Friday, October 29, 2010

It comes in threes

My mother has this saying that bad things come in threes. Three bad things will typically happen in quick succession. Then the bad luck is over. Bad of course, is a relative term. Bad doesn’t always mean death or illness. But it pretty much always involves unexpected expenses.

I am into my 2nd set of threes in the last ten days. Any more bad stuff and I’ll be swinging from a rope…or bankrupt. 
  1. Ocotober 13th:  Fistulotomy. Two blog entries on this subject alone. A fistulotomy by itself should count as three things. I’m still waiting for the bill but I’m guessing $2,800 for my portion of the deductible.
  2. October 17th:  My dryer decided to start making a very bad noise. The kind of noise that would generate a call to the repairman. Lucky for me my spouse works for a major appliance company. The good news he had a direct access to the service manager. The bad news is the noise correlates to the type of repair “not worth fixing” because the repair is only slightly less than a new dryer.
  3. October 18th:  The garage door wouldn’t go all the way down. Upon further inspection by said husband, the gears were stripped. Happily the fix was only $47 on a part purchased from Amazon.com, 8 hours of spousal labor and 6 days of parking our cars in the driveway. And I found out at my routine dental appointment I need a crown and not the princess sparkly kind either. One of my teeth currently has a silver filling. The silver filling is cracked threatening to break the tooth. I’m putting this repair off until January, giving up popcorn and chewing very carefully on the right side of my mouth. My portion of the crown will be $600. Oh boy. October 18th wasn’t a banner day. I probably shouldn’t have left the house.
  4. October 20th: Rolled my ankle walking to my car. I’m nothing if not graceful. This one didn’t cost me anything other than a handful of ibuprofen and a swollen foot for 3 days. Nice.
  5. October 23th: Hit my head on the door of the dryer. Hit it hard. Hard enough to cause tears, a goose egg and a bruise that still hurts 3 days later. Again, this one only cost me my pride and a bag of ice.
  6. October 24th: The pump on the washing machine fails. This explains the stationary tub full of sopping wet clothes which I wrung out by hand. The good news – the machine has the extended warranty and the repair dude is coming on Thursday. Praise the lord.
  7. October 29th: My car is scheduled for new tires. Ironically this is the one event that was planned but now feels like a big financial inconvenience. And seriously, is there anything more un-fun then spending $500 on new tires. $500 buys a lot of shoes…or wine…which I need to drink to drown my sorrows and block out the financial hemorrhaging.
Ok – that’s 7. So either the universe is grossly cruel and I’ll be dealt another 2 bad things or I’m really done for a while and something good will happen – like winning megamillions or hitting all green lights on the way home from work or finding $10 in the pocket of my jeans. At this point, I’m desperate – I’ll take anything that doesn’t result in death, injury or unexpected loss of cash flow.

 

Thursday, October 28, 2010

When Parenting Sucks

Sometimes parenting just sucks.


My son and I have this “arrangement”. The arrangement goes something like this: I pay the cell phone bill and because I pay the bill, I have access to take a quick glance at his text messages. Herein lies the conflict. He has been pre-emptively deleting his messages. Yeah. I know. Very naughty and sneaky. So the question at the top of mind is what is he hiding?

I don’t want to be one of those parents waltzing through life with blinders on, absolutely ignorant to the fact that their kid is throwing beer parties or into some other type of mischief. That said – I know my kid. He’s home every night, is currently pulling straight A’s and doesn’t spend time lolling about the mall unattended. So I’m guessing it’s a girl.

Regardless, it did prompt a very gross conversation which ended with tears. His not mine.

I get it. He doesn’t want his dorky mom reading his text messages. He wants privacy. I get that also. And I want to give him privacy. I really do. But I also need to make sure he is not getting bullied (or bullying) or receiving sext messages or sneaking beer out of the house. So I tried my best to reassure him that I have absolutely no interest in reading the minutiae of his conversations with his friends and that as a parent it’s my job to make sure he gets through the next 4 years as unscathed as possible. And other parents may not care what their teens are doing, but I do care and someday he’ll be glad. At which point he stomped upstairs to his room and slammed the door. Sigh. So much for open dialogue.

After about 20 minutes I made my way to him room where I essentially reiterated my position. He either gets on board with my cursory review of his text messages or the texting goes away. And as an editorial side note: I am discreet about it. When I do check he isn’t around and it really is just a quick glance. Trust me. None of these text conversations are particularly deep.

I take his sullen "I hate my mom" look and  stony silence as acceptance of the offer. And then I ask if there is a girl. No answer (whilst he intently stares at his iTouch screen). But I can tell he is fighting back a smile.

Ah. Mystery solved. Yes. Clearly a girl which I am sure will inspire content for another blog entry in the future.

