Table for one

A friend found this on her friend's blog (thebigpieceofcake), and shared it with me this morning. I like.

A clean fan and a pretty doll

The voice in my head was so loud: "You need to dust your fan."

Resigned to ignore it, I continued on the regular cleaning sweep of my bedroom: make the bed, Swiffer the dressers, vacuum the carpet, move to the next room.

"Amanda, it's COVERED in dust; really, it's gross."

I Swiffer-ed the front cover, the base and the chair it sat on. There, good enough.

"The blades are still dirty. You need to dust the fan, Amanda."

FINE!

I could tell the goal of getting my entire apartment cleaned in one day was quickly diminishing. My inner voice - or WHOSE EVER voice it was - had clearly made it's point: the fan in my bedroom (which I use only to save me from an eerily silent bedroom) was filthy. I'd been hearing the voice for months, every time I walked through my bedroom; I supposed it was time I stopped ignoring it.

As I sat on the floor struggling to dismantle my "Living Accents" air twirler, I knew I was in trouble. The word CLEAN was plainly written on my to-do list, and that meant the whole apartment. But the perfectionist in me was taking control; this one act of concentrated deep-cleaning would surely lead to another, and there are not enough hours in the day to scour an entire apartment.

So before I turned into a crazed, caffeinated Merry Maid, I bargained with myself - I would spend two hours maximum dusting, wiping, scraping and tidying my bedroom. The next day I would purify the bathroom, the next day, the living room; by the end of the week, I would have maximized the anti-bacterial quality of my entire apartment while having minimized my stress. Perfection!

Now comfortable with my new goal, I made my way around the room, seeking out the normally overlooked crooks and crannies. It was during this careful expedition that I decided to vacuum underneath the porcelain doll seated in a small wicker chair in the corner of my room. When I moved into this apartment, she came with boxes of items from one of the guest rooms in my old house, where I had put keepsakes from my childhood. When I unpacked her, I couldn't bring myself to stuff her in a closet.

As I transported her and her chair to my bed, I swept away the dust that had gathered on her face. Looking at her, I remember the Christmas my mother gave her to me - I had never seen anything so perfect. Plump baby's cheeks, striking blue eyes, flawless skin. Her fragile porcelain frame was adorned with an equally delicate pale beige lace gown. I adored her so much I placed her in the center of my just-made bed everyday, careful to fluff her dress in a manner that would properly display its beauty.

My childhood daydream was interrupted at the sound of something crinkling beneath my fingers. Confused, I lifted the long layers of skirt, and was shocked to find bubble wrap tightly secured around her tiny legs by rubber bands. Somehow, after at least 20 years, this imperfection had gone unnoticed.

I couldn't believe it. Had I really never peeked under her skirt, just to make sure she had a whole body? Or had I been so taken with her perfect face and perfect gown that I never even wondered if she HAD legs?

Whatever the reason, I decided it was certainly time to finish unwrapping this poor girl. As I popped the plastic air bubbles between my fingers, I marveled at the detail the artist had taken with legs and feet that, up until now, had never even been viewed. Her knees were just slightly bent; the bottoms of her feet had creases in them; and her toes, all curled in microscopically different directions, were accented by perfectly painted toenails to match her perfectly painted fingernails.

Hardly hesitating, I scooped her up, propped her on the pillows in the middle of my just-made bed, and fluffed her dress. It was at that moment a musical note squeaked from somewhere inside her. I had forgotten she played music! I turned the silver knob in her back, and sweet nostalgia washed over me as Braham's "Lullaby" filled my room.

As I gathered my cleaning items, I glanced at my now sparkling white fan, the sole reason my beautiful doll had been restored to her original glory, 20 years later.

With that thought, I fetched the day’s to-do list and made a slight adjustment:

* CLEAN - Bedroom (FAN!). Then I crossed it out.

Turning to my long-term to-do list, I added:

*Remove Bubble Wrap

*Fluff Dress

*Listen for Inner Music

Sometimes, it pays to stop ignoring the voice – and clean your fan.

"The day...."

As most of you, the first major news story I heard today was of a gunman taking hostages at the Discovery Channel Headquarters in Silver Spring, Maryland. I kept CNN on all day, watching the progress and marveling at how, on any given day, something tragic like this can happen. No longer will September 1, 2010, just be the beginning of another month, but it will now be "the day the police killed that gunman at the Discovery Channel building."

