You know how sometimes you go to the pool and hope not to get a lot of attention because, say, you've just come from an all-you-can-eat brunch (and brunch was after a spin class where even the instructor said afterwards, "Wow. That was really hard!" so you ate everything, twice)? And then something happens and you have ALL the attention? Yeah... That happened yesterday.
I love the pool. I love swimming. I love sunning. I love reading and listening to music. I love trying to pretend all those kids at the pool aren't there by sipping cocktails and blasting Taylor Swift in my earbuds.
Then, the sun goes behind the adjacent building, and it's my cue to get in the water. I throw off my headphones and sunglasses and slip into the pool trying hard not to make a splash or otherwise draw a whole lot of notice to myself. (Right?? The one time I'm not trying to be center of attention! If there is ever a time I'm trying not to be noticed, it's in a bathing suit after stuffing my face, that's for sure.)
Huh. I'm the only person in the water. All the families must be packing up to head home. All at once.
Then I hear a child's alarm, "Uh oh!!! There's someone in the pool!"
What?!?
All eyes are on me. All of them. Every eye. All over my brunch-inflated, whale-sized floatation. Then, they're all talking to me; well, the ones who aren't staring, mouths agape at what I've done or the bitchy, gay couple that's in a fit of giggles are talking.
"Miss, miss? There's been an accident in the pool. We're not swimming right now."
Always apropos, I say, "Oh shit!!!" and jump out.
Then I get the story.
How did I miss a kid POOPING in the pool, miss everyone else noticing it and extricating themselves and their 100 kids each from the water and then sitting around chatting about the proper way to handle POOP in the POOL?!??!?!
Something to think about, I suppose, as I spend the next 4 days in the shower.
Showing posts with label hypochondria. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hypochondria. Show all posts
Monday, July 6, 2015
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Dr. Jenny and the phone consultations
You know I'm a hypochondriac. (Ok, and all of these.) Fortunately for me, my mom's a nurse. And, my brother's an EMT. And, my dad was the medical guy on his Green Beret and Delta Force teams. So, I'm covered when I freak out about my latest perceived, terrible illnesses and impending death.
My sister has recently become a veterinarian. And, what do you know?! I am a first-time dog owner!! Hooray for the (actually not at all accidental on my account) serendipity!
As you can imagine, taking care of myself is tough work, but taking care of someone else too?! DAMN NEAR IMPOSSIBLE! I don't know how parents of human babies do it! So many terrible, awful, horrific things could happen to my baby pup!! And, you just never know when they might occur. The whole world is a death monster, conspiring to get the little love of my life!
So, naturally, I have my sister on speed dial. Here are a few of the phone calls and FaceTimes--you know, if there is something I'm pretty sure she should examine--I've made to Dr. Jenny.
I'm so fortunate that Jenny became a vet. Could you image me doing this whole "parenting" thing without a safety net?! Thank goodness for pet insurance for frequent vet visits, right?!?!
*- A nickname attributed to me by my dear, sweet sister in high school because I was, at the time, quite a happily without a nickname. And, naturally, since I hated it, it has stuck for all these twenty-fygwmumbleskhe years. It's actually short for Kernwaller** because, sure.
**-Note from aforementioned sister: "Kern" is actually short for Kernwaller, Shot Caller," which should add further clarity.
My sister has recently become a veterinarian. And, what do you know?! I am a first-time dog owner!! Hooray for the (actually not at all accidental on my account) serendipity!
As you can imagine, taking care of myself is tough work, but taking care of someone else too?! DAMN NEAR IMPOSSIBLE! I don't know how parents of human babies do it! So many terrible, awful, horrific things could happen to my baby pup!! And, you just never know when they might occur. The whole world is a death monster, conspiring to get the little love of my life!
So, naturally, I have my sister on speed dial. Here are a few of the phone calls and FaceTimes--you know, if there is something I'm pretty sure she should examine--I've made to Dr. Jenny.
Jen!! The breeder said to take Lolly's collar off him when he goes to bed in his crate because he could strangle himself. I JUST LEFT HIM AT HOME ALONE WITH HIS CRATE OPEN!!!! Is he going to strangle himself?!?!?!!?
