Hope, Revisited

Last Sunday, after more searing pain in my chest and abdomen, I was taken to the hospital in Great Falls and given an emergency ultra-sound. Not-so-shockingly, I had gall stones. They arranged for surgery immediately.

I was scared witless. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a LITTLE ashamed) to admit that the very idea of being unconscious while someone hacked away at my insides made me want to live with the pain forever and ever, except that forever would have been drastically shortened to forafewmonths.

They admitted me and I signed a variety of paperwork, most of which was a blur due to the amazing drugs they were feeding me - I felt like I was floating, everything was disjointed and surreal. They decided to starve me (not that appetite was an issue at that point, or at least not until my older brother ate a slab of CHEESECAKE in front of me) and put me in one of those papery cotton gowns with the buttons no one can seem to figure out.

Surgery sucked. The surgeon assured us it would take a half an hour to forty-five minutes. It took an hour and a half (at which point my friends were gnawing on their cuticles, wondering about death and dismemberment), apparently because my gall bladder was very badly infected, not to mention loaded down with “a bunch of stones” - the doctor’s exact words. Ah, bliss.

They outfitted me with a draining tube (capital Y.U.C.K.) and wheeled me upstairs, where the nurse actually asked me to STAND UP to walk to the bed, despite the massive amount of morphine in my blood stream, which was doing surprisingly little for the pain. My friend Kate claims that I looked at the nurse, sporting a disturbing pallor and sunken black eyes hazed with drugs and confusion and said, in utter disbelief, “Are you kidding?”

They were not. I hate to sound like a big crybaby, but people, THE PAIN. It was not like anything I’ve ever felt. I’ve been forced to re-evaluate my tolerance for pain in general! I’m not a wimp, and I wanted to curl up and DIE when I stood up. Kate claims I went, if possible, EVEN WHITER, before my knees buckled and the nurse had to catch me.

Just to keep things in perspective, evidently surgery and intense pain don’t hinder my vanity one little bit. I have very fuzzy memories of this, but I went to pee and while washing my hands I’m told there was a sharp intake of breath; everyone rushed to the doorway to see what was the matter. I was gaping at my reflection, and a second later declared: “Well, fuck, I’m not winning any beauty contests today.”

Yes. I’m really a lovely person once you get to know me.

I was in the hospital until late Tuesday afternoon, still being starved and drugged regularly. They removed the draining tube despite the nurse’s concern that she wanted it to be considerably less full before removal, and YEOWCH. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable the damn thing was until they yanked it from my side, very quickly. And how LONG. There was at least eight extra inches crammed into my abdomen, I swear.

ANYWAY.

Guess what? I was happy to be home. Home in my own bed, doped up on Percocet and snuggling with my cat. She nearly died when hopping directly onto my freshly stitched gut, but was too fast in moving her ass out of the way when I screamed for me to succeed in killing her.

Wednesday I started feeling worse. I was dizzy and sweating. I could still hardly eat. I kept thinking about what the nurse said, about feeling a little better every day. I ate about three bites of the porkchop my grandma made me and shuffled off to bed.

I ended up passing out in the middle of the night after getting up to go to the bathroom, and naturally fell on my stomach. Hard. After quitting the Percocet (which I blamed for the incident) and trying to eat breakfast highly unsuccessfully (HELLO, projectile vomit) I called the doctor.

Thursday at noon I was back in the hospital here in town, being diagnosed with an infected liver as well as severe dehydration. Complications of surgery, they said. I’m happy to say that after getting admitted AGAIN and jabbed with an IV needle AGAIN (I have “bad veins”, which I take to mean they’re small and far below the skin’s surface) and pumped full of antibiotics, they only kept me overnight before shipping me home - with a sizable list of very foul-tasting prescriptions.

Hello, pending hospital bills. It’s nice to meet you. What’s that? I owe thousands of dollars? GREAT. I can totally afford that. Thank god for my insurance. Oh, wait, my deductible is high. Goodbye, income tax refund (and new digital camera).

