Laughter Is The Best Medicine

My friends are funny.

I got this in my email a couple of days ago:


Gerb! I finally figured out how to make my foot look like yours!

Your foot:

My foot:

Love, amy


Thanks, Amy. I'm feeling better already!

I've Got Answers

Last Tuesday my camo-cast came off. The doctor told me I was free to walk to my heart's content now, using only one crutch. He said I was to be my own physical therapist by doing deep lunges and writing the alphabet in large, swoopy letters with my ankle. Just wear this little brace thingy and all's swell. I was pretty excited by all of this, actually. No physical therapy appointments? I can walk again? Awesome!

Yeah, in theory: awesome. In real life: not happening. Except for the swell part. There's plenty of that going on.

My foot/ankle/leg continue to be puffy, tender, achy, and swollen when not elevated. Heck, even when it is elevated it looks like aliens abducted my formerly normal right foot and replaced it with someone else's. But I'm dealing with it. I'm making myself put pressure on it and stretch those muscles back to where they used to be and I'm doing my best to find the good in everything.

In fact, today I made myself walk to the kitchen using only one crutch in a sort of half-hobble half-hop kind of gait. I then promptly rewarded myself with a bowl of ice cream and a cookie. I'm not going to get THAT kind of awesome treatment at any physical therapy office!

Anyway, between chillin' with my sweet little chub-o, putting myself through physical torture and trying to get my life back to normal, I've been neglecting my blog. Would you mind helping me with that?

Here's what you do:

This week I will leave the comments open on this post for you to ask me questions. Ask me whatever you want, and I will answer. Most answers I'll give in the comments, but some questions I'll answer as a post. Anything you've always wanted to ask me? Ask away! Have a silly/serious/sarcastic question? Every single question will receive an answer.

It's sort of like the Reader Appreciation Day I did last year. (Actually, it's exactly like that. Except for answering in posts, too.)

Ready?

Ask away!

Shout Out!

A friend called last week to ask me, "Do you know of any good dentists in the area?" And yes, I most certainly do. I get calls like this occasionally and am always glad to share.

Today someone asked if I had a hair stylist that I like. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Not just like, but love.

So, my friends, today I present you with a list of people/places/services that I would gladly recommend. You know, just in case you were wondering. And for those of you who don't live near me, scroll down to see some places that I love on the www.

For locals:

The BEST dentist's office (even the littlest kids love going for check-ups!) is Christiansen Dental. They do great, quality work and are friendly, personable and caring. Case in point: Dr. C heard about my broken leg incident and called to see how I was doing. What does that have to do with my teeth? Nothing! But he's a genuinely nice guy who cares about his patients - and makes visits to the dentist a stress-free, even pleasant experience.

Need car repairs? Here's a trustworthy auto repair shop: Mitchell's Garage. I can't remember who recommended this place to us but we have been happy with all of the work we've had done on our vehicles there. Finding a repair shop you can trust is a big deal and we have come to trust the guys here at Mitchell's.

Want to get a haircut? Call Raylene at David Douglas Salon. All of the girls in our family go to her and we always leave happy. She makes you feel like a beauty queen or rock star or whatever place in between you're comfortable with. Trust me, you'll love her.

The best place for dessert on a Saturday night is Gloria's Little Italy - hands down! Why Saturday night? Because all of their delectable, authentic Italian desserts (made fresh daily!) are half-priced on Saturday nights since they are closed on Sundays. And if you don't like layers of flaky filo dough, rich Italian cream and hazelnut then I still have one word for you: Gelato.

How long has it been since you've had family pictures taken? You need to call Jason at Backroads Photography. Let's put it this way: I have lots of kids and he can make them all smile. At the same time! Plus, he makes us look really good. Maybe you just need some new decorative photos to adorn your home? He's got those, too. Check him out.

Any questions? Leave me a comment or send me an email (gerbdonna at gmail).

On the internets (coincidentally, all free stuff):

Need to wish someone a happy birthday? Issue a formal apology? Send a note of thanks? Check out the Bureau of Communication. I'm a lover of handwritten notes, but if you've got to send an email, this is the way to go. It's just quirky enough to make it fun.

Have you ever been a bit leery of letting your kids watch a certain movie because you're not sure what exactly to expect? Then Kids in Mind is the place you seek. It's almost humorous how detailed they are in their descriptions of every teeny little thing that could be found offensive or off-color.

As a service to busy kidnappers, joshuarey.com offers a ransom note generator. Just type in your text, press enter and you have a lovely ransom note from letters cut out of magazines and newspapers. Brilliant.

Does someone you know own an Easy Bake oven? Then you need this website. Instead of buying all of those expensive mixes at the store, Budget101 has a whole plethora of mini-sized recipes you can make from ingredients in your pantry. And as a bonus: these taste better than the packaged mixes, too. Who knew you could cook such tasty little treats with a light bulb?


