Programming note: I am going on a little Thanksgiving road trip and will be away from internet access (and cellphone reception, possibly) for the next four days or so. Don't cry a million tears due to Arley withdrawal, though. The last time I celebrated Thanksgiving American-style, I got to fire a rifle (at a piece of paper, but still), so you can just imagine what sort of adventures my Freaky Cyborg Hip and I will get into. Hopefully, I will return with things to blog about that do not involve me whining or extolling the virtues of my cat/ my monkey slippers.
You say limp. I say swagger.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Uh, You Guys Did Replace My Hip, Right?
If you had asked me last April whether I planned to play wheelchair basketball again, my answer would have been a big, fat "hells no!" After a season of trying (unsuccessfully) to stuff my hip back in the socket every time it came out during a game and trying (unsuccessfully) to get through 15-hour bus rides when my hip prevented me from staying in any position other than rigidly upright and trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid having a pain-related meltdown on the court because my hip had been out of alignment for two freaking weeks and my leg wouldn't stop spasming, I was more burned out than a college student after a three-day Adderall-induced study bender. Someone should have stuck a fork in me because I was done.
Well, as the great Bob Dylan sings, the times they are a'changing. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder; (actually, it makes the heart obsessively watch NBA basketball and remember what it was like to actually do something useful with your life). A few months into my hip-replacement recovery, I found myself fantasizing about push-til-you-puke chair skills. Then, I was dreaming about wheelchair basketball. It was therefore no surprise that I did today what I said I was never going to do: I sat in a basketball wheelchair, even though I had told myself that I would never again get into a chair if I was still in pain. (This is not as body-smart as it sounds, since if I could play successfully with pain, I would be the first one on the court. The unfortunate truth, however, is that long-term pain causes me to suck at basketball and there's no point ruining your body for something that you suck at).
When I'm in Champaign, I still work out at the gym where the disabled athletes work out and when I came in today, everyone's basketball chair was lined up along a wall and were singing to me in that siren song that said, "Come on, Arley. You know you want to strap your ass into this chariot of titanium and go for a little spin. Before, you were a wheelchair athlete. Now you're just plain old gimpy. Don't you want to take a little push down memory lane?" I couldn't resist. A few minutes later, I'd strapped into my friend's chair and was cruising up and down the hallways of the Disability Resource Center. A few more minutes and I was dribbling up and down the halls and rolling the ball out in front of me to see if I could pick it up.
I was having so much fun that I didn't realize two things: 1) the hip replacement hadn't made one single bit of difference. I still couldn't bend past 90 degrees. I still couldn't pick the ball up on my left side. I still couldn't rotate well on my left side. 2) I was still in pain. Now, part of this is because the strap of the wheelchair rubs against the place where my gluteus medius should be attached, but the other part of it is that I hurt just as much as I did on my last day of playing basketball and the only thing that's changed is that I have a few pounds of cobalt-chrome where my hip should be and a tendon flapping in the breeze. I briefly wondered whether Dr. ___ had just lied about replacing my hip and had given me a hip-replacement placebo. (Somewhere, my dad is saying, "I'm high on placebos!," which is one of his catch phrases).
And how did I react to this news? Did I say, "Well, at least you tried and maybe you can try again after they repair your hip replacement?"No. Did I say, "I thought you hated this sport? Weren't you going to take up Paralympic swimming?" No. My very first reaction was this: "I could just move my strap so it wouldn't rub! I could put a piece of foam between myself and my chair! I could take off my side guards! Maybe I could still play! Maybe I could practice!" If you give a rat an electric shock every time he goes the wrong way in a maze, that rat will stop going the wrong way. I, however, seem incapable of translating "this activity hurts" to "I should stop doing this activity." Self preservation: you're doing it wrong.
So, yes, the chances of me successfully playing wheelchair basketball again are minimal. Hey, Paralympic swimmers, got any use for a 27-year-old, six-foot-tall chick who doesn't sink in water?
Well, as the great Bob Dylan sings, the times they are a'changing. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder; (actually, it makes the heart obsessively watch NBA basketball and remember what it was like to actually do something useful with your life). A few months into my hip-replacement recovery, I found myself fantasizing about push-til-you-puke chair skills. Then, I was dreaming about wheelchair basketball. It was therefore no surprise that I did today what I said I was never going to do: I sat in a basketball wheelchair, even though I had told myself that I would never again get into a chair if I was still in pain. (This is not as body-smart as it sounds, since if I could play successfully with pain, I would be the first one on the court. The unfortunate truth, however, is that long-term pain causes me to suck at basketball and there's no point ruining your body for something that you suck at).