There’s an interesting twist in all of this: my sister-in-law, Joy, was also admitted to the hospital in Great Falls and operated on, to have her gall bladder removed, on the same day. She did not get an infection and end up back in the hospital. Some ladies have all the luck.

I came home from work on Thursday night, drank a glass of milk, and climbed into bed. At 1:00 AM I was wide awake, clutching at my chest and cursing my body for developing acid reflux (and myself for downing two cups of coffee at work). The pain was intense, but I figured it would subside fairly quickly; I’ve been taking Nexium faithfully for three months now, and milk is usually soothing. HA.

2:00 AM: I took three Tums and drank another glass of milk.

2:45 AM: I thought of calling the Tums people and accusing them of false advertising, but the phone was in the living room and I was worried moving around might make me throw up.

3:00 AM: I took even more Tums, plus a Pepcid AC tablet.

3:50 AM: I drank some water because my throat was dry and scratchy, then built a mountain of pillows to prop myself up on, thinking if I slept upright the acid would stay down.

REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT.

At 11:30 AM on Friday, after experiencing almost no sleep and absolutely zero pain relief, I caved and called my doctor. I went in at noon and explained everything, including my two cups of coffee. He gave me two chalky white tablets (GREAT, right?) called Gaviscon, which looked a hell of a lot like Tums, but bigger.

He assured me that they should nix the heartburn immediately. I was so desperate by then that I didn’t even care that the Gaviscon tasted HORRIBLE, and foamed in my mouth (likely giving me the appearance of a sleep-deprived, rabid raccoon). I waited for the promised relief, which didn’t come.

I expected him to do what the other doctor did the last time this happened, which was to give me a GI Cocktail, a nasty little orange-y shot that tasted like puke and numbed me from my throat to my pelvic bone.

After putting me on the exam table and pressing on various parts on my stomach he declared that because the Gaviscon was ineffective, and because of the pain (which was pretty localized), it wasn’t heartburn. He also said two cups of coffee wouldn’t do that to me, particularly because of the Nexium. He said it’s more likely that it’s a problem with my gall bladder, which can feel very similar to heartburn. GOODIE. He scheduled an ultra-sound and told the nurse to get me a shot of Toradol to deal with the immediate pain.

Now, being eternally hopeful and deliberantly ignorant, I was expecting a nice, friendly shot in the arm. Instead I got a nice, friendly shot IN THE ASS. Lovely. And so dignified. Furthermore, I waited (doctor’s orders) for a little over a half an hour, and the shot did NOTHING to decrease the pain.

I ended up getting an IV and getting pumped full of Demerol, and some other drug I can’t pronounce or even remember. The first dose did a nice job in taking the edge off; the second erased not only the pain, but my ability to think clearly. Or walk in a straight line.

My Grandma drove me home, advising me not to eat or drink anything creamy, especially DAIRY (milk, anyone?) because if my gall bladder is malfunctioning, it will only exacerbate the problem.

I spent the rest of the day sleeping in a drug-induced coma. I had dry cereal for dinner.

When the Demerol wore off (sometime in the middle of the night), the pain came back. It isn’t as severe, not by half, but whatever the problem, it’s definitely making itself known.

Proof that I am indeed as vain and self-absorbed as you all suspected: If the ultra-sound confirms my doctor’s worries about my gall bladder, I’ll probably end up having surgery. And my first concern was that I’m going to have SCARS and end up looking gross in my bikini.

On the upside, honesty is clearly one of my virtues.

Oh, and if I wasn’t a drug addict before yesterday…

When I was little, watching movies was a family affair. We piled onto the couch (or my Mom’s bed) and ate pizza and drank Hawaiian Punch. Most of the movies were great, but I remember a couple supposedly designed for children that gave me really bad dreams. Such as:

The Wizard of Oz. I know, I know, it’s a classic - but forget the Wicked Witch of the West or the flying monkeys, I absolutely hated the idea of being lost! As if some never-ending yellow brick road was in any way comforting?  Or a bunch of singing munchkins evidently hyped up on sugar (or CRACK)? Or the mighty Oz? AS IF. Nothing about that movie was remotely appealing to me.

Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure. Let’s face it, Pee-Wee was probably the creepiest element in that movie. That laughter! His voice was disturbing. Whenever he talked I cringed. And LARGE MARGE?! I still have involuntary wariness where truckers are concerned. This is one Tim Burton movie that actually managed to scare me.

Lastly, and I KNOW I’m going to catch flack for this, but: E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial. Aliens just give me the willies, no matter HOW apparently cuddly and friendly they might be. Aliens = BADNESS. (Side note: I loved Independence Day).

Are there any kid movies that you watched that made you hide under the covers? Or perhaps drag a sleeping bag into your Mom’s room so you could bunk on the floor next to the bed? Please share.

I know I’m probably boring all of you to death with my fixation on healthy eating and fitness, but it’s become very important to me lately. I’ve never been this determined to improve my health in my life. I did yoga this morning. YOGA. I enjoy yoga about as much as I enjoy root canals, but I needed the stress relief. And hey, it worked. The knots of pain in my back are gone. Not that I plan to make contorting myself into unreasonable shapes and angles a habit. (Okay, so I’m not THAT dedicated).

I’ve been thinking about food a lot lately, too. Normally when I diet I go from one extreme to the other, and when I say extreme I’m not kidding - we’re talking jelly donuts one day and lettuce the next. I quit buying boxed dinners and junk and I switch to fresh fruits and vegetables. The problem is, I eat the healthy stuff exactly like I eat the crap food - without cooking or making it into anything worthwhile.

Last night I found myself doing something I used to laugh at my friends for doing (yes, I’m a bitch). I found some recipes and made a grocery list! I planned meals for the week. I feel very optimistic about some of the dinners I want to make, although of course I plan to invite my sister and use her as a guinea pig.

I still haven’t had any significant weight loss and now I’m bloated on top of it, which is sort of discouraging, but I’m not giving up. The more I work at it, the less it becomes about a number on the scale. I feel good, and I know my body is experiencing benefits (even if I can’t see them, stupid, stubborn body!).

Oh, and you’re all invited to dinner on Saturday.

I consider myself a friendly, outgoing person. I like to meet new people. I like to go out on occasion and have a few drinks with the people I meet. Sometimes, I’m a bad judge of character.

I went out on Thursday with a girl I met recently, a nice enough girl - or so I thought. For the purposes of this piece we’ll call her The Vile Bitch From Hell, or BITCH for short. We went to a bar to listen to the local band and to gossip over drinks.

Two drinks led to three, and three to four, and at some point shots were added to the mix. Never a great idea, and as I found out the hard way, a very poor idea indeed when in the presence of a casual aquaintance.

I called her the next morning to touch base, and to make sure she made it home safely. To be honest, I DROVE home, and while there were no indications of accidents or foul play, I felt like a real jackass. I correctly assumed she made the same mistake. I asked if I did anything else embarrassing and or stupid, and she assured me that I was fine - except for somehow accidently grabbing the crotch of an innocent female bystander.

I actually remembered that, and OH the mortification. When you go to point to someone’s belt with the intent of delivering a compliment and MISS it isn’t any fun. I apologized a thousand times and bought her a drink and tried to forget the entire thing. YIKES.

We laughed about the horror of that particular moment, and she mentioned that I was very, very out of it and that I hugged her goodnight and smooched her cheek, which I ALSO remembered. I’m an affectionate drunk, what can I say.

A co-worker came in today and informed me that the same individual (the one who assured me I was just dandy, and we had fun, etc. etc.) spent the entire night last night at another bar, telling everyone who would listen that I GROPED her and KISSED her and violated several personal space boundaries, as well as my accidental grabbing of the other lady’s private area - except she didn’t bother to mention it was an accident.

