So this morning I had my MRI, which means regardless of the result, I will be done testing for a while. I have been informed that even if it is consistent with my other scans in providing the wildly helfpful information that I have "either a mass or a cyst," no further testing will be done regardless. So that's one bit of good news.
On the other hand, the bad part was that my test was at 8:15 am, which I rarely see these days unless forced, preferring to stay up half the night like a vampire and sleeping in all morning. However, I successfully dragged myself out of bed and over to the testing center, carefully attired in non-metal-laden clothing. At least I've learned something from TSA.
After removing my jewelry and my voluptuosity containment device, I wandered into the MRI room, where I was given yet more papers to sign to permit the technician to give me contrast. Um, what? I knew the CT scan Dr. Stepford was considering involved contrast, but no one said bupkis about contrast with the MRI. This, as usual, was news to me. Gotta love Asshat Medical--Keeping Patients Clueless Since 2011. I still cannot for the life of me comprehend how Dr. Stepford managed to win an award for "Compassionate Doctor" in 2010 and a "Patient's Choice" Award for both 2010 and 2011, given how she's been with me lately. But I digress.
Once in the MRI room, the lab technician asked me if I had any kidney disease or diabetes. I said no, wondering how on earth either of these would be magnetically relevant. I was next invited to hoist my bulk onto the narrow slide. My head and shoulders were propped up on pillows and I dutifully lifted my legs to allow the tech to shove a pillow wedge under my knees for comfort. She handed me some earplugs then she started strapping some sort of black band around my chest and put a big grey foam piece (which looked decidedly like a giant belt buckle) across my abdomen. She kept having me scootch farther up the bed to get into a specific spot. This was not a particularly easy process; it turns out that there was another giant belt buckle under my backside (which explains why my the bed felt lumpy) making sliding more difficult. By the time she was finally satisfied with my positioning, I had a giant thong made of ridden-up granny panties imbedded in my butt crack from all the shifting. It was like having butt floss made up of a 2 x 4. Fortunately the lab tech allowed me to un-wedge before telling me to put my arms over my head, after which she sent me down the tube.
I don't remember if the MRI I had on my wrist last year was an open or closed machine; I think it was closed, but the perspective is considerably different when on one's back than when on one's stomach. Last time I was on my stomach and had only one small pillow on which to prop my chin. My arm was cocked in front of me à la Superman and, while closed in, I seemed to have a considerable amount of room around my head, all things considered. This time, propped up on the 4-5 pillows as I was, I still made it down the chute, but had at most a 5-6" clearance and so was staring at the top of the tube for part of the time. I can easily see how people could become claustrophobic inside the machine.
Before I left this morning for the test, some of my FB buddies suggested that I "lie back and think of Englishmen." And excellent suggestion, that. As a result, most of the time I was inside the machine I kept my eyes shut, both to be less aware of sensation of being shoved inside a tampon casing and to be better able to fantasize about the Englishmen of my choice. Colin Firth...mmmmmmmmm.... I must say, though, that it's considerably more difficult to fantasize about Englishmen when some lady is perpetually telling you to "Breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...breathe out...now take a big breath in and HOLD IT." On the one hand you could say there was a lot of heavy breathing going on, but on the other hand, I just wanted the girl to shut up so I could get on with my mental orgy. In between the he machine's whirs and clicks as she adjusted it for the next scan and her bossiness about my breathing, I did manage to squeeze in a couple nice visuals of pretty English gentlemen. They made me smile. Wise advice, FB friends!!
After four or five scans the lab tech brought me out of the tube so she could administer the contrast. I'm still not a big fan of needles (in fact, I believe my reaction on hearing the news about the contrast was "Oh, crap!"), but I found it infinitely preferable to knocking back 2 gallons or so of liquid chalk. Berry-flavored chalk. I still smelled like contrast when I left, though, but at least I won't be belching it for the rest of the day like last time. I got to stretch my arms a little before I had to put my arms back over my head once again. The most comfortable position was to have my fingers laced above my head and resting on yet another pillow for support. I told the lab tech that I felt like I was posting for Charlie's Angels because of my pointed finger gun. She just giggled, then told me I was doing very well. Turns out that not everybody is clever enough to understand complex directions like "breathe in," "breathe out" and "hold your breath." Personally, I would rather feel smart because I had written a book or won a Nobel Prize, not because I could voluntarily breathe or not on command. The fact that this is apparently such a rare talent makes me weep for our society.
After the contrast was administered, I was shoved back down the torpedo chute for a couple more scans, then sent on my way, $150 of copay lighter in the wallet. And now I wait. For two days. After which I can bid a fond farewell to Dr. Stepford and her Merry Band of Malefactors. I will miss one thing about Nurse Medical License from the Honduras; now I'll have to find a new someone for whom to make up creative pseudonyms. In the meantime, fingers crossed till Thursday, so I can lay all this nonsensical drama to rest and get back to finding the funny in life.
31 January 2012
MRIs--Where Breathing Becomes Rocket Science
So this morning I had my MRI, which means regardless of the result, I will be done testing for a while. I have been informed that even if it is consistent with my other scans in providing the wildly helfpful information that I have "either a mass or a cyst," no further testing will be done regardless. So that's one bit of good news.
On the other hand, the bad part was that my test was at 8:15 am, which I rarely see these days unless forced, preferring to stay up half the night like a vampire and sleeping in all morning. However, I successfully dragged myself out of bed and over to the testing center, carefully attired in non-metal-laden clothing. At least I've learned something from TSA.
After removing my jewelry and my voluptuosity containment device, I wandered into the MRI room, where I was given yet more papers to sign to permit the technician to give me contrast. Um, what? I knew the CT scan Dr. Stepford was considering involved contrast, but no one said bupkis about contrast with the MRI. This, as usual, was news to me. Gotta love Asshat Medical--Keeping Patients Clueless Since 2011. I still cannot for the life of me comprehend how Dr. Stepford managed to win an award for "Compassionate Doctor" in 2010 and a "Patient's Choice" Award for both 2010 and 2011, given how she's been with me lately. But I digress.
Once in the MRI room, the lab technician asked me if I had any kidney disease or diabetes. I said no, wondering how on earth either of these would be magnetically relevant. I was next invited to hoist my bulk onto the narrow slide. My head and shoulders were propped up on pillows and I dutifully lifted my legs to allow the tech to shove a pillow wedge under my knees for comfort. She handed me some earplugs then she started strapping some sort of black band around my chest and put a big grey foam piece (which looked decidedly like a giant belt buckle) across my abdomen. She kept having me scootch farther up the bed to get into a specific spot. This was not a particularly easy process; it turns out that there was another giant belt buckle under my backside (which explains why my the bed felt lumpy) making sliding more difficult. By the time she was finally satisfied with my positioning, I had a giant thong made of ridden-up granny panties imbedded in my butt crack from all the shifting. It was like having butt floss made up of a 2 x 4. Fortunately the lab tech allowed me to un-wedge before telling me to put my arms over my head, after which she sent me down the tube.
I don't remember if the MRI I had on my wrist last year was an open or closed machine; I think it was closed, but the perspective is considerably different when on one's back than when on one's stomach. Last time I was on my stomach and had only one small pillow on which to prop my chin. My arm was cocked in front of me à la Superman and, while closed in, I seemed to have a considerable amount of room around my head, all things considered. This time, propped up on the 4-5 pillows as I was, I still made it down the chute, but had at most a 5-6" clearance and so was staring at the top of the tube for part of the time. I can easily see how people could become claustrophobic inside the machine.
Before I left this morning for the test, some of my FB buddies suggested that I "lie back and think of Englishmen." And excellent suggestion, that. As a result, most of the time I was inside the machine I kept my eyes shut, both to be less aware of sensation of being shoved inside a tampon casing and to be better able to fantasize about the Englishmen of my choice. Colin Firth...mmmmmmmmm.... I must say, though, that it's considerably more difficult to fantasize about Englishmen when some lady is perpetually telling you to "Breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...breathe out...now take a big breath in and HOLD IT." On the one hand you could say there was a lot of heavy breathing going on, but on the other hand, I just wanted the girl to shut up so I could get on with my mental orgy. In between the he machine's whirs and clicks as she adjusted it for the next scan and her bossiness about my breathing, I did manage to squeeze in a couple nice visuals of pretty English gentlemen. They made me smile. Wise advice, FB friends!!
After four or five scans the lab tech brought me out of the tube so she could administer the contrast. I'm still not a big fan of needles (in fact, I believe my reaction on hearing the news about the contrast was "Oh, crap!"), but I found it infinitely preferable to knocking back 2 gallons or so of liquid chalk. Berry-flavored chalk. I still smelled like contrast when I left, though, but at least I won't be belching it for the rest of the day like last time. I got to stretch my arms a little before I had to put my arms back over my head once again. The most comfortable position was to have my fingers laced above my head and resting on yet another pillow for support. I told the lab tech that I felt like I was posting for Charlie's Angels because of my pointed finger gun. She just giggled, then told me I was doing very well. Turns out that not everybody is clever enough to understand complex directions like "breathe in," "breathe out" and "hold your breath." Personally, I would rather feel smart because I had written a book or won a Nobel Prize, not because I could voluntarily breathe or not on command. The fact that this is apparently such a rare talent makes me weep for our society.
After the contrast was administered, I was shoved back down the torpedo chute for a couple more scans, then sent on my way, $150 of copay lighter in the wallet. And now I wait. For two days. After which I can bid a fond farewell to Dr. Stepford and her Merry Band of Malefactors. I will miss one thing about Nurse Medical License from the Honduras; now I'll have to find a new someone for whom to make up creative pseudonyms. In the meantime, fingers crossed till Thursday, so I can lay all this nonsensical drama to rest and get back to finding the funny in life.
