I love that Bryan Adams song.
Also, I'm going under the knife.
This Wednesday, I'm supposed to go to Margate and get a polyp removed from my uterus. It's a big old polyp. It's making my uterus cranky. A cranky uterus means a cranky Lauren.
I had my pre-op appointment yesterday, and my doc broke some more lovely news for me. Instead of one 20 minute procedure, he's adding another hour long procedure. A lapropscopic procedure to deal with some adhesions on my uterus that could be causing issues as well. He's gonna cut my belly button, put a camera in me and check everything out.
I was surprised. I'm scared.
I don't know why I'm scared. Part of me thinks that I'll find some crazy news out about my lady bits that will make me hate them. Like that I won't be able to have the babies I'm not sure I even want. I don't know. Going under scares me.
But relief from these stupid symptoms will be great. No more debilitating cramps. No more fun mid cycle bleeding. No more overwhelming PMS. No more PMS decisions. No more exhaustion and randomly falling asleep. No more passing out.
If all that goes away, it will certainly be worth it. BUT I AM FREAKING OUT.
I love oversharing. My mom got on my case about it the other day, but I feel like the world needs to know that it's ok to be your own advocate. I have felt that something was wrong for the last two years, and it took visiting 4 different doctors, 15 different tests including Xrays, MRI's, Ultrasounds. blood work, poop tests, urine tests, and 2 ER visits to finally get to this place where I will be hopefully solving the issues I've been having. And the only reason I am at this point is because I didn't give up on myself. And you shouldn't either.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Monday, February 2, 2015
Don't go to the light, Carol Anne!
I kinda died on Saturday. It was nice.
I am an idiot.
I've been battling 2 infections over the last month, and decided that the PERFECT time to donate blood would be whilst fighting these infections and whilst on my lady time.
I walked all morning with Mom and Kevin, and had about an hour to get ready and get to the blood center. I shoved a Belvita biscuit into my piehole, showered and drove to the facility. My iron level was 13.2. Good enough to donate! My blood pressure was a little lower than normal...but still ok. 113 over 78. My temp was 97.8, but over the past few months has been lower than normal. Still ok.
The lady stabbed me. It hurt. My arm started tingling halfway through the donation. I didn't say anything, as the phlebotomists were obsessed with Bobbi Christina being found unconscious in a bathtub, The donation was done. She told me to put pressure on my arm and to raise it over my head. I told her I felt wobbly. She walked away to get me an apple juice from the fridge. Then nothing.
I dreamt that Kevin and I were walking down the trail near my house. The trees arched over the path, with sunlight shining down through the gaps in the leaves. Kevin had lots of energy, and I felt at peace. So cozy.
"Lauren! Lauren! Wake up, Lauren!"
I opened my eyes to two women standing over me, fluorescent light hurting my eyes. I wanted to go back to sleep. Why were my shoes gone? Why was my chest cold? I looked down and saw ice packs on my legs and on my chest. According to my timeline of events, I was out cold for 20 minutes.
"What did you eat today?"
"I had...I had...one of those...biscuit. Ungh. Belvita things." I slurred.
"Here's some juice."
"I'm going to throw up."
"Here's a bag."
I dry heaved for 20 minutes, until one of the ladies popped me in a wheelchair and let me let lose in the bathroom.
One of the ladies was on the phone. She was canceling the paramedics. DAMN. No hot paramedics. BOO.
They rolled me back to the bed. The lady had to fill out a report and took my blood pressure. 104/38. I was concerned about that, but she didn't acknowledge it or comment. I started feeling slightly better. They rushed me out the door. I called Mom to let her know I might die again at some point. She said she'd call and check on me. I should not have been driving.
I got to Jog Rd. and had to pull over. I had to throw up but couldn't.
I got home and threw up all over myself.
I napped.
Got up and threw up again. There was nothing left.
Napped.
Ate a turkey sandwich. Felt better.
Drove to Walgreens. Bought apple juice, soda and iced tea. Drove through Burger King.
Napped.
I was scared to really sleep, so stayed up til 1am watching TV before I decided to go to bed. I only locked one of the deadbolts in case someone had to get in to save me.
I called my boss on Sunday and asked if I had to work the Super Bowl party since I died. He said I had to.
I am wiped today. I started a 7 day round of pills for the latest fun time infection. They make me wonky. I have a procedure next week that is supposed to clarify all this garbage, but I may have to reschedule as they want me to take 3 days of antibiotics before the procedure, and that will conflict with the other treatment.
Decisions are stupid. Can I go back to walking that path with Kevin? It was soooo nice.
I am an idiot.
