As my family sat at the dinner table on Thanksgiving Day shoveling food into their mouths at a rate so alarming that I considered dialing 9-1-1 and alerting the paramedics in advance that someone at my address would soon choke and be in need of emergency medical assistance. After all, doing so would be at least as warranted as calling the local 9-1-1 service because Burger King put mustard on a customer's burger after the customer had specifcally requested a mustard-free burger, which I believe actually happened. Eventually, I thought better of my preemptive strike and decided simply to allow the gluttons to face Karma; if the Heimlich maneuver worked or the paramedics made it to our home on time with equipment, great, If not, it probably wasn't meant to be.
Anyway, as I was pondering the situation concerning the lack of safety surrounding me at the dining room table, not to mention the lack of observation of conventional table manners, my dad noticed what must have been an unpleasant expression on my face. Though I wasn't looking at myself in a mirror and wasn't, therefore, necessarily the most qualified descriptor of my own facial expression at that precise moment, because I know what I was feeling at the moment, I would have to say my expression could best be described as one of combined concern and disgust. My father, on the other hand, categorized my look in the way he most frequently categorizes my facial expressions: he said the look was purely one of self-pity. (It's pointless to argue with my father about anything. Were the late Vince Lombardi to return to life and show up in our livingroom for the purpose of discussing with my father the weather conditions during the legendary 1967 NFL Championship game commonly known as The Ice Bowl, my dad would find cause to take exception with Lombardi's determination of the wind-chill factor at kick-off time. If Dad were engaged in a conversation with Neil Armstrong, he would probably disagree with the famed astronaut about the feel of walking on a surface with one-seventh of the force of gravity that the Earth possesses. My dad argues when the person with whom he is arguing actually agrees with him. Arguing with my father is utterly futile.) Even though I could eat only a few bites of finely-cut food, Dad told me that, since the purpose of the holiday was to give thanks for one's blessings, I would not be allowed to leave the table until I could come up with ten specific things for which I am thankful. Mind you, I'm only allowed out of bed and into a recliner for a total of four hours a day, in addition to my ten required daily torture sessions otherwise known as walks. Yet this man, who at least in theory spawned me, and who is a medical doctor to boot, which would indicate that at some point in time he must have taken that Hippocratic Oath thing that they all supposedly take at some point promising to do no harm (I call it the Hypocritical Oath where my dad is concerned), was more than willing to risk my well-being by forcing me to sit in an uncomfortable dining room chair while my narcotic-addled brain attempted to unearth ten things for which I was thankful. Keep in mind that this demand was not forced upon anyone else present at our dining room table. Nonetheless, there was no way of avoiding this unfair treatment. I requested a piece of paper and a pen. Since I coudn't eat, I might just as well have used my time writing.
Ten Things for Which I Am Thankful
by Alexis Anne Rosseau
1. I am thankful that my father did not perform my splenectomy. He surely would've botched the job and killed me in the process.
2. I am thankful that I'm no longer in the hospital. Even if the nurses didn't kill me, either deliberately or through their incompetence, the food eventually would have finshed me off, either because it was so disgusting that my inabiity to eat it would have cause me to starve to death or because dangerous pathogens were present either in the food at the outset or were transferred to the food by the unwashed hands of the cafeteria workers.
3. My mom spent two nights as my roommate in the hospital because she had just undergone kidney stone removal surgery. Not only was she good company; the doctors and nurses could not mistreat me in her presence.
4. My PseudoAunt's Cousin's Ex-wife brought to me one dozen Baskin Robbins clown cones to me, and I still have eight remaining, which my brother has been forbidden by those with authority to enforce the directive, to touch without my express consent, and only when I am in a sufficiently lucid state to give consent. He can't wake me up at 3:00 a.m. after I've taken a Vicodin to ask for one.
5. My PseudoAunt Jillian just received the news that she passed the California Bar Exam on her first attempt.
6. My piano is being tuned next week.
8. My father doesn't hav any hernias or back problems that I know about, so he can carry me upstairs if I don't feel up to making the trip on my own.
9. Jesse Spencer is back on "House" after an entirely too long hiatus.
10. The thread count on my Egyptian cotton sheets at home is 2,000, This is because my aunt and uncle are generous, not because my dad tells my mom that money is just money and that it's senseless for us to live as paupers so that their money can all go to some charity when my parents finally pass on to the next world. The sheets in the hospital practically gave me bedsores, and I was only in there for a week. Thank God for Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count higher than two digits.
Postscript: My dad was less than pleased with my effort, but he did agree to let me relocate from the dining room chair that is, I would imagine, approximately as uncomfortable as an electric chair would be, to the family room sofa. My dad periodically shows trace evidence of a conscience.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
The Countdown
The worst is over. I've been sprung from the Big House and am comfotably in my own bed. I did have a TV in my hospital room, but the number of stations was limited, to express it midlly. My parents don't subscribe to premium stations, but we at least have expanded cable. Anytime, day or night, I can find something that will hold my attention until I fall asleep. The wonders of modern television are seldom celebrated to the degree that they deserve to be. My mom likes to talk about the good old days when she lived in a town that only got five stations, and one of the five was in Spanish. This one-way conversation usually comes up just before the discourse of how my mom walked four miles to school through two feet of snow to school for much of the year. She lived in Nebraska during part of her childhood, so there was snow during that particular era of her life, but one of my aunts told me that the family lived one short city block -- not even the length of a foorball field -- from the school my mom attended at the time. The only time she lived four miles from a school she attended was when she lived in Central California. Two months after moving there, at the age of thirteen, she bought her own late-model Trans-Am with winnings from her sports betting operation, and drove herself to school every day. The minimum age for legal drivers' licensure was sixteen, but in that neck of the woods, certain laws were routinely ignored. Nine-year-olds who could not sucessfully maneuver manual transmission vehicles at least as far as the groery store and back were considered candidates for special education. Anyway, while I grow weary of hearing my mom's stories of growing up in the dark ages, I do feel her pain where the dearth of television stations was concerned.