On the other hand, the bad part was that my test was at 8:15 am, which I rarely see these days unless forced, preferring to stay up half the night like a vampire and sleeping in all morning. However, I successfully dragged myself out of bed and over to the testing center, carefully attired in non-metal-laden clothing. At least I've learned something from TSA.
After removing my jewelry and my voluptuosity containment device, I wandered into the MRI room, where I was given yet more papers to sign to permit the technician to give me contrast. Um, what? I knew the CT scan Dr. Stepford was considering involved contrast, but no one said bupkis about contrast with the MRI. This, as usual, was news to me. Gotta love Asshat Medical--Keeping Patients Clueless Since 2011. I still cannot for the life of me comprehend how Dr. Stepford managed to win an award for "Compassionate Doctor" in 2010 and a "Patient's Choice" Award for both 2010 and 2011, given how she's been with me lately. But I digress.
Once in the MRI room, the lab technician asked me if I had any kidney disease or diabetes. I said no, wondering how on earth either of these would be magnetically relevant. I was next invited to hoist my bulk onto the narrow slide. My head and shoulders were propped up on pillows and I dutifully lifted my legs to allow the tech to shove a pillow wedge under my knees for comfort. She handed me some earplugs then she started strapping some sort of black band around my chest and put a big grey foam piece (which looked decidedly like a giant belt buckle) across my abdomen. She kept having me scootch farther up the bed to get into a specific spot. This was not a particularly easy process; it turns out that there was another giant belt buckle under my backside (which explains why my the bed felt lumpy) making sliding more difficult. By the time she was finally satisfied with my positioning, I had a giant thong made of ridden-up granny panties imbedded in my butt crack from all the shifting. It was like having butt floss made up of a 2 x 4. Fortunately the lab tech allowed me to un-wedge before telling me to put my arms over my head, after which she sent me down the tube.
I don't remember if the MRI I had on my wrist last year was an open or closed machine; I think it was closed, but the perspective is considerably different when on one's back than when on one's stomach. Last time I was on my stomach and had only one small pillow on which to prop my chin. My arm was cocked in front of me à la Superman and, while closed in, I seemed to have a considerable amount of room around my head, all things considered. This time, propped up on the 4-5 pillows as I was, I still made it down the chute, but had at most a 5-6" clearance and so was staring at the top of the tube for part of the time. I can easily see how people could become claustrophobic inside the machine.
Before I left this morning for the test, some of my FB buddies suggested that I "lie back and think of Englishmen." And excellent suggestion, that. As a result, most of the time I was inside the machine I kept my eyes shut, both to be less aware of sensation of being shoved inside a tampon casing and to be better able to fantasize about the Englishmen of my choice. Colin Firth...mmmmmmmmm.... I must say, though, that it's considerably more difficult to fantasize about Englishmen when some lady is perpetually telling you to "Breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...breathe out...now take a big breath in and HOLD IT." On the one hand you could say there was a lot of heavy breathing going on, but on the other hand, I just wanted the girl to shut up so I could get on with my mental orgy. In between the he machine's whirs and clicks as she adjusted it for the next scan and her bossiness about my breathing, I did manage to squeeze in a couple nice visuals of pretty English gentlemen. They made me smile. Wise advice, FB friends!!
After four or five scans the lab tech brought me out of the tube so she could administer the contrast. I'm still not a big fan of needles (in fact, I believe my reaction on hearing the news about the contrast was "Oh, crap!"), but I found it infinitely preferable to knocking back 2 gallons or so of liquid chalk. Berry-flavored chalk. I still smelled like contrast when I left, though, but at least I won't be belching it for the rest of the day like last time. I got to stretch my arms a little before I had to put my arms back over my head once again. The most comfortable position was to have my fingers laced above my head and resting on yet another pillow for support. I told the lab tech that I felt like I was posting for Charlie's Angels because of my pointed finger gun. She just giggled, then told me I was doing very well. Turns out that not everybody is clever enough to understand complex directions like "breathe in," "breathe out" and "hold your breath." Personally, I would rather feel smart because I had written a book or won a Nobel Prize, not because I could voluntarily breathe or not on command. The fact that this is apparently such a rare talent makes me weep for our society.
After the contrast was administered, I was shoved back down the torpedo chute for a couple more scans, then sent on my way, $150 of copay lighter in the wallet. And now I wait. For two days. After which I can bid a fond farewell to Dr. Stepford and her Merry Band of Malefactors. I will miss one thing about Nurse Medical License from the Honduras; now I'll have to find a new someone for whom to make up creative pseudonyms. In the meantime, fingers crossed till Thursday, so I can lay all this nonsensical drama to rest and get back to finding the funny in life.
Dr. Stepford and the Deathly Shallow
I have been a delinquent blogger this month. I realize that. It's amazing to me that I did so well all throughout November and December, in spite of the holidays and surgery and everything else. For some reason, though, my heart just hasn't been all the way invested in January. Well, for several reasons, really, the biggest of which is that I am freaking OVER dealing with medical issues and talking about them all the time. I hope that in the very near future I will again be finding the humor in daily life and therefore have more interesting things about which to blog than which doctor did what to me when--for the eleventy billionth time.
That said, it's been over a week since my last post. After my last boxing match with Dr. Earnest, I was just too tired and angry to write. I'm not now, because the end is near. Not my end, thank you very much, but the end of my affiliation with Dr. Earnest and, as one dear friend refers to it, Asshat Medical.
After waiting for over a week to hear back from Nurse Vapid about the whole "Am I getting an MRI or what" question, I finally called the office, only to be told by Nurse Attitude Problem that my file wasnot important enough to peruse still on the doctor's desk. Nice. I lost it, or at least as much as once can lose it without actually going postal. I flat-out asked Nurse Bite Me if they routinely jerked around ALL their patients, or if it was just me. Not surprisingly, she resorted to her standard tactic of talking in circles and while saying nothing remotely useful beyond yet again telling me she didn't "see why I was so upset because it just wasn't that big a deal." Well, maybe not to you, Sweetheart, but shockingly, my health IS important to me. And you'll forgive me if I don't trust your medical opinion, what with your flagrant lack of a medical degree and all. I was furious. This woman, who is probably half my age, has done nothing but condescend to me since I met her. I find such behavior irretrievably unprofessional. Finally the cow asked if I wanted the doctor to call me. Well, DUH--I have been trying to speak to.the.actual.doctor since this all started. YES, I want her to call me.
I waited the whole rest of the day for Doctor Clueless to call me back. I practically soldered my cell phone to my hand so I wouldn't miss the call. I even waited to shower (I had plans to go see "Spamalot" with a friend Monday night) so I wouldn't miss the call. When I could wait no longer, I went ahead and showered in approximately 3 minutes, after which I ran to the counter to check my phone. No call. I got dressed. No call. I turned the ringer up, set the phone facing me on the counter so I could see any messages flash by, then turned on the hair dryer. Naturally, in the roughly 30 seconds I had my eyes closed to dry my bangs, my fool phone rang. I saw it and rushed to pick up the call before it went to voicemail. Too late. I tried to call back, but kept getting the main office number and after-hours answering service. Two months I've been waiting to talk to this woman, and I can't even call her back. Yup. Story of my life.
Fed up, I went the next day to her office. I walked up to the receptionist and told her I wanted to see the doctor. She started to mention Nurse Stupid's name. I said "No, I don't WANT to talk to Nurse Stupid, I want to talk to the DOCTOR." I should point out here that, while terse and specific, I was in no way rude. I was rude on the phone with Nurse Buttmunch the day before, but even then I did not call her a single one of the names rampaging through my brain and, while angry, was still civil. Mostly.
I was sent to the waiting room and Nurse Death Glare came to collect me a few moments later. She took me back to one of the rooms where I sat and waited for Dr. Earnest. When the doctor came in, her first words to me were "I thought you were just going to call me back today." Yeah, right, doc...that was going to happen. Because communication with you and your office staff is so very reliable. I don't think so. I informed her that I was very frustrated over the way I had been treated, to which she replied, "yes, they said you were upset." No, doc, I wasn't "upset." I was FURIOUS. I explained my frustrations, the incredible lack of communication and the unprofessional behavior. The entire time she sat listening, completely and utterly expressionless. What I had originally taken for earnestness was apparently more along the lines of Stepfordian. Occasionally she would interject that lovely psychological cliché "I hear what you're saying..." just to annoy me further.
At no point whatsoever during the interview did her facial expression or vocal expression alter one whit. I was beginning to think that she was secretly a cyborg. She did not appear concerned, angry, upset with her staff or upset with me. She was just...blank. It was tremendously disconcerting. Eventually she apologized for the confusion (which I did not find sincere) and said she agreed that her staff should not be treating me as if my health were irrelevant or insignificant (also without changing any expressions). She said that in future she would personally check into their communication practices, particularly as they pertain to ME (translation: "I'll call you more often if I have to, but you need to know that you are the only whiny baby who complains about our procedures").
Next she flatly informed me that "the past is the past" and that if we were "going to continue to have a relationship" that I would have to "behave more professionally" when talking to her staff, because she couldn't have them "afraid to come to work for fear of being berated." Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Your Nurse Victimized treats me like a waste of space from Day One for having the cajones to advocate on behalf of my own healthcare, jerks me around for 2 ½ months, then runs crying to you because I am justifiably frustrated and you have the nerve to treat ME like some deviant teen in the principal's office?? NOT. COOL. That thunk you hear, Dr. Stepford? That's the last nail being pounded into the coffin. I told her that I would stop "berating them" if they would stop giving me reasons to do so.
Shortly after this astonishing display of F.U. and the horse you rode in on, she sat and told me that "these things are really very common and generally nothing to worry about." I pointed out that we should have been having this exact discussion two months ago. "Okay" (no expression change). I asked what the usual procedure was should it turn out to be a cyst and was informed that it would basically become an eternal "wait and see" proposition, requiring me to get re-scanned every 6-12 months to monitor any growth. Yay. Because I want to do this all.the.time.