I've been battling 2 infections over the last month, and decided that the PERFECT time to donate blood would be whilst fighting these infections and whilst on my lady time.
I walked all morning with Mom and Kevin, and had about an hour to get ready and get to the blood center. I shoved a Belvita biscuit into my piehole, showered and drove to the facility. My iron level was 13.2. Good enough to donate! My blood pressure was a little lower than normal...but still ok. 113 over 78. My temp was 97.8, but over the past few months has been lower than normal. Still ok.
The lady stabbed me. It hurt. My arm started tingling halfway through the donation. I didn't say anything, as the phlebotomists were obsessed with Bobbi Christina being found unconscious in a bathtub, The donation was done. She told me to put pressure on my arm and to raise it over my head. I told her I felt wobbly. She walked away to get me an apple juice from the fridge. Then nothing.
I dreamt that Kevin and I were walking down the trail near my house. The trees arched over the path, with sunlight shining down through the gaps in the leaves. Kevin had lots of energy, and I felt at peace. So cozy.
"Lauren! Lauren! Wake up, Lauren!"
I opened my eyes to two women standing over me, fluorescent light hurting my eyes. I wanted to go back to sleep. Why were my shoes gone? Why was my chest cold? I looked down and saw ice packs on my legs and on my chest. According to my timeline of events, I was out cold for 20 minutes.
"What did you eat today?"
"I had...I had...one of those...biscuit. Ungh. Belvita things." I slurred.
"Here's some juice."
"I'm going to throw up."
"Here's a bag."
I dry heaved for 20 minutes, until one of the ladies popped me in a wheelchair and let me let lose in the bathroom.
One of the ladies was on the phone. She was canceling the paramedics. DAMN. No hot paramedics. BOO.
They rolled me back to the bed. The lady had to fill out a report and took my blood pressure. 104/38. I was concerned about that, but she didn't acknowledge it or comment. I started feeling slightly better. They rushed me out the door. I called Mom to let her know I might die again at some point. She said she'd call and check on me. I should not have been driving.
I got to Jog Rd. and had to pull over. I had to throw up but couldn't.
I got home and threw up all over myself.
I napped.
Got up and threw up again. There was nothing left.
Napped.
Ate a turkey sandwich. Felt better.
Drove to Walgreens. Bought apple juice, soda and iced tea. Drove through Burger King.
Napped.
I was scared to really sleep, so stayed up til 1am watching TV before I decided to go to bed. I only locked one of the deadbolts in case someone had to get in to save me.
I called my boss on Sunday and asked if I had to work the Super Bowl party since I died. He said I had to.
I am wiped today. I started a 7 day round of pills for the latest fun time infection. They make me wonky. I have a procedure next week that is supposed to clarify all this garbage, but I may have to reschedule as they want me to take 3 days of antibiotics before the procedure, and that will conflict with the other treatment.
Decisions are stupid. Can I go back to walking that path with Kevin? It was soooo nice.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Single Bliss...
Last night, I ate cold pizza for dinner. I put salt on it as if cold pizza requires more salt. Kevin got some pieces of crust. I put on an old sweater of my mom's and some sweatpants.
I took an hour nap on the couch. I have another infection and it's kicking my ass.
I woke up, watched cheesy Hallmark movies, and then decided to read.
I bought a copy of Maya Angelou's Letters to My Daughter a couple of weeks ago and just started reading it. It's great.
I turned off the TV, turned out all the lights in the living room, got ready for bed and snuggled in my full size bed with book in hand. Kevin plopped down on the floor next to the head of the bed. He started snoring immediately. He's had an infection, too. A poopy, squirty kinda infection. The Pottinger household is a mess.
I laid down in the middle of the bed. Head propped on all four pillows. Tucked my legs under my two comforters, adjusting my body to the feather mattress under me for maximum comfort. I read a couple of paragraphs, and looked at the clock. I typically go to bed at 11, but tonight I felt a need to turn in at 10:30. Light off, I told Kevin I loved him and rolled over, pillow between my legs. My phone went off. It was my friend Anthony, wanting to know if I was up to talk. I called him. We chatted til 11:20. I hung up and snuggled in, falling asleep immediately.
I woke up this morning at 7:15. I peed with the door open after feeding Kevin. I grabbed his leash, walked out the door, and walked him for a half hour in my sweatpants and Mom's old sweater. I got ready for work. I gave him some treats, and headed out the door for my day.
I didn't have to think about anyone else and their needs. I didn't have to sneak out of the room to chat with my friend. I didn't have to share my pizza or be judged for adding salt/Hallmark movie/sweatpants and Mom's sweater. I don't have to share Kevin. I don't have someone asking me to turn out the light so they can sleep.
