This blog is dedicated to every woman who has brought life into this world and has dedicated and sacrificed their own lives to raising their children. I admire you all.
Note: I could write a dozen blogs on this topic, there is a lot to say and much to debate. How interesting it really is to anyone else (not mention the fact it's the third "serious" entry in a row), I don't know, so I tried to keep it short (although I know it's still long).
Here we go...on "To Not Be A Mother"...
It is not surprising, yet still somewhat unsettling (at least to me) that in an age where women are considered to be equal in society (emphasis on considered – I think actual equality is still up for much debate), where a woman may choose to do pretty much anything she wants, where a woman has the possibility to take control of her herself and her life in every aspect, there is still a very strong societal expectation that women shall reproduce. This expectation that women should both want and have children seems almost stronger that the expectation that women find themselves a husband. It seems to me that people are more confused about why a woman would not want children than why a woman would not want a husband. And here I am, not wanting either! Talk about having some explaining to do! (Dave, I love you madly, I just don’t desire that piece of paper.)
I am a woman who has chosen not to have children. My reasons are both simple and complex. Simply, I just don’t want children. I sailed through my 20’s never having that burning, yearning desire. At 30 I went through a brief period where I thought my biological clock had begun to tick, but in hindsight I think it was actually my biochemical time bomb ticking and the idea of having something to love forever sounded nice. In reality, I like kids, just not that much to want to be responsible for one. To me, it’s just too much responsibility. Yep, I’m selfish. I want to do the things I want to do, when I want to do them. I really don’t want to be one someone else’s schedule. I don’t want to give up my freedom. If it suddenly dumps snow and I want to ski, then I want to be able to do that. Without worrying about what I’m supposed to do with my kid. If someone suddenly throws me a couple of tickets to a concert, I want to go. Without worrying what I’m supposed to do with my kid. And what the hell am I supposed to do when I go on vacation? (Yes, I am one of those people who cringes when she sees a child seated nearby on an airplane and for life of me I do not understand why you would take a child to Las Vegas!) So, you get the picture. Don’t get me wrong. I think kids are great. I think parenting is the hardest most underrated job (yes, it is a job!) in the world. I have a niece and a nephew who fill my heart with so much love it aches. But it is all consuming. I don’t have it in me to fulfill that job. I admire every mother (and father) who does. Because really, that is what it is about. Don’t reproduce for the sake of reproducing. Bring life into this world because you know down to the very core of you that you want it, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself, and that you will give everything you have to your job as a parent. It has to be priority number one. So, like I said, this job is not for me.
More complexly, as I entered my 30’s and really began considering this issue, I had to factor in my illness. What does it mean to have a mental illness and bring a child into this world? For me, there were a couple of factors that really gave me pause for thought. The first being fairly straightforward: pregnancy and medications. Like drinking and driving, they don’t mix. If I were to become pregnant, I would not be able to stay on my medications without risking harm to the baby. I don’t know of any doctor who would allow a person to continue taking the medications that I take while they are pregnant. Right away, this is a no brainer. While I may toy with the idea of not taking medications, going off my medications is absolutely not an option for me. I cannot think of anything that would convince to stop my medication, including a child. The probably consequences are just too grim. This realization was probably the catalyst which lead to my recent surgery. What if I accidentally got pregnant? I’d be left with two very undesirable choices: 1. Abortion. I am very pro-choice but don’t know that I could make that choice for myself; and 2. Stop drugs and have a baby. I don’t want to stop my meds and I definitely don’t want a baby.
On top of this, I spent much time considering the impact of my illness on my ability to parent as well as its impact on a child, were I to have one. I thought of all the times I have been unable to care for myself. I have spent much time requiring other people to help me take care of myself. Could I ever put my child in a position where I may not be able to fully care for it? And what about putting my child in a position of taking on a caregiver role, which is very common in these situations. Could I put my child in that position? I realize that I have people in my life who would step in and help me, but at the end of the day, I know that for better or worse, my illness would have an impact on a child, just as it impacts those close to me in my life now. I think of how difficult it is for Dave to deal with me at times (such as now). How hard would it be for a child to grow up having to deal with my ups and downs? Don’t get me wrong. Many people with mental illness have children and are wonderful parents who raise happy, healthy children. This is not all about self-sacrifice.
But the bottom line is that I don’t want children and adding my illness to the picture just solidified that even more. So, I wanted to be totally risk free. Hence, the tubal ligation. Which brings me back to this expectation out there that all women should be yearning to give birth! Telling people you are choosing not to have children, and in fact are fixing yourself so that there is absolutely no possibility of same is quite interesting. Most common responses included: “are you sure, but what if you change your mind?” (as if I had just woke up one day and made the decision – this was some 4 or 5 years in the making!); some people seemed almost offended, particularly those single women of the “time’s a ticking” age group who didn’t have children themselves (this was particularly strange); some people seemed utterly perplexed at the idea that I would not want to have children (“what do you mean you don’t want kids?”); I’m pretty sure some people really didn’t take me seriously; I think many people questioned my judgement (or at least that is my perception) and I’m not sure how much explaining made it make sense to anyone; and of course, pretty much everyone said that Dave should get a vasectomy, to which I very loudly and repeatedly replied: MY BODY, MY CHOICE, I ALONE LIVE WITH MY DECISION!!!! Oh, and I can’t forget medical staff – everyone at my surgery and during my post surgery hospital stay assumed I had already had children (“so, no more for you, eh?”). I mean, I know most people getting their tubes tied have already had kids, but really, should we be making this assumption?????
