...these are the words I said to my husband earlier today...
Why?
Because I ate the damned pizza, that's why.
I've been diagnosed with celiac disease (with the added special touch of being lactose intolerant, thank you very much)...and for the most part I haven't missed bread and pasta all that much...
Until today.
I ordered pizza for the kids for lunch as a treat and even decided to splurge on delivery (mainly so I wouldn't have to leave my nice warm house and go out into the damp, cold April morning) and when the thing arrived, I started to salivate...
Setting the pizza on the counter to cool for a bit, I told myself over and over (mantra-like, you know?), "Bad for you, bad for you...painful bloating, bad gas...don't do it, don't do it nononono...."
And then the little voice inside my head went to work, telling me that there was and is no way possible that I have celiac disease...that I must have made up the whole thing in my head...I mean, really, no one else in my family has this problem...maybe whatever was the matter with me before has gone away...
And the smell of the pizza filled the kitchen with its tantalizing aroma and the crust...it was so...soft...and so I succumbed to temptation and ate an entire triangle...and then I watched my stomach begin to bloat out like someone was filling a balloon inside my gut...
Then I lay groaning on the bed, curled into as much of the fetal position as I could get and whined about all the things I would have to give up...
My birthday is Saturday and there will be no birthday cake. Sniff...
I can't ever eat ice cream again. Sniff, sniff...
No beer. Sniff, snort, sniff...
No more Buffalo Chicken at Denny's on the kids' birthdays. Moan...
No more pizza. Wail...
And just when I was about to start feeling really sorry for myself, another thought crossed my mind...
Suck it up, princess...and figure out a way to make these things so they taste good...
Because I am not living without pizza or birthday cake for the rest of my life...
Showing posts with label Barbara. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barbara. Show all posts
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
So What's New With You?
I am probably the world's worst blogger.
I'm guessing that most people who do this update every day, but either A) they have far more interesting lives than I do and/or B) they do not have four children who are now home all the time.
Nope, it's not March/Spring break here yet.
We are homeschoolers.
Yep, you read right...homeschoolers.
We decided to take the plunge one month ago...telling the kids that this is an experiment (and one that can end at any time if they or I decide that things are not going well and we can no longer stand the sight of each other)...but so far, things have been going remarkably well...my biggest fears were that the four of them would be so sick of being around one another that there would be massive fights and screaming that could be heard from Ottawa to Toronto...or that I would be curled into the fetal position by the end of the day, hiding from them, Brian and the pets...
There have been a few moments where the boys have tried to beat each other about the head, but I put that up to them being boys (and brothers)...but the weird (and wonderful) thing has been the stunning lack of fighting, screaming and temper tantrums (from them too)...
Being home with the children all day means a few things for me...things that I was aware of, but hadn't really focussed on...like the fact that there is very little "me" time (not that there was a whole hell of a lot of it to begin with, mind you)...but that marathon I was training for? Yeah, that's going to have to wait...and updating this blog? Well, I'm a little slow on that too...
And along with home schooling, there have, of course, been new health issues to deal with...specifically, celiac disease.
I've known for quite some time now that something was up with me; I just didn't know what...and no, it's not official yet, but since I went gluten free a few days ago and last night ate one (one) piece of garlic toast with my (gluten free) dinner and my stomach blew up five inches larger than it had been before I ate the toast and was so painful I wanted to scream and because of the ten most common symptoms of the disease I have six of them and fall into the two major groups of people who have celiac disease (Type 1 diabetics and those of European descent - Scotland and Ireland are included in that - damn Viking raiders)...I'm placing my money on celiac disease...I'm actually pretty good at self-diagnosis and don't jump on any bandwagon, but yes, before you say anything, I do have a doctor's appointment on Monday and will be bringing this up with him...
By the way, the brown rice bread I bought on the weekend tastes like mdf...going gluten free is NOT something I would do if I felt I had a choice...well, I do have a choice, I suppose...I could keep eating gluten loaded stuff and suffer excruciating pain and eventually become malnourished, but I elect not to do that...
Want to know what else has been going on that has prevented me from posting here as frequently? Well, the puppy keeps eating our floors, for starters...
Yes. Eating. the. floors.
Seems Max has some separation anxiety issues and to deal with things, he has destroyed shoes (mainly mine, although Brian did lose one pair a few months ago), furniture, toys, pencils, books, boots, mittens, hats and now the linoleum floor in the hallway...
Max now has a cage...which he actually seems to enjoy, although he apparently might have to share it with Emma, who told me several times yesterday that she wanted to be in the cage too (locked in)...and when I told her it was against the law for parents to lock their children in cages, she pointed a finger at me and told me accusingly, "You never let me do anything!"
My life may be crazy, but it's good...
I'm guessing that most people who do this update every day, but either A) they have far more interesting lives than I do and/or B) they do not have four children who are now home all the time.
Nope, it's not March/Spring break here yet.
We are homeschoolers.
Yep, you read right...homeschoolers.
We decided to take the plunge one month ago...telling the kids that this is an experiment (and one that can end at any time if they or I decide that things are not going well and we can no longer stand the sight of each other)...but so far, things have been going remarkably well...my biggest fears were that the four of them would be so sick of being around one another that there would be massive fights and screaming that could be heard from Ottawa to Toronto...or that I would be curled into the fetal position by the end of the day, hiding from them, Brian and the pets...
There have been a few moments where the boys have tried to beat each other about the head, but I put that up to them being boys (and brothers)...but the weird (and wonderful) thing has been the stunning lack of fighting, screaming and temper tantrums (from them too)...
Being home with the children all day means a few things for me...things that I was aware of, but hadn't really focussed on...like the fact that there is very little "me" time (not that there was a whole hell of a lot of it to begin with, mind you)...but that marathon I was training for? Yeah, that's going to have to wait...and updating this blog? Well, I'm a little slow on that too...
And along with home schooling, there have, of course, been new health issues to deal with...specifically, celiac disease.
I've known for quite some time now that something was up with me; I just didn't know what...and no, it's not official yet, but since I went gluten free a few days ago and last night ate one (one) piece of garlic toast with my (gluten free) dinner and my stomach blew up five inches larger than it had been before I ate the toast and was so painful I wanted to scream and because of the ten most common symptoms of the disease I have six of them and fall into the two major groups of people who have celiac disease (Type 1 diabetics and those of European descent - Scotland and Ireland are included in that - damn Viking raiders)...I'm placing my money on celiac disease...I'm actually pretty good at self-diagnosis and don't jump on any bandwagon, but yes, before you say anything, I do have a doctor's appointment on Monday and will be bringing this up with him...
By the way, the brown rice bread I bought on the weekend tastes like mdf...going gluten free is NOT something I would do if I felt I had a choice...well, I do have a choice, I suppose...I could keep eating gluten loaded stuff and suffer excruciating pain and eventually become malnourished, but I elect not to do that...
Want to know what else has been going on that has prevented me from posting here as frequently? Well, the puppy keeps eating our floors, for starters...
Yes. Eating. the. floors.
Seems Max has some separation anxiety issues and to deal with things, he has destroyed shoes (mainly mine, although Brian did lose one pair a few months ago), furniture, toys, pencils, books, boots, mittens, hats and now the linoleum floor in the hallway...
Max now has a cage...which he actually seems to enjoy, although he apparently might have to share it with Emma, who told me several times yesterday that she wanted to be in the cage too (locked in)...and when I told her it was against the law for parents to lock their children in cages, she pointed a finger at me and told me accusingly, "You never let me do anything!"
My life may be crazy, but it's good...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I Have Succumbed...
...I am a twit.
