It's been a long time since I last made any kind of entry here and my FB presence has been spotty at best. I still love you blog and FB peeps, it's just been a [insert adjective for crappy here] year. That's right, no breathless updates about my overachieving, award winning children or my perfection-on-a-cracker hubs. Each month has unfolded with its own exquisite torture that makes me feel hopeless and petty all at the same time.
It all started with a Bible study. Doesn't it always? I'm not even going to tell you the name of this study because, frankly, I'm still not sure if this is something I would wish on anyone I know or ever may know in the future. Suffice it to say that this study really pounds away on the reader and points out the sinfulness of acquisition, greed, gorging on stuff. Well, I looked around and thought, "Yuck." My closets, my garage, my unused game room, my unused small kitchen upstairs, my entry that was oodles of square feet of height and nothingness. Frankly, it made me sick. The hubs and I had been talking about downsizing for a while. Our 5,000+ square foot house was becoming an albatross. Financially, time wise, and it was becoming a sort of idol for me. Let me be clear --- I adored that house. If I could have taken it with me everywhere I went, I would have. It was my sun and my moon. It was my happy place. I could walk through the doors of my McMansion and just feel the happiness with a Grinch-y smile spreading to every part of my body and soul. Dangerous territory, my friend. So, I finished this Bible study and marched home and announced to the hubs that I was ready to lay down my idol, downsize, and begin living my life and stop living for my house. The hubs had been gently pushing for this for a while because he could see the day when my beloved house, which was too big for the four of us, would be just the two of us rattling around. And I think he knew how I was inappropriately attached to a thing. He could see the writing on the wall. He's smarter than me. He doesn't need a Bible study to feel what God is telling him. Me, I need a banner . . . with a loud speaker . . . and a parade . . . with a personally addressed invitation to said parade. You get it -- I'm fairly deaf.
Anywho, the hubs and I got the house ready and put it on the market Memorial Day weekend of 2014. The Friday of that weekend, the hubs and I went with our realtor and looked at some houses just to see what was on the market. Once again, the hubs was smart. He knew it would be harder for me to let go without some idea of what was waiting for me. The entire day I kept saying to the hubs, "What if it doesn't sell? What if I went through all of this and God makes me wait and I have to sit in what I love day after day, knowing that I have to leave?" The hubs just patted my back and said, "You wouldn't be you if you didn't throw a little worry at every issue." Humph. I found the cutest house that day. It was 3,400 square feet, still a significant down size, but it had a view of the lake and en suite bathrooms for the girls. If you have teenage girls, you know what a huge feature this is. But even that made me sad because I knew it wouldn't be there by the time we finally sold my dear house. You can probably guess that my dear McMansion sold in 36 hours on the market to the first buyer that looked at it. For our full asking price. It was scary but dang if that wasn't God saying, "You're doing the right thing. And I'm making it easy for you."
So was put an offer in on the house on the lake. There was some back and forth gamesmanship, which I hated, that resulted in a pretty big price reduction, which I loved. The hubs and I were able to basically pay cash for the new house. What a feeling to go from our McMansion mortgage to a teeny little mortgage that is about the same as a car payment. We were feeling on top of the world and on the right path. I had hired a decorator who put us in contact with a contractor. I'll call him Mr. No Hello. See the lake house, while well laid out, needed a little TLC and after the price reduction, we were ready to make her nice and pretty. Mr. No Hello as you can guess by his name was less than friendly. He was fine with the hubs but I could walk in and say "hello" directly to his face and get nothing. Not even one of those chin-up head bobs that dudes do to each other. But I didn't care. The hubs had shared our story with Mr. No Hello and had told him that we believed he was part of God's plan for us. He responded that he had started his business in faith and really listened to where God was leading. What suckers we were.
At this point, we were living in one Holiday Inn after another. We had moved out of the McMansion in late June and were waiting for Mr. No Hello to get our lake house habitable. It drug on and on. In early August, I was getting restless and wondered why the floors were not even started yet. It was still a concrete slab after they had removed the tile and carpet the first week we got the keys in mid-June. Mr. No Hello was pretty grumpy about the floors we wanted to have laid (a vinyl plank that looks like wood) and kept pushing us to put in tile. We told him it was no problem, we'd just have the place where we discovered the flooring product install the floors. He said that we either used his guy or he would walk off the job. Yikes! We were stranded in a Holiday Inn and we didn't have any options. He had us right where he wanted us. So we caved. We bought the product from the place he insisted on so he could (I presume) get a little kick back and we used his guy. Long story short: it's awful and we have hired a lawyer to get him to either come fix it or give us our money back. That's right, he won't even come and fix it. Granted, any "fix" would be a complete removal of everything they laid and laying something else down. Mr. No Hello won't budge. His response is always "tough $%^#@!"
So now I'm in a house with warped floors that have missing planks and we have only unpacked the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. That's right. We're still in 75% moving boxes after a year. It's awful. It's messy. It's gross. And it's embarrassing. Even my lawyer asked me if I ever thought Mr. No Hello was a bad contractor. Of course I did! But when you're living in a Holiday Inn and you've been wearing the same five outfits to work for six weeks, you start to not care that Mr. No Hello is a douche bag of epic proportions. You just want to get in your house.
All this has made me question why God made be feel so convicted about moving. Why was it so easy to sell my McMansion and find a horrible money pit? Why was it so easy to find a decorator who just happened to have a contractor who had a miraculous gap in his schedule for July? Why take me to a house where I can't see my kids because there's no family space for us to be in? Why does it now feel like I did the exact wrong thing? Did I totally read this wrong? Did I once again zig when God was telling me to zag? Why in the heck does God keep whispering when I need a good shout with a shove? Doesn't he know I one of his . . . well, let's just call it "less smart" creations?
One year later, I have no answers. I am more sad, more hopeless, more directionless, and more pissed than I have ever been before. The last years I will have my daughters living with me have been marred by this. I hate that. And I hate Mr. No Hello for doing that to us. He took away Thanksgiving and Christmas in my new home. He took away all our family time. How can he walk away fully paid and I am stuck in this hell hole? I finally understand when the Bible says "gnashing their teeth." That's exactly what I do when I think of Mr. No Hello and every time I enter my house.
So, my peeps, that's why I have been MIA in sharing anything about me, the hubs, Moo, and Gibby. We are wounded. And I am dealing with committees and other groups that seem to want me anywhere but around them. For example, I counseled one of my committees about the legal aspect of a decision and one member came back at me later with: "You know, I googled that and here's what it said." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don't know a lot about many things, but I can assure you that 23 years of being a lawyer has taught me a few things that maybe, just maybe, means a little more than Google. I mean, does Google give two craps what happens to you, Mr. I Googled That? Nope. But for some dumb reason, I still do. Granted, I am a tad on edge these days, but it would be nice if just once I felt my presence was not just required, but welcomed. Is that too much? Being welcomed at least one place on earth. Because it ain't my house any more that's welcoming. But my sweet family welcomes me, and that is usually enough.