Anyways, at the end of the day, the most important people got it. Actually, probably everyone got it. I love my mom the most for telling me she thought I was making the best decision for myself and that she admired me for it. Still, in this day and age, isn’t it interesting that we question this choice made by a woman. Or that we make judgements about it. Or that, as a woman, so much explaining has to be done about it. When do you ever hear anyone asking a guy why he doesn’t have a kid yet, when he’s going to have kids, or why he doesn’t want kids?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Only Crazy Knows Crazy
I want to preface this blog by saying that I well know I have a wonderful life, for which I am immensely grateful. I am fortunate in many, many ways, so many I can’t list them all here. I have family and friends who go above and beyond to support me, be there for me, and understand me. I have an incredibly huge ring of extended family who, while are not present in person, are supporting me from afar. I have so much love I know my cup runneth over and over and over……….
I attended my very first “mood disorders support group” this week. This is a support group run by the Mood Disorders Association of B.C. for people with, you guessed it, mood disorders. When I was first diagnosed my dad found out about these groups by way of a newsletter lying around the UBC Mood Disorders Clinic, I believe. He thought they might be helpful. I don’t remember exactly what I thought, but I don’t think I was too keen. Shortly after I remember a psychiatrist at the UBC Mood Disorders Clinic discouraging me from attending, saying that I was too high functioning and it might be discouraging for me. (When I think back, I’m not really sure what made him classify me as “high functioning” at that time… I was completely non-functioning!). So I never went to a group, although I did sign up for the newsletter and have been receiving them from the beginning of this journey of craziness.
Especially in the beginning, and from time to time over the years, other people have encouraged me to attend a support group, but I have never been able to get myself to go. Whether I have felt that I didn’t need a support group, or that it wouldn’t be helpful, or that I already had a good support system of friends and family, or that I already knew everything I needed to know through all the reading I had done, or whatever reasons that I have floated through my head, I think what I really didn’t want was to put myself in that category of people who belong in a mood disorder support group. I think what that psychiatrist said many years ago at UBC stuck with me. I pictured a group of people who were much sicker than me, way less able to function than me, way crazier than me. A group I didn’t belong in. I won’t even get into ALL of the IRONY in this (I’m trying to edit here!) other than to say we all know my background and I here I am shamefully contributing to the stigma that I so despise. Or maybe I am just fearing that stigma myself.
Other times I float the idea that maybe it’s more about not wanting to associate myself in a group like that because it just reminds me of what is wrong with me. It’s like I don’t want to be on a psych unit because I still cannot see myself as “one of those people”. I will never forget the first time I was in the hospital, in a locked room, standing at the door, looking out the small window. How many times had I stood, during my job as a social worker on a psychiatric unit, on the other side of that door? Until I was on the other side – the locked side – I didn’t truly get it. So if I were to go to a support group, I would have to put myself in a position where I have to acknowledge that I am “one of those people”. I think you can see where this thinking goes.
So, what changed? For the past couple of months I’ve been in a bit of a depression. I carry on, but my thinking is more negative, I feel more hopeless and life seems just a little harder to attend to. It’s very difficult to articulate my feelings. I often feel that I am drowning, that I am struggling below the surface with one arm flailing above, waiting to be pulled back up. But it is as if I am invisible and so I just continue to struggle below the surface. So that’s an idea of how I feel.
Two things have been at the forefront of mind these days. First, I have difficulty accepting that I am not “back to my old self.” I continuously struggle with the question “when will my life get back to normal?” As in – when I will be completely fixed and not have to deal with this anymore? Okay, something that is probably not a realistic goal, but one which I cannot seem to give up. And second, I have been feeling at times, and more so lately, an overwhelming sense of isolation in my illness. I have an incredible support network of family and friends, not to mention two fabulous doctors. Yet, I can’t help but feel at times that nobody really gets me. Like, if you don’t know, you really just don’t know. And that’s nobody’s fault. It’s just the way it is.
So after struggling with this feeling of being isolated, or alone in my feelings, I finally decided that maybe going to a support group was what I needed. Maybe it just took all this time for me to get okay with the idea. Maybe it’s just a matter of my depressed mood and feeling desperate enough for something more than I was getting from my doctors, family and friends. At the end of the day, I just suddenly felt like I really needed to be around other people who struggle with the same stuff as me. So, with a bit of trepidation and really not knowing what to expect, I attended my first group last Thursday. My expectations may have been low, although I was hoping harder than anything that this would be helpful – remember, my hand is waving madly, invisible, while I’m drowning below the surface. So I was thrilled by the actual experience.