*No one asked me to write this post or compensated me in any way. I just really, really love these people/places/services and think they deserve a shout-out. Plus I've seen these kind of disclaimers on other blogs and I thought it would make me look cool. Holla!

A New Point Of View

***I am totally warning you ahead of time that there are some pretty nasty pictures of my naked ankle in this post. If you don't want to see them then don't look. For reals! It's gross.***

I went back to see the surgeon again today and finally get that soft cast off. Glory Hallelujah!! That thing felt like I was dragging around 50 pounds of concrete whenever I tried to move it. When they took the cast off, here's what we saw:

The little incision

The big incision

I didn't realize how long (and gross looking) the incisions were. Or how many staples had been used to hold them together. I'll admit it made me a little queasy to see my foot like that. And even queasier to have the staples removed.

A nurse took some x-rays so we could check out the inside view as well. Want to see my new hardware?

Isn't it bionic? (Don't you think?)

I had no idea the plate was so long. Or that there were so many screws in there, either.

Seriously, I'm totally Bionic Ankle Woman now and it didn't cost me six million dollars. Don't be jealous.

When it came time to choose a color for the cast, I was waffling between black and white. Black wouldn't get dirty and it would match pretty much everything. With a white cast I could buy a huge pack of colored markers and let the kids go at it until I was sporting a masterpiece.

However, I ultimately went with something completely different...



Because how can you go wrong with camo? I figure this way no one can see my cast - that's the magic of camouflage.

That, my friends, is how I went from being an ordinary mother and housewife to the part Bionic, part Invisible Woman that you see before you today.

And now, after all of that excitement, I am ready to go and take a nap.

SuperGerb, out.

Bringing In The New Year With A BANG!

Monday, December 27, 2010.
8:00 a.m.

I am scraping the thin layer of ice from the windows on our car. As usual, I am running late for my 8:00 a.m. doctor's visit. As I slide into the driver's seat my right foot slips a bit on the driveway. It's a slick one this morning, I think to myself.

8:50 a.m.

I am done with my 37 week doctor's visit and making an appointment to come back again next week. He has already agreed to induce me at 39 weeks - on January 11th. 1/11/11, I think to myself. Now that's a birthday I can remember!

9:10 a.m.

I pull into the driveway, ready to crawl back into bed. I notice that the trash truck has already been by and decide to pull the trash can up to the house. The second I exit the car my feet start to slip... and I go back and forth between sliding on the driveway, losing and then regaining my balance, until suddenly my right foot rolls the wrong way and I fall into the gutter with a snap! sound. I almost immediately know that my ankle is broken.

9:15 a.m.

I try calling Allen on my cell phone but, as luck would have it, my battery is all but dead. A sweet older gentleman is out walking his dog and he hurries over to ask how he can help. "I live in this house," I tell him, pointing. "Please go get my husband. I think I broke my ankle."

9:30 a.m.

Allen and Coolister have carried me into the house and called 9-1-1. The pain is excruciating. The paramedics come. I am reminding them over and over that I am 37 weeks pregnant and do not want any medications that could even possibly harm the baby. They stabilize my foot and load me in to the back of their ambulance for transport to the hospital.

9:45 a.m.

I am wheeled into a room in the ER where the damage is assessed by x-ray. I am hoping for a dislocation and yes, it is dislocated, but also broken. In two places. The tibia has a part of the end broken off, the fibula is a more obvious break. I am told they will set the ankle where it is dislocated and then the on-call orthopedic surgeon will come in to talk with me about the breaks.

10:00 a.m. - 11:00 a.m.

This time period is something of a blur because the ER doctor has given me a medication that keeps me awake through the setting procedure but helps me forget what exactly has gone on. Is that confusing? It was for me. For example, one minute they are putting something in my IV and not long after I notice my ankle is bandaged up. I ask Allen when that happened and he tells me it was wrapped when it was set. I had no idea they had set my ankle already although he says I was very vocal about letting them know "my ankle hurts really bad" as they were doing it.

11:00 a.m.

My OB (that's my baby doctor for those who don't know) comes to visit us in the E.R. He reassures me that all will be well and that he and the surgeon are going to consult & let me know what will be the best plan of action.

11:30 a.m.

Word comes that they want to induce the baby ASAP and then perform surgery on my ankle. I am a bit incredulous that I am going to have my baby that day. I ask all of the typical questions - are his lungs well enough developed? Will he be more likely to have jaundice? Do we need to do an ultrasound to check that everything's fine before inducing labor? My OB tells me that 37 weeks is considered full term and that everything will be fine. All I can think of as we wait to be wheeled up to labor and delivery is the fact that we have not decided on a name for this baby yet. We did not bring a camera - unless you count the ones on our phones. I have not shopped for Princess' birthday on January 1st. I have not found Princess a dress to wear after her baptism this Saturday. We have not yet moved Little O out of the pack-and-play bed he has slept in his entire life - which will be the new baby's bed once we get him home. I have not clipped my toenails or shaved my legs. Plus... how do I deliver a baby with a broken foot?! I have never felt so unprepared in my life.