Jen! Lolly's poop is weird!!
Jen! Lolly's poop is weird but in a different way than before!
Jen! Check out this picture of Lolly's crazy weird poop! Is it supposed to look like that?!?!
Oh my gosh, Jen! Lolly's poop!!!
[The poop call happens a lot. Jenny said to me one time, "Why are owners so obsessed with their dogs' poop?! When I told her that everything you read about puppy wellness says that changes in their poop are first indicators of something being wrong, she said, "Kern*, how different does your poop look from time to time? Do you call your doctor every time it's different??" I mean, I might, if I were related to my doctor...]
Jen!!!! Lolly's making this crazy throat sound! DO YOU THINK HE CAN'T BREATH?!?!?!?! It almost sounds like he's got something in his throat--OR LIKE HIS THROAT IS CLOSING UP!!!! Oh, so you think he's just clearing his throat. So, that happens to dogs too, huh?
Jen! Jen!!!! Lolly's got weird goopy eyes! It's so gross!!! Here, let me send you a picture! DO YOU THINK HE'S BEING ATTACKED BY A MEMBRANE-DEVOURING BACTERIA?!?!?!!? Yes, there is pollen all over the ground. So, allergies you think, huh? Huh. What?! Give him Zyrtec?! Like I take?!?! That doesn't sound right... You're sure? Really sure?? Really, really sure dogs can take my human medicine?!?!
[Dr. Jenny actually said, "Poodles are known to be prone to allergies. You know, because they themselves are hypoallergenic! Har har." But, really.]
HOW DO YOU DO THE PUPPY HEIMLICH?!?!?! Is there such a thing?!?!?!?! Well, no, he's not choking right now, I'm just wondering in case he does choke one day. Reach into his throat and pull out the object he's choking on?! You can do that?!?!
Jen! Lolly is eating a whole tennis ball!!! Like, eating it, not just destroying it like he normally does. Is that going to get stuck in his stomach or in his throat?? DO I NEED TO DO THE PUPPY HEIMLICH?!?! Or, will it just come out in his poop?
[LOTS of poop questions when you have a puppy.]
How do I know if Lolly's cold, Jen? Do you think he needs one of those puppy coats? Of course, I have a rain coat for him, but does he need a winter coat?? That's true, he does have A LOT of fur...
Jen, Lolly is sniffing another dog's poop. Is he going to get sick from that?!
Jen!! Lolly's balls are HUGE!!!! Like so, so, so huge!!! Are they supposed to be that big?!?! I mean really, they're enormous for such a little pup. Look! Look, Jen!! Look at how enormous Lolly's balls are!! No, really! LOOK AT THEM! C'mon, Jen! Just look at them! I mean, one day they were just tiny, little, pea-sized balls, and now they are MONSTROUS!!! I'm pretty sure he's got whatever that disease is that inflames testicles. ...Huh. So, that's boy puberty?
[When Dr. Jenny neutered Lolly, I tried to get her to acknowledge again, in person this time, that Lolly had remarkably large testicles. She refused. But, when the vet tech prepped him for surgery--I got to watch the whole surgery and prep as a perk of being the vet's sister--the tech exclaimed, "Whoa! Now, those are some sizable gnards!" Vindication.]
Hey, Jen. How's it going? Having a good day? So, Lolly got into my bag and ate half a 12-hour Sudafed. Is that a big deal? WAIT!!! WHAT?!?!?! THAT'S A BIG DEAL?!?!?!?!?! IT COULD KILL HIM?!?!?!?!?!?!? WHAT DO I DO?! WHAT DO I DO?!?! WHAT DO I DO?!?!?! No, I don't have ipecac syrup or activated charcoal!! Oh, hydrogen peroxide will make him throw up too? I don't have that either!! NEIGHBORS!!!!! NEIGHBORS!!! HELP!!!!!! OH MY GOSH!!! LOLLY NEEDS IMMEDIATE AID!!!!!!!!!!!