Being single has it's lonely times, sure. But the non-lonely times are pretty awesome.
I took an hour nap on the couch. I have another infection and it's kicking my ass.
I woke up, watched cheesy Hallmark movies, and then decided to read.
I bought a copy of Maya Angelou's Letters to My Daughter a couple of weeks ago and just started reading it. It's great.
I turned off the TV, turned out all the lights in the living room, got ready for bed and snuggled in my full size bed with book in hand. Kevin plopped down on the floor next to the head of the bed. He started snoring immediately. He's had an infection, too. A poopy, squirty kinda infection. The Pottinger household is a mess.
I laid down in the middle of the bed. Head propped on all four pillows. Tucked my legs under my two comforters, adjusting my body to the feather mattress under me for maximum comfort. I read a couple of paragraphs, and looked at the clock. I typically go to bed at 11, but tonight I felt a need to turn in at 10:30. Light off, I told Kevin I loved him and rolled over, pillow between my legs. My phone went off. It was my friend Anthony, wanting to know if I was up to talk. I called him. We chatted til 11:20. I hung up and snuggled in, falling asleep immediately.
I woke up this morning at 7:15. I peed with the door open after feeding Kevin. I grabbed his leash, walked out the door, and walked him for a half hour in my sweatpants and Mom's old sweater. I got ready for work. I gave him some treats, and headed out the door for my day.
I didn't have to think about anyone else and their needs. I didn't have to sneak out of the room to chat with my friend. I didn't have to share my pizza or be judged for adding salt/Hallmark movie/sweatpants and Mom's sweater. I don't have to share Kevin. I don't have someone asking me to turn out the light so they can sleep.
Being single has it's lonely times, sure. But the non-lonely times are pretty awesome.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Wedding weirdness.
You never really know how you've effected someone until the day they introduce you to their new spouse and say, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."
John Sheetz go married this weekend to a wonderful woman named Bekkah. They were married in a Lodge in Wakulla Springs, FL. It was perfect for them. The ceremony was beautiful. They offered communion. I took it. I interpreted it as a show of support for the new couple in their life together. The bread was tasty.
I've known John since we were 12 years old. We were on newspaper staff together. We were really great friends in high school. He was my adventure friend, and we'd end up going for long bike rides or to art galleries together. One of my fondest memories was the two of us, riding our bikes from my house to a park on Haverhill and up Military Trail back to my house. Senior year, we wandered around Palm Beach Island with our friends who had all been nominated for Pathfinder Awards. I was off to tour the world with Up With People. They were all making plans for college.
During my tour, I got emails from John. He was in Europe. He had decided to travel, too. We emailed back and forth over the year. Me from Prague. Him while working on a boat in the Mediterranean. Me from Finland. Him from Stratford Upon Avon. I got postcards from him at home, telling me that I should go here or there. I was always jealous of his adventures even while I was having my own.
I had never met Bekkah, but thought I knew her pretty well through facebook posts. Halfway through the reception, I cornered John and pointedly told him that neither I not our friend Katie who was there had ever even met Bekkah. He introduced Katie and her husband. Then me. She said, "I've heard so much about you." He said, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."
Who knew? Certainly not me. It's rare to get an opportunity to hear how you've effected your friends. It was nice to hear. I think it's something I need to say more.
John Sheetz go married this weekend to a wonderful woman named Bekkah. They were married in a Lodge in Wakulla Springs, FL. It was perfect for them. The ceremony was beautiful. They offered communion. I took it. I interpreted it as a show of support for the new couple in their life together. The bread was tasty.
I've known John since we were 12 years old. We were on newspaper staff together. We were really great friends in high school. He was my adventure friend, and we'd end up going for long bike rides or to art galleries together. One of my fondest memories was the two of us, riding our bikes from my house to a park on Haverhill and up Military Trail back to my house. Senior year, we wandered around Palm Beach Island with our friends who had all been nominated for Pathfinder Awards. I was off to tour the world with Up With People. They were all making plans for college.
During my tour, I got emails from John. He was in Europe. He had decided to travel, too. We emailed back and forth over the year. Me from Prague. Him while working on a boat in the Mediterranean. Me from Finland. Him from Stratford Upon Avon. I got postcards from him at home, telling me that I should go here or there. I was always jealous of his adventures even while I was having my own.
I had never met Bekkah, but thought I knew her pretty well through facebook posts. Halfway through the reception, I cornered John and pointedly told him that neither I not our friend Katie who was there had ever even met Bekkah. He introduced Katie and her husband. Then me. She said, "I've heard so much about you." He said, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."
