October 25, 2005
So while racing around Sainsbury's one day, I strode through the stationary section, my mind conscious of the fact that I had things to do, and I looked at the notepads. There were bright shiny pink ones, plastic covered ones, average brown ones. On the bottom shelf I noticed a distinct black rubber covered notepad, and it was revealed that the notebook cover had been made out of a recycled tire, its pages recycled paper. Next to it was a plain gray notebook, also made out of recycled paper and far less glamorous compared to its cat suited neighbor. Since I felt a little strange with the idea of a tire on my desk, visions of them not quite managing to get all of the roadkill out of the treads haunting my germ phobic dreams, I bought the recycled gray paper one.
And it sits upstairs next to the computer. It sat there for a few days before I had to start taking notes on it, inevitably last-minute to do lists, blog topics, people who I am supposed to call, errands I dread. But I kept thinking about it, mostly because it sat there on the desk emboldened in plain script across the front with the words: 'I used to be something else.'Â
I used to be something else.
As though, through the simple process of being pulped and watered, everything has the chance to become a new incarnation of something good, something useful. All it takes is a recycling man named Johnny Boy to chip the paper into the vat, erasing all the words off of you that someone once took the time to write, and poof! You have a whole new chance.
I looked at the front page of the paper and wondered what it used to be. Was it someone's grocery list? Was it a middle chapter in a term paper? Was it the constant scribbling and project planning of a long day at work? Was it a love letter of the old fashioned kind, the kind you get in the mail and can hold and sniff and treasure?
And how is it that all it takes to get the absolute definition of tabula rasa, the very epitome of the clean slate, is to go through the wringer? Is it possible that with a little vinegar and a soupy machine, we too could be scrubbed of our previous content and be allowed to emerge as something with the world ahead of them?
I spend far too much time thinking about that notebook.
But how great it is to think that you'd have a chance to become something new, all in the same lifetime.
I guess it's what I have done, pretty consistently, since that April morning in 1974 (every time I write that, I feel old. 1974. 1974. Seriously, that's old. And every time I think of the 1970's, for some reason I think of Snoopy, which makes no sense at all except for the fact that perhaps I am also thinking of Woodstock and everyone knows Woodstock is Snoopy's best little yellow buddy. However Woodstock took place in 1969, not 1974. Screw it. The word association is doing my head in.)
Since the beginning, I have been taking the time to explode into something else, pushed into another life perhaps due to some kind of life demon I managed to pick up in my life and the only way to shake it is to morph into something else, camouflaging myself among the living. Sometimes, a new life has occurred beyond my control, I hadn't wanted to move on maybe, but I had to and the best way to try to acclimate to the change is to pretend that space had always been reserved for me.
I am on Life #6. Who knows how many lives this notebook has had, maybe it's just the second and thus the onus is on me to make sure that what I contribute is meaningful. The first page doesn't want a grocery list, a hastily scribbled phone number that I don't want to call, or a blog idea. Maybe its dream is to be covered with the first re-draft of the Magna Carta or the reiteration on the EU's doctrine on the import of bananas, one that's clearer and makes more sense (my reiteration would be very simple and clear-as I hate bananas, I would ban their imports. I may be re-writing EU doctrines, but I can do it as a totalitarian, if I want. It's my doctrine, after all).
Maybe the notebook is not as career driven as that. Perhaps it's happy enough to sit there and take whatever mental detritus that comes out of my head gracefully and kindly (Awww'¦isn't that sweet, it will say. She actually thinks she can make a blog post out of a drinking fountain experience. Poor little chippie, bless her.) Maybe it doesn't care what it is I have to say, it's so happy to be around again.
Or else it's very tired and terribly annoyed. It thought when it went to that recycling vat it had made it's way to the great timber yard in the sky. It sits there, grumpy, angry, or bewildered (What the hell? What? Wasn't I just a leaflet on breast pumps a minute ago? What? Where am I, and why does this cat keep sitting on me?) It was tired and ready for a rest (my God, little notebook, I totally understand. I too am exhausted and ready for a nap. A long one. But keep the paper pulping to yourself, ok?)
Who needs animism when you can amuse yourself with paperism?
In the end, I can't help but be glad I bought recycled paper. And even though I fill the notebook with little notes and things I need to do and blog topics that may or may not ever see the light of an LCD flat screen, I am comforted by its little gray company. I will buy this kind of notebook again and again, and when it is full it will wind up in the recycling bin again, thereby either making me a savior (I'm recycled again! I'm back again! And this time, I don't have a reminder to call and get colonoscopy approval from an insurance company, yippee!) or making me its own incarnation of Judge Doom (God, I'm back again. I'm so tired. I hate that bloody fir tree I was a part of. I hate my life. I hate everything.)
But in the meantime, I take a small comfort in the front of the book.
I used to be something else.
I know the feeling.
-H.
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October 24, 2005
Marks and Spencers is already well kitted out for Christmas.
It's not even Halloween yet, and I am surprised there isn't already a queue to line up and soil Santa' knee. The place was floor to ceiling with Christmas decorations, Christmas wrapping paper, Christmas novelty gifts, Christmas party clothes (in England Christmas parties are assumed to be a dressing up affair. This doesn't really compute with me as Christmas parties here are also infamous for being places where people get completely sozzled, photocopy their asses under those expensive party dresses, and inevitably have that other kind of affair which leads to an entire year after that of uncomfortable silence when you bump into the coffee machine together. So yeah. Good call on the dressing up at Christmas parties.)
And of course, there were boxes and boxes of Christmas Crackers. Now Christmas Crackers are something that I can really get into. A large wrapped cardboard tube, looking for all the world like the world's largest Tootsie Roll, is lined on the inside with a small firecracker-like thingy (don't ask me what it is, I only know it makes a loud popping sound and they are thus banned as in-flight entertainment). When you pull the two ends of the enormous sweet-looking package, it goes off with a bang and releases a paper crown that, for reasons best known to the English, you have to wear throughout the remainder of the meal (psst...just because you are wearing a crown doesn't make you royalty. It just fucks up your hair). In addition, there's always some kind of little gift inside, and if you're willing to pay the good currency, there are good gifts in there.
So speaking of crowns-at Tesco we had finished our vending and I waited outside with the trolley full of food, drink, and of course the 16-roll package of toilet paper that one must have while Angus went back into Tesco for one last purchase. Since Guy Fawkes Day is nigh, fireworks are available everywhere. And, fireworks being as cool as they are, we had to buy some. Tesco being what it is, they sell fireworks but insist you leave the store once you've bought them as, really, would you trust a grown-up with a feverish look in his eyes with fireworks in your store?
As I waited outside swigging fresh squeezed orange juice while Angus made his most favorite purchase of the year, I got a text from him.
It read: Prince Harry is in the store.
Cool.
And me waiting outside with a 16-roll economy pack of Charmin.
We live about ten miles away from Sandhurst, which is the Royal Military Academy, now temporary home to both Prince William and Prince Harry as they do their bit for God, England, mankind and the inevitable service record. This Tesco, our largest local grocery shop, is in Sandhurst. So it isn't too surprising that if Prince Harry is in the mood for a packaged BLT and a six-pack of Budweiser (the Czech stuff, not the nasty American stuff), he'd nip out to Tesco.
Apparently the place was abuzz. People were running around telling where they'd seen him. He's in the bread aisle! whispers alerted. I thought about that. I pictured him as a Wonder Bread eater (similar to a brand here called Hovis). I wondered-Did he eat his Brussell Sprouts? Was he a Honey Nut Crunch kind of chap, or a Count Chocula? Since he's the second heir to the throne after Billy, does that mean he splurges on Charmin or use the cheap recycled stuff that feels like you're wiping with tree bark, or does he get his bum wrap specially flown in from Flemish weavers?