[And, then I spent the next hour watching Lolly throw up and picking bits of Sudafed tablet out of the puke to piece back together to make sure we got it all. THANK GOODNESS for kind, close neighbors!]
This was our "I'm so glad you're ok" and "Glad Jenny did that whole vet school thing" shot
I'm so fortunate that Jenny became a vet. Could you image me doing this whole "parenting" thing without a safety net?! Thank goodness for pet insurance for frequent vet visits, right?!?!
*- A nickname attributed to me by my dear, sweet sister in high school because I was, at the time, quite a happily without a nickname. And, naturally, since I hated it, it has stuck for all these twenty-fygwmumbleskhe years. It's actually short for Kernwaller** because, sure.
**-Note from aforementioned sister: "Kern" is actually short for Kernwaller, Shot Caller," which should add further clarity.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
The latest diagnosis—the struggle is real
Friends, I come to you as a seriously afflicted individual. I have recently learned/decided I have a real, serious condition. I appreciate your sympathy and support because the struggle is real.
Among the luminaries similarly afflicted with my condition is Monica Seles. I am inspired by her public admission, and as such, am following in her esteemed footsteps by staging this, my own coming out.
I am a person suffering from BED. That's right, Binge Eating Disorder. According to the commercial (which, in addition to WebMD, is the only real medical source I need to make my serious medical diagnosis), my BED may be caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain—so, yes, a factual, legitimate disease if I've ever heard the qualifications for a disease (which, of course, I have not).
Check out the symptoms of BED and tell me they don't sound familiar. Since the readership of this blog is really only close friends, family and the limited number of people tricked into reading it by me or a snake-oil-salesman-like friend, you can attest to witnessing me putting away some food!
You've surely seen me brought down by each of these symptoms (stolen directly from the WebMD Binge Eating Disorder page):
Oh, there are a dozen cupcakes? What are you going to have?
Wait, those fajitas were supposed to serve two?!
My appetite is of such lore there is even a song that is sung in half disbelief and half—I hope—love:
*- A nickname attributed to me by my dear, sweet sister in high school because I was, at the time, quite a happily without a nickname. And, naturally, since I hated it, it has stuck for all these twenty-fygwmumbleskhe years. It's actually short for Kernwaller because, sure.
Among the luminaries similarly afflicted with my condition is Monica Seles. I am inspired by her public admission, and as such, am following in her esteemed footsteps by staging this, my own coming out.
I am a person suffering from BED. That's right, Binge Eating Disorder. According to the commercial (which, in addition to WebMD, is the only real medical source I need to make my serious medical diagnosis), my BED may be caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain—so, yes, a factual, legitimate disease if I've ever heard the qualifications for a disease (which, of course, I have not).
Check out the symptoms of BED and tell me they don't sound familiar. Since the readership of this blog is really only close friends, family and the limited number of people tricked into reading it by me or a snake-oil-salesman-like friend, you can attest to witnessing me putting away some food!
You've surely seen me brought down by each of these symptoms (stolen directly from the WebMD Binge Eating Disorder page):
- Frequent episodes of eating what others would consider an abnormally large amount of food
- Frequent feelings of being unable to control what or how much is being eaten
- Eating much more rapidly than usual
- Eating until uncomfortably full
- Eating large amounts of food, even when not physically hungry
- Eating alone out of embarrassment at the quantity of food being eaten
- Feelings of disgust, depression, or guilt after overeating
- Fluctuations in weight
Oh, there are a dozen cupcakes? What are you going to have?
Wait, those fajitas were supposed to serve two?!
My appetite is of such lore there is even a song that is sung in half disbelief and half—I hope—love:
(Sung to the tune of Shaft)
Who is the girl
Who eats all the food
In the world?
KERN*
Who is the girlI appreciate, again, your empathy and support. It's only with a strong network of love that we'll make it through this difficult diagnosis and beat this disease. Now, someone get me a cheeseburger!
Responsible for all the starving children
In the world?
KERN
*- A nickname attributed to me by my dear, sweet sister in high school because I was, at the time, quite a happily without a nickname. And, naturally, since I hated it, it has stuck for all these twenty-fygwmumbleskhe years. It's actually short for Kernwaller because, sure.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Know what is *not* awkward?
