Fear and Loathing in Waterloo

Good day, my closest interwebs peeps! Let us speak today of dentists.

I understand, trips to the dentist are things that people tend to have All The Feels about. Some people are decidedly meh about the whole deal while others have an abject terror of all things dental.

I am in between these two camps. Or, rather, I have a foot in both camps.

On the one hand, I have become accustomed to cleanings to the point that I find them ALMOST enjoyable. I relax, I zone out, sometimes I feel ever-so-close to dozing off… It’s fair to say that most days, I don’t mind.

BUT. Continue reading

A Full June

Well now. Look at what the cat dragged in. I have no excuse. Honestly. I could give you some song and dance about life and all its complexity, but honestly?

  1. It’s been a busy few weeks, and
  2. I’ve had nothing useful to say.

It’s just been that kind of month. We’ve all had them. Plus, with all the… sadness and violence and crap going on in the world… I’ve been feeling sadness and anger and the need to blanketfort quite a bit. And we’ve all hear enough about that stuff, for the time being. For a lifetime, really.

So instead, my focus had been turned inward — and by that I mean I have been taking time to focus on my little life here with my house and family. And there’s been a lot to do. Continue reading

A Mess

A mess. We are it.

If you were to be around the House of Peevish for the last little while, you’d notice someone hobbling or groaning or vomiting or spending inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom. We’ve been in sad shape, it’s fair to say.

The good news is: we’re working on it. We are a work-in-progress. Continue reading

Don’t Say It. I Know.

I’ve been negligent in my posting duties. It’s already the 11th of March and I have yet to post something this month. WTF WHAT IS THAT I DON’T EVEN.

Well, it’s already been a busy month. Next week — March break!! — will be mercifully quiet, with just two therapy appointments and maybe a couple of play dates. O JOYFUL QUIET, O PEACE. Or so I hope.

So I will once again use the lame excuse We have been busy, and I will do so for the following reasons: Continue reading

February. It Can Suck It, Man.

Ugh. February. If there’s one month of the year I hate, it’s February.  (Okay, I lied. I hate November too. And August. For different reasons entirely.) But still. Goddamn February, amirite?

Because, seriously. The darkness. Oh my dog, I have had ENOUGH of the waking up in the dark thing. I am DONE. Plus, because the weather is… well, WINTERY… it’s overcast and gray and darkish during the daytime, too. Sunshine is rare in February.

And it’s cold. Unrelenting cold. And here, in the armpit of southern Ontario, it does that unsettled weather thing, which means tons of snow and also freezing rain and wind and dog knows what else. Probably thundersnow and plagues of cold-resistant locusts or something. I wouldn’t be surprised.

But it is damp. Cold and dark and damp.

I hate it. Continue reading

Coming Apart At The Seams, It Seems

I am coming apart at the seams. Or so it seems.

It’s hard, this whole getting older thing. I mean, I know we do it from the moment we are born. And yet? Unlike the whole “practice makes perfect” adage, it does not seem to matter how much we age, we don’t get better at it. In fact, it seems to get more difficult, not easier.

I’m not even that old. Well, at least that is what I tell myself.

But I have reached the part of my life wherein I must take greater care of myself. Pay more attention to what I do, what I eat, how I feel. Listen more to advice from my doctors. Fight against things that I can no longer control. And, despite how my brain feels about me, my body is all SCREW YOU LADY I HAVE BEEN AT THIS AWHILE AND FRANKLY I’M GETTING FUCKING TIRED OF YOUR NONSENSE.

It sucks, honestly. Continue reading

Shape Shifting

I had a doctor’s appointment today.

I love having a doctor again. I hadn’t had one for, what, at least five years, and it was challenging. Now, when I say I “didn’t” have a doctor, what I actually mean is “I had a doctor in name only, but she was fairly incompetent and almost impossible to get access to because she had no receptionist”. So being able to call up a doctor’s office, and schedule an appointment that fits in with my schedule, is wonderful.

But because I went without for quite some time, my health went unchecked, for the most part, for the better part of five or six years. So, since signing on with my new clinic, we’ve been playing a lot of catch up. It’s odd, because I am unaccustomed to someone actually trying to make me healthier. Continue reading

Groan. Whine. Whimper.

So, my everything hurts. From somewhere around my chin to the tips of my toes, there is an ache or a pain or a twinge of some kind.

This physical fitness thing can SUCK IT.

Yes, my muscles hurt and my knees are a bit puffy and my falling arch continues to fall, but when I was younger, this stuff didn’t bother me as much. When did I become such a giant pansy?

(Probably when my brain got smarter than my body and reminded me that “playing through the pain” was what coaches said to push you to win at all costs. Or maybe that was just my experience.)

Anyway, I am experiencing the joys of a general post-workout wimp-out. It’s like the return of an old friend. Continue reading

Music Monday: Workout Playlist

I’m tired. I’ve been tired for awhile. And do you know why?

EXERCISE. Specifically, JOGGING.