I don't mind the boy, but I wouldn't mind giving him a piece of my mind on his hunting activities. I'd also like to give him a smack on the backside of the head for that whole Nazi uniform thing, as I'm pretty sure Prince Charles is not a smack on the back of the head kind of father and a stunt like that deserves a smack. I don't think the guy's a Nazi, I just think he has incredibly poor taste. As in-really incredibly poor taste. I'd also remind Harry that Chav is so over, could he please find a new girlfriend, one that can hold her drink?
When Angus came out my period was letting my crotch know that in no way, shape or form would I be making it home without leaking, so while he waited with the groceries I went in to the ladies. Once in there, I replaced said soaked tampon and finished up. Only...the toilet wouldn't flush. It just wouldn't. And there was an enormous blood clot in there (thank you, Period Fairy, come again.)
And I didn't know what to do.
In general I have a public three flush rule. If I try to flush the toilet three times and it no work, I give up (this does not apply if I have had a major private moment. I will keep trying. And if there is a queue for the toilet and I've had a private moment in an apparently non-flushable toilet? Oh yeah. I can so outwait you, man.)
But in the ladies', I suddenly thought: I can't walk away and leave this. There's a period clot in the bottom of the toilet. What if Prince Harry sees this? What if he knows that one of his family's potential subjects lays blood clots? Will I be quarantined? Will they suspect me of bird flu? Will there be a new Magna Carta, one more along the lines of Maxi Flower?
To which I spent the next few minutes desperately trying to flush the toilet.
When it succeeded and removed mine offensive blood clot from mine eyes, I sighed in relief. No bird flu for me, then.
And so it was I left, and never saw His Royal Whatever You Call Him.
But at least it's nice to know that he mingles with the little people, even if it is to check and see if the melons are fresh.
-H.
PS-many thanks for the Flax Seed recommendations. I have bought them and am happily back to being fish-free.
PPS-colonoscopy scheduled for November 9 now. So...something to look forward to, then.
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October 20, 2005
I'd had yet another bad day in the history of my suck job, but at least I have an action plan for today, to try to find a way out of it.
I walk into the living room where Angus was curled up on the couch, setting the remote control down in a way indicative of Why yes. I have chosen the tv programming, and it is good. I walk in and see...it's Trinny and Susannah.
"Oh my God!" I shout. "It's those bitches!"
I look at the TV, at the woman that they are preparing to "help out". "Oh my God!" I shout again. "She's wearing a purple cadigan and a red turtleneck! That woman needs clothing police like Tony Blair needs an orthodontist!"
And, due to the wine in my hand and the complete lack of a will to live, I sat down and joined Angus for the TV show.
What struck me right off the bat was what the show was about. Trinny and Susannah, looking too skinny in clothing worth thousands of pounds, were draped on a couch. Trinny, the far too skinny one that has lips so full of collagen it makes me wonder if she has pictures of Melanie Griffith in her wallet to carry as her inspiration, was really letting loose on the point of today's program.
It was about women that had gotten a divorce.
But to hear the two of them, it was about women that had been touched by leprosy and now had to find clothes that would help the world ignore the fact that they'd lost a nose.
"It's so important that we help these two women." Trinny said, tears welling up at the side of her eyes.
"I know." Susannah said, tugging at her too severe hairstyle. "They have little happiness and hope now."
A tear heads for Trinny's trout pout. "It's so tragic. They're divorcees."
Oh, right. So these women have so little hope and happiness right now because they lost their men, right? Their lives are so tragic as someone said they didn't want them anymore, and now no one will, is that what you're saying?
The two scary chicks continued to moan about how tragic and awful it was that the women they were helping were divorced. Trinny and Susannah were wearing more metal on their left ring fingers than comes on the shielding of a tank. Tiffany's jewelers were standing by at the ready with their notepads, so utterly full of sparkly jewels were these rings. Here were two high profile TV "personalities" whose very presence so screamed "I am married and I am rich and when I have my babies I hire someone else's boobies to feed them" looking all weepy and feeling sorry for two women who had been divorced. It was clear that they felt some kind of revulsion to the word "divorce", as though they should cross themselves and knock on wood and shudder anytime the word was said.
And this is what pissed me off.
That these two women should be the object of such...such pity. By all accounts, the divorces the women had been through had been hard and their self-esteem had taken hits. Whose self-esteem doesn't? No one-not even Nicole Kidman fake punching the air-comes through a divorce and doesn't have a hit on the inside. When you get a divorce, it's admitting that one or both of you screwed up. At some point, the happy loving dreams you had after racing away from that alter have been proven to be cracked. Divorces are not fun things, they do not feel good, they are not nice.
But because a woman is divorced, it does not mean she should be the object of pity. Yes, anyone who's had their heart broken should be given a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen. Anyone who has lost a piece of themselves-either to the marriage in the first instance or the divorce in the second-should be given support.
However a divorce is not a sign to the world that no one will want them, ever. It is only a sign that the partner that they had chosen was not the final choice. You don't go on the scrapheap because you are divorced, you are not worth nothing just because you are seperated. Yes, these women had bad dress sense and had a hit on their self-esteem, but when you find out that what you thought was for the rest of your life was only for 10 years then anyone will feel bad.
These women are to be helped and felt sorry for as they had terrible clothes.
They should not be pitied for the mere fact that they are divorced.
It was the theme for the whole show-Trinny and Susannah constantly referred to these women as being so tragically divorced (when what was equally tragic was the fact that one of them still wore shoulder pads), even when it turns out the women were viciously unhappy in their marriages. All signs pointed to getting them attractive again so that they could go out there and get them some new men! This was important! You had to pull a new guy who loves you for your new look! Rub your wedding ring fngers three times, girls, and say the words "There's no place like the Vegas Wedding Chapel! There's no place like the Vegas Wedding Chapel There's no place like the Vegas Wedding Chapel!"
Of course, the two dragons decided to help these poor, low-confidence women by stripping them to their underwear, pointing out their bobbly bits, and making fun of their knickers. Cause that's certainly going to help build self-esteem. Who needs Winter Colors when one can have the piss taken out of them about their old granny panties?
The constant theme was of the "tragedy that these women were divorced". They even made one of the women wear turquoise and told her that "in her case, as she was divorced, she shouldn't be afraid to wear color." So...what? Divorcees generally only wear brown, is that it? As she's a divorcee she should cross that great divide and attempt to brave the color spectrum?
I guess these two dragons go home and get down on their knees and blow their husbands every day in gratitude then. No one is worth less just because they are divorced. No one's life is less valuable because they are alone. Marriage with the right person is great, but if you are so miserable and unhappy with your relationship, then punching out of that marriage clock can be a viable option. I'm not saying that we should go around busting up relationships at the slightest provocation, what I am saying is that there is no special charity case in being a divorcee-it's just a fact of life, something that hurts and is personal and represents a broken dream, but it does not mean that pity should come in great doses.
It just pissed me off that two women that choose modern fashions on a modern TV show can have such antiquated ideas. That divorce was the end of the world, that a woman needs a man to such an extent. Divorce does suck, having a partner to be a part of your life is great, but you know, these women that didn't have that? They have full and beautiful and enjoyable lives, too-they had beautiful children and lovely homes and big dreams and beautiful eyes. They had years of letting go ahead of them, to put away the bad remnants of a married life gone wrong.
Their clothes just sucked, that's all.
-H.