Introducing your dad to your gynecologist.
I know, you’re thinking, “In what scenario would that even happen?!?!?!” Well, don’t worry; it didn’t go down as creepily as I suppose it could have.
My dad and I are ballet buddies. We have season tickets to the ballet series at the Kennedy Center, which means we see every ballet that comes through the venerable theater together. My dad is super into ballet since I was a very serious ballerina for a long time. He built sets for and stage managed many of my performances. He was eventually talked into performing in many of the performances in character roles such as Uncle Drosselmeyer in the Nutcracker and Dr. Coppelius in Coppelia. He started taking adult ballet classes. He even had these tight sweatpants he would wear to class. Those sweatpants weren’t so cute, though, 20 years later when he tried to bust them out with the family this past Christmas. We immediately sent him back upstairs to change.
All this is more interesting when you juxtapose it against his professional career. He was a green beret in Vietnam. He was one of the founding members of the Delta Force, on the team that established and got the Delta Force certified as a thing and then went in to Iran to get the hostages out in 1980 (right after I was born!), and he was paramilitary for the CIA. So, he’s kind of a badass. In tights.
Last night, we were at the Kennedy Center to see Billy Elliot, an add-on to our regular ballet series. As we’re walking into the magnificent grand foyer (where, if I had infinite amounts of money, I would have my wedding reception—after my already established engagement this year—because it’s so beautiful!), I spotted the good doctor. Now, I LOVE my doctor. He’s awesome, and I’ve been seeing him for more than ten years. Considering what a hypochondriac I am, that’s equated to about 1,000 visits with each other.
As the shout of his name was coming out of my mouth—in other words, too late—a couple thoughts went through my head:
- “Wait, outside of the exam room he probably goes by his first name, you know, like normal people. I’ve never used his first name with him! How weird is it that I’m shouting Dr.?!”
- "Uh, do doctors like to see patients socially?! Is this weird?!”
- “Who’s the crazy girl screaming in the Kennedy Center?!”
Oh well! It’s happening now, like so many of the act first, think about it later situations I get myself into! Introductions were made all around without actually acknowledging how we knew each other. I did keep calling the good doctor, “Dr. HisLastName,” though, so I’m pretty sure it was wildly apparent that we were not grab-a-beer-after-work buddies!
I also felt the need to make it very clear that this older gentleman I was with was my DAD and not my DATE. When you’re hanging out in the glittery theater set, one sees a quite a few May-December romances, and I’m apt to nip in the bud that impression from following us around whenever I can. I’ve considered making a button to wear that says, “This guy’s my dad!” Not only would that help clear some things up, but maybe it would also help my dad meet some nice theater-going ladies who think it’s sweet that he goes to the ballet with his kid!
Anyway, I’m not sure that knowing my gynecologist has met my dad is going to make my next appointment more comfortable for me or the good doctor! So, now there’s that…
Saturday, September 3, 2011
A perfect storm of knowledge and hypochondria
I may be kiiiiiiiiiind of a hypochondriac. I also know a LOT about heart disease—the number one killer of women. This is a treacherous combination, as it turns out.
One day, I was sitting at work, minding my own business, when my chest started to feel like an elephant was sitting on it and my left hand started tingling. Now, maybe I have allergies and maybe, as it turns out, they make my chest feel a little congested sometimes, and maybe I had been on conference calls all day and hadn’t had enough water to drink. Did you know that a symptom of not drinking enough fluids is tingly fingers and hands? And then maybe I started freaking out, which might have induced panic-attack lightheadedness…
Now, I’ve been to a lot of Red Dress Fashion Shows for women’s heart health during NY Fashion Weeks over the years. I’ve never been to a fashion show raising awareness about allergies or dehydration. And, what can I say? I’m very susceptible to fashion’s influence.
So, obviously, the only logical conclusion to my symptoms is that I was having a heart attack.
