I saw a healer yesterday.
Yes, you read that right. A healer.
Or at least, that’s how she was described to me. I’m not entirely sure that’s how she would describe herself. But, that is how she was described to me.
By Teeny. Teeny who has been trying to get me to see this woman for months. Literally, months.
It's not that I haven’t been open to it. At the root of things, this woman is a massage therapist. And Teeny has sworn up and down about her ability to lay her hands on people and read things from their bodies. Her ability to guide them into the direction they need to go towards healing. The path they need to take in order to find the peace within their bodies that they seek.
At one point in time, Teeny even offered to pay for a session with her for me. That’s how badly she wanted me to go. I wouldn’t let her of course – my pride getting in the way of letting anyone else pay for me to seek out any kind of treatment – but she did hit the crux of my resistance with her offer. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in this woman’s healing potential (there is the hippy side of me that believes very much that some people possess certain gifts that far exceed what most of us have the capabilities of understanding), or that I was in any way opposed to receiving a good massage (we all know how much I enjoy my massages), it was just that… my funds are more than a little depleted. I still have mounds of debt left over from my futile attempts at baby making, and there is that budget I’m trying furiously to stick to in order to ensure an end to that debt over the next few years. And this would be just one more visit. One more person to regularly see and throw money at.
It’s not that I’m resistant to the idea of seeing a healer. It’s that I’m resistant to the idea of throwing any more money (time/effort/heart) at attempts to fight this disease without some sort of guarantee.
But of course, there are no guarantees. Birth control didn’t work. Lupron didn’t work. IVF didn’t work. The endo diet didn’t work. And now it appears as though my miracle surgery didn’t work either.
There are no guarantees.
Only plans B, and C, and D, and E.
As long as you can go through the alphabet until I can find a solution that does work.
Or until I have to turn around and go back through all the plans again.
There are no guarantees.
Ever.
Just a will to keep fighting. To keep persevering. And to keep searching until something works.
Because eventually, something has to work.
So, after Monday night’s special visit to the hospital, I finally caved. I was healing up pretty well in the days that followed my burst cyst, and by Thursday my stomach no longer carried the same tenderness and sensitivity that it had in the preceding days. But my back wasn’t healing. It wasn’t letting go of the pressure. The ache. It wasn’t easing up at all. No matter what position I found myself in, my lower back was throbbing. Sending shooting pains down my hip and through my leg. Reminding me that I needed a massage at this point no matter what.
Beckoning me to check out this healer, if for no other reason than to be able to say I had.
I made an appointment for yesterday at 2:15.
And as soon as I saw her, I knew that I knew her.
I had met her at Teeny’s wedding last weekend. Actually, at the hot yoga bridal shower just days before the wedding.
Of course, Teeny hadn’t introduced her to me as the woman she had spoken so often about. But I suddenly had a distinct feeling that this woman had known exactly who I was. That she had been assessing me from the start. Not wanting to pressure me or push me, but waiting simply for the day when I would choose to come to her.
Somehow knowing that I would sooner than later.
And that, is how this massage started off. With me feeling somewhere deep down in my bones that this healer had known I would be coming to her eventually. That she was just waiting until the day I showed up on her door.
What was supposed to be an hour long massage dragged out for over two. I didn’t leave her office until just before 5. My entire right side was sore, but not in the way it had been. The pain had been replaced with a bruised and worked out feeling. Like what one might experience after a long, hard workout. Not unhealthy in any way. A strong feeling if anything.
Throughout our session, the healer talked to me about what she knew about endometriosis. She said she had actually suffered from it during her mid to late teens. She too had tried all that western medicine had to offer before her mother finally took her to a local doctor who had more of an interest in natural healing. He had exposed her to colonics and weekly injections of vitamins directly into her uterus.
This doctor now apparently practices in Mexico, as his methods were not widely accepted here in the states.
But she claims that he healed her. That his methods provided her relief. And that endometriosis has not been a worry of hers in a very long time.
She now has 6 year old twins. Conceived completely naturally.
After she too had been told at the height of her disease that a hysterectomy would be her only option.
I have to admit that there was a skeptical part of me questioning all of this. Could she really have had endometriosis? Could it really have been so bad if she is now completely healed? Could it even have come close to being as extreme as my case?
But as she spoke, more and more of what she said started to sink into me. She asked if I ever get sick, and I happily confessed that “no”, I never get sick. It’s something I’m quite proud of actually. With the exception of endometriosis, I am completely healthy. I don’t get colds, or contract the flu. Any issues I ever do have can almost always be related back to endo. I can’t even remember the last time I really needed antibiotics for anything. I don’t have a regular doctor here in Alaska. And before I moved here, I fared quite well without insurance for years.
I don’t get sick. No matter what I’m exposed to, I don’t get sick. I have an incredible immune system. I always thought that was a good thing.
But according to the healer – it’s the crux of the problem. My immune system is too good. My white blood cells are too dominant. And endometriosis, as it turns out, is a disease related to overactive immune systems.
I had heard this before actually. Read about it in relation to other diseases as well. I knew that an overactive immune system could also be related to miscarriages. Or even more pointedly – to embryos never sticking in the first place.
To my embryos being attacked by my body before they ever even had a chance.
I had heard this all before to some extent or another, so her words didn’t entirely catch me off guard. But her explanations suddenly helped to paint a clearer picture for me. Helped me to see why an overactive immune system could be a bad thing.
All along I've been saying that there was something else going on here. That doctor's were treating my symptoms without ever getting to the root of the disease. Even when my hormones have been regulated and I've done everything I've been told, the disease has continued to spread. Continued to baffle everyone involved in my case.
All along, I've been saying there was something we were missing. What if this is it?
She said she could tell right away by my hands. By the way the skin on my hands appeared. Which was funny, because I’ve commented before on the fact that I have my mother’s hands. My mother, who had a hysterectomy herself as a result of endometriosis.
But apparently, people with overactive immune systems have more youthful skin than others do. I guess the skin can be a tell-tale sign. If someone had described this to me before as being a symptom of having an immune system that was too strong though, I'm not sure I would have seen it as a bad ailment to have. Never getting sick? More youthful skin? How can any of this be a bad thing?
Only once in the past has my immune system been brought up to me as a negative. It was when I had Lasik surgery done. Over 4 years ago now. I had gone in for the initial surgery and was at my follow up a few days later when I was told that I was healing too quickly. My eyes had flooded with white blood cells as a result of my overactive immune system. The doctor informed me that typically having such a strong immune system was a good thing, but that in this case – my body was attacking itself. Or more specifically; my eyes. He had to schedule me for another surgery the following day. They lifted the original flap over my eye and washed the entire area out with some substance meant to destroy the white blood cells. They then watched me carefully until the healing process was completed; doing whatever they could to ensure that my eyes healed at the pace the doctor's dictated, rather than at the pace my body demanded.
So, I’ve heard about my overactive immune system before. Even heard of ways in which it can be detrimental. Which is why nothing that the healer said to me seemed so entirely farfetched. Why I found myself hanging on to her every word, even as I began to wonder how one begins to combat their own body from fighting too hard.
She said it isn’t easy. That balancing out an immune system can actually lead to sickness. To feeling weak and beaten down for a while. After functioning at a certain level for so long, suddenly being vulnerable to the same illnesses that typically attack others can be trying.
But she explained that achieving balance within the body was the most important thing. And that eventually, once that balance was achieved, real health and in my case – relief from the constant threat of endo – can be accomplished.
Which is when she started to give me directions. Orders to take my focus away from endometriosis (something I know I have a tendency to dwell and even obsess over) and to start instead focusing on my immune system. Visualizing my body filled with just as many white blood cells as red. A partner for each. Soldiers having to fight side by side. Neither army being more abundant than the other.
Endometriosis is a symptom of my immune system. And if this is true – all along I’ve been treating the symptom instead of the disease; while protesting against doctor's doing just that.
She instructed me to start partaking in regular colonics. Something I’m admittedly not so sure about. I don’t even know who I would go to in order to accomplish something like that. Or whether or not it’s something that would be covered by insurance.
But I’ll start doing research tomorrow.
After that ultrasound I’ve had scheduled for the last 6 weeks.
The one that should tell me where things stand in relation to where they were less than two months ago.
I'm not sure what I'll want to do with those results now though.
The healer told me that no matter what is there, it can be fought naturally. It can be combated through sheer power of will and the embracing of methods I may not have previously considered.
She started with a mantra. A mantra she spoke to me as she worked to get certain energies out of my body.
I am strong. I am healthy. I am whole.
A mantra she asked me to start repeating to myself every morning, while also focusing on certain pressure points throughout the body.
I am strong. I am healthy. I am whole.
She said she saw me with children. Both adopted, and born naturally.
She said she saw this future for me when she laid her hands upon my body.
And more than anything, I wanted to believe her.
But even though so much of what she said made sense to me, there is a part of me that is still skeptical. Still cynical. Still wondering if it could really all come down to something as simple as my immune system.
The colonics. The douches of frankincense and coconut oil she wants me to begin partaking in. The mantra. The daily pressure points. The mental focus on depleting my own white blood cells.
Could it all really come down to that? Could this really be the key?
Or am I crazy to even be considering it?
How far would you go? How deep into the realm of natural treatments would you wander? What risks with your own health would you take in order to give something completely new a chance to work?
I am strong. I am healthy. I am whole.
But am I really willing to put all my faith into a healer?
Even though there is a part of my brain completely blocked off to the probability of any of this working at all?
Can the part of me that wants to believe win out?
Or is this one of those times when the cynic in me may actually be in the right?
Still… It was the best massage I have ever had.
I am strong. I am healthy. I am whole.
Now, what will it take until I start to believe that?
ADSPACE
July 31, 2011
July 28, 2011
Hooked
We’ve all heard the warnings.
The indications that once you start, you may not be able to stop.
The testimonies from people who have gone down this path in the past.
I knew what I was getting into.
What I was likely setting myself up for.
What picking this up would mean for me.
But still… I couldn’t stop myself.
I had to know what all the fuss was about.
All the hype.
And now, I do.
Now, I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't stop.
I’m hooked.
No, I’m not talking about the Dilaudid the good doctor sent me home with the other night (I’ve got to admit, it kind of scares me that he prescribed such a heavy narcotic – especially given the fact that he didn’t seem to buy my pain at all). I've made a point of weaning myself off the pain meds since my return from the hospital, and even though I’m still aching – I haven’t taken anything besides ibuprofen in 2 days.
So, it’s not pill popping you have to be worried about with me.
It’s page turning.
I picked up The Hunger Games Tuesday night while home in bed recovering.
I haven’t been able to put it down since.
I may have spent at least some of lunch in my car today. Reading. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about Katniss. About who was going to die next. About what the outcome will be. And about what direction the next two books will take.
I’m hooked.
To yet another young adult series.
When did I become 13 again?
I only tell you this to explain why I may be a little quiet over the next few days.
It has nothing to do with my health (I’m healing up as expected – still tender and sore, but certainly not the ailing mess I was just a few days ago). Nothing to do with the summer sun, or work, or even with the boy.
It has everything to do with The Hunger Games.
And my obsessive need to devour these books as quickly as possible.
I’m hooked.
More hooked than I’ve been since the first time I picked up Twilight.
And for that, I am equal parts embarrassed and ashamed.
But I don’t care.
I’m hooked.
And I don’t plan on coming up for air again until I can say I know how it all turns out.
At least for Katniss.
If not for myself.
The indications that once you start, you may not be able to stop.
The testimonies from people who have gone down this path in the past.
I knew what I was getting into.
What I was likely setting myself up for.
What picking this up would mean for me.
But still… I couldn’t stop myself.
I had to know what all the fuss was about.
All the hype.
And now, I do.
Now, I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't stop.
I’m hooked.
No, I’m not talking about the Dilaudid the good doctor sent me home with the other night (I’ve got to admit, it kind of scares me that he prescribed such a heavy narcotic – especially given the fact that he didn’t seem to buy my pain at all). I've made a point of weaning myself off the pain meds since my return from the hospital, and even though I’m still aching – I haven’t taken anything besides ibuprofen in 2 days.
So, it’s not pill popping you have to be worried about with me.
It’s page turning.
I picked up The Hunger Games Tuesday night while home in bed recovering.
(Courtesy of thehungergames.wikia.com/)
I haven’t been able to put it down since.
I may have spent at least some of lunch in my car today. Reading. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about Katniss. About who was going to die next. About what the outcome will be. And about what direction the next two books will take.
I’m hooked.
To yet another young adult series.
When did I become 13 again?
I only tell you this to explain why I may be a little quiet over the next few days.
It has nothing to do with my health (I’m healing up as expected – still tender and sore, but certainly not the ailing mess I was just a few days ago). Nothing to do with the summer sun, or work, or even with the boy.
It has everything to do with The Hunger Games.
And my obsessive need to devour these books as quickly as possible.
I’m hooked.
More hooked than I’ve been since the first time I picked up Twilight.
And for that, I am equal parts embarrassed and ashamed.
But I don’t care.
I’m hooked.
And I don’t plan on coming up for air again until I can say I know how it all turns out.
At least for Katniss.
If not for myself.
July 26, 2011
A Familiar Story
I have a familiar story to tell.
One that I know I’ve told before.
More times than I wish were true.
But a story all the same, that I thought I had finished telling.
I spent last night in the hospital.
Not the whole night mind you. I was home in my own bed by 3. But up until that point, I was hooked to IV drugs. Being poked and prodded. Probed and assessed.
Last night, I was endo’s bitch.
Last night I lost.
Last night, the pain won out.
And today… I am feeling more than a little bit hung-over.
Both as a result of the defeat, and the drugs.
Whatever they gave me was good… until it wasn’t. I’m not sure my head has ever pounded quite as hard as it has today.
Jack is in town. He popped in for a visit early Sunday morning, which is when I promptly kicked the boy out of my house. Call me crazy, but I’m just not ready for him to see me like that. In truth, I don’t like for anyone to see my like that. In pain. Curled up in a ball on the bed. Crying. Sweating. Throwing up whatever it is I’m lucky enough to get down.
Because yes, it was one of those visits.
I had plans for the day. Plans I had been looking forward to all week. Plans that promptly got canceled as soon as Jack made his appearance. Because right away, it hurt. I hurt. Everything hurt.
Still, I was getting through. Sticking to my bed most of Sunday, and taking things as easy as possible at work on Monday. I didn’t end up taking a lunch, because when I feel like that – eating is the last thing on my mind. So around 4:30, I ducked out of the office after working a busy day from behind the sanctity of my computer.
I came immediately home. There were things I needed to do. Groceries that needed to be bought. But all I wanted – all I could think about – was my bed.
