Hold Your Breath

So I remember thinking in the shower yesterday, "Wow, I'm really surprised that the mammogram people haven't called . . . guess my gut feeling was wrong."

And yesterday afternoon, there was a call from a number that I didn't recognize and I answered it. I never answer those.

It was the mammogram people. "You need to come in again." They couldn't give a reason why and I was short with them . . . no, I can't come in tomorrow (duh, I have a life). I'll come in on Friday . . . and what is the reason for this repeat? I was told that I could call my doctor's office.

I find the phone number for the gynecologist. I hold. I am told that I have "a 7 mm mass on your right breast and asymmetrical tissue in your left breast". One should never have to hear mass in reference to their breasts. The nurse is explaining that it's my first film and that this happens all the time and that they have nothing to compare it to . . . but I'm wondering if I shouldn't have taken that offer for the next day appointment. Actually, my brain is melting in panic.

Of things about my body, my eyes and my boobs are at the top of the list. I like my boobs. I don't want new ones. And that was my panic thought for the next 24 hours until I could go to the rescheduled next day appointment, ditching work in the process. I like my boobs. I don't want new ones. There wasn't any panic about having cancer or it spreading throughout my body or dying . . . just I like my boobs . . . I don't want new ones . . .

I panicked at my mother, who was helpful until she said, "You don't really even have to worry until they send you for a digital one . . . they can't see anything on them until the digital one." Except that I HAD a digital mammogram from the get go. Oops. SM was very sympathetic and listened to all my whinyness . . . the first time I was kinda crazy in front of him.

I wore my lucky shoes and earrings in all my holes (six is luckier than five) and showed up when I was supposed to. Checking in was faster this time and the volunteer (I assume she was a volunteer, as she was way over eighty and could barely stand, let alone lead me) lead me to a different door in the Alice in Wonderland world of the Breast Care floor. I was handed a thin pale green bathrobe again and told that I already knew the drill. This time I used a locker . . . but had to pick a lucky number locker -- 264 was occupied, so I had to go with 262. Amazing how OCD I am in the middle of a losing your boobs panic.

A very smiley tech with a serious Latin accent calls me up. In the room I get to see my breasts backlighted on the wall, circles and arrows added showing concerns. Arrow to a round thing in my right breast. Circle around something that looks very much like a tail, a puppy's tail, in my left breast. Slightly different Princess Leia torture robot, same plate but instead of a clear plastic tray the size you would use for brownies, there is something the size of a petrie dish. The tech explains that this is going to be "more painful" and then there is a game sorta like Simon Says to line me up with the machine. "Put your right foot here . . . raise your arm up to the ceiling . . . now put it down on the machine . . . move your ribs to the left . . . " The whole idea is that they are getting closer and more detailed images. Once I was squished in there I was in so much pain that there was no way that I was breathing.

"Hold your breath" she says as she pushes the button, which I took as don't move, as I was already not breathing. We did this five more times and then I was walked back to the waiting room. There is relatively instant gratification, the radiologist looks at your new films right away. I nervously go back to reading "Vanity Fair" while listening to the woman across from me talk on the phone.

The same smiley tech comes to get me again and we go back to the same room and do the dance two more times. I would like to say that I was really freaked out at this point, but I was numb. I had done all I could have done, lucky locker number and all. The chips were going to fall where they may. Back in the waiting room, I continued glancing at the article on Paul Newman. The phone woman interrupted me, with the epiphany that we were ALL back for re-examination. It was an interesting descent . . . "wait, this is a different waiting room . . . are you here for a re-check? . . . are you? . . . hey, we're all here for the same thing? . . . how many times have you been back?" Finally, an older woman on oxygen took her under her wing, telling her stories of her many lumpectomies and biopsies. Not really comforting at all, but something to talk about.

They had taken the oxygen lady back and the panicky woman was back on the phone when they called me up again. Without much fanfare, I was given a piece of paper and told to come back in three years, when I'm 40. The checked box on the paper says pretty much the same thing. So I put on my clothes and went back to work. No tickertape. No balloons.

Since then I have had several "Life is too short for this crap cause I almost didn't have boobs" moments, which might be a good way to live, maybe. And quite frankly, I didn't really realize that I was that attached to them.