12:00 p.m. - 2:00 p.m.

The Hospital Waiting Game. (This is not a fun game.) We use this time to talk some more about baby names.

2:10 p.m.

We arrive in Labor & Delivery. I am prepped for induction as the staff awaits instructions from my OB. I am already dilated to a 4 before induction begins - this gives me some hope that my baby may actually be ready to come.

2:30 p.m.

Pitocin (the labor-inducing drug) is administered through my IV.

2:45 p.m.

The orthopedic surgeon's PA (physician's assistant?) comes and tells me what to expect in surgery tomorrow. The time is yet to be determined... but I will have screws and a plate put in. I will have a soft cast for 10 days, then a hard cast for 5 weeks following. I will not be able to bear any weight on my ankle for 6 weeks. Allen and I discuss options for making this work. We can make it work.

3:00 p.m.

Contractions are painful enough that I am ready for an epidural. BONUS: The epidural takes away the pain in my foot. The doctor who administers the epidural is magical in that I do not feel any needle pricks or pain in the process of getting the epidural working.

4:00 p.m.

Not much progress. My OB breaks my water and chats with us for a bit while he watches my contractions.

4:45 p.m.

I tell my nurse that I'm feeling ready. She checks. I'm ready. They call the doctor back into the room.

4:55 p.m.

One push. They tell me not to push any more.

4:57 p.m.

Our baby is delivered and I am amazed at how well things have worked out. I am a mother for the 10th time. It is surreal. This beautiful little bundle of chub and squealy cries is mine. We look at him and decide on a name. It is perfect. He is 8 pounds, 4 ounces. 19 1/2 inches long. Not bad for 3 weeks early.

7:00 p.m.

Allen accompanies the nurses and our sweet little baby to the nursery while I am moved to the Mother/Baby floor. I have been fasting all day (unless you count the apple I ate on my way to the doctor's office this morning at 8:00 a.m.) but they order me dinner so that I'll have something to eat before I have to start my next fast at midnight. I will have surgery on my ankle in the morning but the time has not yet been determined. I am told it will likely be sometime between 2:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m., but maybe at 7:00 a.m. Well, okay then.

8:00 p.m.

Dinner. Hospital food is awesome - I'm totally not kidding.

9:00 p.m.

We await word on surgery and continue to work with the nurses to attempt to control the pain in my ankle.

10:00 p.m.

I order more food (crackers, cookies and pudding) to fill myself up before fasting again from midnight until who-knows-when. My kids come to visit. I have never heard the words, "Awww!" and "cute!" said so many times in a 45 minute period of time. They are all in love with their little brother, even Curly who, when asked, "What do you think about your little brother?" answers, "Fine. Can I have a cookie?"

Tuesday, December 28, 2010
12:00 a.m.

The fasting begins.

7:00 a.m.

After a night full of baby feedings and checking of vital signs and controlling pain and uncomfortable hospital bedding, I am ready to get this surgery over with. We ask the nurses if they have a time yet. No word, but they'll let us know ASAP.

7:00 a.m. - 1:30 p.m.

The Hospital Waiting Game. I can't help but think about how much we are paying to sit around in this room and do nothing while waiting for surgery.

1:30 p.m.

I ask my nurses, trying not to sound annoyed, when my surgery will be. They call the surgeon but he is unavailable. They call the surgeon's office but they are not helpful. They call the Operating Room and ask when I am on the schedule - I'm not. We are all becoming even more frustrated when word comes - they are ready for me.

2:00 p.m.

I am wheeled down to the OR waiting room. Allen bids me farewell and good luck as I head through the doors. As soon as he leaves my side I am nervous & anxious. I just want this over with. The reality of all that has happened in just over 24 hours is overwhelming and I find myself emotional. I sing the words to "Particle Man" over and over in my head as an attempt at distraction. I do not want to cry in front of all these strangers.

2:15 p.m.

I talk with the anesthesiologist about what's going to happen during surgery. He offers more options than I want to think about. I tell him that I want to be completely asleep during the procedure and that's all I care about. He goes on and on giving me details on why I should opt for a spinal block, etc. and have some pump put in my sciatic nerve to control the pain after. I already told him what I wanted and I just want him to leave now. He finally does.

2:45 p.m.

Still no sign of my surgeon. I sit and watch as person after person is brought in, meets with their surgeon and anesthesiologist and is taken to the OR for surgery. I try to fall asleep so that I can be distracted from thoughts of crying.

3:30 p.m.