I have joined the ranks of Twitterers...
And I already have 9 whole followers...
Who cares if they are mostly people I know whose names I clicked on and followed first...
This whole thing is strange to me...Twitter, Facebook, blogs...the fact that I can find out what Sherri Shepherd (from The View) is thinking as she sits at a party with Beyonce and Jay-Z (and what kind of name is Jay-Z anyway? Who came up with that?) is weird...
The fact that I am writing about Sherri Shepherd writing about being at a party with other celebrities is weird...
I do have bigger things on my plate right now...
Like whether we are pulling the kids out of their school to homeschool them because the school is going to switch over to a so-called "balanced day schedule"-which, for those of you who may not have heard the screams of rage coming from our house, is not something Brian and I think is a good idea (and don't any of you give me any crap about how your kids/school is following this kind of schedule and it's working just fine...the reports claiming how well the balanced day schedule works are mixed, at best, and by the way, the kids are the ones not happy with it...and frankly, that's more important to me than whether the principal and teachers are skipping through the halls because they like the bsd...on top of which, I have three of four kids with ADHD, and this kind of schedule will not work for them...so there.)...
The concerns about pulling the kids out of school to teach them here has less to do with my abilities to spend all day long every day with my children than with the fact they won't get to see their friends as often...Avery, being the school nut/fan that she is (she was upset that she had to stay home two days this week because she had a sore throat), was one I worried about...in fact, she told me yesterday when I asked her what she thought about the idea of being homeschooled that she didn't like it because she wouldn't get to see her friends...when I told her that arrangements could be made for her to see them, she still wasn't convinced, because, as she told me, she doesn't know where they all live...after being told that we could find out that information, she still wasn't sure...until I told her that being homeschooled meant that we could take a three week vacation in the middle of winter if we wanted...then she exclaimed,
"A three week vacation in the middle of winter? I'm there!"
Jamie doesn't like going to school anyway...neither does Ian (especially since he deals daily with other kids picking on him-and yes, we have gone to the teachers, resource teacher and prinicpal about it...which is fine and what we are supposed to do, because they talk to the kids in class, tell them what they can and cannot say to other students, the children politely agree and then they go out into the hallways and onto the playground and revert back to the snotty brats they were...which is what kids do, I know, but that doesn't make it any easier to keep your temper when it's your kid being picked on)...Emma, after taking nearly a year to get into school, finally decided in the last week of school last June, that she did like it and wants to keep going...unless everybody else is complaining about how much they don't want to go to school (Avery aside) and then she joins in the chorus...
So really, there is a lot more to think about other than Twitter or Facebook or...well, maybe just one more quick peek...
I have joined the ranks of Twitterers...
And I already have 9 whole followers...
Who cares if they are mostly people I know whose names I clicked on and followed first...
This whole thing is strange to me...Twitter, Facebook, blogs...the fact that I can find out what Sherri Shepherd (from The View) is thinking as she sits at a party with Beyonce and Jay-Z (and what kind of name is Jay-Z anyway? Who came up with that?) is weird...
The fact that I am writing about Sherri Shepherd writing about being at a party with other celebrities is weird...
I do have bigger things on my plate right now...
Like whether we are pulling the kids out of their school to homeschool them because the school is going to switch over to a so-called "balanced day schedule"-which, for those of you who may not have heard the screams of rage coming from our house, is not something Brian and I think is a good idea (and don't any of you give me any crap about how your kids/school is following this kind of schedule and it's working just fine...the reports claiming how well the balanced day schedule works are mixed, at best, and by the way, the kids are the ones not happy with it...and frankly, that's more important to me than whether the principal and teachers are skipping through the halls because they like the bsd...on top of which, I have three of four kids with ADHD, and this kind of schedule will not work for them...so there.)...
The concerns about pulling the kids out of school to teach them here has less to do with my abilities to spend all day long every day with my children than with the fact they won't get to see their friends as often...Avery, being the school nut/fan that she is (she was upset that she had to stay home two days this week because she had a sore throat), was one I worried about...in fact, she told me yesterday when I asked her what she thought about the idea of being homeschooled that she didn't like it because she wouldn't get to see her friends...when I told her that arrangements could be made for her to see them, she still wasn't convinced, because, as she told me, she doesn't know where they all live...after being told that we could find out that information, she still wasn't sure...until I told her that being homeschooled meant that we could take a three week vacation in the middle of winter if we wanted...then she exclaimed,
"A three week vacation in the middle of winter? I'm there!"
Jamie doesn't like going to school anyway...neither does Ian (especially since he deals daily with other kids picking on him-and yes, we have gone to the teachers, resource teacher and prinicpal about it...which is fine and what we are supposed to do, because they talk to the kids in class, tell them what they can and cannot say to other students, the children politely agree and then they go out into the hallways and onto the playground and revert back to the snotty brats they were...which is what kids do, I know, but that doesn't make it any easier to keep your temper when it's your kid being picked on)...Emma, after taking nearly a year to get into school, finally decided in the last week of school last June, that she did like it and wants to keep going...unless everybody else is complaining about how much they don't want to go to school (Avery aside) and then she joins in the chorus...
So really, there is a lot more to think about other than Twitter or Facebook or...well, maybe just one more quick peek...
Monday, February 1, 2010
Noooooo!!!
I have successfully stayed away from Twitter...Brian regularly "tweets" (and I regularly ask him if that makes him a "twit"...then I laugh uproariously while my beloved husband rolls his eyes,makes derogatory comments about my family's background and hums the banjo music from "Deliverance" under his breath)...however, I will say this, it is his boss who wants him on Twitter...
But now, after a year of teasing Brian, he has suggested that I join the twits of the world and sign up for a Twitter account...why? Because it may help direct traffic to my Examiner page (and the more traffic I get, the more I get paid)...
With Facebook, this blog and now an Examiner page, how much more does anyone really want to hear from me?
And does anyone really need to know or want to know what I am doing every minute of the day?
Sometimes even I get too much information about myself...
But now, after a year of teasing Brian, he has suggested that I join the twits of the world and sign up for a Twitter account...why? Because it may help direct traffic to my Examiner page (and the more traffic I get, the more I get paid)...
With Facebook, this blog and now an Examiner page, how much more does anyone really want to hear from me?
And does anyone really need to know or want to know what I am doing every minute of the day?
Sometimes even I get too much information about myself...
Friday, January 29, 2010
All The News That's Fit to Print...
It has been over a month since I posted (which seems to be something I say regularly)...
Ian is dealing with being bullied at school...
Avery is officially a Brownie...
Emma has lost her two bottom teeth and received the requisite payment from the Tooth Fairy...
Jamie has become the world's foremost authority on Wii bowling...
Brian has learned to survive (and just barely) on three to four hours of sleep a night due to his workload...
Max the puppy is now the size of a small pony...
Murphy has decided that Max is allowed to chew on her ears, but only for so long before she tries to bite his face off...
Taffy the cat remains as disdainful as ever...
And me?
I am now officially an Examiner...
My area of "expertise"?
Parenting.
Go figure...
Ian is dealing with being bullied at school...
Avery is officially a Brownie...
Emma has lost her two bottom teeth and received the requisite payment from the Tooth Fairy...
Jamie has become the world's foremost authority on Wii bowling...
Brian has learned to survive (and just barely) on three to four hours of sleep a night due to his workload...
Max the puppy is now the size of a small pony...
Murphy has decided that Max is allowed to chew on her ears, but only for so long before she tries to bite his face off...
Taffy the cat remains as disdainful as ever...
And me?
I am now officially an Examiner...
My area of "expertise"?
Parenting.
Go figure...
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Countdown, Part Two...