Who knew? Certainly not me. It's rare to get an opportunity to hear how you've effected your friends. It was nice to hear. I think it's something I need to say more.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
The thrill is gone.
I think I'm burnt out on improv.
Our torrid love affair was going strong. Something changed recently, and I can't put my finger on it.
There's so much good stuff going on in my improv world, but I'm disinterested. I dread going to rehearsal. I dread shows. I love improv, but I hate it right now.
I see posts for shows. They're so exciting! They use exclamation points! And fun words! And fun pictures! YAY! SHINY! IMPROV! IT'S ALL MADE UP, GUYS!
They make me want to stab my eyes out.
If I never do another countdown/shaking hands/hokey pokey warmup, I may be fine.
If I never have to kill myself to get to a rehearsal after an 8 hour shit show day at work followed by carrying my 42 pound dog down three flights of stairs so I can pick up his shit before shoving shit food in my piehole while driving, I might be good.
I am now part of two troupes and I don't want to do any of it. I love the people. I love the art form. But I'm just toast right now. Darkly burnt toast that you can't even save by scraping off the surface and putting on lots of jam. You know. The fruit stuff, not some hastily put together show with 15 troupes who get 5 minutes of improvisation a piece.
Maybe I'm too old for this shit. Maybe I'll be better when getting home at 5:30pm isn't pitch black and makes me want to curl into a ball and watch NCIS marathons until I go to bed at 11 to try and get a good start to another grindy day at work.
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Our torrid love affair was going strong. Something changed recently, and I can't put my finger on it.
There's so much good stuff going on in my improv world, but I'm disinterested. I dread going to rehearsal. I dread shows. I love improv, but I hate it right now.
I see posts for shows. They're so exciting! They use exclamation points! And fun words! And fun pictures! YAY! SHINY! IMPROV! IT'S ALL MADE UP, GUYS!
They make me want to stab my eyes out.
If I never do another countdown/shaking hands/hokey pokey warmup, I may be fine.
If I never have to kill myself to get to a rehearsal after an 8 hour shit show day at work followed by carrying my 42 pound dog down three flights of stairs so I can pick up his shit before shoving shit food in my piehole while driving, I might be good.
I am now part of two troupes and I don't want to do any of it. I love the people. I love the art form. But I'm just toast right now. Darkly burnt toast that you can't even save by scraping off the surface and putting on lots of jam. You know. The fruit stuff, not some hastily put together show with 15 troupes who get 5 minutes of improvisation a piece.
Maybe I'm too old for this shit. Maybe I'll be better when getting home at 5:30pm isn't pitch black and makes me want to curl into a ball and watch NCIS marathons until I go to bed at 11 to try and get a good start to another grindy day at work.
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Ch-ch-changes...
One of my oldest friends from middle school is getting married this weekend.
My grandmother is moving out of her house this weekend.
I got my bloodwork back from yet another doctor and my glucose levels were high. Diet time. Exercise time. Change time.
I hate change. I hate getting old.
The good thing is I asked my mom to get me something from Grandma's house.
It's a light switch plate.
On it is the figure of a cartoon tennis player.
The light switch is his penis.
It was in my grandpa's shed. A shed full of memories of Grandpa and I painting crafts. Me painting in there by myself after he died. The smell of plant food, gasoline, and craft paint. I can't walk through the garden center at Home Depot without flashing back to him teaching me how to do detail work on the faces of the Santa and Mrs. Claus he bought for me to paint by myself. I wasn't very good, but he made me feel like I was the best craft painter to ever paint crafts.
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I'm gonna miss that house. I'm gonna miss that shed. I'm gonna have a great time at the wedding this weekend with my pup, and my friends from middle and high school. I'm gonna hike and enjoy life and forget the fact that the home that has 30 years of memories in it will soon not belong to my family. The wall that has pencil marks for height for my aunts, uncles, cousins, brother and sister will be painted a fresh coat of white.
I had a dream the other night that I bought the house and raised my kids in it. Kevin frolicked in the backyard. Then I looked at the MLS and realized I could never, ever afford to have that dream come true.
It sucks, but I know my Grandma is going to be happy in her new home. I'm happy for her new adventure. And I really, really want that light switch cover.
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My grandmother is moving out of her house this weekend.
I got my bloodwork back from yet another doctor and my glucose levels were high. Diet time. Exercise time. Change time.
I hate change. I hate getting old.
The good thing is I asked my mom to get me something from Grandma's house.
It's a light switch plate.
On it is the figure of a cartoon tennis player.
The light switch is his penis.