Worst Case Scenario

I went over my handlebars today.

Trail biking in Lake Shore Park . . . last mile and a half . . . a large rut downhill . . . I'm usually good on the downhill, but I fell last time and was perhaps too cautious this time. Felt myself being too cautious. Went down too slow and my wheel stuck.

Somehow ended up curled up in a ball. My knees hurt . . . badly . . . and I wasn't sure if I could get up. Before I got my wits about me a person further up the trail stopped to make sure I was okay. SM was ahead of me and hadn't heard me go down. I was lying there, considering the option of calling out "Christopher" loudly (my verbal sign that I am really hurt . . . I never call him that) as this woman, a stranger, questioned my status. This made me get up, as it is rather embarrassing to writhe in pain for a stranger. SM pulled up shortly, dusted me off, looked at my wounds (some abrasions on my right leg at that point . . . now a wicked bruise) and gave me a little hug . . . and then told me to get my ass back on the bike. Which is what I needed at the time. I hate the last mile of that trail.

Really, going over my handlebars WAS my worst case scenario . . . and now it's been done. I need to shop for that new helmet though.

So my right leg is rapidly becoming one large bruise . . . two large on my shin from earlier in the week from a pedal and when I fell and my leg hit a stump (from a rut going uphill that time) and my current injuries. I'm off the trail for at least a week.

I like the riding . . . it's peaceful, the woods are nice . . . but I find myself trying to keep up with SM, which keeps me from enjoying the peaceful . . . and keeping me from seeing things that I want to see. Like frogs. Or deer. Or just trees and dirt.

Trail riding takes a lot of concentration as it is, to stay on the darn trail and not run into trees or fall off your bike. And I am less concentrated when I am tired or pushing to keep up. So I have to work on not being so competitive. It's a single-track trail, so the boy will be at the end. And a relatively little park, so he'll hear me if I yell.

I do need to get a little backpack or hydration pack to keep my cell in . . . right now I keep it in his backpack, along with my ID. Which does me no good if he is ahead. Or any goodin the scenarios my mother comes up with concerning me and being in the woods.

Oh, and my neck hurts. And my left thumb.

No biking for a week.

Vidalia and the Mammogram

I went to the huge complex of hospital for a mammogram yesterday.

One of my cute young friends . . . who has just turned thirty . . . asked why in the world I would get a mammogram. No lumps or concerns. No. I'm just almost forty. And that's when you get mammograms.

So I arrive at the huge complex o'hospital and find the building I'm suppose to check into, a whole floor assigned to "breast care". I turn in my forms. I try to knit but before I can get a row in they have called me for the questions. Why the person who took my form can't ask me the questions (what is your name? what is your address? what is your birth date? what is the top velocity of an African swallow?) I don't know. So back to knitting and again before I can finish the row they call me and send me to the original person who took my form.

"So you're Vidalia?" "No. I'm Emily." And then the first form woman starts chatting about how she should know that I'm Emily because I'm not ninety. We stand. They call Vidalia again. And again. And Vidalia comes rolling up.

Vidalia is wearing a windbreaker (it was 92 degrees outside at the time), an orange t-shirt, a big brimmed cotton hat, pull on pants and tennis shoes. And she is doing a monologue about how crappy it is that she has to have a mammogram. "I'm too small" she says, head motioning toward her chest. She talks down the short hallway and during the first form woman's speech about what we are supposed to do in the dressing rooms. And this would be okay, except that I need to know what to do . . . this may be Vidalia's last mammogram, but it's my first. Vidalia, busy with her complaints, tries to join me in the dressing room, knocking the door in with her walker but the first form woman redirects her. I am now wondering if Vidalia should be alone. Maybe she should be in the dressing room with me.

I "disrobe to the waist", fold up my t-shirt and bra and stuff them into my knitting bag rather than using the lockers. When I am done, I am supposed to take a clipboard and fill out another form. I don't dally and just as I put pen to paper in the interior waiting room, they call my name. There are seven other ladies, all "disrobed" in green, waiting I assume. How can I be first. "Shouldn't I fill out this form first?" "Oh. Yeah. (sigh) We'll come back."