We then began the negotiation for how best to test me once again. After discussing it with the radiologist, Dr. Stepford "recommended" another CT, but with a different type of contrast. I was patently against this, considering that a contrast CT had already been performed. Dr. Cyborg admitted that she was fine with an MRI, but that the advantage of doing any tests at the hospital was that the radiologists would compare all test results, even though they aren't supposed to. I don't know about all of you, but I don't feel particularly comforted to know that some random radiologist is consistently bucking the rules to compare my multiple scans, or even multiple radiologists, come to that. I realize this is their specialty and you can color me picky if you like, but I prefer my ACTUAL DOCTOR to read and interpret my scans. Dr. Stepford then told me that she doesn't read anyone's scans, and nor does any other internist in town. I was instructed that internists maybe read chest x-rays, but that's about it. How comforting to know that my healthcare is being determined by someone who lacks the ability to blink, never mind to interpret my actual tests herself. Charming. Clearly I've been watching too much House M.D., because I have the apparently foolish belief that all doctors should be able to read all results. What was I thinking??
Negotiations continued. Dr. Nonexistent Bedside Manner also agreed that an MRI at the diagnostic center would be acceptable (though gosh darn it, they wouldn't compare results). By this time I was so beyond giving a flying fart in space and I just wanted it all to be over. "You look unhappy (don't blink) with this decision..." (OMG, she's secretly a Weeping Angel from Doctor Who!!). I told her I was past caring whether I did a CT or an MRI or what or where, as long as it could be done as quickly as possible. She said that the diagnostic center would almost certainly be quicker, though either would require a few days to make sure my insurance would cover it.
In the end, Nurse Bitchy came back with times for each place...on the same day. Well, that was a pointless exercise. She then told me I couldn't have anything to eat or drink for 8 hours. (For an MRI??? Since when, Nurse Head Up Heinie?) We negotiated times some more, deciding on this morning at 8:15. At the DIAGNOSTIC CENTER. So I got my way, but mostly only because they were trying to placate me and make me leave. Nurse Bitchy came back with the order for me, and told me that since they had "switched it" to an MRI instead of a CT, I didn't have to not eat. And this would be why I loathe you, Nurse Needs Slapping--no one changed the order. Please try to pay attention and have something productive and non-asinine to say in future, won't you? Or is that too "unprofessional" of me to say??
I left with my MRI paperwork and an appointment to get the results on Thursday, after which I hope never to see either of these signally ineffective medical practitioners. If I merely have a cyst, nothing's gonna happen before I can find a new PCP. If it's cancer, I'll have a different doctor--a specialist who presumably knows how to read a freaking scan--anyway. Either way, after Thursday it's Hasta la Vista, Baby to the most inexplicably useless medical practice I have ever had the misfortune to visit. Needless to say, Thursday won't get here soon enough.
That said, it's been over a week since my last post. After my last boxing match with Dr. Earnest, I was just too tired and angry to write. I'm not now, because the end is near. Not my end, thank you very much, but the end of my affiliation with Dr. Earnest and, as one dear friend refers to it, Asshat Medical.
After waiting for over a week to hear back from Nurse Vapid about the whole "Am I getting an MRI or what" question, I finally called the office, only to be told by Nurse Attitude Problem that my file was
I waited the whole rest of the day for Doctor Clueless to call me back. I practically soldered my cell phone to my hand so I wouldn't miss the call. I even waited to shower (I had plans to go see "Spamalot" with a friend Monday night) so I wouldn't miss the call. When I could wait no longer, I went ahead and showered in approximately 3 minutes, after which I ran to the counter to check my phone. No call. I got dressed. No call. I turned the ringer up, set the phone facing me on the counter so I could see any messages flash by, then turned on the hair dryer. Naturally, in the roughly 30 seconds I had my eyes closed to dry my bangs, my fool phone rang. I saw it and rushed to pick up the call before it went to voicemail. Too late. I tried to call back, but kept getting the main office number and after-hours answering service. Two months I've been waiting to talk to this woman, and I can't even call her back. Yup. Story of my life.
Fed up, I went the next day to her office. I walked up to the receptionist and told her I wanted to see the doctor. She started to mention Nurse Stupid's name. I said "No, I don't WANT to talk to Nurse Stupid, I want to talk to the DOCTOR." I should point out here that, while terse and specific, I was in no way rude. I was rude on the phone with Nurse Buttmunch the day before, but even then I did not call her a single one of the names rampaging through my brain and, while angry, was still civil. Mostly.
I was sent to the waiting room and Nurse Death Glare came to collect me a few moments later. She took me back to one of the rooms where I sat and waited for Dr. Earnest. When the doctor came in, her first words to me were "I thought you were just going to call me back today." Yeah, right, doc...that was going to happen. Because communication with you and your office staff is so very reliable. I don't think so. I informed her that I was very frustrated over the way I had been treated, to which she replied, "yes, they said you were upset." No, doc, I wasn't "upset." I was FURIOUS. I explained my frustrations, the incredible lack of communication and the unprofessional behavior. The entire time she sat listening, completely and utterly expressionless. What I had originally taken for earnestness was apparently more along the lines of Stepfordian. Occasionally she would interject that lovely psychological cliché "I hear what you're saying..." just to annoy me further.
At no point whatsoever during the interview did her facial expression or vocal expression alter one whit. I was beginning to think that she was secretly a cyborg. She did not appear concerned, angry, upset with her staff or upset with me. She was just...blank. It was tremendously disconcerting. Eventually she apologized for the confusion (which I did not find sincere) and said she agreed that her staff should not be treating me as if my health were irrelevant or insignificant (also without changing any expressions). She said that in future she would personally check into their communication practices, particularly as they pertain to ME (translation: "I'll call you more often if I have to, but you need to know that you are the only whiny baby who complains about our procedures").
Next she flatly informed me that "the past is the past" and that if we were "going to continue to have a relationship" that I would have to "behave more professionally" when talking to her staff, because she couldn't have them "afraid to come to work for fear of being berated." Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Your Nurse Victimized treats me like a waste of space from Day One for having the cajones to advocate on behalf of my own healthcare, jerks me around for 2 ½ months, then runs crying to you because I am justifiably frustrated and you have the nerve to treat ME like some deviant teen in the principal's office?? NOT. COOL. That thunk you hear, Dr. Stepford? That's the last nail being pounded into the coffin. I told her that I would stop "berating them" if they would stop giving me reasons to do so.
Shortly after this astonishing display of F.U. and the horse you rode in on, she sat and told me that "these things are really very common and generally nothing to worry about." I pointed out that we should have been having this exact discussion two months ago. "Okay" (no expression change). I asked what the usual procedure was should it turn out to be a cyst and was informed that it would basically become an eternal "wait and see" proposition, requiring me to get re-scanned every 6-12 months to monitor any growth. Yay. Because I want to do this all.the.time.
We then began the negotiation for how best to test me once again. After discussing it with the radiologist, Dr. Stepford "recommended" another CT, but with a different type of contrast. I was patently against this, considering that a contrast CT had already been performed. Dr. Cyborg admitted that she was fine with an MRI, but that the advantage of doing any tests at the hospital was that the radiologists would compare all test results, even though they aren't supposed to. I don't know about all of you, but I don't feel particularly comforted to know that some random radiologist is consistently bucking the rules to compare my multiple scans, or even multiple radiologists, come to that. I realize this is their specialty and you can color me picky if you like, but I prefer my ACTUAL DOCTOR to read and interpret my scans. Dr. Stepford then told me that she doesn't read anyone's scans, and nor does any other internist in town. I was instructed that internists maybe read chest x-rays, but that's about it. How comforting to know that my healthcare is being determined by someone who lacks the ability to blink, never mind to interpret my actual tests herself. Charming. Clearly I've been watching too much House M.D., because I have the apparently foolish belief that all doctors should be able to read all results. What was I thinking??
Negotiations continued. Dr. Nonexistent Bedside Manner also agreed that an MRI at the diagnostic center would be acceptable (though gosh darn it, they wouldn't compare results). By this time I was so beyond giving a flying fart in space and I just wanted it all to be over. "You look unhappy (don't blink) with this decision..." (OMG, she's secretly a Weeping Angel from Doctor Who!!). I told her I was past caring whether I did a CT or an MRI or what or where, as long as it could be done as quickly as possible. She said that the diagnostic center would almost certainly be quicker, though either would require a few days to make sure my insurance would cover it.
In the end, Nurse Bitchy came back with times for each place...on the same day. Well, that was a pointless exercise. She then told me I couldn't have anything to eat or drink for 8 hours. (For an MRI??? Since when, Nurse Head Up Heinie?) We negotiated times some more, deciding on this morning at 8:15. At the DIAGNOSTIC CENTER. So I got my way, but mostly only because they were trying to placate me and make me leave. Nurse Bitchy came back with the order for me, and told me that since they had "switched it" to an MRI instead of a CT, I didn't have to not eat. And this would be why I loathe you, Nurse Needs Slapping--no one changed the order. Please try to pay attention and have something productive and non-asinine to say in future, won't you? Or is that too "unprofessional" of me to say??
I left with my MRI paperwork and an appointment to get the results on Thursday, after which I hope never to see either of these signally ineffective medical practitioners. If I merely have a cyst, nothing's gonna happen before I can find a new PCP. If it's cancer, I'll have a different doctor--a specialist who presumably knows how to read a freaking scan--anyway. Either way, after Thursday it's Hasta la Vista, Baby to the most inexplicably useless medical practice I have ever had the misfortune to visit. Needless to say, Thursday won't get here soon enough.
Dr. Stepford and the Deathly Shallow
I have been a delinquent blogger this month. I realize that. It's amazing to me that I did so well all throughout November and December, in spite of the holidays and surgery and everything else. For some reason, though, my heart just hasn't been all the way invested in January. Well, for several reasons, really, the biggest of which is that I am freaking OVER dealing with medical issues and talking about them all the time. I hope that in the very near future I will again be finding the humor in daily life and therefore have more interesting things about which to blog than which doctor did what to me when--for the eleventy billionth time.