I am in a state of shock.
We actually have every gift purchased, wrapped and waiting to be placed under the tree...
In 13 years, this has never happened...
Ok, that's not quite true...since Christmas 2001, this has not happened...which means that since Ian was one and a half years old, we have been up until long past midnight wrapping gifts for children, for each other and for various family members...
And since we have four young children, that has meant that every Christmas morning, we have dragged ourselves down the stairs while our children tear down to the living room to see if Santa actually made it to our house...
But this is Christmas Eve...and technically, it's not even "Eve" yet; it's only 4:20 pm and we have everything done...
I didn't even know this was possible for the Lilley household...
Wow...a Merry Christmas indeed!
We actually have every gift purchased, wrapped and waiting to be placed under the tree...
In 13 years, this has never happened...
Ok, that's not quite true...since Christmas 2001, this has not happened...which means that since Ian was one and a half years old, we have been up until long past midnight wrapping gifts for children, for each other and for various family members...
And since we have four young children, that has meant that every Christmas morning, we have dragged ourselves down the stairs while our children tear down to the living room to see if Santa actually made it to our house...
But this is Christmas Eve...and technically, it's not even "Eve" yet; it's only 4:20 pm and we have everything done...
I didn't even know this was possible for the Lilley household...
Wow...a Merry Christmas indeed!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Countdown Starts...
Turkey defrosting? Check...
Rolls done? Check...
Cookies baked and decorated? Check...
Fudge? Check...
Nut bars? Check...
Cheesecake? Check...
Fruitcake? Check...
Christmas cards mailed? Check...
Gifts bought? Check...(note I did not say wrapped)
House cleaned? Check...
Ready to pass out and/or drink heavily?
Check...
Rolls done? Check...
Cookies baked and decorated? Check...
Fudge? Check...
Nut bars? Check...
Cheesecake? Check...
Fruitcake? Check...
Christmas cards mailed? Check...
Gifts bought? Check...(note I did not say wrapped)
House cleaned? Check...
Ready to pass out and/or drink heavily?
Check...
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
It's Beginning To Feel A Lot Like Christmas...
...which means Mama freaked out today...
I am a neat freak.
There. I've said it.
I need my space (and by my space, I mean every corner of my house) to be neat and tidy...no clutter whatsoever...to feel cool and calm...
As you can imagine, with four children, three pets and a husband, this is something that is rather difficult to achieve...
It is now two days before Christmas Eve, the children are home on vacation, as is Brian and the house seems to have exploded...there are bits of crap everywhere I look...toys that have been left wherever some child has dropped them...leftover Christmas cards (from our mad dash to make sure everyone on our list gets one-which is something we never used to do, but somehow have fallen prey in the last few years to the Christmas card mania/pressure to send them out)...little bits and pieces that seem to have accumulated on the dishwasher, the kitchen counters, the top of the piano...
Added to the mess is the knowledge that there are presents that still need to be wrapped, baking that I promised for Christmas dinner and a puppy who pees on the carpet every time he's about to hit a growth spurt (did I mention he's about to grow? Again?) and you end up with my head spinning like a top while steam streams from my nostrils (picture a pressure cooker about to blow and you get the idea)...
Brian took the kids out to the sorting station to mail their letters to Santa today...firstly so their letters will get there on time and more importantly, to save their little lives...
While they were gone, I hung the pictures I wanted, cleaned the main level of the house and started wrapping some of those gifts...but not before I screamed, yelled and cried because I felt so much stress that I told the dogs I was going to cancel Christmas at the Lilley household (they didn't answer, so I figured they didn't care one way or the other)...I ran from one room to the other, not knowing what to do first and finally ended up stopping in the dining room, crying, utterly exhausted...that was when I finally looked up to the heavens and asked for some help...and found out once again that God is pretty good at coming to my rescue...that one little prayer helped take my stress away...and by the time the five of them got home, Mama was a sane person once again...
I sat calmly and quietly on the couch for a few minutes with Brian, describing the freak out I'd had while he was gone (I even yelled at him - while he was gone and couldn't hear me and didn't know I was doing it - for failing to make the bed when he got up this morning...the fact that I was the last one in it didn't matter at that point)...and as we sat there, I realized that as I gazed around the room, I felt peaceful and relaxed because everything was neat and tidy (we won't even talk about the kitchen or our bedroom which have yet to be tidied up)...
It's a sickness...I know...
I am a neat freak.
There. I've said it.
I need my space (and by my space, I mean every corner of my house) to be neat and tidy...no clutter whatsoever...to feel cool and calm...
As you can imagine, with four children, three pets and a husband, this is something that is rather difficult to achieve...
It is now two days before Christmas Eve, the children are home on vacation, as is Brian and the house seems to have exploded...there are bits of crap everywhere I look...toys that have been left wherever some child has dropped them...leftover Christmas cards (from our mad dash to make sure everyone on our list gets one-which is something we never used to do, but somehow have fallen prey in the last few years to the Christmas card mania/pressure to send them out)...little bits and pieces that seem to have accumulated on the dishwasher, the kitchen counters, the top of the piano...
Added to the mess is the knowledge that there are presents that still need to be wrapped, baking that I promised for Christmas dinner and a puppy who pees on the carpet every time he's about to hit a growth spurt (did I mention he's about to grow? Again?) and you end up with my head spinning like a top while steam streams from my nostrils (picture a pressure cooker about to blow and you get the idea)...
Brian took the kids out to the sorting station to mail their letters to Santa today...firstly so their letters will get there on time and more importantly, to save their little lives...
While they were gone, I hung the pictures I wanted, cleaned the main level of the house and started wrapping some of those gifts...but not before I screamed, yelled and cried because I felt so much stress that I told the dogs I was going to cancel Christmas at the Lilley household (they didn't answer, so I figured they didn't care one way or the other)...I ran from one room to the other, not knowing what to do first and finally ended up stopping in the dining room, crying, utterly exhausted...that was when I finally looked up to the heavens and asked for some help...and found out once again that God is pretty good at coming to my rescue...that one little prayer helped take my stress away...and by the time the five of them got home, Mama was a sane person once again...
I sat calmly and quietly on the couch for a few minutes with Brian, describing the freak out I'd had while he was gone (I even yelled at him - while he was gone and couldn't hear me and didn't know I was doing it - for failing to make the bed when he got up this morning...the fact that I was the last one in it didn't matter at that point)...and as we sat there, I realized that as I gazed around the room, I felt peaceful and relaxed because everything was neat and tidy (we won't even talk about the kitchen or our bedroom which have yet to be tidied up)...
It's a sickness...I know...
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Update That Is W-a-a-y Overdue...
It is December 13 and it has been a month and a half since I have posted anything here...
I don't even have my sister's excuse of just having had a baby...
My excuse is that I spent November trying to get my iron levels raised...for those of you who may not know, I was so tired the entire month of October that I did things that are nearly unprecedented for me...I took naps. I could barely get out of bed in the morning and once I did finally drag myself out, I ended up lying down on the couch, pitifully and plaintively begging Brian to bring me a cup of industrial strength coffee in the vain hope that it would help me get moving...
For a few weeks, I thought it was mainly the aftereffects of having swine flu, but when I finally did get in to see my doctor (not because he wasn't available, but because I stubbornly refused to believe that my lethargy was due to anything other than my own weakness-yes, I am that hard on myself), he ordered blood tests and lo, and behold, my ferritin levels were at 9. They should have been at 80. A touch anemic, shall we say?
Oy vey...
So Doc informs me that I should start taking a certain iron supplement, twice a day for at least six months, at which point, we'll re-do the bloodwork...which was great news, except for one minor detail. Said supplement was like trying to find a needle in a friggin' haystack...