The form takes me ten seconds. I only have to check four boxes. No problems, nothing to check for, no discharge, no history. I try to find the person who came for me ten seconds ago and am shooed back into the interior waiting room by that same person. "We'll come and get you." Whatever. Vidalia is done now, but can't carry the form with her walker. The closest of the seven women gets up to help her and Vidalia immediately takes her seat. So I move so the displaced woman can have my seat. "Emily?"

We go into a room with two computers and something that looks like the robot from the torture scene in Star Wars. I am told to sit and that she is going to find another room for me. Evidently my boobs are too big for this torture robot and we would want to do several "takes" and there is a torture robot with a bigger "plate" somewhere. Five minutes staring at the hospital "Service, Attitude, Ownership, Excellence" screen saver and I'm being taken to another room. With a bigger plate.

Basically, for those who have never had a mammogram, you get topless and lay your boob on a plate. They then squish said boob to their liking with a clear plastic lid. Like fitting one boob into one of those ziploc disposable containers (that we don't really throw away, but wash out and reuse for chili over and over, killing tupperwear) . . . but a container just a bit too small, so the word ziploc gets dented into, well, in this simile, your boob. Oh, and they had me hold the other one "out of the way". So me, topless, one breast mooshed into a torture robot from the Princess Leia scene in Star Wars, the other breast being held out of the way. Oh, and I'm bending my knees slightly. Which is all well and good. Not embarrassing or uncomfortable at all.

"Okay. Stop breathing." Stop breathing? Stop breathing? The position is so uncomfortable that holding my breath does seem pretty simple, if not natural. And there is a "rrrrrr-ing" sound. It seems endless. And then she lets my boob out of the robot.

We do this three more times . . . the last two times with me hugging the robot in addition to holding my other breast "out of the way". The last two times are much more painful, plate digging into my armpit so the not breathing thing is even easier. I have to concentrate to start breathing at one point. And then I have to wait to make sure that everything "goes through" but I get to but my green robe back on and stare at the inside of my breast on a computer screen. After a confirming "beep", I am asked if I have any questions . . . and all of my questions are answered with "they'll call you" . . . so I am left wondering why they asked if I had any questions. "We don't do any diagnosing here . . . we don't even look at the films." Great. So what else would I have questions about? Where's Vidalia? When will they call me? Where did you get these fetching green robes? Did you mean for that to look just like the torture robot in Star Wars?

After determining that I only had questions that they couldn't answer, I was told to follow the signs back to the dressing room, which then had signs about the hamper, and the hamper had signs about the exit. I don't have to go back for another three years . . . unless they call me, which I'm trying not to think about.

I have no idea how it went with Vidalia.

Not My Fault, But I Do Need a Drink

I am now on my third dose, out of forty, of dicloxacillin.

And as with all of this adventure, the freedom from IV antibiotics comes with a few . . . let us say . . . speedbumps? Challenges? Dumb shit I have to deal with?

I'm supposed to take dicloxacillin for times a day. Every six hours. Okay, so 7 am, 1 pm, 7 pm and 1 am. Reasonable enough. Would like to probably do a 6 am start, but didn't get there this morning and probably won't for the duration, so 7 am it is.

Now I'm either supposed to take it an hour before eating . . . or two to three hours after eating. And this is what is tricky to me. This is what just caused me to take a spoon out of my mouth and spit yogurt back into a cup. Because it was 6:53 . . . so I can't eat. I can't eat until 8 pm.

So the arbitrary eating rules are going to get to me. The thinking . . . wait . . . can I eat this bite of cantaloupe now? Or do I have to wait an hour? And yes, I could shift everything over to say 10 am . . . which, let's see, math . . . 4 pm, 10 pm and 4 am. But I don't want to set my alarm for 4 am and heaven forbid if I miss a dose. Because I will not go back to that doctor unless I can say with a straight face that I followed ALL the instructions.

Infectious disease doctor is pretty sure that I do not want to get well . . . in fact, I think that he thinks, that I'm actually seeking out staph germs and putting them all over my body. That I want to be "colonized". That I go, late at night and frolic in unknown McDonalds ball pits . . . and eat candy off the sidewalk. I sneak out and rub my legs on bums. And then go to public restrooms and just lounge around. And I'm not even polite enough to get interesting staph germs, like MRSA. I'm just out collecting regular, old, simple staph. How impolite.