In terms of The Countdown, my spleen was removed by laparotomy on the eighteenth of November. Had the procedure employed for removal been laparoscopy, whereby a couple of small incisions would have been made for the insertion of scopes for purposes of viewing what was going on inside one's midsection, and for removing the offending organ, my recovery would have been much quicker. Instead, depending upon which story one chooses to believe, either because it was medically necessary due to the sheer mass of the spleen and thinness of parts of the walls of the organ, or because doctors, even though they bring in substantial salaries, as often as not have financial obligations in excess of their salaries, the surgeon entrusted with performing my surgery opted for the more invasive laparotomy procedure, involving an incision wide enough to have allowed for the removal of a seventeen-pound baby, greater recovery times and, not incidentally, a heftier payment for the surgeon.
The arbitrary length of the moratorium on strenous physical ctivity or any activity that could potentially produce direct physical trauma to the area of my incision has been determined to be six weeks if nothing changes. I've been told the time could be lengthened if anything goes wrong, but that it's not getting any shorter even if Dr. Oz, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, and Jesus (the surgeon is Episcopalian, by the way; obviously if he were atheistic, Jewish or Sikh, Jesus wouldn't have much influence) simultaneously appear to my surgeon pleading on my behalf.
I'm scheduled to fly to Utah on December 27. This is three days before my parole officially ends. This is if I'm even allowed by my surgeon to board the plane. The plane could, God forbid, crash, killing all of the occupants, myself included. When all is said and done and all autopsy results are in, it could be that the trauma of the place crash, in addition to causing a massive and inevitably fatal brain injury in addition to the massive injuries to at least fifteen of my vital organs, which would have caused me to bleed to death within thirty seconds of impact, a very tiny percentage of the cause of death might be attributed to the recency of my splenectomy prior to the trauma of the accident. My parents might then choose to sue the surgeon for medical malpractice.
So even being allowed to get on the stupid aircraft is far from a given. Then comes the purpose, or purposes, for my visit. My current long-distance romantic interest lives in Utah. We haven't had more than skype visits since June. While skyping is a great invention (which did not, incidentally, exist in the days of my mother's youth, but I'll spare you the tedious details) actually visiting with my date of choice is something I'm eagerly anticipating. Additionally, I LOVE snowboarding. Snowboarding can be done in California, although I don't cirrently live close to any skiing/snowboarding facilities. Still, had my schedule offered a bit more flexibility, I could have managed it, but I've carried a truckload of university credits this quarter. The upcoming winter break and trip to Utah, which has a lovely resort less than thirty minutes by car from the place where I'll be staying, will offer multiple opportunities to snowboard. Because it's a school break, the mountains will be crawling with inept snowboarders, but I'll patiently brave their incompetence for the thrill of a few minutes of unadulterated downhill speed.
Then we get to the technicalities. Is December 30 my first day of release from restrictions, or is it my final day of parole? Is snowboarding one of those activities deemed so perilous by my surgeon that it must exceed even the six-week limit of inactivity? Perhaps, since my spleen was removed, I should just give up snowboarding for the rest of my life. Perhaps climbing stairs and crossing streets are activities too perilous for me to engage in as well.
I say what my surgeon doesn't know will never cause him any loss of sleep. For example, our kitchen counter is at the precise height of the incision from my splenectomy. People bump into their kitchen counters all the time. What should we as a family do about this? Should we move, even though we only recently moved into our present home? Should we remodel our kitchen so that the counters are not at such a precarious height for me? Should I remain the hell out of the kitchen permanently? My parents could purchase and place a small refrigerator in my bedroom. My Uncle Ralph wanted to do that in the first place when he remodeled my room, but my parents rejected the idea as being too indulgent. The kitchen counter height is one of many potential dangers my parents have never even considered discussing with my surgeon. We have stairs in our home. People, even relatively coordinated ones such as myself, fall down stairs all the time. Do we need to install an elevator in our home? The seatbelts in my mom's car press upon my splenectomy incision site in a most uncomfortable manner just wearing them. were an accident to occur, I hate to even consider the damage that would be done by the device intended to preserve my life.. I've been told that to replace the seatbelts in my mom's car would be a ridiculous expense. Do my parents need to arrange their schedules so that my dad is available to transport me when the need arises? Or should my mother buy a new car? If she can't afford it, perhaps she could start another sports betting operation like the one she had when she was in high school.
This situation has resulted a positive outcome. I cannot sleep well at night unless I've had at least one argument with one of my parents in a given twenty-four-hour period. The topic and everthing surrounding it have produced sufficient fodder for at least one argument every hour. I'm sleeping well most of the time, and even when I can't sleep, there's always something decent on TV for me to watch.
In terms of The Countdown, my spleen was removed by laparotomy on the eighteenth of November. Had the procedure employed for removal been laparoscopy, whereby a couple of small incisions would have been made for the insertion of scopes for purposes of viewing what was going on inside one's midsection, and for removing the offending organ, my recovery would have been much quicker. Instead, depending upon which story one chooses to believe, either because it was medically necessary due to the sheer mass of the spleen and thinness of parts of the walls of the organ, or because doctors, even though they bring in substantial salaries, as often as not have financial obligations in excess of their salaries, the surgeon entrusted with performing my surgery opted for the more invasive laparotomy procedure, involving an incision wide enough to have allowed for the removal of a seventeen-pound baby, greater recovery times and, not incidentally, a heftier payment for the surgeon.
The arbitrary length of the moratorium on strenous physical ctivity or any activity that could potentially produce direct physical trauma to the area of my incision has been determined to be six weeks if nothing changes. I've been told the time could be lengthened if anything goes wrong, but that it's not getting any shorter even if Dr. Oz, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, and Jesus (the surgeon is Episcopalian, by the way; obviously if he were atheistic, Jewish or Sikh, Jesus wouldn't have much influence) simultaneously appear to my surgeon pleading on my behalf.
I'm scheduled to fly to Utah on December 27. This is three days before my parole officially ends. This is if I'm even allowed by my surgeon to board the plane. The plane could, God forbid, crash, killing all of the occupants, myself included. When all is said and done and all autopsy results are in, it could be that the trauma of the place crash, in addition to causing a massive and inevitably fatal brain injury in addition to the massive injuries to at least fifteen of my vital organs, which would have caused me to bleed to death within thirty seconds of impact, a very tiny percentage of the cause of death might be attributed to the recency of my splenectomy prior to the trauma of the accident. My parents might then choose to sue the surgeon for medical malpractice.
