Monday, July 21, 2014

The Gasteroenterologist from Purgatory

how a GastroMan spends his spare time



The gastroenterologist from Hell paid me a visit today.  I've upgraded his title to "The Gastroenterologist from Purgatory."  He said someone told him I feel really lousy anytime I have to leave the house, so he actually did a house call. Pretty much every word that came out of his mouth today was civil. If he maintains this sort of behavior, he may soon find himself permanently off my Demonic List.

The doctor said to give it until next Monday, then to force myself out of the house, even if it's only for short trips to the beach, and even if I have to sleep for three hours after I get home. He reminded me not to fall asleep on the beach. he didn't really need to tell me that, as a friend of mine from the dorm did that, and had the most severe sunburn I've even seen.  he told me not to go to the beach by myself unless I see a group of people there who appear to be students, and I'm comfortable sitting very near them. I already knew that as well, but I acted as though he was giving me particularly sage advice.

He complimented me on my  room decor.  He said he'd never seen a kid's bedroom with a grand piano in it. He also told me he'd never seen a home with three grand pianos. I told him my parents were considering purchasing a fourth piano -- this one  for the third story landing right outside the master  bedroom. He looked at me as though I was criminally insane. I told him it wasn't my idea and  thought it was just as ridiculous as he thought it was. He responded that he never said he thought it was nuts. I told him that he didn't have to say it; I could tell by the expression on his face that he thought the whole concept was bat-shit crazy. He just laughed and said that when the big earthquake hits, he hopes he's not in our house.  "You and me both, " I told him.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Why John Is Over-Protective



                                                                              





Long, long ago -- when I was twelve and in the second semester of my eighth  grade year, to be precise --  I became acquainted online with what some people called a child predator.  It didn't start out that way. I didn't go to a child predator website and announce that I was up for grabs. I had been warned about perverts, but I thought a person had to go to special child pron sites to meet these people. I didn't understand that the deviates visited regular sites looking for little girls, or, in some places, little boys.

I first made acquaintanceship with my personal pervert on a violin website. Initially the two of us discussed violin technique. The discussions moved to violin makes, models, and sizes. The predator expressed concern that I was not using the correct size violin. He was right. I was using my mother's violin, which was a full size, and was actually  a bit big even for her. I probably should have been using a half-size instrument which, incidentally, doesn't literally mean that it's half the size of a full-size violin. It's just the system by which they're sized numerically, and the system doesn't necessarily make any sense. The man determined (correctly, as it turned out)  what my violin size should be by having me send him a photograph of myself with my mom's violin, in addition to various body measurements. Some of the measurements he requested were legitimate for the purpose of determine violin size. Others were useless for that purpose and served only to fuel his sick desires.
He had already learned from our early contacts  what was my general geographical location  from the music store at which I told him I made my purchases. This was just about violins, right? Why would there be anything sinister in asking about a person's violin specifications of any sort? Then he asked me who my violin teachers were. My mom was my only private teacher; I didn't mention her.  I told him my school violin teacher's name. I didn't name the school, but I didn't need to. The man had compiled a list of teachers and which schools they served. By naming my school strings teacher, I had narrowed my school down to one of two.  

It was about at this point that my creep factor kicked in, but it was basically too late. The man had everything he needed to locate me. It was just a matter of time. I knew there was a problem, but thought maybe I could manage it by staying in large groups. I had in my mind what I thought a predator should look like, and I kept my eyes open for such a person.  What I didn't quite understand was that predators, perverts, or their ilk are not necessarily easily spotted by physical appearance alone.  I was watching carefully for anyone following me on my way home from school, but he was better at following me without being watched than I was at watching for him.

By eighth grade, my brother and I were latchkey kids. We had a safe neighborhood, and neighbors looked out for each other's children. No degree of looking out for each other's kids, however, could guarantee a child's safety in such a situation.