In closing, don't give up on me. I'll be back. Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 10 months. Hopefully, I will finally rank my top most quotable movies.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Monday, December 16, 2013
Pre-Christmas Blues
I know, I know. This title does not exactly scream: "READ ME. YOU'LL LOVE ME!" I just wanted to write a few things down before I forget.
As some of you already know, yesterday was a banner day for the Hennessee clan. Recently, I have been having either pre-Christmas blues or some sort of faith crisis. Recent events have pulled me away from the body of Christ and made me question my service for the Lord. Am I doing what He wants? Am I going about my service in the wrong way? Does God want me to quit because I'm doing more harm than good? Didn't know if it was Satan's work in my life or God sending me a direct message, but I decided to pull away from Sunday services for a few weeks and see what happened. Answer: nothing and I became more conflicted about my walk with God. I seriously considered quitting everything to do with the body of Christ to keep from messing up or being a bad influence on others' personal walks.
Cut to Saturday night. We had a long day of watching Gib (the 9 yr old) play in a volleyball tournament. By the time the tournament was over, we only had time to eat some dinner, relax for an hour, and then hit the hay. As I lay in bed, I vowed to put on my big girl panties and insert myself back into the fold of God's people on Sunday morning.
I woke up excited to see what word God would speak to me. What would he tell me about my absence? What would I hear about our long expected Savior this Advent? How could I be a better servant? As we sat in the back of the church in the balcony, the service was all I could have hoped for. Gib and Moo (the 13 yr old) were not pestering each other (a rare event), and we sang some of my favorite Christmas hymns. The pastor preached an elegant and powerful sermon. As we sang the final song and the Hubs and Gib ducked out to get ready for Sunday School, I stood there with my arm around Moo and thought, "Yes, this is Christ's body. I am home." As we turned to leave after the final prayer, a man approached and said, "Excuse me, I don't mean to cause any problems, but your daughter was playing a game on her iPhone during the sermon. It was very distracting and we were all talking about it behind you. It was distracting for the whole section behind you. That is why I always tell my daughter to turn off her phone during church." I stood there like an idiot, smiled, nodded, and simply said "OK" to each poisoned word that fell from his mouth. As this man called me a bad parent, Moo was standing there watching the whole thing. When he finally ran out of steam, I said, "Thanks for telling me." Wow! Am I the queen of all comebacks or what? I might as well have said, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?" A woman who had walked up to me with Mr. Perfect Parent gained some courage from my sappy response and said, "Yes, it was very distracting and should stop." All I could do was put my arm around Moo and take her to her Sunday School class while I staggered off to mine.
Anyway, I am now flummoxed about what God is trying to say. Am I supposed to change service times (which would mean no longer ministering to newly married couples)? Am I supposed to not bring my daughters to the church service any more? Does God need me to step even further away than I have?
As I lay in bed last night, tears fell from my eyes. Some were grateful tears for friends who have spoken words of encouragement to me after hearing of this event. Some were bitter tears of hate for a man who could speak to me that way in front of my daughter. Some were tears of sadness that God could be telling me I am not an integral part of his body and I need to be "pruned" away. Pardon my French, but what the #$@#%& am I supposed to do with this? I finally fell into a fitful sleep around 11:30.
Midnight comes and with it Gib's sweet but pale face by my bed telling me she did not feel good. Long story short, my "distracting" angel and I spent the entire night (until 5:30 am) with Gib hanging over the toilet and me holding back her sweet blond hair. When she cried out, "Why won't it stop?" I wondered the same thing: why won't this all stop?
Now I am left with the shaky, adrenaline feeling you get after you have a near hit in your car. (Yes, I mean near hit and NOT near miss. A near miss is an actual wreck. Thank you, George Carlin). All I can do is pray that the glory and excitement of Advent will take over and that I will not again be an unwelcome distraction to others. Tall order for me.
OK, I vow to take time this Christmas and write a happy blog entry. I seem to recall I have never done my entry on the top 10 most quotable movies. Book it.
As some of you already know, yesterday was a banner day for the Hennessee clan. Recently, I have been having either pre-Christmas blues or some sort of faith crisis. Recent events have pulled me away from the body of Christ and made me question my service for the Lord. Am I doing what He wants? Am I going about my service in the wrong way? Does God want me to quit because I'm doing more harm than good? Didn't know if it was Satan's work in my life or God sending me a direct message, but I decided to pull away from Sunday services for a few weeks and see what happened. Answer: nothing and I became more conflicted about my walk with God. I seriously considered quitting everything to do with the body of Christ to keep from messing up or being a bad influence on others' personal walks.
Cut to Saturday night. We had a long day of watching Gib (the 9 yr old) play in a volleyball tournament. By the time the tournament was over, we only had time to eat some dinner, relax for an hour, and then hit the hay. As I lay in bed, I vowed to put on my big girl panties and insert myself back into the fold of God's people on Sunday morning.
I woke up excited to see what word God would speak to me. What would he tell me about my absence? What would I hear about our long expected Savior this Advent? How could I be a better servant? As we sat in the back of the church in the balcony, the service was all I could have hoped for. Gib and Moo (the 13 yr old) were not pestering each other (a rare event), and we sang some of my favorite Christmas hymns. The pastor preached an elegant and powerful sermon. As we sang the final song and the Hubs and Gib ducked out to get ready for Sunday School, I stood there with my arm around Moo and thought, "Yes, this is Christ's body. I am home." As we turned to leave after the final prayer, a man approached and said, "Excuse me, I don't mean to cause any problems, but your daughter was playing a game on her iPhone during the sermon. It was very distracting and we were all talking about it behind you. It was distracting for the whole section behind you. That is why I always tell my daughter to turn off her phone during church." I stood there like an idiot, smiled, nodded, and simply said "OK" to each poisoned word that fell from his mouth. As this man called me a bad parent, Moo was standing there watching the whole thing. When he finally ran out of steam, I said, "Thanks for telling me." Wow! Am I the queen of all comebacks or what? I might as well have said, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?" A woman who had walked up to me with Mr. Perfect Parent gained some courage from my sappy response and said, "Yes, it was very distracting and should stop." All I could do was put my arm around Moo and take her to her Sunday School class while I staggered off to mine.
Anyway, I am now flummoxed about what God is trying to say. Am I supposed to change service times (which would mean no longer ministering to newly married couples)? Am I supposed to not bring my daughters to the church service any more? Does God need me to step even further away than I have?
As I lay in bed last night, tears fell from my eyes. Some were grateful tears for friends who have spoken words of encouragement to me after hearing of this event. Some were bitter tears of hate for a man who could speak to me that way in front of my daughter. Some were tears of sadness that God could be telling me I am not an integral part of his body and I need to be "pruned" away. Pardon my French, but what the #$@#%& am I supposed to do with this? I finally fell into a fitful sleep around 11:30.