When I'm in Champaign, I still work out at the gym where the disabled athletes work out and when I came in today, everyone's basketball chair was lined up along a wall and were singing to me in that siren song that said, "Come on, Arley. You know you want to strap your ass into this chariot of titanium and go for a little spin. Before, you were a wheelchair athlete. Now you're just plain old gimpy. Don't you want to take a little push down memory lane?" I couldn't resist. A few minutes later, I'd strapped into my friend's chair and was cruising up and down the hallways of the Disability Resource Center. A few more minutes and I was dribbling up and down the halls and rolling the ball out in front of me to see if I could pick it up.
I was having so much fun that I didn't realize two things: 1) the hip replacement hadn't made one single bit of difference. I still couldn't bend past 90 degrees. I still couldn't pick the ball up on my left side. I still couldn't rotate well on my left side. 2) I was still in pain. Now, part of this is because the strap of the wheelchair rubs against the place where my gluteus medius should be attached, but the other part of it is that I hurt just as much as I did on my last day of playing basketball and the only thing that's changed is that I have a few pounds of cobalt-chrome where my hip should be and a tendon flapping in the breeze. I briefly wondered whether Dr. ___ had just lied about replacing my hip and had given me a hip-replacement placebo. (Somewhere, my dad is saying, "I'm high on placebos!," which is one of his catch phrases).
And how did I react to this news? Did I say, "Well, at least you tried and maybe you can try again after they repair your hip replacement?"No. Did I say, "I thought you hated this sport? Weren't you going to take up Paralympic swimming?" No. My very first reaction was this: "I could just move my strap so it wouldn't rub! I could put a piece of foam between myself and my chair! I could take off my side guards! Maybe I could still play! Maybe I could practice!" If you give a rat an electric shock every time he goes the wrong way in a maze, that rat will stop going the wrong way. I, however, seem incapable of translating "this activity hurts" to "I should stop doing this activity." Self preservation: you're doing it wrong.
So, yes, the chances of me successfully playing wheelchair basketball again are minimal. Hey, Paralympic swimmers, got any use for a 27-year-old, six-foot-tall chick who doesn't sink in water?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
These Boots Are Made for Gimping and That's Just What They'll Do.
When I started "Young and Hip" nearly four months ago, I rather optimistically captioned it "a 20-something's guide to rocking the hip replacement." My original plan was to chronicle my successful recovery and so prepare other 20-somethings for their hip replacements. Well, yeah, that didn't quite go as planned and the only "rocking" I'm doing these days involves me playing air guitar in the car while listening to Destroyer, and that's not so much 'rocking' as it is 'flailing my hands around while looking constipated.' In fact, a brief glance at my post labels will show you that there are 12 posts about my anti-ass (this could be why so many people wind up at this blog by searching for "ass massage" or "sex needle" (???)), 13 posts about 'disappointments' and only 5 posts for hip-replacement 'tips and tricks.' Sadder still, there are only 2 posts labeled "triumphs" and one of those triumphs was me getting a literary agent, which is not exactly hip-replacement related.
Well, let's make that 3 posts about triumphs because, after a week of experimentation with coat hangers (those of you about to make a back-room abortion joke should give yourself a slap on the wrist) in an attempt to go fishing for my zipper, I have finally achieved a post-hip-replacement goal that has eluded me for the past 6 months: I put on boots. You might be thinking, "wow. Gee. Congratulations Arley. Are you going to talk about your boots in the same excruciating detail as you talked about your monkey slippers because if so, I think I'll stop now and cruise on over to that website with the hilarious cats who can't spell."
Now, granted, this might not be a big deal for those of you who can touch your toes, but for those of us who spent 20 minutes risking great bodily harm yesterday in an attempt to cut their toenails, this is major progress. Being able to put on boots a couple of days ago would have prevented me from ruining my slippers and risking trench foot by walking 2.5 miles in the rain (ok, that was still a stupid idea, but it would have been a less stupid idea if done wearing boots). Being able to wear boots would have also prevented me from dressing up for my birthday in my skinny jeans and cool-ass stripy beat-poet-y sweater and then having to finish the ensemble off with a pair of old-lady running shoes complete with elastic laces (geriatric chic).
