I've just started back to work after a relatively lengthy medical leave of absence. The leave was miserable, painful, involved two surgeries and a hundred times where I thought I'd much rather be at work than dealing with this stuff. After one week back, I've decided I want to become a writer and below are the top ten reasons why.
1. Not to blow my own horn or anything but I'm pretty good at it. I have it on great authority that some of my writing has made no less than six people laugh out loud...on purpose...through no fault of typographical errors. These were six different people, in six different places at six different times. At "work", when I write stuff, people just want to pick it apart. Whine, whine, whine - it gets annoying after awhile and does nothing for my self esteem. Plus, I'm smarter than some of them and nicer than most. What the hell do they know, anyway?
2. It sure would be nice to be at home with my youngest until she graduates... In seven years. It takes a long time for writers to become successful, right? If I pace myself, Seven years would be the perfect goal for success. I'd just have to acquire REALLY good clock management skills. Perhaps I could write to Bill Belichick to ask for a plan. He's so accessible, I bet he'd do it. Anyway, studies show that kids handle the teenage years much better if there's a parent at home. Insanity may set in before it's all said and done but wouldn't that just make what I write more interesting? Open it up to a whole new target audience.
3. My dogs really appreciate it when I'm home. They like to sit with me all day long. I can talk to myself for eight hours straight and they don't bat an eye. Okay, that's not entirely true. There was the time I talked about finding a way to "T-R-E-A-T" myself to something and, before I realized what I was doing, they were in a frenzy at my feet. That aside, they love it when I'm around and, in turn, I appreciate their no-nonsense feedback (when solicited). Still waters run deep, trust me; except, that is, when the doorbell rings, someone's working on the house or (God forbid) a plastic bag gets rustled in the kitchen. My dogs can hear the crinkle of a mass marketed ziploc bag from anywhere in the house.
4. I love flannel pants but when I try to wear them to work, they're frowned upon. Apparently, while prints, plaids and stripes worked for Herb Tarlek in the 80's, they don't work for me. A little bit of a double standard, in my humble opinion, but rules are rules. Writers, I am assuming, get to wear what they want. Heck, as a writer, I could even work in my Birthday Suit if I wanted. It may precede an uncomfortable conversation with the dogs but they have yet to win an argument with me so what do I care?
5. There are SOOO many stories to be written; most of which are a by-product of work. I've already seen enough material in that arena to fill a couple of books but, for obvious reasons, I can't write any of it while I'm still working there. It's like being caught in a cruel Catch 22. Every time something 'blog worthy' happens, there's that moment of elation where I know I have an evil grin on my face but, once full realization comes, there's a tiny bit of sadness and the smile dies. Nobody's figured it out yet though, they just think I have a lot of gas. That having been said, someone's bound to figure it out sooner or later. Until then it's killing me, one supressed sarcastic line at a time.
6. Becoming a writer would have made my Mom happy. Now there was a woman who hated being part of the 'rat race'. She would pull 'all nighters', scheming and crunching numbers to figure out how soon she could retire. She was very clever and managed to retire at a relatively early age. Did she pass me this gene? This magic with money? No. Instead, she bequeathed to me flairs for producing kidney stones and for cooking. Anyway, if I became a writer and pulled myself out of the rat race at my age, she'd give two thumbs WAY up, I'm sure of it.
7. If I became a writer, I'd have a reasonable shot at meeting David Sedaris without looking like I'm stalking him. He's my comedic literary hero and I have a tiny 'celebrity crush' on him. The man has made me laugh out loud more times than I can count. If you've not heard of him, or haven't read any of his stuff, I'm begging you to read "Naked" or "Me Talk Pretty One Day". Particularly the latter if you actually speak French. The man's a dysfunctional genius.
8. College money. My husband and I have four girls to "help" put through College. They're each two years apart and the first one starts her post secondary education this fall. Assuming they all go, this means, for the next ten years, we will have at least one child in college. Do you have any idea how much money that is? I'll tell you: A LOT. If I'm a writer, I can't lose and here's why: If I'm unsuccessful, I'll have no money and we'll get all kinds of financial aid. In the other scenario (you know the one where I'm a N.Y. Times Bestselling author), I'm making enough money that paying for College is no longer a concern for any of our girls. Did I mention we have four?
9. Summers. I want summers off but know myself well enough to understand I'd be a complete failure as a teacher. First of all, I have the patience of a squirrel crossing the road in traffic. Ask me to explain something once and I'm all over it. Twice? I'm already taking deep breaths and willing the person to 'get it'. Three times? Certainly not a charm as my eyes roll and I start looking around for a backup or escape route. I'm pretty gracious about it though. I always say something like "I must not be using the right words" or "From the look on your face, I can tell I'm not explaining this right" as I snap my fingers in front of their eyes to see if anyone's home while simultaneously grabbing their wrist to check for a pulse. That's nice, right?
10. It's great to make people laugh but, in person, I'm just not that funny. In person, I always end up offending or (worse yet) confusing someone. Talk about a downer - you try to be witty and, in return, you just get a confused look or nervous giggle. That right there is a solid shot to the old ego. Given some time and a backspace key, however, I can sometimes actually make people laugh and, if I don't, my ego doesn't suffer because I can't see them being offended or confused. Everybody wins!!
Well, there it is. The Top Ten reasons I want to become a writer. Here's hoping you enjoyed it.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
I have something to confess...
Some time ago, maybe a year or so, my brother approached me very seriously and said "I have something to confess".
Of course, when someone says they're going to confess something, it's got the connotation of something deeply, possibly darkly, secret. The wheels started turning in my head as I considered the possibilities. What could he possibly be getting ready to come clean about? Had he stolen something? Had he taken a job in Alaska? Had he won the lottery? Had he just found out he was the father of an Olympian? A myriad of confession-worthy items flew through my head in the three seconds it took me to say "Really. What's up?"
"I watch Glee" he whispered.
"What?" it wasn't disbelief, I seriously hadn't heard him.
Though clearly uncomfortable, he repeated himself. Not just because I hadn't heard of the show at that time but because I couldn't make his statement make sense, I repeated MYself while the possibilities started mixing themselves up in my head. Had he stolen a job in Alaska after winning the father where he found out he was the lottery of an Olympian?
"You know - the show, Glee?" He asked, his face beet red with embarassment.
To buy myself time, I said "What is it?" and then proceeded to NOT listen to anything he said as I worked feverishly to figure out what the hell he was talking about. Clearly this was an important conversation, right? Clearly, there was a deep meaning here. I mean, he was confessing something. Pouring his heart and soul out to someone he trusted. Me.
"It's a show about High School kids in Glee club".
All I could think was 'Are you kidding me? This is about Beverly Hills 90210?' I must have rolled my eyes and made some noise because he headed for the sales pitch.
Let me explain the sales pitch. Growing up, we were three kids. Two older brothers and me. Our oldest brother is a passionate person at the very least. Since a very young age, he has been passionate especially about music. He frequently felt the need to share his interest and passion in various aspects of music until he felt you 'got' what he was saying. This was fine and he really does know his stuff but when you're a kid, you really don't want to spend an hour or more listening to records or tapes or, God forbid, rhetoric on how the Moog synthesizer is the most pivotal tool in modern music. Hence, the sales pitch.
My other brother (the one confessing) and I learned how to get through these encounters as quickly and painlessly as possible. It was simply a matter of screwing up your face with the appropriate level of (apparent) concentration, finished off with an eye popping 'Ohhh, NOW I see!' statement of realization.
Timing was important too. If you tried to rush the process too much, he caught on and simply started over, using a different approach. It took years to perfect the technique and decades before we could even joke about it with him.
Clearly, the brother in front of me saw this childhood ghost cross my face.
"No, no!!" he pleaded. "It's not like that - It's really good! It's like a bunch of misfits and they sing songs and it's really good." By this time, he was edging his way towards his computer and I knew what he was going to do. Though PCs weren't around when we were little, I'd been subject to a variation on this maneuver many times before with record players, cassette players and various musical instruments. I shivered as he sat down and navigated to "You Tube".
"Just watch this clip, it's really good". That was it. I was done for. Might as well stand there and deal with it for...how long is this clip? Three minutes. I could do three minutes...
What happened next was so predictable it should have been part of a sitcom. I got sucked in. Glee is like an irresistable hybrid of Broadway Musicals meets The Island of Misfit Toys. The impact was immediate and long lasting. I had to watch every episode, to date, and now have a standing 'date' with my daughters to watch every new episode of Glee on Tuesday nights where I have wept openly more than once. I own two or three of the "Glee" CDs. I can't get enough of the music, the characters and Brittany's one liners. I'm pathetic enough to finally realize I needed to tell someone so....
"I have something to confess..."
Of course, when someone says they're going to confess something, it's got the connotation of something deeply, possibly darkly, secret. The wheels started turning in my head as I considered the possibilities. What could he possibly be getting ready to come clean about? Had he stolen something? Had he taken a job in Alaska? Had he won the lottery? Had he just found out he was the father of an Olympian? A myriad of confession-worthy items flew through my head in the three seconds it took me to say "Really. What's up?"
"I watch Glee" he whispered.
"What?" it wasn't disbelief, I seriously hadn't heard him.
Though clearly uncomfortable, he repeated himself. Not just because I hadn't heard of the show at that time but because I couldn't make his statement make sense, I repeated MYself while the possibilities started mixing themselves up in my head. Had he stolen a job in Alaska after winning the father where he found out he was the lottery of an Olympian?
"You know - the show, Glee?" He asked, his face beet red with embarassment.
To buy myself time, I said "What is it?" and then proceeded to NOT listen to anything he said as I worked feverishly to figure out what the hell he was talking about. Clearly this was an important conversation, right? Clearly, there was a deep meaning here. I mean, he was confessing something. Pouring his heart and soul out to someone he trusted. Me.
"It's a show about High School kids in Glee club".
All I could think was 'Are you kidding me? This is about Beverly Hills 90210?' I must have rolled my eyes and made some noise because he headed for the sales pitch.
Let me explain the sales pitch. Growing up, we were three kids. Two older brothers and me. Our oldest brother is a passionate person at the very least. Since a very young age, he has been passionate especially about music. He frequently felt the need to share his interest and passion in various aspects of music until he felt you 'got' what he was saying. This was fine and he really does know his stuff but when you're a kid, you really don't want to spend an hour or more listening to records or tapes or, God forbid, rhetoric on how the Moog synthesizer is the most pivotal tool in modern music. Hence, the sales pitch.
My other brother (the one confessing) and I learned how to get through these encounters as quickly and painlessly as possible. It was simply a matter of screwing up your face with the appropriate level of (apparent) concentration, finished off with an eye popping 'Ohhh, NOW I see!' statement of realization.