When my fifth abscess did not get better as fast as he would like, it was my fault. I must had not followed the Epsom salt instructions. That was the problem.

So I have to jump through all the hoops, just in case I have to go back. Recurrence is high for staph. Just naturally high. There are support groups . . . some people have it for years. And I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "Nope. Not my fault." (You asshole.) I followed all the instructions.

So in another 45 minutes I can eat the damn yogurt and what ever else I would like for three hours. Dicloxacillin smells funny, which can only mean that I will smell like dicloxacillin in a matter of moments.

Oh, and one can drink alcohol and take antibiotics . . . it just isn't the most stellar of ideas, as your liver is working overtime with processing the antibiotics. Urban myth.

Okay. Just nine and a half more days of this.

Relatively Good News

Two more days on IV antibiotics . . . and then ten more days on orals . . . and hopefully, knock wood, I'm done.

Doctor seems to think that it will come back and that I will have to go on a series of monthly antibiotics. Seems that he thinks that I am "colonized". But only two more days of being coughed on by the woman with bad feet, who really needs to go get her lungs checked. I worry.

So now I only have one painless ugly thing on my leg and some really ugly scars. And maybe in after two days, I won't want to sleep all day (like I did today . . . ). I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything much (although it did get so bad that I took two Excedrin Migraine) lest a liver blow out. My liver is finicky enough as it is . . .

So in twelve days, I'm so having a glass of wine. Or maybe two.

A Newly Formed Germ Phobe

I once took pride in the fact that I was not a germ-phobe. I didn't carry hand sanitizer. I wasn't constantly spraying my classroom down with bleach. I touched shopping carts. I picked up things off the ground. I had long nails. I went and got pedicures.

I would step foot in a public bathroom.

I was careless and fancy free . . . What? My immune system would handle it. In fact, my immune system would be better for it. Right?

And then I got a spot on my hip . . . which at first I thought was a zit . . . and then thought it was a spider bite . . . right on my hip bone . . .

And after a month of seemingly rotting and a week of people poking me with needles and missing veins (not like "my shots", as I call them, for the allergies . . . they can't miss with those) I think I am reconsidering my position.

I may want a bubble. And everything wiped down with antiseptic. And a world without public restrooms, or people if I cannot verify their level of cleanliness. After two weeks of being judged for a pile of germs that I cannot control . . .

I am afraid to go anywhere. I don't want to infect my friends, or family, or perfectly innocent strangers for that matter. And as careful as I am . . . gloves, disinfectant, following the instructions to the letter . . . I am still not better. Still oozing and contagious. (Although, knock wood, no new spots) And if you read the evil, evil internet I may be doing this whole routine (showering three times a day, using everything only once, hibicleanse every other day, sticking shit up my nose twice a day, cutting my fingernails super short, AND IV antibiotics . . . or oral antibiotics four times a day) for a very long time. Perhaps 12 weeks. And it could still come back.

And there is the faint praise, at least it's not MRSA. But my full test results STILL haven't come in.

Today, the nurse's glove somehow got stuck and she accidentally ripped out my IV needle. I know she didn't mean to do it and felt terrible . . . and it pales in comparison to the time that they stuck me four times in one day . . . but no one really should have to go through this at thirty seven. Eighty? I don't know. I suppose if it were the Middle Ages, I would be dead by now. How's that for a positive spin?

And honestly, I don't know how I'm going to leave the house . . . I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

Yet Another Rabbit Hole

My street is under construction and I am not sure that I can get out of my driveway.

The DPW told me to park on a side street, but they ticket on side streets after 2 a.m. . . . and it's a giant pain in the ass.

I'm going to the infectious disease center to hopefully find out what I have and to see a real live doctor . . . I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything, lest thinning my blood more. They poked me three times yesterday, four times the day before. Let's see if we can go for five today.

