I'd like to introduce you to Ed

Two, yes two ah-ah-ah, posts in ONE WEEK (do 'The Count' voice from Sesame Street- he makes counting fun -ah -ah -ah)! The sky must be falling! Nope. This is technically going to be somewhat of a cheating post. Why? Because one of my hobbies is laziness, it is a craft that has taken some 29 years to perfect. I wouldn't want something to go an derail all that hard work...like say, being timely and efficient. Hellz no kids, that would be cray! I am digging through my mounds and mounds, ok I mean one Word folder on my desktop where I keep all my random, rambling thoughts from years past. I'll share with you after I regale you in "just another case of the bad luck" from this morning...

Today I went to the YMCA in the hopes of going for my first swim since surgery. Here I was trying to "get out and do something." Now, please keep in mind what I just mentioned above about laziness. I walk in - ready to swim, got my goggles, swim suit-(circa High School swim team 2001), my...fuck, I did NOT bring a towel. I speed walked back to the car and searched for anything that could work: a roll of paper towels, wet nap, tee shirt. No dice. I asked politely at the desk if they had any towels. The girl responded, "Oh no sorry - you can try the lost and found!" For fear of catching ebola, athletes foot, hand and mouth or some other equally scary bacteria - I decided I would take my chances with the hand dryer and hope for the best.

I hopped in the pool, despite my stroke being wild, chaotic and flailing - I remembered why I loved swimming so much. The water was still, calm and quiet. There was no Facebook, tweeting, or Instagram. There was no reality TV or 5 o'clock news. There was no itunes or Pandora to distract me. It was me, my worn out speedo and the water. I was reminded of my first foray into swimming. Which reminded me of something else...

This week is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. 

Who cares? Why does that matter? And what does it have to do with pool bacteria and chlorine? Just keep reading...

E

Is for

ED

Let me start by saying that Ed is one nasty son of a bitch. I first met Ed when I was 15, a sophomore in High School carefree, happy and, naïve. I had tried out for my first high school sport : swimming. I had heard of Ed before, but thought that would never be me, only the stuff you read about in the self help section at the bookstore or the Dear Abbey pages of the newspaper, not me, hell no, actually hell fucking no.

            Growing up I was always taller, thinner, shorter hair ( thanks Mom) and generally more awkward than the average girl. I refused to wear a bra until the 8^th grade. Even then it was a sports bra, the kind that acted more like duct tape stretched tightly across your chest. I was kind of the anti –girl, girl. Now, I wouldn’t go as far as calling me a tom boy – for that would have you assuming that I might have been good at sports and a 'guy’s girl', for which I was neither.

At age 15 I had been living in Pennsylvania for about a year. I had adapted to my friends and new High School. Things were exciting and fresh. In October I tried out for the swim team. Now, in most High School girls’ minds this is horrifying. You are in a bathing suit - all year round - 5 days a week, so much for getting ready for bathing suit season. All of a sudden I was thrust into this world where you were forced to look at your body, realize it may be a tad more dimply than the other girls who were wearing their Speedo’s with pride. 

After I made the team, it was time to order our team suits. This was the first time I was really made aware of size. All of a sudden the ordering of suits became a competition for me. I was a less than stellar swimmer, but dammit I was thin (er) or so I thought. The smallest suit was a 28, well that’s what I ordered. When the suite’s came, mine was tighter than expected. I had no idea what a 28 meant, or how the hell I was going to fit into it, but I would soon find out. 

            I made a new friend, I’ll refer to her as ‘Girl’, during swim try outs and we instantly bonded over our lack of “real” swimming ability and the cute boy that swam in the lane next to us. Girl and I soon shared sleepovers, movies, and soon enough clothes. All of a sudden I was learning what Small – P (petite) and size 0 jeans meant. It meant that all of a sudden, size mattered, and it mattered a lot. 

My 5’7 frame was small, lanky and always thin, but quickly that was no longer good enough. Girl showed me her middle school yearbook picture where she considerably heavier with a bad perm. I couldn’t imagine it, Girl was the picture of perfection. She was tall, blonde, had perfect straight white teeth and thin! People took notice, people meaning the boys. Girl attracted the hottest of hot boys at our school : the seniors. Boys that once had seemed untouchable, with a few skipped meals plus our rigorous 5-day a week swim practice, started to notice us. 