Timing was important too. If you tried to rush the process too much, he caught on and simply started over, using a different approach. It took years to perfect the technique and decades before we could even joke about it with him.
Clearly, the brother in front of me saw this childhood ghost cross my face.
"No, no!!" he pleaded. "It's not like that - It's really good! It's like a bunch of misfits and they sing songs and it's really good." By this time, he was edging his way towards his computer and I knew what he was going to do. Though PCs weren't around when we were little, I'd been subject to a variation on this maneuver many times before with record players, cassette players and various musical instruments. I shivered as he sat down and navigated to "You Tube".
"Just watch this clip, it's really good". That was it. I was done for. Might as well stand there and deal with it for...how long is this clip? Three minutes. I could do three minutes...
What happened next was so predictable it should have been part of a sitcom. I got sucked in. Glee is like an irresistable hybrid of Broadway Musicals meets The Island of Misfit Toys. The impact was immediate and long lasting. I had to watch every episode, to date, and now have a standing 'date' with my daughters to watch every new episode of Glee on Tuesday nights where I have wept openly more than once. I own two or three of the "Glee" CDs. I can't get enough of the music, the characters and Brittany's one liners. I'm pathetic enough to finally realize I needed to tell someone so....
"I have something to confess..."
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Win or Lose (Lamenting the end of another NFL season)
Every August, for millions of people (including yours truly), excitement about the coming NFL season peaks. Nevermind opening the jar of peanut butter to see only the smooth expanse of a full season ahead; this jar is sitting on a grocery shelf, in the spotlight, and it's got my name on it. As I approach, I can even hear Madeline Kahn singing in the background "Ohhhh, sweet mystery of life at last I've found youuuuu".
September hits and the season opens. Just prior to game time, I could care less whether the Pats are going to win or lose, I'M GONNA' GET TO WATCH SOME FOOTBALL (and stare at Tom Brady for three hours just to sweeten the deal)!!! I'm making enough 'football food' for a small army while whistling and dancing around the kitchen.
Since I am a Patriots fan, for the first four or five games I'm still euphoric and the food keeps coming. It's early in the season, I'm again amazed at the coaching prowess of Bill Belichick and staff. It also amazes me how well each player responds to that coaching with his given strength or niche, all in the name of Team and Winning.
The Patriots kind of remind me of a bee or ant colony. There is a clear leader who is followed, without question. Everyone else has a specific role to play, they do it and do it well. If ever there is someone who does not buy in to or meet expectations, within the confines of the hive, they rip his head off and kick him to the curb. Nobody whines about it, nobody complains, it's simply a case of not allowing weakness in to the hive but I'm digressing....again.
Back to the season. Every week, we're served up an all inclusive cornucopia of football; The players, the coaches, the games, the post-game press conferences, interviews, top tens, weather conditions, injuries, returns, personal ups and downs, and even a weekly round of "C'mon Man". We are deluged with statistics and facts until we are bursting with them.
Speaking of statistics, is there anyone out there who doesn't want to punch the announcers in the head whenever they spout one off like "If he makes this pass it will be 184 games without an interception". Nine times out of ten, the very next play will end badly. Football fans, and I suppose those passionate about any sport, have a tendency to be superstitious. You simply do NOT jinx the team, the coaches, the players, the opposition or even the weather on a given day. WHY CAN'T THE FREAKING ANNOUNCERS LEARN THIS?
Am I digressing again? Oops.
The season. For 17 weeks, I am a glutton for football and can not get enough. At the end of week 17, like a hard core diet for someone who has been eating burgers and cokes their entire life, they start plucking it away. First, the Monday Night Countdown and subsequent game are yanked away. Next, your team is either done (in which case, you immediately move from diet to fasting and a deep, situational depression), or the playoffs start.
Playoffs. There are a couple of scenarios here.
First, if your team is lucky enough to get in as a Wild Card who has an actual chance, this is really the most you can hope for. It means they will play each weekend until they lose or until they win the Superbowl.
If your team gets a "bye", not only are you brought crashing back to reality by having a week where you watch teams you could have cared less about six weeks ago, but there's a lot LESS games to be had. The Pre-game shows have less material so they turn in to a love/hate fest for just a few teams and now the statistics border on ridiculous. "Did you know he is the ONLY player in the NFL ever to come from the North of Texas, who was born on July 4, 1976 to a couple who immigrated from Albania when the moon was in the 'Seventh House'?"
Really? I made food for this?
Still, if your team has made it this far, you're excited about the game (hopefully games), your emotions fly up and down with every play and, whether they win or lose, you're wiped out at the end of the game.
Let's speculate that your team actually makes it to the Superbowl. You're on the brink of being cut off from pre-game shows, games, post-game analysis, "C'mon Man" and staring at Howie Long on Sundays. Depressing at best. But there's still one final game at which you can look forward. The Mother of all games where even the TV commercials have potential to be laugh-out-loud funny. We don't count the Pro-Bowl because, unless you're actually IN Hawaii and attending the game, it's a non-entity and not worthy of discussion.
This is it. The food is fantastic, you get a decent pre-game and, after three plus hours of football, you are left with one of two things. If your team won, you enjoy watching the post game celebration, the presentation of the Vince Lombardi trophy, the presentation of the MVP Award and players with their families on the field. If your team didn't win, you're done. It's like running knowingly, full tilt, in to a brick wall. If you're anything like me, win or lose, you'll need a box of tissues.
Once all of this is said and done, it's more depressing than putting away Christmas decorations or throwing away that empty jar of peanut butter. Now, everyone has a seven month wait for it to start all over again.
Win or lose.
September hits and the season opens. Just prior to game time, I could care less whether the Pats are going to win or lose, I'M GONNA' GET TO WATCH SOME FOOTBALL (and stare at Tom Brady for three hours just to sweeten the deal)!!! I'm making enough 'football food' for a small army while whistling and dancing around the kitchen.
Since I am a Patriots fan, for the first four or five games I'm still euphoric and the food keeps coming. It's early in the season, I'm again amazed at the coaching prowess of Bill Belichick and staff. It also amazes me how well each player responds to that coaching with his given strength or niche, all in the name of Team and Winning.
The Patriots kind of remind me of a bee or ant colony. There is a clear leader who is followed, without question. Everyone else has a specific role to play, they do it and do it well. If ever there is someone who does not buy in to or meet expectations, within the confines of the hive, they rip his head off and kick him to the curb. Nobody whines about it, nobody complains, it's simply a case of not allowing weakness in to the hive but I'm digressing....again.
Back to the season. Every week, we're served up an all inclusive cornucopia of football; The players, the coaches, the games, the post-game press conferences, interviews, top tens, weather conditions, injuries, returns, personal ups and downs, and even a weekly round of "C'mon Man". We are deluged with statistics and facts until we are bursting with them.
Speaking of statistics, is there anyone out there who doesn't want to punch the announcers in the head whenever they spout one off like "If he makes this pass it will be 184 games without an interception". Nine times out of ten, the very next play will end badly. Football fans, and I suppose those passionate about any sport, have a tendency to be superstitious. You simply do NOT jinx the team, the coaches, the players, the opposition or even the weather on a given day. WHY CAN'T THE FREAKING ANNOUNCERS LEARN THIS?
Am I digressing again? Oops.
The season. For 17 weeks, I am a glutton for football and can not get enough. At the end of week 17, like a hard core diet for someone who has been eating burgers and cokes their entire life, they start plucking it away. First, the Monday Night Countdown and subsequent game are yanked away. Next, your team is either done (in which case, you immediately move from diet to fasting and a deep, situational depression), or the playoffs start.
Playoffs. There are a couple of scenarios here.
First, if your team is lucky enough to get in as a Wild Card who has an actual chance, this is really the most you can hope for. It means they will play each weekend until they lose or until they win the Superbowl.
If your team gets a "bye", not only are you brought crashing back to reality by having a week where you watch teams you could have cared less about six weeks ago, but there's a lot LESS games to be had. The Pre-game shows have less material so they turn in to a love/hate fest for just a few teams and now the statistics border on ridiculous. "Did you know he is the ONLY player in the NFL ever to come from the North of Texas, who was born on July 4, 1976 to a couple who immigrated from Albania when the moon was in the 'Seventh House'?"
Really? I made food for this?
Still, if your team has made it this far, you're excited about the game (hopefully games), your emotions fly up and down with every play and, whether they win or lose, you're wiped out at the end of the game.
Let's speculate that your team actually makes it to the Superbowl. You're on the brink of being cut off from pre-game shows, games, post-game analysis, "C'mon Man" and staring at Howie Long on Sundays. Depressing at best. But there's still one final game at which you can look forward. The Mother of all games where even the TV commercials have potential to be laugh-out-loud funny. We don't count the Pro-Bowl because, unless you're actually IN Hawaii and attending the game, it's a non-entity and not worthy of discussion.
This is it. The food is fantastic, you get a decent pre-game and, after three plus hours of football, you are left with one of two things. If your team won, you enjoy watching the post game celebration, the presentation of the Vince Lombardi trophy, the presentation of the MVP Award and players with their families on the field. If your team didn't win, you're done. It's like running knowingly, full tilt, in to a brick wall. If you're anything like me, win or lose, you'll need a box of tissues.
Once all of this is said and done, it's more depressing than putting away Christmas decorations or throwing away that empty jar of peanut butter. Now, everyone has a seven month wait for it to start all over again.
Win or lose.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Time to wrap it up, Part 5 of 5
Presumably, if you are this far, you have already become the Human Pin Cushion, met a new Doctor, taken a ride on the HRT and possibly even landed in the Emergency Room. Now, it's time for surgery.
Let's take the standard approach, not involving the ER. From the moment you found out surgery was required to the big day is a period of time that could span a day to a month. When it arrives, if you're a 'Beginner', your heart and stomach will feel as though they've switched places and you'll say a little prayer that they don't stay that way because, frankly, it's uncomfortable and a little confusing. This will pass.
As you enter the hospital, there's always a very nice person seated at the Lobby desk and he or she has approximately 37 different pads of paper used as the basis of directions you will need to reach your destination. (MENTAL FOOTNOTE - Just to see if they actually use all of those pads, at some point when I have nothing better to do, I'm going in there every day for a month to ask for different parts of the hospital.)
Using the directions, you will make your way to one of a few different places specific to Surgery. As in my case, someone will approach you with a very large binder with your name on it. I'm not kidding, mine is a four inch binder. When the nurse and I were talking, she heaved it up on to the counter.
"Oh, are you studying?" I asked. "I can wait if you need a minute."