So even being allowed to get on the stupid aircraft is far from a given. Then comes the purpose, or purposes, for my visit. My current long-distance romantic interest lives in Utah. We haven't had more than skype visits since June. While skyping is a great invention (which did not, incidentally, exist in the days of my mother's youth, but I'll spare you the tedious details) actually visiting with my date of choice is something I'm eagerly anticipating. Additionally, I LOVE snowboarding. Snowboarding can be done in California, although I don't cirrently live close to any skiing/snowboarding facilities. Still, had my schedule offered a bit more flexibility, I could have managed it, but I've carried a truckload of university credits this quarter. The upcoming winter break and trip to Utah, which has a lovely resort less than thirty minutes by car from the place where I'll be staying, will offer multiple opportunities to snowboard. Because it's a school break, the mountains will be crawling with inept snowboarders, but I'll patiently brave their incompetence for the thrill of a few minutes of unadulterated downhill speed.
Then we get to the technicalities. Is December 30 my first day of release from restrictions, or is it my final day of parole? Is snowboarding one of those activities deemed so perilous by my surgeon that it must exceed even the six-week limit of inactivity? Perhaps, since my spleen was removed, I should just give up snowboarding for the rest of my life. Perhaps climbing stairs and crossing streets are activities too perilous for me to engage in as well.
I say what my surgeon doesn't know will never cause him any loss of sleep. For example, our kitchen counter is at the precise height of the incision from my splenectomy. People bump into their kitchen counters all the time. What should we as a family do about this? Should we move, even though we only recently moved into our present home? Should we remodel our kitchen so that the counters are not at such a precarious height for me? Should I remain the hell out of the kitchen permanently? My parents could purchase and place a small refrigerator in my bedroom. My Uncle Ralph wanted to do that in the first place when he remodeled my room, but my parents rejected the idea as being too indulgent. The kitchen counter height is one of many potential dangers my parents have never even considered discussing with my surgeon. We have stairs in our home. People, even relatively coordinated ones such as myself, fall down stairs all the time. Do we need to install an elevator in our home? The seatbelts in my mom's car press upon my splenectomy incision site in a most uncomfortable manner just wearing them. were an accident to occur, I hate to even consider the damage that would be done by the device intended to preserve my life.. I've been told that to replace the seatbelts in my mom's car would be a ridiculous expense. Do my parents need to arrange their schedules so that my dad is available to transport me when the need arises? Or should my mother buy a new car? If she can't afford it, perhaps she could start another sports betting operation like the one she had when she was in high school.
This situation has resulted a positive outcome. I cannot sleep well at night unless I've had at least one argument with one of my parents in a given twenty-four-hour period. The topic and everthing surrounding it have produced sufficient fodder for at least one argument every hour. I'm sleeping well most of the time, and even when I can't sleep, there's always something decent on TV for me to watch.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Parole Hearing Tomorrow
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Parole Hearing Tomorrow: Tomorrow during grand rounds the head honcho and his lackeys will decide my fate. Originally I was to be sprung from the pokey for certain e...
Parole Hearing Tomorrow
Tomorrow during grand rounds the head honcho and his lackeys will decide my fate. Originally I was to be sprung from the pokey for certain either today or tomorrow. Then the pesky matter of platelets, or lack thereof, arose. One or another of the lackeys has nothing better to do than to dream of scenarios in which I could conceivably bleed to death. I could assist him. her, or them if his, her, or their imaginations are running dry. Perhaps I could suffer a gunshot wound directly to my aorta, possibly even in the interception of a bullet in a political assassination attempt. My jugular vein could be slit by a crazy person. I could suffer an abdominal aortic aneurism. I could even be attacked by an escaped barrel of leeches. The possibilities are endless. It's just sad that the lackeys are keeping me here longer than I need to be under false pretenses so that my aunts, Godparents, and other miscellaneous relatives and family friends will deliver food to the staff.
Platelets, schmlatelets. Get me out of this $(@#^%* prison!!!!!!
Gung Hay Fat Choy, and think twice before kissing someone with whose health history you are not thoroughly familiar
Platelets, schmlatelets. Get me out of this $(@#^%* prison!!!!!!
Gung Hay Fat Choy, and think twice before kissing someone with whose health history you are not thoroughly familiar
Monday, November 21, 2011
Still Making the Nurses Crazy
My Uncle Scott, who has privileges at this hospital, says if I'm driving the nurses here crazy, it's the shortest trip any of them have ever taken in their lives.
I tweeted dear sweet Judge aklex to tell him that my aunt had passed the CA bar exam on her first attempt. I mentioned that my dad was typing for me because I had just undergone a splenectomy. He did reply, wonder of wonders. His reply was, :"Concgratulations (to her, not you)." I supposed he thinks undegoing a splenectomy is not worth of congratulations. Actually, I thought it was pretty funny.
My mom goes home tomorrow. It will be lonely without here. I'll stick around a few more days to torment the hospital staff, but should be home by Wednesday at the very latest.
Ciao, and be careful about whom you kiss.
I tweeted dear sweet Judge aklex to tell him that my aunt had passed the CA bar exam on her first attempt. I mentioned that my dad was typing for me because I had just undergone a splenectomy. He did reply, wonder of wonders. His reply was, :"Concgratulations (to her, not you)." I supposed he thinks undegoing a splenectomy is not worth of congratulations. Actually, I thought it was pretty funny.
My mom goes home tomorrow. It will be lonely without here. I'll stick around a few more days to torment the hospital staff, but should be home by Wednesday at the very latest.
Ciao, and be careful about whom you kiss.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Still Incarcerated
My mom will be sprung from this joint at some time tomorrow, but I still have until at least Tuesday. I usually have my own room in the hospital, but this time I shared with my mom for a couple of days. I must admit that it's been nice having my mom as a roomie. It's been much more convenient for my dad as well. He can make both of our lives miserable from one recliner. He actually made us waltch a PBS replay of Lawrence Welk for the sake of nostalgia this evening. Can you even imagine such a thing? I'm stil detoxing, as is my mom.