Of course, I immediately made the obligatory phone call to my mom:
“MOM!!!!!! Do you think I’m having a heart attack?!?! I think I may be having a heart attack!! What should I do? Shouldn’t I take aspirin?! I don’t have any aspirin!! I should start carrying around aspirin!!”
“Well, no, I wasn’t exercising. I was sitting at my desk on a conference call. Oh, you think a heart attack is more likely during physical assertion than sitting at my desk? Right, right, that is why so many movies feature politicians having heart attacks in shady hotel rooms with prostitutes, I suppose?”
“Yeah, I think I’m still going to the Urgent Care. I’m pretty sure I have heart disease. I know you are a nurse and everything, but have you been to any Red Dress fashion shows? I’m not sure you fully appreciate the significance of my symptoms.”
So, after a call to my boss:
“Hey, Peter, I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack so I’m going to run to the Urgent Care quickly. No, no, I’ll be back in time for the next conference call in about an hour or so—unless I don't come back. Ok, I’ll let you know!”
I went to the most legit Urgent Care I’ve ever been in (and, it should be no surprise that I’ve been in quite a few!), where the receptionist greeted me by asking what they could do for me. “Hello. I am having a heart attack.” With a quizzical look, she said, “Uh, ok. Have a seat and fill out these forms.” “Ok! Thanks!”
When I got back to the exam room, a helpful, cheery nurse did some preliminary evaluations and went to get the doctor. All the while I’m making jokes and live-tweeting my experience. After all, I have to keep my tweeps up to speed on the major events of my life—especially the potentially life threatening.
The doctor came in within a respectable amount of time, and I greeted her cheerfully and bubbly, putting my phone away. She started asking me the regular doctor exam questions:
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Do you drink?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sometimes have more than 3 drinks in a night?”
“Yes, I’m trying to find a husband.”
“Well... I found my husband at a bar, so I can’t really judge that!”
Then she went on, “Well, I have to say, you are fine.”
Incredulously, I responded, “Are you sure I don’t have heart disease and am not having a heart attack?!? I mean, I’ve been to the fashion shows!” She didn’t get that reference, having not been to the shows herself, but we eventually got back on track.
“If you were having a heart attack, you would not be smiling and making jokes or on your phone. You would be in quite a bit of pain, doubled over even. Plus, the EKG we just did," YES! They have an EKG machine! Best. Urgent. Care. Ever! “…Was completely normal. Do you maybe have a tendency to overreact??”
Me??? Overreact?!? NEVER!
**Public service announcement: check out The Heart Truth. While heart disease didn’t do me in—yet—it really is the number one killer of women. Know the symptoms! But, use them for good, not for evil, as I seem to use “symptoms!”**
One day, I was sitting at work, minding my own business, when my chest started to feel like an elephant was sitting on it and my left hand started tingling. Now, maybe I have allergies and maybe, as it turns out, they make my chest feel a little congested sometimes, and maybe I had been on conference calls all day and hadn’t had enough water to drink. Did you know that a symptom of not drinking enough fluids is tingly fingers and hands? And then maybe I started freaking out, which might have induced panic-attack lightheadedness…
Now, I’ve been to a lot of Red Dress Fashion Shows for women’s heart health during NY Fashion Weeks over the years. I’ve never been to a fashion show raising awareness about allergies or dehydration. And, what can I say? I’m very susceptible to fashion’s influence.
So, obviously, the only logical conclusion to my symptoms is that I was having a heart attack.
Of course, I immediately made the obligatory phone call to my mom:
“MOM!!!!!! Do you think I’m having a heart attack?!?! I think I may be having a heart attack!! What should I do? Shouldn’t I take aspirin?! I don’t have any aspirin!! I should start carrying around aspirin!!”
“Well, no, I wasn’t exercising. I was sitting at my desk on a conference call. Oh, you think a heart attack is more likely during physical assertion than sitting at my desk? Right, right, that is why so many movies feature politicians having heart attacks in shady hotel rooms with prostitutes, I suppose?”
“Yeah, I think I’m still going to the Urgent Care. I’m pretty sure I have heart disease. I know you are a nurse and everything, but have you been to any Red Dress fashion shows? I’m not sure you fully appreciate the significance of my symptoms.”