"No, no" she said, laughing. "This is yours"
"I'M STUDYING?!?!?" I'm quite sure, at this point, my eyes were starting to inflate and I hadn't even asked for Happy Juice yet. (We'll get back to Happy Juice in a minute).
"No" she answered shortly. "These are your records and everything we need to know for your surgery today."
I wanted to ask if there were step by step instructions but figured I was already pushing my luck so I just said "Holy Crap! How much does that thing weigh?!"
My husband laughed but she pretended not to hear as she led me to a room where I would, presumably, wait for them to 'come and get me'.
This next part only lasts about three seconds but is important enough to mention. The nurse will look you up and down, without shame, tell you what article(s) of clothing to remove and how to wear the "gown". They don't call them "Johnnies" anymore. Doesn't "gown" make it sound like you should be headed either to a Prom or a Spa? Trust me, nothing could be further from the truth except you do get a nice nap. Anyway, the gowns have about five thousand snaps on them and it's NEVER initially apparent exactly how they match up.
Here, it is important for me to explain to you that I am a COMPLETE sissy when it comes to needles and IV needles are THE worst. Once within the confines of the hospital, I am not at all reluctant to tell anyone that little tidbit of information. Doctors, Nurses, Janitors, other patients, the cafeteria staff - nobody escapes. My theory is, if they are in the hospital, regardless of what clothes they're wearing, they are in close enough proximity to needles that I'm not taking any chances. Here's what I say:
"Okay, I have to tell you something. I'm a complete sissy when it comes to needles. It's an unreasonable fear, I know, but there it is". My experience shows that this statement, in conjunction with the whites of my eyes bulging from their sockets, is a pretty effective means of getting the message across.
If you are a sissy like me, the people you WANT to place your IV are wearing lab coats and carrying what I refer to as a 'Tacklebox' full of tubes, labels, rubber bands, bandages and cleverly disguised needles of all shapes and sizes. These folks, 99.9% of the time are incredible at what they do. Once finished with the task at hand, what I want to do is bow down and kiss their feet but I usually just tell them how good they are at their job. First, who doesn't want to hear that? Second, a little brown nosing to the person with the needles is NEVER a bad thing as you never know when your paths will cross again. The people you DON'T want to place your IV include everyone else. A FACT YOU MAY NOT KNOW: Members of the "IV Team" can and will numb the site prior to placing an IV. All you have to do is ask. The tiny pinch of novacaine is well worth it, believe me.
Once the IV is placed, you are home free. Inevitably, the next words out of my mouth are "When do I get the Happy Juice?". I will continue to ask this question until it is administered. Happy Juice is something (no idea what they use and I could care less) they administer via the IV and it dopes you up but doesn't knock you out. This is the point where your stomach and heart realign themselves and all seems right with the world.
It's pretty important to have someone you trust with you at this point because, you may still be awake but you are far from coherent. Now, Doctors, Nurses and, particularly, Anesthesiologists are fully aware of this yet they will continue to ask questions. Usually, it's limited to Name and Date of Birth which I almost always get right at this point. Sometimes, though, you get someone with a quirky sense of humor who will throw a curve ball at you like "And what are you having done today?" I can only hope that, one of these times, I'll have the presence of mind to say something like "My nails" or "A nose job" in response. That would be what I consider the 'double edged sword' of the Happy Juice. It leaves no room for sarcasm.
Okay, you're checked in, dressed appropriately, doped up, and have told everyone within a 1/4 mile radius what your name and date of birth are (so much for HIPAA). They place a paper hat that resembles a shower cap on your head and off you go down the hall to Surgery.
The things I always recall from the Operating Room are this: It feels like a small room and I worry that they'll all trip over one another. It's bright - do I get to wear sunglasses? It's cold - someone needs to rethink these gowns. They shift you from your bed up on to the table (this is why they leave you hovering on the edge of consciousness to this point...so you can "help"). They put sticky things all over you for monitoring purposes (I've found some of these, still adhered, in the shower a day or two later) and then they put a very stinky mask over your mouth and nose and ask you to breath deeply.
That's it. That's all she wrote. Next thing you know, regardless of how long the procedure takes, you're in your room and (if you're as lucky as me), just before passing out again, you have just enough time to notice that your husband is right there, making sure you can see him and he's smiling at you.
All is right with the world.
Let's take the standard approach, not involving the ER. From the moment you found out surgery was required to the big day is a period of time that could span a day to a month. When it arrives, if you're a 'Beginner', your heart and stomach will feel as though they've switched places and you'll say a little prayer that they don't stay that way because, frankly, it's uncomfortable and a little confusing. This will pass.
As you enter the hospital, there's always a very nice person seated at the Lobby desk and he or she has approximately 37 different pads of paper used as the basis of directions you will need to reach your destination. (MENTAL FOOTNOTE - Just to see if they actually use all of those pads, at some point when I have nothing better to do, I'm going in there every day for a month to ask for different parts of the hospital.)
Using the directions, you will make your way to one of a few different places specific to Surgery. As in my case, someone will approach you with a very large binder with your name on it. I'm not kidding, mine is a four inch binder. When the nurse and I were talking, she heaved it up on to the counter.
"Oh, are you studying?" I asked. "I can wait if you need a minute."
"No, no" she said, laughing. "This is yours"
"I'M STUDYING?!?!?" I'm quite sure, at this point, my eyes were starting to inflate and I hadn't even asked for Happy Juice yet. (We'll get back to Happy Juice in a minute).
"No" she answered shortly. "These are your records and everything we need to know for your surgery today."
I wanted to ask if there were step by step instructions but figured I was already pushing my luck so I just said "Holy Crap! How much does that thing weigh?!"
My husband laughed but she pretended not to hear as she led me to a room where I would, presumably, wait for them to 'come and get me'.
This next part only lasts about three seconds but is important enough to mention. The nurse will look you up and down, without shame, tell you what article(s) of clothing to remove and how to wear the "gown". They don't call them "Johnnies" anymore. Doesn't "gown" make it sound like you should be headed either to a Prom or a Spa? Trust me, nothing could be further from the truth except you do get a nice nap. Anyway, the gowns have about five thousand snaps on them and it's NEVER initially apparent exactly how they match up.
Here, it is important for me to explain to you that I am a COMPLETE sissy when it comes to needles and IV needles are THE worst. Once within the confines of the hospital, I am not at all reluctant to tell anyone that little tidbit of information. Doctors, Nurses, Janitors, other patients, the cafeteria staff - nobody escapes. My theory is, if they are in the hospital, regardless of what clothes they're wearing, they are in close enough proximity to needles that I'm not taking any chances. Here's what I say:
"Okay, I have to tell you something. I'm a complete sissy when it comes to needles. It's an unreasonable fear, I know, but there it is". My experience shows that this statement, in conjunction with the whites of my eyes bulging from their sockets, is a pretty effective means of getting the message across.
If you are a sissy like me, the people you WANT to place your IV are wearing lab coats and carrying what I refer to as a 'Tacklebox' full of tubes, labels, rubber bands, bandages and cleverly disguised needles of all shapes and sizes. These folks, 99.9% of the time are incredible at what they do. Once finished with the task at hand, what I want to do is bow down and kiss their feet but I usually just tell them how good they are at their job. First, who doesn't want to hear that? Second, a little brown nosing to the person with the needles is NEVER a bad thing as you never know when your paths will cross again. The people you DON'T want to place your IV include everyone else. A FACT YOU MAY NOT KNOW: Members of the "IV Team" can and will numb the site prior to placing an IV. All you have to do is ask. The tiny pinch of novacaine is well worth it, believe me.
Once the IV is placed, you are home free. Inevitably, the next words out of my mouth are "When do I get the Happy Juice?". I will continue to ask this question until it is administered. Happy Juice is something (no idea what they use and I could care less) they administer via the IV and it dopes you up but doesn't knock you out. This is the point where your stomach and heart realign themselves and all seems right with the world.
It's pretty important to have someone you trust with you at this point because, you may still be awake but you are far from coherent. Now, Doctors, Nurses and, particularly, Anesthesiologists are fully aware of this yet they will continue to ask questions. Usually, it's limited to Name and Date of Birth which I almost always get right at this point. Sometimes, though, you get someone with a quirky sense of humor who will throw a curve ball at you like "And what are you having done today?" I can only hope that, one of these times, I'll have the presence of mind to say something like "My nails" or "A nose job" in response. That would be what I consider the 'double edged sword' of the Happy Juice. It leaves no room for sarcasm.
Okay, you're checked in, dressed appropriately, doped up, and have told everyone within a 1/4 mile radius what your name and date of birth are (so much for HIPAA). They place a paper hat that resembles a shower cap on your head and off you go down the hall to Surgery.
The things I always recall from the Operating Room are this: It feels like a small room and I worry that they'll all trip over one another. It's bright - do I get to wear sunglasses? It's cold - someone needs to rethink these gowns. They shift you from your bed up on to the table (this is why they leave you hovering on the edge of consciousness to this point...so you can "help"). They put sticky things all over you for monitoring purposes (I've found some of these, still adhered, in the shower a day or two later) and then they put a very stinky mask over your mouth and nose and ask you to breath deeply.
That's it. That's all she wrote. Next thing you know, regardless of how long the procedure takes, you're in your room and (if you're as lucky as me), just before passing out again, you have just enough time to notice that your husband is right there, making sure you can see him and he's smiling at you.
All is right with the world.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
You're in the Exam Room, now what?
ER Doctors and Nurses are either really good or they're not. They're either new (read "enthusiastic") or well seasoned (read "exhausted"). They should either be in the medical field or in the back room of a Museum Library having nothing to do with the public at large. I have experienced both ends of the spectrum.
My Doctor stats in the ER are impressive, or depressing, dependent on your perspective. There is one ER doctor I've seen three times, one I've seen twice, a few one-timers and then there are the various technicians, aides, nurses. The Doctor I've seen three times is AMAZING! Good communicator, doesn't dally, does what he can and hands off everything else. He's like a good quarterback - in the limited time he has to work, there's only so much he can do. The rest is up to specialists similar to that of receivers, running backs and the like. The key is making a smooth handoff to the right person.
On a relatively recent visit, which happened to be the second of two visits to the same ER in a three day period, the handoff went to a specialist who should have been paying me.
At the time the Doctor came in, I had been lying in an exam room for two and a half hours, curled in the fetal position in pain with a temperature of 103 degrees. A situation clearly indicative of a busy night at the ER and people who were much worse off.
My husband and brother were sitting in the room with me and this really great tech was in the process of taking my blood, when the Doctor walked in.