That said, it's been over a week since my last post. After my last boxing match with Dr. Earnest, I was just too tired and angry to write. I'm not now, because the end is near. Not my end, thank you very much, but the end of my affiliation with Dr. Earnest and, as one dear friend refers to it, Asshat Medical.
After waiting for over a week to hear back from Nurse Vapid about the whole "Am I getting an MRI or what" question, I finally called the office, only to be told by Nurse Attitude Problem that my file wasnot important enough to peruse still on the doctor's desk. Nice. I lost it, or at least as much as once can lose it without actually going postal. I flat-out asked Nurse Bite Me if they routinely jerked around ALL their patients, or if it was just me. Not surprisingly, she resorted to her standard tactic of talking in circles and while saying nothing remotely useful beyond yet again telling me she didn't "see why I was so upset because it just wasn't that big a deal." Well, maybe not to you, Sweetheart, but shockingly, my health IS important to me. And you'll forgive me if I don't trust your medical opinion, what with your flagrant lack of a medical degree and all. I was furious. This woman, who is probably half my age, has done nothing but condescend to me since I met her. I find such behavior irretrievably unprofessional. Finally the cow asked if I wanted the doctor to call me. Well, DUH--I have been trying to speak to.the.actual.doctor since this all started. YES, I want her to call me.
I waited the whole rest of the day for Doctor Clueless to call me back. I practically soldered my cell phone to my hand so I wouldn't miss the call. I even waited to shower (I had plans to go see "Spamalot" with a friend Monday night) so I wouldn't miss the call. When I could wait no longer, I went ahead and showered in approximately 3 minutes, after which I ran to the counter to check my phone. No call. I got dressed. No call. I turned the ringer up, set the phone facing me on the counter so I could see any messages flash by, then turned on the hair dryer. Naturally, in the roughly 30 seconds I had my eyes closed to dry my bangs, my fool phone rang. I saw it and rushed to pick up the call before it went to voicemail. Too late. I tried to call back, but kept getting the main office number and after-hours answering service. Two months I've been waiting to talk to this woman, and I can't even call her back. Yup. Story of my life.
Fed up, I went the next day to her office. I walked up to the receptionist and told her I wanted to see the doctor. She started to mention Nurse Stupid's name. I said "No, I don't WANT to talk to Nurse Stupid, I want to talk to the DOCTOR." I should point out here that, while terse and specific, I was in no way rude. I was rude on the phone with Nurse Buttmunch the day before, but even then I did not call her a single one of the names rampaging through my brain and, while angry, was still civil. Mostly.
I was sent to the waiting room and Nurse Death Glare came to collect me a few moments later. She took me back to one of the rooms where I sat and waited for Dr. Earnest. When the doctor came in, her first words to me were "I thought you were just going to call me back today." Yeah, right, doc...that was going to happen. Because communication with you and your office staff is so very reliable. I don't think so. I informed her that I was very frustrated over the way I had been treated, to which she replied, "yes, they said you were upset." No, doc, I wasn't "upset." I was FURIOUS. I explained my frustrations, the incredible lack of communication and the unprofessional behavior. The entire time she sat listening, completely and utterly expressionless. What I had originally taken for earnestness was apparently more along the lines of Stepfordian. Occasionally she would interject that lovely psychological cliché "I hear what you're saying..." just to annoy me further.
At no point whatsoever during the interview did her facial expression or vocal expression alter one whit. I was beginning to think that she was secretly a cyborg. She did not appear concerned, angry, upset with her staff or upset with me. She was just...blank. It was tremendously disconcerting. Eventually she apologized for the confusion (which I did not find sincere) and said she agreed that her staff should not be treating me as if my health were irrelevant or insignificant (also without changing any expressions). She said that in future she would personally check into their communication practices, particularly as they pertain to ME (translation: "I'll call you more often if I have to, but you need to know that you are the only whiny baby who complains about our procedures").
Next she flatly informed me that "the past is the past" and that if we were "going to continue to have a relationship" that I would have to "behave more professionally" when talking to her staff, because she couldn't have them "afraid to come to work for fear of being berated." Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Your Nurse Victimized treats me like a waste of space from Day One for having the cajones to advocate on behalf of my own healthcare, jerks me around for 2 ½ months, then runs crying to you because I am justifiably frustrated and you have the nerve to treat ME like some deviant teen in the principal's office?? NOT. COOL. That thunk you hear, Dr. Stepford? That's the last nail being pounded into the coffin. I told her that I would stop "berating them" if they would stop giving me reasons to do so.
Shortly after this astonishing display of F.U. and the horse you rode in on, she sat and told me that "these things are really very common and generally nothing to worry about." I pointed out that we should have been having this exact discussion two months ago. "Okay" (no expression change). I asked what the usual procedure was should it turn out to be a cyst and was informed that it would basically become an eternal "wait and see" proposition, requiring me to get re-scanned every 6-12 months to monitor any growth. Yay. Because I want to do this all.the.time.
We then began the negotiation for how best to test me once again. After discussing it with the radiologist, Dr. Stepford "recommended" another CT, but with a different type of contrast. I was patently against this, considering that a contrast CT had already been performed. Dr. Cyborg admitted that she was fine with an MRI, but that the advantage of doing any tests at the hospital was that the radiologists would compare all test results, even though they aren't supposed to. I don't know about all of you, but I don't feel particularly comforted to know that some random radiologist is consistently bucking the rules to compare my multiple scans, or even multiple radiologists, come to that. I realize this is their specialty and you can color me picky if you like, but I prefer my ACTUAL DOCTOR to read and interpret my scans. Dr. Stepford then told me that she doesn't read anyone's scans, and nor does any other internist in town. I was instructed that internists maybe read chest x-rays, but that's about it. How comforting to know that my healthcare is being determined by someone who lacks the ability to blink, never mind to interpret my actual tests herself. Charming. Clearly I've been watching too much House M.D., because I have the apparently foolish belief that all doctors should be able to read all results. What was I thinking??
Negotiations continued. Dr. Nonexistent Bedside Manner also agreed that an MRI at the diagnostic center would be acceptable (though gosh darn it, they wouldn't compare results). By this time I was so beyond giving a flying fart in space and I just wanted it all to be over. "You look unhappy (don't blink) with this decision..." (OMG, she's secretly a Weeping Angel from Doctor Who!!). I told her I was past caring whether I did a CT or an MRI or what or where, as long as it could be done as quickly as possible. She said that the diagnostic center would almost certainly be quicker, though either would require a few days to make sure my insurance would cover it.
In the end, Nurse Bitchy came back with times for each place...on the same day. Well, that was a pointless exercise. She then told me I couldn't have anything to eat or drink for 8 hours. (For an MRI??? Since when, Nurse Head Up Heinie?) We negotiated times some more, deciding on this morning at 8:15. At the DIAGNOSTIC CENTER. So I got my way, but mostly only because they were trying to placate me and make me leave. Nurse Bitchy came back with the order for me, and told me that since they had "switched it" to an MRI instead of a CT, I didn't have to not eat. And this would be why I loathe you, Nurse Needs Slapping--no one changed the order. Please try to pay attention and have something productive and non-asinine to say in future, won't you? Or is that too "unprofessional" of me to say??
I left with my MRI paperwork and an appointment to get the results on Thursday, after which I hope never to see either of these signally ineffective medical practitioners. If I merely have a cyst, nothing's gonna happen before I can find a new PCP. If it's cancer, I'll have a different doctor--a specialist who presumably knows how to read a freaking scan--anyway. Either way, after Thursday it's Hasta la Vista, Baby to the most inexplicably useless medical practice I have ever had the misfortune to visit. Needless to say, Thursday won't get here soon enough.
That said, it's been over a week since my last post. After my last boxing match with Dr. Earnest, I was just too tired and angry to write. I'm not now, because the end is near. Not my end, thank you very much, but the end of my affiliation with Dr. Earnest and, as one dear friend refers to it, Asshat Medical.
After waiting for over a week to hear back from Nurse Vapid about the whole "Am I getting an MRI or what" question, I finally called the office, only to be told by Nurse Attitude Problem that my file was
I waited the whole rest of the day for Doctor Clueless to call me back. I practically soldered my cell phone to my hand so I wouldn't miss the call. I even waited to shower (I had plans to go see "Spamalot" with a friend Monday night) so I wouldn't miss the call. When I could wait no longer, I went ahead and showered in approximately 3 minutes, after which I ran to the counter to check my phone. No call. I got dressed. No call. I turned the ringer up, set the phone facing me on the counter so I could see any messages flash by, then turned on the hair dryer. Naturally, in the roughly 30 seconds I had my eyes closed to dry my bangs, my fool phone rang. I saw it and rushed to pick up the call before it went to voicemail. Too late. I tried to call back, but kept getting the main office number and after-hours answering service. Two months I've been waiting to talk to this woman, and I can't even call her back. Yup. Story of my life.
Fed up, I went the next day to her office. I walked up to the receptionist and told her I wanted to see the doctor. She started to mention Nurse Stupid's name. I said "No, I don't WANT to talk to Nurse Stupid, I want to talk to the DOCTOR." I should point out here that, while terse and specific, I was in no way rude. I was rude on the phone with Nurse Buttmunch the day before, but even then I did not call her a single one of the names rampaging through my brain and, while angry, was still civil. Mostly.
I was sent to the waiting room and Nurse Death Glare came to collect me a few moments later. She took me back to one of the rooms where I sat and waited for Dr. Earnest. When the doctor came in, her first words to me were "I thought you were just going to call me back today." Yeah, right, doc...that was going to happen. Because communication with you and your office staff is so very reliable. I don't think so. I informed her that I was very frustrated over the way I had been treated, to which she replied, "yes, they said you were upset." No, doc, I wasn't "upset." I was FURIOUS. I explained my frustrations, the incredible lack of communication and the unprofessional behavior. The entire time she sat listening, completely and utterly expressionless. What I had originally taken for earnestness was apparently more along the lines of Stepfordian. Occasionally she would interject that lovely psychological cliché "I hear what you're saying..." just to annoy me further.