The predator had determined my address, and he sent me a letter through the U.S. postal service. Because I usually got  home before my parents, I saw the letter first. Just seeing the typed letter with no return address gave me a sick feeling, but I opened it, hoping for the best. I was not so lucky. In the letter, the predator told me that  by now, I probably realized that I had done something extremely foolish in giving out the information I had given. If I told my parents, I would be in serious trouble. If he told my parents, I would be in serious trouble. He recommended that I meet with him just once after school in two days so that he could explain to me in detail just how dangerous my behavior had been  and also so that he could correctly measure me for violin size.  He told me where and when we were to meet

I knew at that point that I was in way over my head. It occurred to me that the bad guy, and I was pretty certain by this point that my "violin expert" was a bad guy, could be sitting outside my house at that moment. He could grab my brother as my brother walked through the yard, and could use my brother's key to gain entrance.  He could just break a window, as my brother wouldn't be home for another hour or so due to baseball practice.  I wasn't safe in the house by myself, and  I wasn't safe outside of the house traveling elsewhere. I knew I had to tell my parents, but I tried to delay the inevitable. I had a friend who lived around the corner. I picked up the phone and dialed my friend's number.

Megan, like I, was one of the few members of our little group of friends who did not yet have our own cell phones. She answered the land line. I told her I needed to talk to her mom. Her mom was in the bathroom but eventually made it to the phone. I  hid behind the blinds in the living room looking outside for anyone strange as I waited for my friend Megan's mom to come to the phone. Megan's mother eventually made it to the phone.

Her first impulse was to call the police immediately. I could not see either of my parents reacting calmly to hearing this news for the first time from law enforcement personnel, so I talked Megan's mother into bringing me to her house while we called one of my parents. Megan's mom told me to stay put until she arrived at my door to get me. Even when she got to the door, rang the doorbell, knocked, and hollered, "It's Megan's mom. Alexis," I was reluctant to answer the door, but I eventually did.

Megan's mom put her arm around me and walked me around the corner, across the street, and into to her house, after which she promptly locked the door. "Okay," she said, "Which parent do you want to call?"

 It was an easy choice for me. "My mom,' I told her. "I''ll dial. Do you want to talk?" She said yes. I dialed and let her speak to the various receptionists at the school district office where my mom worked, all of whom told her my mother was in a meeting that couldn't be disturbed. she explained that it was an emergency of the 9-1-1- variety that involved my mother's child, but still no one would interrupt the meeting. i had the feeling that she could have told the receptionists i had been hit by a car and was in the Intensive Care ward  at the local hospital, yet their responses would have been the same.

I cried because  knew it meant my dad had to be called. I knew my dad would not take this information well. Still, he had to be called. I dialed his cell number and handed the phone to Megan's mom. She explained to my dad that I had experienced a bit of a scare and that my parents might wish to involve law enforcement. He was working just ten minute way on that particular day and said he would leave immediately. He commented to Megan's mother, "I'm just curious. Usually Alexis would have asked for he mom to be called first in a situation like this one." Megan's mom explained that the school  district receptionists had refused to interrupt her in a meeting. Megan's mother said he sounded angry as he told her, "Erin will be there, too."

A few minutes later, my mom pulled up in front of Megan's house. She came to the door. Megan's mother encouraged her to wait inside until my dad arrived, which he did shortly. He had parked his car in our garage and walked over to Megan's house. My parents thanked Megan's mom, and the three of us walked to our house together.

As soon as we entered the house, I showed my parents the letter. My dad called 9-1-1. He suggested that the man could be watching, and it might be wise to arrive in an unmarked car to avoid tipping off the pervert. My dad told the dispatcher to have the officer park in our garage, which he did when he showed up a few minutes later.

The officer was concerned that my brother might be in danger, so Matthew was picked up in an unmarked car and delivered home. Matthew is  still mad at me seven years later because he had to leave practice early that day.

The officers took as much information as they could get. They told my parents someone from the D.A.'s office or the FBI or some task force would be in contact soon, probably  the next day. The men in suits showed up at school the next morning. The school, which wouldn't even let my mother out of a meeting yesterday to deal with the situation, now wanted to be right in the thick of everything. One of the suits assured the vice principal that this had nothing whatsoever to do with the school except that school personnel should be on alert for an unfamiliar vehicle lurking near the premises. We left and moved the meeting to our home.

The men in suits were very interested in which computer or computers i had used. I was only allowed access to the den computer at that time. The men in suits checked it out thoroughly there, but also took the computer with them for further analysis. it was something like three months before we gt the computer back.

Results of the investigation were that the guy had a lot of irons in the fire but that he had yet to pull off a successful operation.  He was found outside the school entrance/exit I would have taken, and was traveling the route back and forth between the school and my house. His prints matched prints on the letter that was sent to me. All the computer communications matched up as well.  The charges that he faced in relation to my case were minor compared to some of the others. He was identified as having called children over to his car in a neighboring town and as having exposed himself to the school children on their way to school, among other things. Authorities had reasons to believe that the predator had much larger plans in his grand schemes.