Here was a group of men and women, of all ages, various backgrounds, various situations, various levels of functioning, all with one thing in common: a biochemical imbalance in their brains that produced fluctuations in their moods beyond the normal “ups and downs” of life. The group works like this. Each person has a chance to speak (or pass if they wish) and then everyone else can comment, ask questions, etc. As I listened to each person talk, I could relate with some aspect of what they were saying. And I mean EVERY person. I was humbled by some experiences in comparison to my own. I was overwhelmed with feelings of compassion, admiration, gratitude, and hope. Each individual was incredibly supportive of each other and I felt like I was surrounded by a group of people who, although may each have a different life, were connected by the struggles of their illness. We had all gone through (and continue to go through) similar struggles and difficulties, along with similar triumphs. These were people who knew what it was like because they knew what it was like. For two hours I didn’t feel quite so isolated in my world. Being "one of those people" was okay. My problems weren’t solved and it was emotionally draining, but I left feeling like “Yes! People who actually get it!” And for a time, my sense of isolation was diminished. I felt like perhaps someone had seen my flailing arm and had grasped my hand to pull me out of the water.
I look forward to going back next week.
I attended my very first “mood disorders support group” this week. This is a support group run by the Mood Disorders Association of B.C. for people with, you guessed it, mood disorders. When I was first diagnosed my dad found out about these groups by way of a newsletter lying around the UBC Mood Disorders Clinic, I believe. He thought they might be helpful. I don’t remember exactly what I thought, but I don’t think I was too keen. Shortly after I remember a psychiatrist at the UBC Mood Disorders Clinic discouraging me from attending, saying that I was too high functioning and it might be discouraging for me. (When I think back, I’m not really sure what made him classify me as “high functioning” at that time… I was completely non-functioning!). So I never went to a group, although I did sign up for the newsletter and have been receiving them from the beginning of this journey of craziness.
Especially in the beginning, and from time to time over the years, other people have encouraged me to attend a support group, but I have never been able to get myself to go. Whether I have felt that I didn’t need a support group, or that it wouldn’t be helpful, or that I already had a good support system of friends and family, or that I already knew everything I needed to know through all the reading I had done, or whatever reasons that I have floated through my head, I think what I really didn’t want was to put myself in that category of people who belong in a mood disorder support group. I think what that psychiatrist said many years ago at UBC stuck with me. I pictured a group of people who were much sicker than me, way less able to function than me, way crazier than me. A group I didn’t belong in. I won’t even get into ALL of the IRONY in this (I’m trying to edit here!) other than to say we all know my background and I here I am shamefully contributing to the stigma that I so despise. Or maybe I am just fearing that stigma myself.
Other times I float the idea that maybe it’s more about not wanting to associate myself in a group like that because it just reminds me of what is wrong with me. It’s like I don’t want to be on a psych unit because I still cannot see myself as “one of those people”. I will never forget the first time I was in the hospital, in a locked room, standing at the door, looking out the small window. How many times had I stood, during my job as a social worker on a psychiatric unit, on the other side of that door? Until I was on the other side – the locked side – I didn’t truly get it. So if I were to go to a support group, I would have to put myself in a position where I have to acknowledge that I am “one of those people”. I think you can see where this thinking goes.
So, what changed? For the past couple of months I’ve been in a bit of a depression. I carry on, but my thinking is more negative, I feel more hopeless and life seems just a little harder to attend to. It’s very difficult to articulate my feelings. I often feel that I am drowning, that I am struggling below the surface with one arm flailing above, waiting to be pulled back up. But it is as if I am invisible and so I just continue to struggle below the surface. So that’s an idea of how I feel.
Two things have been at the forefront of mind these days. First, I have difficulty accepting that I am not “back to my old self.” I continuously struggle with the question “when will my life get back to normal?” As in – when I will be completely fixed and not have to deal with this anymore? Okay, something that is probably not a realistic goal, but one which I cannot seem to give up. And second, I have been feeling at times, and more so lately, an overwhelming sense of isolation in my illness. I have an incredible support network of family and friends, not to mention two fabulous doctors. Yet, I can’t help but feel at times that nobody really gets me. Like, if you don’t know, you really just don’t know. And that’s nobody’s fault. It’s just the way it is.
So after struggling with this feeling of being isolated, or alone in my feelings, I finally decided that maybe going to a support group was what I needed. Maybe it just took all this time for me to get okay with the idea. Maybe it’s just a matter of my depressed mood and feeling desperate enough for something more than I was getting from my doctors, family and friends. At the end of the day, I just suddenly felt like I really needed to be around other people who struggle with the same stuff as me. So, with a bit of trepidation and really not knowing what to expect, I attended my first group last Thursday. My expectations may have been low, although I was hoping harder than anything that this would be helpful – remember, my hand is waving madly, invisible, while I’m drowning below the surface. So I was thrilled by the actual experience.