By 5:00, I was in it.
And by 5:30, I knew something was wrong.
The dull but consistent pain I had been in suddenly shot up. My right side felt like it was on fire. My hip and leg were throbbing right alongside the spot in my lower abdomen where I knew my right ovary was. I was sweating, shaking, and writhing in pain.
I knew immediately what had happened. I had burst a cyst. It’s happened before, and I’m sure it will happen again. The fever, the chills, the intense increase in hurt – it’s all very familiar to me.
Which is why I tried to wait it out. I’ve burst cysts before. I know that if I can get through the first however many hours, the pain peaks and then starts to settle down. I know how to survive a burst cyst.
But, I also know that a burst cyst can lead to a twisted ovary. To the cutoff of circulation to that organ which realistically isn’t doing me a ton of good anyway, but which I still don’t want to lose. And that’s always in the back of my head. As the pain increases, I’m always left thinking – what if the worst happens this time?
So, after a few hours and (and a few Percocet’s) showed no improvement, I finally gave up. I had been trying to do everything to distract myself, but it wasn’t working. The pain pills I had weren’t working. Nothing was working. And everything hurt.
So, I called Loo.
You see why I can’t possibly imagine her leaving?
She came and picked me up and we went off on a little adventure to the hospital. Where, I found myself facing down the one doctor I never wanted to see again.
The one who had made me feel like such an idiot over a year ago.
The one who’s bedside manner is right up there with that of a rabid dog.
The one who clearly thinks I'm some kind of hypochondriac. Despite the fact that I haven't been in his ER once in the last year. Not once.
Until last night.
And there I was. In pain. Crying. Needing relief.
All while listening to this doctor tell me that it didn't make any sense for me to be bursting a cyst in the middle of my period.
Even though every cyst I have ever burst in the past has happened on day 1 or 2 of my cycle.
It was humiliating. Having to convince a doctor to look at me. That I was hurting enough to be deserving of his time. His attention. His treatment.
Humiliating, and frustrating, and just beyond infuriating.
It took a few hours before he finally hooked me up to the IV drugs. At that point, I think it had more to do with the fact that he was convinced I needed fluids than that he was concerned about my pain level. I hadn’t been able to eat or drink much of anything in the previous few days. So he finally hooked me up, if for no other reason than to get me hydrated.
The good drugs were just an added bonus.
You’ll be proud to know that my ultrasound did in fact show I had burst a cyst. On my right side. Where there was free floating fluid and debris indicative of exactly what I had said was going on.
The good doctor of course made no acknowledgment of that though. Of the fact that I had been right. That my pain had been real. Instead, he said that in the future I could go ahead and stay home when this happened unless I was absolutely screaming in pain. He said I easily could have waited it out and seen my regular doctor the next day. That he knew right away that I hadn’t twisted an ovary, because I wasn’t hurting badly enough.
Which really left me thinking – how is it that this doctor knows how much pain I’m in?
It was frustrating. Frustrating because I am not a drug seeker. I am not a complainer. I am not a go to the ER at the drop of a hat kind of girl. If I am there, it is because I am in pain. Because I am hurting beyond what I can handle. And because I need help.
To be treated like that when I am humbling myself enough to be asking for help? It sucked.
But there wasn’t anything I could do about it. And I have to say, I did get the smallest amount of satisfaction when he realized that Loo actually works at the hospital. He had been trying to place where he knew her from, and when he finally did – he suddenly started treating me a little better. Not much, but a little.
By then though, it was almost time to go home.
So, I took the prescriptions he gave me (prescriptions I have still yet to fill – some drug seeker I am), and sucked down the last of the apple juice the nurse had given me while I could still stomach it.
I slept in until 8 this morning, and then went into work for a few hours for meetings that I just did not feel right canceling or rescheduling. I was back home in bed by 1:30 though. Sleeping until just before 6.
And now, here I am. Still battling this post drugged out headache, and waiting for my guts to not feel quite so tender. It’s getting progressively better though. As it always does. As it always has in the past. By tomorrow, I’m hopeful that I’ll be up for a full day of work. And maybe even dinner with Loo and her new boyfriend – who is only in town visiting for a few more days.
It’s a familiar story.
One which I’ve told before.
One which I unfortunately think, I may be telling again.
But it’s my story.
And I’m here.
I’m fine.
I’m strong.
Endo may have won last night. But it won’t always win. I’ll get my victories too.
And some day, I hope to be telling a different story entirely.
One that ends exactly the way I want it to.
Minus the good drugs.
One that I know I’ve told before.
More times than I wish were true.
But a story all the same, that I thought I had finished telling.
I spent last night in the hospital.
Not the whole night mind you. I was home in my own bed by 3. But up until that point, I was hooked to IV drugs. Being poked and prodded. Probed and assessed.
Last night, I was endo’s bitch.
Last night I lost.
Last night, the pain won out.
And today… I am feeling more than a little bit hung-over.
Both as a result of the defeat, and the drugs.
Whatever they gave me was good… until it wasn’t. I’m not sure my head has ever pounded quite as hard as it has today.
Jack is in town. He popped in for a visit early Sunday morning, which is when I promptly kicked the boy out of my house. Call me crazy, but I’m just not ready for him to see me like that. In truth, I don’t like for anyone to see my like that. In pain. Curled up in a ball on the bed. Crying. Sweating. Throwing up whatever it is I’m lucky enough to get down.
Because yes, it was one of those visits.
I had plans for the day. Plans I had been looking forward to all week. Plans that promptly got canceled as soon as Jack made his appearance. Because right away, it hurt. I hurt. Everything hurt.
Still, I was getting through. Sticking to my bed most of Sunday, and taking things as easy as possible at work on Monday. I didn’t end up taking a lunch, because when I feel like that – eating is the last thing on my mind. So around 4:30, I ducked out of the office after working a busy day from behind the sanctity of my computer.
I came immediately home. There were things I needed to do. Groceries that needed to be bought. But all I wanted – all I could think about – was my bed.
By 5:00, I was in it.
And by 5:30, I knew something was wrong.
The dull but consistent pain I had been in suddenly shot up. My right side felt like it was on fire. My hip and leg were throbbing right alongside the spot in my lower abdomen where I knew my right ovary was. I was sweating, shaking, and writhing in pain.
I knew immediately what had happened. I had burst a cyst. It’s happened before, and I’m sure it will happen again. The fever, the chills, the intense increase in hurt – it’s all very familiar to me.
Which is why I tried to wait it out. I’ve burst cysts before. I know that if I can get through the first however many hours, the pain peaks and then starts to settle down. I know how to survive a burst cyst.
But, I also know that a burst cyst can lead to a twisted ovary. To the cutoff of circulation to that organ which realistically isn’t doing me a ton of good anyway, but which I still don’t want to lose. And that’s always in the back of my head. As the pain increases, I’m always left thinking – what if the worst happens this time?
So, after a few hours and (and a few Percocet’s) showed no improvement, I finally gave up. I had been trying to do everything to distract myself, but it wasn’t working. The pain pills I had weren’t working. Nothing was working. And everything hurt.
So, I called Loo.
You see why I can’t possibly imagine her leaving?
She came and picked me up and we went off on a little adventure to the hospital. Where, I found myself facing down the one doctor I never wanted to see again.
The one who had made me feel like such an idiot over a year ago.
The one who’s bedside manner is right up there with that of a rabid dog.
The one who clearly thinks I'm some kind of hypochondriac. Despite the fact that I haven't been in his ER once in the last year. Not once.
Until last night.
And there I was. In pain. Crying. Needing relief.
All while listening to this doctor tell me that it didn't make any sense for me to be bursting a cyst in the middle of my period.
Even though every cyst I have ever burst in the past has happened on day 1 or 2 of my cycle.
It was humiliating. Having to convince a doctor to look at me. That I was hurting enough to be deserving of his time. His attention. His treatment.
Humiliating, and frustrating, and just beyond infuriating.
It took a few hours before he finally hooked me up to the IV drugs. At that point, I think it had more to do with the fact that he was convinced I needed fluids than that he was concerned about my pain level. I hadn’t been able to eat or drink much of anything in the previous few days. So he finally hooked me up, if for no other reason than to get me hydrated.
The good drugs were just an added bonus.
You’ll be proud to know that my ultrasound did in fact show I had burst a cyst. On my right side. Where there was free floating fluid and debris indicative of exactly what I had said was going on.
The good doctor of course made no acknowledgment of that though. Of the fact that I had been right. That my pain had been real. Instead, he said that in the future I could go ahead and stay home when this happened unless I was absolutely screaming in pain. He said I easily could have waited it out and seen my regular doctor the next day. That he knew right away that I hadn’t twisted an ovary, because I wasn’t hurting badly enough.
Which really left me thinking – how is it that this doctor knows how much pain I’m in?
It was frustrating. Frustrating because I am not a drug seeker. I am not a complainer. I am not a go to the ER at the drop of a hat kind of girl. If I am there, it is because I am in pain. Because I am hurting beyond what I can handle. And because I need help.
To be treated like that when I am humbling myself enough to be asking for help? It sucked.
But there wasn’t anything I could do about it. And I have to say, I did get the smallest amount of satisfaction when he realized that Loo actually works at the hospital. He had been trying to place where he knew her from, and when he finally did – he suddenly started treating me a little better. Not much, but a little.
By then though, it was almost time to go home.
So, I took the prescriptions he gave me (prescriptions I have still yet to fill – some drug seeker I am), and sucked down the last of the apple juice the nurse had given me while I could still stomach it.
I slept in until 8 this morning, and then went into work for a few hours for meetings that I just did not feel right canceling or rescheduling. I was back home in bed by 1:30 though. Sleeping until just before 6.
And now, here I am. Still battling this post drugged out headache, and waiting for my guts to not feel quite so tender. It’s getting progressively better though. As it always does. As it always has in the past. By tomorrow, I’m hopeful that I’ll be up for a full day of work. And maybe even dinner with Loo and her new boyfriend – who is only in town visiting for a few more days.
It’s a familiar story.
One which I’ve told before.
One which I unfortunately think, I may be telling again.
But it’s my story.
And I’m here.
I’m fine.
I’m strong.
Endo may have won last night. But it won’t always win. I’ll get my victories too.
And some day, I hope to be telling a different story entirely.
One that ends exactly the way I want it to.
Minus the good drugs.
July 25, 2011
HoroscopesThatMakeYouFeelLikeShit.com
It had been a while since I had really gotten all that into my weekly horoscope.
Once upon a time, I used to think they were loads of fun to read. But somewhere along the way, I started to realize that no matter where I was reading – the information contained in my horoscope was typically nonsense.
At one point in time I even fancied myself becoming a horoscope writer. I figured all it would take was a creative use of the English language and the ability to blow rainbows up people’s behinds.
I could definitely do that.
I pretty much stopped reading them entirely. Even for fun. I just no longer saw the fun in reading something that seemed so blatantly made up.
That is, until I was introduced to Cal Garrison and her weekly horoscope readings at Real Detroit Weekly.
It was a co-worker who first introduced it to me. She was swearing up and down that this horoscope site was the most spot-on she had ever read. I initially showed no interest, but when she sent me the link and I checked it out just to appease her – I was immediately hooked.
I can’t remember what the circumstances were that first week, or how the horoscope fit. I just remember nodding my head emphatically in agreement with every single thing I was reading.
It was like this woman knew me. Knew my life. Knew what I was going through at that exact moment.
And from that point forward, I was addicted. Anxiously waiting until Tuesday afternoon (sometimes late into Tuesday evening) every week when the new round of predictions/advice/prophecies would come out.
I devoured those weekly horoscopes. And most weeks, they were just as spot on as the first. The rare and random weeks when I couldn’t quite find a connection to the words on the page and my own life, I just attributed to the fact that every Aries can’t possibly be having the same life challenges and luck every single week. It made sense that it wouldn’t always fit.
And anyway, it fit more often than it did not. So I remained hooked. Even getting Mrs. King in on the excitement. To the point that over the last few weeks, she and I have even been talking about taking a spa trip to Sedona, Arizona with the singular purpose of meeting Cal Garrison and finding out how it is that she is so in tune with us. With the stars. With the universe.
I have praised this woman and her horoscopes on countless occasions. Recommended them to friends, raved about them online, and generally allowed myself to be guided weekly by the words she puts on paper.
Now, don’t get me wrong. She writes a short paragraph every week. Just a few sentences. Typically, it’s some commentary on the emotional climate of the week. Rarely is there much advice. It’s not like I read this article and change any of my other behaviors. It’s more like I marvel at the fact that something in the stars could predict some of the obstacles I would be experiencing, or the happiness I would be coming upon. I don’t exactly let this weekly horoscope effect me in any way beyond that. Nor do I think it really tries to. It’s just… interesting. And it often leaves me thinking there may be more to astrology than I ever really gave much credit to.
More than anything, I’ve always just been kind of blown away with how true to life this weekly column has been.
Week after week after week.
Until this week that is.
Because this week, this is what my horoscope said:
ARIES: March 21 – April 20
Too much of this has gotten to be about you. It would be great if you could see that other people have a say in things. And if you could ever get to the point where you begin to understand that their needs and wants are as important as yours it would be awesome. This business of thinking you're the only one who counts is an old pattern. What developed in you as a child is totally inappropriate to the conditions you face now. It's time to grow into the realization that you came here to share and loan as much space to others as you do to yourself.
Yes, you read that right.
Aren’t feeling sufficiently stung enough? Maybe you should read it again.
Because Cal Garrison basically put me (and all other Aries in the universe) over her knee this week and spanked us. Hard.
I'm pretty sure my butt cheeks are still red.
Me thinks Cal may have gotten slighted by an Aries or two recently.
At least, I hope that’s what it's all about.
Because otherwise - I might be a selfish, crappy, awful person.
When I first read this week’s entry, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that, or write hate mail to dear old Cal. And since I’m not exactly one for putting all that energy into spreading hate, I went ahead with the laughter.
Meaning: I forwarded that horoscope of mine to a few of my closest friends.
Hockey Wife immediately responded back with “Where did you find that? Horoscopesthatmakeyoufeellikeshit.com?”
Gotta give credit where credit is due. That witty little title comes courtesy of my more creative than me friend.
We laughed about it a bit, and then moved on to her upcoming move to Germany. The move that will leave me without one of my favorite people within arms length of me. The move that will take her and her little one away. Far, far, away. Forget the hockey opportunities, and the chances for her little boy to be immersed in another country. They are going to be leaving me. For what seems like the umpteenth time.
Stupid hockey season. Doesn’t it know that I would much rather have all my friends near to me all the time?
Doesn't it know that it’s all about me?