Here was the answer to my years of awkwardness. I grew out my dutch boy hair, waxed my eyebrows so I finally had two, started keeping OCD like tabs on my outfits and most importantly; I started tracking calories.  Food, like weight, became numerical.  A jelly doughnut became 400 calories and 15 grams of fat.  After the initial external makeover  the only thing left to “work on” was my inner self, in my eyes - the fat self.  Girl and I would go shopping at the mall and try on size 1 jeans almost weekly. Our waists got smaller and the jeans got bigger -and subsequently, so did our smiles.

 During a time when victory should have meant winning the 50 meter freestyle at a swim meet it meant dropping a pant size at the local Abercrombie and Fitch. The first major relationship of my life was with Ed and it was one I would become trapped in for close to the next decade of my life. Ed is not a boy, it’s an Eating Disorder.           

- Written by 23-year-old me

                           

                                   ******************************

This morning I slowly found the rhythm between my arms and legs, as I breathed in and out. I felt the water glide over my fingers and the heat steaming up my goggles. In that moment I was instantly transported to swim practice. All of a sudden I was 15 years-old again. All of a sudden I thought to myself, does this suit make me look...FAT?

Eating Disorders are ugly. They are mean. They are cruel. They rob you of happiness and joy. Worst of all? They encourage you to hate yourself. Some 15 years later, I still hear it's mean voice. The voice is quieter now, more like a hushed whisper, but I still hear it. I spent nearly 10 years of my life consumed by Ed. I spent a long time not feeling worthy but rather - worthless.

Matt's parents recently bought me a painting by Amanda Blake. It is of a woman standing in the woods. She is standing, alone, in a long white dress with a blue stream behind her. At the bottom of the picture it says, "her bravery knew no end." 

Why am I sharing this? Because it is a week of awareness, and people need to know. Because OUR bravery should know no end...

When life gives you stones...throw them back!

My resolution for 2014 was to write more. In fact, it was to basically do more...of everything. Clearly I need to make a resolution about my resolutions. So, without further adieu lets get back to the sickness, the sadness, the suckness...I know you were all waiting in suspense!

I had a nice break, or rather boycott, from all things medical for a while. I was recovering from shoulder surgery (yes, I have yet to blog about that shit show, perhaps by May?). I was attending physical therapy regularly - lie. I went up to and on New Year's Eve, which I like to think of as "Deductible Eve," the day before the evil insurance deductible returns in full force like an angry lion - RAWR! 

In the middle of the medical mountain of debt, I decided I was going to avoid anything and everything that required the use of my deductible for as long as I could. After physical therapy I had another deductible eve medical appointment to take care of and then I would be FREE...or just living in a constant state of denial.  I went to have my annual cancer check, this included the standard blood work, 19th (yes, 19) chest x-ray and an abdominal ultrasound.

The abdominal ultrasound soon became what I like to call "The Abominable Ultrasound." Lets take a short stroll down memory lane, shall we? Last year, "Good news - no cancer! Bad news - you have gallstones and we are going to have to confiscate your gallbladder, how's Tuesday sound?" So naturally, this year I was hoping for more good news and less bad news. JUST KIDDING!

Now to the title of this post...

This year, "Good news - no cancer! Bad news - you have a very large kidney STONE. More bad news - we are probably going to have to blast it out of there. Bad bad news - it will require a hospital gown  anesthesia and a hair net."

Pause. Are you in shock? Because I am. I kicked myself in the proverbial ass for all those, "Life is really giving me the stones!" jokes I made last year. Life was legit giving me the stones, every freaking single kind it could. I just want to know...in what world does this happen? I am STILL scratching my head and kicking my ass. And I still have no answers. Bad luck? Bad karma? A case of the "bad's"? 

I head tomorrow for my 4th CT scan in a year. Let me stop here and point out that each CT scan carries with it the same radiation exposure that a "normal" person experiences just walking around on planet earth every 3 years of their life. So I think if my math is correct, and it rarely ever is, that means I might start growing a third eye and sprouting a tail. I will be sure to blog in the unlikely event that this should occur. Stay tuned!