Here was a group of men and women, of all ages, various backgrounds, various situations, various levels of functioning, all with one thing in common: a biochemical imbalance in their brains that produced fluctuations in their moods beyond the normal “ups and downs” of life. The group works like this. Each person has a chance to speak (or pass if they wish) and then everyone else can comment, ask questions, etc. As I listened to each person talk, I could relate with some aspect of what they were saying. And I mean EVERY person. I was humbled by some experiences in comparison to my own. I was overwhelmed with feelings of compassion, admiration, gratitude, and hope. Each individual was incredibly supportive of each other and I felt like I was surrounded by a group of people who, although may each have a different life, were connected by the struggles of their illness. We had all gone through (and continue to go through) similar struggles and difficulties, along with similar triumphs. These were people who knew what it was like because they knew what it was like. For two hours I didn’t feel quite so isolated in my world. Being "one of those people" was okay. My problems weren’t solved and it was emotionally draining, but I left feeling like “Yes! People who actually get it!” And for a time, my sense of isolation was diminished. I felt like perhaps someone had seen my flailing arm and had grasped my hand to pull me out of the water.
I look forward to going back next week.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
The Dog Ate My Homework
This very long blog is dedicated to my cousin Cathy for it's content, for always reading and for ispiring me to write.
Note: This blog contains medical details that may be too much information for some people. You have been warned! :)
So, I was a couple weeks late with my last blog entry. I told you I had a very good excuse and then left you hanging. I guess I now must explain myself. My dog didn’t actually eat my blog. I don’t even have a dog and if I did it would mean that it had eaten my computer, in which case, I would definitely no longer have that dog. As always, there is no one or two line reason to give. I have a whole big story.
Let’s see, 3 weeks ago I had some surgery to fix myself from the possibility of ever getting pregnant (a more detailed blog about this to come). Yes, I had my tubes tied. Well actually, they weren’t tied they were burned! Okay, cauterized. But burned sounds so much more serious and it really means the same thing. Anyways…this is a run of the mill surgery, you go in, they put you out, they do their burning and Bob’s your uncle. You’re in and out in a few hours. Recovery time is 5 to 7 days and that is that. For most people. Of course, I am not most people and if anything strange or unusual will go wrong, it will happen to me.
So for the first 5 or 6 days, I thought I was doing great. I was up and about, felt good, no pain. Piece of cake. Then Monday comes and the pain starts. And then more bleeding starts. Tuesday, one week post surgery and I’m definitely in pain and the bleeding does not appear to be going anywhere. By Thursday night, it’s even worse and now I have a fever. This I think is not so good. I hum and haw about going to emergency. I don’t want to use up that resource if it’s really nothing, but then what if it is something? I call the Nurseline. After a long discussion the nurse really has no answer and tells me to go to emergency. All right, we are off to emergency. Now sit down, because this is a story of one good health care experience that I would never imagine possible!
We arrive and check in. I don’t even sit down in the waiting area and am taken in. I’m put in the “Pelvic Room” (yes, that’s what it’s called!) But NICE - a totally private room! This is all right. I have barely got my gown on and I have a nurse in to see me. Literally (and I do mean literally) less than 5 minutes later the emergency doctor is in to see me. I mean, the nurse hasn’t even taken the blood pressure cuff off yet! Not more than 5 minutes into the doctor’s exam and the lab person is there, ready to take my blood. I AM NOT EXAGERATING OR MAKING THIS UP! Border waits are longer than what all this took! So the doc says it could be a bladder infection, it could be infection from the surgery, it could be my appendix, it could be this, it could be that. First, rule out bladder infection and call in a gynaecologist. So off I go to pee in a cup. While I’m waiting a nice lady comes in and gives me warm blankets and adjusts my bed. Aside from the bright lights and medical supplies everywhere I’m starting to think I’m on a little vacation. So much so that when a nurse comes in with a cup of orange juice, I actually think “oh how nice, they’re bringing me something to drink”. Laugh out loud here because they are not bringing me a drink. They are bringing me contrast dye to drink so they can do a CT scan. Uh, apparently it’s not just a bladder infection. And a CT scan? Hmmm. Worry a bit more. Just as I finish gulping down the orange juice dye concoction (which I actually think is quite tasty) the nurse returns to tell me that radiology has changed shifts and I won’t be getting my CT scan done tonight. I’ll probably stay in the hospital.
At this point the gynaecologist arrives. As does someone from radiology to take me to get an x-ray. The gynaecologist says to get the x-ray first. I assume she will go off to see other patients. When I come back, she is WAITING AT THE NURSING STATION FOR ME. Maybe this is normal, maybe it’s my own opinion about our pathetic health care system, but I thought this was rather impressive. Anyways, the awesome gynaecologist is ready to examine me. I don’t know if she’s giddy from lack of sleep (she will finish her 24 hour shift in a few hours), giddy because she leaves for Paris that day (must be nice), or if she’s a crazy manic woman like me. Doesn’t matter she was great. She checks me out, tells me none of this is right, I should not have pain, I should not have all this bleeding and of course there are a long list of possibilities when it comes to what’s wrong. I will not being going home tonight, period. I think this means I’m staying in emergency. No. I’m being admitted to a medical unit. Uh, okay. So I’m thinking this is serious. The x-rays showed nothing but my white blood cell count is high, my blood pressure low and I’ve still got a fever. Even if I wanted to go home and come back in the morning for the CT scan (as Dave and I had sort of talked about earlier), this is now not an option. Period. Well, all right. I tell Dave (who has been with me this whole time, by the way) this is my “0 star” vacation.