Midnight comes and with it Gib's sweet but pale face by my bed telling me she did not feel good. Long story short, my "distracting" angel and I spent the entire night (until 5:30 am) with Gib hanging over the toilet and me holding back her sweet blond hair. When she cried out, "Why won't it stop?" I wondered the same thing: why won't this all stop?
Now I am left with the shaky, adrenaline feeling you get after you have a near hit in your car. (Yes, I mean near hit and NOT near miss. A near miss is an actual wreck. Thank you, George Carlin). All I can do is pray that the glory and excitement of Advent will take over and that I will not again be an unwelcome distraction to others. Tall order for me.
OK, I vow to take time this Christmas and write a happy blog entry. I seem to recall I have never done my entry on the top 10 most quotable movies. Book it.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Cautionary Tale
As I'm sure you've heard by now, I was close to death two weeks ago. If you're like me, your 1st thought when you hear of this type of situation is: What happened to you and how can I prevent it from happening to me? I get it. The problem is there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent my recent dance with death from becoming your future scare. Still, I always want to know details of others' health scares so my type-A self can hang on to the illusion of being prepared. To allow those who what to know to delve into the nitty gritty, I decided to blog about it. For those who don't want to know such deets, feel free to go about your day.
My nightmare started very innocently about five weeks ago. A slight upset stomach. Not nausea, just more of a burning, slightly crampy feeling. Because I hada big trial coming up and because an order I had drafted and been unusually proud of had been reversed by an appellate court, I chalked it up to stress. I did a few more Bible readings and deep breathing exercises and went about my business. My stomach refused to go about its business, however. It kept insisting that it needed attention with cramping pains. I finally broke down and saw my primary-care doctor on March 26. The dear man was puzzled with my symptoms: tenderness in my abdomen, no fever, no nausea, obvious pain. He ordered blood work and made an appointment for me to get a sonogram on March 28.
The night of March 26, I woke up in bad pain. Unlike my prior stomach pain, this pain would not ebb and flow. It was one long cramp. I took my temperature: almost 100. I found my insurance card and called the nurse help line on the back. After talking to me for about 5 minutes, the nurse said I had to get someone to drive me to the hospital ASAP. I woke dear hubs who drove me to All Saints. We got there about 2:30 a.m. All was quiet and empty. Good sign. They sent me for a CT scan, an ultrasound (upper and lower), a pelvic exam, and an internal sonogram. That's right ladies -- the dreaded dildo sonogram that I had piously explained to all that I had never had to have. CT scan came back negative for anything, ditto the ultrasounds. The tech who did my internal sono had trouble finding my right ovary, but it certainly wasn't for a lack of looking. He was so rough, I promptly threw up two bags of bile after it was over. The pelvic exam (done by the 14 yr old Doogie Howser ER doc) turned up "ulcerations" on my cervix, but nothing that would contribute to my current state. I suspected the techs "deft" maneuvers with the internal sono "wand" to be the cause of the ulcerations, but was still trying to be nice. I would have to follow up with my OB/GYN. Fantastic.
By this time, Hubs had to return home to get the girls to school. Once Hubs left, All Saints was ready to street me. They couldn't diagnose me and wanted me gone. The nurse who checked me out said without a fever there was nothing they could do for me. I told him I had 100 when I arrived. He said that didn't count as a fever. Oh. So they gave me 20 vicodin and kicked me to the waiting room for the Hubs to come get me.
That entire day (March 27) I kept getting worse with more vomiting. Did I mention I was not eating? So, the bags and bags of vomit were nothing but bile. Copious amounts of it. Steve drove me back to All Saints that afternoon where I sat crying and writhing in the waiting room for 2 hours before they got me back to triage. This time they admitted me to the hospital. I continued to not eat but throw up continuously.
The next day, they sent me for an endoscopy (tube down your throat to get a look at the stomach). The GI doc said they found nothing. She gave me a talk on cutting down on my stress. In other words, it was all in my head. I knew then that if I stayed there, they would let me die. This may be TMI, but they told me I had to have a BM before they would let me go. I hadn't eaten in two weeks, but they needed to see my pipes were working. I guess the bile wasn't enough of a clue that my pipes were definitely closed for business. I begged for a suppository, which they gave me. I sat in the bathroom all night of March 31 until I somehow got something to happen. I'm not being funny when I say that tiny BM was a gift from God. They cut me loose on April 1. By this time my stomach was so distended I looked about 7 months pregnant. The doctors told me it was the morphine they were giving me. As they were checking me out and giving me more vicodin, I was throwing up bile.
April 1 is a blur for me, but the Hubs was by my side all night. I think I spent most of it on the bathroom floor. The next day, April 2, he called my primary-care doctor and his nurse (dear Donna) told Steve to immediately take me to a different hospital because All Saints had written me off. A dear church friend came to stay with Moo and Gibby until my Mom could get to our house, and the Hubs drove me to Harris Methodist.
A minister from our church beat us to the ER and prayed with us. I cried because of his beautiful prayer for healing and bedcause I was afraid no one at Harris Methodist would believe me either. But they immediately took me back to a room where I met Dr. Trotter [insert angels singing here]. He crouched down to look me in the eyes (I could no longer sit up at this point) and asked me pointed questions. He immediately ordered another CT scan and a chest XRay and hurried off. By this time I was either throwing up or laying with my eyes closed. But any time I opened my eyes, Dr. Trotter was somewhere near looking at me. I could see the concern on his face. It was so dear to me to be believed. They quickly took me to get the CT and minutes later, Dr. Trotter came down and said, "You have a blockage and I have paged a surgeon." Someone said something about putting me under observation, but Dr. Trotter said, "No. She's going up to the OR as soon as the surgeon gets here."
Apparently, Dr. Trotter had paged Dr. Shabout. I did not know it at the time, but Dr. Shabout is apparently some sort of surgical rock star. My entire hospital stay, all the nurses were amazed that I had been so lucky to get Dr. Shabout to do my surgery in the middle of the night. I firmly believe Dr. Trotter demanded Dr. Shabout for me. He's just that kind of guy.
Dr. Shabout appeared and told me they had to remove the blockage in my small intestine by cutting out the blocked part and reattaching the pieces. Oh, also there was a worrisome spot on my liver that they would biopsy while they were in there. And bonus: if the blockage is too close to the large intestine, they would have to give me a colostomy bag. I began to cry, and they ushered the Hubs out. I don't remember getting to the OR except I grabbed the gas mask before they put it over my mouth and cried out, "I'm so scared. Help me."