But wait - there were a few other news events today that, while not as tragic as the No. 1 story, certainly could have taken that title. Allow me to share with you what this day could also have been known as:

"The day a dangerous sex offender escaped by simply walking out the front doors of a courthouse."

"The day a doctor who graduated with honors was found dead in her boyfriend's chimney."
(You may want to hold off on the details of this one if you're eating.)

"The day we learned about a woman who breastfeeds a calf."
(Um...same warning as before...times ten.)

When I first started writing this post I thought it might be a bit of comedic relief after a dire day, but I think maybe it should be more incredulous relief. Yeah, I'll go with that.

Let the rain come down

The rain has been coming down for hours now. It's the type of rain that tells you the season of sweltering heat is transforming into one of cool breezes and fun-filled tailgates. It's the type of rain that brings a much needed temperature change. It's the type of rain that coats the air with the promise of change.

As I listen to the droplets of change, it occurs to me that the birth of a new season is one that nature thrives on: the trees, grass, birds, plants and flowers don't seem to fight the change. They've had their four or five months of sumptuous growth, innocent newborns and glorious colors, and now they are happily leaning towards their dormant periods, knowing next year will be a reproduction of a cycle that spans eternity.

It makes me wonder if nature's beautiful acceptance of change is our cue to not fear the same?

So there's this bird....

I'm not sure what species she is, but everyday, she demonstrates a powerful illustration to the commitment of motherhood.

From my third floor apartment deck, I watch her. In the eaves just above the rain spout, she has made a hole, a nest, in the wood beam that holds together the overhang I share with the residents to my left. Throughout the day, she dutifully squeezes her adult body in and out of the pine cone-sized opening. Where she goes on her outgoing journey I do not know; but upon her return, she greets a tiny beak poking out of its home, joining in its siblings with chirps of joy as she brings them something to eat. I can only imagine how many there are, for her trips are many. She clearly has a treasure trove of food somewhere, because she is never gone for more than a few minutes.

I marvel at her intelligence. The typical treetop aviary nest is never safe from spring weather that might hurl it to the ground, or climbing predators who might invade it - but not this nest. This mother, whether acting as a result of tragic experience or simple instinct, has created a particularly innovative, safe haven for her children.

Soon they will need to be pushed out of their warm home, and the distance of their fall will be further than most chicks endure. So maybe this mother's efforts will fail her. Or maybe they will take flight as opposed to falling to the ground, because she has instilled in them the bravery it takes to survive.

After all, is that not what all mothers do?

Adventures in Recovery

**(This is a follow-up to the two previous posts)**

The day I came home from the hospital, all I wanted was a cup of hot tea. From my perch on the couch, I estimated whether I could manage this feat: 30 seconds to walk to the kitchen, two minutes to heat up the water, 30 seconds to steep the tea bag and 30 seconds to shuffle back to the living room. Surely I could handle three minutes and 30 seconds on my feet!

What I didn't calculate for was the time it took me to reach my favorite, brightly colored coffee mug from the top shelf of the cupboard. I could not reach my right arm over my head without hunching over in pain. My left arm came to the rescue, but not without me having to raise my left leg in hopes of boosting my hand to the mug's handle. This extra minute was exhausting.

Two weeks later, the healing has started. I finally resumed exercising today (walking - jogging isn't quite agreeing with me yet), and this morning I almost crawled out of bed before noticing any pain.

However, if you had asked me last week about my thoughts on this healing process, I wouldn't have been quite so optimistic. On Monday, I was still having intense pain that was keeping me from spending more than 15 minutes on any activity that involved standing; the irrational side of me was sure the surgeon had missed something and I was going to have to go back to that dreadful land of one-eyed nurses and post-surgery panic attacks.

Thankfully, at my follow-up appointment that same day, my doctor assured me the pain was to be expected, as recovery for this type of surgery is normally two to four weeks. I was thankful there was nothing else wrong; I was NOT so thankful to know I could be laid up for a month.

I obviously did not hide my shock very well, as my doc's next words were: "I'm sorry Amanda, I'm pretty good at what I do, but one thing I can't control is recovery time."