Well, my fashion woes are no more. I finally figured out how to put on my boxer-turned-domanatrix leather boots and I was so excited that I actually put on leggings (something else that's pretty difficult to do for me and involves the assistance of several pieces of furniture for support and a bed for a soft spot in case I fall) and a skirt. How did I do it, you ask? Simple:
Well, let's make that 3 posts about triumphs because, after a week of experimentation with coat hangers (those of you about to make a back-room abortion joke should give yourself a slap on the wrist) in an attempt to go fishing for my zipper, I have finally achieved a post-hip-replacement goal that has eluded me for the past 6 months: I put on boots. You might be thinking, "wow. Gee. Congratulations Arley. Are you going to talk about your boots in the same excruciating detail as you talked about your monkey slippers because if so, I think I'll stop now and cruise on over to that website with the hilarious cats who can't spell."
Now, granted, this might not be a big deal for those of you who can touch your toes, but for those of us who spent 20 minutes risking great bodily harm yesterday in an attempt to cut their toenails, this is major progress. Being able to put on boots a couple of days ago would have prevented me from ruining my slippers and risking trench foot by walking 2.5 miles in the rain (ok, that was still a stupid idea, but it would have been a less stupid idea if done wearing boots). Being able to wear boots would have also prevented me from dressing up for my birthday in my skinny jeans and cool-ass stripy beat-poet-y sweater and then having to finish the ensemble off with a pair of old-lady running shoes complete with elastic laces (geriatric chic).
Well, my fashion woes are no more. I finally figured out how to put on my boxer-turned-domanatrix leather boots and I was so excited that I actually put on leggings (something else that's pretty difficult to do for me and involves the assistance of several pieces of furniture for support and a bed for a soft spot in case I fall) and a skirt. How did I do it, you ask? Simple:
- Take a few minutes to awkwardly put on your socks, lamenting the fact that you haven't put socks on straight since the surgery and so can feel the seam of the sock against the side of your foot and cannot. do. anything. about. it.
- Sit down in a chair that has legs (a couch or bed will not work for reasons that will shortly become apparent. This was the mistake that was preventing me from boot greatness over the past week).
- Take your boot in one hand and, with the other hand, lift your foot at attempt to guide it into the boot. Succeed in a) bunching up the sock and b) getting the tip of your foot into the boot by wiggling your toes.
- Take your foot (still part-way inside the boot) and pull it underneath the chair (hence why you can't do it on a couch or bed) while scooting your anti-ass forward, then reach behind you, underneath the chair, and put the boot on the rest of the way. If your body looks like a greater-than symbol ( > ) you're doing it right.
- Do the zipper part-way up, despite the fact that the sock is bunched up.
- Put your foot back in front of you and do the zipper up the rest of the way.
- Have a nap because that shit is exhausting.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Do-si-do-not-try-this-at-home
I have very few truly useful talents in life. If you want someone to make lace out of white Airhead candies, I'm your girl. Want a tasteful yet awkward yet kind of hot quadriplegic sex scene? I can do that. Want to insult someone's mother with an X-rated song about her sexual prowess? Done. (Long story). I do, however, have one skill that actually has positive effects in my life: a nearly limitless capacity for embarrassment, (which kind of explains the quadriplegic sex scenes and my hit song "Cobi's Mom"). When I was in France visiting my friend Doc, for example, I had no problems diving right in and butchering the French language (I speak only a bastardized, basketball-focused French, despite the fact that I am Canadian) if it meant that I might fit in with the locals. Sure, I made a fool out of myself 90% of the time (for example, saying "I demand pasta!" instead of "Can I please order some pasta?"), but I did learn a lot of French and I'm pretty sure the locals gave me an A for effort, even if I earned a "WTF are you trying to say?" in execution.
It was this capacity for making a fool out of myself that led me to try Contra dancing last night. My new roommate, M., plays in a contra-dancing band and when she noticed that I have a soft spot in my heart for fiddle music, (I'm Canadian; it's in my bloodstream), she invited me to come along. Contra dancing is kind of like square dancing, but not in squares. The caller teaches the dance and everyone walks through it, then the music strikes up and people dance their hearts out. Have you ever been to a Spirit of the West concert when they're playing "Home for a Rest" and everyone starts dancing in circles and linking arms and swinging each other around? Well, that's what contra dancing is like only more graceful and purposeful and complicated and not fueled by alcohol.