The surgery lasted 5 hours. Poor Hubs sat alone through it all. I don't know how he did that. My first words coming out of surgery were whether I had a colostomy bag. I didn't. Hubs said I asked him that about 4 times. They had to take out two sections of my small intestine and they drained almost 4 liters of bile and backed up stuff from my intestines. One small-intestine section Dr. Shabout removed was completely blocked and contained a tumour. The other section had a small genetic "flap" that could cause a similar problem later. So now we had to wait for the biopsy results on the liver and the small intestine tumour.
On April 3 the day after surgery, I began to spike a fever. It was 102, so I guess it counted. One of my lungs collapsed. Dr. Shabout was afriad he would have to go back in, but he decided to try a million antibiotics first. They worked, so no 2nd surgery. Biopsy results came back negative, so no cancer. Dr. Shabout told me my internal organs were beautiful and could be in a text book. Thanks? I couldn't eat or drink anything until April 6. That first sip of water was pure heaven. Later that day, I had my first food in almost three weeks: chicken broth and a popsicle. It was delicious.
Bad news came early the morning of Saturday April 7: Moo and Gibby had strep throat and my mother was sick and had to go home. Dear Hubs had to shoulder it all alone. I cried because I couldn't be with my sick babies. It was a low point. But I had a dear friend visit me that day. I won't ever forget her kindness on a day that I'm sure did not include time for a hospital visit. Moo and Gibby, as all children usually do, bounced back quickly once they got some medicine.
They cut me loose on Easter Sunday after the doctors were assured that my pipes were back on line and working. Before I could go, the doctor wanted me to eat a real meal and see what happened. The Hubs brought me a turkey sandwich from Panera. The texture of it nearly sent me into a swoon. So delicious. I immediately called the nurse and told him to unhook me from my horrible IV. That was a good feeling to not have that trailing me everywhere.
Now I'm on the long road to recovery. I can't drive until May and who knows when I'll be able to get back to the gym. Sadly, all my muscles are gone and I have no idea how much weight I have lost. I have to say, though, that my church family did more for me than they will ever know. Praying with me in the hospital and checking in on my family reallly showed me how beautiful the body of Christ is. My work family also showed me great mercy. My huge trial continues to loom and my other cases lurk, but my co-workers have taken over my docket and just want me to recover. They are kind people. I am blessed. I am alive.
My nightmare started very innocently about five weeks ago. A slight upset stomach. Not nausea, just more of a burning, slightly crampy feeling. Because I hada big trial coming up and because an order I had drafted and been unusually proud of had been reversed by an appellate court, I chalked it up to stress. I did a few more Bible readings and deep breathing exercises and went about my business. My stomach refused to go about its business, however. It kept insisting that it needed attention with cramping pains. I finally broke down and saw my primary-care doctor on March 26. The dear man was puzzled with my symptoms: tenderness in my abdomen, no fever, no nausea, obvious pain. He ordered blood work and made an appointment for me to get a sonogram on March 28.
The night of March 26, I woke up in bad pain. Unlike my prior stomach pain, this pain would not ebb and flow. It was one long cramp. I took my temperature: almost 100. I found my insurance card and called the nurse help line on the back. After talking to me for about 5 minutes, the nurse said I had to get someone to drive me to the hospital ASAP. I woke dear hubs who drove me to All Saints. We got there about 2:30 a.m. All was quiet and empty. Good sign. They sent me for a CT scan, an ultrasound (upper and lower), a pelvic exam, and an internal sonogram. That's right ladies -- the dreaded dildo sonogram that I had piously explained to all that I had never had to have. CT scan came back negative for anything, ditto the ultrasounds. The tech who did my internal sono had trouble finding my right ovary, but it certainly wasn't for a lack of looking. He was so rough, I promptly threw up two bags of bile after it was over. The pelvic exam (done by the 14 yr old Doogie Howser ER doc) turned up "ulcerations" on my cervix, but nothing that would contribute to my current state. I suspected the techs "deft" maneuvers with the internal sono "wand" to be the cause of the ulcerations, but was still trying to be nice. I would have to follow up with my OB/GYN. Fantastic.
By this time, Hubs had to return home to get the girls to school. Once Hubs left, All Saints was ready to street me. They couldn't diagnose me and wanted me gone. The nurse who checked me out said without a fever there was nothing they could do for me. I told him I had 100 when I arrived. He said that didn't count as a fever. Oh. So they gave me 20 vicodin and kicked me to the waiting room for the Hubs to come get me.
That entire day (March 27) I kept getting worse with more vomiting. Did I mention I was not eating? So, the bags and bags of vomit were nothing but bile. Copious amounts of it. Steve drove me back to All Saints that afternoon where I sat crying and writhing in the waiting room for 2 hours before they got me back to triage. This time they admitted me to the hospital. I continued to not eat but throw up continuously.
The next day, they sent me for an endoscopy (tube down your throat to get a look at the stomach). The GI doc said they found nothing. She gave me a talk on cutting down on my stress. In other words, it was all in my head. I knew then that if I stayed there, they would let me die. This may be TMI, but they told me I had to have a BM before they would let me go. I hadn't eaten in two weeks, but they needed to see my pipes were working. I guess the bile wasn't enough of a clue that my pipes were definitely closed for business. I begged for a suppository, which they gave me. I sat in the bathroom all night of March 31 until I somehow got something to happen. I'm not being funny when I say that tiny BM was a gift from God. They cut me loose on April 1. By this time my stomach was so distended I looked about 7 months pregnant. The doctors told me it was the morphine they were giving me. As they were checking me out and giving me more vicodin, I was throwing up bile.
April 1 is a blur for me, but the Hubs was by my side all night. I think I spent most of it on the bathroom floor. The next day, April 2, he called my primary-care doctor and his nurse (dear Donna) told Steve to immediately take me to a different hospital because All Saints had written me off. A dear church friend came to stay with Moo and Gibby until my Mom could get to our house, and the Hubs drove me to Harris Methodist.
A minister from our church beat us to the ER and prayed with us. I cried because of his beautiful prayer for healing and bedcause I was afraid no one at Harris Methodist would believe me either. But they immediately took me back to a room where I met Dr. Trotter [insert angels singing here]. He crouched down to look me in the eyes (I could no longer sit up at this point) and asked me pointed questions. He immediately ordered another CT scan and a chest XRay and hurried off. By this time I was either throwing up or laying with my eyes closed. But any time I opened my eyes, Dr. Trotter was somewhere near looking at me. I could see the concern on his face. It was so dear to me to be believed. They quickly took me to get the CT and minutes later, Dr. Trotter came down and said, "You have a blockage and I have paged a surgeon." Someone said something about putting me under observation, but Dr. Trotter said, "No. She's going up to the OR as soon as the surgeon gets here."