He started asking me questions in a thick foreign accent - something from Eastern Europe, perhaps. This process was not unusual, nor was an accent other than my own. What was unusual was his tendency to ask a question and then, duck out of the room before I could return volley. The initial questioning was, apparently, not worth storing in the recesses of my brain....until his third or fourth return trip to my room....
"You vere at the Emergency Room before?" He asked.
"Yes" I responded, a little puzzled, "I've been here for hours and I'm pretty sure I'm having kidney stone issues".
"No. I mean you vere at the Emergency Room before tonight?"
"OH! Yes!!!" the light broke through the drug induced haze, "I was at the ER Saturday night". Now that I think of it, I had to have been on meds because I sat bolt, upright in anticipation of furthering this productive conversation.
"Vhich facility vas it that you went?"
I sat back, deflated, "Huh?"
"Vhere vas it you vent to the Emergency Room?"
Now I was sitting there, trying desperately to shake the cobwebs from my brain because I knew it was important to talk to this guy. He was going to 'fix' me. I took a guess...
"Here?"
"Yes. Vas here?"
"Yes, was here, Saturday night. You don't have a record of that?"
"Hmm. I'll be right back, I just have to check something" and he slipped out of the room...again.
A few minutes later, he was back, with a couple more questions that got increasingly bizarre until he asked "Vhat is it that you do for vork?"
After putting a hand over one eye, I looked him as square in the eyes as I could, (given the fact that there were at least six of them showing at this point)and said "I sit home all day, watch TV and eat bon bons". My husband and brother both laughed out loud. The Doctor paused, smiled and said "Ah. You are housevife?" At this point, my husband was laughing so hard I thought he was going to fall off his chair.
After giving the Doctor a chance to catch up and realizing he wasn't going to, I lowered my hand, took on all six eyes and said "Computer Systems". All things considered, it was the best I could do. He hesitated for a moment and, spotting a weakness, I went in for the kill and actually asked a question...
In the time it took me to ask "So, what happens now? Will I be here overnight?", he was able to, simultaneously, whirl around, open the door, get half way out of the room and mumble something about "I can't answer all of your questions, I'm sorry" and was gone.
The tech, who was labeling approximately 14 tubes of blood, made a tiny noise that might have been a giggle.
"What?" I asked as I turned my head away from the door, towards her, and closed my mouth.
"We call him dracula". That was all I needed to know and, coincidentally, it's all I remember until I woke up in my hospital room being poked and prodded sometime in the middle of the night by a nurse.
Apparently, I was staying.
My Doctor stats in the ER are impressive, or depressing, dependent on your perspective. There is one ER doctor I've seen three times, one I've seen twice, a few one-timers and then there are the various technicians, aides, nurses. The Doctor I've seen three times is AMAZING! Good communicator, doesn't dally, does what he can and hands off everything else. He's like a good quarterback - in the limited time he has to work, there's only so much he can do. The rest is up to specialists similar to that of receivers, running backs and the like. The key is making a smooth handoff to the right person.
On a relatively recent visit, which happened to be the second of two visits to the same ER in a three day period, the handoff went to a specialist who should have been paying me.
At the time the Doctor came in, I had been lying in an exam room for two and a half hours, curled in the fetal position in pain with a temperature of 103 degrees. A situation clearly indicative of a busy night at the ER and people who were much worse off.
My husband and brother were sitting in the room with me and this really great tech was in the process of taking my blood, when the Doctor walked in.
He started asking me questions in a thick foreign accent - something from Eastern Europe, perhaps. This process was not unusual, nor was an accent other than my own. What was unusual was his tendency to ask a question and then, duck out of the room before I could return volley. The initial questioning was, apparently, not worth storing in the recesses of my brain....until his third or fourth return trip to my room....
"You vere at the Emergency Room before?" He asked.
"Yes" I responded, a little puzzled, "I've been here for hours and I'm pretty sure I'm having kidney stone issues".
"No. I mean you vere at the Emergency Room before tonight?"
"OH! Yes!!!" the light broke through the drug induced haze, "I was at the ER Saturday night". Now that I think of it, I had to have been on meds because I sat bolt, upright in anticipation of furthering this productive conversation.
"Vhich facility vas it that you went?"
I sat back, deflated, "Huh?"
"Vhere vas it you vent to the Emergency Room?"
Now I was sitting there, trying desperately to shake the cobwebs from my brain because I knew it was important to talk to this guy. He was going to 'fix' me. I took a guess...
"Here?"
"Yes. Vas here?"
"Yes, was here, Saturday night. You don't have a record of that?"
"Hmm. I'll be right back, I just have to check something" and he slipped out of the room...again.
A few minutes later, he was back, with a couple more questions that got increasingly bizarre until he asked "Vhat is it that you do for vork?"
After putting a hand over one eye, I looked him as square in the eyes as I could, (given the fact that there were at least six of them showing at this point)and said "I sit home all day, watch TV and eat bon bons". My husband and brother both laughed out loud. The Doctor paused, smiled and said "Ah. You are housevife?" At this point, my husband was laughing so hard I thought he was going to fall off his chair.
After giving the Doctor a chance to catch up and realizing he wasn't going to, I lowered my hand, took on all six eyes and said "Computer Systems". All things considered, it was the best I could do. He hesitated for a moment and, spotting a weakness, I went in for the kill and actually asked a question...
In the time it took me to ask "So, what happens now? Will I be here overnight?", he was able to, simultaneously, whirl around, open the door, get half way out of the room and mumble something about "I can't answer all of your questions, I'm sorry" and was gone.
The tech, who was labeling approximately 14 tubes of blood, made a tiny noise that might have been a giggle.
"What?" I asked as I turned my head away from the door, towards her, and closed my mouth.
"We call him dracula". That was all I needed to know and, coincidentally, it's all I remember until I woke up in my hospital room being poked and prodded sometime in the middle of the night by a nurse.
Apparently, I was staying.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
"Next stop...en route to Surgery Centre....Emergency Landing (mind the gap)", Part 3 of 5
At this point, you have your ticket from the Receptionist and have a procedure scheduled for three weeks from now that will fix the root cause of your issues.
Three weeks is a long time during which anything can happen including a severe enough worsening of symptoms to land you in the Emergency Room. The ONLY good thing about this particular path, is that surgery happens sooner and, subsequently, so does recovery. Unfortunately, you have to go through a barrage of physical and mental experiences that stress out the body and mind.
Keeping your sanity in tact during the ER experience...
If you are in the ER, chances are good, the time on the clock does not fall within regular business hours. This comes with it's own set of Pros and Cons so you will need to use the 'tools' available in an effort to maintain sanity.
First and foremost, people watching can be more effective than any drug doctors can prescribe. During my life I've found three places that provide a high entertainment value (per capita) when it comes to people watching:
The Airport. Without question, this provides the widest variety of entertainment, but it's fleeting. People are usually in a rush so you must be quick to find entertainment at face value, rapid fire, as folks zip past en route to their gate (or the Rest Room).
Shopping Malls. Not quite as wide of a variety but entertaining just the same and there is potential for development of a short story about anyone you're watching. This one sounds slightly 'stalkerish' but it isn't and you know you've all done it.
Third, the ER, late at night, particularly on a weekend is like the tri-fecta of People Watching. Variety is very limited but usually packed with longer lasting story development potential that directly corresponds to the amount of time spent in the waiting room. This is like steroids for the imagination and should not be underestimated for it's medicinal value (at least until they get the IV hooked up). BEGINNERS: For this reason alone, it's worth bringing someone with you to an after hours ER visit. Make sure your person of choice is similar to you in both sense of humor and cell phone texting skills. This is paramount to maximizing the distracting qualities of finding humor in everything you see.
Trust me on this one, I could write an entire, chapter (fiction, of course...) of a book on the characters I've seen, late night, in the ER. It would include complete biographies right up to the event that brought them to the ER in the first place.
In my adult life, I have sat for as long as three or four hours in the ER due to my own health issues. For Waiting Room entertainment potential, by far, the favorable time to be there is somewhere between 11 pm and 2 am on a Friday or Saturday night (another good reason to have someone with you). This is like a knitting basket filled to the brim with skeins made of only the finest, twisted drama usually involving an overindulgence in alcohol. The only thing you have to do, between arrival and being called in, is bring the knitting needles of your equally twisted imagination, a good friend and a cell phone.
Next Up....You're in the exam room, now what?
Three weeks is a long time during which anything can happen including a severe enough worsening of symptoms to land you in the Emergency Room. The ONLY good thing about this particular path, is that surgery happens sooner and, subsequently, so does recovery. Unfortunately, you have to go through a barrage of physical and mental experiences that stress out the body and mind.
Keeping your sanity in tact during the ER experience...
If you are in the ER, chances are good, the time on the clock does not fall within regular business hours. This comes with it's own set of Pros and Cons so you will need to use the 'tools' available in an effort to maintain sanity.
First and foremost, people watching can be more effective than any drug doctors can prescribe. During my life I've found three places that provide a high entertainment value (per capita) when it comes to people watching:
The Airport. Without question, this provides the widest variety of entertainment, but it's fleeting. People are usually in a rush so you must be quick to find entertainment at face value, rapid fire, as folks zip past en route to their gate (or the Rest Room).
Shopping Malls. Not quite as wide of a variety but entertaining just the same and there is potential for development of a short story about anyone you're watching. This one sounds slightly 'stalkerish' but it isn't and you know you've all done it.
Third, the ER, late at night, particularly on a weekend is like the tri-fecta of People Watching. Variety is very limited but usually packed with longer lasting story development potential that directly corresponds to the amount of time spent in the waiting room. This is like steroids for the imagination and should not be underestimated for it's medicinal value (at least until they get the IV hooked up). BEGINNERS: For this reason alone, it's worth bringing someone with you to an after hours ER visit. Make sure your person of choice is similar to you in both sense of humor and cell phone texting skills. This is paramount to maximizing the distracting qualities of finding humor in everything you see.
Trust me on this one, I could write an entire, chapter (fiction, of course...) of a book on the characters I've seen, late night, in the ER. It would include complete biographies right up to the event that brought them to the ER in the first place.
In my adult life, I have sat for as long as three or four hours in the ER due to my own health issues. For Waiting Room entertainment potential, by far, the favorable time to be there is somewhere between 11 pm and 2 am on a Friday or Saturday night (another good reason to have someone with you). This is like a knitting basket filled to the brim with skeins made of only the finest, twisted drama usually involving an overindulgence in alcohol. The only thing you have to do, between arrival and being called in, is bring the knitting needles of your equally twisted imagination, a good friend and a cell phone.
Next Up....You're in the exam room, now what?
