Painful

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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.

We Had It Covered

When we were kids, Sundays were sacred. That is to say, they were the day for our Mom to have some much needed "me" time. This was accomplished by sending the 4 of us off to the local Lutheran church for a sermon and some Sunday school.

I will never forget the week that all 4 of us kids were infected with chickenpox. It was in the middle of a solid Iowa winter when snow sat in a thick blanket on the ground. As Sunday rolled around we assumed we would be staying home, but mom had a plan which enabled us to attend our Sunday services as usual... we would wear our snowsuits.

She bundled us up in our warm winter wear, the type that covers your face completely except for a small, open window where the eyes can peek through. We were then instructed to leave our snowsuits on during church, thus enabling us to participate without anyone knowing of our (contagious) calamity.

All was going well until we started to squirm. And sweat. But the snowsuits remained on, fully zipped and hiding the red, itchy blisters that covered our bodies.

"Do you want to take those off?" we were asked.

"Nope. We like 'em." was our united response. We had orders.

When we got home we peeled off our winter wardrobes and stood there in the living room dripping with sweat like 4 kids who had been caught in a rainstorm, hands immediately reaching to the places that screamed for a good scratching.

We were later rewarded at the kitchen table with pecan-caramel rolls as mom downed a Pepsi (with peanuts).

The next week at church there was a strange shortage of attendees in the children's Sunday school, but you better believe we were there, singing "I'm In The Lord's Army". With gusto.

(And without snowsuits.)

Who Is That Masked Family?

Cowgirl was sick yesterday.

She stayed home from school to (hopefully) recover from the last of her sore throat and cough while the other kids headed off for the first day back after Christmas break.

(I love when my kids stay home!)

As soon as the other kids were out the door she set to work on her plans for the day.

We all became superheroes.
I have always wanted to be like that mom on the Incredibles. Look, you can hardly recognize me!

Curly wanted a crown. Cowgirl was only taking orders for masks. They compromised.
She then made Hubba a Thomas the Train mask.
Princess requested a red mask.
And then, of course, Cowgirl made herself a cowboy hat-mask.
Sick days are awesome.

Sick and Tired (No, Really...)

Remember when you were a kid and your parents would say something like, "Hey! Next week we're going to Disneyland!" You'd get all excited and not be able to sleep the whole week leading up to the big day - so sure that something terrible would happen to you or your family or even Disneyland itself and you'd have to miss out?

And then the big day would come and you'd be so excited that it was THE DAY and everyone was healthy and no one got hit by a firetruck and Disneyland didn't burn down?

That was awesome.

But now my body plays different tricks on me.

I get really excited about going to something like a Theatrical Interpreting Workshop with my brother for the weekend - a mini-vacation, really - and then my body says, "HA! I've got a little something I've been saving up for just such an occasion!"

And my throat hurts. And my head hurts. And I just want to go to sleep.

And parent/teacher conferences are today.

Plus I am doing my first interpreting job in a LONG time tonight.

Mean body.

But I'm older now, and smarter too. I'm fighting this for all it's worth - with banana/blueberry/pineapple smoothies and lots of water and herbal teas with honey and whatever else I can think of.

Here's hoping I wake up tomorrow feeling renewed.