At no point whatsoever during the interview did her facial expression or vocal expression alter one whit. I was beginning to think that she was secretly a cyborg. She did not appear concerned, angry, upset with her staff or upset with me. She was just...blank. It was tremendously disconcerting. Eventually she apologized for the confusion (which I did not find sincere) and said she agreed that her staff should not be treating me as if my health were irrelevant or insignificant (also without changing any expressions). She said that in future she would personally check into their communication practices, particularly as they pertain to ME (translation: "I'll call you more often if I have to, but you need to know that you are the only whiny baby who complains about our procedures").
Next she flatly informed me that "the past is the past" and that if we were "going to continue to have a relationship" that I would have to "behave more professionally" when talking to her staff, because she couldn't have them "afraid to come to work for fear of being berated." Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Your Nurse Victimized treats me like a waste of space from Day One for having the cajones to advocate on behalf of my own healthcare, jerks me around for 2 ½ months, then runs crying to you because I am justifiably frustrated and you have the nerve to treat ME like some deviant teen in the principal's office?? NOT. COOL. That thunk you hear, Dr. Stepford? That's the last nail being pounded into the coffin. I told her that I would stop "berating them" if they would stop giving me reasons to do so.
Shortly after this astonishing display of F.U. and the horse you rode in on, she sat and told me that "these things are really very common and generally nothing to worry about." I pointed out that we should have been having this exact discussion two months ago. "Okay" (no expression change). I asked what the usual procedure was should it turn out to be a cyst and was informed that it would basically become an eternal "wait and see" proposition, requiring me to get re-scanned every 6-12 months to monitor any growth. Yay. Because I want to do this all.the.time.
We then began the negotiation for how best to test me once again. After discussing it with the radiologist, Dr. Stepford "recommended" another CT, but with a different type of contrast. I was patently against this, considering that a contrast CT had already been performed. Dr. Cyborg admitted that she was fine with an MRI, but that the advantage of doing any tests at the hospital was that the radiologists would compare all test results, even though they aren't supposed to. I don't know about all of you, but I don't feel particularly comforted to know that some random radiologist is consistently bucking the rules to compare my multiple scans, or even multiple radiologists, come to that. I realize this is their specialty and you can color me picky if you like, but I prefer my ACTUAL DOCTOR to read and interpret my scans. Dr. Stepford then told me that she doesn't read anyone's scans, and nor does any other internist in town. I was instructed that internists maybe read chest x-rays, but that's about it. How comforting to know that my healthcare is being determined by someone who lacks the ability to blink, never mind to interpret my actual tests herself. Charming. Clearly I've been watching too much House M.D., because I have the apparently foolish belief that all doctors should be able to read all results. What was I thinking??
Negotiations continued. Dr. Nonexistent Bedside Manner also agreed that an MRI at the diagnostic center would be acceptable (though gosh darn it, they wouldn't compare results). By this time I was so beyond giving a flying fart in space and I just wanted it all to be over. "You look unhappy (don't blink) with this decision..." (OMG, she's secretly a Weeping Angel from Doctor Who!!). I told her I was past caring whether I did a CT or an MRI or what or where, as long as it could be done as quickly as possible. She said that the diagnostic center would almost certainly be quicker, though either would require a few days to make sure my insurance would cover it.
In the end, Nurse Bitchy came back with times for each place...on the same day. Well, that was a pointless exercise. She then told me I couldn't have anything to eat or drink for 8 hours. (For an MRI??? Since when, Nurse Head Up Heinie?) We negotiated times some more, deciding on this morning at 8:15. At the DIAGNOSTIC CENTER. So I got my way, but mostly only because they were trying to placate me and make me leave. Nurse Bitchy came back with the order for me, and told me that since they had "switched it" to an MRI instead of a CT, I didn't have to not eat. And this would be why I loathe you, Nurse Needs Slapping--no one changed the order. Please try to pay attention and have something productive and non-asinine to say in future, won't you? Or is that too "unprofessional" of me to say??
I left with my MRI paperwork and an appointment to get the results on Thursday, after which I hope never to see either of these signally ineffective medical practitioners. If I merely have a cyst, nothing's gonna happen before I can find a new PCP. If it's cancer, I'll have a different doctor--a specialist who presumably knows how to read a freaking scan--anyway. Either way, after Thursday it's Hasta la Vista, Baby to the most inexplicably useless medical practice I have ever had the misfortune to visit. Needless to say, Thursday won't get here soon enough.
20 January 2012
Roller Coaster Week
Have you ever had one of those weeks when things seem to change so quickly that your brain can't quite absorb it all? It's kind of like when the weather switches back and forth between extreme temperatures so rapidly that you end up getting Weather Whiplash--one day it's 70℉ and you're running errands in flip flops, then 10 hours later it's 33℉ and you're digging through your closet, trying to find a scarf and mittens. By the time you find them, it's back to 66℉. You utter a few choice words and then spend the next three weeks sick because your body simply can't adjust that quickly.
My week has been a little like that. The extremes have perhaps not been quite so severe as in Weather Whiplash, but they've made for an interesting week nonetheless.
I spent the majority of last week trying to cram in all those last-minute things like doctor's appointments, procuring textbooks, running errands and bonding time before the girlie had to head back to the frozen tundra for her spring semester on Monday. In the midst of shopping for new luggage and bonding on Thursday, I paused long enough to call my doctor's office for the delinquent ultrasound results. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, not much came of the results. When I finally talked to Nurse Attitude Problem, she told me I had exactly the same thing that the CT scans told me I have. I was also told that Dr. Doofus (neé Earnest) thought I needed to do another CT scan or an MRI so they could finally figure out the apparently incredibly complicated task of determining whether I have a cyst of a tumor. I never would have dreamed this process was so inexplicably difficult. Anyway, Nurse Snotwad informed me that she would call later with any appointments, etc. Whatever. I'll be sure and write rude things about you both in my will--just in case--since you clearly have no sense of urgency regarding my kidney and its mysterious mass.
Anyway, I spent the rest of the weekend hanging out with my girlie and watching movies and TV around her doing laundry and packing and such. On Saturday we went to a puppy sale at Petland and fell in love with an adorable Pomeranian puppy who was very playful and full of energy. I would have taken him home if it weren't for his low, low pedigree price of $1300. Bye-bye, adorable puppy! Over the weekend I also made the girlie a couple of her favorite dishes for her "last meals" at home, feeling somewhat macabre while I did so because I couldn't think of a better term than her "last meal," which just made it sound like I was going to fatten her up with French toast and then stuff her into my car trunk or something. It was all a little on the creepy side. Then, to make matters worse, I started getting sniffly on both Saturday and Sunday nights, crying myself to sleep in a combination of already missing her and of being annoyed at myself for my crying before she'd even left.
I always miss the girlie when she goes back to school...most moms do, right? But I don't usually become quite such a mess about it. With each trip, it's gotten a little easier to let go, though admittedly after having her home longer in the summer and at Christmastime makes it a bit harder. For some reason I don't entirely understand, though, this time seemed worse than usual. Perhaps it was a result of all the medical uncertainty currently surrounding me as several of my friends have suggested; I don't know. In any case, I got her safely and punctually to the airport on Monday morning, enjoyed breakfast with her at an Atlanta Bread in the food court, then saw her off to security like a good mommy. I hugged her and kissed her goodbye, smiling and waving at her as she passed through the checkpoint and onto one of the many scanner lines. Then I headed to the restroom stall to take care of business and promptly lost it. A few minutes later I pulled myself together then headed out to my car, intending to wait there till I knew the plane was safely off. Don't judge me--you know a lot of you do the same thing.
Once I made it to my car, I started sobbing again, this time as though the pour child were dead instead of just on a freaking plane. I mean seriously--what the heck? I haven't been this distraught since taking her to school for the very first time, a mere three weeks after moving here and having to come back to an empty house in a town where I knew no one. I cried like a fool for the better part of an hour, till my flight tracker showed her in flight at last, at which point I again forcefully pulled my big girl panties up and drove over to the Kilwin's in Atlanta for some consolation fudge. Naturally, they were completely out of the only kind I wanted--the basic, no frills, milk chocolate fudge. To make it even more annoying, this was the third or fourth time in a row they've been out on one of my post-airport runs. Grumbling, I went back to my car and headed over to pick up our pottery. The girlie's turned out beautifully, with some of her SCA logos rendered free-hand in astonishing detail. My tray came back chipped. On the front. Yup. After that I just headed home, where I found that Barnes and Noble had sent not one but two identical textbooks for the girlie. At least they didn't double-charge me for the extra book, though I still have to return it now.
I was a mess for the rest of Monday, and cried on and off all day Tuesday as well. I threw myself a pity party of epic proportions, and I cannot even claim hormonal influence fueling the fire. I still don't know why this time was so much worse than usual, but there you go. I went to my choral rehearsal Tuesday evening and felt better while there, though I practically had to drag myself out of the house kicking and screaming. After rehearsal I took myself out for a late dinner, during which I chatted with a favorite server. I left feeling better, at least till I got home; at least that self-pity relapse was relatively short-lived.
By Wednesday, I was starting to feel a little more myself again, not that I accomplished much. My blogiversary whizzed by unremarked upon by me. I ate, I mailed my daughter a late textbook, I went to choir practice. It was all very unexciting, at least until UPS dropped off a box of delicious cherry-flavored goodies sent from my dear friend G. Earlier in the month another dear friend sent me some lovely fudge from See's. Having loving friends rain yummy food on you is awesome enough by itself, but having treats arrive at the height of Wallow Week is simply spectacular. Timing is everything, you know.