Seriously, Life - you screwed the pooch on this one - you were SUPPOSED to throw me a bone, not a stone. Actually if you could just stop throwing shit at me that would be great. Thanks - love Kate. Xo.

Ps. Life - if you are going to continue hurling things my way, feel free to chuck the green papery kind, preferably the Ben Franklin variety - but I am a beggar not a chooser so I will also gladly accept the George Washington kind.

The Wallflower Perspective

"I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like all I can do is keep wiriting this gibberish to keep from breaking apart."
                           - Stephen Chbosky

To atone a bit for my sins:
1. Yes, you are correct, my blogging schedule skills suck.
2.Yes, "I am back"
3. Yes, the inferred answer to #2 means I will likely disappear again for weeks or months.
4.I procrastinate a lot.
5.I'm sorry.

Now that that mess is out of the way, let me begin, actually - let me detour. First, this post really has nothing medically relevant, so for those of you that usually sigh and think, "Damn Bitch - AGAIN?" you can keep reading. For those that already like my blog (pretty sure my 1 anonymous follower is my Dad), this one will be different.

The post:
The other night I was on Amazon looking at tons of great shit I can't afford. Even worse is that if you fill your cart with $35 worth of shit you can't afford, you get free shipping. You can see my conundrum- and why my internet window shopping lasted two hours. I will never get those two hours back, or any of the shit I put in my shopping cart. #fail.

So after I was deciding weather to cry and feel bad for myself or not, a new movie came on HBO. This is like an urban myth, when does that EVER happen? Most of the time we are clicking through the guide and think " Fuck! I really wanted to see that, but it's 37 minutes in, I will have like 1/2 an idea of what's going on - do I risk it?" And then sometimes its only 23 minutes in, do I risk it? Hell yes!! This is what smart-phones and ipads are for - establish who is who and then quickly wikipedia the movie which will outline the ENTIRE plot. This can be tricky, I have scrolled one bar too far and then I have to turn the movie off, after ruining it for myself.#fail.

So you can see, I felt like whatever was playing I HAD to watch. It was like HBO said, " Hey Kate, don't feel bad about that Amazon stuff (and please don't start to think of the money you waste on our channel each month) we have got just the movie for you!

Sidebar: Yes, I take a long time to "get to the story," I am working on it.

Back to the post:
"the perks of being a wallflower" came on. I write the title grammatically incorrect, as that is how it is on the book, which is sitting next to me. If I start googling for the "correct" way then this post will go to hell quicker than Hades (yes, I have also been watching a lot of Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief). e.e. cummings challenged the grammar police and so can I! Wait - I already do all the time, although it's less a challenge and more of an active effort of both resistance and ignorance.

Really back to the post:
I was almost afraid to watch this movie that was nearly two years old. I loved the book so much....wait, that is a lie, I call bullshit on myself. I read the book in High School, so 12 years ago (yes, I am OLD!) and I knew I liked it as it was one of the few books that evaded the book donation at the senior citizen book store.  So because I avoided feeling sorry for myself, I figured I should probably avoid lying to myself as well. #winning. Putting a hash tag where it won't work is the new trend. Truth. Remember I don't lie to myself so I am certainly not going lie to you, probably, most likely, hopefully...

The MacBook only has 22% battery so I better get this shit show on the road. The movie was wonderful. Not just wonderful in that "This-has-really-lived-up-to-my-literary-dreams" wonderful, but just flat out wonderful. Wonderful in that I ran and grabbed my dog-eared dusty copy and began flipping through it. The movie was brilliant, why? Because Stephen Chbosky (author alert) directed it. The man is brilliant, he worte this masterpiece and got MTV to publish it, in 1999. I am pretty sure they still had Total Request Live, Carson Daley and innocent Britney Spears. That publishing feat alone - deserves a medal.