WHERE IS MY SURGEON?! Another anesthesiologist comes and asks me to sign a consent form. I tell him that I have already signed one. He asks if I was told that he was my new anesthesiologist. No, I was not told. He apologizes, excuses himself for a moment (to go chew someone out?) and comes back. I actually like him better than the first guy - he's easy-going and down to earth.

3:45 p.m.

My surgeon shows up. I want to chew him out for making me lay there in the OR waiting area for AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES but I figure it's best to keep things amiable since he's about to cut my leg open and put some screws and plates in there. I just try not to cry and nod my head when he asks me questions. To his benefit, he IS being very sweet.

4:00 p.m.

The anesthesiologist puts something into my IV, says he'll see me later, and I start to feel tingly as I fall asleep to his singing of some classic rock.

7:20 p.m.

I wake up in the recovery room and immediately ask if anyone has called Allen. They tell me he should be in the waiting area. I tell them to call him. They say they will once we get to my room. I am starting to get frantic again. I somehow feel like everything will be fine if Allen is with me and I need him there NOW. As we walk outside the OR, he is there, waiting. I breathe a sigh of relief.

The details from here on out are insubstantial. So now, here I am at home, my humongously casted ankle resting on my bed in front of me, my 5 day old baby resting to my right, and my life is good.

There are so many tender mercies that have occurred in our lives over the last 5 days. Some things much too personal to share, some details which are overwhelming evidence of how blessed we are.

I love how my kids will sneak into my room just for a chance to hold their new baby brother. I am amazed by each tiny feature and contented half-grin on my newborn baby boy. Broken ankle? Sure, it's inconvenient. And a literal pain. But in the end, all is well.

Seriously, look at that face.


I am so, so blessed.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Subchorionic Hematoma

(10 weeks into pregnancy)

(Disclaimer: Some of you may not care to read this post. It's an attempt to share my experience with a subchorionic hematoma, which causes bleeding during pregnancy. Not an exciting subject, but hopefully an informative one. If you don't like to read about bleeding or pregnancy-related stuff, just stop here.)

Sounds pretty important, doesn't it? Big, fancy doctor-speak which I had never heard of before it happened to me.

At almost nine weeks into this pregnancy I started showing signs of having a subchorionic hematoma (also called a SCH).

Once my condition had a name I wanted to be educated. I looked in the two books I have on pregnancy and neither one even briefly mentioned SCHs. I went to the internet next, looking for reliable sources that were informative. I only found a couple, but they helped me understand things a bit better.

In a nutshell, I discovered that SCHs only occur in just over 1% of pregnancies. There is no known cause and it occurs in women of all ages and races.

Next I searched the blog world. That was actually a mistake. I found that most people who tell their SCH story online have not had a good experience. It caused me more worry and concern than I was already experiencing.

I could only assume that those who have a successful outcome do not tell others about it; maybe they just count their blessings and get on with their healthy pregnancy, which is what I planned to do as well. I'm not usually much for sharing what I consider to be very personal information, but as I thought about it I realized that I should tell my story for those who are searching for positive outcomes. If I could ease someone's worry, it would be worthwhile.

Here is my story...

On a Monday evening I was getting packed to leave for our church's Girl's Camp the next morning and felt a sudden gush. I ran to the bathroom and found that I was bleeding.

I had no idea what was happening so I feared I was having a miscarriage. I debated staying home from camp but after calling a nurse help-line I decided that I would still attend camp and hope for the best. I had mild bleeding for a few days afterward which eventually stopped. I was relieved. Immediately following camp I spent the weekend at a family reunion, where I started to bleed again.

After arriving home I took a pregnancy test which came up as positive. I was still worried and unsure of my condition, and Allen encouraged me to make an appointment with my obstetrician to figure out what was going on. The nurse in the office recommended that I have an ultrasound to determine what was causing the bleeding and (lucky me!) my friend Heidi was able to get me in for a scan that same day. She said that my SCH was moderate in size.

After my first ultrasound (at 10 weeks) I was told to 'take it easy' and not lift anything over 20 pounds. I was also instructed to make time a few times each day to sit down, put my feet up and relax for at least 15 minutes as well as making sure to stay well hydrated. The goal was to have a 2 week span with no bleeding. The doctor told me that most SCHs resolve themselves before 20 weeks of pregnancy - and not to worry.

That was the most difficult part since I am a worry-wart by nature.

At this time I was much more tired than my usual early pregnancy-induced sleepiness. It was a huge blessing that I have older kids who were willing to help out as needed, but I did not change too much of what I was doing on a daily basis. However, I did follow the doctor's advice to put my feet up and relax often - and drink lots of water.

I was still spotting when I went in for my 12 week ultrasound. The SCH had diminished in width, appeared to be clotting (good news), but had grown longer.


I continued spotting for another 2 weeks before the bleeding finally began to cease.

At almost 17 weeks I had another ultrasound which showed that the SCH had completely resolved itself and was gone. There was no trace of it during the ultrasound.

