Tag Archives: health

How To Adult: Surviving Surgery


Congratulations!  After close to a year of gross stuff falling out of your lady parts in many strange and unusual ways, you’ve finally convinced yourself to see a doctor, who has gone on to inform you that you’ve got a small benign growth that’s probably been causing all of your ills.  You’ve managed to bite your tongue enough to avoid asking why it’s been landing you on death’s doorstep once a month if it’s so “benign” and now said doctor is talking about sending you in for some minor surgery to zap it off with a laser, thus turning your hoo-ha into a DJ Tiësto concert.

I included this photo of my vagina with my Suicide Girls application but was turned down.

I included this photo of my vagina with my Suicide Girls application but was turned down.

Your initial reaction should be to fistpump and yell “LET’S DO THIS” in the middle of the exam room to show that you are fearless and awesome.  You should, however, then double over in pain and vomit into a trashcan because you forgot that sudden movements hurt now.

Fast-forward to the big day.  You are a grown-ass woman striding confidently into the outpatient waiting area, but before you can get to the slicing and dicing, you’ve got paperwork to fill out.  Discover that the only clipboards available for you to use towards this end are located in a basket sitting on the floor.  Audibly mutter “son of a BITCH” in front of a two-year-old, whose mother gives you a very angry look as you awkwardly bend sort-of-forward-but-mostly-to-the-side to avoid barfing while you pick one out of the mess.  Dutifully plug away at the papers in front of you, only to realize as you’re signing your name at the end of Page 1273658293 that you filled everything out one line above where it should have been written.  Sigh loudly and exclaim “Fuck me!”  The angry mother from before will now pick up her toddler and move to the opposite end of the waiting area.

Despite your appointment being at 12:30, you will not be seen until closer to 1:45.  During this time, you should ignore the Kindle and fully-functional smartphone with 32 gigabytes of your favorite music and stare blankly at a continuous loop of The Bucket List.  Make a mental note to suggest to the hospital staff that a movie about two people dying of cancer might not be the most inspiring choice for their waiting room.  Once your name is finally called, allow all of your previous hardcore, optimistic mentality to evaporate as you realize that strangers are about to fire lightsabers at your most tender of places and become a 26-year-old woman standing in the middle of a hospital crying for her mother to come hold her hand.  It’s okay.  It’s standard procedure.

Once you disappear through the double doors into the actual exam and prep area, you will immediately be handed three sample cups and instructed to pee in them.  For the past several months you have either been peeing constantly and unable to shit, or shitting constantly to the point of diagnosing yourself with cholera on WebMD and unable to pee.  Today, and only today, you will discover that you can do neither.  After fifteen minutes of sitting on the toilet bargaining, threatening, pleading, and encouraging your bladder, finally manage to get things moving along.  Unfortunately, you have completely misjudged your nether anatomy and will miss all but two drops.  Sheepishly place all three cups in the sample deposit window and try to tiptoe past the lab technician who takes one look at your “bounty” and shoots you a withering look.  Wonder to yourself if she’s related to Angry Mother from the waiting area.

Back in the exam room, a nurse is waiting to draw some blood from you.  Talk up your superior bleeding skills as she ties off your upper arm and announce that you’re an “easy stick.”  She will poke at your arm a few times before announcing that every single one of your veins has suddenly decided to flip everyone the middle finger and not cooperate.  Finally, one in the crook of your arm sort of pops up, but it will immediately collapse and require an agonizing thirty seconds of digging for it before she announces it’s no good and goes to retrieve a specialist.  The specialist will stare at your tiny threadlike veins in dismay before declaring that the only way to get any blood out of you today will be using a lancet on the side of your finger.  The good news is that the stick site will bleed.  The bad news is that it will only provide the smallest drop before clotting.  Two more attempts later, you find yourself surrounded by three nurses yanking your arm downward and massaging the already-sore area to try and coax enough blood out to run the necessary tests.  The doctor will show up in the midst of the confusion and attempt to hold a deep, meaningful conversation at the same time as everyone else in the room.  Try to participate in all four conversations at once, guaranteeing that your greatest contribution to the verbal fray is “Um… I guess… wait, no, July.  NO.  AUGUST.  Latex?  Seventeen.”