Why do I like this movie? Watching the movie gave me a spark. A small, tiny, not sure-it-happened spark. A spark that brought me back to me. I love reading. I love writing. Yet, all the while through Doctors and medical mysteries, I have let that go. I allowed myself to be robbed, left and right, of things I loved, of things that let me know who I was. I was then left standing alone looking in a mirror and not recognizing the face staring back at me. Yes, I too wanted to feel sorry for myself - and for that girl, she looked sad (and needed a tissue from all that snot and ugly-crying).

 But when I watched this movie, and I watched Charlie observe life from the sidelines, I realized that's what was missing. I was too busy trying to get back in the game I lost finding the beauty in watching it. Hearing Nirvana,  Cracker, The Smiths and Smashing Pumpkins time warped me back to 6th grade. 1995, when I wore Vans, flannel shirts, had a pageboy haircut, listened to Soundgarden and owned a walkman.

So I sat. So I listened. I eagerly watched every minute, yes all 102, and observed this boy try and navigate High School, bullies, bullshit and Rocky Horror Picture Show. I listened as the boy spoke honestly about his feelings , who he was and what he wanted. How despite it all, he still had hope. His hope may have been shrouded in adolescent angst and covered in un-coolness that sticks to you like sap. But, it was there, you just had to look for it, then you understood.

That is my real loss, I've lost myself by not looking, not listening and not hearing...myself.

Watching this movie as it was: no Netflix, no on-demand, no DVD  - just as it was, when it was. I watched this movie as I ate take out Chinese and I was "present" and in a world of fast forward, instant-play, DVR, and one-click...I was just there, on my couch, watching a movie. That was the spark. Truly  listening, watching and observing allowed me to smile. When I may not know the girl in the mirror, I certainly remember her wearing army green Vans sneakers, climbing trees, and walking in the tall grass on the dunes of Long Island.

At the end of the film, in the back of a pick up truck, flying through a tunnel - holding his arms up, Charlie says " And I was really there. And that was enough to make me feel infinite"

That....was enough for a spark.

Dental Doomsday

I "SHOULD" start doing things in order, more consistently, on time....wait, that would mean I had my shit together, which I clearly do not.

So much has happened that I have a retroactive list of things I need to blog about. Can you do that? Well kids, it's happening. I will start with the most recent, and most ridiculous.

Because of Ehlers- Danlos (MOFO) I need to have my teeth cleaned 4x a year. Yes, 4. All the water pik's, super floss, scope, flex-brush, dental dams will not save me. And like I have said before, I can't have a busted grill.

After sitting with the Orthodontist last week for an hour, here was the takeaway:

1. Are you under any stress? - No sir, none at all.
2. Try knitting or reading the Bible before you go to bed, it will help you sleep. If that doesn't work, take some narcotics.
3. Also - watching the history of Egypt is also good for snoozing.
4. I recommend two "splints" (two huge custom mouth guards) to be worn all day. Yes, you may speak with a bit of a lisp, but you will learn how to minimize it.
5. These splints are not covered by insurance.
6. For both, we can cut you a break, $2015, no payment plan.
7. Did I mention these are not covered by insurance?

Final thought, and I quote: "After reading your medical history - I have say - you must be REALLY angry at God"

And that is when I left. I cried in the stairwell for a good 5 minutes. Then I called Matt and cried some more. Then I came home and had a beer and started grinding my teeth because of the stress.


Next week will be better....no it won't stupid - glass half EMPTY bitch! (My inner voice yells this in Tourette - like tics from time to time - I try and tell that voice to STFU)

This week I call my Dentist, the one with the rumbly tummy? I say - hey man, it's been rough, my insurance won't cover ANY of my dental stuff and I just need a cleaning ( the one, the ONLY thing my insurance seems to cover me for) can you help a sista' out?

"Kate, I see you have an appointment on Friday, I don't think that is such a good idea"

And this is where Dental Doomsday continued. "Because of your "syndrome" I just don't feel comfortable - its really in your best interest."  Um, Doc - I just want my teethers cleaned!  "Go to a periodontist - they can help you" Um, I did and my insurance does not cover it Bro, and $165 - I just aint' got that kind of cash. (Ok so I didn't really get all ghetto on him, but it sounds better than trying to effectively convey my "on-the-verge-of-tears" voice.)