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Doctor will see the Human Pin Cushion now... Part 2 of 5
Once you've made it through all of the preliminary 'processing' (see Pop Quiz and Bait & Switch from previous post) and at least one "Good Housekeeping" magazine (sans any worthwhile recipes), the Doctor actually WILL see you now!
You MUST have prepared two items for this all-important first meeting.
First, and in all seriousness, it is vitally important that you have prioritized and defined all issues and/or symptoms that caused you to pick up the phone and make the appointment in the first place. The Doctor can NOT help you if you don't have this information.
Second, in the words that will remain immortal until atleast the end of this year, from that Pop Icon, Lady Gaga - You must have 'Your, your, your, your, your, your, your, your Poker Face'.
Why is this so important? Because this person, whom you have never met before and who (by the way) puts his or her clothes on the same way you do, eats food just like you do, has to drive to work just as you do (get the picture?), is the person who is about to provide you information that will do one of the following three things:
First, make you feel like a dope for being there in the first place.
"I'm sorry Ms. Jones, at your age..." (that's the WORST), "...it's just a matter of wear and tear..." (like a knife to the back). "We can give you a series of shots with a fourteen-inch red-hot poker at the base of your spine and see if that does any good, or you can just take Advil. Same diff - your call".
Second, scare the crap out of you.
"Okay, Ms. Jones, I've reviewed all of the notes and tests from your Primary Care Physician, and there are a few things that are a little 'unsettling'. We're going to run one more test and if it confirms what I'm thinking, we'll schedule a procedure"
"Procedure?"
"Yes, but we don't need to discuss that yet. Let's wait and see...it could be nothing"
Third, make you feel as though you are riding the "HMO Red Tape Line" on the Subway.
"Ms. Jones, since you started your journey at PCP Central, took the Red Line to Specialist Hill, switched lines to HMO Red Tape (HRT), that means you are currently here" (slaps a pointer at a tiny dot on a subway map that is shaped, frighteningly, like a heart. Not a pretty, romantic heart either. It's kind of like a human one complete with valves, stems and an overhead cam). Slapping away at the map, the Doctor continues at approximately a billion miles an hour...
"Unfortunately, from there, you have to follow the HRT from here to Imaging Station, directly to Lab Centre (make sure you go to Centre, not Central, or insurance will never cover it) where you will wait for seven to ten days for the next train to show up. I can't tell you which direction it will be heading, but you'll know it when you see it. Please make sure to stop at the Receptionist' desk and grab your ticket. Take care."
The 'Poker Face' is essential because any one of these outcomes, for any of a million different reasons, can reduce you to tears in the blink of an eye. It doesn't matter if they are tears of relief, anger or even fear. Regardless of their cause, they are a distraction that could end up prompting the Doctor to do something like pat you on the shoulder. 'Back off pal, I'm a New Englander and, unless there's Anesthesia involved, we don't touch people until at least the 20th or 21st time we meet and, frankly, we expect the same from others'. Control of the Poker Face is paramount. Trust me.
To be continued with "Next Stop, en route to Surgery Centre, Emergency Landing".....
You MUST have prepared two items for this all-important first meeting.
First, and in all seriousness, it is vitally important that you have prioritized and defined all issues and/or symptoms that caused you to pick up the phone and make the appointment in the first place. The Doctor can NOT help you if you don't have this information.
Second, in the words that will remain immortal until atleast the end of this year, from that Pop Icon, Lady Gaga - You must have 'Your, your, your, your, your, your, your, your Poker Face'.
Why is this so important? Because this person, whom you have never met before and who (by the way) puts his or her clothes on the same way you do, eats food just like you do, has to drive to work just as you do (get the picture?), is the person who is about to provide you information that will do one of the following three things:
First, make you feel like a dope for being there in the first place.
"I'm sorry Ms. Jones, at your age..." (that's the WORST), "...it's just a matter of wear and tear..." (like a knife to the back). "We can give you a series of shots with a fourteen-inch red-hot poker at the base of your spine and see if that does any good, or you can just take Advil. Same diff - your call".
Second, scare the crap out of you.
"Okay, Ms. Jones, I've reviewed all of the notes and tests from your Primary Care Physician, and there are a few things that are a little 'unsettling'. We're going to run one more test and if it confirms what I'm thinking, we'll schedule a procedure"
"Procedure?"
"Yes, but we don't need to discuss that yet. Let's wait and see...it could be nothing"
Third, make you feel as though you are riding the "HMO Red Tape Line" on the Subway.
"Ms. Jones, since you started your journey at PCP Central, took the Red Line to Specialist Hill, switched lines to HMO Red Tape (HRT), that means you are currently here" (slaps a pointer at a tiny dot on a subway map that is shaped, frighteningly, like a heart. Not a pretty, romantic heart either. It's kind of like a human one complete with valves, stems and an overhead cam). Slapping away at the map, the Doctor continues at approximately a billion miles an hour...
"Unfortunately, from there, you have to follow the HRT from here to Imaging Station, directly to Lab Centre (make sure you go to Centre, not Central, or insurance will never cover it) where you will wait for seven to ten days for the next train to show up. I can't tell you which direction it will be heading, but you'll know it when you see it. Please make sure to stop at the Receptionist' desk and grab your ticket. Take care."
The 'Poker Face' is essential because any one of these outcomes, for any of a million different reasons, can reduce you to tears in the blink of an eye. It doesn't matter if they are tears of relief, anger or even fear. Regardless of their cause, they are a distraction that could end up prompting the Doctor to do something like pat you on the shoulder. 'Back off pal, I'm a New Englander and, unless there's Anesthesia involved, we don't touch people until at least the 20th or 21st time we meet and, frankly, we expect the same from others'. Control of the Poker Face is paramount. Trust me.
To be continued with "Next Stop, en route to Surgery Centre, Emergency Landing".....
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Human Pin Cushion, Part 1 of 5
Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I've been through my fair share of surgical procedures. DISCLAIMER: As mentioned in a previous post, none have been for EXTERNALLY aesthetic purposes....yet.
If you don't know me, you may skeptically ask what experience could possibly put me in the position to offer advice, and I wouldn't blame you. Let's just put it this way - A) If there was a game of "Surgery BINGO", I'd have already won, hands down and, B) I can read (and more importantly) understand Operative Reports. (References supplied upon request).
For those fortunate enough to have avoided surgery thus far, I offer the following insight. Feel free to print and take it with you, as a sort of guide, should the unfortunate opportunity present itself.
FIRST THINGS FIRST...
Upon visiting a Doctor you've never seen before, you will be expected to fill out several forms, each containing dozens of questions. The spectrum of questions runs from inoccuous to extremely personal. Seriously, as if the visit itself wasn't stressful enough, they hand you a pop quiz before the office door even closes behind you. Worse yet? It's timed. The clock starts the moment you take the clipboard and, without mercy, ends the moment you are called in to be seen. Ohhh, curse that clipboard with its double-sided forms and attached but ALWAYS capless pen. Often, as I scan the waiting room, looking at other patients, I narrow my eyes and wonder 'Who is taking all of the caps?' WARNING: BEGINNERS, DO NOT DO THIS. 'Scanning' will waste valuable time and you could end up missing an all important question, at the Urologist Office, about relatives who may have suffered from toe fungus and, then where are you... Where was I? Ah yes, the Pop Quiz. The first few times I had to fill these out, I actually asked if I could "Phone a Friend" (who happened to be my mother). Perhaps a sign of weakness and, yes, we were shaky at first but, eventually, we got it down to a science. It involved a rapid fire volley of questions from me and answers from Mom that went something like this:
"Arthritis?"
"Grammy Townsend. Rheumatoid"
"Asthma?"
"Nobody"
"Cardiac Issues?"
"Can you be more specific?"
"No. That's all they gave me"
"Damn. Okay (deep breath), Great Uncle - Quadruple Bypass, Second cousin once removed - dropped dead from a heart attack at age 59...." and so on.
WARNING: Do NOT visit a Doctor you've not seen before without first setting up your "questionnaire buddy".
The only other thing I can say about the questionnaire is, if it's your first time, don't beat yourself up for not finishing before they call you in to be seen. The Doctor is going to review all of the questions with you anyway. In fact, I think they invented these forms just to keep you occupied during your stay in the waiting room. Personally? I'd rather read "People".
THE BAIT AND SWITCH...
At some point, someone will come through the door, say your name and announce that the Doctor will see you now. WARNING: Do NOT believe them. This is a trick! The Doctor will NOT see you now, the Nurse or Medical Assistant will.
While this starts out okay with something like "Please step up on the scale and we'll get your weight", it always ends with them asking questions to make you paranoid that someone, somewhere is watching your every move, such as "What do you do for exercise?", "Do you drink alcohol?" or "Do you drink enough water?"
WARNING: Do NOT let these questions make you nervous. These folks are like my kids, they smell fear. Answer honestly but briefly and always look them in the eye.
They'll type a bunch of stuff, take your blood pressure, pulse and temperature, type some more, pack up their laptop and, waving vaguely in the direction of the entire room, announce "The Doctor will be right in but there are some magazines right over there if you're interested". By the way, the most accurate way to determine your 'wait time' is an algorithm involving the number of magazines in the room, their condition and how well the magazines are organized in the bin. WARNING: Beginners, do NOT worry about this part. This is for the more experienced patient!!
Take my word for it, as the Nurse or Assistant turns to leave the room, it's not cool to ask him or her for your Quiz score. Their sense of humor just isn't that good. Instead, grab a "Sports Illustrated", enjoy the fact that you have no cell phone coverage, relax and wait for the Doctor to show up.
To be continued....
If you don't know me, you may skeptically ask what experience could possibly put me in the position to offer advice, and I wouldn't blame you. Let's just put it this way - A) If there was a game of "Surgery BINGO", I'd have already won, hands down and, B) I can read (and more importantly) understand Operative Reports. (References supplied upon request).
For those fortunate enough to have avoided surgery thus far, I offer the following insight. Feel free to print and take it with you, as a sort of guide, should the unfortunate opportunity present itself.
FIRST THINGS FIRST...
Upon visiting a Doctor you've never seen before, you will be expected to fill out several forms, each containing dozens of questions. The spectrum of questions runs from inoccuous to extremely personal. Seriously, as if the visit itself wasn't stressful enough, they hand you a pop quiz before the office door even closes behind you. Worse yet? It's timed. The clock starts the moment you take the clipboard and, without mercy, ends the moment you are called in to be seen. Ohhh, curse that clipboard with its double-sided forms and attached but ALWAYS capless pen. Often, as I scan the waiting room, looking at other patients, I narrow my eyes and wonder 'Who is taking all of the caps?' WARNING: BEGINNERS, DO NOT DO THIS. 'Scanning' will waste valuable time and you could end up missing an all important question, at the Urologist Office, about relatives who may have suffered from toe fungus and, then where are you... Where was I? Ah yes, the Pop Quiz. The first few times I had to fill these out, I actually asked if I could "Phone a Friend" (who happened to be my mother). Perhaps a sign of weakness and, yes, we were shaky at first but, eventually, we got it down to a science. It involved a rapid fire volley of questions from me and answers from Mom that went something like this:
"Arthritis?"
