of the World

                                                                  PART  TWO

Image result for lonely girl in hospital bed
There are always teddy bears who care

My mom and I were recently involved in one of our less-than-pleasant but far from infrequent conversations in which she was attempting to use her professional skills (she holds doctorates in both clinical and education psychology) to fix  what is broken with me. It is considered improper to the point of unethicality  for a psychologist to practice on his or her relatives. Though she would normally be considered  both a proper and an ethical psychologist and human being, the idea of impropriety and faulty ethics has never gotten in the way of her using her education and professional training to make whatever points she has wanted to make regarding what is lacking in my character. I'm accustomed to it by now, and I won't be making any reports or complaints to whatever associations govern the practice of the fields of educational or clinical psychology (in this case, it's just clinical psychology with which we're dealing; as critical as my mom typically is of me, even she is not going so far as to suggest I have any issues in the psychoeducational domain) at any time in the near future. She's my mother. It's her job, or so she thinks, even at this late stage in life, to transform me from the dysfunctional individual that I am to someone who functions as a proper adult in the real world, albeit as an adult who does everything her mother says to do and doesn't contemplate a significant action without consulting her mother. That, however, is a subject  for another day's blog.

This conversation came up as a result of my father having casually shared with my mom something I had told him in an earlier conversation. I didn't obtain a sworn statement of confidentiality from my dad, which is something I should perhaps consider doing prior to future conversations with him. In any event, I'm confident that he had no ill will whatsoever in retelling what he did. For that matter, I'm exposing myself to a far greater degree by sharing parts of that conversation, of the ensuing conversation with my mom, and of my thoughts on the topic in general here, where people about whom I spoke with both of my parents might conceivably read about themselves. (Most of them read my blog from time to time.) I've considered the consequences of doing so and have decided to go ahead with it. They're my feelings that I'm expressing, and I don't think they're unjustified, and this is my blog in which I'm sharing them. My sane half of the family, including a block of people not technically related but considered  in the greater category of "family,"  can usually be counted on to read something (if they happen to read it), to form an opinion pro-, anti-, neutral, or bits of all three, without turning something blogged by an opiod-influenced twenty-two-year-old (I cop to using  Vicodin  in my favor [besides the obvious need for pain relief] when I benefit from suggesting that it should be considered when otherwise considering my state of mind when I write or wrote something; at other times I will say I'm perfectly lucid whenever taking Vicodin in therapeutic levels as prescribed [which is the only way I take it; I'm admitting the duplicity so that no one need call me on it) and consider the source, thereby not allowing it to ruin they, the readers', days, weeks, months, or years. (Incidentally, I also cop to using my age inconsistently. At times, I am, at twenty-two years of age, an adult in every sense of the word. At other times, I'm just twenty-two, you surely understand. Poor little me, I'm not even old enough to run for congress. You all really need to cut me some slack. Again, I'm admitting to this so that no one else has to call me on it.) And in a way, I'm not being insincere in using my age in such a manner. I really would love to have it both ways. It would be nice to be a fully-empowered adult when it works in my favor, and to be a little girl when that works better.  I understand, though, that I can't have it both ways, and that I am, for all intents and purposes, legal and otherwise, a big girl now.

Anyway, I shared with my mom, which I now recognize as my first mistake, that I hadn't received any acknowledgment of my recent illness from family. The form of my sharing with her was that I asked her if any of the relatives had called or emailed her to ask how I was recovering. (I recognize now that I had everything to lose and absolutely nothing to gain by asking her, and I will never ask again.) I wouldn't have expected them to have pulled out all the stops the way they did the time I was a mere day past my third birthday and sliced my left ulnar artery when I broke a drinking glass and was trying to hide the evidence by burying it into the bottom of the kitchen trash receptacle because I feared my mother's wrath.  An ambulance ride, a transfusion, and God knows how many stitches later, the visits and presents began arriving in droves, even though I'd just been gifted with birthday presents sent from all over the nation a day earlier. I'm certainly beyond the gift stage for hospitalization or surgery, but a card or two or a phone call would have been nice, I commented to my mom, especially since I personally am very good about acknowledging that side of the family's occasions, including illnesses and hospitalizations.