When I finally found the stuff, I happily started taking the little green pills (little might be a tad of a stretch...they are about a half inch long!), my energy levels started coming up (miracle of miracles!) and then I found out that I couldn't get another bottle...why? Because the manufacturer hadn't expected such a huge demand and they were on a two month backorder/waiting list for the stuff! Which meant that for two glorious weeks, I started feeling better and then spent another three on a slow backward slide towards the land of zero energy...
On the upside, I went to my pharmacy one day to pick up insulin for myself, happened to enquire about the iron, and discovered that just that morning, a fresh supply had arrived...I quickly bought a bottle and started taking the pills again...only, in an effort to save money (and the possibility that there will be another wait for the stuff), I'm only taking one a day...sorry Dr. Barry!...however, my energy levels have started coming up again and it's nice to start feeling human this close to Christmas...
Which brings me to my latest...
I am insane.
Why?
Because I have decided to run a marathon.
About 15 years ago, I started running. Ten years ago, I was pregnant with my first child and wasn't running at all...about a year after Ian was born, I decided to try running again...at which point, I found out that having a baby had left me with the inability to run without peeing myself...of course, I thought I was doing something wrong and ranted and raved at myself for days (ok, probably weeks) on end for being a failure...
Yeah, yeah, I know, not being able to run does not make me (or anyone else) a loser...but I did say that I was hard on myself, did I not?
Two years later, I tried again (after baby #2 had made her appearance), with the same effect...
More ranting and name calling ensued...
In the spring of 2007, I decided that enough was enough and I was ready to try strapping on the shoes again...and ran in my very first race that July...a 5km race that was just for fun (and to prove to myself that I could do it)...once the race was over, I decided to enter a 10k race. I ran that race in September 2007, but about 8 km into it, my right knee felt like someone was taking a hot poker to it and I had to walk a chunk of the race (I finished running, but I was down on myself for not being able to run the entire thing...but I finished, I kept telling myself)...for the next few weeks after the race, I hobbled around, wondering if I would ever be able to run again...
Which I couldn't, not really, because on top of the knee issues, I also ended up peeing myself every time I went out for a run...the after effect of having four babies in just under four years...
I had sort of resigned myself to the fact that I would never be a runner again...which bothered me, because I love it...
And then a few weeks ago, I was watching "The Biggest Loser" on a Tuesday night...I watch it because I find it inspiring...it drives me to want to work out longer, stronger...and frankly, seeing how big some of those contestants are makes me feel teeny, tiny (which some days I need, especially if I'm feeling particularly blah)...and these people, who all outweighed me by at least 50 pounds, were running a marathon...their knees were screaming at them and they weren't running very fast, but they were running and they just kept going, no matter how much they wanted to stop...
Now, part of not stopping may have been the camera crew in their faces and not wanting to look bad on tv, but I happen to think that the real reason they kept pounding the pavement was to prove to themselves that they could do it...
And I want to prove to me that I can do it too...
So last week, I started running again...just for 15 minutes at a time...and I only went out three days...but I did it...and by Wednesday, I was on the phone with my sister (the one who just had a baby two months ago), asking her if she wanted to run it with me...she's not sure (she does have this weird foot problem that no one seems to be able to figure out-it's been swollen for something like 7 years now), but whether she joins me or not, I am doing this.
On May 30, 2010, at 7 am, I am going to be standing with thousands of other runners, waiting for the starting gun...I won't win any speed records, but I will prove to myself that I can finish the race and when I do, that little nasty voice inside my head that tells me I can't do it, whatever it is...will be shut up forever...
I don't even have my sister's excuse of just having had a baby...
My excuse is that I spent November trying to get my iron levels raised...for those of you who may not know, I was so tired the entire month of October that I did things that are nearly unprecedented for me...I took naps. I could barely get out of bed in the morning and once I did finally drag myself out, I ended up lying down on the couch, pitifully and plaintively begging Brian to bring me a cup of industrial strength coffee in the vain hope that it would help me get moving...
For a few weeks, I thought it was mainly the aftereffects of having swine flu, but when I finally did get in to see my doctor (not because he wasn't available, but because I stubbornly refused to believe that my lethargy was due to anything other than my own weakness-yes, I am that hard on myself), he ordered blood tests and lo, and behold, my ferritin levels were at 9. They should have been at 80. A touch anemic, shall we say?
Oy vey...
So Doc informs me that I should start taking a certain iron supplement, twice a day for at least six months, at which point, we'll re-do the bloodwork...which was great news, except for one minor detail. Said supplement was like trying to find a needle in a friggin' haystack...
When I finally found the stuff, I happily started taking the little green pills (little might be a tad of a stretch...they are about a half inch long!), my energy levels started coming up (miracle of miracles!) and then I found out that I couldn't get another bottle...why? Because the manufacturer hadn't expected such a huge demand and they were on a two month backorder/waiting list for the stuff! Which meant that for two glorious weeks, I started feeling better and then spent another three on a slow backward slide towards the land of zero energy...
On the upside, I went to my pharmacy one day to pick up insulin for myself, happened to enquire about the iron, and discovered that just that morning, a fresh supply had arrived...I quickly bought a bottle and started taking the pills again...only, in an effort to save money (and the possibility that there will be another wait for the stuff), I'm only taking one a day...sorry Dr. Barry!...however, my energy levels have started coming up again and it's nice to start feeling human this close to Christmas...
Which brings me to my latest...
I am insane.
Why?
Because I have decided to run a marathon.
About 15 years ago, I started running. Ten years ago, I was pregnant with my first child and wasn't running at all...about a year after Ian was born, I decided to try running again...at which point, I found out that having a baby had left me with the inability to run without peeing myself...of course, I thought I was doing something wrong and ranted and raved at myself for days (ok, probably weeks) on end for being a failure...
Yeah, yeah, I know, not being able to run does not make me (or anyone else) a loser...but I did say that I was hard on myself, did I not?
Two years later, I tried again (after baby #2 had made her appearance), with the same effect...
More ranting and name calling ensued...
In the spring of 2007, I decided that enough was enough and I was ready to try strapping on the shoes again...and ran in my very first race that July...a 5km race that was just for fun (and to prove to myself that I could do it)...once the race was over, I decided to enter a 10k race. I ran that race in September 2007, but about 8 km into it, my right knee felt like someone was taking a hot poker to it and I had to walk a chunk of the race (I finished running, but I was down on myself for not being able to run the entire thing...but I finished, I kept telling myself)...for the next few weeks after the race, I hobbled around, wondering if I would ever be able to run again...
Which I couldn't, not really, because on top of the knee issues, I also ended up peeing myself every time I went out for a run...the after effect of having four babies in just under four years...
I had sort of resigned myself to the fact that I would never be a runner again...which bothered me, because I love it...
And then a few weeks ago, I was watching "The Biggest Loser" on a Tuesday night...I watch it because I find it inspiring...it drives me to want to work out longer, stronger...and frankly, seeing how big some of those contestants are makes me feel teeny, tiny (which some days I need, especially if I'm feeling particularly blah)...and these people, who all outweighed me by at least 50 pounds, were running a marathon...their knees were screaming at them and they weren't running very fast, but they were running and they just kept going, no matter how much they wanted to stop...
Now, part of not stopping may have been the camera crew in their faces and not wanting to look bad on tv, but I happen to think that the real reason they kept pounding the pavement was to prove to themselves that they could do it...
And I want to prove to me that I can do it too...