It was in my grandpa's shed. A shed full of memories of Grandpa and I painting crafts. Me painting in there by myself after he died. The smell of plant food, gasoline, and craft paint. I can't walk through the garden center at Home Depot without flashing back to him teaching me how to do detail work on the faces of the Santa and Mrs. Claus he bought for me to paint by myself. I wasn't very good, but he made me feel like I was the best craft painter to ever paint crafts.
I'm gonna miss that house. I'm gonna miss that shed. I'm gonna have a great time at the wedding this weekend with my pup, and my friends from middle and high school. I'm gonna hike and enjoy life and forget the fact that the home that has 30 years of memories in it will soon not belong to my family. The wall that has pencil marks for height for my aunts, uncles, cousins, brother and sister will be painted a fresh coat of white.
I had a dream the other night that I bought the house and raised my kids in it. Kevin frolicked in the backyard. Then I looked at the MLS and realized I could never, ever afford to have that dream come true.
It sucks, but I know my Grandma is going to be happy in her new home. I'm happy for her new adventure. And I really, really want that light switch cover.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Perspective.
I've been sleeping a lot lately. LIKE a lot. All day Sunday. Monday night. Tuesday night. I slept through the alarm I set to get going for rehearsal. Woke up right when rehearsal was about to start. 45 minutes away. It was too overwhelming to figure out. I had a long discussion with my mom about how depressed I feel. FOR NO REASON.
Today, my friend Aniela starts chemo. I just chatted with a member of the club who is battling lung cancer. A friend of mine just had to put her dog down. 132 children were killed in Pakistan.
I know I have it good. I realize this. My body does not. My brain chemistry does not.
Depression is a lie. But it's a damn convincing lie.
I have had a few "snap out of it" comments from people. A "go run on the treadmill to get your endorphin's up" from mom. My friend that I blew off last night told me he understands.
THIS HAPPENS. EVEN ON BRAIN DRUGS, IT HAPPENS.
Every year, the season starts and I want to hibernate. Work gets crazy. A lot of energy gets expended in events, negative members, balancing co-workers and membership drives. I leave the couch to walk Kevin. Get a popsicle. Go back to the couch. It's tough. I get that it's not just tough on me. I'm not crying all the time (just once on Monday night, but it was for a really good reason).
I'm not wanting to hurt myself.
I'm just tired.
This?
http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/anne-theriault-/living-with-depression_b_3726949.html
I have yet to read an article about depression that more accurately depicted the way I feel right now.
Wil Wheaton said that once he got on meds, the noise in his brain finally dulled to a ringing in the ears. That happened to me when I started the brain drugs. I went off the brain drugs for a few days, and now my brain just needs to catch back up. I need to deal with the health stuff going on in my life. (Surprise! I'm anemic and have a temporarily broken uterus! Yay!) Realize that my friends love me. My family loves me. I should love me.
To cope with this current bout, I'm going to be silly. Post silly shit. Find videos that make me giggle and images that make me guffaw. I'm gonna be a manic pixie girl. And get my femullet trimmed. That might be step one.
Today, my friend Aniela starts chemo. I just chatted with a member of the club who is battling lung cancer. A friend of mine just had to put her dog down. 132 children were killed in Pakistan.
I know I have it good. I realize this. My body does not. My brain chemistry does not.
Depression is a lie. But it's a damn convincing lie.
I have had a few "snap out of it" comments from people. A "go run on the treadmill to get your endorphin's up" from mom. My friend that I blew off last night told me he understands.
THIS HAPPENS. EVEN ON BRAIN DRUGS, IT HAPPENS.
Every year, the season starts and I want to hibernate. Work gets crazy. A lot of energy gets expended in events, negative members, balancing co-workers and membership drives. I leave the couch to walk Kevin. Get a popsicle. Go back to the couch. It's tough. I get that it's not just tough on me. I'm not crying all the time (just once on Monday night, but it was for a really good reason).
I'm not wanting to hurt myself.
I'm just tired.
This?
http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/anne-theriault-/living-with-depression_b_3726949.html
I have yet to read an article about depression that more accurately depicted the way I feel right now.
Wil Wheaton said that once he got on meds, the noise in his brain finally dulled to a ringing in the ears. That happened to me when I started the brain drugs. I went off the brain drugs for a few days, and now my brain just needs to catch back up. I need to deal with the health stuff going on in my life. (Surprise! I'm anemic and have a temporarily broken uterus! Yay!) Realize that my friends love me. My family loves me. I should love me.
To cope with this current bout, I'm going to be silly. Post silly shit. Find videos that make me giggle and images that make me guffaw. I'm gonna be a manic pixie girl. And get my femullet trimmed. That might be step one.
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