Now, I have a rather ambivalent history with this sort of dancing. I am from New Westminster, which is one of the few places (outside of the U.K, I'd imagine) that still celebrates May Day with folk dances and maypole dances. When I danced the maypole in Grade 4, my maypole got hopelessly tangled, (though I blame this on my partner whose name was Michael Rhodes and about whom, because he was kind of a jerk to me in the way that 10-year-old boys are often jerks, I had invented a truly mean song to the tune of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore" that started "Michael Rhodes is like a boat ashore: totally useless," which was the beginning of my career as a writer of inappropriate songs).
Anyhow, there's a reason why the equation of "really tall" + "cannot move her hip in various directions" + "walks like a polio-stricken duck" + "was once forced to dress up as a foam-rubber dinosaur during her jazz-dancing recital as a child, even though I was able-bodied at the time, because I was too incredibly awkward to be trusted to perform the dance moves" does not add up to "should dance in public."I, however, thought, "what the hell? The only thing I have to lose is my dignity and I'm pretty sure that flew out the window when I spent 5 minutes this morning trying unsuccessfully to zip up my boots by going fishing for the zipper with a wire coat hanger."
So, I went contra dancing. When I walked in to the gymnasium and saw dozens of people who were very good at the dances and even had special shoes for the sole (no pun intended) purpose of contra dancing and special skirts (some guy was even wearing a kilt) for the purpose of having more fun while twirling, I wondered if I would be able to participate without the aid of a couple shots of whiskey. I wasn't even sure that I would be able to dance in my jeans (which, because of my anti-ass, generally fall down dangerously low whenever I move) and my runners. Sure, people are nice now, I thought, but it's all fun and games until someone gets a concussion at the hands of a six-foot-two uncoordinated Amazon who do-si-didn't when she should have do-si-do'ed.
I quickly noticed, however, that everyone seemed entirely unselfconscious. No one seemed to mind if someone made a mistake. No one said, "Get your gimpy, uncoordinated anti-ass back to Canada." People were helpful and supportive and not at all condescending and seemed excited about having a new person to dance with. When you've spent three years in a grad school bubble, it's really nice to participate in the larger community and hang out with people from all walks of life. Besides, there were brownies, and I'll do pretty much anything for a brownie.
Also, I'd been reading Barbara Ehrenreich's "Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy," the thesis of which is that collective acts of joy actually play a vital role in both our own wellbeing and the health of our communities and that North American society is sadly bereft of these moments of unrestricted movement-based happiness. (There's more to her thesis and the book is actually pretty fantastic if you want to check it out). What would Barbara Ehrenreich do? I asked myself. She would probably bust a move.
So, yes, I hopped right in and tried contra dancing and luckily my roommate guided me through the first dance even when I got lost and/or dizzy from all that spinning. At the beginning of every dance, I was really awkward (surprise) and sometimes accidentally harmed people by slamming into them because I turned out when I should have turned in. And, yes, it is difficult to move in a circle when you cannot bring your left leg out to the side (curse you, detached gluteus medius!) or to the front (curse you, mysteriously not-working hip flexors!). And, yes, I did have flashbacks of myself circa 1992 dressed up in a fluorescent dinosaur costume tripping all the tiny dancing girls with my long, foam-rubber tail.
But, you know what? I actually had a lot of fun. One of the things I really miss about basketball is the combination of exercising while thinking. Basketball is a really brainy game; you make more decisions during one basketball game than you will off-the-court all month. There's something about hopping on an elliptical machine that, despite the happy exercise-induced neurochemicals, feels a little hollow. Engaging your brain while you engage your body is quite fun, especially when fiddle music is involved.
So will I take up contra dancing as my next extreme support? Maybe. My hip was more than a little cranky about being forced into various positions that it cannot physically do, but maybe that's good for it. Perhaps the cure for my hip is a steady regime of dancing, kittens, and mint-chocolate-chip brownies.
It was this capacity for making a fool out of myself that led me to try Contra dancing last night. My new roommate, M., plays in a contra-dancing band and when she noticed that I have a soft spot in my heart for fiddle music, (I'm Canadian; it's in my bloodstream), she invited me to come along. Contra dancing is kind of like square dancing, but not in squares. The caller teaches the dance and everyone walks through it, then the music strikes up and people dance their hearts out. Have you ever been to a Spirit of the West concert when they're playing "Home for a Rest" and everyone starts dancing in circles and linking arms and swinging each other around? Well, that's what contra dancing is like only more graceful and purposeful and complicated and not fueled by alcohol.