It wouldn't have been such a big deal except that no one told me this. (Although I pause here to ponder if I asked about this issue, as a good patient should. I reason with the fact that I was pretty drugged up at the hospital, so they should have offered the information, right? Right.) Having to pretty much estimate my recovery time, I had taken it upon myself to decide it would take no more than one week. I'm not sure why one week was the magic time frame, but it was. And I was not pleased to find out my time frame had been expanded.

But rather than dwell on it, I decided there was nothing to do but refill my pain medication and try to enjoy a little R&R while I could. It's hard to complain when the laundry and dishes were magically getting done by someone other than me!

I used my recovery time to focus on listening to my body and respecting what it could and could not do. I know it's a bit cliche, but it really is amazing how we take for granted an able body, once it is crippled by something we cannot control. As my physical body nears its healing peak, my less-than-pleasant surgical experience becomes a small price to pay for the return of my health. I'm particularly thankful to have found a treatment option that will not terribly disrupt my life.

And so I move on with my life, a little more thankful for being able to painlessly reach my favorite mug from the top shelf...

Surgery for Dummies

(**This post is a follow-up to the previous one**)

"I think we might need a vomit receptacle," I uttered to mom as we got into her car to go to the hospital.

The combination of pain medication, no food, no drink and nerves had taken its toll on my insides. I knew riding in a moving vehicle could only add to my body's urge to rid itself of what little was in my stomach.

And I was right. Luckily, the paper-towel lined bowl did its job and the three sips of Diet Squirt I had secretly taken earlier left little mess. Ok! I thought, let's get this party started - the sooner my gall bladder is out the sooner I can eat!

*******

Imagine my surprise when the surgeon informed me that no, he would not necessarily be taking out my gall bladder; in fact, he was pretty sure the problem was endometriosis, but there was no way of knowing for sure until he took a look inside me. If there was no endometriosis, then he would maybe take out my gall bladder, maybe even my appendix, depending on how everything looked.

The nurse I had spoken with earlier had obviously gotten her messages mixed. I knew I should have been more aghast at not knowing what exactly would occur in the operating room. But at this point, all I wanted was for the pain to stop, so I signed the papers, donned my beautiful backless gown and hoped for the best.

*******

The worst part about being wheeled into surgery was the fact that I couldn't really see - I had to take out my contacts and had forgotten my glasses. The nurses, in their periwinkle masks, had the frightening appearance of being one-eyed, and the giant lights above the operating table looked like mushy globes of orange jello. This was an unnecessary addition to the unsettling experience of being strapped onto the operating table. I hadn't signed up for electro-shock therapy, had I?!

Surely sensing my uneasiness, the anesthesiologist asked me if I could feel the "jolly juice" he had just begun administering.

Quite pleased with his concoction, I happily answered, "Yes, sir!" The last thing I remember is everyone in the room chuckling behind their periwinkle masks...

******

The next thing I remember is everyone in the room trying to calm me down as I came thrashing out of my induced sleep, unable to take a deep breath and in toe-curling pain.

Nurse: "Amanda, you have to calm down, we're going to transfer you onto another bed."

My inner voice: "But I can't breathe!"

Nurse: "We're going to put this oxygen mask on you."

My inner voice: "I still can't breathe! My side hurts! I'm thirsty! I'm dying!"

Ok, so I was a bit dramatic in my post-anesthetic state. But in my defense, I had forgotten I didn't have my contacts in and thought, at the very least, I was losing my eye sight. Damn jolly juice.

I spent the next few hours trying to keep my eyes open and form understandable words so that my husband and mom didn't think I was permanently brain damaged. I think I accomplished that when I solved a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune before either of them. They will probably deny that.

My post-surgery meal wasn't as glorious as I had hoped, for two reasons. One, I was again incredibly nauseous, and two, the liquid platter of broth, jello and sprite wasn't particularly pleasing to the eye. Although in fairness to the hospital staff, I don't think anything would have been at that point.

I did manage enough of an alert state to remember the surgeon coming in to tell us he had removed endometrium cells from an ovary, a fallopian tube and my outer uterus. The good news: my gall bladder and appendix were in top form. The bad news: I had endometriosis.