I'm generous beyond what would be  expected considering my age and employment status, with the children of my cousins for birthdays, Christmases, and religious occasions. I acknowledge the adults' birthdays and anniversaries with cards at the very least. I send cards with personal notes for everything. And, lest anyone who read this suggest it as my mother did, I do this because i was taught that it is considered proper to do so. I don't do it because I expect the same in return, and I don't typically keep score in terms of what I have sent out and what I receive in return. I wouldn't know what the score is in reference to this particular illness, hospitalization, and surgery, except that it is such a very easy score to remember: zero.

My Internet friends have been wonderfully supportive, by the way. My co-workers as well have been thoughtful. it's just that segment of people we call family who seem to have deserted me in this particular time of need. Judge Alex, you have more kindness in your pinkie toe than the rest of my relatives have in their combined collective hearts and souls.  I love you all.

And in regard to the 90+% of my dad's family who never acknowledges anything, none of this was in reference to them. They never cared before. There's no reason for them to start caring about me now.

My mom has suggested that the problem is that I've gotten sick one time too many and have worn out my welcome in that regard. She mentioned my just having dealt with myositis last month. I'd be inclined to agree with her except that they, the collective relatives,  didn't acknowledge the myositis thing, either. The ones who were in Austria with me occasionally wandered into my room and asked, "When are you going to get over this thing?" or something similar, but that would have been the extent of the acknowledgment. They weren't exactly bringing me flowers, not that I even wanted them to do so.

I wondered aloud if they send cards and flowers and phone calls to each other or not, and if I'm the only person in the family observing this social custom, or if they extend the nicety to everyone but me. That was when my mother suggested I develop an awareness that I am not the Earth's axis around which the planet rotates, nor the sun around which the solar system revolves.

Do I continue to send nice gifts to Godchildren and children of cousins?  Do I continue with cards and flowers, and with playing the organ for the rosaries of relatives of my Godparents I've sometimes never met no matter how inconvenient it is to me personally, just because it is the uncle of my Godfather and we do such things for people in our families? Do I scale the gifts down to cards and the cards to nothing? Do I still make the phone calls? Or do I continue on with business as usual because my reason for doing any of the things I did was never to receive anything in return?

Meanwhile, I'm recovering. I will return to work on a modified schedule on Monday. To all of the relatives, even though you didn't ask, I'm sure you wanted to know that about me.



I'm Truly Not Trying to Approach This Topic from the Perspective of Self-Pity, but, Rather, from the Outlook of Reality as It Appears from My Present Corner of the World

Image result for boy/girl twins
This is not my brother and I; It looks reasonably like us except that Matt was bigger and i was smaller, and his hair was a bit lighter.

As I recently discussed the topic about which I'm preparing to write with my mother of all people (allow me to clarify: I discussed the topic with my mom; I'm not preparing to write anything with her; why would I send myself to Hell any sooner than that time at which The Grim Reaper gets his filthy hands on me?), who is arguably the last person on the planet with whom I should have attempted to have a rational discussion about it, my mother thought it was important to remind me that the planets in our solar system (or in any other solar system, for that matter) do not revolve around me. To convey the context of the discussion, I'd have to print what was said before and what words followed, and I really don't want to devote so much space to a conversation that, in its entirety, isn't all that germane to what I'm trying to convey here. Still, I will say that my mother's single sentence summation was not a fair comment.  

If anyone possesses an innate knowledge (or acquires it very early in life) that he or she is not the literal or figurative center of the universe, it is probably the average child growing up in a large nuclear family.  A parent cannot indulge very many children on a regular basis when that parent has five or more children. A given child  may be singled out for more positive (or negative) attention than is the rest of the litter, but, for the most part, a child with many siblings learns early that he or she isn't all that special and that while he or she may be loved, he or she is incidental in the grand scheme of things.

A second demographic category who would almost always be firmly grounded at a very early age  in his or her actual place in the grand scheme of things would be a child who is the result of a multiple birth.  While the general public may "Ooh" and "Aah" over twins, triplets, or whatever the denomination (the larger the denomination, the greater public fawning) but in public is where it stops. Once the family reaches home, which is where a majority of time is spent in the first year or two, one parent is stretched to provide the attention needed by two babies. I won't get into the lifestyles of higher-order multiples at this time, because, for one thing,  all I really know is what I've seen on TV and read about Jon and Kate and their ilk, and how these "blessed" families manage, and for another, in the earliest years, families of higher-order multiples typically receive a considerable amount of hands-on assistance from others.