Yeah, that’s right. Me. I have lifted my expansive arse from my comfy chair where it’s all INTERNETS FOREVER!!11! and ramped up my comfortable but mostly dormant exercise routine. Because of health (if you’ll recall from my fat lazy liver and my near-explodey-blood-vessel-ridiculous-high blood pressure and also my diva ovaries — NO WAIT they’re off the hook on this one, what a surprise, but it’s okay… I can blame them for a shitload of other stuff). And, therefore, also SCIENCE.

But mostly vanity, truth be told.

The thing is, though? I HATE JOGGING. I hate running of any sport. There’s a reason I only did sports involving jumping and hitting and a minimum of running. Because OH YEAH FUCK YOU RUNNING THAT’S WHY. Also my knees and and my back and my other joints and my fat jiggly bits hate running.

But I am doing it. Not a lot, but I am doing it.

And because I am doing it, I need music to motivate me. Continue reading

How Not to Celebrate a Birthday

So, yesterday was my birthday.

Saturday, the day before my birthday, I had planned for Stinkerbelle and myself to bake Xmas cookies. BDH is out of the country at a trade show, and since I had four days soloing with That Girl, there was not going to be any fuss and bother for my birthday. I was planning activities that would keep her busy and engaged for long periods of time. And a batch of gingerbread cookies fit the bill. Maybe a cupcake each if she insisted THERE MUST BE BIRTHDAY CAKE. As sometimes happens with her.

On Saturday morning, I got up with That Girl and she wanted bacon and eggs for breakfast. I was happy to oblige. I made just enough for the two of us, since I have been trying (although often failing) to watch what I eat and how much. So bacon, eggs, toast and coffee in moderation sounded good.

At lunch I had a little bit of left over beef stew. It wasn’t much, but it was tasty. Around 2 pm, I was feeling a bit of gut rot. Nothing unusual for me, especially with the big cup of coffee I was nursing. I took a Pepto Bismol. And decided there would be no cupcake making; maybe tomorrow. So we made 5 or so dozen gingerbread cookies, and it was okay.

Around 5 pm, the gut rot was intesifying a bit. The Pepto had done nothing for me. I tried some Tums, and then had supper around 5:30. A small-ish pizza (to give you an idea of size, Stinkerbelle eats half.)

By the time supper was done, around 6, I was feeling properly ill. I felt like I was full to bursting. My stomach, right under my solar plexus, was starting to hurt from feeling so bloated. And by 6:30, the pain was intense, and had spread to my back. I could not even touch my stomach it hurt so badly.

I choked down another Pepto Bismol. I tried to make myself vomit. I could barely move from the discomfort. I tried emailing BDH (he of the chronic and terrible heartburn) in Chicago for advice. And finally, I got on the phone with TeleHealth.

They said I needed to see a doctor within the next four hours.

As I was alone, that meant I had to truck Stinkerbelle downtown to the hospital with me. I don’t have many friends, if any. I’m not the sort of person who has friends, generally speaking, and those I have are not in town. My neighbour, who is the emergency contact for Stinkerbelle at school, was working. And I haven’t any family I can call on in an emergency.

But, what the hell. That Girl was game for an adventure. Off we went to the hospital.

I got into triage around 7:30 and told her my problem. Right off the bat she said that she had to admit me as a cardiac case because my age and the description of what was happening was presenting as a potential heart attack. She also said that in doing that, the tests would take eight hours to complete, so could I get someone to come take That Girl?

I didn’t have anyone I thought I could call. So, we agreed that Stinkerbelle could stay with me and… we’d see.

They did an ECG, which looked fine. They took me to a cubicle and I waited for chest x-rays, while Stinkerbelle merrily chattered and coloured and tried to tell the time on the clock outside our curtain. She watched the nurse take blood, fascinated, and set me up for an IV. She came along with the nurse and “helped” her take my chest images, and from the other side of the glass I could hear the nurse showing her my heart, my bones, and Stinkerbelle all fascinated about how I looked on the inside.

And then, back to the cubicle, where we waited. I called BDH. My cellphone was, as I rarely use it, almost out of charge. I gave him the update, and tried to tell him not to panic and not to rush home.

He said he’d call me back, and then he called our good friends in a neighbouring city.

And one hour later, around the curtain walked our friend Sandra, who despite the late hour and being in an entirely different city, didn’t hesitate to come to help.

She’s a great friend, is Sandra. My husband had called her and although she was already in her pajamas, she jumped in the car and without a second thought came to my aid. She didn’t get to spend the weekend with her own husband and son because she came to help me out and she did not even mention it. She is a good friend, and we see each other only a couple of times a year, but she would do anything for us. I am unaccustomed to having friends, and it really touched me that she would come and help me out. I’m not used to having people who would help me in my time of need.

She really is a fantastic person. I don’t tell her nearly enough.

She packed up That Girl’s stuff, left me with her iPhone so I could call BDH if I needed to, or keep her in the loop, or just surf the web if I got bored, and she took Stinkerbelle out to her car and brought her back here to bed.