I am now happy to report a healthy, SCH-free pregnancy at 18 weeks with a sweet little growing baby boy!


My next obstacle?

To find maternity clothes that are stylish and do not hug my growing belly. Wish me luck.

UPDATED 6/24/2013:

Some who read this post may not get to the comments so I thought I'd let everyone know that the rest of my pregnancy went great!  I had no more bleeding after the SCH went away at 18 weeks and my darling little X (who I was pregnant with when I had the SCH) is now a healthy and happy 2 year old!

A Day With All-a-Boy

As he left in excitement for his scout activity on Tuesday afternoon, All-a-Boy had the good sense to pop his head back in the door and offer me a quick "Love you, Mom!" before venturing off for a tube ride down the river.

For some reason I was struck by the beautiful shade of brownish-green in his eyes just then.

Later, as he returned home, we sat together in the bathroom washing layers of dirt and grime from his feet so that I could assess a cut on the bottom of his foot, hiding in the fold of his third toe where it meets the pad of his foot. It looked pretty deep but not bad enough to warrant a visit to the emergency room. I tried calling my doctor's after-hours office as well as a few Instacare locations, to no avail. All were closed. I told All-a-Boy that we would have to clean it well and bandage it up until the next morning.

He was full of questions - will it hurt? How does water get the dirt out? Why does my toe hurt more than the actual cut? Why are there so many nerves in the foot? Why do you have to use peroxide? What causes the peroxide to get all fizzy? And on and on.

I love when my kids ask questions and All-a-Boy is never short on them.

The next morning I call the doctor's office and the receptionist informs me that stitches are not an option after 8 hours. "You mean the doctor won't even see him?" I ask. "We just leave this gaping wound bandaged and hope that it eventually heals itself?" She lets me talk to the nurse, who asks some more detailed questions about his injury then determines that he does need to be seen.

As we wait for the doctor All-a-Boy leafs through the magazine options available to help pass the time. Highlights, Ranger Rick, The Children's Friend... all of these were my favorites at his age yet All-a-Boy finds something much more interesting. He chooses to read National Geographic. He is initially fascinated by an article which talks about bone and pottery fragments which are discovered in an archeological site and pieced together with computer replicas. He then reads about the mating rituals of a funny species of Australian birds as well as power grids which control electricity in the U.S. He reads the most interesting parts aloud to me, asking for clarification on things such as 'stimulus money' and 'aesthetics'.

He is much too mature for his eleven years, I think to myself.

The doctor comes in and determines almost immediately that it is worth the attempt for stitches. He leaves All-a-Boy with a tub of water to soak his foot in before the procedure. As we sit there in the room, All-a-Boy comments to me on his observations of the room's decor - from the miniature outhouse just the right size for birds to the cleverness of the cow cut-out which reads, "Love one an udder." (har, har)

One thing I never have to worry about with All-a-Boy is silence. He always has those gears turning in his brain and he has no qualms about sharing his musings with anyone who will listen.

He flips through the magazines again and tries to decide between two issues of TIME. He's not sure which is more interesting - the story of the Times Square bomber or the clean-up efforts in the Gulf oil spill. It is not lost on me that I would easily have chosen the joke page in Highlights magazine over either of these two. He chooses to read about the Bomber and asks another round of questions: Why do people like this hate Americans so much? What would make anyone want to kill people that they don't even know? I do not always have all of the answers he seeks, and I am not afraid to tell him this.

Just before the doctor returns All-a-Boy is amused by a poster on the door which reads, "Should I ask my doctor about bed-wetting?" There's my 11-year-old. Potty humor gets them every time.

We move to another room for the actual stitching procedure and suddenly All-a-Boy can not ask enough questions of the doctor.

AAB: "What are those needles for?"
Doc: "I am going to use these to numb the area where I will be stitching."
AAB: "What's the big syringe for? Is that another shot?"
Doc: "No, this is just water that I'll be using to clean your cut out really well before we try to stitch it closed. I'll even give it to you afterward."
AAB: "Is any of this going to hurt?"
Doc: "Yes, at first. But the numbing medicine will make it so you can't feel anything."
AAB: "Doesn't it sort of freak you that you'll be pushing a needle through human flesh?"
Doc: "Nope. Not at all."

The questions continue with no end in sight. It becomes obvious that All-a-Boy is stalling. The doctor asks his assistant to hold the foot still while he injects the numbing solution into the sore. He continues talking to All-a-Boy, trying to ease his worry. "So, you were tubing with the Boy Scouts? Well, a scout is brave, right? Isn't that part of your scout law?" All-a-Boy is not amused, but I am.

I am amazed by the number of times that All-a-Boy yells out, "OW! Ouch. Okay, THAT HURT! Ow. Ow. OUCH!" Again, my 11-year-old is coming through. Once he is all stitched up and has inquired as to what sort of material the stitching thread is made from, the nurse comes in with 3 more needles.