With twins, however, it's usually mom and the babies at home by themselves until dad walks through the door, at which time at least one child is probably literally thrown at him. Most of the hours of most days, twins are at home by themselves with their mothers.  When two babies are hungry at the same time, depending upon the system used by the mother to feed her babies, a mother who possesses only  two hands can usually get to only one baby first. The same is true of diaper changes, and general cries for attention and for unknown reasons. The same is true of the division of a mother's attention when babies are not crying. A mother of twins will often try to play with both babies simultaneously. She can hold two babies comfortably when sitting on a sofa or upholstered chair. Standing while holding or carrying two babies is an act of necessity, though, and not of comfort for any of the parties involved.

This is a bit off-topic and out of the blue, but (I admit it; I watched their show on a fairly regular basis; my dad said I probably lowered my iQ by a single digit for each episode I viewed ) once on an episode of Jon & Kate + 8, the family was in public, and they walked past a family of two parents and a single child. The child was holding both of her parents' hands, and they were swinging her in the air randomly as they walked. One of Jon and Kate's little girls (I think it may have been Alexis, though I don't know for certain, and it's neither here nor there, anyway) commented, rather wistfully,  something to the effect of, "One time I got to hold both Mommy's and Daddy's hands when I walked."  To their credit, the melancholic nature of the child's words was not lost on Jon and Kate, and both acknowledged the reduction of two-to-one or even one-to-one parental attention as being an inevitable drawback of their family dynamics.

I'm most thankful (after seeing the program; I don't know that it otherwise would have occurred to me to be thankful for anything so mundane; perhaps there was a benefit to my having seen many episodes of Jon & Kate + 8) that my interactions with and attention from parents wasn't reduced to the degree that it would have been had I competed with a larger number of womb-mates. Even having been a triplet would have statistically reduced the availability of parental attention I received to 33.3%.  It would have grown only more grim with each surviving zygote.

Allow me to say, on the other hand,  that, while I'm not sold on any benefits of having been a member of the pack in a higher-order multiple birth, being a twin offers to the two simultaneous occupants of a mom's uterus a shared experience like no two other individuals can ever have. Someday I'll presumably pick out a mate and legally wed, and Matthew will likely do the same, but until then, when we begin to form new lives and new shared experiences with these new people in our lives,  Matthew and I will have had more shared experiences per years of our lives -- some of which we don't even remember -- than any two other members of our family.  I cannot put into words what it is to have had a single person present during virtually every event of any significant in my life. We certainly went through periods of conflict, but Matthew was my single greatest ally even during times when I didn't know that he was such and certainly didn't trust him to be.  While we trash-talk each other,  he's always had my back just as I have had his. At a particular time in my teens when I was especially vulnerable and a bit paranoid, and not at all certain that Matthew, too, wasn't an enemy, unbeknownst to me, he was going  out of his way to ensure that anyone who contemplated saying or doing anything as malignant as looking at me in a way that would make me feel uncomfortable would face dire consequences. 

I'm not suggesting that being a twin lowered the quality of my childhood in specific and life in general. In fact, all things considered, and for a variety of reasons, I would highly recommend it. My point here, which I've taken entirely too long to make, is that my mom was unfair in alleging that I have yet to discover that I am not the axis around which everything on the Earth revolves. Knowledge of such was a part of me even before I was born. 

This blog is growing increasingly cumbersome with each word I type. It's time for a Part 2. 

                                *****TO BE CONTINUED*****

Friday, January 27, 2017

The Uncertain Station Between Legal Adulthood and the Real Thing

Image result for when life gives you lemons make lemonade joke

My mom is here tonight. She'll need to fly back tomorrow night, as one of her students has a senior piano recital on Saturday night.

I've trash-talked my mom's reasons for not having been here earlier -- particularly when surgery was happening -- but her reasons for needing to remain on the job were, in truth,  quite valid. I did a senior recital a few years ago -- I did two of them, actually, being the over-achiever that I am -- and I understand the problems I would been put through had either my advisor or even any member of my adjudication panel had found a reason for a no-show. 