I then spoke to Mrs. King, who was the one who informed me of the spanking I had just received.
I’m not sure if some of you realize how often these amazing friends of mine really do contribute to the creativity I like to claim as my own here. I should probably start giving them all bylines.
After she and I discussed the merits (or lack thereof) behind this week’s readings (for the record, she was raving about how on the nose her horoscope had been), we moved on to her weekend plans. Weekend plans that involved her anniversary. Weekend plans that might have gotten in the way, just a bit, with plans I had hoped she would partake in with me. I may have pouted a little.
Because let's not forget; it’s all about me.
Finally, I talked to Loo. Loo who assured me over and over again that I am not a selfish, crappy, awful person. Loo who could not stop laughing, because she just thought the whole thing was so preposterous. Loo, who I’m pretty sure decided that this is what I get for reading my horoscope so faithfully.
Loo, who then told me about the promotion she's been asked to interview for. The one that would be kind of a big deal. The one that would involve her moving home to Texas – where both her family, and her man are. The one that would take her away from me. For good. Forever. For keeps.
And right then, right there, I started to cry. Real, big, crocodile tears. I sputtered how happy I was for her. How much I knew this would mean to her, and how much I believed she deserved it.
But then I cried some more, and told her she wasn’t allowed to take it. Because she’s my best friend. Because she’s the one I go to first. Because she’s always there for me. Always. And I can’t imagine my life with her thousands of miles away.
I cried. Because it’s all about me.
And then I realized – this week’s horoscope may not be so off after all.
I am a selfish, crappy, awful person. I try. I like to think I have a good heart. That I am kind, and caring, and that I give of myself all the time. I have a career where I help people, I am someone my friends come to for advice, and I have patience with the people in my life that I think exceeds normal standards.
This time last year, I absolutely would have told you that I was in a selfish place. That my need/desire/yearning to be a mother had taken over everything else and I had ceased being a good daughter/employee/friend. But I really thought I had grown past that. I really thought that these last few months especially, I had been returning more and more to that old version of myself. The one who gave as much as she took. The one who was open, and compassionate. Sincere and accepting. The one who thought of others first, instead of the other way around.
But nope. Cal Garrison set me straight.
I am a selfish, crappy, awful person.
And I don’t want my friends to leave me. Period. I want them all to stay right here in Alaska with me always. And I want the ones who aren’t here to move. I want to live in a little bubble with the people I care about most all within arm’s length. They can have all the love and happiness and employment opportunities their little heart’s desire. Just so long as none of it takes them away from me. Ever.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
Apparently, Cal does.
And at horoscopesthatmakeyoufeellikeshit.com, she made sure to let me know.
So at this point, if you too are a selfish, crappy, awful person (i.e. an Aries), I’m going to need you to tell me about it in the comments below.
Preferably with examples of what it is exactly that makes you such a selfish, crappy, awful person.
I’m pretty sure that’s what it will take to make me feel better about myself now.
Which is important after all, because it is all about me.
Once upon a time, I used to think they were loads of fun to read. But somewhere along the way, I started to realize that no matter where I was reading – the information contained in my horoscope was typically nonsense.
At one point in time I even fancied myself becoming a horoscope writer. I figured all it would take was a creative use of the English language and the ability to blow rainbows up people’s behinds.
I could definitely do that.
I pretty much stopped reading them entirely. Even for fun. I just no longer saw the fun in reading something that seemed so blatantly made up.
That is, until I was introduced to Cal Garrison and her weekly horoscope readings at Real Detroit Weekly.
It was a co-worker who first introduced it to me. She was swearing up and down that this horoscope site was the most spot-on she had ever read. I initially showed no interest, but when she sent me the link and I checked it out just to appease her – I was immediately hooked.
I can’t remember what the circumstances were that first week, or how the horoscope fit. I just remember nodding my head emphatically in agreement with every single thing I was reading.
It was like this woman knew me. Knew my life. Knew what I was going through at that exact moment.
And from that point forward, I was addicted. Anxiously waiting until Tuesday afternoon (sometimes late into Tuesday evening) every week when the new round of predictions/advice/prophecies would come out.
I devoured those weekly horoscopes. And most weeks, they were just as spot on as the first. The rare and random weeks when I couldn’t quite find a connection to the words on the page and my own life, I just attributed to the fact that every Aries can’t possibly be having the same life challenges and luck every single week. It made sense that it wouldn’t always fit.
And anyway, it fit more often than it did not. So I remained hooked. Even getting Mrs. King in on the excitement. To the point that over the last few weeks, she and I have even been talking about taking a spa trip to Sedona, Arizona with the singular purpose of meeting Cal Garrison and finding out how it is that she is so in tune with us. With the stars. With the universe.
I have praised this woman and her horoscopes on countless occasions. Recommended them to friends, raved about them online, and generally allowed myself to be guided weekly by the words she puts on paper.
Now, don’t get me wrong. She writes a short paragraph every week. Just a few sentences. Typically, it’s some commentary on the emotional climate of the week. Rarely is there much advice. It’s not like I read this article and change any of my other behaviors. It’s more like I marvel at the fact that something in the stars could predict some of the obstacles I would be experiencing, or the happiness I would be coming upon. I don’t exactly let this weekly horoscope effect me in any way beyond that. Nor do I think it really tries to. It’s just… interesting. And it often leaves me thinking there may be more to astrology than I ever really gave much credit to.
More than anything, I’ve always just been kind of blown away with how true to life this weekly column has been.
Week after week after week.
Until this week that is.
Because this week, this is what my horoscope said:
ARIES: March 21 – April 20
Too much of this has gotten to be about you. It would be great if you could see that other people have a say in things. And if you could ever get to the point where you begin to understand that their needs and wants are as important as yours it would be awesome. This business of thinking you're the only one who counts is an old pattern. What developed in you as a child is totally inappropriate to the conditions you face now. It's time to grow into the realization that you came here to share and loan as much space to others as you do to yourself.
Yes, you read that right.
Aren’t feeling sufficiently stung enough? Maybe you should read it again.
Because Cal Garrison basically put me (and all other Aries in the universe) over her knee this week and spanked us. Hard.
I'm pretty sure my butt cheeks are still red.
Me thinks Cal may have gotten slighted by an Aries or two recently.
At least, I hope that’s what it's all about.
Because otherwise - I might be a selfish, crappy, awful person.
When I first read this week’s entry, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that, or write hate mail to dear old Cal. And since I’m not exactly one for putting all that energy into spreading hate, I went ahead with the laughter.
Meaning: I forwarded that horoscope of mine to a few of my closest friends.
Hockey Wife immediately responded back with “Where did you find that? Horoscopesthatmakeyoufeellikeshit.com?”
Gotta give credit where credit is due. That witty little title comes courtesy of my more creative than me friend.
We laughed about it a bit, and then moved on to her upcoming move to Germany. The move that will leave me without one of my favorite people within arms length of me. The move that will take her and her little one away. Far, far, away. Forget the hockey opportunities, and the chances for her little boy to be immersed in another country. They are going to be leaving me. For what seems like the umpteenth time.
Stupid hockey season. Doesn’t it know that I would much rather have all my friends near to me all the time?
Doesn't it know that it’s all about me?
I then spoke to Mrs. King, who was the one who informed me of the spanking I had just received.
I’m not sure if some of you realize how often these amazing friends of mine really do contribute to the creativity I like to claim as my own here. I should probably start giving them all bylines.
After she and I discussed the merits (or lack thereof) behind this week’s readings (for the record, she was raving about how on the nose her horoscope had been), we moved on to her weekend plans. Weekend plans that involved her anniversary. Weekend plans that might have gotten in the way, just a bit, with plans I had hoped she would partake in with me. I may have pouted a little.
Because let's not forget; it’s all about me.
Finally, I talked to Loo. Loo who assured me over and over again that I am not a selfish, crappy, awful person. Loo who could not stop laughing, because she just thought the whole thing was so preposterous. Loo, who I’m pretty sure decided that this is what I get for reading my horoscope so faithfully.
Loo, who then told me about the promotion she's been asked to interview for. The one that would be kind of a big deal. The one that would involve her moving home to Texas – where both her family, and her man are. The one that would take her away from me. For good. Forever. For keeps.
And right then, right there, I started to cry. Real, big, crocodile tears. I sputtered how happy I was for her. How much I knew this would mean to her, and how much I believed she deserved it.
But then I cried some more, and told her she wasn’t allowed to take it. Because she’s my best friend. Because she’s the one I go to first. Because she’s always there for me. Always. And I can’t imagine my life with her thousands of miles away.
I cried. Because it’s all about me.
And then I realized – this week’s horoscope may not be so off after all.
I am a selfish, crappy, awful person. I try. I like to think I have a good heart. That I am kind, and caring, and that I give of myself all the time. I have a career where I help people, I am someone my friends come to for advice, and I have patience with the people in my life that I think exceeds normal standards.
This time last year, I absolutely would have told you that I was in a selfish place. That my need/desire/yearning to be a mother had taken over everything else and I had ceased being a good daughter/employee/friend. But I really thought I had grown past that. I really thought that these last few months especially, I had been returning more and more to that old version of myself. The one who gave as much as she took. The one who was open, and compassionate. Sincere and accepting. The one who thought of others first, instead of the other way around.
But nope. Cal Garrison set me straight.
I am a selfish, crappy, awful person.
And I don’t want my friends to leave me. Period. I want them all to stay right here in Alaska with me always. And I want the ones who aren’t here to move. I want to live in a little bubble with the people I care about most all within arm’s length. They can have all the love and happiness and employment opportunities their little heart’s desire. Just so long as none of it takes them away from me. Ever.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
Apparently, Cal does.
And at horoscopesthatmakeyoufeellikeshit.com, she made sure to let me know.
So at this point, if you too are a selfish, crappy, awful person (i.e. an Aries), I’m going to need you to tell me about it in the comments below.
Preferably with examples of what it is exactly that makes you such a selfish, crappy, awful person.
I’m pretty sure that’s what it will take to make me feel better about myself now.
Which is important after all, because it is all about me.
July 24, 2011
The Friend's Zone
Sometimes in relationships, if you don’t strike when the iron is hot – you risk losing everything.
Getting shoved into the friend’s zone and not being able to find a way out.
Being passed over for the next one to come along.
Missing out on something that could have been great.
I'm pretty sure I didn't strike with enough determination when I should have.
And now, I'm pretty sure I may have lost out.
As some of you may remember, I was in the midst of a little courting over the 4th of July weekend.
Lusting after some new appliances in a way that wasn’t exactly healthy.
Especially for a girl still holding on to a fair amount of baby making debt.
A girl who also just so happened to have perfectly functional appliances already.
Old and run down, but still fully capable of getting the job done.
But those deals over the holiday weekend were calling to me. They were courting me right back. Making promises of a beautiful relationship to come. One destined to be full of stainless steel, zero percent interest, and energy star ratings.
Still, I held out. Determined that if there was really something there; it could wait a few months. We could take things slow. I could evaluate my relationship with my current appliances, and those new ones would wait patiently in the wings.
So of course, as some of you (and even myself) predicted – those perfectly function appliances of mine decided to crap out.
As soon as the holiday deals were no more.
I didn’t strike when the iron was hot, and as such – I got put in the friend’s zone.
Friday night I was doing a few loads of laundry (after having not touched my laundry basket in almost 3 weeks). I knew I had a packed weekend and that it was now or never as far as laundry completion was concerned. So I was powering through in preparation both for the wedding I would be attending yesterday, and the boy’s return from over 2 weeks of being out of town for work.
Which is why the dryer dying only 1 load in (with wet clothes both still in there, and now also in the washer) really put a damper on my entire evening.
And left me in a bit of a panic as I tried to determine where in my very small condo I could even hang all of these now wet clothes.
It was in that moment that I was kicking myself. Had I splurged on the 4th of July, this wouldn’t be happening. I would have clean, dry clothes. Produced by energy star rated machines. A happily ever after sort of relationship.
Instead, I had an elderly machine that decided to crap out at the worst possible moment.
The roommate and her boyfriend were both home, and after some tinkering between the 3 of us – we managed to get it working again.
Kind of.
It’s now taking at least twice as long to dry a load, and I’m living in fear of the moment when it may just die for good.
Which will, inevitably, happen as soon as I am desperately in need of clean clothes again.
Unfortunately – the deals that were in place just a few weeks ago are as of now nowhere to be found. There are still remnants of those deals (10% off here, free delivery there), but nothing as all encompassing as what once could have been.
Leaving me with a bit of a conundrum.
Do I wait it out until Labor Day? Hoping that the current machine will get the roommate and I through until then? And that the spark that was there over the 4th of July will return once more? Bringing with it the plethora of deals that were almost too good to say “no” to when I had perfectly functioning machines, and would now be impossible to ignore given the unreliability of what I’m currently stuck with?
Or do I recognize the error in my ways for not striking when the iron was hot, and simply take what I can get before it's too late and I end up with nothing?
Either way, I think I’ve got myself convinced to only get a washer and dryer for now.
As much as I would like to replace the whole lot, I should probably just start with my needs versus my wants.
And (knock on wood) at this point – none of those other elderly appliances are in need of replacement.
I am once again lusting though.
Hoping only that I can woo back some of the deals that were in place only a few short weeks ago.
And kicking myself for not striking while the iron was hot before.
Long courtships are overrated.
The real trick is to seal the deal.
Quickly. Efficiently. And with determination.
Before you find yourself stuck in the friend’s zone.
Minus the passion. The excitement.
And the 18 months of zero percent interest.
Getting shoved into the friend’s zone and not being able to find a way out.
Being passed over for the next one to come along.
Missing out on something that could have been great.
I'm pretty sure I didn't strike with enough determination when I should have.
And now, I'm pretty sure I may have lost out.
As some of you may remember, I was in the midst of a little courting over the 4th of July weekend.
Lusting after some new appliances in a way that wasn’t exactly healthy.
Especially for a girl still holding on to a fair amount of baby making debt.
A girl who also just so happened to have perfectly functional appliances already.
Old and run down, but still fully capable of getting the job done.
But those deals over the holiday weekend were calling to me. They were courting me right back. Making promises of a beautiful relationship to come. One destined to be full of stainless steel, zero percent interest, and energy star ratings.
Still, I held out. Determined that if there was really something there; it could wait a few months. We could take things slow. I could evaluate my relationship with my current appliances, and those new ones would wait patiently in the wings.
So of course, as some of you (and even myself) predicted – those perfectly function appliances of mine decided to crap out.
As soon as the holiday deals were no more.
I didn’t strike when the iron was hot, and as such – I got put in the friend’s zone.