"Grammy Townsend. Rheumatoid"
"Asthma?"
"Nobody"
"Cardiac Issues?"
"Can you be more specific?"
"No. That's all they gave me"
"Damn. Okay (deep breath), Great Uncle - Quadruple Bypass, Second cousin once removed - dropped dead from a heart attack at age 59...." and so on.
WARNING: Do NOT visit a Doctor you've not seen before without first setting up your "questionnaire buddy".
The only other thing I can say about the questionnaire is, if it's your first time, don't beat yourself up for not finishing before they call you in to be seen. The Doctor is going to review all of the questions with you anyway. In fact, I think they invented these forms just to keep you occupied during your stay in the waiting room. Personally? I'd rather read "People".
THE BAIT AND SWITCH...
At some point, someone will come through the door, say your name and announce that the Doctor will see you now. WARNING: Do NOT believe them. This is a trick! The Doctor will NOT see you now, the Nurse or Medical Assistant will.
While this starts out okay with something like "Please step up on the scale and we'll get your weight", it always ends with them asking questions to make you paranoid that someone, somewhere is watching your every move, such as "What do you do for exercise?", "Do you drink alcohol?" or "Do you drink enough water?"
WARNING: Do NOT let these questions make you nervous. These folks are like my kids, they smell fear. Answer honestly but briefly and always look them in the eye.
They'll type a bunch of stuff, take your blood pressure, pulse and temperature, type some more, pack up their laptop and, waving vaguely in the direction of the entire room, announce "The Doctor will be right in but there are some magazines right over there if you're interested". By the way, the most accurate way to determine your 'wait time' is an algorithm involving the number of magazines in the room, their condition and how well the magazines are organized in the bin. WARNING: Beginners, do NOT worry about this part. This is for the more experienced patient!!
Take my word for it, as the Nurse or Assistant turns to leave the room, it's not cool to ask him or her for your Quiz score. Their sense of humor just isn't that good. Instead, grab a "Sports Illustrated", enjoy the fact that you have no cell phone coverage, relax and wait for the Doctor to show up.
To be continued....
Monday, January 3, 2011
BRRRRR.... Winter Doldrums...
It's official.
The holidays, as I know and celebrate them, are over. Bleck, yuck, pitooey. In New England, this means we have three months of 'delightfully brisk' (read 'freaking freezing'), snow plowing and shoveling, salted roads and frozen windshield wipers on the horizon. The Winter Doldrums.
This year, I do actually have a beach vacation with my eldest daughter planned for the end of February so I've got that to which I can look forward. That having been said, since I'm like the poster child for Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), I thought it would be nice to share my Top Ten of the Winter Doldrums in New England:
1) Schedules must be adjusted to accommodate the extra time needed at both entry and exit of the home. No matter how many years pass, I never seem to be able to plan ahead for this difference in seasons. Of course, it was a much larger difference when the kids were little.
For example, Snow Suits. Taken in conjunction with little arms and legs can make one highly susceptible to instant daydreams of 80 degree temperatures featuring a happy baby in only a diaper/onesie combination and in which a Nanny was handling all of this stuff anyway so did it really matter? But I digress... When snapped back in to reality, what you were left with was a set of arms and legs that were either A) so rubbery you couldn't maneuver them through the appropriate hole in the suit or, B) held so stiff that it made you want to forego the suit, grab the nearest down comforter and staple it carefully around the baby.
The best was when one of my daughters would decide on a 'combo' move. She'd start with an "A" and, after "2" minutes (read "30") when Mommy would finally peek up the sleeve of the snowsuit to see just where that arm went, the little angel would convert quickly to a "B". This little move, in fact, was the cause for my first root canal. Believe it or not a 6 month old carries a right hook that can kill a tooth. No joke.
2) Ice where there is none. As a kid, I can remember hearing talk of "Black Ice". It sounded REALLY cool, like something out of a comic book for only the best Superheroes. Grownups, however, were always warning everyone about it. 'Careful driving - there's black ice all over', or 'Hey, you want to be sure and hang on to something, it's like a skating rink out there'. What a drag.
Everytime I'd go out, I'd look for this black ice that, in my mind, was a rare black jewel, polished to perfection and only made visible in just the right circumstances. Never saw it. Not once.
Fast forward a few years and it all came painfully clear as my brother and I were headed out to the store. Talk about a disenchanting discovery...
"That's It?!?! THAT'S Black Ice?" I whined, landing on my tailbone, looking up at my older brother.
As he nimbly swung from porch rail to basketball post to a triple-flip dismount in the safety of the garage, he dusted the chalk off his hands and said "I told you to be careful".
3) No ice where there should be... There is a tiny pond, seemingly perfect for ice skating, near where we live. It has been four thousand degrees below zero for at least a month. Is it frozen over enough for skating? Noooo. Why? Because it's "spring fed". Spring fed. What, in God's name, is a spring doing, being anything but ice in this weather? 'That's just crazy' I thought as I tightened the laces on my skates and glided back home on the black ice.
4) School cancellations. Now, here's one of those things that people either love or hate. If you are under the age of 20, you love it. You get to stay home, eat comfort food, watch TV, play in the snow and even take a nap if you want. Those over the age of 30 hate it. You have to use a vacation day from work, make comfort food for the kids, you can't watch what you want on TV (which is what you were initially going to do with your vacation day) and you have to clear off the driveway. Repeatedly. That's where the term "bitter cold" comes from.
5) Groundhog Day - February 2. I love Punxsatawney Phil as much as the next person. He's cute, fuzzy, doesn't seem to make any startling movements and is supposed to be a harbinger of warmer weather. HA! Anyone in northern New England will tell you that's a crock. According to legend, if the groundhog doesn't see his shadow, spring is right around the corner and, if he does, there are six more weeks of winter. Go to the weather channel and do the math. In this part of the country, the only thing 'right around the corner' from February 2 is Spring Training for the Red Sox (in FLORIDA) and even that doesn't start for another couple of weeks. For those of us in New England, ONLY six more weeks of winter is the best deal we're going to get on February 2 so I say, just let the fuzzy little bugger sleep!
6) Skiing is plentiful! If you are someone who enjoys the thrill of shush-booming down a mountain with two lengths of fiberglass strapped to your feet, you're usually in luck. It gives people something to do, keeps them active, gets them outdoors for some badly needed sunshine and vitamin D, provides local tourism dollars and Emergency Room copays. I enjoy skiing once every year or five.....on the bunny hill......with nobody around me......and temperatures in the 30's. This provides a couple of things - first, entertainment for my family who ski a couple of times a week throughout the winter and enjoy watching me 'snow plow' or make a 'pizza wedge' most of the way down. Second, I get a stylish tag on my jacket which actually makes me look like I could be someone who skis a couple of times a week throughout the winter. Third, there is nothing like a trip down the Ski Lodge stairs in a pair of ski boots to make you feel good about any other pair of shoes you own.
7) A good woodstove is worth it's weight in wool. Alright, I know the ozone is in trouble and all of the smoke is bad but, honestly, is there anything better than backing your butt up to the front of a woodstove to take off the chill? I have spent many hours seated directly in front of a Vermont Castings stove until, sniffing suspiciously, I discovered I was burning the back of my favorite wool sweater. Good times.
8) Dog poop in wintertime. It's a miracle of science. It smells for precisely 38 seconds where upon it freezes solid, making 'shoe tread poop' an impossibility. Moving on.
9) Hairsicles. It is my fortunate blessing to have curly hair. The moment there is any humidity in the air, I turn in to a Chia Pet and my hair explodes on all sides. This not only makes navigating doorways difficult but also provides invitation to flying insects browsing for new real estate. In the winter, there's no humidity to speak of so, once dry, my hair behaves. The extent of my hair maintenance is to wash it daily, condition it a couple of times a week and, upon exiting the shower, put some sort of goo on it to prevent the "Static Chia Pet" which, believe me, is a whole other animal. While this means it's very low maintenance, it also means that on cold mornings, in the journey from house to car, individual curls are frozen solid and provide a delightful wind chime effect as they click together near my ears. Once, after almost losing an eye, I learned quickly NOT to shake my head on these occasions.
10) The days are growing longer!!!! I saved this for last as it's my absolute favorite. After December 21, we gain approximately 1 - 2 minutes of daylight per day. Since that date, we've already gained somewhere around 18 minutes!!!! That's right, reaching a 4:25 pm sunset equals livin' large by doing crazy things like not turning our lights on as we drive home from work. Okay, I might have made that and a few other parts up but, with at least ten more years until spring weather arrives, I'll take what I can get.
The holidays, as I know and celebrate them, are over. Bleck, yuck, pitooey. In New England, this means we have three months of 'delightfully brisk' (read 'freaking freezing'), snow plowing and shoveling, salted roads and frozen windshield wipers on the horizon. The Winter Doldrums.
This year, I do actually have a beach vacation with my eldest daughter planned for the end of February so I've got that to which I can look forward. That having been said, since I'm like the poster child for Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), I thought it would be nice to share my Top Ten of the Winter Doldrums in New England:
1) Schedules must be adjusted to accommodate the extra time needed at both entry and exit of the home. No matter how many years pass, I never seem to be able to plan ahead for this difference in seasons. Of course, it was a much larger difference when the kids were little.
For example, Snow Suits. Taken in conjunction with little arms and legs can make one highly susceptible to instant daydreams of 80 degree temperatures featuring a happy baby in only a diaper/onesie combination and in which a Nanny was handling all of this stuff anyway so did it really matter? But I digress... When snapped back in to reality, what you were left with was a set of arms and legs that were either A) so rubbery you couldn't maneuver them through the appropriate hole in the suit or, B) held so stiff that it made you want to forego the suit, grab the nearest down comforter and staple it carefully around the baby.
The best was when one of my daughters would decide on a 'combo' move. She'd start with an "A" and, after "2" minutes (read "30") when Mommy would finally peek up the sleeve of the snowsuit to see just where that arm went, the little angel would convert quickly to a "B". This little move, in fact, was the cause for my first root canal. Believe it or not a 6 month old carries a right hook that can kill a tooth. No joke.