I have an idea which may prove my point that Judge alex is interested in increasing his ratings and in hearing just how hot women think he is. I plan to establish a couple of fake Twitter accounts with buxom blondes, brunettes, or whatever, all of whom are of age. All will essentially proposition him. My guess is that my fake tweeters will receive some sort of response from him, even if it's only thanks, but no thanks; I'm married; but do please keep watching my show.
The judge didn't respond when I told him I had mono. He didn't reply when my Aunt Heather tweeted that I had my spleen removed, and he gave no response when I told him my PseudoAunt passed the CA bar exam on her first try. If my fake bimbos tell him he's hotter than the earth's core, that they frequently think about what he's wearing under his robe, or that they would love to be sentenced by him, his response rate will be between twenty-five and fifty per cent. I cannot yet do this because the equipment I need to scan profile photos is at home, but once I'm allowed to use a computer at home, I'll try it in the interest of science. My guess is that he is every bit as big an opportunistic cad as I predict he is, but time will tell.
Thanks for the words of encouragement. I appreciate them very much.
I have an idea which may prove my point that Judge alex is interested in increasing his ratings and in hearing just how hot women think he is. I plan to establish a couple of fake Twitter accounts with buxom blondes, brunettes, or whatever, all of whom are of age. All will essentially proposition him. My guess is that my fake tweeters will receive some sort of response from him, even if it's only thanks, but no thanks; I'm married; but do please keep watching my show.
The judge didn't respond when I told him I had mono. He didn't reply when my Aunt Heather tweeted that I had my spleen removed, and he gave no response when I told him my PseudoAunt passed the CA bar exam on her first try. If my fake bimbos tell him he's hotter than the earth's core, that they frequently think about what he's wearing under his robe, or that they would love to be sentenced by him, his response rate will be between twenty-five and fifty per cent. I cannot yet do this because the equipment I need to scan profile photos is at home, but once I'm allowed to use a computer at home, I'll try it in the interest of science. My guess is that he is every bit as big an opportunistic cad as I predict he is, but time will tell.
Thanks for the words of encouragement. I appreciate them very much.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Announcement
I'm dictating. My dad is typing for me. I'm a bit loopy from the narcotics I've been given, but I do have something to say. My PseudoAunt Jillian has passed the California Bar Exam on her first try. This was a major feat. She basically walked into the testing room and took the test cold with no preparation other than what she received from her law school courses. Most bar applicants study hours a day for months. Her plan was to take it with no preparation so that she would have a bettter idea how to focus her studies for her first "real" attempt at passage. She was further hindered by having attended law school in a state other than California. Some aspects of the law are common to all states, and some states bear more commonality in state laws than do others, but it was still impressive that she passed without a rigorous course of study after having attended an out-of-state law school. I'm still stuck in this hospital bed, but I'm celebrating with her and with her family and friends in spirit.
Congratulations, Auntie.
Love,
Alexis
Congratulations, Auntie.
Love,
Alexis
Uncle Steve Reporting
This is Alexis' Uncle Steve - not Uncle Scott, her "PseudoUncle" who is probably her favorite person in the world - but rather her paternal biological uncle who is also her pediatrician. Alexis and I have had our moments in the past as she's not the world's most compliant patient, but we generally remain close in spite of it.
It was noticed that her spleen enlargement was getting worse and not better, and that the front wall was growing precariously thin. The decision was made to remove the spleen under optimal conditions before she rolled over onto it in the middle of the night and ruptured it, which would have necessitated much more perilous and less-controlled surgery. She made it through with flying colors. She's not complaining much due to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. She'll be fine, and her recovery time will not be much if any longer than it would have been without the surgery because she would have needed major downtime with the enlarged spleen anyway
Alexis' mom had a kidney stone removed, and her dad is with her mom, so I'm on night watch with Alexis over the graveyard shift tonight. If she were able to say anything coherent, she'd wish you all well and tell you to be careful whom you kiss. Tomorrow she'll at least be able to dictate her own message instead of being at the mercy of whatever her crazy old uncle wants to share.
Matt, I believe you hit the nail on the head when you suggested that Alexis' former Twitter friend Judge Alex doesn't care a great deal about anything but ratings.
I hope you all sleep more comfortably than I'm likely to sleep in the hospital recliner next to Alexis' bed. In our family, we're protective. Most screw-ups in terms of misunderstood doctors' instructions and inaccurately dispensed dosages of medications occur in the wee hours of the morning. We don't take chances with our kids even if it means spending nights in uncomfortable hospitals recliners.
It was noticed that her spleen enlargement was getting worse and not better, and that the front wall was growing precariously thin. The decision was made to remove the spleen under optimal conditions before she rolled over onto it in the middle of the night and ruptured it, which would have necessitated much more perilous and less-controlled surgery. She made it through with flying colors. She's not complaining much due to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. She'll be fine, and her recovery time will not be much if any longer than it would have been without the surgery because she would have needed major downtime with the enlarged spleen anyway
Alexis' mom had a kidney stone removed, and her dad is with her mom, so I'm on night watch with Alexis over the graveyard shift tonight. If she were able to say anything coherent, she'd wish you all well and tell you to be careful whom you kiss. Tomorrow she'll at least be able to dictate her own message instead of being at the mercy of whatever her crazy old uncle wants to share.
Matt, I believe you hit the nail on the head when you suggested that Alexis' former Twitter friend Judge Alex doesn't care a great deal about anything but ratings.
I hope you all sleep more comfortably than I'm likely to sleep in the hospital recliner next to Alexis' bed. In our family, we're protective. Most screw-ups in terms of misunderstood doctors' instructions and inaccurately dispensed dosages of medications occur in the wee hours of the morning. We don't take chances with our kids even if it means spending nights in uncomfortable hospitals recliners.
Monday, November 14, 2011
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Relativity of Luck/ Hospitals
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Relativity of Luck/ Hospitals: i'm lucky in some ways. I'm not luky because my leg was mangked in a track and field accident. I'm not lucky because I was assaulted. I'm no...
Relativity of Luck/ Hospitals
I'm lucky in some ways. I'm not lucky because my leg was mangled in a track and field accident. I'm not lucky because I was assaulted. I'm not lucky because my appendix ruptured when a half-wit could've diagnosed appendicitis before it ruptured. I'm not even lucky because I have mono. Mono sucks.