"Um, WHAT are those for? My foot is already numb and sewed up!" She explains that he needs a tetanus booster shot since the last one he received was in kindergarten and that I have consented to his receiving his 12-year-old immunizations while we are there as well. "Well," he mutters, putting on a brave face and staring straight ahead, "I guess if I could take it as a kindergartner I can take it as a sixth grader. It can't be any worse than the shots I got in my foot today. Go ahead. Stick me."

So, 4 stitches and 3 tweety bird stickers (these were acknowledged with a hearty eye roll) later, we headed for home.

"That actually wasn't so bad," he mused as we drove along. "I mean, anything's worth it for this cool giant syringe."

I'll remember that, All-a-Boy.

I've Got Gall (For Now)

Cartoon from iheartguts.com, which I encourage you to take a look at. It's my kind of funny.

Saturday evening treated me to an internal surprise the likes of which I had never before experienced. One minute I was happily minding my own beeswax and the next I was hit with an indescribable pain I could not pinpoint. It started in my upper back, just between the shoulder blades, and quickly spread to my shoulders, chest, rib cage and stomach. I began to feel queasy and panicked and exhausted all at the same time. The pain was unbearable and nothing worked to help it subside.

Allen and I took a little drive to the Instacare where they had us sit and fill out some paperwork and then wait for 15 minutes (which seemed closer to ETERNITY) before calling us back. The doctor asked me to describe my pain, asked a few other questions and determined that I was in excellent health. The doctor asked what my pain was on a scale of 1 to 10, and although I wanted to scream TEN!!TEN!!TEN!! I couldn't help but think of Brian Regan's comedy bit about the pain scale so I settled on an 8. I was immediately sorry I did not give myself a higher number. I was not crying (at least not on the outside) and I worried that this may have been misleading so I calmly told the doctor something along these lines:

It hurts when I stand, it hurts when I sit, it hurts even more when I lay down - and I really, really want to lay down because I am exhausted beyond comprehension. Something is wrong, and I really want to do whatever is possible to make this excruciating, constant pain go away so I can go to sleep and stop feeling like I'm going to throw up. I have had NINE babies, two of them without pain medication, and this hurt I am now experiencing is the worst possible pain I have ever felt. I feel like my entire upper body is in labor pain times INFINITY. If it were possible for me to have an upper-body epidural right now, I would donate a kidney and chop off my left foot for that to happen.

I think he got the gist of what I was saying. He started to press along the bones and muscles in the various areas where I was feeling pain, searching for the central location of it, to no avail... until he pushed beneath the right side of my rib cage: BINGO. It was my gallbladder. Unless I wanted to take a trip to the ER (I did NOT) he said they could give me some medicine for the pain and the nausea and I could get an ultrasound on Sunday morning. I could not fathom there being any possible medication that would reduce the pain enough that I would make it until morning, but I was willing to give anything a try to avoid the dreaded ER.

The medicine was administered via shot (oh, how I hate needles!) along with a dose of loopy, apparently, because as the night progressed I got loopier and loopier. Initially, the pain slowly ceased - enough that I could function normally and foresee eventually falling asleep. Except that my arms and legs were restless, enough so that I could not resist flailing them around every so often. At one point I said something to one of the kids and Allen laughed and asked if I had cotton in my mouth. The loopiness was taking effect, and between my blathering nonsense and my body doing the hokey-pokey spontaneously, I had some small understanding of my loopiness so I put myself to bed.

The next morning I went for my ultrasound, feeling pain-free but still extremely exhausted. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary was discovered, except that I had 8 gallstones. The doctor told me that 1/3 of all people would have gallstones if they went for an ultrasound so it was not absolutely necessary to have it removed; however, this was something I should consider in the future. He left the choice entirely up to me.

I chose to keep my gall. (You go, Gall!)

I plan to test myself out. See if it was a fluke or if it happens again. Because I'm not a big fan of removing stuff from my innards that doesn't necessarily have to be removed.

However, I can pretty much guarantee you this... if I have another Attack Of The Gallbladder episode that is anything like the one I had on Saturday, that sucker's history.

Painful

Photo from newsbusters.org

I had a no good, horrible, very bad stomach ache last week.

It lasted two no good, horrible, very bad days and then went away.

It took me back to my 11th grade Spanish class - the day that I discovered that a dull, constant stomach ache was actually not a stomach ache, but a no good, horrible, very bad ulcer. Our family doctor could not figure out what would cause such a young patient to develop an ulcer... so he recommended I visit a psychiatrist.

Do you know what this does to a teenage girl? Thoughts raced through my mind as the day of my appointment drew closer. Am I crazy? Is something wrong with me? Will he have a couch for me to lay on like they do in the movies? Is he going to try to get me to divulge things that I don't want to talk about?