My parents were extremely angry with me, yet not entirely unsympathetic. when i had a nightmare that night, they  were quick to come in to my room  and offer comfort. They did take a rather martyred stance, informing me that they had every right to beat me but were, out of the goodness of their hearts, deferring that right in favor of not letting me near a computer for the foreseeable future.This may have seemed a small price to pay; however, I was, for all practical intents and purposes, isolated from the world. I was reduced to face-to-face contact with friends, as my parents' archaic style of parenting didn't even allow my brother and me to have cell phones at the time. To the other students at our school, I was viewed similarly to the way most of today's teens would view the adolescents at Warren Jeffs' Yearning for Zion or Colorado City/Hilldale compounds. (No one ever actually said this to me. They didn't need to, because I could see it in their eyes.) Furthermore, who in his or her right mind would attempt a worthwhile conversation on a land line with parents eagerly hanging on to each spoken word?I will say for myself that I used my time of virtual incarceration wisely. The most significant of my achievements was to expose the woeful inadequacies of the libraries of the middle and high schools I attended. As I was not granted access to computer-based research, I was relegated to relying upon encylopediae and other ancient primary sources. I once authored a paper on the topic of "The Lunar Expedition." My concluding sentence was something to the effect of, "Some day man may actually land and walk upon the moon." My teacher, of course, tried to give me a failing grade on the paper, but was forced to concede when he could not find a single piece of non-computer-based literature in the school library that contradicted my concluding sentence. The only actual encyclopedia the library offered was printed in 1968, and was kept as sort of a relic for the purpose of showing students how research was collected in prehistoric times. The only actual books the library held were works of fiction.

As I was required to write research papers without the use of technology, I had the unfortunate experience of using a typewriter. Most people have no idea just how difficult it is to use a typewriter. My style of keyboarding is to type at an extremely rapid rate but to make more errors than  be counted by a single person. This works perfectly well when using a computer if a person proofreads well, but when typing on a typewriter, corrections must be made using either a correction ribbon on the machine or with liquid paper, both of which add thickness and weight to the paper. When someone makes as many errors as I usually do, each sheet of paper weighs around ten ounces by the time the corrections have been made. 

I eventually made a deal with my brother to take all of his turns at doing the dishes for two weeks for each of my papers he typed. At the expense of belaboring the FLDS analogy, with the exception of Warren Jeffs' wives and other females at the compound, I was one of the youngest people in the nation with dishpan hands. My parents eventually allowed me extremely limited computer access. I was first allowed to use the computer to type school assignments, then to do limited Internet research when a parent was in the room with me. Less than a year ago I was allowed to have a Twitter page giving only the vaguest indication of my geographic location. (For the record, I used and continue to use my actual first name but a different surname.) My parents have put some sort of control (censorship) on all of our home computers so that every keystroke I make is recorded. They said that they really didn't care what awful things I say about them as long as Chris Matthews or whatever that "To Catch a Sexual Predator" guy's name is doesn't show up with his producers and say they want to film an encounter with me and the latest predator with whom I've been in contact.

I'm now a legal adult and am free to  do whatever I want with a computer as long as it's legal.  The strange thing about parents, though, is that they don't stop worrying just because their children are over eighteen. I keep peace in my home by letting my dad have my passwords. He's still concerned that the violin pervert or another one equally creepy will someday find me. 


Saturday, July 19, 2014

Water Saver Faucet Company Motto: Go at home or don't go at all.



http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_slatest/2014/07/16/company_limits_bathroom_breaks_to_six_minutes_daily.html

A Chicago company is rationing bathroom breaks and issuing warnings of disciplinary actions, including suspensions and firings, for excessive use of the bathrooms.  Water Saver Faucet Company* has deemed excessive use to be an average of six minutes a day over a ten day period, or a totla of sixty minutes in ten days of work. The company keeps track of its' workers commode time by restricting commode access unless the worker slides his or her bar coded pass through the reader at the commode door.

i don't even know where to begin to address this one. it wuld seem that failure to deal with either bladder or bowel needs culd cause potential long-term health issues. Then, at the risk of indelicacy, some of Water Saver Faucet Company's employees are presumably female, and , as such, have certain periodicneeds related to bathroom visits. is this being taken into account.