Yesterday I was back to doing mundane chores and starting to sift through all the crap on my desk that got shunted aside during the girlie's last week of break, such as depositing her monthly allowance, writing checks, and making appointments. I realized at the end of the day that it had been a week since my last chat with Nurse Bitchy, and I still haven't heard anything about either a CT scan or MRI. Clearly they found my insistence on doing the scan at a diagnostic center instead of the hospital inconvenient and therefore selfish and are therefore punishing me by maintaining radio silence. It's truly frightening to me that Dr. Doofus actually rated so highly on RateMDs.com. I have yet to speak to her personally about any of this; meanwhile Nurse Buttmunch continues to display all the consideration and efficiency of week-old tofu. The Edsel was more freaking successful and useful than Nurse Buttmunch. On the plus side, I did get some bedding washed and I got to make fun of the hubs for laughing hysterically like a 13-year-old boy at the incredibly puerile "wood" jokes on Big Bang Theory's 100th episode last night.
Now it's Friday (and if you start singing that Rebecca Black song I will have to cut you), and I've still accomplished precious little this week. The fudge I ordered online from Kilwin's in the middle of my wallowing (which I ordered as much to thumb my nose at Kilwin's Atlanta as to actually gorge myself on pity chocolate) arrived; not surprisingly it was far less satisfying in reality than in theory, not that I still won't cram it down my throat this weekend in an attempt to purge a largely unpleasant week, before settling down to the business of getting off my rear and making some attempt at becoming healthier. Even though my chocolate horde was somewhat of a disappointment, by contrast my mail retrieval was not. When I walked out to the curb with my dog to collect the day's postal offerings, I was elated to see a small container of Honeybell oranges jammed inside my mailbox. Although there was no card enclosed, I can only assume that they are from yet another dear friend--one LCM--who sent me my very first Honeybell last January. These lovely little gems come with a plastic bib and instructions for eating. Laugh if you will, but these oranges are so juicy that the bib is more than warranted. Having been forewarned by both LCM and the instructions, I cautiously broke into the first orange while stationed over the sink and swathed in my plastic lobster bib. What followed was nothing less than an explosion of ambrosia, which I subsequently scarfed down in an orgasmic paroxysm of joy. Needless to say, I have the best friends EVER.
So this has been my last week or so: Crappy nurse, shopping shopping, movie, movie, Five Guys, French Toast, laundry, packing, tacos, TV, airport, crying like a rejected Idol contestant, wallowing, Barnes & Noble shipping fail, wallowing, wallowing, rehearsal, dinner, wallowette, awesome cherry noms, boring chores, choir, tv, boring chores, laundry, bank, toe starting to look normal, boring chores, anticlimactic fudge, dysfunctional printer, heavenly oranges, blog.
Aren't you glad you missed it?
Edited to add: On later inspection, I finally discovered a greeting typed on the box label that had been folder over to the back side of the box and therefore causing me to miss it originally. Turns out the delicious oranges are indeed from the very generous and lovely LCM, and I look forward to drowning in their succulence for dessert tonight.
My week has been a little like that. The extremes have perhaps not been quite so severe as in Weather Whiplash, but they've made for an interesting week nonetheless.
I spent the majority of last week trying to cram in all those last-minute things like doctor's appointments, procuring textbooks, running errands and bonding time before the girlie had to head back to the frozen tundra for her spring semester on Monday. In the midst of shopping for new luggage and bonding on Thursday, I paused long enough to call my doctor's office for the delinquent ultrasound results. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, not much came of the results. When I finally talked to Nurse Attitude Problem, she told me I had exactly the same thing that the CT scans told me I have. I was also told that Dr. Doofus (neé Earnest) thought I needed to do another CT scan or an MRI so they could finally figure out the apparently incredibly complicated task of determining whether I have a cyst of a tumor. I never would have dreamed this process was so inexplicably difficult. Anyway, Nurse Snotwad informed me that she would call later with any appointments, etc. Whatever. I'll be sure and write rude things about you both in my will--just in case--since you clearly have no sense of urgency regarding my kidney and its mysterious mass.
Anyway, I spent the rest of the weekend hanging out with my girlie and watching movies and TV around her doing laundry and packing and such. On Saturday we went to a puppy sale at Petland and fell in love with an adorable Pomeranian puppy who was very playful and full of energy. I would have taken him home if it weren't for his low, low pedigree price of $1300. Bye-bye, adorable puppy! Over the weekend I also made the girlie a couple of her favorite dishes for her "last meals" at home, feeling somewhat macabre while I did so because I couldn't think of a better term than her "last meal," which just made it sound like I was going to fatten her up with French toast and then stuff her into my car trunk or something. It was all a little on the creepy side. Then, to make matters worse, I started getting sniffly on both Saturday and Sunday nights, crying myself to sleep in a combination of already missing her and of being annoyed at myself for my crying before she'd even left.
 |
| Cutest.Puppy.EVER. |
I always miss the girlie when she goes back to school...most moms do, right? But I don't usually become quite such a mess about it. With each trip, it's gotten a little easier to let go, though admittedly after having her home longer in the summer and at Christmastime makes it a bit harder. For some reason I don't entirely understand, though, this time seemed worse than usual. Perhaps it was a result of all the medical uncertainty currently surrounding me as several of my friends have suggested; I don't know. In any case, I got her safely and punctually to the airport on Monday morning, enjoyed breakfast with her at an Atlanta Bread in the food court, then saw her off to security like a good mommy. I hugged her and kissed her goodbye, smiling and waving at her as she passed through the checkpoint and onto one of the many scanner lines. Then I headed to the restroom stall to take care of business and promptly lost it. A few minutes later I pulled myself together then headed out to my car, intending to wait there till I knew the plane was safely off. Don't judge me--you know a lot of you do the same thing.
Once I made it to my car, I started sobbing again, this time as though the pour child were dead instead of just on a freaking plane. I mean seriously--what the heck? I haven't been this distraught since taking her to school for the very first time, a mere three weeks after moving here and having to come back to an empty house in a town where I knew no one. I cried like a fool for the better part of an hour, till my flight tracker showed her in flight at last, at which point I again forcefully pulled my big girl panties up and drove over to the Kilwin's in Atlanta for some consolation fudge. Naturally, they were completely out of the only kind I wanted--the basic, no frills, milk chocolate fudge. To make it even more annoying, this was the third or fourth time in a row they've been out on one of my post-airport runs. Grumbling, I went back to my car and headed over to pick up our pottery. The girlie's turned out beautifully, with some of her SCA logos rendered free-hand in astonishing detail. My tray came back chipped. On the front. Yup. After that I just headed home, where I found that Barnes and Noble had sent not one but two identical textbooks for the girlie. At least they didn't double-charge me for the extra book, though I still have to return it now.
 |
| Girlie's goblet with the Raven of Thescorre. |
 |
| Pretty red inside...great for disguising the blood of enemies. |
 |
| Alanna's rampant lion. From memory. |
 |
| Aethelmearc's heraldry...also drawn from memory. |
 |
| A very uninspired tray I made to hold toiletries in the guest bathroom. I was completely lacking in design ideas that day. |
 |
| Chips Ahoy. |
I was a mess for the rest of Monday, and cried on and off all day Tuesday as well. I threw myself a pity party of epic proportions, and I cannot even claim hormonal influence fueling the fire. I still don't know why this time was so much worse than usual, but there you go. I went to my choral rehearsal Tuesday evening and felt better while there, though I practically had to drag myself out of the house kicking and screaming. After rehearsal I took myself out for a late dinner, during which I chatted with a favorite server. I left feeling better, at least till I got home; at least that self-pity relapse was relatively short-lived.
By Wednesday, I was starting to feel a little more myself again, not that I accomplished much. My blogiversary whizzed by unremarked upon by me. I ate, I mailed my daughter a late textbook, I went to choir practice. It was all very unexciting, at least until UPS dropped off a box of delicious cherry-flavored goodies sent from my dear friend G. Earlier in the month another dear friend sent me some lovely fudge from See's. Having loving friends rain yummy food on you is awesome enough by itself, but having treats arrive at the height of Wallow Week is simply spectacular. Timing is everything, you know.
 |
| How can you not love a place called the "Cherry Republic"?? |
Yesterday I was back to doing mundane chores and starting to sift through all the crap on my desk that got shunted aside during the girlie's last week of break, such as depositing her monthly allowance, writing checks, and making appointments. I realized at the end of the day that it had been a week since my last chat with Nurse Bitchy, and I still haven't heard anything about either a CT scan or MRI. Clearly they found my insistence on doing the scan at a diagnostic center instead of the hospital inconvenient and therefore selfish and are therefore punishing me by maintaining radio silence. It's truly frightening to me that Dr. Doofus actually rated so highly on RateMDs.com. I have yet to speak to her personally about any of this; meanwhile Nurse Buttmunch continues to display all the consideration and efficiency of week-old tofu. The Edsel was more freaking successful and useful than Nurse Buttmunch. On the plus side, I did get some bedding washed and I got to make fun of the hubs for laughing hysterically like a 13-year-old boy at the incredibly puerile "wood" jokes on Big Bang Theory's 100th episode last night.
 |
| Awesome fan art. |
Now it's Friday (and if you start singing that Rebecca Black song I will have to cut you), and I've still accomplished precious little this week. The fudge I ordered online from Kilwin's in the middle of my wallowing (which I ordered as much to thumb my nose at Kilwin's Atlanta as to actually gorge myself on pity chocolate) arrived; not surprisingly it was far less satisfying in reality than in theory, not that I still won't cram it down my throat this weekend in an attempt to purge a largely unpleasant week, before settling down to the business of getting off my rear and making some attempt at becoming healthier. Even though my chocolate horde was somewhat of a disappointment, by contrast my mail retrieval was not. When I walked out to the curb with my dog to collect the day's postal offerings, I was elated to see a small container of Honeybell oranges jammed inside my mailbox. Although there was no card enclosed, I can only assume that they are from yet another dear friend--one LCM--who sent me my very first Honeybell last January. These lovely little gems come with a plastic bib and instructions for eating. Laugh if you will, but these oranges are so juicy that the bib is more than warranted. Having been forewarned by both LCM and the instructions, I cautiously broke into the first orange while stationed over the sink and swathed in my plastic lobster bib. What followed was nothing less than an explosion of ambrosia, which I subsequently scarfed down in an orgasmic paroxysm of joy. Needless to say, I have the best friends EVER.
 |
| I can almost taste them just from this picture. Juicy, juicy oranges... |
So this has been my last week or so: Crappy nurse, shopping shopping, movie, movie, Five Guys, French Toast, laundry, packing, tacos, TV, airport, crying like a rejected Idol contestant, wallowing, Barnes & Noble shipping fail, wallowing, wallowing, rehearsal, dinner, wallowette, awesome cherry noms, boring chores, choir, tv, boring chores, laundry, bank, toe starting to look normal, boring chores, anticlimactic fudge, dysfunctional printer, heavenly oranges, blog.