Obviously, coverage is arranged in such cases. It's easier to fill in for an adjudication panel member than for an adviser, who has worked with a degree candidate through every step and hurdle, but still, those panels are arranged far in advanced for maximum fairness to degree candidates, who are in competitive situations with one another. A last-minute fill-in inevitably throws off the balance (or facade of balance, anyway) of fairness.  but there's no suitable substitute for having one's department adviser (did you know that both adviser and advisor are acceptable spellings of the word, though adviser is both more common and an older spelling of the word?) in attendance at one's senior recital. Then again, there's really no suitable replacement for having one's next -of-kin in attendance when one is having surgery when the outcome is not predictable, either.

What I had in place of my next-of-kin (who would have been one of my parents, or, at the very least, my twin  brother) was one of my professors armed with a cell phone and the numbers of my next-of-kin, along with a living will/advance healthcare drectives. I was required to fill out one at the ripe old age of 22 years and six weeks because of the absence of my next-of-kin. For the record, I do not wish to be kept alive by artificial means once my brain function has ceased [some would argue that such is already the case], and I do not wish to have any form of nutrition or artificial means to preserve my life, but I do insist upon the comfort measures of IV hydration along with pain medication and sedatives as needed.  It was incredibly kind of my professor to have shown up. For all I know, the department made all of my professors who were on the premises draw straws, and the professor I got was the one who  drew the short straw, though to his credit, he managed not to act as though such was the case.  He was compassionate, and didn't try make incessant small-talk in effect to cover up the awkwardness of the situation. He talked when I wanted to talk, and held my hand when he thought I needed him to do so. It was the best the hospital could do on short notice, and I appreciated the effort on their part to do anything at all. They really didn't have to do so.

My mom has been a good mother, as my father has been a good dad, but there were times in the past when they should have been with me and weren't. i won't go through the list in the event that they happen to read this, as they already know the list all too well, and I don't need to rub salt in their wounds. The difference now is that I'm grown and that their job of raising me an of being there at the times when parents should be present for a kid are technically over. At this point it's strictly a matter of choice.  I feel as though they've made their choices perfectly clear. they don't think it's quite so simple, and that there are times when parents, or anyone doing any job who has other obligations beyond that job, get stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place.  I'm not sure what exactly is the distinction here. I suppose the rock is what  person has to do, while the hard place is what a person doesn't do or the person a parent or someone else doesn't help but is left feeling guilty about not helping. 

That seems to be one of the things I'm very best at --  making people feel guilty for not helping me or for not being there when I need them. I totally get the necessity for work in the lives of most people, parents included. Most of us are not born into families similar to the Rockefellers or Romneys or Trumps, with sufficient wealth that their wealth alone continues to accrue even more wealth without the necessity of their doing much of anything about it on a regular basis other than to check in on things often enough to ensure that the accountants aren't helping themselves to huge chunks of the family fortune. Most of us have family members who may have a bit of flexible work time, but have some non-negotiable aspects to their work. 

If a family member -- a spouse, a kid, or even a grown-up kid -- is in an especially precarious state of health, it is assumed that work will be thrown aside so that the working person will be with the family member who is facing a health crisis.  If the ailing family member has a cold or a sprained ankle, the family member is on his or her own. It's the in-between stuff  -- the judgment calls -- the persistent side ache that turns out to be a ruptured appendix, the "urinary tract infection" that advances very nearly to the point of the affected kidney being removed, the subjective abdominal pain that, when all diagnosing has been said or done, winds up being a two-foot extension of gut that has to be removed and resected, and a  possible intestinal perforation that turn out to be actual intestinal perforation, that cause conflict and hurt feelings on the prt of the grown-up offspring.

Such is often the case all the more when the adult offspring is in many aspects f life, both by parents and by others,  not treated as an adult, it seems, except when it comes to health crises.  I can't decide for myself whether or not to purchase a cello, but I can decide for myself with not parental input how much of my colon can be cut away and resected.  I can't decide without parntal input whom to date on a regular basis, but I can be expected to single-handedly take on incompetent hospital staff members who are not following my doctor's medication orders.

I have many relatives and friends-who-are-like-relatives who have functioned as pseudo-next-of-kin at times in the past, including in medical situations.  For these times and for these relatives and not-quite-relatives, I am most sincerely appreciative of the times they've stepped in. The statute of limitations seems to have expired where these people and this service in concerned, however. They seem to feel that since I'm now an adult, I don't need them anymore when a medical situation that threatens to reach crisis level hits. 