If I worked there, -- which I don't, thank God --  the Americans with Disabilities Act would be invoked on my behalf immediately because I have ulcerative colitis. If  Water Saver Faucet Company  did not concede on my behalf immediately, they wuld be facing abig fat  lawsuit . i'd get one of those big-name lawyers, even if he was accustomed to crimnal  defense. Geoffrey Fieger. That's who I'd hire to take on the Water Saver Faucet Company.

On a more serious note, this sets back the work of the late Cesar Chavez by at least fifty years. I've not heard of such draconian bathroom policies since my daya in mrs. Moore's fifth grade classroom.

Can something be done to stop this company before an entire work force is dealing with urinary calculi and chronic constipation?

*This is disgusting, but their company name is probably very fitting, as no one who works there wants to waste any of their allotted bathroom time so they don't wash their hands after bathroom visits, thereby saving water. Makes sense, huh?

Grading, Professors' Pet Peeves, Dell Hell, Kindness




I've been having network problems, which is one reason for my lack of productivity. Jaci, I agree that I need a mac, but I will get it on September 1, and all the whining, pleading, or extorting  I could possibly do between now and then will not make it appear one minute sooner. Yes, it bothers the hell out of me to see my parents typing away on their own macs, but, as my mom is so fond of telling me, some things are worth waiting for. Furthermore, network issues are no respecters of computers and of their snooty brand names. Mac users suffer equally with the lowly Dell owners when reception problems strike.  My parents' home is in a tiny canyon that is something of a fog pit. It makes breathing easier for my mom and for me -- it's almost like having a a built-in humidifier. What is great for the lungs, however, is not necessarily equally great for cell phone and  Internet reception.  We do at least have reception, but if anyone in the region is going to have trouble getting a connection, it is the people living in our little fog pit of the world.

Speaking of things that are or are not worth waiting for, how do you feel bout sentences that end in prepositions? My mom says the concept is largely an affectation and that it came about as a result of the anal tendencies of sixteenth-to-seventeenth century English poet John Donne. Donne wrote his poetry so that it could be directly translated to Latin with ease. Something related to the structure of the Latin language  makes sentences ending in prepositions awkward, so Donne wrote his works, mostly poetry, with his sentences not ending in prepositions.  It's highly dubious that Donne had any idea he was creating a school of thought that would torment students for the next several centuries.

My mom says that in authoring formal works, it's a good idea to structure sentences so that they don't end in prepositions primarily because one does not know just how nit-picky or anal the professor grading the paper might be. One could argue all year about the rightness or wrongness of ending sentences with prepositions, but in the end, little matters other than the opinion of the person holding the red pen or its digital equivalent. What's more important: being technically correct or getting the grade? Again, this goes back to a philosophy held but certainly not invented by me, which is that the secret of success in  college/university is to discover what each professor wants to hear or read  and to tell it to him or her as many times, in as many different ways as is humanly possible for any given student.  In the course of telling the professor what it is he or she wants to hear, it is probably wise to assume until one is told otherwise by said professor that the professor is of the "do not end sentences with prepositions" school of thought.

A good practice is to read papers of one's classmates after they have been submitted, graded, and handed back, particularly if one has reason to believe that the professor himself/herself has actually looked at the papers. (Some professors are lazier than others and hand over all grading to grad assistants, while others will at least personally look at term's major writing assignment.)   Some actually do the entire process of themselves grading the major writing assignment for the course. God knows they have enough time. Most of them teach only three classes per term, and they need to be published something like once per job in order to receive tenure.  

Encourage this practice of passing around and reading each others' paper  under the  guise that what your classmates have to say is of any importance whatsoever.  Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth unless you have a highly gifted classmate, in which case you should already have determined such to be the case, have already arranged study sessions with said classmate, and have already picked the person's brain practically free of gray matter.  Instead, the purpose of reading classmates' papers is to read the comments written by the grader, who is, in a perfect world, the professor. Read every little seemingly insignificant snarky comment, not to gloat -- though  doing so can be entertaining -- but to learn from the mistakes of your classmates. Most of these mistakes are ones you would not make, but just the same, if  reading twenty papers can help you to avoid the use of a pet peeve of the professor, it is time well spent.  This is where you will discover whether or not the professor has a  "preposition at the end of a sentence" fetish.  Don't trust your memory. Write it down in your handbook of information about professors and their eccentricities.