Apparently, Dr. Trotter had paged Dr. Shabout. I did not know it at the time, but Dr. Shabout is apparently some sort of surgical rock star. My entire hospital stay, all the nurses were amazed that I had been so lucky to get Dr. Shabout to do my surgery in the middle of the night. I firmly believe Dr. Trotter demanded Dr. Shabout for me. He's just that kind of guy.
Dr. Shabout appeared and told me they had to remove the blockage in my small intestine by cutting out the blocked part and reattaching the pieces. Oh, also there was a worrisome spot on my liver that they would biopsy while they were in there. And bonus: if the blockage is too close to the large intestine, they would have to give me a colostomy bag. I began to cry, and they ushered the Hubs out. I don't remember getting to the OR except I grabbed the gas mask before they put it over my mouth and cried out, "I'm so scared. Help me."
The surgery lasted 5 hours. Poor Hubs sat alone through it all. I don't know how he did that. My first words coming out of surgery were whether I had a colostomy bag. I didn't. Hubs said I asked him that about 4 times. They had to take out two sections of my small intestine and they drained almost 4 liters of bile and backed up stuff from my intestines. One small-intestine section Dr. Shabout removed was completely blocked and contained a tumour. The other section had a small genetic "flap" that could cause a similar problem later. So now we had to wait for the biopsy results on the liver and the small intestine tumour.
On April 3 the day after surgery, I began to spike a fever. It was 102, so I guess it counted. One of my lungs collapsed. Dr. Shabout was afriad he would have to go back in, but he decided to try a million antibiotics first. They worked, so no 2nd surgery. Biopsy results came back negative, so no cancer. Dr. Shabout told me my internal organs were beautiful and could be in a text book. Thanks? I couldn't eat or drink anything until April 6. That first sip of water was pure heaven. Later that day, I had my first food in almost three weeks: chicken broth and a popsicle. It was delicious.
Bad news came early the morning of Saturday April 7: Moo and Gibby had strep throat and my mother was sick and had to go home. Dear Hubs had to shoulder it all alone. I cried because I couldn't be with my sick babies. It was a low point. But I had a dear friend visit me that day. I won't ever forget her kindness on a day that I'm sure did not include time for a hospital visit. Moo and Gibby, as all children usually do, bounced back quickly once they got some medicine.
They cut me loose on Easter Sunday after the doctors were assured that my pipes were back on line and working. Before I could go, the doctor wanted me to eat a real meal and see what happened. The Hubs brought me a turkey sandwich from Panera. The texture of it nearly sent me into a swoon. So delicious. I immediately called the nurse and told him to unhook me from my horrible IV. That was a good feeling to not have that trailing me everywhere.
Now I'm on the long road to recovery. I can't drive until May and who knows when I'll be able to get back to the gym. Sadly, all my muscles are gone and I have no idea how much weight I have lost. I have to say, though, that my church family did more for me than they will ever know. Praying with me in the hospital and checking in on my family reallly showed me how beautiful the body of Christ is. My work family also showed me great mercy. My huge trial continues to loom and my other cases lurk, but my co-workers have taken over my docket and just want me to recover. They are kind people. I am blessed. I am alive.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Uncle Stevie
I miss Stephen King. He used to write a column for Entertainment Weekly about all things pop culture. He told me what to read, watch, and listen to. Now I have no idea what to do. The last few books I have read with Uncle Stevie's advise totally blew. So I thought I would copy Uncle Stevie and start doing occasional updates on what I think is cool and worth your time.
First up: my favorite songs. A few ground rules before I begin. I really don't want a debate about why some song should not be on my list. I would love to hear about what you think should be added. Important caveat -- I don't dig on country music. Also, these are songs that make me happy. Songs that make me sing out loud in the car. Songs that make me sing out loud when I'm at the gym listening to my iPod. You know, songs that take all your inhibitions away. For me, these songs have stood the test of time. For example, last year I was totally into California Gurls by Katy Perry. But after about 2,000 listenings, not so much. The songs on my list have stood up to millions of plays. So, here goes . . .
1. County Grammar by Nelly. I dare you to listen to this song and not think about your days of double dutch on the playground.
2. Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. Best. Love. Song. Ever.
3. Free Fallin by Tom Petty or John Mayer. It's so good anyone can sing it.
4. American Girl by Tom Petty. TP always hits it out of the park, but this one just makes me wanna sayng at the top of my lungs. Plus, it makes me think of that creepy scene in Silence of the Lambs before the Senator's daughter is kidnapped. What's she doing? You guessed it -- singing at the top of her lungs in her car.
5. Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious B.I.G. Awesome remix of Diana Ross's I'm Coming Up. Can't hear this without doing a shoulder dance. Plus, title is so true.
6. Raining in My Heart by Buddy Holly. Shout out to my cuz. First rock musician to use violins in his music. Never better than on this song.
7. Boogie Shoes by KC & the Sunshine Band. Disco gave us a lot of great tunes (e.g., Jive Talkin by the Bee Gees), but KC put a special kind of happy spin on his tunes.
8. Signed, Sealed, Delivered by Stevie Wonder. The true master of happy music. I agree with Chris Rock -- can't we give the brother a peek?!
9. Under Pressure by Queen/David Bowie. Before Vanilla Ice messed it up, this was a really great song.
10. In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. Come on -- John Cusak holding up a boom box outside his girlfriend's window? Classic.
11. Say by John Mayer. Such good lyrics. Say what you need to say before it's too late. Word.
12. Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears. Such a great guitar intro. This song has stayed at the top of my playlist for 20 years. Staying power, baby.
13. Ain't That a Kick in the Head by Dean Martin. Perfect song for martinis. Just cool.
14. Wild Life by The Talking Heads. I can't hear this song and not want to dance. "I'm wearing fur pajamas"? Come on, that's genius.
15. Descender by The Black Crowes. One of their more mellow tunes, but perfectly executed.
16. Dreamgirl by The Dave Matthews Band. Wow. Talk about being into a girl. Good lyrics.
17. Pink by Aerosmith. "Pink is my favorite crayon" sung by Steven Tyler. Need I say more?
18. Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson. Great message with MJ at his best.
19. Troublemaker by Weezer. One of my more recent entries, but I can't stop listening to it.
20. Go to the Mardi Gras by Professor Longhair. Because I love New Orleans, and no song says "NOLA" like this one.
Well, there are more, but that's probably enough for now. Make a playlist out of em and see if you don't work out 10 times harder. Let me know what you think.
First up: my favorite songs. A few ground rules before I begin. I really don't want a debate about why some song should not be on my list. I would love to hear about what you think should be added. Important caveat -- I don't dig on country music. Also, these are songs that make me happy. Songs that make me sing out loud in the car. Songs that make me sing out loud when I'm at the gym listening to my iPod. You know, songs that take all your inhibitions away. For me, these songs have stood the test of time. For example, last year I was totally into California Gurls by Katy Perry. But after about 2,000 listenings, not so much. The songs on my list have stood up to millions of plays. So, here goes . . .