So I'm cranky. Very, very cranky. I want off the drugs. They aren't making me better. And due to the nature of antibiotics, I'm not sure that I can safely stop the drugs. Also, if I get something else . . . say, a sinus infection . . . now that I have the strongest antibiotics in my system, what do I do next? And I'm still in pain and I'm realizing that no one cares about that. They just see pain as part of the business. And if I catch something else from all these old people coughing and oozing and bleeding . . .

I should have just taken the oral antibiotic from the crazy lady that wouldn't spend more than five seconds with me. Because much like an Alice in Wonderland adventure, the deeper I get into this the weirder and worse it gets. The last doctor basically took a long time to tell me that I was dirty and fat. That I should put my clothing in a hamper and exercise (nevermind that I biked 18 miles the weekend before) and that I was sure to get diabetes. Just a matter of time. If I didn't have it already. (I don't. Already went through that rabbit hole in January.) And I just want to yell "F**K OFF" to these people.

So hopefully the report will come back clean . . . and it's just a allergic reaction to a bug bite . . . and I will stop all the drugs and stop feeling like I drank paint thinner and be able to take a normal poop. I miss pooping. Never thought I would. And don't think too hard about what I do instead of pooping.

Okay, I have to go eat. Just in case they keep me for another five hours. I'm bringing a sweatshirt (sooo cold when they shoot saline through your veins), knitting (although I can't move one of my arms, but I figured I'd try), water (so thirsty all the time), a book and a bad attitude. Wish me luck . . .

WooHoo

I ate solid food today.

See? Tongue Lesions!

I just read the insert for the medication that they had to special order for me at the drugstore and it says, and I quote:

"The mechanism of action by which amlexanox accelerates healing of aphthous ulcers is unknown."

It then goes on to talk about in vitro studies . . . and how it seems somehow to deal with inflammation. "Aphthous ulcers" would be canker sores. I do not have those. I have either Hand, Foot and Mouth disease (also called coxsackie virus, which is fun to say) or Shingles . . . but only in my mouth. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? My close friends and family love it when I show them, which I do often by sticking out my tongue as far as I can. "Thee? Ny ton ih gost."

Of course this is only a tentative diagnoses. Evidently, a best guess scenario from the medical profession. If it doesn't clear up in seven to ten days I have to go in and try again.

It all started with a sore throat. Simple enough. Sore throat and a headache two Saturdays ago. Inconvenient because I was putting up insulation. And I was tired. Very tired.

And the sore throat got worse. To the point that I went to see a doctor. During school. I left work to go see a medical professional. Almost never happens with me. And she looked at my throat for three seconds. She did a strep test. It was negative. She said it was a virus and that I should go to bed. Give it 7 to 10 days. That was Tuesday.

Wednesday I shivered in bed and slept.

Thursday, it felt like I had burnt my mouth with all the tea I was drinking. The roof of my mouth was swollen. My tongue felt burnt. So sore throat and mouth pain. Thursday evening, I did a lot of swishing around of salt water. A Mr. Crabbypants trick.

Friday I had a red spot on my tongue. I figured since it was cut and I rubbed salt in the wound. I started the antibiotic the doc gave me "just in case". Then two spots. Saturday different spots. But no sore throat. Sunday different spots but they were more ugly. And I couldn't eat. My mother nudged me until I went to the urgent care (another blog entry altogether) and that is where I got the HFMD or Shingles of the mouth (or allergic reaction, maybe . . . whatever, if it doesn't go away then go to the doctor again) diagnosis.

"So can I go to work?"
"Are you going to spit on anyone?"

So I haven't really eaten in going on four days (not really true, I had mac and cheese this evening) but I can have vanilla shakes. HFMD is only supposed to happen in young children but yeah, my body is weird, so maybe. My mouth is much better than Saturday. But I would like to remember when I didn't have to pay attention to my tongue all the time. M1 says people pick it up all the time in Indonesia . . . from escalators. And 7-10 days is coming up.

I'm just really afraid about it not clearing up in 7 to 10, because that means biopsies. And that means cutting chunks out of my tongue. So let's just hope I get better. And hope all the people I have kissed have really good adult immune systems. (the rest of you are in little danger, unless I spit on you, which I haven't) (yeah, yeah, the forms all say really contagious . . . but you haven't been changing my diapers and I haven't been drooling on you . . . )

So I get a new dentist out of the deal.