What is the answer to this? Getting married? Spouses seem to have the right to demand that each other be available for health crises.  Perhaps I need a nice, kind, sensitive spouse, complete with an iron-clad prenup if things ultimately fail to work out.

For tonight, my mom is here, though. She's alternating between the bed next to me and the recliner between our two beds. She rubbed my tummy when I was in quite a bit of pain due to trapped gas {TMI i know} against my incision. {Trapped gas in my case is a side-effect of not being able to tolerate the full-liquid diet and having to exist on chocolate pudding and ice cream or sherbet - the only things on the full-liquid diet that I will consider eating. It's one of those things a same-sex parent can do without it quite reaching the "Deliverance" factor, plus she has small enough hands that she can rub the part that hurts without touching anything else that I would prefer not to be touched, though in my case, my midsection consists mostly of flat abdomen; there's a pretty decent margin of error.

There is some peritonitis as a result of the colon perforation as indicated by a temperature of just above 102. If the condition were serious, my temp would be more like 104 or higher. The moderately low fever would indicate that the Levaquin and Keflex (I think that's what I'm being given, but I'm also very confused) are somewhat doing their jobs, but not quite so efficiently as I would like. i would have liked to be back in my condo by now. As it stands, Sunday is the earliest possible discharge date. My mom has to go back for another recital before on Sunday. My dad is supposedly coming back when she leaves.

I get a great deal of ulteriorly motivated attention from male staff members when my mom is here. I'm not allowed to post pictures of her, but I've been told that she looks years younger than her actual age of 49 and is almost movie-star hot. Male staff members find the most superfluous of  reasons to come into my room. In any event, the idea of not getting my medication when I need it or anything else when I want it is laughable as long as my mom is here.

I think I'll switch my scholarly concentration (a supplemental required component of our education, intended to be done independently; I'd already completed considerable work on my original topic, but change and flexibility are both good) to "Patient Experience in Our Facilities." I've been admitted to at least three and have been treated at an additional three.  I may as well make a bit of lemonade out of the lemons life is currently serving up in generous quantities.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Explanation of Last night, Request for Prayers for Someone Else

sort of what I was seeing last night

Things were neither so dismal nor so nefarious as I thought they were last night and in the wee hours of yesterday morning. I was not being given even close to the correct dosage of pain medication I was prescribed, but it was not, as I feared, due to the staff siphoning meds off patients' allotted dosages in order to make a profit on the street off the purloined meds. It was, instead, a case of a medical staff member, known colloquially as a nurse, who misinterpreted the written and oral (I distinctly heard my doctor articulate the pharmaceutical instructions myself and understood them clearly as crystal despite still being in a state of not-quite-having-emerged-from-the-haze-of-anesthesia (sometimes described as "being in the land of blueberries"). Admittedly, I had a vested interest in the matter: my body, my pain, and my medication were the topics of the conversation, all of which is entirely beside the point. By way of reinforcing the utter  lack of competence involved in misreading or otherwise failing to correctly interpret the given instructions, allow me to explain that my surgeon -- female and roughly thirty-three --  uses penmanship with such textbook -precision that when she writes prescriptions, they're often verified by phone from pharmacists who refuse to believe the prescriptions were written (or signed if the prescriptions themselves were printed by computer form) by anyone qualified legally or otherwise to write prescriptions. Pharmacists assume no doctors, or, for that matter, even nurse practitioners or physicians' assistants -- write the way she does. You know the look of the classic physician's signature  -- appearing as though it could have just easily been scrawled by a twenty-two-month-old child. My gastro-woman's signature and cursive in general (she rarely uses manuscript, though I've seen her write in manuscript, and it's every bit as perfect) looks as though the printing were done not by hand but by a computer cursive font (maybe KG Only Human Regular or something similar) except even less obnoxiously ornate and more perfectly slanted.  Anyone who would have misread what my surgeon wrote would also have misread the font used in the "Dick, Jane, and Sally" basal readers. The language used in the orders was standard as well as clearly penned.  The surgeon wasn't using esoteric vocabulary for the purpose of impressing anyone. A certified nursing assistant should have, and in all likelihood would have understood and correctly followed it. 