1. County Grammar by Nelly. I dare you to listen to this song and not think about your days of double dutch on the playground.
2. Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. Best. Love. Song. Ever.
3. Free Fallin by Tom Petty or John Mayer. It's so good anyone can sing it.
4. American Girl by Tom Petty. TP always hits it out of the park, but this one just makes me wanna sayng at the top of my lungs. Plus, it makes me think of that creepy scene in Silence of the Lambs before the Senator's daughter is kidnapped. What's she doing? You guessed it -- singing at the top of her lungs in her car.
5. Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious B.I.G. Awesome remix of Diana Ross's I'm Coming Up. Can't hear this without doing a shoulder dance. Plus, title is so true.
6. Raining in My Heart by Buddy Holly. Shout out to my cuz. First rock musician to use violins in his music. Never better than on this song.
7. Boogie Shoes by KC & the Sunshine Band. Disco gave us a lot of great tunes (e.g., Jive Talkin by the Bee Gees), but KC put a special kind of happy spin on his tunes.
8. Signed, Sealed, Delivered by Stevie Wonder. The true master of happy music. I agree with Chris Rock -- can't we give the brother a peek?!
9. Under Pressure by Queen/David Bowie. Before Vanilla Ice messed it up, this was a really great song.
10. In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. Come on -- John Cusak holding up a boom box outside his girlfriend's window? Classic.
11. Say by John Mayer. Such good lyrics. Say what you need to say before it's too late. Word.
12. Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears. Such a great guitar intro. This song has stayed at the top of my playlist for 20 years. Staying power, baby.
13. Ain't That a Kick in the Head by Dean Martin. Perfect song for martinis. Just cool.
14. Wild Life by The Talking Heads. I can't hear this song and not want to dance. "I'm wearing fur pajamas"? Come on, that's genius.
15. Descender by The Black Crowes. One of their more mellow tunes, but perfectly executed.
16. Dreamgirl by The Dave Matthews Band. Wow. Talk about being into a girl. Good lyrics.
17. Pink by Aerosmith. "Pink is my favorite crayon" sung by Steven Tyler. Need I say more?
18. Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson. Great message with MJ at his best.
19. Troublemaker by Weezer. One of my more recent entries, but I can't stop listening to it.
20. Go to the Mardi Gras by Professor Longhair. Because I love New Orleans, and no song says "NOLA" like this one.
Well, there are more, but that's probably enough for now. Make a playlist out of em and see if you don't work out 10 times harder. Let me know what you think.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
My car hates me
Almost 10 years ago, on the eve of the birth of Moo, I bought a Pathfinder. Let's call her "PF." PF has faithfully carted my kids home from the hospital, to and from daycare, school, day camps, grandmothers' houses, sleep-away camp, and dance class. In short, PF has become a member of the family. At some point, though, PF decided she hated me and would prefer to be with my Hubs. Example: PF loved to play dead (no power, no clicking, no nothing), but magically start like a dream when Hubs or police called to the scene. In fact, PF was the cause of the one and only instance where I hung up on Hubs during an SOS phone call. Details not important. Suffice it to say that Hubs later apologized. PF has yet to do so.
Flash forward to today. Hubs and Moo are in Wisconsin at family funeral. Gibby and I stay in Texas because I had to drop her off this afternoon at sleep-away camp. Hubs left PF for me to drive because Gibby's camp trunk is very large and very heavy. Good idea, I thought. Gibby and I blithely set off for Marble Falls around 8:30 in the AM. We have a lovely drive with a rousing game of "Slug Bug." I lost handily. I get Gibby dropped off. Cute Baylor Junior helped with with said huge trunk. I was shocked to hear Alexander is now an honors mens' dorm. Weird. Sadly, Gibby was strangely and totally embarassed by her ole Mom and I was out of there in under 30 mins. I skip to PF ready to listen to naughty David Sedaris and Justin Halpern ("Stuff" My Dad Says) MP3s I had downloaded for the long drive home.
PF sensing that I am the only Hennessee present clicks on her "Service Engine Soon" light at around the Temple city limit. I had packed a bag thinking I might treat myself and stay at a hotel in Temple or Waco instead of doing the whole drive in one day, but at that point, I knew the game was on. NO WAY was I stopping now. Until about Waco, I ignored PF's polite light indicating that she was totally peeved at me. Suddenly in Waco, she decided to make some horrible shutting-down, clicking noise while jerking madly like she was on the Devil's cruise control. Now the gloves were off. We hate each other, and this is war. I slow down to 60, which appeases her for a few more miles. But then she begins to hack again. So, I reluctantly turn off the air conditioner. Note to out-of-state friends: it's about 105 here. No air conditioner makes PF super happy. So, everything is hunky dory as long as I don't go over 60 in a 70 MPH zone and I have my windows down. I was quite popular on I-35 today. So many people honked, waved with one finger, and gave me their good wishes as they zoomed by. It really warmed my heart.
Don't be mistaken. I was terrified I would stall out in some backwater where the only garage was owned by Buddy "the polite rapist" Jones. So scared that I couldn't take my hands off the wheel and I could only pray. Have you ever tried to pray while listening to Halpern or Sedaris? It's really hard. It goes something like this: Dear God [Why do you run around like your a##hole's on fire after one candy bar? Stay outside until you either need to s*!t or go to sleep.] Please get me home alive [My elf suit at Macy's was a yellow turtleneck, green tights, and green velveteen pants] Let me see your will in why my car hates me [You say you're sick? I think you've got a case of the bulls*!ts] HAHAHAHAHA. Oops! Sorry God. I really DO want to get home, but this is some funny stuff.
Needless to say, I am totally blaming PF if I get in trouble for this on Judgment Day. Anywho, I made it home and will be spending my vacation day tomorrow at the repair shop. I really hate PF, but I think I may have finally talked the Hubs into a new car. That's right -- PF has won for almost 8 years, but I may have the last laugh.
Final indignity: I get home & cable box is out. So no "Mad Men." Guess I get to listen to more Halpern and Sedaris.
Flash forward to today. Hubs and Moo are in Wisconsin at family funeral. Gibby and I stay in Texas because I had to drop her off this afternoon at sleep-away camp. Hubs left PF for me to drive because Gibby's camp trunk is very large and very heavy. Good idea, I thought. Gibby and I blithely set off for Marble Falls around 8:30 in the AM. We have a lovely drive with a rousing game of "Slug Bug." I lost handily. I get Gibby dropped off. Cute Baylor Junior helped with with said huge trunk. I was shocked to hear Alexander is now an honors mens' dorm. Weird. Sadly, Gibby was strangely and totally embarassed by her ole Mom and I was out of there in under 30 mins. I skip to PF ready to listen to naughty David Sedaris and Justin Halpern ("Stuff" My Dad Says) MP3s I had downloaded for the long drive home.