So last week, I started running again...just for 15 minutes at a time...and I only went out three days...but I did it...and by Wednesday, I was on the phone with my sister (the one who just had a baby two months ago), asking her if she wanted to run it with me...she's not sure (she does have this weird foot problem that no one seems to be able to figure out-it's been swollen for something like 7 years now), but whether she joins me or not, I am doing this.
On May 30, 2010, at 7 am, I am going to be standing with thousands of other runners, waiting for the starting gun...I won't win any speed records, but I will prove to myself that I can finish the race and when I do, that little nasty voice inside my head that tells me I can't do it, whatever it is...will be shut up forever...
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Aack! Oink, Oink...
Friday, September 18, 2009...
The last day I felt truly well...
We had friends over for dinner that night and by the time they went home for the evening, my nose and throat had that itchy, scratchy, uh-oh I'm coming down with something feel to them...
By the next morning, I was definitely sick...
And have been for two weeks straight...
I kept hoping that I would wake up one morning and miraculously feel better, but alas, no such luck...
Brian forced me to go to the doctor on Thursday (ok, it wasn't that I was refusing to, I just hadn't been able to get in, but somehow Brian not only got through to the receptionist, he also managed to snag the last open appointment for me)...anyway, Thursday morning saw me sitting with our doctor, telling him my symptoms...low grade fever, aches, pains, chills, runny nose, stuffed up nose, cough (oh the coughing!), nausea...and guess what?
I have the flu...
The flu...
The one that everyone is afraid to say out loud because they think a hasmat team is going to come swooping down and quarantine entire neighbourhoods to try to save us all from the dreaded (ssh!) swine flu...
Now first off, I refuse to call it that bunch of numbers and letters that the media is calling it...everyone I know calls it swine flu (although I do have a nurse friend who says that at the hospital she works at, the staff is referring to it as "heiney"-which I like and have now used a few times myself)...and I know the reason for changing the name was because pig farmers were getting upset because people weren't buying as much pork (but hey, that meant cheaper meat for the rest of us who are smart enough to figure out that Canadian pigs were/are not to blame for this)...
Secondly, a few people have called up to make sure that I'm ok (I am) and wanting to discuss what it's like having swine flu...
It's like having the flu.
Brian, my husband, who is a reporter here in Ottawa, has had to cover swine flu extensively since this whole thing started up and so I believe him (over other media reports) when he tells me that the Chief Medical Officer of Canada says that swine flu killed less people than the seasonal flu last year and that it is no more severe than regular flu this year for most people...which is true every year. If you have an underlying medical condition, you are at a higher risk for getting it (which, being diabetic, means that I am in that category). The bigger problem comes if you develop pneumonia along with the flu (again, I had pneumonia last spring, so I'm more likely to get it again-but so far, my lungs are clear, something for which I am grateful) because you can go from being ok to very ill pretty quickly...but that is something that can happen with plain old flu too...
So. The moral of the story is: #1: Don't freak out if you hear the words "swine flu". Get as much rest as possible (not so easy in this house, but I'm trying) and #2: Don't listen to any other reporter but Brian Lilley. Seriously...
And now I'm going back to bed...
The last day I felt truly well...
We had friends over for dinner that night and by the time they went home for the evening, my nose and throat had that itchy, scratchy, uh-oh I'm coming down with something feel to them...
By the next morning, I was definitely sick...
And have been for two weeks straight...
I kept hoping that I would wake up one morning and miraculously feel better, but alas, no such luck...
Brian forced me to go to the doctor on Thursday (ok, it wasn't that I was refusing to, I just hadn't been able to get in, but somehow Brian not only got through to the receptionist, he also managed to snag the last open appointment for me)...anyway, Thursday morning saw me sitting with our doctor, telling him my symptoms...low grade fever, aches, pains, chills, runny nose, stuffed up nose, cough (oh the coughing!), nausea...and guess what?
I have the flu...
The flu...
The one that everyone is afraid to say out loud because they think a hasmat team is going to come swooping down and quarantine entire neighbourhoods to try to save us all from the dreaded (ssh!) swine flu...
Now first off, I refuse to call it that bunch of numbers and letters that the media is calling it...everyone I know calls it swine flu (although I do have a nurse friend who says that at the hospital she works at, the staff is referring to it as "heiney"-which I like and have now used a few times myself)...and I know the reason for changing the name was because pig farmers were getting upset because people weren't buying as much pork (but hey, that meant cheaper meat for the rest of us who are smart enough to figure out that Canadian pigs were/are not to blame for this)...
Secondly, a few people have called up to make sure that I'm ok (I am) and wanting to discuss what it's like having swine flu...
It's like having the flu.
Brian, my husband, who is a reporter here in Ottawa, has had to cover swine flu extensively since this whole thing started up and so I believe him (over other media reports) when he tells me that the Chief Medical Officer of Canada says that swine flu killed less people than the seasonal flu last year and that it is no more severe than regular flu this year for most people...which is true every year. If you have an underlying medical condition, you are at a higher risk for getting it (which, being diabetic, means that I am in that category). The bigger problem comes if you develop pneumonia along with the flu (again, I had pneumonia last spring, so I'm more likely to get it again-but so far, my lungs are clear, something for which I am grateful) because you can go from being ok to very ill pretty quickly...but that is something that can happen with plain old flu too...
So. The moral of the story is: #1: Don't freak out if you hear the words "swine flu". Get as much rest as possible (not so easy in this house, but I'm trying) and #2: Don't listen to any other reporter but Brian Lilley. Seriously...
And now I'm going back to bed...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sometimes It Takes Me A Little While To Get It...
It has been over a month since I've updated this blog and in that time, school has started, Brian and I celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary, I have cleaned up more dog poop than I ever thought possible, I've wrangled with the kids about homework and have somehow managed to come down with another round of pneumonia...at least, I'm hoping it's pneumonia and not swine flu...
After nearly two weeks or recurring fever, persistent cough, aches, pains and chills, a nose that can't make up its mind whether to run profusely or to stay so plugged up I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton, my husband has decided that I am going to see our doctor tomorrow...
I am neither a good nurse nor a good patient...
I have also been grappling with the idea of what I want to do when I grow up...which may seem odd to some of you, since I am, by my own admission, past the 40-mark...and yet, I still wonder from time to time if I've made the right choices...
When I was 10 years old, I started a story about a soldier in World War I. I graphically described the muddy trench and the itchy wool uniform that the soldier wore, which was an interesting choice, because at the age of 10, I had absolutely no clue what I was talking about (technically, I still don't, never having been a soldier in WWI). I showed the story to my visiting grandmother, who told me that I should be a writer.
In high school english classes, I had teachers who told me that I had a good voice, that I told stories beautifully and that I should consider being a writer.
In university drama classes, I had a professor who insisted that I and my classmates keep journals...in one entry (I still have the journal from that time), I ranted about not being cast in a play. I was very upset at the time and demanded (albeit only of the journal) to know if writing my own plays would be the only way I would ever get cast in something (it wasn't). The note I got back from the prof? "You should be a writer."
I ignored all of the advice and got married, had four kids and found that the life I had chosen for myself was pretty good and made me very happy...the only thing I ever wrote was a couple of stories for my kids and emails to friends and family, and maybe a few thank you notes and Christmas cards along the way...
So last week, with all four kids settled back into a routine at school, I decided to take some time and figure out what I was meant to do with my life/talents. I sat down at the computer, typed "what career should I have" into the Google search bar and found page after page of online questionnaires all designed to give me insight into my personality...questions to help me figure out if I should be going back to school...maybe I should be a doctor? A lawyer? Teacher? What, oh what, is my true calling?
Three tests later, the answer was the same from all three...