I want to say that we arrived at the emergency department at about 10:00 p.m. I was in my bed on the medical unit at 3:00 a.m. Maybe 5 hours sounds long, but I was utterly impressed at how fast everything happened. I’m pretty sure I’ve waited 5 hours just to see a nurse on other emergency room trips!
In the morning I was told I couldn’t eat or drink anything (save for a bit more orange juice dye concoction). It also seemed like they were preparing to have me there all weekend. Um, okay I’m a bit worried. I had my CT scan. Not normal. I had gone out for a smoke and when I came back to my room I overheard someone on the phone using my name and “urgent ultrasound” in the same sentences. “Urgent ultrasound” was repeated several times. Okay, this does not sound good. So I stood in front of this person until they were off the phone. Turns out it was one of the gynaecologists (I’m pretty sure nurses book these things when the order is made so the fact that I had a doctor arranging this was both alarming and again, impressive to me). So we talked. The good news: my appendix is fine! Oh yay! The bad news: something is not right with my right ovary. I can’t remember all the details, but I would need this ultrasound to find out more. Urgent means urgent. Ultrasound would happen in an hour. More bad news, still nothing to eat or drink because they may have to do surgery. WHAT????? I'm starving!!! And everyone is still talking like I’m here for the weekend.
So, off to get an ultrasound. By the way, did I mention that every time I go for one of these tests I get picked up by an orderly who wraps me in a blanket and wheels me to the radiology department? AND, when I’m in getting the imaging, I’m given warm blankets. The whole warm blanket thing is a big seller for me. I don’t get warm blankets at home. Then after the test I get picked up and wheeled back up to my room. I know I’m in a hospital, but for a girl who loves attention, especially when she doesn’t feel good, this is sort of fun. Anyways…after the ultrasound I’m seen by the gynaecologist and the resident who happened to be assisting on my surgery. Nice luck, since she remembers the surgery and exactly what they did.
The Verdict: nothing serious is wrong. No infection. They did not injure my bowel or any other organ during surgery. There are cysts on my ovary but this is normal. Basically, for some unknown reason, there is still fluid and inflammation around my right side. They have no explanation, other than to say that it is very unusual and that it is nothing serious and will resolve over time. They have the head gynaecologist review everything and come to examine me as well (again, I’m thinking I’m getting all the top notch care here!). He repeats what the other doctors have told me. It is just very unusual, but as long as it does not get worse, I am fine to go home, get some rest, take anti-inflammatories and follow up with my own gynaecologist at the end of the week.
So all that for pretty much nothing? Not that I wanted something to be wrong, but, well, I guess I sort of wanted some specific diagnosis. Not “we really don’t know why this inflammation is happening, it doesn’t usually happen, most people recover from this kind of surgery with absolutely no problems, we don’t really see this…” This SOOOOO only happens to me. Seriously. At the end of the day me, my mom and Dave could only laugh that, while all the doctors agreed that something was wrong, there wasn’t any real diagnosis. If anyone is going to have some weird and unusual pain that cannot really be explained, it will surely be me.
So I went home. I stayed off work for another week. I did not write my blog. My fever finally subsided. I still have some pain and my gynaecologist said to expect two or three more weeks to pass before I’m really feeling better. 5 to 7 days for recovery? Ya right! Not in my world.
So that, my readers, is why I did not make my deadline for posting a blog last week!
Note: This blog contains medical details that may be too much information for some people. You have been warned! :)
So, I was a couple weeks late with my last blog entry. I told you I had a very good excuse and then left you hanging. I guess I now must explain myself. My dog didn’t actually eat my blog. I don’t even have a dog and if I did it would mean that it had eaten my computer, in which case, I would definitely no longer have that dog. As always, there is no one or two line reason to give. I have a whole big story.
Let’s see, 3 weeks ago I had some surgery to fix myself from the possibility of ever getting pregnant (a more detailed blog about this to come). Yes, I had my tubes tied. Well actually, they weren’t tied they were burned! Okay, cauterized. But burned sounds so much more serious and it really means the same thing. Anyways…this is a run of the mill surgery, you go in, they put you out, they do their burning and Bob’s your uncle. You’re in and out in a few hours. Recovery time is 5 to 7 days and that is that. For most people. Of course, I am not most people and if anything strange or unusual will go wrong, it will happen to me.
So for the first 5 or 6 days, I thought I was doing great. I was up and about, felt good, no pain. Piece of cake. Then Monday comes and the pain starts. And then more bleeding starts. Tuesday, one week post surgery and I’m definitely in pain and the bleeding does not appear to be going anywhere. By Thursday night, it’s even worse and now I have a fever. This I think is not so good. I hum and haw about going to emergency. I don’t want to use up that resource if it’s really nothing, but then what if it is something? I call the Nurseline. After a long discussion the nurse really has no answer and tells me to go to emergency. All right, we are off to emergency. Now sit down, because this is a story of one good health care experience that I would never imagine possible!