Now, I have a rather ambivalent history with this sort of dancing. I am from New Westminster, which is one of the few places (outside of the U.K, I'd imagine) that still celebrates May Day with folk dances and maypole dances. When I danced the maypole in Grade 4, my maypole got hopelessly tangled, (though I blame this on my partner whose name was Michael Rhodes and about whom, because he was kind of a jerk to me in the way that 10-year-old boys are often jerks, I had invented a truly mean song to the tune of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore" that started "Michael Rhodes is like a boat ashore: totally useless," which was the beginning of my career as a writer of inappropriate songs).
Anyhow, there's a reason why the equation of "really tall" + "cannot move her hip in various directions" + "walks like a polio-stricken duck" + "was once forced to dress up as a foam-rubber dinosaur during her jazz-dancing recital as a child, even though I was able-bodied at the time, because I was too incredibly awkward to be trusted to perform the dance moves" does not add up to "should dance in public."I, however, thought, "what the hell? The only thing I have to lose is my dignity and I'm pretty sure that flew out the window when I spent 5 minutes this morning trying unsuccessfully to zip up my boots by going fishing for the zipper with a wire coat hanger."
So, I went contra dancing. When I walked in to the gymnasium and saw dozens of people who were very good at the dances and even had special shoes for the sole (no pun intended) purpose of contra dancing and special skirts (some guy was even wearing a kilt) for the purpose of having more fun while twirling, I wondered if I would be able to participate without the aid of a couple shots of whiskey. I wasn't even sure that I would be able to dance in my jeans (which, because of my anti-ass, generally fall down dangerously low whenever I move) and my runners. Sure, people are nice now, I thought, but it's all fun and games until someone gets a concussion at the hands of a six-foot-two uncoordinated Amazon who do-si-didn't when she should have do-si-do'ed.
I quickly noticed, however, that everyone seemed entirely unselfconscious. No one seemed to mind if someone made a mistake. No one said, "Get your gimpy, uncoordinated anti-ass back to Canada." People were helpful and supportive and not at all condescending and seemed excited about having a new person to dance with. When you've spent three years in a grad school bubble, it's really nice to participate in the larger community and hang out with people from all walks of life. Besides, there were brownies, and I'll do pretty much anything for a brownie.
Also, I'd been reading Barbara Ehrenreich's "Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy," the thesis of which is that collective acts of joy actually play a vital role in both our own wellbeing and the health of our communities and that North American society is sadly bereft of these moments of unrestricted movement-based happiness. (There's more to her thesis and the book is actually pretty fantastic if you want to check it out). What would Barbara Ehrenreich do? I asked myself. She would probably bust a move.
So, yes, I hopped right in and tried contra dancing and luckily my roommate guided me through the first dance even when I got lost and/or dizzy from all that spinning. At the beginning of every dance, I was really awkward (surprise) and sometimes accidentally harmed people by slamming into them because I turned out when I should have turned in. And, yes, it is difficult to move in a circle when you cannot bring your left leg out to the side (curse you, detached gluteus medius!) or to the front (curse you, mysteriously not-working hip flexors!). And, yes, I did have flashbacks of myself circa 1992 dressed up in a fluorescent dinosaur costume tripping all the tiny dancing girls with my long, foam-rubber tail.
But, you know what? I actually had a lot of fun. One of the things I really miss about basketball is the combination of exercising while thinking. Basketball is a really brainy game; you make more decisions during one basketball game than you will off-the-court all month. There's something about hopping on an elliptical machine that, despite the happy exercise-induced neurochemicals, feels a little hollow. Engaging your brain while you engage your body is quite fun, especially when fiddle music is involved.
So will I take up contra dancing as my next extreme support? Maybe. My hip was more than a little cranky about being forced into various positions that it cannot physically do, but maybe that's good for it. Perhaps the cure for my hip is a steady regime of dancing, kittens, and mint-chocolate-chip brownies.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Timeline!
For nearly two weeks, I've been chilling in Champaign waiting for various tests to be scheduled so that I can (with a heavy heart) book a plane ticket back to Canada. Well, I no longer have to spend my days drawing large question marks all over my daytimer because a plan has finally been hatched and it looks a little something like this:
Dec 1st: Fly back to Canada through some circuitous route that will require me to stop over in Phoenix for an ungodly length of time. (Total traveling time, not including getting to Chicago: 11 hours!). People of Champaign-Urbana, if you want to get your Arley fix, you better do it in the next week and a half because I am leaving on a jet plane (and, likely, a broke-down Lex bus) and I don't know when I'll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.