It was certainly not like I had imagined. When I walked into the office, alone, the lady at the front desk asked for my name and then told me to have a seat. Next, the craziest thing happened! She asked if I would like something to drink. What kind of doctor offers you something to drink? I wondered. It was probably some kind of truth serum to get me to loosen up and share all the secrets I kept tucked away in the innermost corners of my mind. I wasn't going to fall for it. "No, thank you," I answered as I sat and thumbed mindlessly through a magazine I had no interest in.

After a few minutes, I was led back to The Office.

He began with small talk, asking about what I was interested in at school, how many kids were in my family - pretty basic stuff. And then he thanked me for coming and told me he was looking forward to the next week. What? I thought to myself. My parents are paying this guy to just sit here and talk to me? What a total rip off!

I told my mom as much when she picked me up. "The doctor says you need to do this," she insisted. "To figure out where your ulcers are coming from. Just give it a chance." I reluctantly agreed.

The next week was mostly the same... only worse. Another offer of a drink (Ha! I thought. I'm totally on to you! You won't get anything out of me!), another awkward visit with a 50-something man who asked me a bunch of awkward questions. It went something like this:

Dr: So, what do you think is causing this ulcer?

My thoughts: That's why I'm here, so you can figure it out!

Me: I don't know.

Dr: Hmmm. Interesting. Do you get along well with your parents? Your brothers and sisters?

Me: Yes.

Dr: Do you have good relationships with your friends?

Me: Yep.

Dr: How about your boyfriend?

Me: (turning red) I don't have a boyfriend.

Dr: Is there someone you have your eye on? Someone you would like to have as your boyfriend?

My thoughts: Are you kidding me, Mr. 50-year-old-doctor-guy-I-hardly-even-know! This is so embarrassing. Can an enormous black void please just open up here and swallow me whole?! What do I say? Will he know if I'm lying? Don't they train these guys to know this stuff? What should I do? I don't want to talk about this with him. Okay... I'll be vague. I won't lie, but I won't give him what he wants. I WILL NOT TALK!

Me: I guess.

Dr: Tell me more about him.

My thoughts: You have got to be kidding me, old man! This is personal stuff. There is NO WAY on God's green earth that I will tell you anything about him! I didn't drink any of your truth serum. You can't make me talk! I'll sit here and not answer. I'll pretend I didn't hear the question.

Dr: (looking at me, waiting for my response)

And the next thing I know, I'm spilling my guts. Truth serum or not, the awkward silence got it out of me. My thoughts and dreams of Thatguy over the previous 5 years were filling the empty space between us until there was nothing remaining. Before I could take it all back, it was over. This perfect stranger knew things that I hadn't even told some of my closest friends, and I was sick with myself. My ulcer hurt like never before.

And then he made The Assignment.

"You like drama class, right? Well, I want you to write a script for your own Life Play. Write out what you and Thatguy would say to each other if everything went the way you wanted. And bring it with you next week. Okay?"

Inside, I was seething. My parents pay you to assign me homework now? I thought to myself. Here's the script for my Life Play. I don't need a week. I've had it written out for years now.

Me: Hey, Thatguy..
Thatguy: (winking) Hey, gorgeous.
Me: I have loved you from afar for 5 years. I write about you in my journal and dream about you all the time. 
Thatguy: Cool. Want to be my girlfriend? 
Me: I thought you'd never ask.

The end.

What do you think about that, Doc? Can you diagnose my ulcer now?

But what I said was, "Okay."

When I met my mom down in the parking lot she asked me how it went. "Awesome!" I lied. "He says I'm totally normal. Everything's fine. I don't have to go back anymore!"

"Well, that's a relief," she signed to me. "Our insurance wasn't covering these visits. I'm glad we won't have to pay for them anymore."

And that was the last I saw of what I termed as the no good, horrible, very bad psychiatrist.

The End.

Tooting His Own Horn

Photo from otherlandtoys.co.uk

There is something about this one doctor at the vision center where Allen has become a regular.

Not the doctor whose last name adorns their walls and business cards. We like that doctor just fine. I'm talking about the other guy, the one who uses fancy machines and laminated cards to get Allen ready for the real doctor.

This other guy is a vain man. You can tell by the very air about him that he is important and everyone had darn well better know it. He kind of bugs us.

I'll call him Dr. A... as in Arrogant.

When Allen had his most recent surgical procedure done, we were ever-so-lucky (that was sarcastic) to be in the presence of Dr. A for an extended amount of time. Twice he barked at nurses to come and fetch him some thing he needed RIGHT. NOW. You could tell by the way the nurses interacted with him that they would have thoroughly enjoyed punching him square in the nose or telling him to GET IT YOURSELF! but instead they were very professional. I was impressed.