So yeah, sorry, I'm gross. With gross things. And weird gross diagnosis. Could be worse, I suppose. Maybe.

And I am so getting a hamburger when this is over.

Watch Out

As I shirk my responsibilities at work (because it is Saturday, damnit. I want one day off.) . . . I have quite the adventurous morning.

First, the allergist. I got the nurse who hates life. Hates her job. Hates fat people. Hates me. Which was hilarious, now that I know that she is just like that. She likes her blood pressure cuffs to be very large, which leads to sighing on her part. (I don't know about you . . . but I think I have pretty regular sized arms . . . my butt is another story . . . ) She's a peach. Then the physician's assistant came in and admonished me not to "pick up rocks" in Arizona. Everything will be fine there, in terms of allergies, as long as I don't pick up any rocks. I had to ask for clarification. Are there allergens in the rocks? Is it like Hawaii and the goddess of fire will hunt you down and make your life miserable? What's with the tempting rocks?

"All the spiders stay under the rocks . . . well, spiders and bad things . . . like scorpions . . . all under the rocks. So if you pick them up, you might be in trouble."

Well . . . okay, then. No, touching the rocks.

The explanation came with a personal story, leading me to believe that the rock warning isn't all that creditable. Just because someone's mother stopped by the side of the road and picked up what she thought was a pretty rock and there happened to be a large spider on it . . . doesn't mean all rocks are dangerous. At least I don't think that logic works.

After the rock conversation, I decided to go get some french toast. Had the Saturday ad section of the paper, so coffee and some toast seemed the way to go. Found a small booth, even though it was Saturday morning. Cool. Except that I was next to two couples. I was unable to determine their age . . . couldn't tell if it was an "early bloom, early rot" situation, if if they were in their thirties . . . well, anyhow one of them had a "Holly wrestling" skull cap on and talked about wrestling. So maybe they were in high school? The wrestling guy proclaimed that he was still drunk. The two women hated everyone . . . "Why was he dancing with that skag? What happened to Eric, he was so cute. Now he's fat. See here on my phone? He was cute then. God, I hate that girl in the green sweater . . . " The other boy just talked about his food. He didn't understand what was taking so long (at this point, I didn't either . . . because I had no french toast) and he didn't even know what sunny-side up was, but he had ordered over easy. And what was the deal with his toast? He questioned his toast (as he was eating it) about six times.

They were gems. All four of them. And they have a better chance of reproducing than I have . . . leading me to the conclusion that the world may be doomed. Between that and the rocks.

Going to Yak

I have a migrane. It feels like something is searing the inside of my skull. I think it might be because I need to eat . . . but I am now so nauseous that food is out of the question. Plus, I put on perfume when I got all dressed up (with no place to go). So attuned to smells with a migrane. Must go shower but can't use smelly soap. Ahhhh.

New and Improved Mr. Crabbypants

My father is in recovery. They stitched in the cadaver tendon and put in little screws . . . so he'll never get through airport security quickly again. They have pictures for us. Gotta love the pictures! Pictures of the inside of my father's knee . . . coming soon!

I have knit a purse, surfed the net and looked at the covers of the ancient magazine collection for six hours now. I'm a little hungry. And probably should have brought a book. Or a more difficult knitting project.

My mother has picked out all the men I should email on my last day on the matchdotcom, to tell them to change their pictures or advise them of their spelling errors. She wants to ask about their motivations for selecting a particular picture over another. Evidently after tonight I will not get any return emails, so what could it hurt? (just kidding . . . really . . . I'm not going to spend the time . . . and no one would see my advice as helpful anyhow)

And I have decided that I really want one of those McDonald's chicken "snack" things . . . without the sauce.

Waiting Room

Fugazi Song.

Okay, so I've had some coffee and I'm feeling a bit more human. We are at some Medical Center in Ann Arbor . . . but not UofM's main hospital (which would have a Starbucks). Ended up finding an Espresso Royale down the road.