The ultrasound technician will come in to take a look at the current state of your not-so-benign lump of shit that shouldn’t be there.  Lift up your gown to expose your stomach.  She will look at you confusedly and instruct you to remove your underwear.  Take a good twenty seconds to realize what she means.  This is not the simple ultrasound that TV has always showed you.  Reruns of ER have lied to you.  Goran Visnjic’s sexy deception will not soon be forgotten.

Actual size of ultrasound wand based on (very) personal estimation.

Actual size of ultrasound wand based on (very) personal estimation.

The next couple of hours go by without a hitch.  Before you know it, you are somewhat drowsily listening to the doctor giving you instructions on the five thousand and four medications that she expects you to take over the next few days of recovery.  After noticing your blank stare, she begins to place colored stickers on the bottles and on the medication schedule and use smaller words.  Find yourself unsure of whether to be grateful or offended.  She will ask you to verify the medication allergies you have listed in your chart.  Confirm the allergy to sulfa drugs, but hesitate on mentioning the erythromycin thing.  It’s been years since you last took it, and you were just a little kid, so of course it’s going to make you feel crappy (literally), right?  Decide that since your airway stayed open, you’re probably fine and decline to mention it.  She will warn you that over the next few days you may notice some bleeding, but that this is normal.  Her version of “some bleeding” and the actual version you will experience over the next few days will differ greatly.



At home, you will quickly discover that you should have mentioned the erythromycin thing.  You really, really, really should have.  But you will not come to this conclusion until after vomiting up water and saltines for several hours.  Also realize that no matter how excited you are about the Associate Quest Designer position that Blizzard just posted on their website, you should probably not drag yourself out of bed three hours post-surgery to apply, because it will come back to bite you in the ass once the pain meds wear off, which they will do about halfway through your cover letter.

And that, folks, is a true story.  The surprise medical adventure has caused a slight delay in my starting work in the game industry, but with a blissfully short estimated recovery time (assuming I don’t do anything else irresponsible like sit at the computer writing a 1000+ word arti — oh.) I should be back to relatively normal by Monday.  I haven’t been around much because of the poor health leading up to this, and then a very rough couple of recovery days, but I’m happy to report that I can finally sleep without discomfort and have more energy than I’ve had in quite some time.  I haven’t needed to take any of the pain pills they gave me since about 4 a.m. yesterday and for the first time in a while I can actually do simple things like make myself lunch and walk around the house.

In the meantime, I implore all of you to listen to your body, and if you feel like something is really wrong, seek medical attention as soon as you can.  I’m fortunate enough to live in the great state of California which offers a fantastic program called Medi-Cal for those of us who can’t otherwise afford healthcare, and many non-profit hospitals are happy to work with you to reduce or write off your bill if necessary.  I took a stupid risk by waiting so long to get checked out, especially with my family’s history of cancer.  I was lucky this time, but I may not be so fortunate again.  A trip to the doctor isn’t exactly like going to Disneyland, but it could save your life in the long run.


I Am Sick And Tired Of Being Sick And Tired


Two days ago I woke up with a tickle in my throat, and by tickle, I mean “it felt like I was drinking straight out of my hot glue gun.”

As a kid, I used to get violently ill around the same time every year, which mystified doctors until I was about 11 or 12 and one of them finally figured out that I have an oddly specific allergy to a certain type of mold that grows on certain types of citrus trees during the harvest season in a certain region of the United States, and as coincidence would have it, we had three of said moldy citrus trees chilling in our yard that would start bearing fruit at exactly the same time that my respiratory system started re-enacting The Exorcist.  Now that I’m an adult who maintains at least a 50-mile distance between herself and the nearest orange grove, I don’t really get colds or flus or anything like that.  When everyone else is being obliterated by whatever Zombie Swine Chupacabra Plague happens to be sweeping the world at the time, I’m sitting at home watching the advisories on CNN and making smug faces.  On the extremely rare occasion that something does manage to force itself through my mucous membranes, all Hell breaks loose.  The way I see it, I get all of my requisite sniffly stuff out of the way in one shot every five years or so.  I’d rather be sick as balls for a week and then not have to deal with it for like a million years, you know?

At least, that’s what I tell myself until I actually get sick.

But more about Hot Glue Gun Throat Syndrome.  It’s about the worst feeling in the world.  You go to bed and everything’s great, then you wake up choking on all of the terrible booger-y shit that’s decided to jailbreak out of your sinuses and down the back of your throat.  I’ve got a high pain tolerance — I actually fell asleep during my tattoo because I got bored — except when it comes to throat pain.  I would take a papercut to the tongue over a sore throat.  I’m not sure if I hate it so much because it legitimately hurts, or because it’s always a harbinger of doom for my immune system.  Some people know they’re getting sick when their nose gets runny or their left third metatarsal starts throbbing; I know I’m completely and utterly screwed once I get that constant drowning sensation.