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(
In terms of divorce, I'm happily married but the biggest advocate of dicorce I know. Life is not a dress rehearsal and the only thing worse than being in a five year bad marriage is being in a five year and one day bad marriage. No-one wins. The trick is working out how to break up and be adult about it and to not bad mouth each other to the kids.
My two cents.
Flik x
PS In terms of Solomons comments I secocond Ilyka's comments (you tell him girl!)October 19, 2005
So I leave you with a few pictures, the skirted ones of which I asked Angus to take when I got home yesterday and this morning before I left the house.
First, Pumpkin #2 has been carved in our household. This seems to be a Sunday pasttime of mine, along with watching recorded episodes of Lost and Grey's Anatomy that I have.
It's a simple life.
This time, I made a witch.
I am very proud. Angus has said it's the most professional jack-o-lantern he's ever seen, although I am still awaiting payment.
And I wore the purple striped skirt yesterday for a meeting in London, complete with my electric bugaloo wrap (what you can't see are my striped woolly gloves. It is freezing here. Yes, really.)
And today I have a meeting with my team for the entire day, and since my team are low-key and lovely, I can wear my orange incadescence.
Oh yes.
I bought them, and I am wearing them.
The reason you should be amazed at those pics is this is me in my everyday lounging at home clothes.
Proving I have absolutely no style whatsoever, I am in pajamas two sizes too big, no makeup and glasses. And an old sweater. And, for reasons not even known to myself, a scarf.
Observe the (clearly matching) socks.
I wonder when Vogue will come calling.
-H.
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October 18, 2005
But Dr. Henry actually called the specialist and got me that appointment, and for that, Dr. Henry will be my doctor forever. If he retires, I will become stalker patient, camping out on his porch. "Dr. Henry! Dr. Henry! I am bleeding out of my eyes! Stop watching old Eastenders reruns and diagnose me! Dr. Heeeeeeeeenry!"
He amazed me.
I had to call my private health insurance company to get clearance to see the specialist. I rang up and was put through to Amanda.
"What's the nature of your problem?" Amanda asked.
"I need to see a gastroenterologist." I reply, sitting on the floor of the study.
"Why?"
I wonder about this one. "Because I am sick." I explain, as though she is six and doesn't understand that when Mommy is sick Mommy goes to the doctor.
"Yes but what's the problem?" she asks brusquely.
"Why, are you a doctor?" I want to ask. But I am not that brave, as Amanda has control of my insurance and is key to hopefully getting the good drugs when a big hosepipe is pulled up my ass, so I just stammer until she says: "What is it? Bleeding from the rectum?"
What? That's option number 1? Seriously? When someone calls and says they need to see a gastroenterologist, option 1 is to ask them if they have anal bleeding? That's top of the list, let's just rip out the "bleeding from the butt" idea? Am I living in a nation of people, all of them with hemoglobin secretly leaking out of their anus? I mean, I know the English have a stereotype that they are repressed, but does their repression mean that they are all quietly running around with maxi pads in their shorts to soak up?
I confirm that it is the problem. I can hear her nodding on the phone to herself, priding herself for getting it right. Maybe she can actually hear me bleeding. Maybe she has bat ears and can detect the sound of dripping rectal blood from 2 counties away.
Amazing.
I bunk off work to buy groceries and a few winter clothes. I peruse the new winter section and am drawn to colors for once-bright, happy, enigmatic colors. I come home with a purple and black striped skirt and a skirt that is so orange that immolated Buddhist monks would be jealous. It's so orange it's nearly fluorescent. It's completely uncharacteristic of anything I would buy but once I saw it I had to have it. I then go to the grocery store, where the checkout woman takes notice of every single thing I am buying, including stopping the process to read the back of the book I picked up.
Then she flipped through it.
Me and my orange incandescent skirt? We were amazed.
Angus makes me dinner, as he made me lunch, too. We are having bland food (but good food), mushroom soup for lunch and pasta for dinner. He is being very sweet, and I am reminded that sometimes, simple nice gestures like calling a specialist and making dinner can make one's day.
-H.
PS-I realized that I had been lax about pulling down work-related posts after 24 hours. As I am keen to vent but not keen to be found by any colleagues, if you ever stopped by and wondered why posts sometimes disappear, this is why. This was further driven home when our mail server went mad and a mail Angus sent his ex on their house selling details was accidentally sent from the default account, which is my everydaystranger account. I was so terrified she would find this site that I was pulling work-related posts as maniacally as a Barry Manilow fan without her knickers. Luckily, his ex thought my email was a virus and permanently deleted it without further ado. Speaks volumes, really.
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October 17, 2005
I walk into the waiting room which, to my astonishment, is packed. And it's not just packed, it's packed with the elderly, old age pensioners of various sizes and shapes, all of them nicely dressed (the elderly in England are always well dressed, really. The older gentlemen are almost never without a tie and a sweater vest, and the women are always in a long skirt and with a nice brooch on the label of their lapel. With me in my chunky sweater, jeans and Skechers sneakers, I really felt I was letting them down, one of those young punks with no respect for civility or the desire to eat bacon fat spread on my toast in the morning). I was the youngest person there by at least two generations. The variety of ailments was amazing-one woman had what appeard to be her entire leg swathed in an ace bandage, and the others had any number of band-aids on various locations.
They talked about their injuries to each other. I read my book, deciding that even though I was hating the book it sure beat a ten year old Country Life and Garden magazine. I was hoping none of them asked me what was wrong with me as, if they had, I would've said something like impetago as opposed to any form of rectal bleeding element I've been experiencing.
Dr. Henry called me in shortly, and I walked into his new (and much larger) office. He smiled and shook my hand, and I sat down.
"OK, so I saw you about my hand herpes and-" I started.
"That's right!" he exclaimed, a big grin splitting his wide brown face. "How is the hand?" It comes out like: "How ees the chan?" but I will spare you from the entire conversation being written in the phoenetic as, well, it's a bit patronizing and anyway it'll do my head in. Just read his bits with a strong Spanish accent and it'll be just like you were there.
I showed him. "There's still remnants," I admonish.
"Where? I don't see it!" He retorts.
"You don't understand what it's like being a girl, do you?" I reply firmly.
"No. I know nothing," he counters, still grinning. "So what's the problem today?" And even though I said I wouldn't write in the phoenetic, I will on this one since I love it so-it comes out "What's the prollum?", and becomes the basis for the rest of my day.
"Dr. Henry, I have Ass Bleed. And not just that. I've had Ass Bleed for a while now and now it's morphing into Blood Clots." It's important that I am straight with him. "It got worse over the weekend-I'm at the point now where I am just leaking blood. I'm leaking. I don't even know where the faucet is to turn it off."
He is now serious, and we go over a list of questions relating to my health. He takes my blood pressure and my pulse, and then asks me if I've ever had investigations into my anterior.
I nod. "I was diagnosed with IBS years ago. I had a barium enema, and I got to drink the nasty shit, too. I've had a colonoscopy. And a sigmoidoscopy."
"Well my friend, you're going to have another colonoscopy and sigmoidoscopy," he says sincerely.
Oh good. Since my life isn't stressed out enough.
"And I need to do a rectal exam today. If you can take your clothes off and lie on the bed, wearing this sheet, I'll be right back with a chaperon," he announces, and goes to get the nurse chaperone.
Wait! Fuck! What? Wait! My bikini line is in bad shape. I don't want a rectal exam today. I am not emotionally prepared for a rectal exam. I hate people anywhere near my ass, I would've taken one of my tranquilizers had I known this was coming.