Friday night I was doing a few loads of laundry (after having not touched my laundry basket in almost 3 weeks). I knew I had a packed weekend and that it was now or never as far as laundry completion was concerned. So I was powering through in preparation both for the wedding I would be attending yesterday, and the boy’s return from over 2 weeks of being out of town for work.
Which is why the dryer dying only 1 load in (with wet clothes both still in there, and now also in the washer) really put a damper on my entire evening.
And left me in a bit of a panic as I tried to determine where in my very small condo I could even hang all of these now wet clothes.
It was in that moment that I was kicking myself. Had I splurged on the 4th of July, this wouldn’t be happening. I would have clean, dry clothes. Produced by energy star rated machines. A happily ever after sort of relationship.
Instead, I had an elderly machine that decided to crap out at the worst possible moment.
The roommate and her boyfriend were both home, and after some tinkering between the 3 of us – we managed to get it working again.
Kind of.
It’s now taking at least twice as long to dry a load, and I’m living in fear of the moment when it may just die for good.
Which will, inevitably, happen as soon as I am desperately in need of clean clothes again.
Unfortunately – the deals that were in place just a few weeks ago are as of now nowhere to be found. There are still remnants of those deals (10% off here, free delivery there), but nothing as all encompassing as what once could have been.
Leaving me with a bit of a conundrum.
Do I wait it out until Labor Day? Hoping that the current machine will get the roommate and I through until then? And that the spark that was there over the 4th of July will return once more? Bringing with it the plethora of deals that were almost too good to say “no” to when I had perfectly functioning machines, and would now be impossible to ignore given the unreliability of what I’m currently stuck with?
Or do I recognize the error in my ways for not striking when the iron was hot, and simply take what I can get before it's too late and I end up with nothing?
Either way, I think I’ve got myself convinced to only get a washer and dryer for now.
As much as I would like to replace the whole lot, I should probably just start with my needs versus my wants.
And (knock on wood) at this point – none of those other elderly appliances are in need of replacement.
I am once again lusting though.
Hoping only that I can woo back some of the deals that were in place only a few short weeks ago.
And kicking myself for not striking while the iron was hot before.
Long courtships are overrated.
The real trick is to seal the deal.
Quickly. Efficiently. And with determination.
Before you find yourself stuck in the friend’s zone.
Minus the passion. The excitement.
And the 18 months of zero percent interest.
July 21, 2011
If This Is The Worst That Happens...
I’ve thought about it all day.
After getting far too little sleep the last few nights, and running around like a chicken with my head cut off as things have picked up at work – it might have been all I could think about.
Coming home at 5, going for a quick walk (just so that I could say I had done something), and then curling up in bed with my DVR. Time to catch up on the world of Big Brother (we all know how I feel about Big Brother, right?) and America’s Got Talent (another of my guilty pleasures.)
I even had dinner plans that I canceled just for this. Because I didn't feel capable of functioning. Of socializing. Of remaining vertical for one more second.
All I wanted was my bed and my TV.
Only, when I turned on my trusty DVR, I was sad to discover – it was empty.
24 hours worth of shows. Just gone.
Apparently, the power went out yesterday. Which I kind of already knew. But I guess I didn’t really think about what that would mean for my DVR.
I was too busy sweating it out and embarrassing myself at hot yoga.
Note to self: Never (and I mean NEVER) try that again.
It was for a good cause. Teeny’s getting married this weekend, and the hot yoga was actually part of her bridal shower. So it was worth it. Even though it became very clear very quickly that I had absolutely no business participating in whatever it was the rest of the women were doing.
I was much more at home when the sweating ceased and the eating began.
Regardless, I was otherwise engaged last night as my shows should have been taping. Which was, of course, fine. This is what DVR’s were invented for after all. And even if DVR’s weren’t an option – I would never miss a friend’s bridal shower for something as trivial as a television show.
(I would just make a point of coming after the yoga portion next time)
Still, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed when I discovered my empty list tonight.
Curled up in my bed.
Eating my chicken and veggies.
Ready for nothing more than to immerse myself in some reality television.
There might have been a heated moment there. Upon coming to the realization that the DVR was blank, I might have had a minor breakdown.
To be fair – I’m going to go back to blaming it on the whole lack of sleep thing.
And the fact that today, I’m sore in places I didn’t even know I had.
Plus, I have rug burns on my elbows. Caused by slipping and sliding all over my mat due to the profuse amount of sweating I was doing.
That’s how skilled I was at hot yoga.
Besides, Jack is due for a visit this weekend. I'm pretty sure that's at least partially to blame.
The point is, mid-meltdown (as I was literally fighting back tears), I managed to stop myself and take a good look in the mirror. Which is when I realized how ridiculous I was being. Blood boiling over something as non-consequential as an empty DVR. On the verge of tears because I missed one night of reality TV.
If this is the worst that happens to me, then I probably shouldn't be complaining.
My DVR didn’t tape my shows.
Now I'm going to have to watch them online.
It’s the worst thing that’s happened to me all day.
Which I’m thinking makes today a pretty good day.
Just don’t tell anyone what a fit I threw.
Because that would be embarrassing.
Possibly even more embarrassing than hot yoga.
After getting far too little sleep the last few nights, and running around like a chicken with my head cut off as things have picked up at work – it might have been all I could think about.
Coming home at 5, going for a quick walk (just so that I could say I had done something), and then curling up in bed with my DVR. Time to catch up on the world of Big Brother (we all know how I feel about Big Brother, right?) and America’s Got Talent (another of my guilty pleasures.)
I even had dinner plans that I canceled just for this. Because I didn't feel capable of functioning. Of socializing. Of remaining vertical for one more second.
All I wanted was my bed and my TV.
Only, when I turned on my trusty DVR, I was sad to discover – it was empty.
24 hours worth of shows. Just gone.
Apparently, the power went out yesterday. Which I kind of already knew. But I guess I didn’t really think about what that would mean for my DVR.
I was too busy sweating it out and embarrassing myself at hot yoga.
Note to self: Never (and I mean NEVER) try that again.
It was for a good cause. Teeny’s getting married this weekend, and the hot yoga was actually part of her bridal shower. So it was worth it. Even though it became very clear very quickly that I had absolutely no business participating in whatever it was the rest of the women were doing.
I was much more at home when the sweating ceased and the eating began.
Regardless, I was otherwise engaged last night as my shows should have been taping. Which was, of course, fine. This is what DVR’s were invented for after all. And even if DVR’s weren’t an option – I would never miss a friend’s bridal shower for something as trivial as a television show.
(I would just make a point of coming after the yoga portion next time)
Still, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed when I discovered my empty list tonight.
Curled up in my bed.
Eating my chicken and veggies.
Ready for nothing more than to immerse myself in some reality television.
There might have been a heated moment there. Upon coming to the realization that the DVR was blank, I might have had a minor breakdown.
To be fair – I’m going to go back to blaming it on the whole lack of sleep thing.
And the fact that today, I’m sore in places I didn’t even know I had.
Plus, I have rug burns on my elbows. Caused by slipping and sliding all over my mat due to the profuse amount of sweating I was doing.
That’s how skilled I was at hot yoga.
Besides, Jack is due for a visit this weekend. I'm pretty sure that's at least partially to blame.
The point is, mid-meltdown (as I was literally fighting back tears), I managed to stop myself and take a good look in the mirror. Which is when I realized how ridiculous I was being. Blood boiling over something as non-consequential as an empty DVR. On the verge of tears because I missed one night of reality TV.
If this is the worst that happens to me, then I probably shouldn't be complaining.
My DVR didn’t tape my shows.
Now I'm going to have to watch them online.
It’s the worst thing that’s happened to me all day.
Which I’m thinking makes today a pretty good day.
Just don’t tell anyone what a fit I threw.
Because that would be embarrassing.
Possibly even more embarrassing than hot yoga.
July 19, 2011
Speechless
I got a call today.
A call I had been dreading.
Anticipating wholly with trepidation and anxiety.
For at least the last 4 days or so.
It was a call from my condo association. About that itty, bitty, teeny, tiny little accident I may have gotten into on Friday night.
You know; the one where my garage door just came out of nowhere and jumped right in front of my moving car.
When I answered the phone, the woman on the other end of the line was pleasant enough. But because I knew why she was calling, I think I had a difficult time initially picking up on her niceness.
In my mind, she was the woman who was about to greatly diminish my bank account. I couldn’t help it – I was not so excited to speak to her.
She started out the conversation by asking me if I would be available to meet with the repairmen at some point over the next few days. She said that they would just need someone there to let them into the garage.
I only live 5 minutes from my work, so I told her this wouldn’t be a problem at all.
She said “Great. I’ll give them your number and let them call you to set up an appointment then.”
She seemed like she was about to get off the phone, so I stopped her and said “No one’s told me how much this is going to cost yet. Do you know by any chance? I just need to know if I should call my insurance company?”
And that’s when she said it. The number that punched me in the gut.
“It looks like the total repairs are going to cost about $800.”
I inhaled deeply. $800. My deductable with the insurance company is $500, so for $800 worth of repairs, I knew I would almost be better just paying it all out of pocket and bypassing my insurance entirely.
But $800. Definitely not the kind of money I just have laying around.
Certainly not a stupid fee I was prepared to pay.
I sheepishly said “OK, thanks” and started to get off the phone before she stopped me.
“Wait a second" she said. "There’s a note here I’m not sure about. Can I call you right back?”
I didn't know what she could possibly be talking about, but I told her that would be fine.
In my head, I was still trying to calculate whether or not my miniscule savings could cover this new expense. I wasn't overly concerned with what more she may or may not have for me.
Not 5 minutes later though, she called me back.
And she gave me news I had definitely not been expecting.
“I just talked to my boss” she said. “And it looks like we aren’t charging you at all. If you could still meet with the repairmen that would be great, but we’re going to handle the costs on this from our end.”
I was shocked.
Stunned.
Speechless.
Apparently they had decided that there was just no way to determine how much of the damage was my fault, and how much of it was actually caused by that previous accident in February. She actually said that they were pretty sure that accident had caused far more damage, and that my little ding had simply been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
She called it that. A little ding.
And then she said “The person who hit it back in February never came forward at all, so honestly we’re just grateful you fessed up. You didn’t have to. Nobody reported you, and we never would have been able to prove you had done it. We actually probably would have just thought that it was the previous accident finally causing the entire thing to break down. My boss just wanted to thank you for being honest. We won’t be needing any money from you.”
Again; shocked.
Stunned.
Speechless.
When do things like that ever happen? When does honesty ever really pay off like that?
I was talking to Ryno (an old friend of mine from college) this afternoon, and he said the exact same thing. Usually, people end up screwing themselves over with their own honesty. It’s so rare nowadays that it actually works out in your favor. That you actually get rewarded for coming clean. For being honest. And for owning your mistakes.
I never in a million years expected to get out of this little incident unscathed. I wasn’t looking forward to the consequences, but I fully expected them. I was prepared to pay my part of the damages and to live with the cost of my own stupidity.
But apparently, the universe had other plans today.
And it turns out my condo association is run by some pretty fabulous people.
Before we got off the phone, she asked me again if I wouldn’t still mind meeting the repairmen when the time came.
In my head, I spit out a ridiculously fantastic response all about how at this point, I would happily meet the repairmen in my knickers with a 5 course meal and brand new puppy for each of them if it meant not having to pay $800.
But instead, I barely managed to choke out “Of course.”
Mostly because, I was still shocked.
Stunned.
Speechless.
We like to believe that things like this happen every day. That people are rewarded for their honesty and that good deeds are never punished. But I think more often than not, it's rare to luck out in such a way. To own your mistakes and not get bitten in the butt for your honesty.
But today; today the universe worked as it was meant to.
And for that, I guess I'm still a little speechless.
In the purely vocal sense of course.
Because clearly, I still have it in me to pump out 1000 words of nonsense for this little blog of mine.
Let's face it; this as speechless as I get.
But I suppose this time around, me and my big mouth actually managed to come out on top.
A call I had been dreading.
Anticipating wholly with trepidation and anxiety.
For at least the last 4 days or so.
It was a call from my condo association. About that itty, bitty, teeny, tiny little accident I may have gotten into on Friday night.
You know; the one where my garage door just came out of nowhere and jumped right in front of my moving car.
When I answered the phone, the woman on the other end of the line was pleasant enough. But because I knew why she was calling, I think I had a difficult time initially picking up on her niceness.
In my mind, she was the woman who was about to greatly diminish my bank account. I couldn’t help it – I was not so excited to speak to her.
She started out the conversation by asking me if I would be available to meet with the repairmen at some point over the next few days. She said that they would just need someone there to let them into the garage.
I only live 5 minutes from my work, so I told her this wouldn’t be a problem at all.
She said “Great. I’ll give them your number and let them call you to set up an appointment then.”
She seemed like she was about to get off the phone, so I stopped her and said “No one’s told me how much this is going to cost yet. Do you know by any chance? I just need to know if I should call my insurance company?”
And that’s when she said it. The number that punched me in the gut.
“It looks like the total repairs are going to cost about $800.”
I inhaled deeply. $800. My deductable with the insurance company is $500, so for $800 worth of repairs, I knew I would almost be better just paying it all out of pocket and bypassing my insurance entirely.
But $800. Definitely not the kind of money I just have laying around.
Certainly not a stupid fee I was prepared to pay.
I sheepishly said “OK, thanks” and started to get off the phone before she stopped me.
“Wait a second" she said. "There’s a note here I’m not sure about. Can I call you right back?”
I didn't know what she could possibly be talking about, but I told her that would be fine.
In my head, I was still trying to calculate whether or not my miniscule savings could cover this new expense. I wasn't overly concerned with what more she may or may not have for me.
Not 5 minutes later though, she called me back.
And she gave me news I had definitely not been expecting.
“I just talked to my boss” she said. “And it looks like we aren’t charging you at all. If you could still meet with the repairmen that would be great, but we’re going to handle the costs on this from our end.”
I was shocked.
Stunned.
Speechless.
Apparently they had decided that there was just no way to determine how much of the damage was my fault, and how much of it was actually caused by that previous accident in February. She actually said that they were pretty sure that accident had caused far more damage, and that my little ding had simply been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
She called it that. A little ding.
And then she said “The person who hit it back in February never came forward at all, so honestly we’re just grateful you fessed up. You didn’t have to. Nobody reported you, and we never would have been able to prove you had done it. We actually probably would have just thought that it was the previous accident finally causing the entire thing to break down. My boss just wanted to thank you for being honest. We won’t be needing any money from you.”
Again; shocked.
Stunned.
Speechless.
When do things like that ever happen? When does honesty ever really pay off like that?