Dec 3rd: Get a big-ass needle jabbed into my hip socket. (Spoiler alert: I will yell)
Dec 7th: See my neurologist, which will probably again result in the phrase, "Debbie, prepare the needle room!" which will translate into me getting more needles into my anti-ass. (You can see that I have a lot to look forward to up in Canada and why I'm so eager to get back).
Dec 21st: See Dr. SecondOpinion, who hopefully will have a Christmas miracle in store for me. (It's a miracle! You do not require surgery! Turns out that your hip can be cured by a few weeks of playing with fluffy kittens and subsisting on a steady diet of chai and gingerbread!) Barring that, hopefully he will give me a timeline for how to fix the Freaky Cyborg Hip. Here's hoping that timeline isn't "gimp around for another 2 years before I get a surgery date at which point my gluteus medius will have curled up into a little sleeping ball and will be impossible to wake up, which means I'll do the polio strut for the rest of my life."
Dec 1st: Fly back to Canada through some circuitous route that will require me to stop over in Phoenix for an ungodly length of time. (Total traveling time, not including getting to Chicago: 11 hours!). People of Champaign-Urbana, if you want to get your Arley fix, you better do it in the next week and a half because I am leaving on a jet plane (and, likely, a broke-down Lex bus) and I don't know when I'll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.
Dec 3rd: Get a big-ass needle jabbed into my hip socket. (Spoiler alert: I will yell)
Dec 7th: See my neurologist, which will probably again result in the phrase, "Debbie, prepare the needle room!" which will translate into me getting more needles into my anti-ass. (You can see that I have a lot to look forward to up in Canada and why I'm so eager to get back).
Dec 21st: See Dr. SecondOpinion, who hopefully will have a Christmas miracle in store for me. (It's a miracle! You do not require surgery! Turns out that your hip can be cured by a few weeks of playing with fluffy kittens and subsisting on a steady diet of chai and gingerbread!) Barring that, hopefully he will give me a timeline for how to fix the Freaky Cyborg Hip. Here's hoping that timeline isn't "gimp around for another 2 years before I get a surgery date at which point my gluteus medius will have curled up into a little sleeping ball and will be impossible to wake up, which means I'll do the polio strut for the rest of my life."
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Insert Fart Jokes Here
Today, my mom phoned with the news that they have finally scheduled my mysterious un-named "is your hip replacement broken" test, which will occur on Dec 3rd. (Thanks mom!) This is all sorts of good news, since it means that I can stay in Champaign for a week longer than I thought, which means that I might have a chance to celebrate Thanksgiving for the second time this year (for those of you who do not live in two countries at once: Canadians and Americans celebrate Thanksgiving at different times, hence twice the opportunities for turkey-based deliciousness).
So, yes, I can now book a flight, usefully plan out my life, and begin to fret about what this mysterious hip test will involve. The woman who booked the test apparently told my mom that I had to be accompanied by a responsible adult or they would not do the test, which is medical-speak for "honey, we are going to fuck you up in deeply serious ways. Snuff films will look like happy-fun-cuddle-sparkle sessions after we're done with you." If whatever they're doing to you during the test will leave you in a state where it is not medically ethical to release you out of the hospital on your own recognizance, you can be pretty sure that it will involve the phrase, "Now, we're going to try to numb you, but you will probably feel some discomfort. Just try to hold still."
The last time I had to have a responsible adult accompany me to a test was when I was having heart problems thanks to the world's worst case of mono (Super Mono!). I had to have (three times) something called a tilt table test, which is when they don't let you have anything to eat or drink, strap you to a bed, tilt the bed vertically and wait for you to throw up and faint. Sometimes, they give you some medicine to help the process along (though I never got any because I fainted 30 seconds into my first test). Not only did I have to have a responsible adult accompany me, but I also had to take a pregnancy test to make sure that no fetuses were going to be tilt-tabled, which resulted in me having to get a blood test from some intern who, after 15 minutes of poking around, finally stuck the needle in the side of my elbow and proclaimed, "Where the blood?!" (true story).