We arrive and check in. I don’t even sit down in the waiting area and am taken in. I’m put in the “Pelvic Room” (yes, that’s what it’s called!) But NICE - a totally private room! This is all right. I have barely got my gown on and I have a nurse in to see me. Literally (and I do mean literally) less than 5 minutes later the emergency doctor is in to see me. I mean, the nurse hasn’t even taken the blood pressure cuff off yet! Not more than 5 minutes into the doctor’s exam and the lab person is there, ready to take my blood. I AM NOT EXAGERATING OR MAKING THIS UP! Border waits are longer than what all this took! So the doc says it could be a bladder infection, it could be infection from the surgery, it could be my appendix, it could be this, it could be that. First, rule out bladder infection and call in a gynaecologist. So off I go to pee in a cup. While I’m waiting a nice lady comes in and gives me warm blankets and adjusts my bed. Aside from the bright lights and medical supplies everywhere I’m starting to think I’m on a little vacation. So much so that when a nurse comes in with a cup of orange juice, I actually think “oh how nice, they’re bringing me something to drink”. Laugh out loud here because they are not bringing me a drink. They are bringing me contrast dye to drink so they can do a CT scan. Uh, apparently it’s not just a bladder infection. And a CT scan? Hmmm. Worry a bit more. Just as I finish gulping down the orange juice dye concoction (which I actually think is quite tasty) the nurse returns to tell me that radiology has changed shifts and I won’t be getting my CT scan done tonight. I’ll probably stay in the hospital.
At this point the gynaecologist arrives. As does someone from radiology to take me to get an x-ray. The gynaecologist says to get the x-ray first. I assume she will go off to see other patients. When I come back, she is WAITING AT THE NURSING STATION FOR ME. Maybe this is normal, maybe it’s my own opinion about our pathetic health care system, but I thought this was rather impressive. Anyways, the awesome gynaecologist is ready to examine me. I don’t know if she’s giddy from lack of sleep (she will finish her 24 hour shift in a few hours), giddy because she leaves for Paris that day (must be nice), or if she’s a crazy manic woman like me. Doesn’t matter she was great. She checks me out, tells me none of this is right, I should not have pain, I should not have all this bleeding and of course there are a long list of possibilities when it comes to what’s wrong. I will not being going home tonight, period. I think this means I’m staying in emergency. No. I’m being admitted to a medical unit. Uh, okay. So I’m thinking this is serious. The x-rays showed nothing but my white blood cell count is high, my blood pressure low and I’ve still got a fever. Even if I wanted to go home and come back in the morning for the CT scan (as Dave and I had sort of talked about earlier), this is now not an option. Period. Well, all right. I tell Dave (who has been with me this whole time, by the way) this is my “0 star” vacation.
I want to say that we arrived at the emergency department at about 10:00 p.m. I was in my bed on the medical unit at 3:00 a.m. Maybe 5 hours sounds long, but I was utterly impressed at how fast everything happened. I’m pretty sure I’ve waited 5 hours just to see a nurse on other emergency room trips!
In the morning I was told I couldn’t eat or drink anything (save for a bit more orange juice dye concoction). It also seemed like they were preparing to have me there all weekend. Um, okay I’m a bit worried. I had my CT scan. Not normal. I had gone out for a smoke and when I came back to my room I overheard someone on the phone using my name and “urgent ultrasound” in the same sentences. “Urgent ultrasound” was repeated several times. Okay, this does not sound good. So I stood in front of this person until they were off the phone. Turns out it was one of the gynaecologists (I’m pretty sure nurses book these things when the order is made so the fact that I had a doctor arranging this was both alarming and again, impressive to me). So we talked. The good news: my appendix is fine! Oh yay! The bad news: something is not right with my right ovary. I can’t remember all the details, but I would need this ultrasound to find out more. Urgent means urgent. Ultrasound would happen in an hour. More bad news, still nothing to eat or drink because they may have to do surgery. WHAT????? I'm starving!!! And everyone is still talking like I’m here for the weekend.
So, off to get an ultrasound. By the way, did I mention that every time I go for one of these tests I get picked up by an orderly who wraps me in a blanket and wheels me to the radiology department? AND, when I’m in getting the imaging, I’m given warm blankets. The whole warm blanket thing is a big seller for me. I don’t get warm blankets at home. Then after the test I get picked up and wheeled back up to my room. I know I’m in a hospital, but for a girl who loves attention, especially when she doesn’t feel good, this is sort of fun. Anyways…after the ultrasound I’m seen by the gynaecologist and the resident who happened to be assisting on my surgery. Nice luck, since she remembers the surgery and exactly what they did.
The Verdict: nothing serious is wrong. No infection. They did not injure my bowel or any other organ during surgery. There are cysts on my ovary but this is normal. Basically, for some unknown reason, there is still fluid and inflammation around my right side. They have no explanation, other than to say that it is very unusual and that it is nothing serious and will resolve over time. They have the head gynaecologist review everything and come to examine me as well (again, I’m thinking I’m getting all the top notch care here!). He repeats what the other doctors have told me. It is just very unusual, but as long as it does not get worse, I am fine to go home, get some rest, take anti-inflammatories and follow up with my own gynaecologist at the end of the week.