PF sensing that I am the only Hennessee present clicks on her "Service Engine Soon" light at around the Temple city limit. I had packed a bag thinking I might treat myself and stay at a hotel in Temple or Waco instead of doing the whole drive in one day, but at that point, I knew the game was on. NO WAY was I stopping now. Until about Waco, I ignored PF's polite light indicating that she was totally peeved at me. Suddenly in Waco, she decided to make some horrible shutting-down, clicking noise while jerking madly like she was on the Devil's cruise control. Now the gloves were off. We hate each other, and this is war. I slow down to 60, which appeases her for a few more miles. But then she begins to hack again. So, I reluctantly turn off the air conditioner. Note to out-of-state friends: it's about 105 here. No air conditioner makes PF super happy. So, everything is hunky dory as long as I don't go over 60 in a 70 MPH zone and I have my windows down. I was quite popular on I-35 today. So many people honked, waved with one finger, and gave me their good wishes as they zoomed by. It really warmed my heart.
Don't be mistaken. I was terrified I would stall out in some backwater where the only garage was owned by Buddy "the polite rapist" Jones. So scared that I couldn't take my hands off the wheel and I could only pray. Have you ever tried to pray while listening to Halpern or Sedaris? It's really hard. It goes something like this: Dear God [Why do you run around like your a##hole's on fire after one candy bar? Stay outside until you either need to s*!t or go to sleep.] Please get me home alive [My elf suit at Macy's was a yellow turtleneck, green tights, and green velveteen pants] Let me see your will in why my car hates me [You say you're sick? I think you've got a case of the bulls*!ts] HAHAHAHAHA. Oops! Sorry God. I really DO want to get home, but this is some funny stuff.
Needless to say, I am totally blaming PF if I get in trouble for this on Judgment Day. Anywho, I made it home and will be spending my vacation day tomorrow at the repair shop. I really hate PF, but I think I may have finally talked the Hubs into a new car. That's right -- PF has won for almost 8 years, but I may have the last laugh.
Final indignity: I get home & cable box is out. So no "Mad Men." Guess I get to listen to more Halpern and Sedaris.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Keeping it Real, Part I
During my latest bout with insomnia last night, I watched a re-run of the always brilliant "Chappelle's Show." He had a skit called: "When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong." It was hilarious, of course, but it got me to thinking. When should I keep it real?
My girlfriends and I talked about this at our latest gab fest (aka monthly Pokeno/Bunko game). How women don't keep it real with their friends. You know, like when you go out to dinner with your gal pal, she orders a dinner salad, takes one bite, and announces, "I'm stuffed." You just know she goes home and dives face first into the Fritos with an ice-cream chaser. Wouldn't we be closer friends if told said gal pal: "Girrrrl, I know you are not full. Now get down on some cheese fries before we snarf up our super burgers." Quick aside: my Pokeno/Bunko friends are some of the real-est people I know -- we all love our second and third helpings and our kids are not perfect.
So, in the name of establishing my realness, I'll start. My kids are not the smartest, most beautiful, most athletic, most well behaved girls on the planet. They mess up. They bug the crap out of me at times. I yell at them when I'm tired and bitterly regret it later. I am not the perfect wife, mother, daughter, employee. I nearly went bonkers when the girls were newborns, and breastfeeding (even though I stuck it out for a long time -- 6-yr-old was 18 mos. old before she weaned herself) was like a Bataan death march. My favorite activity is watching TV on my DVR. I'm too impatient for the commercials. I can curse like a sailor and have heard my kids say those same words with my exact inflection. My house looks pretty clean at all times, but please don't look in my drawers or my closet. It's a mess in there. I adore corn nuts, funyuns, and any other white trash food that is sold at your local Quik Stop. If you peeve me, I'll tell you right then to your face. It's difficult for me to accept a compliment. I love crass, funny movies that generally appeal to post-adolescent boys. I'm moody. I like shortcuts -- in driving and in life. I need too much sleep and get cranky if I don't get enough. I don't wash my bras after each wear. The hubs, however, is pretty awesome. Truly. No lie. No artifice. He's a blessing to us three girls in the house.
So, in general, being real does not scare me. It's where I live. Where my realness and reality collide tends to be when I am confronted with a jerk. It happened recently with a family member actually yelling at the 9-year-old about her behavior. Believe me, any sort of chastisement to 9-yr-old was not warranted in that situation. Do I keep it real and rip family member a new one? Or do I let the hubs take care of family member and get 9-yr-old away from jerk? I yanked 9-yr-old out of the way and let hubs deal with it. Family member came over later to half heartedly apologize to the hubs, but I'm not sure I can forgive. Family member didn't see 9-yr-old's silent tears. Should I now keep it real and tell family member not sure I can forgive? Or should I just seethe quietly as I have done in the past with this and other family members? If this was my Hughey/Holley family, I could easily say "back off" and it wouldn't happen again. But this other family is masterful in the art of passive/aggressive communication.
We get to spend a "glorious" week with this family member next month. Not sure I can stop my realness from erupting all over family member. And, as Dave Chappelle pointed out, if you establish your realness, the other person may show you that he/she can keep it real-er. Not sure I want to deal with that.
Any thoughts would be welcome. I'm at a loss about what to do. Note: not going on "glorious" trip next month is not an option. Doesn't matter why, it just really isn't. Dear reader, this will not be my last journey down the keeping-it-real road. Generally, keeping it real and society at large are not a good combo. I'm sure my realness will come up again.
My girlfriends and I talked about this at our latest gab fest (aka monthly Pokeno/Bunko game). How women don't keep it real with their friends. You know, like when you go out to dinner with your gal pal, she orders a dinner salad, takes one bite, and announces, "I'm stuffed." You just know she goes home and dives face first into the Fritos with an ice-cream chaser. Wouldn't we be closer friends if told said gal pal: "Girrrrl, I know you are not full. Now get down on some cheese fries before we snarf up our super burgers." Quick aside: my Pokeno/Bunko friends are some of the real-est people I know -- we all love our second and third helpings and our kids are not perfect.
So, in the name of establishing my realness, I'll start. My kids are not the smartest, most beautiful, most athletic, most well behaved girls on the planet. They mess up. They bug the crap out of me at times. I yell at them when I'm tired and bitterly regret it later. I am not the perfect wife, mother, daughter, employee. I nearly went bonkers when the girls were newborns, and breastfeeding (even though I stuck it out for a long time -- 6-yr-old was 18 mos. old before she weaned herself) was like a Bataan death march. My favorite activity is watching TV on my DVR. I'm too impatient for the commercials. I can curse like a sailor and have heard my kids say those same words with my exact inflection. My house looks pretty clean at all times, but please don't look in my drawers or my closet. It's a mess in there. I adore corn nuts, funyuns, and any other white trash food that is sold at your local Quik Stop. If you peeve me, I'll tell you right then to your face. It's difficult for me to accept a compliment. I love crass, funny movies that generally appeal to post-adolescent boys. I'm moody. I like shortcuts -- in driving and in life. I need too much sleep and get cranky if I don't get enough. I don't wash my bras after each wear. The hubs, however, is pretty awesome. Truly. No lie. No artifice. He's a blessing to us three girls in the house.