You should be a writer.
Sigh...
You know, the novel might be done by now if I'd listened to Gram in the first place...
After nearly two weeks or recurring fever, persistent cough, aches, pains and chills, a nose that can't make up its mind whether to run profusely or to stay so plugged up I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton, my husband has decided that I am going to see our doctor tomorrow...
I am neither a good nurse nor a good patient...
I have also been grappling with the idea of what I want to do when I grow up...which may seem odd to some of you, since I am, by my own admission, past the 40-mark...and yet, I still wonder from time to time if I've made the right choices...
When I was 10 years old, I started a story about a soldier in World War I. I graphically described the muddy trench and the itchy wool uniform that the soldier wore, which was an interesting choice, because at the age of 10, I had absolutely no clue what I was talking about (technically, I still don't, never having been a soldier in WWI). I showed the story to my visiting grandmother, who told me that I should be a writer.
In high school english classes, I had teachers who told me that I had a good voice, that I told stories beautifully and that I should consider being a writer.
In university drama classes, I had a professor who insisted that I and my classmates keep journals...in one entry (I still have the journal from that time), I ranted about not being cast in a play. I was very upset at the time and demanded (albeit only of the journal) to know if writing my own plays would be the only way I would ever get cast in something (it wasn't). The note I got back from the prof? "You should be a writer."
I ignored all of the advice and got married, had four kids and found that the life I had chosen for myself was pretty good and made me very happy...the only thing I ever wrote was a couple of stories for my kids and emails to friends and family, and maybe a few thank you notes and Christmas cards along the way...
So last week, with all four kids settled back into a routine at school, I decided to take some time and figure out what I was meant to do with my life/talents. I sat down at the computer, typed "what career should I have" into the Google search bar and found page after page of online questionnaires all designed to give me insight into my personality...questions to help me figure out if I should be going back to school...maybe I should be a doctor? A lawyer? Teacher? What, oh what, is my true calling?
Three tests later, the answer was the same from all three...
You should be a writer.
Sigh...
You know, the novel might be done by now if I'd listened to Gram in the first place...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, H-a-p-p-y Anniversary...
Thirty years ago today, I sat in a doctor's office waiting to hear the results of the blood tests I had had done weeks earlier. After a two hour wait with my mother, I was more than a little cranky and only wanted to go home. The doctor spoke the words that would change my life forever:
"Now I know someone who was just diagnosed with diabetes, and she leads a perfectly normal life."
I was eleven years old at the time, but even then I knew that living with diabetes meant I was far from normal.
I was in the hospital for two weeks that July, while I learned the ins and outs of testing my urine for sugar and ketones (home blood testing was at least four years away then) and how to give myself insulin shots.
One afternoon, while I sat on my bed killing time until I could take a quick walk around the hospital's duck pond, a nurse came into my room, sat on the end of my bed and told me in her faltering English that I would not live to an old age.
For years, when recounting the story, I gave that nurse the benefit of the doubt: I always told people that if her English had been better (or my French better), that she would have finished her sentence with words along the lines of "...if you don't look after yourself..."
But, she didn't and I spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of panic. I didn't tell my parents or the attending physicians about my fears. But for an 11 year old, 20 seemed like the eipitome of old age...and so I spent my adolescence knowing that I was going to die some day...and some day soon. I never had that teenage I'm-going-to-live-forever-nothing-can-touch-me-I'm-invincible attitude that many of my peers had. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, just how short my time on earth was.
And then in April of 1988, I turned 20. I spent months wondering just when the end was going to come. I never shared my fears with anyone, because I knew they would never understand that I was preparing for my death, just when I was supposed to be starting my life.
Five years later I turned 25. I have a journal from that time, and the entry for my birthday that year starts off like this: "Today I am 25. I never thought I would live this long."
At 28, I met the man who is now my husband. He was (well, is) three and a half years younger than I am, and I thought it unfair to plan a future with him, because by then I figured I was living on borrowed time and that 30 would be the year that I died. In the meantime, he wanted to get married and have children (something that I had been told while still a teenager would probably not be possible for me...oh, sure, I could try to get pregnant, but the odds of me delivering a healthy baby and living myself were not very good...apparently this is why we have a dog today-I told my then-boyfriend that I would probably never be able to have kids and so we should get a dog to compensate. I do not remember ever making this statement, but it is Brian's story too, and that's the line he's sticking with...).
In March of 1998, I started to freak out about the fact that I was turning 30. Many friends and family thought it was because of the year itself. What none of them knew, including the boyfriend who had by then become the fiance, was that my fears about my demise began to consume my thoughts. I was in the middle of planning a wedding and felt like a fraud, because I was sure that, having been given the grace of an extra ten years, the ride was about to end, and how could I subject my soon to be new husband to that pain? I should just end it with him, let him off the hook easy...rather than make him have to plan a funeral.
By the time my 30th year was up and I was celebrating the fact that I was 31, I had decided to stop worrying about it. Pregnant with our first child, despite the doomsday predictions of 20 years earlier, I finally decided to stop fighting diabetes. For two decades I had tried to ignore it and punish my body for its betrayal of me. I drank my way through my 20's just like everyone else I knew. I smoked pot and cigarettes (briefly) and not only inhaled, revelled in the fact that I was doing something that would speed up the process of death. I took no notice of my blood sugar and ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
And yet, despite all the abuse I heaped upon myself, my body somehow managed to survive me. It gave my husband and I four beautiful children. It has laughed and loved for over four decades and even though it does not look like some supermodel's body, it is a beautiful thing and I am still learning what it is capable of doing.
Diabetes is a serious disease. The list of complications that can arise from having it is as long as my arm. But diabetes is not a cross for me. It is not a death sentence. Rather, for me, especially in the last ten years, it has become an affirmation of life...my life. Because of diabetes, I have actually stopped while walking down the street to smell the roses; I have lifted my face to the sky, just to feel the mist upon it; I have gazed in awe at the setting sun and realized just how small I am in the vastness of this wonderful world I live in...diabetes has made me appreciate the simple things in life...
The disease that was supposed to be my enemy and shorten my life has allowed me to live more fully than I ever thought possible and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The Saga Continues...
So after dealing with pneumonia for the last three weeks, I went to the dentist yesterday morning with my daughters. They both got a thumbs-up, as neither of them had any cavities or any problems with their teeth. I too, got a good report as far as having cavities, but when my dentist took a look at the two top teeth (I have no idea what their technical name is), she gave me a horrified glance and said, "Ok, we need to take an x-ray of that tooth!"
Now the thing is this...a few years ago, one of my children (I think it might have been Jamie) head butted me while sitting on my lap. At the time, I went to see my dentist because the top teeth felt a bit loose to me. And in fact, they had been slightly loosened from the blow. During that visit, Dr. Telang told me that she had seen a lot of mothers who came in with chipped teeth or missing them altogether...the cause? Their children. (Fathers apparently don't suffer the same fate as mothers and I'm not sure why this is...maybe they don't hold their kids as often? Or maybe it's because they are more aware of the potential for danger and keep their heads well away from the aforementioned children?)...
The teeth in question healed just fine.
A few weeks ago, another child managed to throw her head back (yes, this time it was Emma), and hit me square in the mouth. She cried, I yelled, all seemed to be fine.
And then I noticed (around the time I was dealing with the pneumonia) that my top teeth seemed to be a bit looser than the surrounding teeth. I decided to wait until my dentist's appointment to bring the matter up...which led to the x-ray taken yesterday morning.