So all that for pretty much nothing? Not that I wanted something to be wrong, but, well, I guess I sort of wanted some specific diagnosis. Not “we really don’t know why this inflammation is happening, it doesn’t usually happen, most people recover from this kind of surgery with absolutely no problems, we don’t really see this…” This SOOOOO only happens to me. Seriously. At the end of the day me, my mom and Dave could only laugh that, while all the doctors agreed that something was wrong, there wasn’t any real diagnosis. If anyone is going to have some weird and unusual pain that cannot really be explained, it will surely be me.
So I went home. I stayed off work for another week. I did not write my blog. My fever finally subsided. I still have some pain and my gynaecologist said to expect two or three more weeks to pass before I’m really feeling better. 5 to 7 days for recovery? Ya right! Not in my world.
So that, my readers, is why I did not make my deadline for posting a blog last week!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Even Steven
I always joke that Dave is “Even Steven”. Like Jerry Seinfeld, things just always work out for him. Something may bring him down, but then there is always something else right there bringing him back up. Even Steven. I am certain he could throw money off the patio and it would show back up at our front door. Or even more likely, nothing happens to bring him down and something still happens to make his world even better (meeting me is just but one example of his astounding luck!). An example of this Even Steven phenomena, or incredible karma, follows.
First, a bit of background…For those of you who may not know this (although how you wouldn’t is beyond me since I’m always bragging about it), Dave has been designing the t-shirts and other merchandise the band Hedley since they started a few years ago (along with many other up and coming bands). If you don’t know who Hedley is, don’t worry…on my first date with Dave he was telling me that he did these t-shirts and at the time had been going on tour with the band as the Merchandise Manager. Me, being completely oblivious to the music scene, gave all the polite “very cools” and “that’s really excitings”, admitting I had no idea who Hedley was and in my head assuming he was travelling around with some small band playing clubs and bars. The day after this date, I was flipping channels and stopped at Much Music, where there was a one hour “In the Spotlight” show on the band. Okay, did I feel like a heel or what? These guys weren’t playing in bars and clubs; they were playing in bloody stadiums! And apparently they were pretty damn popular. But I digress, as this is not actually about me!
The band’s “merch”, as they call it, designed by Dave always sold very well. The band got bigger and bigger and the merch sold like crazy. So…needless to say, Dave continued to design all the merch for the band. Everyone was happy. Other bands started coming to him, although Hedley was by the far the biggest. The band continued to rise in success. It was a lovely arrangement. Until…Hedley got too big.
So, over the summer the band has been making a new album, not requiring any new designs. Knowing they would start touring in the fall, once the album was released, Dave had been waiting to get album cover artwork, etc. so he could start designing new stuff for the tour. When we heard that the fall tour had turned into Hedley opening for Bon Jovi, we were pretty excited. Great for Hedley. Cool for Dave. How cool would it be to have your shirts on sale alongside the merch of Bon Jovi?!!! As time passed and no word about what they needed was coming, Dave was getting anxious. Then the email: Sorry, the band has a new contract and the record label will now be in charge of everything, including merchandise. Basically, “ya, you’ve been here from the beginning, but we don’t need you anymore.” This was pretty devastating for Dave, although he knows the music industry and knew this was likely to happen at some point. Still, it hurt, both personally and professionally. A few days after the email, the band manager, Dave’s direct contact when it came to work for the band, called Dave to explain what Dave already knew…that with the band getting bigger, and with the record label owning a share of the company that produces the t-shirts, the new contract between the band and the label included all aspects of merchandise, and the record label would use its own design team. It was a positive call, reinforcing that they still thought Dave’s designs rocked but were at place where they had to give control of that to the record label.
How does this make Dave Even Steven? Well, the manager put Dave in touch with the record label designer guy, Dave sent over some samples of his work, the guy loved it and suggested they talk further about working together. SO…Even Steven. Dave loses his gig with Hedley, but gains interest from Nettwerk Records’ design team and may very well end up working with them for other artists. Very exciting. However as Dave’s life goes, there’s always more…when it rains it pours with good things for him.
SO… a few days later Dave gets a call from Tommy (Hedley’s bass player and a friend). Tommy and two partners are starting a clothing line. Separate from Hedley, an actual clothing line – Revolution Army - that they hope will be in stores next fall. So who does he want as the lead designer? Ya, you know it. Dave. HUGE excitement, as Dave’s dream is to work on a clothing line and this may be THE opportunity for him. Dave is beyond thrilled, although always with his cautious optimism. I have no caution whatsoever and now imagine myself travelling around the world with Dave while he attends trade shows, and fashion shows, scoping out the hottest new styles, seeking out materials, and generally doing whatever it is that clothing designers do. I imagine watching celebrities on TV talking about the new fashions they are wearing designed by Dave. And I am certain I will be checking out his designs in the stores on Robson Street, smiling to myself as people walk by wearing them. Ahh, yes….this is me, the big dreamer and more importantly the big believer. Dave may be Even Steven, charmed, lucky, or most likely just full of really good karma, but ultimately he is incredibly talented and it is that which brings him his success.
For now, he will design an incredibly cool logo for Revolution Army. Tommy will use his celebrity to promote it while he’s on tour. After that, well, I really have no idea how it works. However, I do believe it will work and I shall expect you all to be fully outfitted in Revolution Army clothing when it makes it debut.