Right now I'm midway through four different blogs. I hope to finish at least two tomorrow, although at the rate I'm going in terms of getting any sleep tonight, it may be at least noon before I make it out of bed.   Regardless of sleep issues, I'll commit to finishing at least one of the pending blogs. One of them pertains to the reason my father pays such close attention to the writings that I "publish" though the Internet. It will, perhaps,  make him seem slightly less maniacal than he would seem without the explanation.

On a thoroughly unrelated topic, Judge Alex tweeted an anecdote concerning his daughter who is, I think, roughly twenty-four years of age. The judge's daughter was walking down a street carrying a pizza when she noticed a person who appeared to be in need of sustenance, so she offered him a slice of her pizza, which he took.  It was a small gesture, but a very kind one. Most of us, when we consider the matter carefully, have more than we really need.  Sharing hurts us little, yet may benefit someone else a great deal.   

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. 
Matthew 25:40 KJV



Saturday, July 12, 2014

Judge Alex Gives People Head Lice and Other Silly Dreams

                             



I just woke up from a really scary (at the time) yet equally ridiculous dream.  It scared me while I was asleep just as much as the dreams I've had that have been more pertinent to actual happenings in my life. I wasn't able to do any of the lucid dreaming sort of thing or control in any way the direction the dream. I just had to dream it out until something woke me up.

At first I was very scared, but then I was able to stop and tell myself, "That was perhaps the stupidest dream anyone has ever dreamed." My dad came in my room when I screamed. I told him about my dream. He said that most likely stupider dreams have been dreamt, but that this was quite possibly among the stupider ones of which he's personally heard.

Anyway, I woke up [in my dream; in real life I was still asleep] to the sound of our alarm going off. I ran into my parents room, which has monitors all around the outside of the house I was still asleep. All monitors were clear except for #6, which showed a man in protective gear, but his head wasn't covered. Eventually he got close enough that I could see that it was the Honorable Judge Alex Ferrer.

Judge Ferrer found a loose screen outside the main laundry room.  He ripped it off and kicked the window out. My house has a slightly odd floor plan. The door from the laundry room leads to the pantry, then to the kitchen.  My parents and I were watching  Judge Ferrer on the monitors. He wasn't in a big hurry to do anything. He checked out our refrigerator, but there was apparently not much inside it that caught his attention.

Next he opened the freezer. We're usually well-stocked with ice cream, and during my dream was no exception. The judge got out at least eight cartons. He found a single spoon and helped himself  randomly to all the cartons he had taken from the freezer. He looked at the open freezer door and said something to the effect of, "No point in closing the freezer; I'll just want more when I finish these."  I think he may have spoken in Spanish and my dad may have translated for the rest of us.

Alexis has been told that Dad's fingers are getting tired, so she's going to  going to cut to the chase with her narrative here.   I'm paraphrasing for her.

The network at Fox, at least in Alexis' dream, has the ability to watch people as they're watching Fox programming. Alexis laughed at something today when a litigant suggested that maybe - or maybe not - Judge Alex's show was considered nationally televised. Judge Alex took offense at this, so he put on a hazmat suit, armed himself with vials filled to the brim with nits, nymphs, and mature lice. He was after Alexis first, but he studies her social media interactions enough to get a few names, and he was also after Becca, Jaci[note that I got the spelling right] Notty, Ameilia, Mariannne, a doctor from Australia, Matt from England, and an exmormon, and a person named Melissa who is either very sweet or likes Barry Manilow. There were others, but Alexis nodded off mid-sentence.

Judge Alex made it to Alexis' room. I'm sure I was right behind him with a baseball bat, though she didn't mention that part. Alexis was thrashing around in her bed, trying to find something with which to hit the judge, She grabbed a glass of water and somehow broke it over her head. She screamed even louder because she thought the had been infested by the various metamorphisms of Pediculus humanus capititus.

I turned on the light to find Alexis holding two pieces of a broken glass in her hand. There were three more  pieces of glass on her pillow case. Her mom came into the room. We changed her pillow and sheets and went through her hair to ensure that no glass was left.  Alexis had a slight cut on her scalp, but it wasn't deep or large enough to worry about stitching.

Alexis is asleep again. From this experience she has learned that dreams - even scary one - can be very silly and my have no significance whatsoever. She has also learned that she may only have plastic water cups beside her bed at night.

To those I have mentioned and some I have not, beware! A man in a hazmat suit may be wandering your neighborhood this very night, armed with vials of head lice.