And then I learned that not only was I not imagining the teeth being looser than usual, but I would have to exist on a soft food diet. No biting into anything. Not even a sandwich. For ten days. After the ten days are up, I am to check the teeth again, and if there is no improvement, then I have to go back to the dentist, whereupon I may be sent to a root canal specialist.
I took the girls to school and then went home and complained loudly to my husband about the diagnosis and the diet prescription. Brian suggested that I should try Boost (a meal replacement drink thingy).
Last night for dinner, while trying to eat a hamburger (On a bun. Cut into tiny pieces. With a knife and fork.), I casually asked my husband what exactly was involved in a root canal. He put down his fork and pointing to his front tooth, he began, "Well, they drill up through..."
That was as far as he got before I yelled something incoherent and jumped up out of my chair.
"Now are you on board with the soft food diet?" he asked me calmly.
Yes...yes, I am...
Now the thing is this...a few years ago, one of my children (I think it might have been Jamie) head butted me while sitting on my lap. At the time, I went to see my dentist because the top teeth felt a bit loose to me. And in fact, they had been slightly loosened from the blow. During that visit, Dr. Telang told me that she had seen a lot of mothers who came in with chipped teeth or missing them altogether...the cause? Their children. (Fathers apparently don't suffer the same fate as mothers and I'm not sure why this is...maybe they don't hold their kids as often? Or maybe it's because they are more aware of the potential for danger and keep their heads well away from the aforementioned children?)...
The teeth in question healed just fine.
A few weeks ago, another child managed to throw her head back (yes, this time it was Emma), and hit me square in the mouth. She cried, I yelled, all seemed to be fine.
And then I noticed (around the time I was dealing with the pneumonia) that my top teeth seemed to be a bit looser than the surrounding teeth. I decided to wait until my dentist's appointment to bring the matter up...which led to the x-ray taken yesterday morning.
And then I learned that not only was I not imagining the teeth being looser than usual, but I would have to exist on a soft food diet. No biting into anything. Not even a sandwich. For ten days. After the ten days are up, I am to check the teeth again, and if there is no improvement, then I have to go back to the dentist, whereupon I may be sent to a root canal specialist.
I took the girls to school and then went home and complained loudly to my husband about the diagnosis and the diet prescription. Brian suggested that I should try Boost (a meal replacement drink thingy).
Last night for dinner, while trying to eat a hamburger (On a bun. Cut into tiny pieces. With a knife and fork.), I casually asked my husband what exactly was involved in a root canal. He put down his fork and pointing to his front tooth, he began, "Well, they drill up through..."
That was as far as he got before I yelled something incoherent and jumped up out of my chair.
"Now are you on board with the soft food diet?" he asked me calmly.
Yes...yes, I am...
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
What A Month...
I haven't posted a thing here in three weeks, and this time I cannot blame the children for it. Nope, this time, I place the blame squarely on the pneumonia that I somehow came down with at the end of April.
For two weeks, I ran a low-grade fever, had a cough, had no appetite and felt such low energy that it was difficult to climb out of bed every morning. During this time, Brian was at constant swine-flu updates. By the end of the first week, he started telling me to go to the doctor. Neither one of us believed that the H1N1 virus (as it came to be known by the media, due to fears that pigs were somehow going to be offended that a disease was named after one of their bretheren), but we knew something was up...or rather, Brian felt that something wasn't quite normal; I kept insisting that it was just a normal cold and that it was running the same way that any cold I have developed over the last three or four years had gone.
About ten days in, just to make my husband happy (read: get him to stop nagging me), I went to a walk-in clinic near our house. I had to take Emma and Jamie with me, and we sat in the waiting room for an hour, while I hacked into my sleeve and the other patients eyed me warily. The twins were none to happy to have to sit and do nothing, and kept demanding that we leave because "they're not even calling you in, Mama!"...I was just about to give in to their demands (and was thinking up ways to explain my leaving to Brian) when my name was called.
Emma, Jamie and I walked into the examining room, and I had them wait there while I made a two minute run to the bathroom (8 glasses of water in less than 6 hours will do that to you)...when I got back to the room, we waited for another five minutes or so and then the doctor came in. I explained to her about the fever, the weird sensation in my left ear, about how I didn't think it was swine flu, and that while neither my husband (the reporter, for those of you new here) nor I thought it was the virus, I thought I should get checked out (especially since I am also a type 1 diabetic).
I was asked if I had come in contact with anyone who had it, and I said, truthfully, "I don't know."
"Well," said the doctor. "Then you don't have it."
Which is lovely to hear, but how on earth would she know? I mean, if I didn't know if I'd been in contact with anyone who had swine flu, and the media was rampant with reports of how easy it was to catch it, how the hell would she be able to say definitively, no?
Moving right along, she listened to the top part of my lungs and told me that I had a cold. She gave me a prescription for a puffer (not sure if there's a more technical term for it) and that was it.
I saw her for less time than it took me to go pee.
She didn't look in my ears, check my temperature, take blood, do a swab...nothing but the puffer prescription.
I left, Emma and Jamie in tow, thinking, man, I should just have gone to see Dr. Barry. (He being our family physician, where there is also a walk-in clinic, but they had said they were extremely busy that particular day, and Barry wasn't in anyway)
That was on Tuesday.
By Friday morning, I still wasn't feeling any better, despite the puffer. (And in fact, I think I may have been slightly allergic to it, since every time I took the prescribed dose, I ended up feeling so dizzy I couldn't stand straight) I had an appointment with a different doctor at our regular doctor's office, and so when I got there, I asked about the walk-in clinic and found out that since I was the first one in the office that morning, I would be able to see someone without having to wait for hours on end.
After my first appointment, I sat in the waiting room for five minutes and then saw a lovely young lady (who I thought looked way too young to be a doctor, until she generously showed me the many grey hairs sprouting from the top of her head)...she looked in my ears, checked my temperature, and listened to my entire lungs...and lo, and behold, what she discovered was that I had fluid in my ears (hence the strange sensation there), a low grade fever (nearly two full weeks after the original onset of symptoms) and fluid in the lower regions of my lungs.
The diagnosis?
Atypical pneumonia...aka "walking pneumonia".
I was given a prescription for antibiotics (which worked very well, thank you very much) and told to keep using the puffer.
Without being told, I also learned that I should #1: trust my husband when he tells me something's wrong, and B: never go to that other walk-in clinic again.
There's tons more that's gone on this month that has kept me from updating here...but I'll let you in on that tomorrow...
For two weeks, I ran a low-grade fever, had a cough, had no appetite and felt such low energy that it was difficult to climb out of bed every morning. During this time, Brian was at constant swine-flu updates. By the end of the first week, he started telling me to go to the doctor. Neither one of us believed that the H1N1 virus (as it came to be known by the media, due to fears that pigs were somehow going to be offended that a disease was named after one of their bretheren), but we knew something was up...or rather, Brian felt that something wasn't quite normal; I kept insisting that it was just a normal cold and that it was running the same way that any cold I have developed over the last three or four years had gone.
About ten days in, just to make my husband happy (read: get him to stop nagging me), I went to a walk-in clinic near our house. I had to take Emma and Jamie with me, and we sat in the waiting room for an hour, while I hacked into my sleeve and the other patients eyed me warily. The twins were none to happy to have to sit and do nothing, and kept demanding that we leave because "they're not even calling you in, Mama!"...I was just about to give in to their demands (and was thinking up ways to explain my leaving to Brian) when my name was called.
Emma, Jamie and I walked into the examining room, and I had them wait there while I made a two minute run to the bathroom (8 glasses of water in less than 6 hours will do that to you)...when I got back to the room, we waited for another five minutes or so and then the doctor came in. I explained to her about the fever, the weird sensation in my left ear, about how I didn't think it was swine flu, and that while neither my husband (the reporter, for those of you new here) nor I thought it was the virus, I thought I should get checked out (especially since I am also a type 1 diabetic).