Joy and glee, now the whole town thinks I’m a LESBIAN. Which is maybe a step up from the rumor that I slept with a married man (also false) but JESUS H. CHRIST. (Not that any of this is his fault).

What really bothers me is that she didn’t indicate any sort of problem when we spoke on the phone. She assured me we had a great time and everything was kosher. Hours later, she told an entirely different story to a room full of people. My feelings are pretty badly hurt right now.

The only reasonable conclusion that I can draw is that she must’ve experienced a bit of homophobia when she saw my moment of drunken stupidity earlier in the evening, and perhaps she took it the wrong way when I hugged and kissed her goodnight?

I would love nothing more than to confront her about the whole mess, because there’s nothing quite like watching a liar stutter and backtrack and try to explain themselves, but I’m stuck at work, and just this minute I’m choosing professionalism over violence.

People have said not-so-nice things about me before. In a town of approximately eight hundred people, someone is always getting picked on. I can handle it. It just grates on my nerves that I brought this on myself by getting so drunk to begin with.

Thus begins my personal prohibition for 2010.

I went to my sister’s place this morning, and we did the 30 Day Shred workout together. The video was actually  good - I like Jillian Michaels. I love the psycho-babble she spouts (”what you’re feeling now is fear leaving your body”). She was very motivating; I worried if I starting slacking off she’d pop through the screen and kick my ass - or maybe that has something to do with the clips I’ve seen from The Biggest Loser?

The workout was great, so great I’m going to buy the DVD for myself. The SUCK part was actually me. Despite two solid months of steady gym time, I’m still a frail girly-girl. Don’t believe me? When Heidi and I were doing the modified, girly push-ups, she glanced my way.

Extremely Athletic Sister: “You’re supposed to suck in your stomach.”
Not-So-Little Old Me: “I am.”

Now before you go thinking my sister is evil, I should add that she isn’t really. She’s supportive and helpful. She just doesn’t believe in slacking off, and I do, which is why her ass will always be smaller than mine - a difference I try not to hold against her. I do occasionally take M&M’s over to her place in the spirit of sisterhood, and having absolutely NOTHING to do with envy.

We played volleyball last week with the adult women’s league. We’re going again tonight. Now THAT is exercise I can get into. It doesn’t feel like work, even though I pour buckets of sweat and make grunting noises and bruise my knees (so much for my kneepads). It feels like great fun, especially when my team is winning.

I can hardly wait.

I decided that this year, my 28th year, I’m going to get into great shape. I want to be fit and healthy and strong. And, if I’m being totally honest, I want to look HOT in my jeans. I want to wear strappy little tops without fretting over bulges in the wrong places. I want to be able to run for a few miles without feeling like my muscles are turning into pudding.

So far, I’ve been kicking ass at the gym. I’ve been doing cardio every day and weight training every other day. I’ve even added the bench press to the mix, which I object to on the basis that I have thin, wimpy arms designed to carry shopping bags - not to casually extend forty-five pounds.

I feel leaner and stronger. My thighs are tighter. I don’t get winded as easily. I’ve started having really ambitious fantasies about kick-boxing and possibly saving some unsuspecting citizen from a reckless driver. I am She-Ra (in my mind).

The thing is, I’ve always been a binge eater. No matter what I’m feeling - boredom, elation, depression, anticipation - there’s no question I’m also feeling my teeth close over hotdogs, french fries, or anything else I can get my hands on.

My sister once pointed out that while she stops at two pieces of pizza, I always eat three or four. My need to feel completely stuffed doesn’t stop at pizza, either. I’ll eat two or three hotdogs, a whole can of soup (as opposed to a bowl) - no matter what I’m eating, I’m the first in line for seconds.

I’ve tried portion control with varying success, for short periods of time. It never lasts long. I get hungry, and then - feeling as though I’ve denied myself - I go overboard. Big time.

When I started working out regularly, I expected to lose weight. At least SOME weight. Instead, I’m holding steady at 150lbs. It’s obviously because I won’t alter my eating habits. I’m not looking to live on salad and beans, but I would like to find the strength of will to say no thank you after two slices of pizza.