Note: I've read up on this Judge Alex guy. Since Alexis was fourteen or fifteen, for months at a time, the only conversation I could have about her that wasn't totally one-sided was about Judge Alex. She would talk for hours about him. If I asked her how school went on a given day, I'd be greeted more often than not with dead silence. At first I assumed it was a typical TV infatuation, though a bit odd in light of the age difference. Then I did a little research and learned that she was, in fact, communicating with the REAL Judge Alex. I needed to make sure that he wasn't leading cult or anything of that nature. Alexis had enough issues in her life without being hooked up with the likes of David Koresh.

Her mom was less concerned than I was. She reminded me of Alexis' earlier infatuation with Steve of Blue's Clues. Still, I checked out Alexis' communications, both in general and with Judge Alex, which a good parent should be doing, anyway. He never told her a single thing I wouldn't have told her myself. A few times he told her that some things are for parents to decide - period - and there's not much a kid can do about it.

Anyone who has raised a teen-aged girl can probably relate to this, but it's like one night you put your child to bed, and the next morning, instead of the sweet little girl you had the night before, in her place is a feral cat.

We're through the feral cat stage with Alexis. I'd like to think we would be there regardless by now. I wonder at times, however, if we would have made it without Judge Alex and a few others of you Alexis has met here and on other media, people who seem inexplicably to speak the language of feral cats.  My sincerest appreciation goes out to you.

P.S. Alexis may erase this when she finds it, so I hope you read soon.












 

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Waking Up on Her Own . . Baby Steps to Some, but Giant steps to Us

Hi. It's Alexis' dad. Alexis  thought she would take care of this post herself. when I went to check on her, she was sleeping so restfully that I couldn't bring myself to wake her.  There were aspects of her surgery she didn't wish to share , with particular in regard to anesthesia.

Just a few days before her procedure, she underwent a sigmoidoscopy from the same physician who would perform her surgery by colonoscope.  When she learned that  the surgery was to be performed by  the same gastroenterologist as before, she was adamant that this was not to happen.  Keep in mind that the gastroenterologist is very highly-regarded, and I would much prefer to have him operate on her than probably any gastroenterologist in the nation, but  a funny thin happens when a child turns eighteen, which is that the child is allowed to make her own decisions, stupid as they may seem to the rest of us. All Alexis knew was that the gastroenterologist hurt her during the sigmoidoscopy, and that this procedure stood to cause significantly  more pain. She didn't trust the doctor through another procedure.

The gastroenterologist came by our house the night before and promised her that he would not hurt her at all costs. They discussed various drugs. Some drugs used for these procedures are essentially just amnesiacs;   they keep a patient cooperative, but the patient, within a few hours, remembers every bit of the pain.  This was not an option for Alexis' procedures, as it involved cauterization of at least two significantly ulcerated spots in her transverse colon. It's not a  form of pain that one should expect a nineteen-year-old to go through life remembering. Alexis has enough sources of nightmare as it stands.  The gastroenterologist discussed various drugs. Significant pain-killers,  in addition to Valium for relaxation, were mentioned. Alexis agreed to propofyl, fentanyl, and valium.  If she any changes were to be made, she would be given increased fentanyl and valium.  At one point she did appear to be in obvious pain. To keep her comfortable, the gastroenterologist  gave her the drugs as agreed, doing so cautiously because of her size.  Once the pain safety was under control, the gastroenterologist and the assistant continued and finished the procedure with no further incident. We brought her home three hours after the conclusion of the procedure.

The anesthesiologist had allowed her to remain asleep for maybe thirty minutes or so longer than would typically be allowed for the procedure, primarily because she  hadn't received any quality of sleep whatsoever  in the four days before the procedure. At that point, the anesthesiologist woke her to ensure that she could be woken up. She was able to be awakened, though she was very uncomfortable. Painkillers were switched. There wasn't any point at which Alexis could not be awakened, though she was in pain, so we continued to give her as much as was needed in order to keep her comfortable. We continued to  awakenen her every  thirty minutes.  With each awakening, there was slightly less complaining of pain or anything else.

She's now looking at me.  She says she's not in any particular pain, she says.  I suspect that will last for maybe ten minutes, but that's ten minutes longer than last time, so it's progress.

The deal brokered between her and the gastroenterologist and, to a lesser extent, the anesthesiologist, was a legally binding contract. Had Alexis not held the status of legal adult, I would have signed it for her.  She's mature enough to understand the concept of pain and to know just how much of it she can tolerate. No one should have to tolerate more than he or she can tolerate when there are medical alternatives available.