Dr. Henry comes back. I have undressed and am lying huddled in the sheet. I am so stressed that digits are going to be making their way up my rectum I am sweating like a maniac. So not only is Dr. Henry going to be exploring the intimate side of my nether regions, he gets to think I am a big sweaty hog while he does it, my adrenaline signalling to "throw more coal on! Max power! We have an incoming!".
He snaps on his gloves-I swear to god he actually snapped them on-and turns to the nurse. "Mrs. Adelaide has a prollum. She has severe rectal bleeding and needs a rectal exam."
I also need a house on the French Riviera, doc, but I don't see you delivering on that one.
"Do you have the lubricant?" Dr. Henry asks the nurse.
"Do we need lubricant?" the nurse asks him.
"WE NEED LUBRICANT!" I scream hysterically from the bed. "We need lubricant! For the love of God, my sphincter will slam shut on your finger! We need lubricant!"
Dr. Henry laughs and gets the lubricant. He spreads it on his finger. "The lubricant is cold, I'm afraid."
This is ok with me. I think the feeling of something warm going the wrong way up my fudge passage is likely going to be too much for me.
He comes up to me, shifts me on my side, has me raise a leg and with one smooth movement there is...yes...indeed there is a finger right up my ass. He has a good feel around-because, you know, a long crooked finger up your rectum is real comfortable-and then pulls his finger out of my ass.
He removes his glove. "That wasn't too bad, was it?" he asks.
"Oh no," I say, wiping my well-oiled bum off with some paper towels. "Just a typical date night, I guess."
I dress and sit back down.
"Well," Dr. Henry says, looking at me. "This is serious, Helen. There is a prollum. It is not related to the IBS. You do not have anal fissures, hemorrhoids, or any polyps."
Oh good. So the good easy three options have been removed from the list. This leaves the three bad ones-Crohn's Disease (which I know nothing about), diverticulitis (which I know nothing about), and colon cancer (which I pretend to know nothing about).
I am being rushed through the NHS system now with my sparkly private medical insurance to see a gastroenterologist. I have been told to eat no spicy foods and to take it easy, as he's worried that continued blood loss will start to impact me soon. He also said it's serious, this prollum of mine.
I tell him that I hate-beyond hate-sigmoidoscopies and colonoscopies. He tells me that in England, they knock you out. Oh-unless, that is, they decide to fill your colon with air to do the colonoscopy. Then you're awake. And I know in an instant that's the one that's going to be done with me, because that's how bad my luck is. I'll be given a colonoscopy with much gas and no sedation, since despite my protests it's my body's constant hidden desire to be a fart bag. And I will be so swollen I'll be led out of the exam room by Oompa Loompas to be juiced. And the doctor will be Patrick Dempsey-hot. And they'll be out of KY.
I go home to Angus and announce: I have a prollum. He is very worried.
Because it looks like I do have a prollum.
The surgery rang after I got home and let me know that Dr. Henry managed to rush me an appointment with a gastroenterologist. Looks like the fiber optics will be working their way up my anal passage this Friday at 6:30 pm.
And yes. I am dreading it.
-H.
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October 14, 2005
I am very sensitive about butt doctors.
I have history, after all.
When you live with IBS, you get a bit sensitive about your ass. Especially when your ass is often your greatest enemy (my dearest rump, why don't you ease up? I love cheese, just accept it for god's sake!) Even as a kid, IBS was whipping me. I remember being subjected to enemas at the tender age of 6, and if running to the toilet in absolute desperation doesn't make for a bad day, perhaps meeting with the business end of a pointy plastic bottle will do it. I have had more probes up my ass than a crop-circled Iowa corn farmer. It's not something I venture into with any sort of willingness.
So yeah. My insides are in bad shape, but dammit I like Dr. Henry and he's the only one I'm going to see about it. I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like seeing my other doctor-he's they archetypal Englishman. I imagine I would slide into the patient's chair and have to inform him that "I am seeing hemoglobin emissions bordering on coagulations from my anterior repository". We would nervously talk about the indelicate subject of anal fissures and the need for high-fiber diets (which he would spell fibre and which would make me hate him for a long time) and how overcooked carrots really are the answer.
Instead, I want to walk into Dr. Henry's office and announce that I have the Ass Bleed, and that the Ass Bleed is morphing into the blood clot. I want to be straight with Dr. Henry as he laid the hand herpes on the line and was so cool about it he even wanted to take pictures of our hands, so I just know he can dig the Ass Bleed topic at face value.
Dr. Henry will undoubtedly have a go at me being a vegetarian, but then I have some news for him-while I will undoubtedly never eat meat again, I have been forced to accept my hypocrisy in a ritual I partake in every morning.
No I am not biting the heads off bats.
I like bats.
I have accepted defeat after a bit of research and am taking Omega-3 tablets, which are made out of fish.
This upsets me terribly.
We watched Horizon the other week (Horizon never, ever lies. Never. We love Horizon and it's entirely objective reporting, we love it and watch it and except for that really confusing episode about Stephen Hawking and some weird shit about physics that made me want to curl up in bed with my liberal arts diploma, we understand and enjoy the show). Horizon talked about the benefits of Omega-3, as explored by scientists over 30 years. It's been proven to help reduce the risk of heart attacks, to improve depression substantially, to improve brain function and reduce the chances of arthritis and joint damage, including that scary fucker called Hip Replacement Surgery.
Since Angus' blood pressure is so high, I put him on Omega 3.
Since arthritis runs in my family and I feel really stupid with all this work stress and I suffer from depressive tendencies, he's asked me to please, please be on it too.
So we're both on it-as well as other "good for you" things like drinking that probiotic yogurt every morning (it's not bad, actually) and eating organic food whenever possible (note: This does not make me Gwenyth Paltrow. Not only is my neck shorter, but unlike her, from time to time I like me some Cheetoes, and I know those aren't on an organic macrobiotic diet. Well, Cheetoes and alcohol. Have to have alcohol, although not with the Cheetoes. That's gauche).
But I feel distraught every morning taking that tablet, along with my folic acid and pregnancy vitamins (with the happy pregnant woman box face down, of course). Fish died for my vitamins. Fish wound up in a blender, a fish-shake, then their bodies were processed into these weird see-through yellow tablets straight out of Jurassic Park. I feel awful, the worst kind of hypocrite, I won't eat meat since I hate the idea of animals being sacrificed for my meal but here I am eating up pulpy fish as I can't get enough of this mineral in nature (it's found in a few vegetables, but I'd have to eat tons of it to get there, and the only thing I will eat tons of is cheese).
When I buy meat for Angus, it has to be what we call Happy Cow or Happy Chicken. I need to know that the chicken had a life running free outside, the wind in its feathers and grass beneath its feet (before it was pcked into a truck and shocked into a state of numbness before its throat is slit). If it wasn't a Happy Cow/Pig/Chicken/Lamb then I can't bear to buy it.
So I don't know that the fish pills are working, but I can say this-Angus has been suffering from what he calls "licking Grimsby pavement on a hot summer afternoon" burps ("Grimsby" being a fishing village in England, "pavemen" being a cute English way of saying "sidewalk"). As far as I'm concerned, he's lucky. Burping is all he's got? Yeah. He's lucky.
'Cause man, those pills are giving me The Farts. I mean house-clearing, run-for-the-hill farts. Earlier this week when we started the tablets I would feel The Great White Heat in my colon, signalling that something wicked this way comes. My intestines would shift and expand from the massive force of the neutron bomb it was about to expel. I would dash from the room and then nearly pass out from the smell, I couldn't believe something that nasty was coming out of me. The cats would look at me with disgust, to which I wanted to shout at them "Oh yeah! At least you don't see me licking my ass, do you? Huh?" I could be dropped over hostile nations and fed Omega-3 tablets and the enemy would come marching out, surrenduring at once.