"I wish I could help, but I am but a small family Dentist and with your "syndrome" (interchangeable with cooties) you are just far to COMPLEX for me. Maybe try U Penn.

So, the final takeaway?

-Dental Doomsday rages on...and on....and on....

-U Penn for a dental cleaning? I might just get some scope, a safety pin, rubber gloves and some bubble gum toothpaste and call it a day.

- Dental insurance is not a real thing, its like a unicorn - they make you believe it exists, until you actually need one - like "Hey I need to ride into the enchanted forest and rescue the forrest animals, where the HELL is my unicorn??"

-Plastic hardware + lisp + broke ass from paying for hardware = a very bad time.

Did I mention that last week Aidan went to the dentist and has 4 cavities, one needs a crown and possible extraction? No, I will save that gem for another day.

Remember to floss kiddies...

Blood Bank Blues

To give or not to give...that was the question...

 Aidan and I were a the Y for my weekly post-op workout. I noticed a sign for a blood drive. PERFECT! Here is something I can do to feel "good" about myself, and you know, give back to all my peeps.

I fill out some paperwork. Get my sticker and am cleared for take off...well, not exactly. Let's stop here and assess my not-thinking-this-one-through.  This blog, just being the author of something containing the words "medical" and "mystery" should have been a HUGE red flag to send me running, ok let's not lie - walking/limping to the hills. Nope. Not this determined dumb ass. The nurse checks my vitals, I passed all the "You can't give blood if....." questions, which was either a miracle or HUGE oversight. I'm still on the fence.

Aidan hangs out at the after-blood-donation snack area and chats up a new friend while eating Utz pretzels.  Then, dun dun - dun dun...it's like shark week but scarier - it was time for the dreaded iron stick. The nurse informs me 12.5 was the "magical number" and I said, well what about an 11.8? No bueno said she.

I send all my super duper iron rich blood to the tip of my middle finger (it should be used to this by now - I do it so frequently) small stick and wait. It felt like the wait of a pregnancy pee test, only no red lines,  and not near the fan fare. Um......

I get the thumbs down. But first, she calls over another nurse, take a look at this she says. I thought - damn yo, I was just working out I know I look bad but give a girl a break. No, they did not care about me and my sweat stains, just my sad iron score.  I felt like I was in the olympics and just totally fucked the final vault. Even Kerri Strug got a second try...and a Wheaties Box.

I failed. Plain and simple. But you know when I do anything, I have to do it big - EPIC FAIL.
 12.5 - hell I would have taken a 5.5....see below for the sadness and the shockness that bestowed my nice nurse. "Maybe next time"......

Seriously, 0.0 ????

And so Aidan left with his free snacks and our Dunkin' Doughnut coupon - free doughnut and iced coffee for your blood, I mean troubles. My head hung in shame.  I shrugged my shoulders at the woman at the check in and said "denied" she looked like she understood, probably why she was working the booth.

One day...I still have dreams of making a Wheaties box, minus Béla Károlyi...and the leotards. 

The hip hip a hop, and you don't stop...

I always put off these posts. Why? Not because I DON'T want to write them, but because I DO want to write them. Make sense? Ya, I know - me neither.

I try and come up with these really cool, witty and smart tag lines. Take this one for example. I wanted to give an update on my hip. But what the hell would I call this post?? I already used the ever cool "hipster" and the Khia song from he debut album, Thug Misses,  "My Neck, My Back" - what else is left in this world?!?!?!?

So I turn to google.

Creative? Nah. Google it mo fo's! So I type in "hip" and sure enough - google saves me - how could I have forgotten about Rappers Delight Lyrics???  HIP HOP HIPPITY HOP! DUHHHHH.

Ok, so in an effort to try and assuage some of my anxiety that every post need be awesome, stellar, perfect, original, informative yet humorous, thoughtful and compelling...this ain't Oprah's Book Club Kate. ok ok ok. Here it is, without further b.s - or adieu, the 6 week update.

Drum Roll...........