So, yes, whatever this mysterious test is, I know it involves a needle jabbed deep into my hip socket, and beyond that I don't think I want to know. It's best to focus on Thanksgiving and the prospect of eating my weight in candy corn. Besides, at the moment, I have other concerns. Yesterday, I mentioned that I'd been woken up by a man ferreting out the gas leak in my water heater (that's what she said). Well, last night I was cuddled up in bed reading a book when I realized that I had a terrible headache. Since I was not dehydrated or hungover, I decided to investigate the water heater, which my landlord had fixed. When I opened the door to the room where the water heater was, I was overwhelmed by the stench of gas. Apparently, the landlord needed to give the water heater a dose of Beano along with a new valve because it was hell-bent on causing a gas explosion. (Happily, my landlord is wonderful and competent and is already at work fixing the problem).
Though it was late, I called the gas company again and they sent out a very cranky man who had a red-eyed, ferrety face and was none too happy about being dragged out of his warm bed at 1 a.m. (which was the time he eventually arrived at). When he arrived, I said, "Thanks for coming," whereupon he responded, "Yeah, well, normal people are sleeping at a time like this" and gave me a look as if to imply that I had obviously caused a gas leak in my heater through some form of debauchery. Clearly, I had been involved in a devil-worshipping S&M three-way, the dark sexual energy of which had been so potent that it caused the water heater to burst apart at the seams.
For 15 minutes, ferret man stuck his gas-detecting wand into various dark crevices of my house (that's what she said), all the while complaining about being forced to be awake at this hour. I did not mention to him that he was getting paid to be here, whereas no one was paying me to sit up at 1 a.m. reading Philip Roth's "The Human Stain" trying to focus thanks to a massive gas-induced headache and wearing two pairs of socks because my floors are so cold and my boot-slipper-things are still drying out after my great "walking 2.5 miles in the rain" adventure, which is a recipe for ennui if I ever heard of one. Long story short, the cranky gas man turned off the water heater, wrote my landlord a note, and I finally fell asleep.
One of these days, I'm going to have to post pictures of my house, so that you do not think that I have been living in squalor. My place is actually pretty nice (working fireplace, hardwood floors, big backyard, huge living room, etc. etc.), it's just that the little black raincloud that follows me around apparently does not distinguish between Freaky Cyborg Hips and water heaters. Does anyone else get the feeling that I need some sort of "demon be gone!" ritual?
So, yes, I can now book a flight, usefully plan out my life, and begin to fret about what this mysterious hip test will involve. The woman who booked the test apparently told my mom that I had to be accompanied by a responsible adult or they would not do the test, which is medical-speak for "honey, we are going to fuck you up in deeply serious ways. Snuff films will look like happy-fun-cuddle-sparkle sessions after we're done with you." If whatever they're doing to you during the test will leave you in a state where it is not medically ethical to release you out of the hospital on your own recognizance, you can be pretty sure that it will involve the phrase, "Now, we're going to try to numb you, but you will probably feel some discomfort. Just try to hold still."
The last time I had to have a responsible adult accompany me to a test was when I was having heart problems thanks to the world's worst case of mono (Super Mono!). I had to have (three times) something called a tilt table test, which is when they don't let you have anything to eat or drink, strap you to a bed, tilt the bed vertically and wait for you to throw up and faint. Sometimes, they give you some medicine to help the process along (though I never got any because I fainted 30 seconds into my first test). Not only did I have to have a responsible adult accompany me, but I also had to take a pregnancy test to make sure that no fetuses were going to be tilt-tabled, which resulted in me having to get a blood test from some intern who, after 15 minutes of poking around, finally stuck the needle in the side of my elbow and proclaimed, "Where the blood?!" (true story).
So, yes, whatever this mysterious test is, I know it involves a needle jabbed deep into my hip socket, and beyond that I don't think I want to know. It's best to focus on Thanksgiving and the prospect of eating my weight in candy corn. Besides, at the moment, I have other concerns. Yesterday, I mentioned that I'd been woken up by a man ferreting out the gas leak in my water heater (that's what she said). Well, last night I was cuddled up in bed reading a book when I realized that I had a terrible headache. Since I was not dehydrated or hungover, I decided to investigate the water heater, which my landlord had fixed. When I opened the door to the room where the water heater was, I was overwhelmed by the stench of gas. Apparently, the landlord needed to give the water heater a dose of Beano along with a new valve because it was hell-bent on causing a gas explosion. (Happily, my landlord is wonderful and competent and is already at work fixing the problem).