The gas is gone now, I assume it was so bad in the first few days as I haven't had animal products for many years now, my stomach was like: Dude. What's up with the animal protein? Didn't we spend enough time making tie-dye clothes and singing kumbaya to know we don't have to have this stuff? Didn't we discuss this? The bad gas has subsided for the most part and I know that The Ass Bleed is not related as I've had that for ages anyway. My stomach is getting used to the tablets now, although it has sworn that if I think that this means it's ok to eat shrimp cocktail I've got another thing coming.
Luckily the gas subsided just before my yoga class yesterday, otherwise I can't imagine the issues there.
And in yoga class I was able to do a position I had never been able to do before, a position no one else could do. The look on Reena's face was one of abstract hatred and loathing. It was yet another yoga moment to go down in history.
Karmically, I'm going to burn for triumphing over Reena. I'm also going to burn for eating fish tablets.
The good news is, at least I'll be all bendy.
Doctor appointment on Monday.
-H.
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October 13, 2005
Two Nurofen for migraines later and I still have a migraine. I take two more. I figure-those two Nurofen in my stomach are lonely. They needed the company.
Some e-mails from Angus' ex wound me up no end, which I won't go in to now as I think it's best to take one stress at a time. No, really. It's a good policy.
I dial in to my team audio (after realizing that I forgot to tell one of my team members that the meeting was audio and they'd already hauled themself across the country to attend it in London) and thereupon my day went downhill. Fast.
A senior manager dialed in to my conference call and hijacked the whole fucking thing. He not only hijacked it, he threatened everyone's job on it as well. My team left the call running like scared rabbits.
It's all gotten worse.
I hung up the call, furious that he held my team member's jobs over their heads. We've been working 14-16 hours a day 6-7 days a week. We've done nothing wrong. I called Peter, my teammate, and for the first time in years, I burst into tears in front of someone at work.
We talked. We're both at the end of our tether. Peter is falling apart as well, his marriage in trouble and his health a mess. We vented a good long while, and then we vented to our manager.
And sometime in the afternoon, I just reached The Point. You know...The Point. The Point where you simply don't give a damn anymore. I went from whipping up documents and returning urgent mails to downloading ring tones. I got in the bathtub and took a bath with my new Mary Roach book, Mary Roach, the single greatest writer in the modern non-fiction world. I laid on the couch and ate crackers with fake ham and Emmenthal, then I watched a rerun of Ally McBeal while doing yoga moves on the couch. I browsed through the Dog's Trust Christmas catalog, which I not only sponsor monthly but from which I am hoping we can adopt a dog once (if) we get The Blackberries (my money sponsors the Old Dog home-they can't be rehomed but aren't put down, they live out the rest of their years in comfort and peace). I love the Dog's Trust catalog. Our Christmas cards will be coming from there, and I was pretty damn tempted to just buy everyone's Christmas gifts from there.
And then I sat down on the floor of the study and I just cried.
Later in the evening I watched Lost and tried to make myself quiet as Angus' mood dealing with the solicitors had gone really depressed. He was feeling so upset he even had a trip to the toilet to chuck his guts up, and I watched as a vein throbbed on the side of his head. I made us pumpkin soup and a baked potato, because really-who isn't going to be comforted by pumpkin soup? I got some bad news from one of the seniors and I texted my team, then turned my phone off. We went to bed, had sex, then I spent the night tossing and turning.
This morning I vowed to take it calmer. I started with a bath and watched an old episode of Friends, wishing it could all be that simple-a coffee shop, an orange jacket, ridiculous jokes and a nostalgia for the States, even if my life was tainted in shades of crazy.
I feel awful.
I look awful, too.
I had an egg salad sandwich and have a grocery list (I'm one of those people that likes grocery shopping. Yes really). My meetings are few today, but suddenly I've been hit with a request to do the world's largest Excel matrix comparing months and months of stats. From the study I can hear my anthropology degree quaking in fear from the box underneath the bed.
And this morning I not only had the Ass Bleed, I had Blood Clots.
I have blood clots coming out of my ass.
This kind of thing doesn't even happen in Carrie.
I put my head down and cried again.
-H.
PS-a year ago Paul recommended I buy a pumpkin carving kit. This year, I did.
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October 11, 2005
I am sitting here on yet another train to yet another London day, and amongst the business-suited men clutching their Blackberries and their sheaves of papers that have indelible red ink smattering the margins. Shiny black shoes reflect the light of the aisle and wedding-ringed hands run their way over many a thinning haired head. The shelf above the seats is a war zone of briefcases, all of them full of the things one needs-laptop, cables, Cross pens, copies of the classics (how many times have I seen Lord of the Flies and a dodgy-looking copy of Daphne Du Maurier?) and employee ID badges.
But I am here, and I am tired.
I'm tired of sitting on the end of a conference phone, tired of constant battles. I'm tired of action points, minutes of meeting, and 'ways of working'Â. I'm tired of trying to be so responsible all the time. I'm tired of 'disease of the month club'Â (my new one this week? I have a mouth ulcer inside my mouth. For real. And I get to rub this stuff on it that's for mouth ulcers and teething infants, so I have a real understaning of the pain of teething infants.) It hurts and it's the size of New Mexico. I know this as we have a map of New Mexico in the study, and I checked it, and yup-same size. Know what causes mouth ulcers? A few things, but the biggest one is stress. Soon all my flesh will simply go necrotic and fall off. That's clearly the next step on this project, which is ok I guess, as at least I will look thin.)
So here I am on the train, wearing jeans. Blue Sketcher sneakers are my footwear of choice, and I have a simple white button down shirt and a black Gap cardigan. I've thrown on a strand of vintage jet Flapper beads I bought over the weekend for £6.50. I'm dressed down and going into the Dream Job lions' den and I don't give a fuck.
I figure-sometimes it's about the clothes. Sometimes it's about the stockings, the high heels, the gloss of lip gloss shining off the lapel off a business suit. The perfect hair in the perfect bun and the perfectly amount of perfume.
And sometimes it's about being comfortable, wearing clothes that you feel you can move around in and an irreverent dash of Demeter's Crème Brulee perfume.
I wore jeans to the office last Friday as well. I was dressed similarly, in jeans and a smart button down shirt. I had worked my way through area after area of a project plan, and when I finished I went to the ladies' and pulled my hair into a high ponytail. I slicked on a bit of rose-colored lip gloss and felt relieved that the day was over.
As I left the office I tried to get around having to go through a crosswalk, and so stepped off the curb. A London black cab came up suddenly, so I jumped back onto the curb. And when I got onto the curb, I jumped up and down and laughed. I don't know why I did it, I just sprung like Tigger and giggled like a maniac. The cabbie slowed down by me, and I could see he was laughing.
'Don't worry, Love!'Â he said, grinning through his thick London accent. 'You're too cute, I wouldn't run you down!'Â I continued to laugh and hop around.
Made my day, mate, that one did.
I bought Halloween decorations over the weekend-we had two strands of what the English call 'fairy lights' delivered-fairy lights are basically what my people call 'Christmas lights'Â, only these are for Halloween so I reckon they're called..um'¦string Halloween lights. Or something. One strand had big smiling orange plastic pumpkins, and the other one has white mesh ghosts, with their mouths in a big surprised 'O'Â. I bought an enormous vampire to hang on our front door, a red monstrosity complete with bells attached to let you know the door has been opened.