I'm lucky because I'm not in a hospital. People with mono aren't typically admitted to hospitals, although I'm closer to hospital incarceration than most of my fellow mono sufferers because of an enlarged spleen, still, I'm not yet locked up in a hospital bed. Instead, I'm in my own comfortable room. It has a pink, white, and black color scheme. It has room for my baby grand piano. It has a flatscreen TV. It has a bed at least one hundred times more comfortable than the most comfortable hospital bed. It has awesome vertical blinds that can allow the room to be filled with sunlight or can be a virtual cave. I have multiple matching sheets, comforters, and rugs. The bathroom matches the color scheme of the room, and has towels actually thick enough to dry me after a shower, as opposed to my parents' cast-off towels to which I used to be relegated to using, which wouldn't have adequately dried someone standing outside during a drought.
My point here is not to boast of the generosity of my Godparents in creating my room. My point is that people with illnesses would recuperate faster and more cheaply if they checked into four-star hotels and hired registered nurses to care for them while there. Hospitals don't really make people well. Patients recover in spite of hospitals, not because of them.
I'm lucky because I'm not in a hospital. People with mono aren't typically admitted to hospitals, although I'm closer to hospital incarceration than most of my fellow mono sufferers because of an enlarged spleen, still, I'm not yet locked up in a hospital bed. Instead, I'm in my own comfortable room. It has a pink, white, and black color scheme. It has room for my baby grand piano. It has a flatscreen TV. It has a bed at least one hundred times more comfortable than the most comfortable hospital bed. It has awesome vertical blinds that can allow the room to be filled with sunlight or can be a virtual cave. I have multiple matching sheets, comforters, and rugs. The bathroom matches the color scheme of the room, and has towels actually thick enough to dry me after a shower, as opposed to my parents' cast-off towels to which I used to be relegated to using, which wouldn't have adequately dried someone standing outside during a drought.
My point here is not to boast of the generosity of my Godparents in creating my room. My point is that people with illnesses would recuperate faster and more cheaply if they checked into four-star hotels and hired registered nurses to care for them while there. Hospitals don't really make people well. Patients recover in spite of hospitals, not because of them.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Announcing the birth of Chamomile Aphrodite, but n...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Announcing the birth of Chamomile Aphrodite, but n...: My Aunt Christelle and Uncle Mendel are the proud parents of a new eight-pound-three-ounce baby. When they told us Christelle hadn't been to...
Announcing the birth of Chamomile Aphrodite, but not exactly . . .
My Aunt Cristelle and Uncle Mendel are the proud parents of a new eight-pound-three-ounce baby. When they told us Cristelle hadn't been to a doctor, then told us the baby was to be a girl, I don't know how we didn't put two and two together and end up with seventeen, as Cristelle and Mendel obviously had done. We thought they must have visited an ultrasound clinic or something of the sort, but no; one of their Wiccan friends had presided over some sort of ceremony where she determined the sex of the baby to be female in utero by dropping a white feather precisely six feet above cristelle's navel and observing where the feather landed; the results of the Wiccan ceremony were supported by Cristelle's and Mendel's strong premonitions, which turned out to be about as accurate ass the reults of the Wiccan ceremony.. Everyone had a fifty-fifty shot at predicting correctly, but the Wiccans were consistently aligned with the losing fifty.
So I now have a new cousin. His name is Blitzen Manx. The Manx part comes from his having been born in the Isle of Man. The Blitzen part comes from God knows where. Perhaps either Cristelle or Mendel has a particular affinity for Santa's eighth reindeer. They claim not to practice Christianity, but maybe the Santa part of the Christian-related holiday is exempt from the Wiccan system of non-belief.
Blitzen was born in a hospital, as I think I announced earlier would happen. My dad had persuaded Mendel and Cristelle that such was an absolute necessity.The poor child faced more than enough obstacles working against his favor simply by virtue of being the result of the union of Mendel's sperm and Cristelle's egg, never mind compounding the odds against him that would be endured by any baby being delivered anywhere other than in a competent medical care facility. Labor was proceeding very slowly, as in Christelle thought she was at death's door when only the most sensitive of monitors could detect even that a contraction was occurring. I metioned i all seriousness in an earlier blog that Cristelle cannot suffer through a paper cut without an extra-strength Vicodin tablet..
Cristelle was two days overdue. Labor was clearly in progress, slow though it might have been. The doctor decided that the baby was clearly on its way and that Cristelle wasn't going to be anymore rested for the big event if nature were to be allowed to crawl along at its own snail's pace, so the doctor ruptured Christelle's membranes. Rupturing membranes, otherwise known as breaking the water, often spontaneously accelerates and intensifies labor. At that point all Hell broke loose. My dad and I really should have (and would have if we weren't related to a bunch of total buzz-kill Mormons on that side of the family) created a betting pool related to the number of full-scale contractions Christelle would tolerate before throwing plans of a natural childbirth to the wind and demanding painkillers, be they demerol, stadol, whatever is given in an epidural, or rock cocaine in its purest form. Dad and I would've made a killing on the gambling venture. Christelle was threatening medical personnel with bodily harm if they didn't produce an anaesthesiologist and get an epidural going pronto. One of the hospital personnel who incurred her wrath and threats was the janitor who came in to mop up the mess after Uncle Mendel tossed his cookies on the floor following the breaking of the water. (Perhaps it's a Wiccan tradition.) Imagine the nerve of a hospital custodian janitor not to immediately cough up the goods required to propel Cristelle into epidural-induced all-time high!
An epidural didn't happen when it was demanded, but the doctor did give Cristelle demerol through her IV. This caused her to be incredibly loopy. She would grab at the arms of anyone who was foolish enough to walk within her reach during a contraction and beg them for more drugs because she seemed to seriously believe she was dying. At the immediate conclusion of each contraction, she would fall into an almost coma-like sleep, or in as coma-like state of sleep into which one could fall into in just three minutes. After about twelve hours of this almost comedic repetition, (I say "almost comedic" because I could never consider the pain experienced by a laboring mother-to-be, as exaggerated as it may have appeared to observers, to be a source of genuine humor. From most accounts, giving birth is painful, and I will not laugh about anyone's discomfort incurred in the process.) Cristelle was dilated to a whopping four centimeters, which might have been sufficient to allow her to give birth to a gerbil if forceps were used. Pitocin was administered. The only thing this accomplished was that Cristelle transitioned from begging for more drugs to demanding them while hollering out the most graphic expletives imaginable.