Unfortunately for me, it was not a certified nursing assistant charged with dispensing and administering my medication. It was, instead,  beautiful, twenty-four-year-old Nurse Abigail, in her second week on the floor and fifth week on the job. No conspiracy was at work in sending my pain levels to the ceiling (you know the 1-10 scale paients are asked to self-rate their pain) and beyond if such is possible. I said it is possible. The floor charge nurse disagreed with me.

In cases of moderate-to-severe pain, it's imperative for the pain medication to precede the pain. Such is not the case with most conditions which might cause pain, but pain immediately following certain types of surgery is predictably severe enough that it isn't an abuse of painkillers to prescribe it in advance of pain reaching its worst.

I was at the added disadvantage of being small. Medical personnel are apprehensive concerning how any given patient will tolerate medication. Such is all the more the case when the patient is small, as I have been determined to be. it seems that despite how many times a person has undergone surgery and been given the post-surgical painkillers, the same level of caution applies. Hence, my painkillers never get the opportunity to get a jump on my pain.  Then the cute little nurse-in-training (I know she has her full licensure, but she performed very much like a nurse still in training last night) gave me half of what was prescribed and half as frequently as prescribed. The reduction in painkillers only turned me into a raving, technology abusing psychotic. The limit on the antibiotics I had been prescribed for the slight perforation in my colon (courtesy of gastroenterologist #1, who would be facing malpractice charges in a court of law were his patient anyone other than a medical school student at facility affiliated with my medical school) caused my temperature to have to be monitored continually and caused an additional antibiotic to be thrown into my regimen. If anyone was at all concerned about the sometimes constipating effect of opium-based painkillers, he or she can forget all about it. The double-whammy of the mother of all antibiotics combined with the stepmother of all other antibiotics is making constipation sound like heaven.

My surgeon had to show up at 2:45 a.m. last night  to clarify matters to the nursing staff and to write new orders. Matthew says the surgeon had to come in the middle of the night to shut me up, but the new orders to compensate for the failure to adhere to the original orders was why she had to appear. She otherwise could have called in any changes except that she had to examine me again, and if, as Matthew suggested, she had needed to come in to yell at me, she could have done so over the phone as well

The advantage of the double-antibiotic regime is that painkillers can be given to me to any degree that they are not toxic to me. Any constipating properties that did their thing would be a welcome intervention. 

Despite his trash-talking of me, Matthew's appearance here was very much welcomed. (For one reason, there is a fourth-year med student, nicknamed "the c--t," who dislikes me with every fiber of her being. The floor charge nurse was threatening me with summoning "the c--t" if I did not calm down. Before I had to make the choice of cooperating or risking the appearance of "the c--t", my brother fortuitously appeared on the scene.) The lingering effects of pain and of benzos that they gave me to calm me down left me not exactly paranoid, but, just the same, fearing for my life. Matthew and Nurse Abigail conversed congenially throughout the night while ensuring that no one came to smother me with a pillow. (Matthew's "comfort" involved mostly reassuring  me that killing me would be much more easily accomplished by inserting a tube of insulin into my IV. With all the confusion over medication, it could have been easily explained away.)

Tonight my dad is here in the bed next to mine. He is, as am I, an insomniac. He is working on something on his computer, though he will stop what he is doing to talk to me at any time that I want him to do so, which is not very often. I just want someone to check everything that goes in our out of my IV.  I know what happened last night was an honest mistake which was, in theory, corrected, but what is, in reality, in place to keep another rookie nurse from making the same lame mistakes tonight?

There's another new nurse on duty tonight. Her name is Nurse Morgan. She's cute enough, but, if anything, looks even dizzier than did Nurse Abigail. 

As for Nurse Abigail, she has the night off. So does my brother. The two of them are off together on some sort of a soiree. Matthew uses people who crash their cars into me on the freeways of California, or people who mis-administer my medication incorrectly, as a source of date material.  I'm sure Freud would have an explanation for this, but for now, I'm letting it go.

The daughter of a close friend of mine is having shoulder surgery in just a few hours. Please join me in prayers, positive thoughts, or whatever, that everything goes perfectly in her procedure and that she emerges with a shoulder that works just as God originally intended for it to work before injury rendered its function and comfort to levels less than optimal.  Let her parents be calm, and let her surgeon and anesthesiologist both bring their "A" games to the O.R. this morning.