6 WEEK Thoughts...(mostly rambling)

- From 2 crutches to 1 to NONE
- Driving automatic, 2 foot style - eekkkkk!
- If you are gonna use 2 feet, might as well go back to 3 pedals - zoom, zoom back to stick shift!!
- Sutures FINALLY fall out
- Still no actual strengthening work
- Leg severely atrophied does not look cute in shorts, wear pants or mumu
- You can paint your toenails! Screw that, go get a pedicure you deserve it! (HOT Pink!)
- You can run errands
- You can stop having people asking, "What did you do to your knee?" (I know, this makes no sense to me either)
- You can get blitzed - ok, a little now that you are not a hazard on crutches
- You can stop watching Toddlers & Tieras and Honey Boo Boo marathons
- You can shave your legs - needs no explanation
- You can stop playing the part of Boo Radley from TKAMB and go out and get some sun on your pasty self
- You are FREE.....ok, you are not free. No running, no skipping, no hopping (definitely no hip-hopping) no running, no "the splits", did I mention that you are FREEEEEE
- Physical Therapy only 1x a week and in the pool (since thats where you are doing most of your Boo Radley detoxification anyway)
- You can start writing your blog?!?!?

Hip Surgery...now I'm a real hipster!

So the date was set June 28th. I was to have my "deformity" un-deformed. First case of the day which meant 5:30 am call time...and we live 1.5 hours away. Do I go to sleep or just keep watching the Law and Order marathon? Tough call.

Off we went, my last time on two legs for 6 weeks.

My uniform. These hairnets and socks never stop looking...well, blue and butt ugly. I think a serious revamping in hospital fashion is in order. At least my feet will be warm in toasty while I'm in traction.

I get my nerve block in my hip, to help with the pain after, however it did not take as soon as they were hoping. I had some down time so I grabbed the binder with my name on it and thumbed through my chart. I came across a note from Dr. Love (cardiologist) clearing me for surgery, in his letter he referred to me as "educated and lovely patient who was a pleasure to treat" - I was feeling the love. Then they took away my binder. Boo. They wheeled me in and all of a sudden images of Sigourney Weaver in Aliens came to mind....whole new meaning to "getting on the table.

AHHHHHHH!!!! Traction Table

Mind you, they did not give me the sweet orange unitard. I thought this only happened once a year at the OBGYN...nope. My leg still was not numb so I put my own legs in the boot, they put the oxygen mask over my face and counted backwards from 10, I remember 8 then I awoke in recovery with my nurse, Mim.

Matt came in. Nerve block still not working so pain, lots of pain. Mim came to the rescue with some morphine and then performed a bedside Reiki treatment. Yes folks, this happened. Mim, the wonderful of the West and East. Lucky me...like I said, i'm always one for a bargain. I hung in recovery for a few hours and was moved to my recovery suite (don't be fooled, you only get to stay here once the juice wears off). Nerve block - finally working!!!!! - I think it was the magic of Mim. 

Matt and I had time to snap this for the family photo album

We left at 4am and got home just 12 hours later. For 6-8 hours a day, I would be strapped to yet another bionic looking machine. You know when you get the cart at the grocery store with the jacked up wheel? That was my version of the CPM machine for my leg. The sales rep got into an accident on his way to delivering it a mile from my house, I think they forgot to total the machine along with the car. poor guy had to come out on Saturday to replace it. They put the fuzzy fake sheepskin on it to entice you to use it, like "oh hey, that might be comfy - so comfy I could sleep in it!" LIES!

CPM Machine + Ice + Pink Pj Pants

2  Week Post - Op Thoughts:

- Crutches suck...hard. Cup Holder?

- Modesty goes out the window - you need help with EVERYTHING

- If you have any responsibilities at all, you can't do them so stop trying

- Yes, you need to have someone pick up your leg for you for a month

- If you drop something on the floor, fuck it - you can't bend over

- Shaving your legs? Get a friend with a steady hand whom you trust...a lot

- Leave a light on when you are crutching to the bathroom. in the dark.

- Close your eye- poof! - you are an infant trapped in an adult body - completely dependent for your basic needs.

- You are not alone. Lady Gaga and A-Rod had the same surgery. World Tours and World Series -      think of the things YOU will be able to do!

- Your arms are gonna be buff, look out Michelle Obama

- Netflix instant queue - I will dominate you!