I spent that entire day frantically chugging every source of vitamin C I could find, because unlike a normal person, I actually go through the stages of grief when it comes to getting sick, and here was Stage 1: Denial.  I hit Anger upon finding that my herbal chest rub had gone a bit off, meaning I spent the rest of the day smelling like I’d been rolling around in menthol cigarette butts (as opposed to regular butts, which I would love to roll around in).  Within another couple of hours I was Bargaining with Azazel and every other major and minor denizen whose name I’d heard on Supernatural that if they’d just, like, cancel this delivery of Extreme Suffering I’d sacrifice an entire herd of alpacas in their honor.  Depression and Acceptance hit about the same time once I realized that I was almost out of Supernatural episodes to watch and laid down on the couch in utter defeat, at which point I didn’t so much accept my plight as tried to get back up and nearly threw up everywhere so I really couldn’t fight it anymore.

It’s amazing how the crappy things you hate doing when you’re healthy suddenly become all you want to do when you’re confined to bed.  I like to pretend that I’m this ironically lazy creature like Garfield except actually funny (and also lasagna tastes like Silent Hill and broken dreams to me), but the reality is that nothing drives me further up a wall than a wasted day, especially now that I’m out here in Irvine and actually have the desire to do stuff.  There’s also that tiny little detail of “every day that I don’t work on writing or practicing my coding is another day I don’t add to my portfolio and an even longer delay with getting hired at Blizzard” so between my type A personality kicking in and a built-in biological warfare system, I haven’t been the easiest patient to deal with.  I technically shouldn’t even be sitting here writing this for multiple reasons, the least of which “it’s by far the stupidest thing I’ve ever written” and the most important being “The Fiance is going to realize I’m not laying down and come into the room and make loud annoying noises at me until I go back to resting.”  Yes, The Fiance has pretty much ordered my complete quarantine to the point that I’m not even allowed to get up and get myself a glass of water.  I made my own lunch this afternoon and I swear the little shit gave me the evil eye.  But I’m an independent person, and thus being told “no, you are coughing up globs of brown things, you cannot do the laundry” without being allowed or able to yell “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED” afterwards is one of the least sexy tortures that a person could inflict on me.

Not to mention that I’m just flat-out unused to being able to take time off to recover from an illness.  Before my short stint at the tea shop, I had a job where we were legit not allowed to call in sick.  Ever.  We were so under-staffed and over-worked that one person not showing up could mean the difference between hitting our deadlines and getting hopelessly behind for a month.  My former significant others were not always the most sympathetic people.  I ended up bedridden for a week with a nasty case of food poisoning and my boyfriend at the time accused me of faking it so that I didn’t have to do housework.  I learned not to rely on people for care while I’m sick or injured.  The Fiance, meanwhile, brings me medicine, food, drinks, extra pillows, blankets, and kisses to the forehead without me even having to ask for them.  He’s stepped up to the plate by taking over all of the housework with exactly zero complaining about having to do so.  If I try to protest or do something anyway, he very gently takes it out of my hands and ushers me back to the couch.  He isn’t cranky with me despite the fact that my coughing and tossing-and-turning has kept him up for three nights straight (and when I offered to sleep on the couch, he refused to let me even think about it).  My Jewish guilt can’t handle this kind of spousal excellence, I swear.

If there is a bright side to being sick, it’s that I’ve managed to catch up on Netflix and regained my ability to do a bitchin’ Dr. Girlfriend/Dr. Mrs. The Monarch impression, although my Skeletor and Eric Cartman are currently suffering.  The fact that my sinuses are so tightly packed with rainbow colors of snot and other nastiness means that I can actually consume foods I wouldn’t otherwise enjoy, so finding something to eat is easy as the pie that we sadly do not currently have.  A cat peed outside of our window last night and while it was a horrible experience for The Fiance, I just sat there blissfully ignorant to the stench.  I have an excuse to not shave my legs for a week.  I get all the tea I can drink (even though I’m not allowed to make it for myself).

And then I cough up something that tastes vaguely like bug spray and I just sort of sigh and resign myself to another three or four days of being an observer of the chaos rather than an active participant.