I was talking to Ryno (an old friend of mine from college) this afternoon, and he said the exact same thing. Usually, people end up screwing themselves over with their own honesty. It’s so rare nowadays that it actually works out in your favor. That you actually get rewarded for coming clean. For being honest. And for owning your mistakes.
I never in a million years expected to get out of this little incident unscathed. I wasn’t looking forward to the consequences, but I fully expected them. I was prepared to pay my part of the damages and to live with the cost of my own stupidity.
But apparently, the universe had other plans today.
And it turns out my condo association is run by some pretty fabulous people.
Before we got off the phone, she asked me again if I wouldn’t still mind meeting the repairmen when the time came.
In my head, I spit out a ridiculously fantastic response all about how at this point, I would happily meet the repairmen in my knickers with a 5 course meal and brand new puppy for each of them if it meant not having to pay $800.
But instead, I barely managed to choke out “Of course.”
Mostly because, I was still shocked.
Stunned.
Speechless.
We like to believe that things like this happen every day. That people are rewarded for their honesty and that good deeds are never punished. But I think more often than not, it's rare to luck out in such a way. To own your mistakes and not get bitten in the butt for your honesty.
But today; today the universe worked as it was meant to.
And for that, I guess I'm still a little speechless.
In the purely vocal sense of course.
Because clearly, I still have it in me to pump out 1000 words of nonsense for this little blog of mine.
Let's face it; this as speechless as I get.
But I suppose this time around, me and my big mouth actually managed to come out on top.
July 18, 2011
Are You Out There?
I was visiting The Vagina Whisperer (I’ve decided I have to call her that, because even though she's starting with my stomach and back muscles – we all know why I'm there) last Friday, and at the beginning of my session she began asking me questions about Dr. Cook. With him being based out of California, she said she had never actually heard of him until I came into her offices with his referral. She told me that just a few days after my first appointment though, she had another patient come in with a referral from him as well.
So now she was asking questions. Wanting to know more about this doctor who was referring his Alaskan patients to her for vagina-therapy.
I answered her questions. Told her how wonderful he has been, and how blessed I feel to have found such a committed doctor. But in the back of my mind – I had a million questions of my own.
I wanted to know who this patient of hers was. When she had her surgery. How she was doing.
And most importantly – how she had found Dr. Cook in the first place.
Obviously I didn’t ask any of these questions. I understand patient/doctor confidentiality and knew she likely couldn’t answer any of them for me anyway. But I couldn’t help it. I was curious.
Not in a cutting open a bag of bugs kind of way, but in a – who else is up here fighting as hard as I am kind of way.
The truth is, there's part of me that wonders if maybe this person heard about Dr. Cook through me. Through this blog. It’s not like anyone up here ever recommended him to me. None of my doctors had even heard of him when I started looking. I found his name after putting a plea for specialists out into the social networking universe. I had to do all the work of seeking out his opinion myself. Gathering my records and sending them off in the hopes of being scheduled for one of his free phone consultations. In the hopes that maybe, just maybe, he would be the one who could help me.
I’m not saying that another person couldn’t have done the same research and put forth the same effort. Of course they could have. Certainly if they were desperate enough (if they were in enough pain) they could have found him all on their own with no help at all from me.
But I can’t help but wonder with the timing…. Is it possible this woman read about my experience and then contacted Dr. Cook herself from there?
Is it possible there is another woman up here in Alaska battling this disease and seeking out help in all the same places I have? Even now seeing the same vagina whisperer that I am?
Because if it is – I would like to know you. I would like to know who you are. How you are doing. And if your experiences with Dr. Cook have been as wonderful as mine have been.
I would even like to know how you're feeling about vagina-therapy.
I would like to know how you’re feeling. How you’re healing. And how you’re planning on taking on this next stage of the battle.
Are you out there?
Silently following along? Making up your own game plan as you go?
Because if you are – I would love to know your story.
We Alaskan girls have to stick together after all.
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Endo battle wounds that is.
Not vaginas.
That would just be weird.
So now she was asking questions. Wanting to know more about this doctor who was referring his Alaskan patients to her for vagina-therapy.
I answered her questions. Told her how wonderful he has been, and how blessed I feel to have found such a committed doctor. But in the back of my mind – I had a million questions of my own.
I wanted to know who this patient of hers was. When she had her surgery. How she was doing.
And most importantly – how she had found Dr. Cook in the first place.
Obviously I didn’t ask any of these questions. I understand patient/doctor confidentiality and knew she likely couldn’t answer any of them for me anyway. But I couldn’t help it. I was curious.
Not in a cutting open a bag of bugs kind of way, but in a – who else is up here fighting as hard as I am kind of way.
The truth is, there's part of me that wonders if maybe this person heard about Dr. Cook through me. Through this blog. It’s not like anyone up here ever recommended him to me. None of my doctors had even heard of him when I started looking. I found his name after putting a plea for specialists out into the social networking universe. I had to do all the work of seeking out his opinion myself. Gathering my records and sending them off in the hopes of being scheduled for one of his free phone consultations. In the hopes that maybe, just maybe, he would be the one who could help me.
I’m not saying that another person couldn’t have done the same research and put forth the same effort. Of course they could have. Certainly if they were desperate enough (if they were in enough pain) they could have found him all on their own with no help at all from me.
But I can’t help but wonder with the timing…. Is it possible this woman read about my experience and then contacted Dr. Cook herself from there?
Is it possible there is another woman up here in Alaska battling this disease and seeking out help in all the same places I have? Even now seeing the same vagina whisperer that I am?
Because if it is – I would like to know you. I would like to know who you are. How you are doing. And if your experiences with Dr. Cook have been as wonderful as mine have been.
I would even like to know how you're feeling about vagina-therapy.
I would like to know how you’re feeling. How you’re healing. And how you’re planning on taking on this next stage of the battle.
Are you out there?
Silently following along? Making up your own game plan as you go?
Because if you are – I would love to know your story.
We Alaskan girls have to stick together after all.
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Endo battle wounds that is.
Not vaginas.
That would just be weird.
July 17, 2011
Curiosity Killed The Cat
I wish I hadn’t done it.
Seriously. If I could go back and UN-do it, I would. I never would have looked. Never would have gone digging. I wouldn’t know now what I now know.
But I can’t un-do it. I can’t un-know it.
And most of all – I can’t un-drink it.
Teeny ordered up a new tea for me. Once we realized the endo had likely come back, she decided to pull out the big guns. I hadn’t boiled down any of my own herbs since right after my last IVF cycle. Realistically, I had only been on the faux-squirrel-poop tea for just over a month. Not nearly long enough to have been able to deduce whether or not it had any real gut-saving properties. After that failed cycle though – I guess the truth is that I didn’t really care enough about anything to want to keep trying.
At that point, I think it’s fair to say that I just wanted to give up.
But I’m not there anymore. I don’t want to give up. I want to keep fighting. Fighting this disease. Fighting the pain. And fighting all the havoc it has wreaked on my insides.
I want to fight, and I want to win.
So when Teeny said she had a new herbal blend she wanted me to try, I was all for it.
Even after she alluded to the fact that some of the ingredients may make me a bit more squeamish than even the squirrel poop had.
I didn’t care. I told her to order up the herbs and just not tell me what was in the mix. I said I would rather not know. That I trusted her and what she thought was best, and she could just keep the gory details to herself.
Why oh why couldn’t I stick to that mentality?
I’ll tell you why. It’s because as soon as the box arrived – I knew this batch smelled far worse than the last. I knew we were dealing with something nasty. And I knew I was in trouble.
Teeny had already told me that she specifically requested the more disturbing elements be placed into tea bags (instead of out in the open like all the other loose herbs) so that I couldn’t see them. Which I think just made me even more inquisitive. Brewing up all the herbs and knowing there were 3 different tea bags in that mix that I couldn’t see at all left me more than a little curious.
And we all know that curiosity killed the cat.
Still, I managed to down 2 glasses of this stuff without knowing. It wasn’t easy. This tea was clearly more pungent than the last batch, and drinking it involved a lot of honey and quick expansive swigs.
But I did it. One glass last night and another this morning. I did it. Without knowing what I was drinking, I did it.
Something hit me after the second glass this morning though. I don’t know what it was. An inability to not know I suppose? An obsessive need to be aware of what I was putting into my body, even though I knew I would immediately regret that knowledge once I had it?
Stupidity?
There. That was probably it actually. Complete and utter stupidity on my part.
I knew I didn’t want to know. I knew it would leave me disgusted and unhappy. I knew it was best to be in the dark here.
But I couldn’t help myself. I was stupid enough to go digging.
So, I grabbed the list of ingredients out of the box. All Chinese names that I would never be able to look at and know what they were on my own. I immediately started plugging each and every one into Google.
Like a freaking idiot.
All of the ingredients were fairly innocuous. Different plants and bulbs. Flowers, seeds, nuts. Nothing to get too concerned about. And all of them seemed to have exciting properties to help with the current situation. A few even specifically mentioned beneficial uses with endometriosis. All in all, I was starting to wonder what it was Teeny had been referring to that would be so scary for me.
And then, I got to the last two ingredients.
Di Long and Wu Gong.
Oh how I wish I had never looked up those two herbs.
From the best that I can tell online, Di Long is the stomach contents of an earthworm. They capture the earthworms, cut them open, and then remove their innards and dry them out in the sun. That’s Di Long. Earthworm guts.
Wu Gong is even better. It’s a centipede. An actual, whole, intact centipede.
No wonder Teeny asked them to put the scary items into tea bags. If I had seen a centipede in my tea as I was making it, I would have freaked.
I do not like bugs.
As it stands, my sheer knowledge of what was in those bags was not enough. At this point, I needed proof. I don’t know why I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Why I couldn’t just move forward with the knowledge and be grateful that at least I didn’t have a visual.
I think it all comes back to that stupidity again.
Because at this point, I went and dug the tea bags out of my trash. I cut them open and emptied their contents onto a paper towel. I just had to know. I had to see it for myself.
And now, I wish I never had.
I’ve got to tell you – this picture does not do what was in those bags justice. I’m not a great photographer, and I have no idea how to capture the real dimensions and coloring and bug-gy qualities. But rest assured – it was quite obviously a bag full of bugs and bug guts.
A bag that I had just the night before seeped in a pot along with a bunch of other herbs. A bag which had eventually helped to create a tea I had now already consumed 2 cups of.
Two cups of insect and insect gut tea.
I could have cried.
Now that I’ve already had 2 glasses though, I almost feel stuck. It’s like Taco Bell. You know it’s awful for you. You know the people making it probably don’t wash their hands. You know the beans aren’t even real beans. But you justify eating it again to yourself because hey – it’s not like you haven’t already eaten it before. What’s the harm in one more time?
(Wait - is that just me?)
After reading about all the other components of this tea, I actually think it could help. I think that maybe if I stuck to a hard core regimen of tea drinking, maybe (just maybe) my ultrasound in August could produce the kind of results I’m hoping for. Maybe this could be the magic potion for fighting this disease.
Since clearly, nothing else has worked.
But still… Centipedes and earthworm guts.
I wish I didn’t know.
I wish I hadn’t done it.
I wish I wasn't so damn stupid.
Seriously. If I could go back and UN-do it, I would. I never would have looked. Never would have gone digging. I wouldn’t know now what I now know.
But I can’t un-do it. I can’t un-know it.
And most of all – I can’t un-drink it.
Teeny ordered up a new tea for me. Once we realized the endo had likely come back, she decided to pull out the big guns. I hadn’t boiled down any of my own herbs since right after my last IVF cycle. Realistically, I had only been on the faux-squirrel-poop tea for just over a month. Not nearly long enough to have been able to deduce whether or not it had any real gut-saving properties. After that failed cycle though – I guess the truth is that I didn’t really care enough about anything to want to keep trying.
At that point, I think it’s fair to say that I just wanted to give up.
But I’m not there anymore. I don’t want to give up. I want to keep fighting. Fighting this disease. Fighting the pain. And fighting all the havoc it has wreaked on my insides.
I want to fight, and I want to win.
So when Teeny said she had a new herbal blend she wanted me to try, I was all for it.
Even after she alluded to the fact that some of the ingredients may make me a bit more squeamish than even the squirrel poop had.
I didn’t care. I told her to order up the herbs and just not tell me what was in the mix. I said I would rather not know. That I trusted her and what she thought was best, and she could just keep the gory details to herself.
Why oh why couldn’t I stick to that mentality?
I’ll tell you why. It’s because as soon as the box arrived – I knew this batch smelled far worse than the last. I knew we were dealing with something nasty. And I knew I was in trouble.
Teeny had already told me that she specifically requested the more disturbing elements be placed into tea bags (instead of out in the open like all the other loose herbs) so that I couldn’t see them. Which I think just made me even more inquisitive. Brewing up all the herbs and knowing there were 3 different tea bags in that mix that I couldn’t see at all left me more than a little curious.
And we all know that curiosity killed the cat.
Still, I managed to down 2 glasses of this stuff without knowing. It wasn’t easy. This tea was clearly more pungent than the last batch, and drinking it involved a lot of honey and quick expansive swigs.
But I did it. One glass last night and another this morning. I did it. Without knowing what I was drinking, I did it.
Something hit me after the second glass this morning though. I don’t know what it was. An inability to not know I suppose? An obsessive need to be aware of what I was putting into my body, even though I knew I would immediately regret that knowledge once I had it?
Stupidity?
There. That was probably it actually. Complete and utter stupidity on my part.
I knew I didn’t want to know. I knew it would leave me disgusted and unhappy. I knew it was best to be in the dark here.
But I couldn’t help myself. I was stupid enough to go digging.
So, I grabbed the list of ingredients out of the box. All Chinese names that I would never be able to look at and know what they were on my own. I immediately started plugging each and every one into Google.
Like a freaking idiot.
All of the ingredients were fairly innocuous. Different plants and bulbs. Flowers, seeds, nuts. Nothing to get too concerned about. And all of them seemed to have exciting properties to help with the current situation. A few even specifically mentioned beneficial uses with endometriosis. All in all, I was starting to wonder what it was Teeny had been referring to that would be so scary for me.
And then, I got to the last two ingredients.
Di Long and Wu Gong.
Oh how I wish I had never looked up those two herbs.
From the best that I can tell online, Di Long is the stomach contents of an earthworm. They capture the earthworms, cut them open, and then remove their innards and dry them out in the sun. That’s Di Long. Earthworm guts.
Wu Gong is even better. It’s a centipede. An actual, whole, intact centipede.
No wonder Teeny asked them to put the scary items into tea bags. If I had seen a centipede in my tea as I was making it, I would have freaked.
I do not like bugs.