And, of course, a Jack-o-lantern.
We'd gone into the shop on Sunday to get some goods for Angus' homemade Toad in the Hole (mine is veggie, and I love this meal so much I wonder if it makes me an honorary Englishman). As we wheeled the wonky cart in to the veggie section, there they were. Lining an entire shelf was a row of perfect orange pumpkins. I squealed and bounced around, and went running to them, looking at them closely. I reached for one and hugged it to me tightly. I walked to Angus.
'I talked to this one, and it wants to come home with us.'Â I said seriously. He grinned. I had asked the pumpkin, and it did want to come home with us-I look for wonky or different pumpkins, as I worry the wonky ones won't get adopted (you know that episode of Friends where Phoebe gets upset over the dead Christmas trees, and how they don't fulfill their Christmas destiny? Yeah. That's me.)
And now he sits on the front porch with his face lit up every night in an enormous smiley face.
My desk is littered with toys. A Magic 8 Ball, a frog that plays an annoyingly happy tune when you clap your hands. A stuffed turtle I bought in Egypt sits not far from a plastic Baba Papa. My Rosie the Riveter action figure is on my bookshelf and a Slinky rests near the keyboard. I'm desperate for a singing chicken alarm clock. Animated DVDs line the shelves and I am gearing up to watch Stewie-specific Family Guy (I just love you for it) and my Simpsons' Treehouse of Terror this week (I love the Halloween episodes). A stuffed G-Dog toy sits solemnly in our bedroom, wearing my pink French Connection hat.
The older I get, the more I like my toys.
And so I sit here on the train, my blue Sketcher sneakers taking up space on the crowded 7:17 to London.
It doesn't mean I am growing up. I am growing down, and maybe it just means I still want to have a laugh. Maybe I am so fucking stressed out and have too much work to do that any day now I will have reverted to thumb sucking and plaintive crying just to get someone to squeegee out my ear canals with that weird blue plastic bulb thing-y.
Although, as I was waiting to buy my ticket at the ticket counter the young dizzy thing in front of me was taking up way too much time trying to buy a simple ticket in London. I wanted to tell her that the businessmen? They lynch people that take up too much time in this line. It's a simple return to Waterloo, dearie, don't stress out. She took up five minutes asking questions about her transaction. The men behind me started to go into a killing rage. At the end of it, she grinned at the very nice ticket man we have at our station. 'Thanks! I was so worried I would miss my train, it's only my third day at college!'Â She flounced off, and I was left rolling my eyes and thinking: God. Young people. How aggravating.
I am, apparently, selectively growing down.
-H.
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October 10, 2005
Saturday dawned bright and Fall-like. I draped myself in my new French Connection shrug and a furry muppet-like scarf. Dressed down in jeans, I added an Edwardian necklace I'd gotten as a nice boho salute. I felt good, albeit a bit tense.
We got on the train to London, reading our newspapers and sipping bottled water. As we stopped at one of the stations closer to London, a group of four got on the train and sat next to us. As the train started up, I turned the page of my newspaper and then was hit by this sudden thought-Oh my God. The woman next to me has just had sex! She smells like sex! Like the naked-once-finished-she-will-need-to-drain kind of sex
And she did. She had that unmistakable smell of bodily fluids and bedsheet activitiy, that slighty musky, glue-y smell. She had bright red cheeks and kept holding her boyfriend's hand, which I guess if I'd just had a bit of rumpy bumpy I would too.
We made it to Waterloo, our usual London station.
Once in London we walked along the Waterloo Bridge and into Charing Cross, where we went to the World's Greatest Bookstore, a four-storey wonder called Foyle's. We went in empty-handed, and went out with no less than 5 books. We made our way to Covent Garden, to drop into Ann Summers and look for Coco De Mer-we are both pretty intent on spending time between the sheets and toys are always welcome. Not finding what we were looking for we settled on some massage kit from the Body Shop-I love me a massage, and Angus has promised a sensual massage in my near future.
We went to the Adelphi Theatre then and settled in. I'd bought us tickets to see Chicago, and after drinking a glass of wine in the bar we made our way to the seats. Shocked, I realized just how good our seats were.
We were in the third row.
When the action started up, we could see everything-the actors were right in front of us! It was amazing. I've never sat so close. I was thoroughly enjoying it, even if the bint from Birmingham next to me kept singing the songs along with the cast at the top of her lungs, ignoring my shushing sounds and dirty looks (Bitch, seriously-I paid £100 to have professional actors sing to me. Do you think I really want you singing, too?)
And then the scene where Mama sings "You Take Care of Mama" came on (as played by the fabulous Queen Latifah in the movie. Queen La, I love you and your acting. I just don't really like your music). I looked up, and couldn't believe it.
It was Wonder Woman.
Seriously.
Wonder Woman was Mama. Lynda Carter was three rows away, belting out her song in a fantastic throaty voice. Wonder Woman was three rows away!
"Wonder Woman!" I wanted to shout. "Ohmigod, I loved all your work! Your golden lasso, your invisible plane! The way your corset became a symbol for all S&M practises everywhere! I wanted to be you when I grew up! I even wore wrist guards and pretended they were like yours, deflecting all evil! You should've won an Emmy for your brilliant work on the Muppet Show! I wore your Underoos! I LOVED those Underoos, even when they gave me a yeast infection! I forgave you that and every yeast infection those Underoos gave me after, I just couldn't give up my Underoos! Wonder Womaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"
Naturally I contained myself. This is my third London-going theatre experience, and in one of the other ones I saw David Soul. I have no idea which one he was, Starksy or Hutch, and it's unlikely to change the way I blow dry my hair in the morning, but Wonder Woman kicks the stuffing out of Starsky and Hutch anway. I can't imagine who's going to be in the next one, but if it can be John Cusack then all my dreams will have come true.
I need John Cusack Underoos.
Man.
Wonder Woman.
Three rows away.
The show was actually fantastic, we had a great time. After the show, Angus took me to a Mexican restaurant in Covent Garden, where I had multiple orgasms over the pitcher of frozen margaritas and the rapturous veggie enchiladas (with refried beans, which I have discovered that after many fits and temper tantrums in various Mexican and Tex-Mex restaurants, I actually like).
We walked back to Waterloo, a slight rain falling, a definite Fall chill in the air. I looked out over my adopted city and sighed with rapturous wonder-no matter how many times I cross that bridge, I fall back in love with London every time.
Just as everytime I get into our home train station, I fall in love with it all over again, too.
So it was we had a grand day out-books, massage goodies, Mexican food.
And Wonder Woman.
Three rows away.
-H.
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October 07, 2005
Many years ago I found a picture of her in a hidden photo album at my grandmother's. My great-grandmother was a tiny, wizened creature in a kimono and with those wooden flip flop shoes, crouched on a dirt lane and smiling at the camera. I took the black and white photo from her house, and years later I framed it in a black lacquer frame and presented it to my father.
He cried.
When you're a child, it's hard to empathize with what he went through. But today, talking with my therapist, I feel horrified for that little boy, the little boy that was left behind, the little boy that to this day has a fear of moths, as in a cellar one evening an enormous luna moth flew onto his face and scared him nearly to death. Now that I'm the age of motherhood, I want to reach back in time and take the little boy from the turbulence and love him and care for him. I want to give him a PSP and read him books at bedtime and above all I want to hug him and talk to him and tell him that love is the most natural and greatest thing on earth.
For many years my father had a hard time with reaching out, with closeness. And in many ways I understand that. In many ways, I am that.