When Pitocin yielded no measurable results after two hours, the doctor decided that the baby wasn't coming out in the traditional way. Forty-five minutes later, Blitzen Manx was born via Caesarean section. One aspect of Cristelle's dream childbirth experience was realized. My mother had purchased a sheet that was a rose petal-covered print. She had it hospital-sterilized and sealed and sent it over to the Isle of Man. It was placed upon the O. R. table before Cristelle was lifted on. In a convoluted sort of way, Cristelle was able to give birth on a bed of roses.
I won't get to see the baby anytime soon because I won't be healthy enough to travel in the near future, plus there's the pesky matter of school. I ordered an outfit for Blitzen and had it sent to him on the Isle of Man. Mendel's parents are no longer on the planet, and Cristelle's parents (my paternal grandparents) have had so many grandchildren already that they cease to be excited about any new ones, which makes me a bit sad for Cristelle and for the baby. Every baby deserves to have grandparents excited about his or her arrival. My Uncle Steve and his wife, my Aunt Heather, are going to visit the new little family next week, and will stay for ten days or so to help with housekeeping tasks and to take care of the baby and Cristelle while Mendel works a few hours each day. Uncle Steve is a pediatrician, and Aunt Heather is a nurse practitioner, and they have two children of their own, so they should be of much practical assistance. My parents plan to visit right after Christmas. I wish I could go, but it's not in the plans right now. Maybe either their family will visit the U. S. or I can go there during the summer. I'm excited to see and touch and hold little Blitzen Manx even if his parents did burden him with a rather strange name.
I would like to go on record as saying I have never experienced labor or childbirth, and I cannot guarantee that my performance during such won't be every bit as dramatic as Cristelle's if not more so. My dad said if it is, he will disown me.
So I now have a new cousin. His name is Blitzen Manx. The Manx part comes from his having been born in the Isle of Man. The Blitzen part comes from God knows where. Perhaps either Cristelle or Mendel has a particular affinity for Santa's eighth reindeer. They claim not to practice Christianity, but maybe the Santa part of the Christian-related holiday is exempt from the Wiccan system of non-belief.
Blitzen was born in a hospital, as I think I announced earlier would happen. My dad had persuaded Mendel and Cristelle that such was an absolute necessity.The poor child faced more than enough obstacles working against his favor simply by virtue of being the result of the union of Mendel's sperm and Cristelle's egg, never mind compounding the odds against him that would be endured by any baby being delivered anywhere other than in a competent medical care facility. Labor was proceeding very slowly, as in Christelle thought she was at death's door when only the most sensitive of monitors could detect even that a contraction was occurring. I metioned i all seriousness in an earlier blog that Cristelle cannot suffer through a paper cut without an extra-strength Vicodin tablet..
Cristelle was two days overdue. Labor was clearly in progress, slow though it might have been. The doctor decided that the baby was clearly on its way and that Cristelle wasn't going to be anymore rested for the big event if nature were to be allowed to crawl along at its own snail's pace, so the doctor ruptured Christelle's membranes. Rupturing membranes, otherwise known as breaking the water, often spontaneously accelerates and intensifies labor. At that point all Hell broke loose. My dad and I really should have (and would have if we weren't related to a bunch of total buzz-kill Mormons on that side of the family) created a betting pool related to the number of full-scale contractions Christelle would tolerate before throwing plans of a natural childbirth to the wind and demanding painkillers, be they demerol, stadol, whatever is given in an epidural, or rock cocaine in its purest form. Dad and I would've made a killing on the gambling venture. Christelle was threatening medical personnel with bodily harm if they didn't produce an anaesthesiologist and get an epidural going pronto. One of the hospital personnel who incurred her wrath and threats was the janitor who came in to mop up the mess after Uncle Mendel tossed his cookies on the floor following the breaking of the water. (Perhaps it's a Wiccan tradition.) Imagine the nerve of a hospital custodian janitor not to immediately cough up the goods required to propel Cristelle into epidural-induced all-time high!
An epidural didn't happen when it was demanded, but the doctor did give Cristelle demerol through her IV. This caused her to be incredibly loopy. She would grab at the arms of anyone who was foolish enough to walk within her reach during a contraction and beg them for more drugs because she seemed to seriously believe she was dying. At the immediate conclusion of each contraction, she would fall into an almost coma-like sleep, or in as coma-like state of sleep into which one could fall into in just three minutes. After about twelve hours of this almost comedic repetition, (I say "almost comedic" because I could never consider the pain experienced by a laboring mother-to-be, as exaggerated as it may have appeared to observers, to be a source of genuine humor. From most accounts, giving birth is painful, and I will not laugh about anyone's discomfort incurred in the process.) Cristelle was dilated to a whopping four centimeters, which might have been sufficient to allow her to give birth to a gerbil if forceps were used. Pitocin was administered. The only thing this accomplished was that Cristelle transitioned from begging for more drugs to demanding them while hollering out the most graphic expletives imaginable.
When Pitocin yielded no measurable results after two hours, the doctor decided that the baby wasn't coming out in the traditional way. Forty-five minutes later, Blitzen Manx was born via Caesarean section. One aspect of Cristelle's dream childbirth experience was realized. My mother had purchased a sheet that was a rose petal-covered print. She had it hospital-sterilized and sealed and sent it over to the Isle of Man. It was placed upon the O. R. table before Cristelle was lifted on. In a convoluted sort of way, Cristelle was able to give birth on a bed of roses.