As it stands, my sheer knowledge of what was in those bags was not enough. At this point, I needed proof. I don’t know why I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Why I couldn’t just move forward with the knowledge and be grateful that at least I didn’t have a visual.
I think it all comes back to that stupidity again.
Because at this point, I went and dug the tea bags out of my trash. I cut them open and emptied their contents onto a paper towel. I just had to know. I had to see it for myself.
And now, I wish I never had.
I’ve got to tell you – this picture does not do what was in those bags justice. I’m not a great photographer, and I have no idea how to capture the real dimensions and coloring and bug-gy qualities. But rest assured – it was quite obviously a bag full of bugs and bug guts.
A bag that I had just the night before seeped in a pot along with a bunch of other herbs. A bag which had eventually helped to create a tea I had now already consumed 2 cups of.
Two cups of insect and insect gut tea.
I could have cried.
Now that I’ve already had 2 glasses though, I almost feel stuck. It’s like Taco Bell. You know it’s awful for you. You know the people making it probably don’t wash their hands. You know the beans aren’t even real beans. But you justify eating it again to yourself because hey – it’s not like you haven’t already eaten it before. What’s the harm in one more time?
(Wait - is that just me?)
After reading about all the other components of this tea, I actually think it could help. I think that maybe if I stuck to a hard core regimen of tea drinking, maybe (just maybe) my ultrasound in August could produce the kind of results I’m hoping for. Maybe this could be the magic potion for fighting this disease.
Since clearly, nothing else has worked.
But still… Centipedes and earthworm guts.
I wish I didn’t know.
I wish I hadn’t done it.
I wish I wasn't so damn stupid.
July 16, 2011
The Truth Hurts
My dad taught me to be honest.
To a fault. Always. No matter what.
I grew up hearing that the worst thing you could ever be was a liar. That once you've lost someone's trust, you can't ever gain it back. That honesty holds importance above and beyond all else.
My dad also taught me how to drive.
One of those lessons he taught me very well. The other, not so much.
I’ll give you two guesses which was which.
My dad and I have always had a good relationship. Yes, there were many bumps along the way, and there were even those few years where we had no relationship at all. But at the heart of it – we have always been very close.
Except for when he was teaching me how to drive that is. During that time, I would describe us as anything but close. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of threats, and more than a few tears over that year.
To be fair to my dad, I can be a bit of a ditz sometimes. Not in the dumb blond who doesn’t know any better kind of way, but more in the dumb blond who always manages to get distracted kind of way.
As if there's much of a difference.
An inability to focus is a huge fault of mine though. I tend to get so caught up in my own head that I become completely distracted from the world around me. In most facets of my life, I’ve managed to find ways to still function despite this fatal flaw. But in driving – distraction is never really a good thing.
I will never forget the time my dad told me to change lanes on a neighborhood street and as I looked over my left shoulder to ensure there were no cars, I turned the wheel just enough to drive his suburban up onto the sidewalk to my right.
Thank goodness there were no pedestrians out for a stroll that night.
My dad lost a gasket though. Screaming and yelling and for a moment there – I’m pretty sure he thought about hitting me.
Who can blame him though. At that point, I had been driving for almost 6 months already.
And clearly; I still belonged in the parking lot.
In fact, it’s fair to argue that I still belong in the parking lot.
Not because I’m an aggressive driver. Or a speed-a-holic. Or an asshole on the road.
But because; I get distracted.
And last night, when I was pulling into my garage after work, I might have pulled in a little too tightly. Kind of like I did a few years ago. Only then – I only damaged my car.
This time, I took the whole garage down with me.
In my defense – someone hit it a few months back as well. At my condo, we have a shared garage for 8 different cars. Back in February, someone ran head on into it. The garage door didn’t close for about a week before the condo association fixed it to the point of functionality. I got the impression that the person who did it never came forward though, because they didn’t fix the garage entirely. It still had a big dent down the middle, and it’s needed to be recalibrated (or whatever) a few times since then because it has just randomly stopped working.
Which really just makes this situation so much worse. Because I’m pretty sure that previous accident contributed to the devastation of this one. And I'm also pretty sure I'm going to end up paying for the entire thing to be fixed.
It’s not like I hit the garage head on. I just hit the one metal piece on the side. And bent it. A little teeny tiny bit.
But now, it’s all completely out of whack. Incapable of rolling down at all. And totally bent up on itself in a way that cannot be normal.
I broke the garage.
And that is one stupid fee I am dreading paying.
But what did I do as soon as the accident occurred?
I walked right upstairs and called my condo association to confess all.
After hours. Which means that I left a voicemail professing my complete and total guilt in the demise of the shared garage door.
I could have gotten away with it. No one saw me. I’m sure the assumption amongst the residents here is that whatever is going on with the garage door now has to do with that previous accident.
I could have gotten away with it.
But my dad taught me to be honest.
Even if he didn’t teach me how to drive.
And now, I’m pretty sure that lethal combination of honesty and poor driving skills is going to cost me. Big time. I’m not sure how much garage doors cost – but I have a sad feeling that the entire thing is going to need to be repaired at this point.
And that I’m going to be stuck holding the bill.
Which for those of you paying attention – will be two accidents reported to my insurance company in just over 3 months.
Two minor, seemingly insignificant accidents that are very clearly going to end up costing me.
Even though they are the only two accidents I’ve ever had to report to my insurance company in all of my 12 years of driving.
It’s still going to cost me.
All because my dad raised me to be too honest for my own good.
And because he failed miserably at teaching me to drive.
Which I think probably means that he should be on the hook for at least half of this bill.
That seems fair, right?
To a fault. Always. No matter what.
I grew up hearing that the worst thing you could ever be was a liar. That once you've lost someone's trust, you can't ever gain it back. That honesty holds importance above and beyond all else.
My dad also taught me how to drive.
One of those lessons he taught me very well. The other, not so much.
I’ll give you two guesses which was which.
My dad and I have always had a good relationship. Yes, there were many bumps along the way, and there were even those few years where we had no relationship at all. But at the heart of it – we have always been very close.
Except for when he was teaching me how to drive that is. During that time, I would describe us as anything but close. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of threats, and more than a few tears over that year.
To be fair to my dad, I can be a bit of a ditz sometimes. Not in the dumb blond who doesn’t know any better kind of way, but more in the dumb blond who always manages to get distracted kind of way.
As if there's much of a difference.
An inability to focus is a huge fault of mine though. I tend to get so caught up in my own head that I become completely distracted from the world around me. In most facets of my life, I’ve managed to find ways to still function despite this fatal flaw. But in driving – distraction is never really a good thing.
I will never forget the time my dad told me to change lanes on a neighborhood street and as I looked over my left shoulder to ensure there were no cars, I turned the wheel just enough to drive his suburban up onto the sidewalk to my right.
Thank goodness there were no pedestrians out for a stroll that night.
My dad lost a gasket though. Screaming and yelling and for a moment there – I’m pretty sure he thought about hitting me.
Who can blame him though. At that point, I had been driving for almost 6 months already.
And clearly; I still belonged in the parking lot.
In fact, it’s fair to argue that I still belong in the parking lot.
Not because I’m an aggressive driver. Or a speed-a-holic. Or an asshole on the road.
But because; I get distracted.
And last night, when I was pulling into my garage after work, I might have pulled in a little too tightly. Kind of like I did a few years ago. Only then – I only damaged my car.
This time, I took the whole garage down with me.
In my defense – someone hit it a few months back as well. At my condo, we have a shared garage for 8 different cars. Back in February, someone ran head on into it. The garage door didn’t close for about a week before the condo association fixed it to the point of functionality. I got the impression that the person who did it never came forward though, because they didn’t fix the garage entirely. It still had a big dent down the middle, and it’s needed to be recalibrated (or whatever) a few times since then because it has just randomly stopped working.
Which really just makes this situation so much worse. Because I’m pretty sure that previous accident contributed to the devastation of this one. And I'm also pretty sure I'm going to end up paying for the entire thing to be fixed.
It’s not like I hit the garage head on. I just hit the one metal piece on the side. And bent it. A little teeny tiny bit.
But now, it’s all completely out of whack. Incapable of rolling down at all. And totally bent up on itself in a way that cannot be normal.
I broke the garage.
And that is one stupid fee I am dreading paying.
But what did I do as soon as the accident occurred?
I walked right upstairs and called my condo association to confess all.
After hours. Which means that I left a voicemail professing my complete and total guilt in the demise of the shared garage door.
I could have gotten away with it. No one saw me. I’m sure the assumption amongst the residents here is that whatever is going on with the garage door now has to do with that previous accident.
I could have gotten away with it.
But my dad taught me to be honest.
Even if he didn’t teach me how to drive.
And now, I’m pretty sure that lethal combination of honesty and poor driving skills is going to cost me. Big time. I’m not sure how much garage doors cost – but I have a sad feeling that the entire thing is going to need to be repaired at this point.
And that I’m going to be stuck holding the bill.
Which for those of you paying attention – will be two accidents reported to my insurance company in just over 3 months.
Two minor, seemingly insignificant accidents that are very clearly going to end up costing me.
Even though they are the only two accidents I’ve ever had to report to my insurance company in all of my 12 years of driving.
It’s still going to cost me.
All because my dad raised me to be too honest for my own good.
And because he failed miserably at teaching me to drive.
Which I think probably means that he should be on the hook for at least half of this bill.
That seems fair, right?
July 14, 2011
Mash-Up
I have an eclectic set of friends.
I always have really.
In high school my group and I used to joke all the time about our varied interests and accomplishments.
We had the homecoming queen (not me). The girl who seemed to get around with all the guys (also not me – shocker, I know!) The most likely to succeed (still not me). And then the most likely to be famous (that was me! I might have been the epitome of a drama queen. Or perhaps drama geek was more like it!)
As an adult, I don’t necessarily have a big “group” of friends. Yes, I manage to get my girls all together for occasions, but I’ve actually made most of my friends separately from each other. Meeting them in varied and individual circumstances.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever told this story before, but Loo and I met through Craigslist.
She posted a missed connections ad, and I responded.
KIDDING
The real story is that I had just bought my condo and was looking for a roommate, so I posted a Craigslist ad. Shocker of all shockers, it was a long one. I want to say about 3 pages long after everything was said and done. It was pretty epic.
And Loo responded. Not because she needed a place to stay, but because she was moving here from Texas and didn’t know a soul. She sent me an e-mail saying that she already had an apartment lined up, but that she had been perusing the ads just trying to get a feel for the type of people who lived up here. She said my ad had really stuck out to her, and she was wondering if maybe I would meet up with her for lunch to tell her at bit about the area.
I have to admit that I had never gotten a proposition quite like that, but I looked her up on Facebook and she seemed halfway normal. So I figured “what the hell?!?”
Everything after that lunch was pretty much history. We immediately clicked. I tend to be drawn to genuine people, and Loo was one of the most genuine and kind people I had ever met. I knew she was going to become one of my best friends almost immediately.
And that was before I even knew just how much we had in common.
One of those things we share is music. Loo is definitely my friend who appreciates music as much as I do. We are regularly making mix CD’s for each other, and sharing new music with the other whenever we get a chance. I don’t meet many people up here in Alaska who feel the same way about music as I do, so having Loo to share this passion of mine with always makes me happy.
A few months ago (when we were driving out to the boys BBQ actually), Loo said to me “Listen to this. I’ve got a great new song for you. It just makes me happy!” When it started I immediately looked at her and said “Are you kidding? This isn’t a new song. I mean, I like it, but it’s not new.”
I was starting to question my friend’s real passion for music if she thought this was new.
But she looked at me and said “Just wait.”
Which is when the first switch happened. The first of a few brilliant switches. I had heard every song on the compilation before, but it didn’t matter. I never in a million years would have thought to put it all together like that. And I loved it.
I don’t usually love mash-ups, but I loved this. It quickly became one of my favorite tracks.
In the last 2 weeks alone, I’ve included this mash-up on 3 different mixes I’ve made (an infertility mix for 2 friends up here about to start IVF, a mix of new favorites for Loo, and a mix for the boy; who doesn’t really appreciate my taste in music… yet.) Because yes, I do make mixes for people that often.
Anyway, since I’ve been sharing it with everyone I know, I figured I should share it with you all here as well.
That seems like the cool thing to do after all.
So here you go, my absolute favorite new mash-up.
Thanks to my Loo for introducing it to me!
I always have really.
In high school my group and I used to joke all the time about our varied interests and accomplishments.
We had the homecoming queen (not me). The girl who seemed to get around with all the guys (also not me – shocker, I know!) The most likely to succeed (still not me). And then the most likely to be famous (that was me! I might have been the epitome of a drama queen. Or perhaps drama geek was more like it!)
As an adult, I don’t necessarily have a big “group” of friends. Yes, I manage to get my girls all together for occasions, but I’ve actually made most of my friends separately from each other. Meeting them in varied and individual circumstances.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever told this story before, but Loo and I met through Craigslist.
She posted a missed connections ad, and I responded.
KIDDING
The real story is that I had just bought my condo and was looking for a roommate, so I posted a Craigslist ad. Shocker of all shockers, it was a long one. I want to say about 3 pages long after everything was said and done. It was pretty epic.
And Loo responded. Not because she needed a place to stay, but because she was moving here from Texas and didn’t know a soul. She sent me an e-mail saying that she already had an apartment lined up, but that she had been perusing the ads just trying to get a feel for the type of people who lived up here. She said my ad had really stuck out to her, and she was wondering if maybe I would meet up with her for lunch to tell her at bit about the area.
I have to admit that I had never gotten a proposition quite like that, but I looked her up on Facebook and she seemed halfway normal. So I figured “what the hell?!?”
Everything after that lunch was pretty much history. We immediately clicked. I tend to be drawn to genuine people, and Loo was one of the most genuine and kind people I had ever met. I knew she was going to become one of my best friends almost immediately.
And that was before I even knew just how much we had in common.
One of those things we share is music. Loo is definitely my friend who appreciates music as much as I do. We are regularly making mix CD’s for each other, and sharing new music with the other whenever we get a chance. I don’t meet many people up here in Alaska who feel the same way about music as I do, so having Loo to share this passion of mine with always makes me happy.
A few months ago (when we were driving out to the boys BBQ actually), Loo said to me “Listen to this. I’ve got a great new song for you. It just makes me happy!” When it started I immediately looked at her and said “Are you kidding? This isn’t a new song. I mean, I like it, but it’s not new.”
I was starting to question my friend’s real passion for music if she thought this was new.
But she looked at me and said “Just wait.”
Which is when the first switch happened. The first of a few brilliant switches. I had heard every song on the compilation before, but it didn’t matter. I never in a million years would have thought to put it all together like that. And I loved it.