P.S. I am happy to say that when I checked his phone recently texts had not been deleted. And the “I hate you mom” phase only lasted about an hour.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Gleekdom

I have jumped on the Glee bandwagon. Big time. I tried resisting but I was sucked in and now find myself looking forward to Tuesdays nights a little too much. It must be my show-choir background. In my day we didn’t call it “Glee club” but show choir or swing choir. But it’s all the same stuff. The show tunes. The box step- snap-side-touch step dance moves. The wistful ballads. Unfortunately we didn’t have the powerhouse vocals. We also didn’t have the token handicapped, Asian or openly gay kid. After all Middleton High School was a hybrid of white bread USA and hicks from Cross Plains. We did have the cheerleader/jock combo though, a few farm kids and one multi-racial member.


Glee is cheesy, snarky, sugary coated, vocally rich deliciousness. I love it. LOVE IT! I love it so much I had to move Glee Season I and II up to the top of queue on my Netflix rental list by passing Season III of The Tudors and Mad Men. Sorry.

And I love Sue Sylvester. I love her snarky comments, her sneer and her rainbow of Adidas tracksuits. I love the big oafy football coach, the doe eyed guidance counselor and her manic hand washing. I love Mr. Schu and his perfectly coifed boy band hair. I love Rachel and her prima donna ways which oddly remind me of our own high school prima donna “Kate”, who was ironically just as talented and as much of a priss. Art imitates life.

My husband does not love Glee. My husband abhors Glee. He cringes. He thinks it’s weird, creepy and downright wrong. He’s a hater.
My son, however is also a Glee lover. Despite the fact the musical gene passed him by he is right there with me watching every sugary, snarky episode. Part of this I think is driven by the fact that every high school girl on the planet is a Gleek and it’s not a bad idea to maximize your attractiveness to the fairer high school sex by relating to something that they are totally into at the moment. The kid isn’t dumb. It pays to maximize potential girlfriend opportunity.

My gut tells me Glees popularity will burn fast and bright. Then the producers will do something ridiculous, jump the shark and be in the big fade.

In the meantime I’ll enjoy a big helping of gleetastic, gleerific, gleemazing , fabulous gleeness.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Fistulotomy Fun Part II

Read Part I for the back-story. I ain’t repeatin’ it all…


A Fistulotomy is the surgical repair of a fistula, and surgery is the only way to repair it.

Surgery means sedation. Sedation is good.

The surgeon opens the fistula tunnel, converts it to a groove to allow the fistula to heal from the inside out. So basically you’re paying thousands of dollars for a big gaping wound. I am told that it will take 3 weeks to heal. I am guardedly optimistic.

I’ve been trying not to read too much online stuff because I’ve read it takes anywhere from 3 weeks to a year to heal. My surgeon is pretty convinced this whole thing will be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey. Although she’s doing the cutting and I am the one being cut. I’m sure compared to other surgical stuff she does this is a cake walk. It’s also not her ass. I rest my case.

Prior to the surgery the patient (that’s me) must do a pre-operative bowel prep. Or as I like to call it, the Fisulotomy Weight Loss Plan (FWLP). The FWLP consists of two parts.

  1. Clear liquids the day before the surgery. Clear liquids being defined as anything you can “see through” when liquefied. Water, broth, jello and popsicles. Milk is bad. So is ice cream. Curses.
  2. Two bottles of Magnesium Citrate consumed 4 hours apart. Magnesium Citrate is a powerful laxative. How powerful? Well, I can tell you that mag citrate kicks in approximately 32 minutes after ingesting. Nasty stuff too. I held my nose the entire time I downed the first bottle.

Then it’s basically the patient tucked away in the bathroom with their favorite reading material. I chose a People Magazine for the occasion. Clean as whistle and 4 pounds lighter that’s all I can say. Good times.

The fistulotomy procedure itself went well. No surprise complications. My surgeon had the good sense to prescribe a mild sedative before they wheeled me into the operating room. The anesthesiologist called it “valium gold”. He was right. It’s too bad they don’t dole that stuff out like trick or trick candy. It’s that good.

The post-op is a bit of blur. I slept a lot.

The first 5 days post-op were the worst. No doubt about it. It hurt to walk, climb stairs, sit, stand or bend…add use the potty. Yeah. Also low on the fun scale. It’s good advice to keep up with the liquid diet post-operatively and make life easy. Trust me on this.

After 2 days I finally got up the nerve to look at the incision site. Yuck. Big gaping open wound and bruising that is unparalleled. I wonder if she used some type of vice clamp. I don’t want to know.

I had three days off of work and a weekend and hobbled back to work Monday morning. I gutted it out, but between you, me and the fencepost and another 3-4 days off would have not been unreasonable and it would have allowed me to watch Season 1, Disc 2 of Glee in one sitting.

I’m now on day 10 and the pain has lessened considerably although I am not into my regular exercise routine and only using pain pills as needed – mostly at night.