After Allen's surgery was complete we were brought to a room to wait. And wait. And w a i t. Dr. A was busy. He would tend to us at his convenience. We began to wonder if he had forgotten about us when we heard him paged over the office intercom: Dr. A, phone call on line 2.

And then right outside our door, he took the call. "Theodore! I called you because Dr. Not-So-Awesome-As-Me wanted another $500 to lecture for one hour at our Very-Important-Doctors-Who-Are-Better-Than-Everyone conference next week. I am so sick of being taken advantage of. (pause) Yes, I allowed that other Not-So-Famous-Eye-Doctor to pay his expenses. But he still should not be paid more than the other lecturers. He is getting $500 to speak for an hour plus $500 in expenses. I don't think he needs another $500 just because he didn't try hard enough to get a flight home that night."

We were pretty sure he didn't remember we were right there, in the room right next to where he was loudly taking that call on line 2. Either that or he wanted us to be impressed. (We were not.) And then, I heard it.

PPPppppppfffffffffffffffftttttt.....t.t.t.t.t.t.t.t.t.t.

He totally farted! At first, I thought it was the chair he was sitting on, but the rapid-fire at the end confirmed it. We stifled our laughter as he went on with his phone conversation. Unbelievable! And hilarious!

At one point, Allen stepped out of the room and asked a nurse if we could leave yet. I think this was when he was finally alerted to the fact that we were still waiting to be seen. He finally finished his long, drawn out conversation. "Fabulous to hear from you. Are you going to be at the awesomely arrogant and important eye doctor's golf tournament next week? Because I'll be there and I know that will make everyone want to come. Great. See you there."

And then, as he walked in the room to give us permission to leave his presence, I realized that something had changed. He was still walking about in an air (pun intended!) of self-importance but to me, he was now just a human being.

One who, apparently, likes to toot his own horn. (Pun totally intended!)

Dysplastic Nevi

My entire life goes into pause mode without my consent. My mind leaves my body behind and ventures off to some place I am not allowed to remember. And then, abruptly, my life is back in play mode, except that the pictures are jumbled and swirly and I can't remember where I am or why I'm there. Panic sets in. There is not one ounce of thinking involved - it is utter confusion and complete chaos causing my brain's normal functions to short-circuit. It is like being drowned in the deepest abyss and struggling to break the surface... only to realize it is just beyond my reach.

But in an instant things begin to change. I hear a voice calling to me but the words are uncertain. As the jumbled veil of confusion is lifted from my mind, my bewildered eyes slowly begin to focus on an unfamiliar face. I realize I'm on a table, in a doctor's office, with my arms raised at my sides, my hands firmly clenched into fists. My brain is parched.

She's coming back... I hear someone say. And then, It's okay, you're okay. Slowly, I begin to remember...

(Flash back to 10 minutes earlier...)

I came to the dermatologist for the first time in my life. I had a suspicious, teeny little mole plant itself ON my upper lip (not above my lip, I'm talking ON my kisser) and came in to have it checked. The doctor surprised me by preparing me for removal of this lip-invader right then and there, along with another spot that he noticed on the right side of my chest.

The needles came out (oh, how I hate needles!!), I was sufficiently numbed, and the removal was successful. Throughout the process I could not help over-thinking things. He is putting that needle in my lip... and now in my chest. The doctor is whittling off a piece of my lip with a knife! And now he is carving a crater out of my chest! The doctor announced his successful completion of the procedure. I was thinking too much. I was feeling woozy.

"You look pale," the Man Who Just Cut Out Two Hunks Of Flesh Out Of My Body said. "Do you feel all right?"

"Just a little nauseous," I assured him. "I'll be fine." He gave me some instructions and left the room.

I continued to lay there. The nurse asked me, "Are you sure you're okay? You look really pale."

"I think I'm going to...." And then I did.

And once I came back to reality, the nurse complimented me on the powerful punch I had packed in my right arm. Apparently, when I was swimming out of the abyss, I landed a solid blow to her shoulder.

If it had been the doctor, I wouldn't have felt so bad. Because I kind of think he had it coming.

Turn Up The Valium

Allen's cataract surgery last month was not quite as successful as we'd hoped as far as his vision goes. Because of this he had to go in for a bit more eye surgery to fix an astigmatism in hopes it would do the trick.

The doctor had explained to him that this would be a quick procedure, taking less than 90 seconds, and that he would be given a valium to help him relax. To be honest, I couldn't wait to see what effect the valium had on him.

When we (finally!) were called back to get him ready for surgery, they put all kinds of drops in his eye as well as outfitting him with a brand new hat and shoes.
I started snapping more pictures, and this is what I was getting:

(Don't you love how the guy to the left has no idea what's going on when his back is turned?)

Oh, how I was loving the valium!

After the procedure was complete I asked him if he still felt loopy at all.

"They never gave me anything," he told me.

What? No valium? So, all of these pictures are drug-free...

Is it any wonder why I love this guy?