I was asked if I had come in contact with anyone who had it, and I said, truthfully, "I don't know."
"Well," said the doctor. "Then you don't have it."
Which is lovely to hear, but how on earth would she know? I mean, if I didn't know if I'd been in contact with anyone who had swine flu, and the media was rampant with reports of how easy it was to catch it, how the hell would she be able to say definitively, no?
Moving right along, she listened to the top part of my lungs and told me that I had a cold. She gave me a prescription for a puffer (not sure if there's a more technical term for it) and that was it.
I saw her for less time than it took me to go pee.
She didn't look in my ears, check my temperature, take blood, do a swab...nothing but the puffer prescription.
I left, Emma and Jamie in tow, thinking, man, I should just have gone to see Dr. Barry. (He being our family physician, where there is also a walk-in clinic, but they had said they were extremely busy that particular day, and Barry wasn't in anyway)
That was on Tuesday.
By Friday morning, I still wasn't feeling any better, despite the puffer. (And in fact, I think I may have been slightly allergic to it, since every time I took the prescribed dose, I ended up feeling so dizzy I couldn't stand straight) I had an appointment with a different doctor at our regular doctor's office, and so when I got there, I asked about the walk-in clinic and found out that since I was the first one in the office that morning, I would be able to see someone without having to wait for hours on end.
After my first appointment, I sat in the waiting room for five minutes and then saw a lovely young lady (who I thought looked way too young to be a doctor, until she generously showed me the many grey hairs sprouting from the top of her head)...she looked in my ears, checked my temperature, and listened to my entire lungs...and lo, and behold, what she discovered was that I had fluid in my ears (hence the strange sensation there), a low grade fever (nearly two full weeks after the original onset of symptoms) and fluid in the lower regions of my lungs.
The diagnosis?
Atypical pneumonia...aka "walking pneumonia".
I was given a prescription for antibiotics (which worked very well, thank you very much) and told to keep using the puffer.
Without being told, I also learned that I should #1: trust my husband when he tells me something's wrong, and B: never go to that other walk-in clinic again.
There's tons more that's gone on this month that has kept me from updating here...but I'll let you in on that tomorrow...
Friday, April 24, 2009
Happy Birthday to Me...
I am 41 years old today.
For the last few years, many people have asked me when I'm going to start lying about my age. Last year it seemed a lot of my friends and family thought I would be celebrating my second "39th" birthday, and seemed surprised when I told them emphatically, "Oh no! I am turning 40! I've been telling Brian for ten years that I expect a blowout for my 40th and if I don't actually turn 40, how can I get a big party?"
This year again, several people have asked if I am going to fudge the truth of my years and again I feel as though I am some sort of maverick when I state that I am proud of my 41 years and feel no need to hide from the turning of the calendar pages.
My children can't believe that I'm as old as I am, but then none of them have even hit double digits yet, so they have a hard time trying to imagine what it must mean to be my age (and while I may not be afraid or ashamed of my age, at least the kids no longer ask if the dinosaurs were still walking the earth when I was a child).
My parents called this morning to wish me a happy birthday and even they seemed surprised when I told them that I did not feel 41.
"You don't?" my mother asked, almost incredulously, I thought.
"No," I replied, and then we went on with the rest of our conversation.
But after I had hung up the phone, I started wondering, what is 41 supposed to look and feel like? When I was a kid (and even into my early 20s), 41 seemed as ancient as the hills in the valley I grew up in. By 41, humans were starting to fall apart. Grunting to sit down or get up out of a chair, needing glasses to read the paper, grey hair, wrinkles, sensible shoes and old lady hair styles...this is what I thought being past the age of 40 was supposed to look like.
Thankfully, other than needing glasses (and I'll blame genetics, not age for that one), none of those things have come to pass. I don't feel old, and I suppose that goes a long way toward helping me feel like I'm just getting started on this crazy journey we call life. Quite often I get comments like, "Wow! You don't look like you're that old!"...and while the comments are nice, it proves to me that none of us really knows what this age is supposed to look like.
As far as my looks go, I can thank good genes for that one too...and for the fact that because I'm so pasty white (in fact, my husband has told me that he could read without a lamp if I was to sit next to him), I have usually tried to keep my face covered (when you can get a sun burn just by thinking about going outside, it's a good idea to not only wear the spf lotion, but a hat too)...and other than about a month or so in my youth, I am not a smoker...all of which, according to the experts, will help me retain my "youthful" appearance...
But see, the thing is this, and I don't think I'm alone when I say this...I would not go back to my 20's if someone offered me all the money in the world. I still have one or two of the old insecurities that pop out from time to time, but they show up less and less as time goes by. Overall though, I am much happier now than I was then. I am stronger, not because some bad things happened and I survived them, but because of those things, I thrived. I have learned that sometimes I do not have to convince someone else that my opinion is the right one (and trust me, that lesson was, and is, a really hard lesson to learn). I have learned that I am beautiful, not because my husband or children or my family and friends tell me so, but because I can look in the mirror and see my beauty and accept it for myself. And I have learned that what the world tells me I should do and be and think is not nearly as important as what I hold to be true.
And that is a birthday gift worth unwrapping...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Colors of the Rainbow...
Today is a magenta day.
This is a term my sisters and I came up with many moons ago (read: when we were still very young and foolish aka teenagers) to describe the mood I am in today.
Magenta is a combination of colors...I'm not really depressed, so I'm not black; I'm not really sad, so I'm not blue; not jealous, so I'm not green; not angry, so not red; I'm not happy, so not yellow...just kind of a mixture of all of it...
It could be the weather...the cold, wet rain does nothing except make me want to stay in bed with the covers wrapped tightly around me...it could be the expense of having to fix the car, it could be that it's only Tuesday and I wish that it was the end of the week...
Whatever the reason, I am magenta today.
I hate magenta moods.
And then five year old Jamie and Emma came home from school and asked me how old I am.
"I will be 41 on Friday," I told them.
"What? 41?! That's too old to be you Mama!" they exclaimed.
So either they think I look much younger than I am or they just cannot conceive of anyone being that old...
I'm going to go with the first choice...because, bless their little hearts, they help turn magenta into yellow...
This is a term my sisters and I came up with many moons ago (read: when we were still very young and foolish aka teenagers) to describe the mood I am in today.
Magenta is a combination of colors...I'm not really depressed, so I'm not black; I'm not really sad, so I'm not blue; not jealous, so I'm not green; not angry, so not red; I'm not happy, so not yellow...just kind of a mixture of all of it...
It could be the weather...the cold, wet rain does nothing except make me want to stay in bed with the covers wrapped tightly around me...it could be the expense of having to fix the car, it could be that it's only Tuesday and I wish that it was the end of the week...
Whatever the reason, I am magenta today.
I hate magenta moods.
And then five year old Jamie and Emma came home from school and asked me how old I am.
"I will be 41 on Friday," I told them.
"What? 41?! That's too old to be you Mama!" they exclaimed.
So either they think I look much younger than I am or they just cannot conceive of anyone being that old...
I'm going to go with the first choice...because, bless their little hearts, they help turn magenta into yellow...
Monday, March 30, 2009
When Pulling The Covers Over Your Head Is The Only Viable Option...
My brain is fried.
I am exhausted.
It's the middle of the afternoon.
And it's only Monday...
Man, it's gonna be a long week...
I am exhausted.
It's the middle of the afternoon.
And it's only Monday...
Man, it's gonna be a long week...
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