I see my doc this week for a follow-up and am crossing my fingers that this will take of it and my chance of reoccurrence is right up there with winning the lottery.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Fistulotomy Fun Part I

I hesitate to write on this subject because in all honesty it is one of the most horrifically embarrassing medical problems I’ve endured. And I’ve endured some. But honest -to- pete, I know there is some poor soul out there Googling “fistula” and coming up with nothing but medical reference material. Medical reference materials are, of course, helpful but sometimes you need the personal non-sugar-coated-right-between-the-eyes perspective of someone who has been there, done that. Plus, I have all of one reader so at least this is cathartic and cheaper than paying an actual therapist and the chance of anyone reading this is fairly slim.


What is a fistula you wonder? Well according to the fine people at MedLine Plus Encyclopedia:

A fistula is an abnormal connection between an organ, vessel, or intestine and another structure. Fistulas are usually the result of injury or surgery. It can also result from infection or inflammation.

In my case – my fistula was the result of a perianal abscess. I know. I must have lost a bet because who gets inflicted with an anal abscess and a fistula on top of that? Apparently I do.

An abscess is a whole other bucket of fun and can be caused by a whole host of reasons. Mine was caused by bad luck. I endured weeks of walking around thinking I had some type of angry internal hemorrhoid. When I couldn’t stand, sit or walk without searing pain, I finally called the doctor.

Generally an abscess is “handled” in the office. If you read between the lines that means a localized numbing agent is administered in a delicate area with a needle while the patient is chest down-butt up on a proctology table – just to add further embarrassment to the whole experience.

Important tip: If your doctor says anything along the lines of “most people tolerate this procedure really well in the office”, ask for a bullet to bite on. They are lying.

Perianal abscesses are wickedly painful and an injection in an already tender area is very low on the fun scale. At least I got 2 days off of work and prescription of hydrocodone for my trouble. In my ignorance I figured the worst was over. My abscess was “taken care of” … let the healing begin. Unfortunately rates of fistulas’ after an abscess are staggeringly high. Like somewhere is the neighborhood of 50% - 65%. And there is pretty much nothing the patient can do to prevent it. 12 sitz baths a day won’t improve your chances of better healing. I know. I tried. More bad luck.

The worst part of the abscess/fistula tango, is the waiting game. The patient (in this case me) has to gut out 3 long months of potential healing time before confirming a fistula diagnosis. Basically where the abscess was, never heals and there is a tiny tunnel from the inside of the body (in my case the rectum) to the outer incision. Good times. The fistula spasms pretty much constantly (pain) and the patient walks around with a wad of gauze tucked in-between the butt cheeks 24x7. Suffice it to say I now own stock in Johnson & Johnson.

Three months later I was able to trot back into the surgeon’s office for a 5 minute, $178, exam to confirm what I already knew. Congratulations, I had a bouncing baby fistula and now required a Fistulotomy to repair it.

Yes, I’m pretty sure there is a black cloud over my head.

Friday, October 1, 2010

My Fathers Daughter

My dad is an artist of the most spectacular nature. He’s my dad. So, of course, I think he is brilliant.


He is though.

Truly.

Hand on a stack of bibles.

Brilliant.

I traveled with my dad to the Peoria Fine Art Fair recently. He was representing his art over a weekend. I know, I know. Peoria. It’s a bit of an oxymoron. What do the people of Peoria know about fine art? Judging by the number of craptastic $40 “lawn art on a stick” I saw people walking around with, not much.

In any case, due to a complicated labyrinth of circumstances, my mom was unable to attend the show and I stepped in to pinch hit.

The prospect of traveling with him was a little more than daunting. Frankly, I was afraid of getting yelled at. Loudly. My dad is great and wonderful but he can have an impossibly short fuse and does this thing where he grits his tongue between his teeth when he gets impatient. I had flashbacks to being 12 years old, standing in the garage while my dad had me hold some impossibly heavy car part so he could measure it while simultaneously yelling at me for not holding “still” enough. Never-mind that I was a 12 year old, 85 pound skinny girl with virtually no muscle tone holding a piece of Ford Coupe bumper equal to my body weight. I’m just saying. There is some history there that fed my current anxiety about 4 days in Peoria.

I could provide a lot of unnecessary details about the weekend, the 6 hour setup process, the tense tear down where I was yelled at (but only once), the rain, the cold, the wind and the drunk artist in the booth next to us. All are seemingly irrelevant.

The most illuminating moment of the weekend came when we were crossing the street on our way from the parking lot to the art fair. My dad was two steps ahead of me and he reached back to take my hand like any parent does for their child when crossing the street. Despite the fact that we are 42 and 63 respectively and I know he gets that I am a grown up woman with a child of my own; I am still his child. So when he reaches back, I take his hand. He is my dad. I am my father’s daughter.