Professor D.: Thanks so much for sitting with me before my surgery and waiting for me through the procedure. i don't know how you knew I needed someone, but I did, and I thank you for being there.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Not the Model Patient This Time

my role model as a patient even if it's fiction

I need more pain meds. They try to give me too little because I am small and they claim they have to ensure that I'm tolerating what I've been given.  Now it is the wee hours of the morning and I'm wide awake with pain even though I i've slept minimally in the day. i'm not trying to be a compete junkie, but i know me rights (because there is a patients' rights chart posted on the inside of every room, not i'm militant and have my rights as connected to drugs committed to memory). if things do not change around here VERY soon i will soon go on the records as being a very difficult patient. there is a man next door who is VERY loud and complaining about anything and everything. maybe they're withholding his med as well.  

i've called my dad, who told me to shut up and go to sleep. i've also called my doctor, who is coming, and Kal Penn, who is on his way as well. if nothing else, I will use devices I have to make my music very loud. i have anne murray of all people blasting at the moment. I'll get their attention, though I will probably get my devices taken away from me. I don't think they'll evict me from the hospital because they are already on shaky ground (I think we just had a small earthquake, BTW; we're doe for The big one any time, but I don't think that one was it) in terms of medical malpractice where I am concerned.

My surgeon says I've been watching too many House, MD reruns.

Merry January 25 to all, and to all except for those who are admitted to this hospital, a good night.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

A Disaster I Minimized

  Image result for dr. strangeglove

This entire situation has been a disaster. I didn't explain it all, either on a blog or to a friend with whom I exchanged texts. I'm afraid I left my friend thinking I was a major wimp after I had insisted that I wasn't. He was kind enough not to have called me on the inconsistency of my words.

I got a lousy gastroenterologist by the luck of the draw. I managed to pull the alternate prep routine of really well, bau all the alternate prep, authentic prep, or anything else could not make a not-competent practitioner competent.

It's  convoluted story. I will strive to stick to the chase so that this tome isn't 5,000 words long.

I felt while looking at the lesion on the monitor that it would heal with antibiotics and did not require cauterization. I recognize that I was not the board-certified specialist on the case, but still, a conscious patient usually gets an element of a voice in what procedure is used.  He, whom I have nicknamed Dr. Strangeglove, then went on to inexplicably blast the lesion with a flow of air so powerful as to possibly create a small puncture would where the lesion was in the transverse colon wall. The wall of the colon was noticeably thinner in the place where the legion was. There was no reason to power-wash it with air. I screamed. The nurse-anesthetist hit me with a stronger dose of fentanyl without waiting for the doctor to request it, which angered him. 

A catheter containing a scalpel, just in the event that it had been needed, had been inserted into my colon. When Strangeglove removed it, he managed to create a significant cut in my bottom. I screamed when that happened as well. He told me to shut up. The nurse-anesthetist felt that the would should have been sutured. She and Strangeglove argued extensively over whether or not the scalpel had ever left the catheter sleeve to enter the actual colon. This would have increased the chance of the would being infected. The nurse anesthetist, against the doctor's orders, applied a local anesthetic and scrubbed the wound before using the butterfly closure Strangeglove insisted upon. She gave me a tetanus shot even though he said it wasn't necessary.

I had been given enough fentanyl that the pin from the internal wound was manageable at the time. i wasn't given additional painkillers. At about 6:00 p.m. the pain became unmanageable. I called Dr. Strangeglove's answering service. He didn't return my call until almost midnight. He said there was no indication that I needed additional pain medication. 

Meredith had left to return home by then, and my brother as working. I tried driving myself to the hospital once but passed out just walking to the car. I evenntually got myself up and back to my condo. 

I telephoned the paging service of the two OBGYNS with whom I'm working in this rotation, though obviously not at the moment. I asked the operator not to make a special call to wake them but to give them my number and to tell them it was urgent if they received any other calls. On what I found out was the third call received by the two of them, the message was given. The female OBGYN returned my call. She told me to get to the hospital. I dragged myself back to the car, this time without fainting. At one point I had to stop because I was having dry heaves. With my luck, a police officer showed up and thought I was driving under the influence. When I passed out during the field sobriety test, he transported me the rest of the way to the hospital himself after calling the OBGYN's number on my recommendation. I had to talk fast to convince him not to call an ambulance.