The building is brand new . . . parking lot isn't even done yet . . . and yet, every magazine in this waiting room is no less than six years old. Really. I'm bored enough. I checked. Everything printed before the year 2000. Like they shipped them in from another waiting room. I guess they had to . . . this building wasn't even here in 2005, let alone 2000. I am where magazines go to die?

They have computer access and if there was a card reader, I would upload a bunch of pictures of old magazines and purple uncomfortable chairs. I'm sure I'll be back in an hour. Kind weird having other bored people watch me surf the net.

Oh, and according to the Free Press, there are no people to meet (although they did interview a guy from Trader Joe's . . . where I go for my eye candy) . . . so I guess we all shouldn't feel so bad.

Snot Explosion

First morning run this morning. Actually, all my runs are "morning" runs, in that I usually run right after I get up and thus don't have to shower twice. But this was the first run in the morning . . . or before 11 a.m..

Thought I would be cold, so wore a jacket. So didn't need the jacket. Did need Kleenex though. I've been blowing my nose all night, with little success. Little did I know that all I would have to do is run . . . and my nose would run too. So I was very attractive this morning, bleery eyed, sweaty, with a runny nose and my hair all sticking up. Oh, and occasionally wiping my nose on my shirt. Yeah, I was cool.

Now I am dressed, sort of like a teacher and I will go into work after the coffee I promised myself to get through that last half mile (better than looking at the eye candy I guess). I'm on three hours of sleep and I really need another pain pill but will hold off until this afternoon. Must mow the lawn this afternoon. Must.

Okay, off to the first day of work in ages. Think good thoughts. And let's hope I don't have another snot explosion until at least this afternoon.

Running Week Five

I am in the middle of week five in the couch to 5k program . . . and this is the first time my legs hurt afterward. My legs maybe hurt the day inbetween, but this time my knee tendons ache. I'm also having a problem with my left heel on inclines. It feels like electric shocks and I realize with my foot "difficulties" (flat feet, plantar fasciitis, and I'm pigeon toed) I should probably go to the doctor. But the doctor will just tell me to stop running, so instead I just avoid inclines.

In this training program, you can run by time or mileage. Not having a track in my backyard, I go by time . . . but I think my mileage is a little off. Supposed to do 3/4 of a mile at a time today and I don't think I made it in the time allowed. Are the mile roads actually a mile apart? I suppose I could look it up on the google pedometer thing. Oh, well . . . I am old, after all. (training program suggested that anyone starting the program at 35 or over should check with their doctor first . . . what? No, I'm 27 . . . really) My next run is 20 minutes straight through . . . I don't think I even did that when I was 12 and on cross country, so it should be interesting.

Hmm . . . what should I buy if I get through this week?

Oh, and I'm not any skinnier . . . website says that happens in week ten . . .

Bugs in my Stomach

When my friend had the stomach flu this week, I was sympathetic . . . I offered oatmeal, I offered to go get stuff. I had no idea what all the moaning was about.

Now that I have left the fun fair early and spent the last 3 hours of my Friday night balled up in a heap in the middle of my bed, I have some appreciation. The fact that I just hurled my guts out with NO warning . . . made me really have an appreciation for how sick he felt.

A temporary thought . . . death probably feels better than this, right?

I think it only lasts 24-36 hours. If you don't hear from me after that, send the calvary.

Must go lie down now.

What? You don't check it?

I haven't posted because of the plague that is infecting my body . . . living primarily in my sinuses but affecting all over. I did have a thought as I was blowing my nose, again, for the forty-seventh time in second hour. I didn't realize that not everyone checks the snot in the tissue after they blow their nose. How do you gauge the color quality if you don't look in the tissue? How do you know if it is "just a virus" or a full blown bacterial creeping crud infection?

I just have a virus, by the way . . . nothing they can do, except tell me to drink lots of fluids and rest. Mostly clear . . . some little yellow chunks, but nothing to write home about or anything. The best is when I blow my nose, I get really dizzy because all the fluid shifts in my ears. Better than being drunk . . . and Puffs are way cheaper than alcohol.

Oh, and my throat is really, really sore. And I have some tonsil still left (or it grew back? Is that even possible?) on the right side of my throat . . . I knew that operation was a sham, even though I was seven. I want a refund. My tonsils were supposed to be removed and removed completely. And no matter what my father says, gargling salt water stills sucks.