Though it was late, I called the gas company again and they sent out a very cranky man who had a red-eyed, ferrety face and was none too happy about being dragged out of his warm bed at 1 a.m. (which was the time he eventually arrived at). When he arrived, I said, "Thanks for coming," whereupon he responded, "Yeah, well, normal people are sleeping at a time like this" and gave me a look as if to imply that I had obviously caused a gas leak in my heater through some form of debauchery. Clearly, I had been involved in a devil-worshipping S&M three-way, the dark sexual energy of which had been so potent that it caused the water heater to burst apart at the seams.
For 15 minutes, ferret man stuck his gas-detecting wand into various dark crevices of my house (that's what she said), all the while complaining about being forced to be awake at this hour. I did not mention to him that he was getting paid to be here, whereas no one was paying me to sit up at 1 a.m. reading Philip Roth's "The Human Stain" trying to focus thanks to a massive gas-induced headache and wearing two pairs of socks because my floors are so cold and my boot-slipper-things are still drying out after my great "walking 2.5 miles in the rain" adventure, which is a recipe for ennui if I ever heard of one. Long story short, the cranky gas man turned off the water heater, wrote my landlord a note, and I finally fell asleep.
One of these days, I'm going to have to post pictures of my house, so that you do not think that I have been living in squalor. My place is actually pretty nice (working fireplace, hardwood floors, big backyard, huge living room, etc. etc.), it's just that the little black raincloud that follows me around apparently does not distinguish between Freaky Cyborg Hips and water heaters. Does anyone else get the feeling that I need some sort of "demon be gone!" ritual?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
There is Power in a Union!
This morning, I woke up to the sound of a male voice only a few feet from my door. Finally, I thought. I've been beamed up into an alternate dimension where I am cohabitating with a male human being. Perhaps this means that my hip problems have also been cured and that I am employed. Yeah, not so much. It turns out that the mysterious male voice belonged to an employee of the Ameren Gas Company and he was in the process of discovering why our house was filled with natural gas. (I discovered this when the sweet nothings he was whispering were along the lines of, "Your furnace looks to be clear, so I'm going to inspect your hot-water heater" as opposed to, "Get up, my sweet darling. You're expected on the Oprah show soon to celebrate the fact that your book just topped the NY Times Bestseller List.") Turns out, our water heater had a bad case of flatulence (killer flatulence!) and the house had been filling with natural gas.
The fact that I did not explode thanks to the gas leak means that perhaps my luck is looking up. I decided to celebrate by bringing cookies to the striking grad students. Because the water heater was shut off, however, I had to shower at the gym and I also had to stop off at the grocery store because I'd eaten half of the cookies I'd made the night before and you can't show up to a picket line with 12 measly cookies and, long story short, I arrived at the picket lines just in time to hear a great amount of cheering. The strike was over. (There is power in a union!) My solidarity cookies had become celebration cookies and there was nothing left to do but go to Murphy's and drink a beer (after my pineapple tequila incident, I kept it civil and stuck to one beer). And ate a couple more celebration cookies instead of lunch.
So, yes, I'm now hanging out in the library listening to someone playing a computer game, because the library is a hell of a lot warmer than my house, which is currently at 62 degrees: something that my wallet approves of, but which leads me to quickly become chilly (because I am always cold) and dive under the covers for warmth, which leads me to fall asleep for excessive amounts of time, which is not conducive to getting work done. Despite the odour of the computer area and the fact that the paper towels smell weirdly of garlic, the library is actually not a bad place to be.
The fact that I did not explode thanks to the gas leak means that perhaps my luck is looking up. I decided to celebrate by bringing cookies to the striking grad students. Because the water heater was shut off, however, I had to shower at the gym and I also had to stop off at the grocery store because I'd eaten half of the cookies I'd made the night before and you can't show up to a picket line with 12 measly cookies and, long story short, I arrived at the picket lines just in time to hear a great amount of cheering. The strike was over. (There is power in a union!) My solidarity cookies had become celebration cookies and there was nothing left to do but go to Murphy's and drink a beer (after my pineapple tequila incident, I kept it civil and stuck to one beer). And ate a couple more celebration cookies instead of lunch.
So, yes, I'm now hanging out in the library listening to someone playing a computer game, because the library is a hell of a lot warmer than my house, which is currently at 62 degrees: something that my wallet approves of, but which leads me to quickly become chilly (because I am always cold) and dive under the covers for warmth, which leads me to fall asleep for excessive amounts of time, which is not conducive to getting work done. Despite the odour of the computer area and the fact that the paper towels smell weirdly of garlic, the library is actually not a bad place to be.
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