I don’t usually love mash-ups, but I loved this. It quickly became one of my favorite tracks.
In the last 2 weeks alone, I’ve included this mash-up on 3 different mixes I’ve made (an infertility mix for 2 friends up here about to start IVF, a mix of new favorites for Loo, and a mix for the boy; who doesn’t really appreciate my taste in music… yet.) Because yes, I do make mixes for people that often.
Anyway, since I’ve been sharing it with everyone I know, I figured I should share it with you all here as well.
That seems like the cool thing to do after all.
So here you go, my absolute favorite new mash-up.
Thanks to my Loo for introducing it to me!
July 13, 2011
A Life Still Worth Living
My life is still worth living.
Despite the barren womb.
And the pain.
And the disease I can’t seem to quell no matter how I try.
My life is still worth living.
This probably doesn’t come as a surprise to most you. Nor should it. Life is a gift. A beautiful, amazing, incredible gift. And no matter how dire things seem to become, there is always a way out. Always a way up. I believe that.
And I believe that no matter what, life is always worth living.
But when I started this journey, I was surprised by the comments and e-mails (albeit, few and far between) I received from some women with endometriosis who had decided to forgo trying to conceive because they feared passing this disease onto any daughter they may have.
Don’t get me wrong. I am a big advocate of people selecting a path to travel that they personally are most comfortable with. I would never presume that the best course of action for everyone in my shoes would be IVF. Nor would I expect anyone else to presume that the best course of action for me would be adoption solely because that was the road they themselves had chosen. I think there are a million tiny little pieces that go into these decisions we make, and each path is so individualized that one could never begin to grasp how intricately the details came together for each person before a decision was reached. I would never presume to know what is best for anyone else in this journey.
But that reasoning; it always felt like a bit of a slap in the face to me.
If these women were going to avoid conceiving for fear of passing on this disease, did that make my life less worth living?
In their eyes. In their minds. Did this disease really mean that life somehow lost value?
I know for some women, the answer probably is “yes”. And I’ve got to admit, that makes me sad. Because even at my darkest place in this battle, I’m not sure I’ve fallen that deep.
Maybe I did and I just don’t remember. I’ve blocked it out now for fear of ever landing back there again.
But the point is that right now, in this moment; I don’t view my life as less worth living as a result of this disease.
Were I ever to be blessed with a daughter, I would certainly take precautions. She would be raised in an organic little world where gluten and dairy were rare treats. She would be on a supplement regimen from early on, and her hormones would be monitored by a naturopath right at the onset of puberty. I would read, and study, and commit myself to fighting this disease even harder for her than I have for myself. I would crusade for her. For her health. Her fertility. Her well being.
But should the worst happen and years down the line we realized that she was as afflicted with this disease as I am; I would try to teach her how very worth living her life still was.
Because we all have our setbacks. Our heartaches and sadness. We all have our crosses to bear.
If it’s not endometriosis and infertility, it will be something else. Maybe even something worse.
But none of it makes life less worth living.
And if tomorrow I was given the option of having a daughter and taking that risk, I would take it in a heartbeat.
For her.
For me.
And for a life still very much worth living.
Despite the barren womb.
And the pain.
And the disease I can’t seem to quell no matter how I try.
My life is still worth living.
This probably doesn’t come as a surprise to most you. Nor should it. Life is a gift. A beautiful, amazing, incredible gift. And no matter how dire things seem to become, there is always a way out. Always a way up. I believe that.
And I believe that no matter what, life is always worth living.
But when I started this journey, I was surprised by the comments and e-mails (albeit, few and far between) I received from some women with endometriosis who had decided to forgo trying to conceive because they feared passing this disease onto any daughter they may have.
Don’t get me wrong. I am a big advocate of people selecting a path to travel that they personally are most comfortable with. I would never presume that the best course of action for everyone in my shoes would be IVF. Nor would I expect anyone else to presume that the best course of action for me would be adoption solely because that was the road they themselves had chosen. I think there are a million tiny little pieces that go into these decisions we make, and each path is so individualized that one could never begin to grasp how intricately the details came together for each person before a decision was reached. I would never presume to know what is best for anyone else in this journey.
But that reasoning; it always felt like a bit of a slap in the face to me.
If these women were going to avoid conceiving for fear of passing on this disease, did that make my life less worth living?
In their eyes. In their minds. Did this disease really mean that life somehow lost value?
I know for some women, the answer probably is “yes”. And I’ve got to admit, that makes me sad. Because even at my darkest place in this battle, I’m not sure I’ve fallen that deep.
Maybe I did and I just don’t remember. I’ve blocked it out now for fear of ever landing back there again.
But the point is that right now, in this moment; I don’t view my life as less worth living as a result of this disease.
Were I ever to be blessed with a daughter, I would certainly take precautions. She would be raised in an organic little world where gluten and dairy were rare treats. She would be on a supplement regimen from early on, and her hormones would be monitored by a naturopath right at the onset of puberty. I would read, and study, and commit myself to fighting this disease even harder for her than I have for myself. I would crusade for her. For her health. Her fertility. Her well being.
But should the worst happen and years down the line we realized that she was as afflicted with this disease as I am; I would try to teach her how very worth living her life still was.
Because we all have our setbacks. Our heartaches and sadness. We all have our crosses to bear.
If it’s not endometriosis and infertility, it will be something else. Maybe even something worse.
But none of it makes life less worth living.
And if tomorrow I was given the option of having a daughter and taking that risk, I would take it in a heartbeat.
For her.
For me.
And for a life still very much worth living.
July 11, 2011
I Have a New Hero
It’s possible I got sucked in.
Hypnotized.
Entranced.
Enthralled.
Captivated.
It’s possible that last night, when I should have been putting my head to the pillow and getting some much needed rest for the week to come, I was instead completely and totally committed to watching the Diane Sawyer interview with Jaycee Dugard in its entirety.
All 2 hours of it.
I should point out that while I am a girl who admittedly has an unhealthy relationship with her DVR, I am rarely ever completely involved in anything that I’m watching. More typically, I’ll have something playing in the background while I catch up on emails, eat frozen grapes, text a friend, and fold my laundry. My television is my background music.
And I like it that way.
But with this interview, I couldn’t turn myself away. My full focus and attention was on Jaycee. On her words. Her grace. Her poise. Her demeanor. And her strength that far surpasses anything I have ever seen.
I have a new hero, and her name is Jaycee Dugard.
I have a confession to make. When Jaycee was found, I was just learning what this disease would really mean for me. Only 3 months out from my first surgery, I was already in pain again. Terrified and unsure of what my future would hold. Broken down and angry at a world I couldn't control.
And then here was this girl. Discovered after being gone for so long. I remembered when she had been kidnapped. Remembered hearing the news. She had been just a few years older than me. Her story served as a warning. A reminder once again about stranger danger. I remembered hearing her name way back then, and thinking that whatever had happened to her; it must have been terrible.
Then I went through my own struggles of last year, when I was at the height of grief over my first failed cycle. There were a lot of “why me” moments. A lot of tears. And a lot of bad decisions made in an effort to just feel anything other than what I was feeling.
I was depressed. Broken down. Hurting and despondent. Unsure that my life would ever be what I wanted it to be.
But I just kept coming back to Jaycee. This girl who had been lost and now was found. Alive. After 18 years. With two young daughters who made it clear she had been subjected to at least some level of sexual abuse.
To something terrible.
All I remember thinking was “There are some things you would just rather not survive.”
I know that sounds horrible. Harsh. Cold. Disturbing. But it’s the truth. I couldn’t wrap my head around how anyone could go through what she had gone through and ever be OK. I couldn’t grasp how anyone could survive it. How they could ever become a whole person. I thought that if it was me, I would rather have been kidnapped and killed right away than to be kept living in those conditions. As someone’s sex slave. Trapped and forced to live at the whim of a monster.
My heart ached for Jaycee Dugard. I couldn’t imagine a way in which she could possibly ever find happiness in her life. I figured she would be forever haunted. Forever broken. Forever tortured by a past she had no control over.
And while I’m not proud to admit it, she became my go-to whenever I started feeling sorry for myself. Whenever I was hurting, I thought to myself “It could always be worse. Think of that poor Jaycee Dugard. It could always be worse.”
She was my symbol of worst case scenario. The person I thought of when I needed to be reminded that I didn’t have it so awful. That my struggles were hardly as bad as it could get. That in so many ways, I really was incredibly lucky. Despite how I had grown up. Despite my health concerns. Despite my inability to carry a child. I was lucky. Because at least I hadn’t been kidnapped and forced to live in a series of tents in the backyard while some disturbed man and his likely even more disturbed wife tortured and raped me for 18 years.
At least I had never had to endure that.
My heart has always ached for Jaycee, but my picture of the woman she had likely become in all those years was that of a woman who couldn’t possibly find any kind of happiness in her life. Not after what she had been through. Because no one could possibly survive that and come out the other side OK.
So imagine my surprise when as I watched this interview last night, I saw a woman filled with strength. With light. And yes, even with happiness. Real, genuine, incredible happiness. A woman who struck me both as wise far beyond her years, and also still child-like in ways you wouldn’t expect. Which I suppose makes sense. She was forced to grow up in the most horrific of ways, but in the same sense; she was deprived of all those coming of age milestones most of us cling to on our path to adulthood. She really is both advanced, and stunted. And still, just spilling over with warmth and grace.
Her attitude, her persona, her strength; it was awe-inspiring to me.
She is awe-inspiring.
I don’t have too many heroes. There are a few people I look up to here and there. A few people I think are inspirational. But I’m usually pretty good about picking up the flaws in people as well. About recognizing them to be human. And as such, I don’t have too many heroes.
But Jaycee makes my list.
I have a new hero.
And her name is Jaycee Dugard.
If I could one day have half the strength, poise, grace, and acceptance she seems to possess, I could die proud.
As it is, I think Jaycee will continue to be my point of reference whenever I’m starting to feel sorry for myself.
But now, for an entirely different set of reasons.
Because if she can pick herself up and move forward with light and happiness after all that she has endured?
There really is no excuse for the rest of us not to do the same.
Hypnotized.
Entranced.
Enthralled.
Captivated.
It’s possible that last night, when I should have been putting my head to the pillow and getting some much needed rest for the week to come, I was instead completely and totally committed to watching the Diane Sawyer interview with Jaycee Dugard in its entirety.
All 2 hours of it.
I should point out that while I am a girl who admittedly has an unhealthy relationship with her DVR, I am rarely ever completely involved in anything that I’m watching. More typically, I’ll have something playing in the background while I catch up on emails, eat frozen grapes, text a friend, and fold my laundry. My television is my background music.
And I like it that way.
But with this interview, I couldn’t turn myself away. My full focus and attention was on Jaycee. On her words. Her grace. Her poise. Her demeanor. And her strength that far surpasses anything I have ever seen.
I have a new hero, and her name is Jaycee Dugard.
I have a confession to make. When Jaycee was found, I was just learning what this disease would really mean for me. Only 3 months out from my first surgery, I was already in pain again. Terrified and unsure of what my future would hold. Broken down and angry at a world I couldn't control.
And then here was this girl. Discovered after being gone for so long. I remembered when she had been kidnapped. Remembered hearing the news. She had been just a few years older than me. Her story served as a warning. A reminder once again about stranger danger. I remembered hearing her name way back then, and thinking that whatever had happened to her; it must have been terrible.
Then I went through my own struggles of last year, when I was at the height of grief over my first failed cycle. There were a lot of “why me” moments. A lot of tears. And a lot of bad decisions made in an effort to just feel anything other than what I was feeling.
I was depressed. Broken down. Hurting and despondent. Unsure that my life would ever be what I wanted it to be.
But I just kept coming back to Jaycee. This girl who had been lost and now was found. Alive. After 18 years. With two young daughters who made it clear she had been subjected to at least some level of sexual abuse.
To something terrible.
All I remember thinking was “There are some things you would just rather not survive.”
I know that sounds horrible. Harsh. Cold. Disturbing. But it’s the truth. I couldn’t wrap my head around how anyone could go through what she had gone through and ever be OK. I couldn’t grasp how anyone could survive it. How they could ever become a whole person. I thought that if it was me, I would rather have been kidnapped and killed right away than to be kept living in those conditions. As someone’s sex slave. Trapped and forced to live at the whim of a monster.
My heart ached for Jaycee Dugard. I couldn’t imagine a way in which she could possibly ever find happiness in her life. I figured she would be forever haunted. Forever broken. Forever tortured by a past she had no control over.
And while I’m not proud to admit it, she became my go-to whenever I started feeling sorry for myself. Whenever I was hurting, I thought to myself “It could always be worse. Think of that poor Jaycee Dugard. It could always be worse.”
She was my symbol of worst case scenario. The person I thought of when I needed to be reminded that I didn’t have it so awful. That my struggles were hardly as bad as it could get. That in so many ways, I really was incredibly lucky. Despite how I had grown up. Despite my health concerns. Despite my inability to carry a child. I was lucky. Because at least I hadn’t been kidnapped and forced to live in a series of tents in the backyard while some disturbed man and his likely even more disturbed wife tortured and raped me for 18 years.
At least I had never had to endure that.
My heart has always ached for Jaycee, but my picture of the woman she had likely become in all those years was that of a woman who couldn’t possibly find any kind of happiness in her life. Not after what she had been through. Because no one could possibly survive that and come out the other side OK.
So imagine my surprise when as I watched this interview last night, I saw a woman filled with strength. With light. And yes, even with happiness. Real, genuine, incredible happiness. A woman who struck me both as wise far beyond her years, and also still child-like in ways you wouldn’t expect. Which I suppose makes sense. She was forced to grow up in the most horrific of ways, but in the same sense; she was deprived of all those coming of age milestones most of us cling to on our path to adulthood. She really is both advanced, and stunted. And still, just spilling over with warmth and grace.
Her attitude, her persona, her strength; it was awe-inspiring to me.
She is awe-inspiring.
I don’t have too many heroes. There are a few people I look up to here and there. A few people I think are inspirational. But I’m usually pretty good about picking up the flaws in people as well. About recognizing them to be human. And as such, I don’t have too many heroes.
But Jaycee makes my list.
I have a new hero.
And her name is Jaycee Dugard.
If I could one day have half the strength, poise, grace, and acceptance she seems to possess, I could die proud.
As it is, I think Jaycee will continue to be my point of reference whenever I’m starting to feel sorry for myself.
But now, for an entirely different set of reasons.
Because if she can pick herself up and move forward with light and happiness after all that she has endured?
There really is no excuse for the rest of us not to do the same.