So, after a call to my boss:
“Hey, Peter, I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack so I’m going to run to the Urgent Care quickly. No, no, I’ll be back in time for the next conference call in about an hour or so—unless I don't come back. Ok, I’ll let you know!”
I went to the most legit Urgent Care I’ve ever been in (and, it should be no surprise that I’ve been in quite a few!), where the receptionist greeted me by asking what they could do for me. “Hello. I am having a heart attack.” With a quizzical look, she said, “Uh, ok. Have a seat and fill out these forms.” “Ok! Thanks!”
When I got back to the exam room, a helpful, cheery nurse did some preliminary evaluations and went to get the doctor. All the while I’m making jokes and live-tweeting my experience. After all, I have to keep my tweeps up to speed on the major events of my life—especially the potentially life threatening.
The doctor came in within a respectable amount of time, and I greeted her cheerfully and bubbly, putting my phone away. She started asking me the regular doctor exam questions:
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Do you drink?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sometimes have more than 3 drinks in a night?”
“Yes, I’m trying to find a husband.”
“Well... I found my husband at a bar, so I can’t really judge that!”
Then she went on, “Well, I have to say, you are fine.”
Incredulously, I responded, “Are you sure I don’t have heart disease and am not having a heart attack?!? I mean, I’ve been to the fashion shows!” She didn’t get that reference, having not been to the shows herself, but we eventually got back on track.
“If you were having a heart attack, you would not be smiling and making jokes or on your phone. You would be in quite a bit of pain, doubled over even. Plus, the EKG we just did," YES! They have an EKG machine! Best. Urgent. Care. Ever! “…Was completely normal. Do you maybe have a tendency to overreact??”
Me??? Overreact?!? NEVER!
**Public service announcement: check out The Heart Truth. While heart disease didn’t do me in—yet—it really is the number one killer of women. Know the symptoms! But, use them for good, not for evil, as I seem to use “symptoms!”**
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Six months to land a man
About a month ago, I was diagnosed with a tumor on my optic nerve. I don’t know what it’s called or what kind it is because as soon as I heard “tumor,” my mind zeroed in on only that word, much like my vision may tunnel in on itself one day, apparently.
Well, maybe. I’m not sure what might happen, since the doctor was trying very hard to downplay the diagnosis until we know more about it. He didn’t laugh at my jokes that the receptionists thought were hysterical, though, so I didn’t take that as an especially good sign. His not thinking I was funny (me! The height of humor!) may have actually been worse than hearing the word "tumor." I mean, let's keep perspective here!
We won’t know more about it until they can measure the pictures of the thing, which were excruciating to have taken, against what it looks like in six months. The pictures were SUPER painful, but the ophthalmology residents milling around took pity and gave me candy. I’m pretty sure I ended up on top of that endeavor—like a toddler given a lollypop to make up for a shot.
There’s no reason to freak out until we know there’s a reason to freak out, right? Well, that’s what the doctor said, or a paraphrasing of what the doctor humorlessly said, at least.
The way I see it, however, I have the next five months to land a man and get him to fall madly in love with me. Let me tell you why: if the tumor is dangerous, treatment is definitely not going to make me more beautiful, at least not on a short-term basis.
Unless they’ve got a peg leg, guys in the bars, at least the ones I like to go to, are probably not going to flock to the girl with the eye patch. You can count on it, though, that if I do have to wear an eye patch, I will certainly play it up! I will go out with a parrot on my shoulder (stuffed, obviously, let’s not get crazy!) and a red bandana around my waist. I’ll also only pay for drinks with gold coins that I take out of a treasure box rather than a purse. And, I’m going to start working now on developing an affinity to rum drinks.
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Right?!
I’m not sure I’ll have to wear an eye patch. It might come down to chemo. Of course, I’m hypothesizing based mostly on my hypochondria, which I think the downplaying doctor would entirely endorse. Chemo, though, could result in some really excellent wigs. I think I’d try out red. Or! A different color every night! A guy will meet me as a blonde, ask me out, and a redhead would show up for the date. I'd convince him that he was confused about what color my hair was. It could be very, very amusing and produce a few good blog entries, which in itself would make the entire thing overwhelmingly worth it.