Today was the better.  First she woke up on her own. I expect her ratio of wakefulness to sleepfulness shall improve for the better at a noticeable rate in the next few days.  Next we have to get her to eat and to walk, but she's somewhat clinically hyperactive, though she lacks impulsivity and inattention, so she has no ADHD diagnosis. In any event, getting a hyperactive child or young adult out of her bed is not usually a majorly difficult proposition.

I have to admit that I was concerned that she  might have been hit with too many drugs the second round, but I'm now convinced everything was handled perfectly and she'll  be fine. She's trying to look over the top of my keyboard to see what I'm typing. I'm turning the keyboard to make it difficult for her to see, but more than anything, I'm relieved that she even cares what I'm writing

Alexis is seriously better.  It hasn't occurred to her to thank anyone yet, but I thank you on her behalf.  I recorded "Judge Alex"  last night and will turn it on in less than twenty minutes. She'll be thrilled to reconnect with the real world.



 

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

I found my computer while everyone else was asleep!


I'm not sure I'll dress quite so dramatically, but I'm pretty sure I'll identify with how he's feeling.

                                                                            


I woke up and no one else was awake. They're probably exhausted. My mom is in the bed next to mine, so it didn't take much maneuvering on my part  to reach my computer and to get my computer back to my bed.

Now that I have it [the computer] I can't recall what was supposedly important to say. I think I am better and that people are treating me with some degree of kindness. If I ask for painkillers, I get them even if someone has to call GastroSuperman to get them for me. My longest wait has been 15 minutes, which is a short wait in the grand scheme of things.

Love life is not appearing to go where I want it to go, but maybe the idea that it was too early is  an understatement. The new romance hasn't come right out and said anything, but I'm reading his vibes with greater accuracy  than I usually do. Someday we may be an item, or maybe not. I really don't know where it's going, but I would prefer a friendship forever than a romance that lasted for two weeks, followed  by a relationship in which I was not ever really comfortable talking to him again. If it was meant to be, it will still be meant to be   in two years from now.  I just think I have too much on my plate to be overly concerned with romance at this juncture. and as much as I hate to think about this, there will  be just because of my presence in the program in which I'm enrolled at my age, people who are looking at constant ways to trip me up because of my age. Not everyone will be out to get me just because of my age. Some will hate me just because they hate me. I'm curious as to how openly this hate will be addressed, or if it will be swept under the carpet, because we have NO COMPETITITION  here because of the no letter grades in the first grades two years. I really wish I had a professor just like Judge Ferrer my first two years of med school , because I think he could see through some of the b.s. that some of the others don't see. Still, I'm going to have to see through thins and find my way through this on my  own. I have to get through the program knowing what I need to know and not by  pretending to be Miss Congeniality. I would never have signed up in the first place  had I not possessed the confidence that I could kick butt in this program. I'm not 100% yet, but I'm probably 90%, easing my way up to 10 100% so that I'll  be there soon.

I still have over two months to recover. This is something I can do.  I will do it.  Every person  in my class has some obstacle over he or she or must overcome. I don't know what my classmates' hidden obstacles are; I merely know that the obstacles are there. Some my be worse than mine. Some may exist only in the minds of the students. Nonetheless, they're every bit as real as are mine or more so. Statistically, roughly 20% of us will not succeed in overcoming our obstacles.  If that sounds like false bravado, as perhaps it is,  I wouldn't have signed up if I felt that I had only 80%  of completing the program successfully.

I'll check back in periodically once the program has begun. Sometimes I'll be depressed with what I have to share, because the one thing my shrink has managed to impart to me in God knows how may years of therapy is that is there is such a thing a neurotypicality,  and that I fit into the  mold as well as does the average person..  We're all up and down at times. Chairman Mao says that he's seen more than  his share of those who are neurotypical.  I am, as much as I'd like to consider really myself special in some way, more than anything else, I am neurotypical.   My brain may recall information faster than does the brain of the average  person, but still it does so largely in the same way as does anyone else's brain.

In March of 2018, I hope to report back you with exciting news concerning where I plan to complete the next phase of my life, which would be my internship and/or residency, which will be involve anywhere between three and seven years of  my life Still, we all hope to be around both physically and psychologically.  Romance may be what's foremost on all of our minds, or it may be the very furthest point from any one of our minds.    I hope that for all of us, it's what we would have chosen for ourselves had the choice been entirely ours.  Good luck to all of us.