First, a bit of background…For those of you who may not know this (although how you wouldn’t is beyond me since I’m always bragging about it), Dave has been designing the t-shirts and other merchandise the band Hedley since they started a few years ago (along with many other up and coming bands). If you don’t know who Hedley is, don’t worry…on my first date with Dave he was telling me that he did these t-shirts and at the time had been going on tour with the band as the Merchandise Manager. Me, being completely oblivious to the music scene, gave all the polite “very cools” and “that’s really excitings”, admitting I had no idea who Hedley was and in my head assuming he was travelling around with some small band playing clubs and bars. The day after this date, I was flipping channels and stopped at Much Music, where there was a one hour “In the Spotlight” show on the band. Okay, did I feel like a heel or what? These guys weren’t playing in bars and clubs; they were playing in bloody stadiums! And apparently they were pretty damn popular. But I digress, as this is not actually about me!
The band’s “merch”, as they call it, designed by Dave always sold very well. The band got bigger and bigger and the merch sold like crazy. So…needless to say, Dave continued to design all the merch for the band. Everyone was happy. Other bands started coming to him, although Hedley was by the far the biggest. The band continued to rise in success. It was a lovely arrangement. Until…Hedley got too big.
So, over the summer the band has been making a new album, not requiring any new designs. Knowing they would start touring in the fall, once the album was released, Dave had been waiting to get album cover artwork, etc. so he could start designing new stuff for the tour. When we heard that the fall tour had turned into Hedley opening for Bon Jovi, we were pretty excited. Great for Hedley. Cool for Dave. How cool would it be to have your shirts on sale alongside the merch of Bon Jovi?!!! As time passed and no word about what they needed was coming, Dave was getting anxious. Then the email: Sorry, the band has a new contract and the record label will now be in charge of everything, including merchandise. Basically, “ya, you’ve been here from the beginning, but we don’t need you anymore.” This was pretty devastating for Dave, although he knows the music industry and knew this was likely to happen at some point. Still, it hurt, both personally and professionally. A few days after the email, the band manager, Dave’s direct contact when it came to work for the band, called Dave to explain what Dave already knew…that with the band getting bigger, and with the record label owning a share of the company that produces the t-shirts, the new contract between the band and the label included all aspects of merchandise, and the record label would use its own design team. It was a positive call, reinforcing that they still thought Dave’s designs rocked but were at place where they had to give control of that to the record label.
How does this make Dave Even Steven? Well, the manager put Dave in touch with the record label designer guy, Dave sent over some samples of his work, the guy loved it and suggested they talk further about working together. SO…Even Steven. Dave loses his gig with Hedley, but gains interest from Nettwerk Records’ design team and may very well end up working with them for other artists. Very exciting. However as Dave’s life goes, there’s always more…when it rains it pours with good things for him.
SO… a few days later Dave gets a call from Tommy (Hedley’s bass player and a friend). Tommy and two partners are starting a clothing line. Separate from Hedley, an actual clothing line – Revolution Army - that they hope will be in stores next fall. So who does he want as the lead designer? Ya, you know it. Dave. HUGE excitement, as Dave’s dream is to work on a clothing line and this may be THE opportunity for him. Dave is beyond thrilled, although always with his cautious optimism. I have no caution whatsoever and now imagine myself travelling around the world with Dave while he attends trade shows, and fashion shows, scoping out the hottest new styles, seeking out materials, and generally doing whatever it is that clothing designers do. I imagine watching celebrities on TV talking about the new fashions they are wearing designed by Dave. And I am certain I will be checking out his designs in the stores on Robson Street, smiling to myself as people walk by wearing them. Ahh, yes….this is me, the big dreamer and more importantly the big believer. Dave may be Even Steven, charmed, lucky, or most likely just full of really good karma, but ultimately he is incredibly talented and it is that which brings him his success.
For now, he will design an incredibly cool logo for Revolution Army. Tommy will use his celebrity to promote it while he’s on tour. After that, well, I really have no idea how it works. However, I do believe it will work and I shall expect you all to be fully outfitted in Revolution Army clothing when it makes it debut.
Friday, November 02, 2007
It's Coming!!!!
I know, I know... I am well past my deadline for another post (good thing I'm not an actual writer or I'd be fired!), but I promise I have very good excuses to give that will exonerate me from my tardiness and make everyone feel very bad for thinking I can't hold up my end of the bargin!! You will have to continue checking to find out what they are. Ooooooooo - the suspense!
Well, I promise you that I do actually have some stuff that is almost complete and a post will be up by Sunday at the latest. Stay tuned for one of the following: "This Can Only Happen to Me"...the story of girl who has minor surgery and ends up in the hospital with "well, we don't really know" or "Even Steven" the story of a man whose life, like Jerry Seinfeld, "just always works out" and the latest installment of how one loss leads to an even greater gain in his charmed life.
Well, I promise you that I do actually have some stuff that is almost complete and a post will be up by Sunday at the latest. Stay tuned for one of the following: "This Can Only Happen to Me"...the story of girl who has minor surgery and ends up in the hospital with "well, we don't really know" or "Even Steven" the story of a man whose life, like Jerry Seinfeld, "just always works out" and the latest installment of how one loss leads to an even greater gain in his charmed life.
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