After my husband and mom left me to nod off in pure exhaustion, I took inventory of my emotions. I was struggling not to feel sorry for myself. My research had told me endometriosis is incurable, and can sometimes cause infertility. I knew there were worse things to have in life, but my physical pain and irrational mental state left me unable to summon what optimism I had at the beginning of the day.

It was at that time one of nurses (who I was already convinced was wearing angel wings as she filled my IV with morphine), relayed to me her struggle with the disease.

She was barely 20, and doctors could not figure out what was causing her pain. By the time they took her in for surgery, she had two cysts on her ovaries, one the size of a grapefruit, the other the size of a lemon. After a painful recovery, they told her she'd never conceive.

Two years later, she had the first of what would be four children. Her endometriosis has never returned.

As she left my darkened room, I was sure I saw a halo shimmering above her head. Or maybe it was just the morphine....

I know I promised hunting tales....

...but something unpredictable, and often taken for granted, took center stage this week: my health.

During my recovery, I've been debating whether to write about this particular experience. A lot of people consider health matters to be private and share such information with close family and friends only; I have not been so different in this respect.

But I wonder: why is it when our health is less than perfect, we keep it to ourselves as though there is some fault in being sick or having a physical abnormality? I suspect it is an inherent fear of being different that drives this behavior, although I can also understand the desire to keep some things private in an effort to maintain one's personal identity.

I have decided that for me, sharing will outweigh the benefits of keeping mum. My decision is seasoned by an ingredient essential to the diet of some writers: the hope of reaching others and maybe having a positive influence on their life. So I will share. I'll break down my medical journey into a couple of blogs - partly because you didn't come here to read a book, mostly because my pain medication only allows me to be alert for a few hours at a time....

By noon on Monday (November 23rd), the dull ache in my upper right abdomen had turned into a sharp pinch. This sharp pinch was turning into a painful barrier between me and my ability to take a deep breath or get up out of a chair. A month earlier, I had the very same experience, and I promised myself that if in 30 days this particular pain reemerged at this particular time - the second day of my menstrual cycle - I would go to the doctor. By noon on Monday, I knew I needed to keep my promise.

Four hours later, I struggled not to cry as my doctor pushed on the spot just under my ribcage that, in retrospect, I should have protected with some sort of armor. Puzzled, he asked a second time if there was any pain in my lower pelvic region.

"No," I repeated; his response was a wrinkled brow.

"And you only feel it during the beginning of your period?" he queried.

"Yes, and for the last four months," I dutifully answered (I had practiced on the way to the clinic).

But my answers didn't seem to be what he wanted to hear. Urine and blood tests had cleared me of liver disease or a bacterial infection. We were down to gall bladder malfunction or endometriosis. I wasn't surprised by either suggestion, as I had done online research during my second encounter with the strange pain. I was prepared - kind of.

After consulting with another doctor, mine decided I should do the same with a surgeon the following day. (In our small community, the surgeon comes to the hospital once a week, so if you have a reason to see him, it's best to try and catch him as soon as possible.) My doctor also sent me home with a prescription for pain medication - I think it was guilt therapy for almost making me cry.

Tuesday morning I received a phone call from a nurse at the hospital reminding me not to eat or drink because they weren't sure what kind of tests the surgeon would want to do on me. Mildly inconvenient, but ok, I could manage that. During the next call, she told me the doctors were consulting about my "case" and that I should plan to come in at 3:30 that day. No eating or drinking until 3:30?! Fine. I was already thirsty and nauseous from taking my pain medication without food, but I would tough it out until 3:30. This pro-active health stuff was starting to get annoying.

Then my phone rang again.

"Hi Amanda," came the now familiar nurse's voice, "your doctors and the surgeon have decided you will be coming in today to have your gall bladder removed!" (Yes, she said it as though it would be punctuated with an exclamation point.)

My thoughts raced: Wait! How did they know it was my gall bladder? I hadn't even come in for a consultation! Isn't there some sort of 24-hour-notification period before surgery?!

I'd never had surgery and I have to admit, the casual way in which my first under-the-knife experience was scheduled had me irrationally questioning the knowledge of three medical school graduates.

I mean, they could have at least softened the news by telling me I could have a cracker. Instead, I was quickly informed that anything ingested at this point would most certainly increase my sickness post-surgery. This day just kept getting better.