Aren't you glad you missed it?
Edited to add: On later inspection, I finally discovered a greeting typed on the box label that had been folder over to the back side of the box and therefore causing me to miss it originally. Turns out the delicious oranges are indeed from the very generous and lovely LCM, and I look forward to drowning in their succulence for dessert tonight.
Roller Coaster Week
Have you ever had one of those weeks when things seem to change so quickly that your brain can't quite absorb it all? It's kind of like when the weather switches back and forth between extreme temperatures so rapidly that you end up getting Weather Whiplash--one day it's 70℉ and you're running errands in flip flops, then 10 hours later it's 33℉ and you're digging through your closet, trying to find a scarf and mittens. By the time you find them, it's back to 66℉. You utter a few choice words and then spend the next three weeks sick because your body simply can't adjust that quickly.
My week has been a little like that. The extremes have perhaps not been quite so severe as in Weather Whiplash, but they've made for an interesting week nonetheless.
I spent the majority of last week trying to cram in all those last-minute things like doctor's appointments, procuring textbooks, running errands and bonding time before the girlie had to head back to the frozen tundra for her spring semester on Monday. In the midst of shopping for new luggage and bonding on Thursday, I paused long enough to call my doctor's office for the delinquent ultrasound results. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, not much came of the results. When I finally talked to Nurse Attitude Problem, she told me I had exactly the same thing that the CT scans told me I have. I was also told that Dr. Doofus (neé Earnest) thought I needed to do another CT scan or an MRI so they could finally figure out the apparently incredibly complicated task of determining whether I have a cyst of a tumor. I never would have dreamed this process was so inexplicably difficult. Anyway, Nurse Snotwad informed me that she would call later with any appointments, etc. Whatever. I'll be sure and write rude things about you both in my will--just in case--since you clearly have no sense of urgency regarding my kidney and its mysterious mass.
Anyway, I spent the rest of the weekend hanging out with my girlie and watching movies and TV around her doing laundry and packing and such. On Saturday we went to a puppy sale at Petland and fell in love with an adorable Pomeranian puppy who was very playful and full of energy. I would have taken him home if it weren't for his low, low pedigree price of $1300. Bye-bye, adorable puppy! Over the weekend I also made the girlie a couple of her favorite dishes for her "last meals" at home, feeling somewhat macabre while I did so because I couldn't think of a better term than her "last meal," which just made it sound like I was going to fatten her up with French toast and then stuff her into my car trunk or something. It was all a little on the creepy side. Then, to make matters worse, I started getting sniffly on both Saturday and Sunday nights, crying myself to sleep in a combination of already missing her and of being annoyed at myself for my crying before she'd even left.
I always miss the girlie when she goes back to school...most moms do, right? But I don't usually become quite such a mess about it. With each trip, it's gotten a little easier to let go, though admittedly after having her home longer in the summer and at Christmastime makes it a bit harder. For some reason I don't entirely understand, though, this time seemed worse than usual. Perhaps it was a result of all the medical uncertainty currently surrounding me as several of my friends have suggested; I don't know. In any case, I got her safely and punctually to the airport on Monday morning, enjoyed breakfast with her at an Atlanta Bread in the food court, then saw her off to security like a good mommy. I hugged her and kissed her goodbye, smiling and waving at her as she passed through the checkpoint and onto one of the many scanner lines. Then I headed to the restroom stall to take care of business and promptly lost it. A few minutes later I pulled myself together then headed out to my car, intending to wait there till I knew the plane was safely off. Don't judge me--you know a lot of you do the same thing.
Once I made it to my car, I started sobbing again, this time as though the pour child were dead instead of just on a freaking plane. I mean seriously--what the heck? I haven't been this distraught since taking her to school for the very first time, a mere three weeks after moving here and having to come back to an empty house in a town where I knew no one. I cried like a fool for the better part of an hour, till my flight tracker showed her in flight at last, at which point I again forcefully pulled my big girl panties up and drove over to the Kilwin's in Atlanta for some consolation fudge. Naturally, they were completely out of the only kind I wanted--the basic, no frills, milk chocolate fudge. To make it even more annoying, this was the third or fourth time in a row they've been out on one of my post-airport runs. Grumbling, I went back to my car and headed over to pick up our pottery. The girlie's turned out beautifully, with some of her SCA logos rendered free-hand in astonishing detail. My tray came back chipped. On the front. Yup. After that I just headed home, where I found that Barnes and Noble had sent not one but two identical textbooks for the girlie. At least they didn't double-charge me for the extra book, though I still have to return it now.
I was a mess for the rest of Monday, and cried on and off all day Tuesday as well. I threw myself a pity party of epic proportions, and I cannot even claim hormonal influence fueling the fire. I still don't know why this time was so much worse than usual, but there you go. I went to my choral rehearsal Tuesday evening and felt better while there, though I practically had to drag myself out of the house kicking and screaming. After rehearsal I took myself out for a late dinner, during which I chatted with a favorite server. I left feeling better, at least till I got home; at least that self-pity relapse was relatively short-lived.
By Wednesday, I was starting to feel a little more myself again, not that I accomplished much. My blogiversary whizzed by unremarked upon by me. I ate, I mailed my daughter a late textbook, I went to choir practice. It was all very unexciting, at least until UPS dropped off a box of delicious cherry-flavored goodies sent from my dear friend G. Earlier in the month another dear friend sent me some lovely fudge from See's. Having loving friends rain yummy food on you is awesome enough by itself, but having treats arrive at the height of Wallow Week is simply spectacular. Timing is everything, you know.
Yesterday I was back to doing mundane chores and starting to sift through all the crap on my desk that got shunted aside during the girlie's last week of break, such as depositing her monthly allowance, writing checks, and making appointments. I realized at the end of the day that it had been a week since my last chat with Nurse Bitchy, and I still haven't heard anything about either a CT scan or MRI. Clearly they found my insistence on doing the scan at a diagnostic center instead of the hospital inconvenient and therefore selfish and are therefore punishing me by maintaining radio silence. It's truly frightening to me that Dr. Doofus actually rated so highly on RateMDs.com. I have yet to speak to her personally about any of this; meanwhile Nurse Buttmunch continues to display all the consideration and efficiency of week-old tofu. The Edsel was more freaking successful and useful than Nurse Buttmunch. On the plus side, I did get some bedding washed and I got to make fun of the hubs for laughing hysterically like a 13-year-old boy at the incredibly puerile "wood" jokes on Big Bang Theory's 100th episode last night.
Now it's Friday (and if you start singing that Rebecca Black song I will have to cut you), and I've still accomplished precious little this week. The fudge I ordered online from Kilwin's in the middle of my wallowing (which I ordered as much to thumb my nose at Kilwin's Atlanta as to actually gorge myself on pity chocolate) arrived; not surprisingly it was far less satisfying in reality than in theory, not that I still won't cram it down my throat this weekend in an attempt to purge a largely unpleasant week, before settling down to the business of getting off my rear and making some attempt at becoming healthier. Even though my chocolate horde was somewhat of a disappointment, by contrast my mail retrieval was not. When I walked out to the curb with my dog to collect the day's postal offerings, I was elated to see a small container of Honeybell oranges jammed inside my mailbox. Although there was no card enclosed, I can only assume that they are from yet another dear friend--one LCM--who sent me my very first Honeybell last January. These lovely little gems come with a plastic bib and instructions for eating. Laugh if you will, but these oranges are so juicy that the bib is more than warranted. Having been forewarned by both LCM and the instructions, I cautiously broke into the first orange while stationed over the sink and swathed in my plastic lobster bib. What followed was nothing less than an explosion of ambrosia, which I subsequently scarfed down in an orgasmic paroxysm of joy. Needless to say, I have the best friends EVER.
So this has been my last week or so: Crappy nurse, shopping shopping, movie, movie, Five Guys, French Toast, laundry, packing, tacos, TV, airport, crying like a rejected Idol contestant, wallowing, Barnes & Noble shipping fail, wallowing, wallowing, rehearsal, dinner, wallowette, awesome cherry noms, boring chores, choir, tv, boring chores, laundry, bank, toe starting to look normal, boring chores, anticlimactic fudge, dysfunctional printer, heavenly oranges, blog.
Aren't you glad you missed it?
Edited to add: On later inspection, I finally discovered a greeting typed on the box label that had been folder over to the back side of the box and therefore causing me to miss it originally. Turns out the delicious oranges are indeed from the very generous and lovely LCM, and I look forward to drowning in their succulence for dessert tonight.
My week has been a little like that. The extremes have perhaps not been quite so severe as in Weather Whiplash, but they've made for an interesting week nonetheless.