July 10, 2011
One More Time
I realized a long time ago that there is nothing “sexy” about this disease. In fact, it’s downright disgusting. Every time I try to explain to someone what endometriosis is, I cringe a little. Literally, my mind works at a mile a minute attempting to find any way to describe it that isn’t quite so… revolting.
But the fact of the matter is, there just isn’t any good way to describe uterine tissue implanting itself on various other organs and then bleeding every single month right along with your regular cycle.
It’s disturbing. And while I guess I get that no disease is really “sexy”, I have to be honest when I say that this one really ranks up there on the freaking-nasty-o-meter.
Which is why I try to find humor in just about everything else that goes along with it. Because seriously, if I can’t laugh at it I’m afraid that people will just look at me and think “Oh her? That’s the girl who has menstrual blood seeping out of her pours. No seriously. It’s all over her other organs and just floating around inside her. Every time she gets her period, she basically oozes. From everywhere.”
Freaking nasty.
You have to be able to find the humor.
And that’s what I was trying to remind myself of as I pulled up to the physical therapists office on Friday afternoon.
Making a valid attempt, one more time, at a little PT for my cootchie.
No matter how humiliating it may be.
As I told the boy the night before my appointment “My vagina is broken. It needs a massage.”
Which is why when I pulled up to this place downtown and realized it looked like a happy ending massage parlor, I started to get a little nervous.
Not that I’ve ever actually been to a happy ending massage parlor, but this was pretty much how I would picture them to look in my head.
Where on earth had Dr. Cook sent me?
The devirginator was again waiting desperately for any and all stories I was willing to share about this endeavor, and the boy and one of his co-workers were sending me all kinds of fun text requests for the appointment.
Because yes, it’s apparent that the affairs of my busted vagina are rarely ever kept private.
I should probably talk to my therapist about that.
I just kept making jokes with all 3 as I wandered through those office doors. I didn’t know what else to do. I had in my hand another referral for a “Internal Pelvic Floor Release” and this time, I knew Dr. Cook had intentionally found someone for me that he believed would deliver.
All in the name of working out some of those muscles that have been so affected by scar tissue and trauma that they have become mecca's for pain and discomfort.
Which I suppose is something I should be all about. And I would be. If only it didn’t involve letting some stranger stick their hands up my cootch for a deep tissue vaginal massage.
Because let’s be honest – I don’t care who you are, there is nothing comfortable about that scenario.
I walked into the office and was relieved to see that the sketchiness dissipated as soon as I walked through the doors. From the outside, this was a run down and beat up building, but from the inside; perfectly acceptable physical therapists office.
Bullet dodged.
Still, I sat in the waiting area growing more anxious by the minute. My first experience with cootchie PT had been entirely anti-climactic. There was never an actual exam done, and each of the appointments basically consisted of the physical therapist giving me a series of exercises to do at home that I’m pretty sure I could have looked up online. After all the buildup, it had basically felt like a waste of my time. So I never went back. But this time, I knew Dr. Cook had gone to lengths to find someone who would specifically work on those traumatized muscles of mine.
Those traumatized vagina muscles.
When she finally called me back, my anxiety grew. When she asked me to disrobe from the waist down, I thought I was going throw up.
Here it was. This was actually going to happen.
I was actually putting myself into this completely awkward position.
Again.
One more time.
The exam basically consisted of her testing the strength and tension of a variety of my down there muscles – both interior and exterior. I’m pretty sure I went to another place mentally for this, much like you almost have to for vagisounds. I swear, sometimes I really find myself wondering why it is that guys don’t have to do anything awkward like this until they’ve reached middle age.
After everything was said and done though, we talked about the results of my exam. She said the biggest concern with the muscles in my lady bits was that they were constantly tensed. It’s a combination of being in so much pain for so long (and therefore forever barring down, even without meaning to) and scar tissue on internal muscles deeper in that are all connected. Basically, she said that everything down there is just too tight.
I might have chuckled to myself and and thought “Isn't that a good thing?”
Because sometimes, I’m fairly sure I’m a teenage boy.
She said that wasn’t actually the main issue though. The entire exam had consisted of her testing various muscles in my stomach and back as well, and she said that it was clear from those tests that my upper stomach muscles were overcompensating for the lack of muscle strength lower down, and had been for a long time. As a result, all the muscles in my stomach are far too tense and overworked (so will someone please tell me why I don’t have a six-pack?) and even more, the muscles in my back aren’t doing a darn thing. She started listing off some Pilates moves that I likely struggle with, and sure enough – they were all the positions that I dread and to this day (even after months of practice) still feel like I can’t do. They all also happened to be the moves that involve back strength, which apparently I have none of.
So that’s where she wants to start; building up balance. Getting my back to start doing its part, and my stomach to start calming down. She said it’s all related to the trauma of the last few years, but that in order to get the muscles down there functioning normally again – we need to start with the muscles higher up first.
Meaning, the vagina massage is going to have to wait.
Which I am completely OK with. Because after the discomfort of just the exam, I’ve got to admit that I’m not in any huge rush to jump into a deep tissue cootchie session.
She gave me a few exercises to work on at home for my back, and explained that next week we’ll start with some fascia massage on my upper stomach muscles.
So there it is. One more weekly appointment I’m going to need to squeeze in. I would be bitter about it, except that she was able to pin-point almost all of my pain spots without me ever saying a thing. Which does make me wonder how much of the pain I’m feeling now (and how much of the pain I was feeling way back then) really may be muscular. The idea of having someone massage my stomach is beyond bizarre to me (although, clearly not as bizarre as the idea of having someone massage my lady bits), but… what if it could help? What if it could make a difference?
I guess it would be silly not to try, right?
Not to give it a go one more time.
Even if there is nothing sexy at all about going in for weekly stomach massages.
It’s all about trying something new. Looking for help. For relief.
And putting just a little bit of faith into the medical community.
One more time.
In the hopes of finally finding something that combats this disease.
That combats this pain.
And that sets me up for the happy, healthy, fulfilling life I deserve to be living.
Not just today, but forever.
But the fact of the matter is, there just isn’t any good way to describe uterine tissue implanting itself on various other organs and then bleeding every single month right along with your regular cycle.
It’s disturbing. And while I guess I get that no disease is really “sexy”, I have to be honest when I say that this one really ranks up there on the freaking-nasty-o-meter.
Which is why I try to find humor in just about everything else that goes along with it. Because seriously, if I can’t laugh at it I’m afraid that people will just look at me and think “Oh her? That’s the girl who has menstrual blood seeping out of her pours. No seriously. It’s all over her other organs and just floating around inside her. Every time she gets her period, she basically oozes. From everywhere.”
Freaking nasty.
You have to be able to find the humor.
And that’s what I was trying to remind myself of as I pulled up to the physical therapists office on Friday afternoon.
Making a valid attempt, one more time, at a little PT for my cootchie.
No matter how humiliating it may be.
As I told the boy the night before my appointment “My vagina is broken. It needs a massage.”
Which is why when I pulled up to this place downtown and realized it looked like a happy ending massage parlor, I started to get a little nervous.
Not that I’ve ever actually been to a happy ending massage parlor, but this was pretty much how I would picture them to look in my head.
Where on earth had Dr. Cook sent me?
The devirginator was again waiting desperately for any and all stories I was willing to share about this endeavor, and the boy and one of his co-workers were sending me all kinds of fun text requests for the appointment.
Because yes, it’s apparent that the affairs of my busted vagina are rarely ever kept private.
I should probably talk to my therapist about that.
I just kept making jokes with all 3 as I wandered through those office doors. I didn’t know what else to do. I had in my hand another referral for a “Internal Pelvic Floor Release” and this time, I knew Dr. Cook had intentionally found someone for me that he believed would deliver.
All in the name of working out some of those muscles that have been so affected by scar tissue and trauma that they have become mecca's for pain and discomfort.
Which I suppose is something I should be all about. And I would be. If only it didn’t involve letting some stranger stick their hands up my cootch for a deep tissue vaginal massage.
Because let’s be honest – I don’t care who you are, there is nothing comfortable about that scenario.
I walked into the office and was relieved to see that the sketchiness dissipated as soon as I walked through the doors. From the outside, this was a run down and beat up building, but from the inside; perfectly acceptable physical therapists office.
Bullet dodged.
Still, I sat in the waiting area growing more anxious by the minute. My first experience with cootchie PT had been entirely anti-climactic. There was never an actual exam done, and each of the appointments basically consisted of the physical therapist giving me a series of exercises to do at home that I’m pretty sure I could have looked up online. After all the buildup, it had basically felt like a waste of my time. So I never went back. But this time, I knew Dr. Cook had gone to lengths to find someone who would specifically work on those traumatized muscles of mine.
Those traumatized vagina muscles.
When she finally called me back, my anxiety grew. When she asked me to disrobe from the waist down, I thought I was going throw up.
Here it was. This was actually going to happen.
I was actually putting myself into this completely awkward position.
Again.
One more time.
The exam basically consisted of her testing the strength and tension of a variety of my down there muscles – both interior and exterior. I’m pretty sure I went to another place mentally for this, much like you almost have to for vagisounds. I swear, sometimes I really find myself wondering why it is that guys don’t have to do anything awkward like this until they’ve reached middle age.
After everything was said and done though, we talked about the results of my exam. She said the biggest concern with the muscles in my lady bits was that they were constantly tensed. It’s a combination of being in so much pain for so long (and therefore forever barring down, even without meaning to) and scar tissue on internal muscles deeper in that are all connected. Basically, she said that everything down there is just too tight.
I might have chuckled to myself and and thought “Isn't that a good thing?”
Because sometimes, I’m fairly sure I’m a teenage boy.
She said that wasn’t actually the main issue though. The entire exam had consisted of her testing various muscles in my stomach and back as well, and she said that it was clear from those tests that my upper stomach muscles were overcompensating for the lack of muscle strength lower down, and had been for a long time. As a result, all the muscles in my stomach are far too tense and overworked (so will someone please tell me why I don’t have a six-pack?) and even more, the muscles in my back aren’t doing a darn thing. She started listing off some Pilates moves that I likely struggle with, and sure enough – they were all the positions that I dread and to this day (even after months of practice) still feel like I can’t do. They all also happened to be the moves that involve back strength, which apparently I have none of.
So that’s where she wants to start; building up balance. Getting my back to start doing its part, and my stomach to start calming down. She said it’s all related to the trauma of the last few years, but that in order to get the muscles down there functioning normally again – we need to start with the muscles higher up first.
Meaning, the vagina massage is going to have to wait.
Which I am completely OK with. Because after the discomfort of just the exam, I’ve got to admit that I’m not in any huge rush to jump into a deep tissue cootchie session.
She gave me a few exercises to work on at home for my back, and explained that next week we’ll start with some fascia massage on my upper stomach muscles.
So there it is. One more weekly appointment I’m going to need to squeeze in. I would be bitter about it, except that she was able to pin-point almost all of my pain spots without me ever saying a thing. Which does make me wonder how much of the pain I’m feeling now (and how much of the pain I was feeling way back then) really may be muscular. The idea of having someone massage my stomach is beyond bizarre to me (although, clearly not as bizarre as the idea of having someone massage my lady bits), but… what if it could help? What if it could make a difference?
I guess it would be silly not to try, right?
Not to give it a go one more time.
Even if there is nothing sexy at all about going in for weekly stomach massages.
It’s all about trying something new. Looking for help. For relief.
And putting just a little bit of faith into the medical community.
One more time.
In the hopes of finally finding something that combats this disease.
That combats this pain.
And that sets me up for the happy, healthy, fulfilling life I deserve to be living.
Not just today, but forever.
July 7, 2011
Jet-Setting
I have a great job.
A great job, with a great vacation plan.
But in the last two years, I have used almost all of that vacation time on surgeries and IVF.
The last “fun” vacation I was able to take was in December of 2009.
I was one month post surgery, and on Lupron. So it turned out really well.
Let me tell you; I am ready for a re-do on fun vacations!
Which is why I am beyond pumped to report that this afternoon, I booked a ticket.
A ticket for some serious jet setting.
My own little tour of the South West if you will.
Here is the plan:
August 12th-14th, I’ll be in Arizona for my dad’s wedding (because the poor man cannot wait any longer to lock down a happily ever after with his beautiful fiancé.)
The 15th-17th, I’m heading to Los Angeles for The Devirginator's birthday. He wants to go to Disneyland. I haven't been to Disneyland in over 10 years. I kind of can't wait.
And then the 18th-20th, I’m heading to San Diego for one of my best friends last few days in So Cal before she heads off to graduate school.
I’ll head home on the 21st from there.
It’s a lot to squeeze into one week. I have a feeling I’m not going to get a ton of sleep in that week. But I don’t care. I’m getting a vacation. A fun, fast paced, jet-setting vacation where I’ll be squeezing in tons of time with all of my favorite people.
Of course, now I’ve got to wait 5 weeks until I can actually get on that plane. Which is probably going to be torture; almost like waiting for summer camp when you’re 8 years old. But just knowing it’s around the corner has me beyond excited.
I’m getting a vacation.
One that comes without needles, or anesthesia, or failed baby making dreams.
I’m getting a vacation.
And 5 weeks cannot go by fast enough.
A great job, with a great vacation plan.
But in the last two years, I have used almost all of that vacation time on surgeries and IVF.
The last “fun” vacation I was able to take was in December of 2009.
I was one month post surgery, and on Lupron. So it turned out really well.
Let me tell you; I am ready for a re-do on fun vacations!
Which is why I am beyond pumped to report that this afternoon, I booked a ticket.
A ticket for some serious jet setting.
My own little tour of the South West if you will.
Here is the plan:
August 12th-14th, I’ll be in Arizona for my dad’s wedding (because the poor man cannot wait any longer to lock down a happily ever after with his beautiful fiancé.)
The 15th-17th, I’m heading to Los Angeles for The Devirginator's birthday. He wants to go to Disneyland. I haven't been to Disneyland in over 10 years. I kind of can't wait.
And then the 18th-20th, I’m heading to San Diego for one of my best friends last few days in So Cal before she heads off to graduate school.
I’ll head home on the 21st from there.
It’s a lot to squeeze into one week. I have a feeling I’m not going to get a ton of sleep in that week. But I don’t care. I’m getting a vacation. A fun, fast paced, jet-setting vacation where I’ll be squeezing in tons of time with all of my favorite people.
Of course, now I’ve got to wait 5 weeks until I can actually get on that plane. Which is probably going to be torture; almost like waiting for summer camp when you’re 8 years old. But just knowing it’s around the corner has me beyond excited.
I’m getting a vacation.
One that comes without needles, or anesthesia, or failed baby making dreams.
I’m getting a vacation.
And 5 weeks cannot go by fast enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Share it