Despite my love-love relationship with food, I feel great about the progress I’m making. I talked to Heidi today and she told me she got the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred DVD. She claims it’s awful, in a good way. I can’t wait to go try it out with her.

Does anyone have any ideas, tips, or tricks to scaling back the food intake? (You know, other than self-control).

For most of my life, I’ve felt a deep and unshakable obligation to family. SHOCKING, yes? I mean, most people value their family life. The thing is, for most of my life my relationships with my relatives have ranged from mediocre to piss poor.

I put up with much more bullshit than I should, partly because “it’s family” and partly because I was a total shit as a kid, and a part of me feels as though I should take my lumps without a word because of that.

Well, guess what? Not anymore. I’ve been a reasonable, mostly happy adult for the last five years or so. I refuse to believe that I still deserve to be punished, however indirectly, for the many indiscretions of my youth. I deserve to be treated with respect and consideration, just like anyone else.

I’ve resolved to avoid people who are assholes, or treat me poorly. I think this is a positive step in the right direction. It’s also easier said than done. A niece of mine had a birthday recently, and because of my decision to avoid her father, I didn’t attend. She’s only four and isn’t likely to remember my absence, but I felt generally crappy about the whole thing.

Nevertheless, I intend to keep avoiding the people who give me good reason. I realize how simple this sounds, how completely basic, but it’s taken me twenty-eight years to conclude that when people hurt you - even people you love, and who claim to love you - you should take measures to avoid being hurt in the future.

This might mean that I have fewer people to talk to, but I think it also means the conversations I do have will be more rewarding.

The new year, summarized:

* I’ve been completely obsessed with The Millennium series by Stieg Larsson. I read “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” and then instantly moved on to the second book, and after finishing that in less than a day was outraged to discover that the third installment isn’t expected until May 25th of this year. I want an advance copy!

* I’ve been working out pretty regularly, which is a nice change from my usual couch-potato habits. I’m alternating cardio and weight training, which is slowly toning various parts. The number on the scale stubbornly remains the same, but I LOOK tighter, which makes me want to bend over in various public places. Kidding. (Sort of).

* It’s been snowing nonstop for about two days, and this morning I was mildly worried about being able to get out of my driveway without the aid of a plow. Fortunately I made it to the post office and the library with minimal fuss, and my neighbor mentioned using his four wheeler to clear my driveway tomorrow. Whew.

* We hired a new employee at my office, who will hopefully turn out better than the last one - not that it would be hard, considering what a waste of valuable oxygen HE is. Another body also means that my body can be in places OTHER than the office in the near future.

* I’ve been inexplicably lonely. So lonely that I’ve gone out of my way to be around people I usually don’t even like. Some people are better than no people, right? Or at least that seems to be my attitude in the last week or so. Normally I enjoy my own company, and can stay indoors for hours with a book or a blank Word document, but suddenly I find myself searching for companionship. I don’t really like it.

How is everyone else’s year going?

Today is my birthday. I’m twenty-eight. I do not feel any wiser. I did wake up feeling a lot sicker than I was yesterday. (Hmm, “sicker” doesn’t sound like a word). My throat is aching, my ears are throbbing, and the drippage is decidedly gross.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMBER! HAVE A COLD!

I don’t have plans. I was supposed to work, but evidently I requested today off over a month ago and completely forgot. So my sister and I are doing dinner tomorrow night, instead. And I’m lounging around in my ugly red and white slippers watching the first season of Sex & the City.

I’m not throwing a pity party or anything (much) (despite what this might sound like), and I haven’t got a problem spending my birthday drinking tea and having lots of quiet reflection.

Or watching Carrie Bradshaw have a lot of quiet reflection (and a lot of sex, which I also cannot have).

I have high hopes for a fantastic year, filled with success and triumph and love. I’m determined. I will kick ass and take names. Watch me.