So, in general, being real does not scare me. It's where I live. Where my realness and reality collide tends to be when I am confronted with a jerk. It happened recently with a family member actually yelling at the 9-year-old about her behavior. Believe me, any sort of chastisement to 9-yr-old was not warranted in that situation. Do I keep it real and rip family member a new one? Or do I let the hubs take care of family member and get 9-yr-old away from jerk? I yanked 9-yr-old out of the way and let hubs deal with it. Family member came over later to half heartedly apologize to the hubs, but I'm not sure I can forgive. Family member didn't see 9-yr-old's silent tears. Should I now keep it real and tell family member not sure I can forgive? Or should I just seethe quietly as I have done in the past with this and other family members? If this was my Hughey/Holley family, I could easily say "back off" and it wouldn't happen again. But this other family is masterful in the art of passive/aggressive communication.
We get to spend a "glorious" week with this family member next month. Not sure I can stop my realness from erupting all over family member. And, as Dave Chappelle pointed out, if you establish your realness, the other person may show you that he/she can keep it real-er. Not sure I want to deal with that.
Any thoughts would be welcome. I'm at a loss about what to do. Note: not going on "glorious" trip next month is not an option. Doesn't matter why, it just really isn't. Dear reader, this will not be my last journey down the keeping-it-real road. Generally, keeping it real and society at large are not a good combo. I'm sure my realness will come up again.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
CRRAAACK!
My cheapness knows no bounds. My neck has been killing me for almost a year. I know it's because my pillow is not the right kind of pillow for side-sleeper me, but who wants to spend $100 on a durn pillow? Anywho. . .it got to the point that I couldn't turn my neck when I was driving. Surprisingly, that's a safety hazard. So I figured I needed to do something. I had gotten massages for it, which were great, but the pain would just return the next day. I took the plunge and called a chiropractor.
He's something else about me: I am skeptical about some types of medical professionals and what they can actually do for you. Maybe it's a result of seeing too many med mal cases. Not to say that there aren't some great doctors out there, but I digress. Chiropractors have always made me think "snake-oil salesmen," but when you're in as much pain as I was, you swallow your pride and step into your nearest stip mall for an "adjustment." I swore, however, that if he tried to give me vitamin "supplements" (although I wouldn't turn down some Vitamin V) or balance my chakras, I was out of there.
He was very nice and told me he could fix me in about 5 sessions. Score one for the doc--I hate it when they tell you that you need a complete 2-year course of treatment or until your insurance runs out. Then he says: Have you ever had an adjustment before? Me: Well, no but I've had massages. Doc: Heh, heh. This is a little different. So I'm on my stomach on some sort of medieval table that has a slit for my face (fully clothed--another point for the doc). He takes my chin in one paw, presses down on my neck with the other, and yanks my neck to the side until I can see the heels of my feet. The sound, my goodness, the sound! It was like CRRAAACK. The bad thing is that I squealed like a little girl at the top of my lungs. You know: Eeeeeeeek! The doc: Wow, we've got a screamer here.
I have NEVER screamed, yelled, or begged for mercy at any type of doctor (including when I had my daughters). I moan, I utter a dignified "ouch," but I NEVER yell. But this was the most shocking and most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Nobody's body should make this sound. I said to the doc: Please don't paralyze me because I need my legs for later. The doc: Heh, heh. Then he proceeded to CRRAAAACK it again. He kept doing it until my spine begged for mercy (me too) and he couldn't get it to crack anymore. I limped out of there, took four Advil, and went to sleep. Yes, on my crap pillow.
The great thing is, though, my neck feels great. I've had another adjustment, and will get another one after vacay. I totally dread it, but I can actually turn my neck without uttering a dignified "ouch." After my second adjustment, I had a horrible day. I mean, a low-down, dirty-rotten day. My main concern was not the instigator of said rotten day, but that it was making my newly acquired, easy-to-swivel neck tense up. Who knew turning your neck without pain was such a luxury?
I am now on the hunt for the perfect side-sleeper pillow. I shall force myself to pay more than $30 for it if it means I won't have to hear CRRAAACK or how girlie my squeal is.
He's something else about me: I am skeptical about some types of medical professionals and what they can actually do for you. Maybe it's a result of seeing too many med mal cases. Not to say that there aren't some great doctors out there, but I digress. Chiropractors have always made me think "snake-oil salesmen," but when you're in as much pain as I was, you swallow your pride and step into your nearest stip mall for an "adjustment." I swore, however, that if he tried to give me vitamin "supplements" (although I wouldn't turn down some Vitamin V) or balance my chakras, I was out of there.
He was very nice and told me he could fix me in about 5 sessions. Score one for the doc--I hate it when they tell you that you need a complete 2-year course of treatment or until your insurance runs out. Then he says: Have you ever had an adjustment before? Me: Well, no but I've had massages. Doc: Heh, heh. This is a little different. So I'm on my stomach on some sort of medieval table that has a slit for my face (fully clothed--another point for the doc). He takes my chin in one paw, presses down on my neck with the other, and yanks my neck to the side until I can see the heels of my feet. The sound, my goodness, the sound! It was like CRRAAACK. The bad thing is that I squealed like a little girl at the top of my lungs. You know: Eeeeeeeek! The doc: Wow, we've got a screamer here.
I have NEVER screamed, yelled, or begged for mercy at any type of doctor (including when I had my daughters). I moan, I utter a dignified "ouch," but I NEVER yell. But this was the most shocking and most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Nobody's body should make this sound. I said to the doc: Please don't paralyze me because I need my legs for later. The doc: Heh, heh. Then he proceeded to CRRAAAACK it again. He kept doing it until my spine begged for mercy (me too) and he couldn't get it to crack anymore. I limped out of there, took four Advil, and went to sleep. Yes, on my crap pillow.
The great thing is, though, my neck feels great. I've had another adjustment, and will get another one after vacay. I totally dread it, but I can actually turn my neck without uttering a dignified "ouch." After my second adjustment, I had a horrible day. I mean, a low-down, dirty-rotten day. My main concern was not the instigator of said rotten day, but that it was making my newly acquired, easy-to-swivel neck tense up. Who knew turning your neck without pain was such a luxury?
I am now on the hunt for the perfect side-sleeper pillow. I shall force myself to pay more than $30 for it if it means I won't have to hear CRRAAACK or how girlie my squeal is.
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