I spent the majority of last week trying to cram in all those last-minute things like doctor's appointments, procuring textbooks, running errands and bonding time before the girlie had to head back to the frozen tundra for her spring semester on Monday. In the midst of shopping for new luggage and bonding on Thursday, I paused long enough to call my doctor's office for the delinquent ultrasound results. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, not much came of the results. When I finally talked to Nurse Attitude Problem, she told me I had exactly the same thing that the CT scans told me I have. I was also told that Dr. Doofus (neé Earnest) thought I needed to do another CT scan or an MRI so they could finally figure out the apparently incredibly complicated task of determining whether I have a cyst of a tumor. I never would have dreamed this process was so inexplicably difficult. Anyway, Nurse Snotwad informed me that she would call later with any appointments, etc. Whatever. I'll be sure and write rude things about you both in my will--just in case--since you clearly have no sense of urgency regarding my kidney and its mysterious mass.
Anyway, I spent the rest of the weekend hanging out with my girlie and watching movies and TV around her doing laundry and packing and such. On Saturday we went to a puppy sale at Petland and fell in love with an adorable Pomeranian puppy who was very playful and full of energy. I would have taken him home if it weren't for his low, low pedigree price of $1300. Bye-bye, adorable puppy! Over the weekend I also made the girlie a couple of her favorite dishes for her "last meals" at home, feeling somewhat macabre while I did so because I couldn't think of a better term than her "last meal," which just made it sound like I was going to fatten her up with French toast and then stuff her into my car trunk or something. It was all a little on the creepy side. Then, to make matters worse, I started getting sniffly on both Saturday and Sunday nights, crying myself to sleep in a combination of already missing her and of being annoyed at myself for my crying before she'd even left.
|
| Cutest.Puppy.EVER. |
I always miss the girlie when she goes back to school...most moms do, right? But I don't usually become quite such a mess about it. With each trip, it's gotten a little easier to let go, though admittedly after having her home longer in the summer and at Christmastime makes it a bit harder. For some reason I don't entirely understand, though, this time seemed worse than usual. Perhaps it was a result of all the medical uncertainty currently surrounding me as several of my friends have suggested; I don't know. In any case, I got her safely and punctually to the airport on Monday morning, enjoyed breakfast with her at an Atlanta Bread in the food court, then saw her off to security like a good mommy. I hugged her and kissed her goodbye, smiling and waving at her as she passed through the checkpoint and onto one of the many scanner lines. Then I headed to the restroom stall to take care of business and promptly lost it. A few minutes later I pulled myself together then headed out to my car, intending to wait there till I knew the plane was safely off. Don't judge me--you know a lot of you do the same thing.
Once I made it to my car, I started sobbing again, this time as though the pour child were dead instead of just on a freaking plane. I mean seriously--what the heck? I haven't been this distraught since taking her to school for the very first time, a mere three weeks after moving here and having to come back to an empty house in a town where I knew no one. I cried like a fool for the better part of an hour, till my flight tracker showed her in flight at last, at which point I again forcefully pulled my big girl panties up and drove over to the Kilwin's in Atlanta for some consolation fudge. Naturally, they were completely out of the only kind I wanted--the basic, no frills, milk chocolate fudge. To make it even more annoying, this was the third or fourth time in a row they've been out on one of my post-airport runs. Grumbling, I went back to my car and headed over to pick up our pottery. The girlie's turned out beautifully, with some of her SCA logos rendered free-hand in astonishing detail. My tray came back chipped. On the front. Yup. After that I just headed home, where I found that Barnes and Noble had sent not one but two identical textbooks for the girlie. At least they didn't double-charge me for the extra book, though I still have to return it now.
|
| Girlie's goblet with the Raven of Thescorre. |
|
| Pretty red inside...great for disguising the blood of enemies. |
|
| Alanna's rampant lion. From memory. |
|
| Aethelmearc's heraldry...also drawn from memory. |
|
| A very uninspired tray I made to hold toiletries in the guest bathroom. I was completely lacking in design ideas that day. |
|
| Chips Ahoy. |
I was a mess for the rest of Monday, and cried on and off all day Tuesday as well. I threw myself a pity party of epic proportions, and I cannot even claim hormonal influence fueling the fire. I still don't know why this time was so much worse than usual, but there you go. I went to my choral rehearsal Tuesday evening and felt better while there, though I practically had to drag myself out of the house kicking and screaming. After rehearsal I took myself out for a late dinner, during which I chatted with a favorite server. I left feeling better, at least till I got home; at least that self-pity relapse was relatively short-lived.
By Wednesday, I was starting to feel a little more myself again, not that I accomplished much. My blogiversary whizzed by unremarked upon by me. I ate, I mailed my daughter a late textbook, I went to choir practice. It was all very unexciting, at least until UPS dropped off a box of delicious cherry-flavored goodies sent from my dear friend G. Earlier in the month another dear friend sent me some lovely fudge from See's. Having loving friends rain yummy food on you is awesome enough by itself, but having treats arrive at the height of Wallow Week is simply spectacular. Timing is everything, you know.
|
| How can you not love a place called the "Cherry Republic"?? |
Yesterday I was back to doing mundane chores and starting to sift through all the crap on my desk that got shunted aside during the girlie's last week of break, such as depositing her monthly allowance, writing checks, and making appointments. I realized at the end of the day that it had been a week since my last chat with Nurse Bitchy, and I still haven't heard anything about either a CT scan or MRI. Clearly they found my insistence on doing the scan at a diagnostic center instead of the hospital inconvenient and therefore selfish and are therefore punishing me by maintaining radio silence. It's truly frightening to me that Dr. Doofus actually rated so highly on RateMDs.com. I have yet to speak to her personally about any of this; meanwhile Nurse Buttmunch continues to display all the consideration and efficiency of week-old tofu. The Edsel was more freaking successful and useful than Nurse Buttmunch. On the plus side, I did get some bedding washed and I got to make fun of the hubs for laughing hysterically like a 13-year-old boy at the incredibly puerile "wood" jokes on Big Bang Theory's 100th episode last night.
|
| Awesome fan art. |
Now it's Friday (and if you start singing that Rebecca Black song I will have to cut you), and I've still accomplished precious little this week. The fudge I ordered online from Kilwin's in the middle of my wallowing (which I ordered as much to thumb my nose at Kilwin's Atlanta as to actually gorge myself on pity chocolate) arrived; not surprisingly it was far less satisfying in reality than in theory, not that I still won't cram it down my throat this weekend in an attempt to purge a largely unpleasant week, before settling down to the business of getting off my rear and making some attempt at becoming healthier. Even though my chocolate horde was somewhat of a disappointment, by contrast my mail retrieval was not. When I walked out to the curb with my dog to collect the day's postal offerings, I was elated to see a small container of Honeybell oranges jammed inside my mailbox. Although there was no card enclosed, I can only assume that they are from yet another dear friend--one LCM--who sent me my very first Honeybell last January. These lovely little gems come with a plastic bib and instructions for eating. Laugh if you will, but these oranges are so juicy that the bib is more than warranted. Having been forewarned by both LCM and the instructions, I cautiously broke into the first orange while stationed over the sink and swathed in my plastic lobster bib. What followed was nothing less than an explosion of ambrosia, which I subsequently scarfed down in an orgasmic paroxysm of joy. Needless to say, I have the best friends EVER.
|
| I can almost taste them just from this picture. Juicy, juicy oranges... |
So this has been my last week or so: Crappy nurse, shopping shopping, movie, movie, Five Guys, French Toast, laundry, packing, tacos, TV, airport, crying like a rejected Idol contestant, wallowing, Barnes & Noble shipping fail, wallowing, wallowing, rehearsal, dinner, wallowette, awesome cherry noms, boring chores, choir, tv, boring chores, laundry, bank, toe starting to look normal, boring chores, anticlimactic fudge, dysfunctional printer, heavenly oranges, blog.
Aren't you glad you missed it?
Edited to add: On later inspection, I finally discovered a greeting typed on the box label that had been folder over to the back side of the box and therefore causing me to miss it originally. Turns out the delicious oranges are indeed from the very generous and lovely LCM, and I look forward to drowning in their succulence for dessert tonight.
14 January 2012
Pizza and Partings
Today was a fairly quiet day at the old homestead as we continue to wind down towards Monday's flight. Mostly I have bagged all the cleaning that still needs to be done; I figure it will still be here after the girlie goes back to school, and I'd much rather spend my time hanging out with her.
As a result, we didn't do too much beyond sitting beside a fire this evening while she caught up on episodes of Doctor Who and continued to work her way through Season 1 of Friends, courtesy of Netflix. It's more television than we probably need to be watching, but since she doesn't really watch any during the semester, I figure it balances out. I even made a homemade pizza for the occasion.
Tomorrow is church, after which will begin the last day flurry of activity--doing laundry, packing, and all those other last-minute preparations that inevitably come up before a big trip. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, that almost-month of break will be gone and I'll be driving her back to the airport once again bright and early on Monday morning. I'll drop her off and wait till she goes through security, since we can no longer wait with people at the gate. Afterwards, I'll go and pick up the pottery we painted on Thursday, which she will have to wait till Spring Break to see because it won't be ready till after her flight. Then I will come home, feel sorry for myself for a while, and get back to daily life without her. I will clean house, I will find a doctor whose staff is not incompetent, and I will set aside whatever things she forgets so that I can send them to her next week.
Saying goodbye is bittersweet. And while it gets a little easier each time, I'm never going to get entirely used to it.
As a result, we didn't do too much beyond sitting beside a fire this evening while she caught up on episodes of Doctor Who and continued to work her way through Season 1 of Friends, courtesy of Netflix. It's more television than we probably need to be watching, but since she doesn't really watch any during the semester, I figure it balances out. I even made a homemade pizza for the occasion.
 |
| Mmmmm...pizza... |
Saying goodbye is bittersweet. And while it gets a little easier each time, I'm never going to get entirely used to it.
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