The OBGYN hooked me to an IV and gave me Dilaudid, so I'm no longer feeling  though I might die immediately and don't really care if I do.

I had another CT scan, which showed very likely existence of perforation at the lesion. I'm scheduled for immediate sigmoidoscopy (the new gastro-woman says she will ensure the anesthesiologist  gives me whatever is needed to keep the pain manageable to nonexistent. If I'm lucky, they'll fix it with the sigmoidoscopy and tools. If not, we're looking at a laparotomy or laparoscopy, but I don't really care. All I really asked for was a bit of Vicodin. Stupid Dr. Strangeglove. I hate him even if hate is a very strong word.

I don't care whether or not anyone visits me. I'll be in a hospital where the minimum standard of patient care should be OK. As long as they bring me water when I need it and painkillers when I feel as though I'm dying, I will be happy.

My original plan was to be back at work by Wednesday. It my be more like Thursday or Friday before I make it, but I can do paperwork in bed if they bring it to me.

Monday, January 23, 2017

Friends and Procedures, Some of Which Are Invasive (the Procedures, not the Friends)

Image result for snoopy friend comic

I have to have a CT scan, possibly followed by a sigmoidoscopy or colonoscopy in just a couple of hours. It sucks because I had to do the prep for the colonoscopy (though  I used a bit of inside knowledge to cheat ever so slightly; it was absolutely necessary, as there was no way for me to even get half of the Golytely down, much less keep it down) but I may end up just having the sigmoidoscopy. The problem here is that the prep for the colonoscopy  is much more involved, but the sigmoidoscopy hurts  like hell because far less sedation is given than for the colonoscopy. (Some Nazi g-men and women don't give you ANY.) So basically there's a good chance I will have the worst of both even with my modification of the cleanse. (If you ever need the modified cleanse, email me. You can afford to try it if your life isn't on the line if the colonoscopy cannot be done as scheduled and has to be delayed a day.) If you barfed all the Golytely up, you'd have the same issue, so it's not like it's the end of the world. and my sharing this simple trick of the trade that you could probably find by googling it if you tried hard enough is not akin to practicing medicine without a license. Still, I desire not to anger the powers that be any more than is absolutely necessary, so I'm keeping the secret method on the down-low and not publishing it, even though it already HAS been published elsewhere.

And as though things are not grim enough already, my sexy [slutty] scrubs are no longer sexy  [or slutty]. All it takes for me is a mere weekend of being sick and I lose what few curves I had in the first place. This is a sad state of affairs.

At least I have Meredith with me, and when I didn't have her, I had Sophronia and her little sister Celinda, who lets me raid her closet. I even had Cool Guy, Kal Penn, Raoul, and Troy Ming for awhile (as well as Tim, who played his guitar for me even though we're not speaking to one another; it's a weird relationship). Being with friends can make the most horrible things endurable.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

This is not my friend Meredith, but is a reasonable facsimile.

My dear sweet beautiful friend Meredith has stopped by for a visit. I would love to post a picture, but she would prefer that I not do so. Instead, i'll post a picture of her Doppelganger, Duchess Catherine, formerly known as Kate Middleton. Meredith is smaller, but the resemblance is otherwise rather remarkable.

Our lives are our own to live as we see fit. Meredith had been dating a man who is older than either her father or mine is. Furthermore, he wasn't even a particularly attractive 53-year-old, not that looks are of the greatest importance in choosing a significant other. My issue with him was that he seemed to me to be immature, shiftless, not all that nice, and that he didn't appear to treat Meredith as well as she deserved to be treated.

In a move most unlike myself, I kept my mouth shut to Meredith as to how I felt about her new beau. Our other friends did as well. We treated the man cordially but didn't go overboard, as he was less than cordial to us.

In the end, Meredith did the right thing.  I will not give out details that should not be shared, but when the man acted in a way that is contrary to the way any man should treat any woman or even any friend, Meredith cut all ties with him and is not looking back.

I commend Meredith for her wisdom, and I express deep gratitude to her for traveling hundreds of miles to be with me while I'm sick.