2) Ice where there is none. As a kid, I can remember hearing talk of "Black Ice". It sounded REALLY cool, like something out of a comic book for only the best Superheroes. Grownups, however, were always warning everyone about it. 'Careful driving - there's black ice all over', or 'Hey, you want to be sure and hang on to something, it's like a skating rink out there'. What a drag.
Everytime I'd go out, I'd look for this black ice that, in my mind, was a rare black jewel, polished to perfection and only made visible in just the right circumstances. Never saw it. Not once.
Fast forward a few years and it all came painfully clear as my brother and I were headed out to the store. Talk about a disenchanting discovery...
"That's It?!?! THAT'S Black Ice?" I whined, landing on my tailbone, looking up at my older brother.
As he nimbly swung from porch rail to basketball post to a triple-flip dismount in the safety of the garage, he dusted the chalk off his hands and said "I told you to be careful".
3) No ice where there should be... There is a tiny pond, seemingly perfect for ice skating, near where we live. It has been four thousand degrees below zero for at least a month. Is it frozen over enough for skating? Noooo. Why? Because it's "spring fed". Spring fed. What, in God's name, is a spring doing, being anything but ice in this weather? 'That's just crazy' I thought as I tightened the laces on my skates and glided back home on the black ice.
4) School cancellations. Now, here's one of those things that people either love or hate. If you are under the age of 20, you love it. You get to stay home, eat comfort food, watch TV, play in the snow and even take a nap if you want. Those over the age of 30 hate it. You have to use a vacation day from work, make comfort food for the kids, you can't watch what you want on TV (which is what you were initially going to do with your vacation day) and you have to clear off the driveway. Repeatedly. That's where the term "bitter cold" comes from.
5) Groundhog Day - February 2. I love Punxsatawney Phil as much as the next person. He's cute, fuzzy, doesn't seem to make any startling movements and is supposed to be a harbinger of warmer weather. HA! Anyone in northern New England will tell you that's a crock. According to legend, if the groundhog doesn't see his shadow, spring is right around the corner and, if he does, there are six more weeks of winter. Go to the weather channel and do the math. In this part of the country, the only thing 'right around the corner' from February 2 is Spring Training for the Red Sox (in FLORIDA) and even that doesn't start for another couple of weeks. For those of us in New England, ONLY six more weeks of winter is the best deal we're going to get on February 2 so I say, just let the fuzzy little bugger sleep!
6) Skiing is plentiful! If you are someone who enjoys the thrill of shush-booming down a mountain with two lengths of fiberglass strapped to your feet, you're usually in luck. It gives people something to do, keeps them active, gets them outdoors for some badly needed sunshine and vitamin D, provides local tourism dollars and Emergency Room copays. I enjoy skiing once every year or five.....on the bunny hill......with nobody around me......and temperatures in the 30's. This provides a couple of things - first, entertainment for my family who ski a couple of times a week throughout the winter and enjoy watching me 'snow plow' or make a 'pizza wedge' most of the way down. Second, I get a stylish tag on my jacket which actually makes me look like I could be someone who skis a couple of times a week throughout the winter. Third, there is nothing like a trip down the Ski Lodge stairs in a pair of ski boots to make you feel good about any other pair of shoes you own.
7) A good woodstove is worth it's weight in wool. Alright, I know the ozone is in trouble and all of the smoke is bad but, honestly, is there anything better than backing your butt up to the front of a woodstove to take off the chill? I have spent many hours seated directly in front of a Vermont Castings stove until, sniffing suspiciously, I discovered I was burning the back of my favorite wool sweater. Good times.
8) Dog poop in wintertime. It's a miracle of science. It smells for precisely 38 seconds where upon it freezes solid, making 'shoe tread poop' an impossibility. Moving on.
9) Hairsicles. It is my fortunate blessing to have curly hair. The moment there is any humidity in the air, I turn in to a Chia Pet and my hair explodes on all sides. This not only makes navigating doorways difficult but also provides invitation to flying insects browsing for new real estate. In the winter, there's no humidity to speak of so, once dry, my hair behaves. The extent of my hair maintenance is to wash it daily, condition it a couple of times a week and, upon exiting the shower, put some sort of goo on it to prevent the "Static Chia Pet" which, believe me, is a whole other animal. While this means it's very low maintenance, it also means that on cold mornings, in the journey from house to car, individual curls are frozen solid and provide a delightful wind chime effect as they click together near my ears. Once, after almost losing an eye, I learned quickly NOT to shake my head on these occasions.
10) The days are growing longer!!!! I saved this for last as it's my absolute favorite. After December 21, we gain approximately 1 - 2 minutes of daylight per day. Since that date, we've already gained somewhere around 18 minutes!!!! That's right, reaching a 4:25 pm sunset equals livin' large by doing crazy things like not turning our lights on as we drive home from work. Okay, I might have made that and a few other parts up but, with at least ten more years until spring weather arrives, I'll take what I can get.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
"Are You Ready For Some Football?"
Well, it's January 2, 2011. The final game of this year's NFL Regular Season. For the team I happen to adore with all my heart, the New England Patriots, the outcome of today's game doesn't matter. They are in the playoffs with the best record in their division. This means they get to sit out the first round of said playoffs AND every playoff game they are in, save the 'Big One', will happen at Gillette Stadium. Today's worry will be injuries.
Each NFL Season seems to pass like a jar of peanut butter. Humor me here. In September, the jar is opened for the first time and in front of you is an untouched, never before seen expanse of peanutty perfection. For me, the beginning of the NFL season is just the same and it's a beautiful thing. When the season opens, there are sseventeen weeks of games laid all out in front of you; Oh, and look, there's your 'Game Day Jersey' just the same as you left it at the end of last season.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say that, even if you detest Football (though incomprehensible to me, there are those who do), you would enjoy football Sunday at our house. Why? It's mostly about the food, that's why. Sixteen weeks of football meals consist of everything from Ribs to Loaded Nachos to Beef Stew to Crab Cakes. It is directly influenced by factors such as the current opponent and location of the game.
Now it's time to dress for the game. In our home, each of us has his or her own particular apparel to be worn during the game. There is no discussion about nor alteration to this plan (see "jinxing" below). It simply does not change unless, of course, the player depicted on your jersey becomes a traiterous rat who decides more money with a different team is more important than loyalty to the team who got him where he is in the first place. Not that I'm bitter but I have a BRAND NEW Adam Vinatieri, Pats 'home' jersey that will remain packed away now until such a time, if there ever is one, that it becomes useful again. Ahh, such a fine line between love and hate.
Game Time! Here are a few categories of game watchers for you...
The Warrior: My husband falls in to this category and will root himself in a livingroom chair and stay there for the entire game with the following exceptions: Bathroom, Beer, Food, or irreparable damage within the game. He knows the rules, inside and out, and can pick out a penalty faster than 'the guys in the booth'.
The Worrier: This would be someone who likes a more active role in the game, even if that role is only in her head and, yes, I fall in to this category. If I'm in the livingroom and the Pats are doing well, I stay put. If things start to go sour, I head for the kitchen and those in attendance can expect a new item of food to appear soon afterward. While in the kitchen, audible updates are conveyed from my husband when anything pivotal happens. This is just one of the funny little habits that comes from decades of being a Boston/New England sports fan. I can sum it up in two words: Jinxes and Superstition. Anyone who has been a New England sports fan for more than a decade knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about.
The Coach: This is the person who attempts to predict plays and "help" the coaches from their chair. We all know people like this... 'nuff said.
With game day sorted, it's time to get back to that peanut butter/football season analogy:
Week One - Open the jar and peel back the seal. It looks and smells amazing and is completely untouched, dare I say, virginal. Anything is possible.
Week Two - There is evidence of a swipe or two across the top but still plenty of unchartered area left.
Weeks Three through Seven - Similar to Week Two but the feeling gets less and less pronounced.
Week Eight - This is a tough one. The Jar is half full or empty dependent on your team's record as well as your own inclination toward either optimism or pessimism.
Weeks Nine through 14 - This is where the peanut butter hits the toast. You're becoming more and more conservative with your peanut butter, particularly if your team is doing well. You do NOT want to jinx anything by taking your peanut butter all 'willy nilly' and using it without regard. After all, you could run out and not have enough time to get to the store for more by the end of the season.
Remaining weeks in the regular season - You either have enough or you don't and there is no mistaking or going back at this point. You survive the remainder of the season with whatever you've got.
If you have managed the season properly, even though a 'near' empty jar can be a depressing sight, you know you've used your peanut butter appropriately and it has served you well. A jar well spent, so to speak.
So, if you are someone who loves NFL football, "Football Sunday" and peanut butter as much as I do, I say 'good luck' regardless of your team preference. For those of you who could care less about the game, I say find a good movie to watch and 'eat up'.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
"It's time to try defying gravity" Part 2 of 2
My story continued as I drove downtown, last week, with the lofty goal of securing a parking space within two blocks of my final destination. Luckily, I scored a spot directly in front of the State House, with it's hushed tones of culture and civility. As I glanced out the windshield to find the nearest parking kiosk, I smiled at the Creche scene. It looked so peaceful with the usual characters, cast in a warm light and safely protected by chicken wire.
As I wiped the tear from my eye, I got out of the car and looked around for the store front in question. Ah yes, right across the street: "Professional Bra Fitters" and I had an appointment. Grabbing my purse, and money to pay for parking, using our city's brand new Parking Kiosks, I headed out. As I approached the kiosk, I saw a man standing there. He was shuffling his hands in his pockets, repeatedly looking at the new machine with the big, blue "P" on it...
"Go ahead of me" he said. "I've forgotten money for parking and I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do". Normally, but particularly being a hand full of days after Christmas, you might think I'd automatically forage in my pockets to find the man some change and, normally, you'd be right. Not today though... Not me. Today, I happened to be on a mission so I thanked him kindly, put my money in and moved on. There may be some regret in there somewhere but I'll have to get back to that later. Right now, the concern was navigation of the cocoa colored slush standing between me and the other side of the street.
Upon opening the door to the Professional Bra Fitters, I was accosted by two different things at the same time.
First, the door chimed. 'Really?' I thought. 'Why would they draw attention to me like that? I mean, the State House is right across the Street for God sake! What if someone hears?'
Second, bras and underwear.
Everywhere.
It was on tables, clothing racks, chairs and walls. It was on mannequins who, by the way, are not built like they used to be. VERY intimidating. 'Well' I thought as I reached my hand inside the shoulder of my shirt to yank my bra strap back up where it belonged, 'Nothing to do but take a deep breath and step forward'.
After being greeted by the professionals, it was time to get down to business. They explained what it was they do and why it's so important. One woman stated she'd be helping me today but that the other woman would be checking on everything since woman #1 was "still in training". Wait for it....
'ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I HAVE A TRAINING BRA FITTER?' Was it me, or was the room starting to spin? 'Deep breaths, Pam, deep breaths. You can do this and, clearly, for them to have hired her, she must know more than you do even if your bra is older than she is...'
"Step in here" she said as she held open one of two curtains covering the dressing room directly next to the sales counter. "Are you wearing a bra?"
Was she kidding?
"I am. I wore a 'geriatric' one because it just doesn't get out much anymore." She giggled politely and said "Okay, just pop your shirt off but leave the bra on and I'll be right back in to take a measurement".
Pop?
Do you know there are no chairs in those rooms? After removing my shirt, I just stood there in my bra and pants.....six feet away from the sales counter.....concealed by nothing but a couple of curtains. Every time that door chimed I instinctively looked for a place to hide, only to be faced by myself in the full length mirror. They did have a couple of interesting things to read on the wall. One was a cartoon depicting a woman using an anti-gravity machine in conjunction with a hand held mirror so she could get a more pleasing view. I don't remember, for sure, but I might have smiled briefly just before the associate returned with tape measure in hand. We got a measurement and the fitting began.
At first, she explained how they do initial fittings with a certain bra because they know it runs true to size. Once that was done, she would bring in "a few different styles" for me to try on and that's when "the real fun begins", she promised.
After determining proper size, she also taught me the proper way to put on a bra. So while she was out gathering a 'few different styles', I reflected on lessons learned thus far and it went something like this:
One - Use the MIDDLE set of hooks when securing a bra. She couldn't really tell me 'why' which only caused me to look more and more suspiciously at this Training Bra Fitter.
Two - Once the bra is on, pull it down in the back. Now, if I hadn't learned this trick years ago, on my own, chances are good the back of my bras would all have ended up somewhere around my neck but she's young and doesn't know, first hand, of gravity. I smiled knowingly and we moved on.
Three - Stick your hand inside the cup, lift with that hand and yank the front of the bra up with the other. It literally took me minutes to figure this one out and I desperately wished my husband was with me to provide his expertise.
Four - Pull it down in the back again. Duh...
In the, approximately, two minutes it took me for that review, she had enough time to gather and return with THIRTY bras. I'm not kidding - I was immediately overwhelmed.
"You know" I said staring 'deer caught in the headlights' at the masses, "I just had surgery a couple of weeks ago and I've already broken a sweat what with the parking kiosk, the navigation of the slush and then the fitting..."
"Isn't it great?!" She bubbled. "There are so many different styles! Have fun!!!"
After, looking myself in the mirror, I blew an errant curl off my forehead and thought 'Why not?' where upon I dug in with bra number one.
Tried one - nope. Next one - I can see things through this one that I didn't even know were there - no way. Third - Is she kidding me? I think I have this pattern in bed sheets. Fourth - I could have stored things like car keys and my wallet in that bad boy. Time to be a little more discerning... Mind you, approximately every 48 seconds, she would return to give me a yank down in the back, a lift up in the front and an adjustment to the straps. This is where her "professional" coworker joined in the fun to do the same thing. How do you make eye contact with someone who does that?
Finally, I found a couple of styles that fit well, looked nice under my shirt and passed muster with both the training and professional bra fitters. I put my old, comfortable bra back on (practicing my new techniques), got fully dressed and moved confidently to the sales counter. 'Ha! I know how to wear a bra and you don't' my smug smile seemed to say to the newest person in the store. I could tell she was the newest because she was standing there, dumbfounded, staring at the mannequin in the front of the boutique.
Having finished with the business at hand, I took a casual look around the counter. It turns out there's a lot more to a Professional Bra Fitter boutique than I thought. My eyes skipped over everything from peel-and-stick enhancements, to bra liners to pasties. Then, I hit the best item I would see all day, nay, all year. The item that gives me hope, where there previously was none, for the air quality in my home when my husband is home. Something called a "flatulence deodorizer filter". As God is my witness, I swear they have them. With an equal amount of honesty, I'll tell you I did glance at the Training Bra Fitter but, after a moment's hesitation of wanting to be very certain, I asked for the Professional. After all, this was serious.
She appeared from the back room, with a smile on her face, when I held up one of the filters and asked "Can I buy these in bulk?" Being a "professional", her smile dimmed only slightly as she told me they could be purchased in boxes of five. I made a mental note for next year's stocking stuffers.
In conclusion, I thanked both associates for their time, turned to leave and was faced with the same mannequin I'd seen on the way in the store. 'Funny' I thought. 'She's not nearly as intimidating now...'
Upon leaving the boutique, I simply wondered her size.
As I wiped the tear from my eye, I got out of the car and looked around for the store front in question. Ah yes, right across the street: "Professional Bra Fitters" and I had an appointment. Grabbing my purse, and money to pay for parking, using our city's brand new Parking Kiosks, I headed out. As I approached the kiosk, I saw a man standing there. He was shuffling his hands in his pockets, repeatedly looking at the new machine with the big, blue "P" on it...
"Go ahead of me" he said. "I've forgotten money for parking and I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do". Normally, but particularly being a hand full of days after Christmas, you might think I'd automatically forage in my pockets to find the man some change and, normally, you'd be right. Not today though... Not me. Today, I happened to be on a mission so I thanked him kindly, put my money in and moved on. There may be some regret in there somewhere but I'll have to get back to that later. Right now, the concern was navigation of the cocoa colored slush standing between me and the other side of the street.
Upon opening the door to the Professional Bra Fitters, I was accosted by two different things at the same time.
First, the door chimed. 'Really?' I thought. 'Why would they draw attention to me like that? I mean, the State House is right across the Street for God sake! What if someone hears?'
Second, bras and underwear.
Everywhere.
It was on tables, clothing racks, chairs and walls. It was on mannequins who, by the way, are not built like they used to be. VERY intimidating. 'Well' I thought as I reached my hand inside the shoulder of my shirt to yank my bra strap back up where it belonged, 'Nothing to do but take a deep breath and step forward'.
After being greeted by the professionals, it was time to get down to business. They explained what it was they do and why it's so important. One woman stated she'd be helping me today but that the other woman would be checking on everything since woman #1 was "still in training". Wait for it....
'ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I HAVE A TRAINING BRA FITTER?' Was it me, or was the room starting to spin? 'Deep breaths, Pam, deep breaths. You can do this and, clearly, for them to have hired her, she must know more than you do even if your bra is older than she is...'
"Step in here" she said as she held open one of two curtains covering the dressing room directly next to the sales counter. "Are you wearing a bra?"
Was she kidding?
"I am. I wore a 'geriatric' one because it just doesn't get out much anymore." She giggled politely and said "Okay, just pop your shirt off but leave the bra on and I'll be right back in to take a measurement".
Pop?
Do you know there are no chairs in those rooms? After removing my shirt, I just stood there in my bra and pants.....six feet away from the sales counter.....concealed by nothing but a couple of curtains. Every time that door chimed I instinctively looked for a place to hide, only to be faced by myself in the full length mirror. They did have a couple of interesting things to read on the wall. One was a cartoon depicting a woman using an anti-gravity machine in conjunction with a hand held mirror so she could get a more pleasing view. I don't remember, for sure, but I might have smiled briefly just before the associate returned with tape measure in hand. We got a measurement and the fitting began.
At first, she explained how they do initial fittings with a certain bra because they know it runs true to size. Once that was done, she would bring in "a few different styles" for me to try on and that's when "the real fun begins", she promised.
After determining proper size, she also taught me the proper way to put on a bra. So while she was out gathering a 'few different styles', I reflected on lessons learned thus far and it went something like this:
One - Use the MIDDLE set of hooks when securing a bra. She couldn't really tell me 'why' which only caused me to look more and more suspiciously at this Training Bra Fitter.
Two - Once the bra is on, pull it down in the back. Now, if I hadn't learned this trick years ago, on my own, chances are good the back of my bras would all have ended up somewhere around my neck but she's young and doesn't know, first hand, of gravity. I smiled knowingly and we moved on.
Three - Stick your hand inside the cup, lift with that hand and yank the front of the bra up with the other. It literally took me minutes to figure this one out and I desperately wished my husband was with me to provide his expertise.
Four - Pull it down in the back again. Duh...
In the, approximately, two minutes it took me for that review, she had enough time to gather and return with THIRTY bras. I'm not kidding - I was immediately overwhelmed.
"You know" I said staring 'deer caught in the headlights' at the masses, "I just had surgery a couple of weeks ago and I've already broken a sweat what with the parking kiosk, the navigation of the slush and then the fitting..."
"Isn't it great?!" She bubbled. "There are so many different styles! Have fun!!!"
After, looking myself in the mirror, I blew an errant curl off my forehead and thought 'Why not?' where upon I dug in with bra number one.
Tried one - nope. Next one - I can see things through this one that I didn't even know were there - no way. Third - Is she kidding me? I think I have this pattern in bed sheets. Fourth - I could have stored things like car keys and my wallet in that bad boy. Time to be a little more discerning... Mind you, approximately every 48 seconds, she would return to give me a yank down in the back, a lift up in the front and an adjustment to the straps. This is where her "professional" coworker joined in the fun to do the same thing. How do you make eye contact with someone who does that?
Finally, I found a couple of styles that fit well, looked nice under my shirt and passed muster with both the training and professional bra fitters. I put my old, comfortable bra back on (practicing my new techniques), got fully dressed and moved confidently to the sales counter. 'Ha! I know how to wear a bra and you don't' my smug smile seemed to say to the newest person in the store. I could tell she was the newest because she was standing there, dumbfounded, staring at the mannequin in the front of the boutique.
Having finished with the business at hand, I took a casual look around the counter. It turns out there's a lot more to a Professional Bra Fitter boutique than I thought. My eyes skipped over everything from peel-and-stick enhancements, to bra liners to pasties. Then, I hit the best item I would see all day, nay, all year. The item that gives me hope, where there previously was none, for the air quality in my home when my husband is home. Something called a "flatulence deodorizer filter". As God is my witness, I swear they have them. With an equal amount of honesty, I'll tell you I did glance at the Training Bra Fitter but, after a moment's hesitation of wanting to be very certain, I asked for the Professional. After all, this was serious.
She appeared from the back room, with a smile on her face, when I held up one of the filters and asked "Can I buy these in bulk?" Being a "professional", her smile dimmed only slightly as she told me they could be purchased in boxes of five. I made a mental note for next year's stocking stuffers.
In conclusion, I thanked both associates for their time, turned to leave and was faced with the same mannequin I'd seen on the way in the store. 'Funny' I thought. 'She's not nearly as intimidating now...'
Upon leaving the boutique, I simply wondered her size.
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