I Swear I have Bird Flu -- But No Family Chicken

Alright . . . I have a little sore throat and a bit of a hacking cough. And I have no chickens at my house because of that whole "family chicken" thing ***, so I couldn't have bird flu. Those children I work with are germy though . . . little infection factories.

*** My grandmother (the nice one) was in charge of the chicken coop when she was a child. Having not actually experienced a chicken coop myself, I have to take her for her word that chickens are incredibly "dirty birds". Because "dirtiness" was somehow worse in restaurants (?) because you could not control the preparation of the "dirty bird" we never ate chicken out and seldom ate it at home. When it was cooked at home, it was cooked WELL as if you could cook all the dirtiness out of the chicken if you took your time. During the Kentucky Fried Chicken craze of the mid-seventies, my grandmother was known to (if we whined and made her buy the dirtiness) put the bucket in her oven for an hour or so . . . because you just don't know how well it was cooked at that place. I didn't know that there was poultry that wasn't the consistency of sawdust until I was twenty years old. And even then, I was leery . . . they might have just not cooked it enough.

So now, just to confuse people, my family says things like: "But I couldn't eat it . . . it wasn't family chicken." As if my family ever eats chicken . . .

I was bitten by a turkey once. But that's a story for another day. And no, he wasn't a family turkey, neither.

Still Can't be an Alcoholic

Despite my dream to be on the show "Intervention" and have some producer see that show and make me a star . . . I still cannot drink alcohol and not throw up. I suppose I could just drink and accept the throwing up part, but being unwilling to do that, I just cannot be an alcoholic.

On Friday, I had two beers with dinner . . . safe beers at that. Not new-fangled beer that I haven't had before, not beer that I know gives me a headache, nope, Guinness, something I know will not get sick on . . .

Then I went to my parents house and watched "Love Monkey". While there, I consumed four glasses of wine because my father wanted to do a taste comparison -- Columbia Crest "Two Vines" vs. Columbia Crest something else more expensive. I liked the more expensive, by the way. I crashed at my parents and got up way hung over. Like nauseous hung over, head pounding, can't move, must go back under the covers, hung over.

I drove home, picked up Starbucks on the way, sipped the soymilky goodness, slept for an hour and then puked. This will be graphic, so the queasy should stop reading HERE -- so first heave was Starbucks, no surprise there . . . second heave was wine colored, making me think, "there were layers?", the third, fourth and fifth heaves were wine colored chunks of what I assume was the last night's fish entree. Around noon I ate some squash soup, which sat angrily in my stomach but managed to stay down. -- AND START BACK HERE. So I don't know what made me sick . . . well, I do, it was the alcohol but I don't know what about the combination of alcohols. Was it the wine and the beer? Was it the two different kinds of wine? Was it the unique trifecta? I started keeping things down around five o'clock, per the usual alcohol sickness epidsodes. So I suck at drinking. And now I won't drink anything for a while because of the flashbacks.

I am really good at puking however. Too bad that isn't more fun.

Cheesean'RICE

Now I'm sick . . . ill with the black plague, I'm sure. My whole body aches . . . and not from the SKA concert, there are chills, there is sore throatness, there might be a fever but I don't have a thermometer. . . and I know I've been staying up all night but I slept ALL day. In the fetal position. Groaning softly. With a blanket over my head.

It doesn't help that I am the biggest hypochondriac in the world. I'm already dreaming up all the diseases that start with "flu-like" symptoms. So I'm sure I'm terminal . . . it couldn't just be a cold. They definitely should not let me watch House.

In between thoughts of my demise, I'm waiting on the phone to ring and making mix CDs. I have no food in the house, my usual M.O., which is inconvenient when you don't feel well enough to leave the house. I ate Ramen for dinner. (did you realize that there are TWO servings in that package? Two servings for small children? Cats?) (Ramen are not very low calorie either, by the way) So I may have to rally enough for a trip to Meijer tonight . . . and we all know how I love the Royal Oak Meijer at midnight. On a Thursday.

But for gosh sake! Why do I always have to get sick on vacation?