I won't get to see the baby anytime soon because I won't be healthy enough to travel in the near future, plus there's the pesky matter of school. I ordered an outfit for Blitzen and had it sent to him on the Isle of Man. Mendel's parents are no longer on the planet, and Cristelle's parents (my paternal grandparents) have had so many grandchildren already that they cease to be excited about any new ones, which makes me a bit sad for Cristelle and for the baby. Every baby deserves to have grandparents excited about his or her arrival. My Uncle Steve and his wife, my Aunt Heather, are going to visit the new little family next week, and will stay for ten days or so to help with housekeeping tasks and to take care of the baby and Cristelle while Mendel works a few hours each day. Uncle Steve is a pediatrician, and Aunt Heather is a nurse practitioner, and they have two children of their own, so they should be of much practical assistance. My parents plan to visit right after Christmas. I wish I could go, but it's not in the plans right now. Maybe either their family will visit the U. S. or I can go there during the summer. I'm excited to see and touch and hold little Blitzen Manx even if his parents did burden him with a rather strange name.
I would like to go on record as saying I have never experienced labor or childbirth, and I cannot guarantee that my performance during such won't be every bit as dramatic as Cristelle's if not more so. My dad said if it is, he will disown me.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Still Battling the Kissing Disease
The Mono hasn't gone anywhere yet, not that anyone ever guaranteed it would be gone by now, Someone suggested that resting now would probably ultimately reduce the time I'll need for recuperation later. if such is the case, I'm going to be the fasted damned recuperator in history. My parents will barely allow me to lift my hed off my pillow except when I need to visit the bathroom. I'm allowed to use my computer for fifteen minutes a day, which sounds Draconian, but's it's all I can manage anyway.
My mom was attending classes and taking notes for me, which, while very sweet of her, was mortifying to me. In my music theory class, someone didn't understand something, so my mom explained it to him, which resulted in the professor asking about my mother's academic background. She has doctorates in music, as well as educational and clinical and psychology. To make a long story short, my professor handed his dry erase marker over to my mom, who finished his lecture for him. The only thing that might have made it worse was if I had been there. I am much relieved that all of my professors told my mom I was doing fine in class, but that they would email their lecture notes to me so that I could be prepared for final exams without the mortification of her sitting through anymore of my classes
I'm mostly too disoriented to even watch TV. My mom turns on music for me to hear, but since I'm too weak to get up and turn it on myself, I'm totally at her mercy. I'm not fond of Tchaikovsky. I'm fairly certain that listening to it has made me substantially sicker.
My dad came in with his guitar. If I had to listen to one artist for the rest of my life, it probably wouldn't be my dad, but I'd rather hear him than Tchaikovsky any day. He at least plays what I ask him to play, and he doesn't perform "Waltz of the Flowers" or anything else from "The Nutcracker Suite."
Tomorrow if my mom trries to turn on music, I'll ask her to play my parlour grand piano that now fits in my new room. She doesn't play that mush Tchaikovsky, so that aspect will be good. Perhaps she'll even take requests like my dad does. my mom was a dul voice-piano enphasis i her doctoratre, so she sings well inadditin to playing piano beyond proficiently. If I askhe to sing something by Andrew Lllod Webber, or even sometihing from "Fiddler on the Roof," "Brigadoon," or "Wicked," she'll forget all about Tchaikovsky. My favirite thing that she sings is actually "pie jesu" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Requiem." It's perhaps a bit morbid as it's from a funeral mass, but I can never hear it too many times.
Even though I did not contract this illness through oral contact, I'd advise anyone who happens to read this not to kiss anyone just to be safe.
My mom was attending classes and taking notes for me, which, while very sweet of her, was mortifying to me. In my music theory class, someone didn't understand something, so my mom explained it to him, which resulted in the professor asking about my mother's academic background. She has doctorates in music, as well as educational and clinical and psychology. To make a long story short, my professor handed his dry erase marker over to my mom, who finished his lecture for him. The only thing that might have made it worse was if I had been there. I am much relieved that all of my professors told my mom I was doing fine in class, but that they would email their lecture notes to me so that I could be prepared for final exams without the mortification of her sitting through anymore of my classes
I'm mostly too disoriented to even watch TV. My mom turns on music for me to hear, but since I'm too weak to get up and turn it on myself, I'm totally at her mercy. I'm not fond of Tchaikovsky. I'm fairly certain that listening to it has made me substantially sicker.
My dad came in with his guitar. If I had to listen to one artist for the rest of my life, it probably wouldn't be my dad, but I'd rather hear him than Tchaikovsky any day. He at least plays what I ask him to play, and he doesn't perform "Waltz of the Flowers" or anything else from "The Nutcracker Suite."
Tomorrow if my mom trries to turn on music, I'll ask her to play my parlour grand piano that now fits in my new room. She doesn't play that mush Tchaikovsky, so that aspect will be good. Perhaps she'll even take requests like my dad does. my mom was a dul voice-piano enphasis i her doctoratre, so she sings well inadditin to playing piano beyond proficiently. If I askhe to sing something by Andrew Lllod Webber, or even sometihing from "Fiddler on the Roof," "Brigadoon," or "Wicked," she'll forget all about Tchaikovsky. My favirite thing that she sings is actually "pie jesu" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Requiem." It's perhaps a bit morbid as it's from a funeral mass, but I can never hear it too many times.
Even though I did not contract this illness through oral contact, I'd advise anyone who happens to read this not to kiss anyone just to be safe.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Kissing Disease
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Kissing Disease: Yes, I have it. Mononucleosis. The dreaded kissing disease. I haven't kissed anyone since early June, and the incubation period is far short...
The Kissing Disease
Yes, I have it. Mononucleosis. The dreaded kissing disease. I haven't kissed anyone since early June, and the incubation period is far shorter than four months. I have no clue as to how I could have contracted this ailment. I don't even drink from drinking fountains.
I came down with a fever on Tuesday. I went to school anyway because that's what I do. On Wednesday I was able to get out the door and on my way school without anyone noticing. By Thursday, the symptoms were so obvious that even my parents couldn't miss them. One exam and a blood test later, and I've been branded practically a slut.
I had to take Thursday and Friday off. This week I probab;ly won't be allowed out of the house, either. Fortunately I'm way ahead in my classes. Nevertheless, my mom will attend my classes and take notes for me. Even though it somewhat embarrasses me, I don't want to seem ungrateful. It's a very nice thing she's doing, and few mothers would go to such lengths for their kids. (Can you hear the propeller or the purr of the helicopter motor from where you are?) I'm desperately needed to babysit two little kids whose mom just had surgery, but I'm not allowed anywhere near them just in case I might drool on them or something like that.