When I was 7 years old, my Brownie Troup was holding a Father-Daughter Picnic. I was so excited. I would be able to go there with my father. I had the day ready to go, the plans already made. We'd made buttons in the previous troup meeting, and I had my button proudly pinned to my sweater. It would be me and my Daddy for a whole day, doing father-daughter things we never did. Picnic food and sack races danced in my head. Sitting outside in the sun, introducing people to my Dad'¦I was filled with excitement.
The day before the picnic, my father chose an optional TDY trip. He left that day, and the picnic was missed. I was crushed. I couldn't believe it-my father had bunked out of the one thing I was so looking forward to. My best friend's Dad offered to be my Dad at the picnic as well, but I was so ashamed and embarrassed I turned him down, and didn't go to the picnic. I threw the button away in anger, and it was just a few short months later that my parents split up.
Stupid, really. A fucking picnic could be so disappointing when you're 7 years old. It's amazing how the inconsequential can upset you so much.
My dad called the other night while I was sitting in front of the glow of the PC monitor, the desk lamp switched on and chasing away the night from my desk.
'Helen! This is your father!'Â he croaks into the phone. It's our new shtick, he tries to sound like an evil villain, Darth Vader's second cousin twice removed, and it makes me laugh every time he does it.
'Duuuuuuuuuuude!'Â I shout back into the phone.
'I'm no dude! I'˜m your father!' he'll shout back.
And I fucking love his phone calls.
Over time, my father has mellowed and molded and become someone that I would like to know. He is an avid hiker and biker now. At Halloween, he and my stepmother decorate and hand out candy with glee. We talk about books and movies. I talk to him about The Blackberries, as the sale is progressing along.
And the truth is, my father is someone I like now.
For his birthday I sent him a special hiking flashlight, one with LEDs that doesn't need batteries, you just shake it to charge it. According to my stepmother, my father walks around with it all the time in the house, shaking it. She says you can hear him across the house, shaking that flashlight and flipping off all the lights to use the light from the flashlight. She says she reminds him that they actually have electricity, and that their electric bill will be tiny. He says he doesn't care-he just wants to use the flashlight.
I love that he uses my flashlight.
As we talked on the phone, I realized there was something I needed to say.
'Dad, I've been seeing a therapist.'Â I say.
'ÂWhat? Helen! Does Angus know?'Â he says, astonished.
'What? Oh! Dad, no-I'm not dating one. I'm seeing one. Like 'paying for therapy'Â seeing one. I mean, obviously the average healthy adult doesn't run around trying to kill themselves or anything, so it's important I get help.'Â
'Oh! Right. How are you doing?'Â he asks nicely.
'Not bad, Dad. I really like him, I think he's helping me a lot.'Â
'I'm really glad, Helen. I'm really glad.'Â
'Dad'¦um'¦well, we were talking about your childhood, and I just wanted to tell you'¦I'm really sorry.'Â
'Why are you sorry?'Â he asks, genuinely puzzled.
I shrug, even though he can't see me. 'It was awful for you, Dad. I am really sorry. You didn't deserve that kind of turbulence.'Â
'ÂOh Helen.'Â My dad says, sighing. 'It's me who needs to apologize, you had the turbulent childhood. We really screwed up. I'm the one who's sorry, Helen. I wish I could make it better.'Â
I'm 31 years old. My father has just apologized. I choked a bit and tears formed in my eyes. He blew off the Father-Daughter Picnic I wanted, he disappeared for most of my childhood, and he was my single greatest enemy when I was a teenager.
And he just told me he's sorry.
'It's ok Dad.'Â I said. And for the first time in years on the phone with him, I mean it. 'I love you Dad.'Â
'ÂI love you too, baby. You're my Number 1, and you always will be.'Â
I'm 31 years old, and my father has forgiven me.
I'm 31 years old, and I've forgiven my father.
It feels fantastic.
-H.
PS-If you haven't already been, there, go ahead and throw $50 at this site-you get to see me half-naked, and it's all for charity. I have two covered shots and two un-covered shots. I think it's clear which one is me! Am debating some kind of "you prove that you paid the money to charity and I'll send you a third shot or tell you which one I am" type of thing, but somehow that feels like something that would have my grandfather rolling in his grave. Will think about that one further today.
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October 04, 2005
I couldn't sleep.
I even took a sleeping tablet, but I just stayed up most of the night anyway.
I haven't had sleeping problems since I moved to England, since I spent those cold dark nights in Sweden in the purple glow of the television wondering when I could finally close my eyes and make it work. I would alternate every third night with the prescription sleeping tablets, waiting for the rocketing dizziness to set in and waking in the morning with the bitter taste of medicine and poorly-won sleep. I would manage about 5-6 hours of sleep until the white light of hidden sunlight on snow steeped into the windows. My X Partner Unit would kiss my unemployed head goodbye and head off to work.
But even before then, the lack of sleep was evident. Returning from a holiday we had in Turkey I was up for nearly 3 days before I caved to the siren call of sleeping tablets (the word "zombie" doesn't adequately describe me in a sleep-deprived state. More like "lunatic who should be kept away from the internet"). Weeks were metered by the TV that I stared through in the night. Days passed into night and back again and there I was, dark rings like a raccoon and the desperate drug-like yearning for sleep, only once I laid down all I did was toss and turn.
The worst episode I ever had was when I lived in North Carolina, shortly before moving to Sweden. The stress was so great that I went into manic modes in which I would stay up for nights on end cleaning. Things had to be cleaned. Things that were clean got re-cleaned. My place was so germ-free even Martha Stewart would have agreed it was clean, and would have sat naked in front of the refrigerator eating the leftover lasagne with her fingers. This went on for about 3 nights and then I would crash burn and sleep for 24 hours.
I got away with this from work as I was working 7 days a week anyway.
So last night I couldn't sleep. I was in bed reading for a while with Angus, and when he snapped off the light we assumed the normal crash positions-both of us on our left sides, his right arm curled up around me, under my elbow, over my breast, resting just beneath the angle of my chin with my arm wrapped around his. Maggie laid herself like a throw over his legs and laying like that, the two of them drifted off under a patina of matching snores.
But I didn't.
I went into spinning in bed mode, unable to get comfortable. I twisted and turned and plumped my pillow and hung a leg or two out. I tried to relax, I tried to go into Mittyism dream mode-I manage to save the world from nuclear destruction. I won the Nobel Prize for my perfect risotto recipe. I wrote a bestseller and appeared on Oprah in which I naturally cried (as everyone cries. She may even have Barbara Walters beat by now).
It didn't work. I got out of bed and downed a sleeping tablet and ambled to the computer, where I surfed and then played Sims for a while. I heard a shouting noise and walked into the darkness of the bedroom, to a sleeping Angus awash in mightmares. I reached across the duvet and put one hand on his leg and whispered: Shhh...it's ok. You're dreaming. With a sigh he went back to sleep and I went back to the PC.
At midnight I surfed eBay and managed to find an alarm clock I had as a kid and which I must have now. It's a big white chicken that sings: Wow! Yeah! Hey baby wake up, come and dance with me! Am slightly worried Angus will hate it. I am looking forward to experiencing my childhood again, albeit without the part where I flung said chicken alarm clock against the wall to silence it, which leads to the singing chickenless state I am in today.
At 1:00 a.m. I downloaded David Ford's new fantastically titled album I Sincerely Apologise for All the Trouble I've Caused. It is of the slow sad kill yourself variety of music, the kind to be avoided at all costs if experiencing a break up while clutching a bottle of tequila lest you become even more desolate, when you're still in the Patsy Cline's Crazy weepy stage. The songs are even more sad and slow than Gabriel's I Grieve or Sarah's Hold On, the slow version of which makes me cry like I am watching E.T. (and I always cry when I watch that movie).