Maybe, though, my tumor will create a boyfriend hallucination for me. I mean, I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Izzy’s boyfriend hallucination made her very, very happy for a while!
All in all, I did catch that this type of tumor is very rare. And, it’s even rarer that it’s found to be cancerous or otherwise dangerous. The specialist I met with had only ever seen five of these, and none of them turned out to be anything to worry about. I’m seeing an even more specialized specialist in January to get the real deal of the thing, so I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out then. No use getting nervous before that time. I’ve even resisted my usual urge to obsessively online diagnose. Sometimes that’s meant actually sitting on my hands.
In the meantime, my coworkers have taken to calling it my Apple iTumor. And, we’re hoping to develop some pretty awesome apps.
Well, maybe. I’m not sure what might happen, since the doctor was trying very hard to downplay the diagnosis until we know more about it. He didn’t laugh at my jokes that the receptionists thought were hysterical, though, so I didn’t take that as an especially good sign. His not thinking I was funny (me! The height of humor!) may have actually been worse than hearing the word "tumor." I mean, let's keep perspective here!
We won’t know more about it until they can measure the pictures of the thing, which were excruciating to have taken, against what it looks like in six months. The pictures were SUPER painful, but the ophthalmology residents milling around took pity and gave me candy. I’m pretty sure I ended up on top of that endeavor—like a toddler given a lollypop to make up for a shot.
There’s no reason to freak out until we know there’s a reason to freak out, right? Well, that’s what the doctor said, or a paraphrasing of what the doctor humorlessly said, at least.
The way I see it, however, I have the next five months to land a man and get him to fall madly in love with me. Let me tell you why: if the tumor is dangerous, treatment is definitely not going to make me more beautiful, at least not on a short-term basis.
Unless they’ve got a peg leg, guys in the bars, at least the ones I like to go to, are probably not going to flock to the girl with the eye patch. You can count on it, though, that if I do have to wear an eye patch, I will certainly play it up! I will go out with a parrot on my shoulder (stuffed, obviously, let’s not get crazy!) and a red bandana around my waist. I’ll also only pay for drinks with gold coins that I take out of a treasure box rather than a purse. And, I’m going to start working now on developing an affinity to rum drinks.
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Right?!
I’m not sure I’ll have to wear an eye patch. It might come down to chemo. Of course, I’m hypothesizing based mostly on my hypochondria, which I think the downplaying doctor would entirely endorse. Chemo, though, could result in some really excellent wigs. I think I’d try out red. Or! A different color every night! A guy will meet me as a blonde, ask me out, and a redhead would show up for the date. I'd convince him that he was confused about what color my hair was. It could be very, very amusing and produce a few good blog entries, which in itself would make the entire thing overwhelmingly worth it.
Maybe, though, my tumor will create a boyfriend hallucination for me. I mean, I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Izzy’s boyfriend hallucination made her very, very happy for a while!
All in all, I did catch that this type of tumor is very rare. And, it’s even rarer that it’s found to be cancerous or otherwise dangerous. The specialist I met with had only ever seen five of these, and none of them turned out to be anything to worry about. I’m seeing an even more specialized specialist in January to get the real deal of the thing, so I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out then. No use getting nervous before that time. I’ve even resisted my usual urge to obsessively online diagnose. Sometimes that’s meant actually sitting on my hands.
In the meantime, my coworkers have taken to calling it my Apple iTumor. And, we’re hoping to develop some pretty awesome apps.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Insane in the name of “naturally” gorgeous
We do a lot of really crazy things in the name of beauty. I mean, if you really think about it, just bikini waxes and Spanx alone might seem truly bizarre to another culture or, say, men. But, this week, I topped the charts of beauty craziness.
I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.
At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.
Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?
As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.
It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.
My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:
Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”
Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”
Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”
Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”
(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)
Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”
Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…
Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.
So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.
I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.
At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.
Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?
As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.
It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.
My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:
Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”
Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”
Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”
Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”
(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)
Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”
Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…
Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.
So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.
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