So, problem #1 solved, I was left with the doctors and nurses to work out problem #2. As the blood tests and images and ECG came back negative, everything seemed fine with my heart. So then we set about finding out what WAS wrong. The doctor on call, an odd sort at first glance who in the end quite warmed to me, put me on an IV drip of a drug to stop the pain and inflammation, sort of a muscle relaxant for the abdomen. I sat for awhile and watched it drip, and waited on another tech to bring me in for abdominal images.

At midnight, I was wheeled back into xray, where we celebrated another year of my time on this planet by looking once again at the inside of my person. The tech was making gentle jokes at my expense, and as the IV was taking the edge off the pain, it was actually nice to relax and joke about it.

Back to the cubicle, where I sat for awhile longer. The pain faded to a dull bruise feeling, like I had been punched in the stomach, and I was still feeling bloated, but I was MUCH better. And around 1 pm the doctor came back and said he suspected gallstones.

Gallstones I could live with. (Oh, and a bonus bladder infection revealed by the urine sample that I didn’t even know about. Nice catch, doc.) He sent me home with both a prescription for the meds I had in IV but in pill form, and an antibiotic for the bladder infection, for a bit of sleep, but I was on a callback to do more images, ultrasound this time, as soon as a spot became available.

Which was bright and early the next morning. The call woke up Sandra, who volunteered to stay yet again with Stinkerbelle. And off I went on 5 hours sleep back to emergency.

I got a whackload of images done. They looked at my aorta. They looked at my gallbladder, They looked at my pancreas and my liver and my other insides. It was easy enough but I was feeling tender, and not looking forward to sitting in ER once again. But I did.

In due time, I was called in to see a doctor, NOT the lovely odd doctor of the night before, but an Earnest Young Doctor. I was pronounced fine, with the exception of my liver. I was told I have liver steatosis, or “fatty liver disease”. I laughed. It’s a silly name, and an odd ailment — as the doctor put it, “Some people put on fat on their hips. Some people put on fat on their stomachs. You? You put it on on your liver.”  To which I replied, “It’s kind of hard to take my liver out for a jog”.

Earnest Young Doctor panicked in the light of a joke, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He flailed around a bit, recovered, and explained there is no treatment for this problem but to change my diet and to exercise and to lose at least 20 pounds.

No medical intervention? No surgery? No heart problems? And you are telling me I just have to eat better and exercise more and lose weight? DUDE I AM SO ON THAT TEAM.

Well, it has to be slowly and gradually, but yes, he said, that’s the gist of it. (Subsequent reading seems to indicate that besides people like me who could stand to eat better and lose weight, people with liver steatosis tend to be people who have gastric bypass, starvation and protein malnutrition, or extreme weight loss, or are alcoholics. So. Hence the “slow and steady”.) If I make these changes I will notice a recovery very, very quickly. But if I don’t make the changes, and I leave it go, I am in for a world of hurt, not to mention some No Good Very Bad Liver Things, in 10-20 years’ time.

I opted for the Liver Fitness Plan, thanked Earnest Young Doctor, and headed out into the rain.

I came home to find that Stinkerbelle had roped Sandra into playing dressup all morning, and I was greeted by two princesses, flowers, balloons, and a wee birthday cake. It was a lovely end to a not so lovely 18 hours.

And now I am still tender, still bloated, very tired, but home and, all things considered, healthy enough. As soon as I am rested up, I am back on the fitness wagon. BDH and I must change our lifestyle. FOR REALZ, YO.

And next year? BDH will be out of the country again with that same damn trade show. I will be alone with Stinkerbelle. I’m just going to pretend that I have no birthday, and have toast and water. For a week.

Music Monday: Procedure Music

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, in early November, I was in the midst of infertility treatments. I had, at the end of a depressing IVF cycle, an inauspicious egg retrieval and then an embryo transfer to undergo, and as part of the Feelings and woo woo positive energy la di da around the procedures, they recommended we create a playlist or CD of music.

This music was supposed to be played in the background to help relax you during what could be a stressful and uncomfortable procedure. And the relaxation was also supposed to help improve your chances of success.

As you may or may not recall, my procedure failed miserably.

Now, the impression I got from my transfer team was that most people went in to their procedures with some music with ocean waves and rain playing over some New Agey woo woo music by Enya, or some ballady Celine Dion shit. That kind of thing. Not me.

My whole attitude ran more to the “This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around” end of the spectrum. Hey, if I’m going to spend a couple of hours with strangers traipsing around in my ladygarden and balancing my ovaries on the point of a pin, I was going to need to be happy and distracted.

I had some James:

And some Bjork:

There was The Clash:

And The Specials:

Some Depeche Mode:

And a little The The with some boogie woogie Jools Holland to really confuse the med students looking on:

As well as the usual suspects of The Cure and Neil Finn and whatnot that one has learned to expect with me.

So, not so much woo as WOOHOO!! And maybe that worked against me. But I think you have to start these things the way you intend to go on, and no way my potential children were going to start this life listening to some awful ballady Celine Dion crap. Possibly my potential children preferred ballady Celine Dion shit. Whoops.

Oh well. I have That Girl now, and she would have been ALL OVER the playlist I chose. I think, in retrospect, this just proves that some things are simply meant to be.