At 1:30 a.m. I returned to the bed, hopeful. Foolish...but hopeful.
At 2:00 a.m. I forgot what a cat lover I am as I reached over Angus and removed Maggie from the bed, seeing as she was stretched out taking up his space and he was stretching out Bogarting mine. I figured-cats have short attention spans. She'll forgive me.
At 2:30 a.m. I solved world peace, wrote up a week's worth of blogs, and figured out what to do about the fault log at work.
At 3:00 a.m. I had forgotten all my achievements and was just cross that I couldn't sleep.
At 3:30 a.m. I fell asleep.
At 7:00 a.m. Angus was on the phone and it woke me up.
Time to start the day then.
I don't think I am entering that cycle of "never leave the house or bathe or eat thanks to the big depression that will run your life forever and ever" again. I think it's more like my body's way of saying "Seriously, if you do not dump some of this stress I am going to find new and interesting diseases that you will suffer from, all of which will be listed in an encyclopedia of interesting and amorphous tropical diseases and which 15 year olds will read in their school libraries with a mixture of horror and excitement."
I am strangely tired but I think if I tried to sleep it would fail, and anyway the day is pretty hectic ahead. Phone conferences for most of the day then a trip into London to see that nice therapist guy who is working my head out with me. Then back home tonight. Interesting TV. Maybe a bath and a shag before bed.
And sleep.
Please dear God let me sleep tonight. I'll give you a kidney if you'll just let me sleep. I can't go back to that cycle again. I worry what it means.
-H.
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October 03, 2005
Last Friday's test were really the final pit stop before the whole thing could proceed. Angus needed a series of tests (HIV, hepatitis B and C) and I had two more final blood tests to add to my already exhaustive list of bloodwork I've had done-one of which is a very expensive chromosome typing that is done for women who donate their eggs. The tests take a while to get the results back and come in at over £1000, but since I am donating half of my eggs, the cost is free (there's a joke in there about counting babies before the egg hatches, only it's lost on me right now. Must have more coffee.)
Angus' tests have come back, and he has a spectacular group of swimmers. As a man it must suck to have to have stats on your boys read out. The form not only counts them, but includes the amount of "abnormal ones" (before you freak out boys, know this-all men have abnormally shaped swimmers. All of you! Now uncross your legs as I tell you the really interesting part-men can have up to 85% abnormal swimmers and still be considered a normal candidate! More beer, anyone?) Without going into detail, I can say that Angus' stats are exceptional and show that after washing out the unmotivated sperm who would rather channel surf on the sofa than get their hard hat out and head for Baby-Land (a normal process in IVF and yes, all of you men have some of those sperm as well) he has lots remaining and they mean business. Even after 24 hours, they are still chugging back their Gatorade and determinedly swimming upstream.
Superman Sperm if I ever heard of them.
When I was getting the Hello My Name Isn't STD tests last week, I had gone in alone. I waited and waited in the waiting room, my appointment getting later and later as the nurses were all occupied in another room by something. I was beginning to get pretty annoyed when the object of the nurses' attention came out-a woman about my age, with short brown hair. Her face was bright red and puffy, and a nurse held on to her shoulders as she continued to choke out sobs.
It has always been clear to me that an IVF unit is the place where dreams are made or broken, only I had never seen anyone else go through the broken bit before. While there were Kodak moments of dreams succeeding lining the walls, for every newborn set of eyes there were at least two women who wept bitter tears when their periods started. I remember sitting under a running shower and sobbing. No one saw my dreams bite the dust.
Sitting in that uncomfortable naughahyde chair, I saw hers.
And I was thus very patient as I continued to wait for my turn with the business end of a needle.
So Angus and I go to wait in the waiting room, and there amongst the two year old mound of Hello! magazines is a pregnant woman. She has one hand protectively wrapped around her stomach and she is laughing and talking with another woman waiting in the waiting room, a woman who bites her lip from time to time and looks with uncomfortable longing at the pregnant woman's stomach. She has the look of someone that has been in a lot of over-loaded Hello!-magazine waiting rooms and can rattle off the women Colin Farrell has been seen with, a distraction to a distracted mind.
Un-Pregnant Woman tells Pregnant Woman about a nice party they were at this weekend, in which she drank too much.
"I haven't had a drink in ages!" laughs Pregnant Woman. "You're so lucky! I would do anything to have a drink right now!"
Really? I want to shout. Seriously, would you? Because you're in a waiting room for woman for women that would gladly give up the bottle for as long as it takes to get where you are. You're in this room for what purpose, exactly? Your work on this ward is done. Go to the ob-gyn like a good girl now, would you, and leave the infertility to the rest of us.
Up-Pregnant Woman then talks about her treatment with Pregnant Woman. Pregnant Woman nods sympathetically. "I know, it's so hard. I remember all of that."
Do you? Then maybe you remember how you'd feel if a pregnant woman was sat in the middle of the waiting room with the rest of the Pathetically Un-Pregnants. It's bad enough the walls in this place are lined with pictures of newborn babies. How about you go wait in that other waiting room and leave the rest of us to our hopeful dreams, eh?
Life as an Un-Pregnant continues. I am on folic acid and pregnancy vitamins now as they say it's very helpful with IVF cases. Something about nuchal cords, or some other term that is uncomfortably like the word "belly button", and I never say the word "belly button" as I find that word to be the height of embarassing. Naturally the cover box of the pregnancy vitamins shows a happily pregnant woman dreamily rubbing her stomach, a mist of happy hazy mommy dreams. I keep the box face down in our junk drawer in the kitchen. Karma and all that.
We've decided to wait to start the process until after the New Year-not only would we not be able to start it before the holidays at this point (who knew chromosome typing took so long to kick off?) but reminders of losing Egg and Bacon in a hardware store toilet the day after New Years' has put me off of ever trying for a baby in the holiday time again.
I can just picture it.
Phwee! go those obnoxious New Years' noisemakers. Phwee! Rockets explode outside and people tipple their champagne glasses at each other. Angus kisses me and then looks down at the emerging puddle between my feet. "Umm...darling?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "You're bleeding."
"Oh damn it all to hell." I'll reply, reaching for the champagne bottle as it wouldn't matter anymore if I'm not drinking. "Miscarrying again at the New Year."
Or at Christmastime-I sit on Santa's lap with a cheeky grin.
"Have you been a good girl this year?" Santa asks.
"Define the elvish version of the word 'good' and I'll let you know, Nick." I reply. I can't recall the last time I was a good girl. At least I am wearing my most modest knickers, I suppose that helps.
"And what do you want for Christmas, young lady?" he'll ask.
"I want a lifetime supply of Sephora products, a puppy, and an end to fox hunting. I'd ask for world peace, too, but the Miss America pageant has really ruined it for all of us. Oh! And I want to have a baby, too."
Santa smiles and pats my head. "I'll see what I can do about those, only that sudden rush of hot liquid on my lap tells me that your baby dreams for Christmas are over. How about a lollipop instead?"
Yeah. So no baby attempts until the new year. We're looking at probably kicking it off in March-you can't fly long distance while going through the process and we'd already planned a long haul holiday with his kids in February. The baby dreams will wait for now, and in the meantime a machine somewhere whirrs a vial of my blood around to see what my chromosomes say about me. A computer is quietly clicking in the background, matching me with another prospective mommy-to-be. There's a collection of slender needles, just waiting to have my name on them.
We will see.
We will see.
-H.
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