After a week of virtual quarantine, which at least will happen in room that's the one-bedroom equivalent to a five-star hotel, my dad and my doctor will re-evaluate. I have a dorm room on campus. I can probably go to class, then go to my dorm to rest between classes. My dad may even ask the enablement office or whatever office it is that caters to those with disabilities to transport me to and from class by wheelchair. Won't that be cute? I'm not already enough of a freak because I look like I'm in middle school; I can now be a freaky looking middle school student in a wheelchair at my university. Send in the clowns.
This, I've been assured, is temporary. The plan is for me to meet up with my love interest over Christma break. i probably can't kiss him now. Maybe he'll just think I'm playing hard to get.
In the meantime, my throat hurts, my neck is sore, my head hurts, my midsection hurts, and I feel like sh--.
I came down with a fever on Tuesday. I went to school anyway because that's what I do. On Wednesday I was able to get out the door and on my way school without anyone noticing. By Thursday, the symptoms were so obvious that even my parents couldn't miss them. One exam and a blood test later, and I've been branded practically a slut.
I had to take Thursday and Friday off. This week I probab;ly won't be allowed out of the house, either. Fortunately I'm way ahead in my classes. Nevertheless, my mom will attend my classes and take notes for me. Even though it somewhat embarrasses me, I don't want to seem ungrateful. It's a very nice thing she's doing, and few mothers would go to such lengths for their kids. (Can you hear the propeller or the purr of the helicopter motor from where you are?) I'm desperately needed to babysit two little kids whose mom just had surgery, but I'm not allowed anywhere near them just in case I might drool on them or something like that.
After a week of virtual quarantine, which at least will happen in room that's the one-bedroom equivalent to a five-star hotel, my dad and my doctor will re-evaluate. I have a dorm room on campus. I can probably go to class, then go to my dorm to rest between classes. My dad may even ask the enablement office or whatever office it is that caters to those with disabilities to transport me to and from class by wheelchair. Won't that be cute? I'm not already enough of a freak because I look like I'm in middle school; I can now be a freaky looking middle school student in a wheelchair at my university. Send in the clowns.
This, I've been assured, is temporary. The plan is for me to meet up with my love interest over Christma break. i probably can't kiss him now. Maybe he'll just think I'm playing hard to get.
In the meantime, my throat hurts, my neck is sore, my head hurts, my midsection hurts, and I feel like sh--.
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Halloween in Isla Vista
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Halloween in Isla Vista: Isla Vaista, a small unincoporated community located just across a bridge from UC-Santa Barbara and consisting almost entirely of university...
Halloween on Bourbon Street
"Bourbon Street", a small unincoporated community located just across a bridge from my university and consisting almost entirely of university students, is surely the Halloween Capital of the World. I had the privilege of being present on "Bourbon Street" for a very short interval. "Bourbon Street" Drive, the Isla Vista street closest to the ocean, was the hub of activity. "Bourbon Street" is the hub of most social activity in the greater UCSB community, Halloween or not.
I'll try to decsribe what I saw using an analogy of a TV program I once saw. Once when I was injured and couldn't reach the remote control for the tV, an episode of "Cops" aired that was filmed on Bourbon Street in New Orleans on the night of Mardi Gras. The law enforcement officers being filmed only took ten steps maximum before coming upon another person committing some obviously law-breaking act for which he or she had to be arrested. It was one arrest after another. The officers had to request additional handcuffs several times.
"Bourbon Street" Drive on Halloween wasn't quite then seen of drunken debauchery as Bourbon Street on fat Tuesday, but it was damned close. I didn't see as much as I might have, because my PseudoAunt Jillian's brother timmy, his cousin Peter, or his cousin peter's firend Peter kept putting their hands over my eyres everytime the saw a male exposing parts of his anatomy that should not have been displayed. Once when they weren't properly vigilant, howeverm I did see a male approximately twenty years of age attempting to take a leak into a beer bottle from ten feet away. His aim wasn't as good as he thought it was; he ended up dousing a jacket or sweatshirt that was left lying next to the beer bottle.
I spent much of the thirty-minute sojourn down two streets hidden under Timmy's jacket. Anytime a law enforcement officer was near, the guys with me hid me because even though none of us was doing anything illegal, the guys didn't want to explain what they were doing there with an obviously underage female. Cousin Peter, in particular, was concerned that someone might be charged with some sort of conspiracy to commit statuatory rape. cousin Peter is a doctor and can't afford to have such a charge on his record.
It was all pretty funny. Intoxicated people are entertaining to watch. If you were there, I hope you had a good time. I certainly had fun watching you.
I'll try to decsribe what I saw using an analogy of a TV program I once saw. Once when I was injured and couldn't reach the remote control for the tV, an episode of "Cops" aired that was filmed on Bourbon Street in New Orleans on the night of Mardi Gras. The law enforcement officers being filmed only took ten steps maximum before coming upon another person committing some obviously law-breaking act for which he or she had to be arrested. It was one arrest after another. The officers had to request additional handcuffs several times.
"Bourbon Street" Drive on Halloween wasn't quite then seen of drunken debauchery as Bourbon Street on fat Tuesday, but it was damned close. I didn't see as much as I might have, because my PseudoAunt Jillian's brother timmy, his cousin Peter, or his cousin peter's firend Peter kept putting their hands over my eyres everytime the saw a male exposing parts of his anatomy that should not have been displayed. Once when they weren't properly vigilant, howeverm I did see a male approximately twenty years of age attempting to take a leak into a beer bottle from ten feet away. His aim wasn't as good as he thought it was; he ended up dousing a jacket or sweatshirt that was left lying next to the beer bottle.
I spent much of the thirty-minute sojourn down two streets hidden under Timmy's jacket. Anytime a law enforcement officer was near, the guys with me hid me because even though none of us was doing anything illegal, the guys didn't want to explain what they were doing there with an obviously underage female. Cousin Peter, in particular, was concerned that someone might be charged with some sort of conspiracy to commit statuatory rape. cousin Peter is a doctor and can't afford to have such a charge on his record.
It was all pretty funny. Intoxicated people are entertaining to watch. If you were there, I hope you had a good time. I certainly had fun watching you.