Everything works out in the End Part 3 April 27, 2009

As you can see from my recent posts, I have become quite obsessed with my BM’s or lack thereof.  After my test that showed slow motility, the doctor wanted to rule out anything horrible and ordered a CT.  I have never had one, but knew I would be drinking something disgusting in order for them to see my insides more clearly.  I went to the radiology department and picked up not one, but two bottles of the liquid that resembled curdled milk and was vanilla flavored.  The following morning I woke up and turned on the TV in order to distract myself from the impending consumption of total yuckiness.  I swallowed the entire contents of bottle 1 in about 10 minutes.  I had to wait another hour for bottle 2.  By the way, the radiology receptionist warned me the day before that the drinks could cause explosive diarrhea.  That’s all I could think of the entire time I was gulping them down, trying to hold my breath and keep from gagging repeatedly.  I drove to the hospital and drank the 2nd bottle in the parking lot.  I promptly wiped my mouth, put on my lip gloss and grabbed some chewing gum.  I kept hearing the words “explosive diarrhea” in my head while I waited to check in at the hospital, sat in the waiting room in radiology and while changing out of my clothes into my lovely generic hospital gown.  I came prepared.  I put on the biggest maxi-pad I could find [just in case I didn't make it the porcelain receptacle] and mentally mapped the location of every bathroom I passed from the entrance to the hospital all the way to the CT scanning room.

Once I was resting comfortably on the CT table, the lovely techs prepared me for what would happen.  They placed a wedge underneath my legs, and once in place I promptly asked “Am I here for a CT or a pelvic exam”  Once I was completely contorted so they could get a good view of my bowels with the scanner,  I would be receiving an IV in my right arm.  This is where they would inject the iodine.  The injection would enter my veins and give me a “hot flash” feeling and possibly an “oops, I wet my pants” feeling.  Both of these feelings came to pass.  I did indeed feel the wave of heat crossover my body and felt fortunate that I was a packing a super-sized maxi pad when I felt like I wet myself.  Luckily, that was just a feeling and it didn’t actually happen.  Afterwards,  I returned to my dressing room, donned my clothes and was on my merry way.  It would be approximately a week before I received my results.  I was wrong in assuming that they would be calling me with the results.  I returned from a Friday night out with the family and checked the mail only to find a letter stating [and I quote] ” CAT scan of your bowels is normal.  There is a benign liver lesion that needs a follow up ultrasound in 3 months to confirm”.  My question was, to confirm what?  The fact that it was a benign liver lesion or that it was something else?  The actual test document had a bunch of medical jargon that they translated into layman’s terms so that they could be understood.    That same document also stated that my colon was FOS.  I know what your thinking…but Igoogled it and it’s medical slang for “full of stool”…not what you were thinking.

This was shocking!  Not that I was full of stool, but that now I not only had a motility issue, but that I was sporting a tumor roughly 1 inch by 1/2 an inch.  I like to accessorize as much as the next gal, but this was taking it a bit far.  So I found this out on a Friday but couldn’t reach the doctor until the following Tuesday.  I was not to happy about that.  In the meantime, I spent hours googling “hemangioma” and reading what could cause them, what the implications were and what I could do to rid myself of this THING.  Even though they gave this tumor a name and said it was benign they aren’t 100% sure, thus the follow up sonogram.

Meanwhile back at slow motility land I wanted to solve the big mystery of why I was so slow.  So I asked for the help of my local naturopath who specializes in IBS.  For those of you who don’t know what IBS is, its what they call any bowel issue that they can’t otherwise categorize.  I won’t bore you with the details of our 1 hour office visit, but it was encouraging to talk to someone who cared and also wanted to solve the mystery.  Almost $900 later I exited the dr’s office to get my blood drawn [food allergy panel] and was given a take home test.  This take home test was like any other I have had.  It was basically a poo test.

Here’s how it works:

You put on your rubber gloves.  Take the french fry paper dish in hand, squat and fill.  Once the tray is filled with the specimen, you take out three vials containing toxic fluids.  You remove each lid and collect the sample.  Each lid has a “pooper scooper” on the end to make the collection more user-friendly.  Once you have put the sample in the container you secure the lid in place and shake it for 30 seconds.  You are free to put the remaining sample matter down the toilet and dispose of the french fry tray [that's just my silly nickname for it.]  After securing the poo in the vials you place them in a biohazard bag, fill out the test form and promptly refrigerate your poo until the FedEx man comes to pick it up the following day.  That was a fun appointment to make.  When the FedEx customer service person asked me how much my package weighed I almost lost it on the phone.  I just told her under a pound [insert giggles here].

Well, this should be about it on the poo talk, unless my test results come back and there is something interesting to share.  As for my liver tumor…my sonogram isn’t for a month or so.  I am optimistic, that it is indeed benign, because all other tests are normal.  Like I always say, everything works out in the end!

Everything Works out in the End – Part 2 April 5, 2009

So it was time for a test from the GI doctor.  She decided on what’s called a Sitz Marker test.  Basically you swallow a pill and then they xray you to track it through your system.  I was sent directly to the radiology lab where I explained to the front desk what test I was told to take.  They weren’t familiar with it and had to refer to Charlie [in the back] on what exactly that meant.  He knew exactly what it was, they just didn’t have the magic pill for me to take.  They sent for it and once it arrived I was taken to the back.  Once you go behind the entrance they hand you some scrubs and lead you to a changing room.  This room has a pull curtain, mirror, a bench and a locker for your valuables.  There were also white spa robes available.  This was quite possibly the nicest radiology department I had been to. Usually they throw you a hospital gown and say remove all your clothes and we’ll meet you down the hall. [NICE!]  I take my time changing and folding my clothes and placing everything inside my locker.  I proceed out of the dressing room to the waiting area.  It has several chairs arranged next to a mini waterfall and a basket full of magazines.  If you were there for an MRI you also had a music playlist to choose from.  I was just there for a regular old x-ray so…I got nothing.  As I sat there waiting to be called back, I noticed how spa-like this whole set up was.  When Charlie came back to get me, I asked if I was here for an x-ray or a facial.  Now I’m thinking that would be a great set-up for people when coming to the doctor.  A combined facility where you could knock out a mammogram and get a pedicure while you are there.  Before I can get the x-ray I have to swallow a small capsule.  Inside this capsule are 24 markers.  The x-ray can pick them up and track their movement [or lack of] during my digestion process.  The bottom line of the test is to see how long it takes them to go from beginning to end [literally].  I have one baseline x-ray and then swallow the pill and have a 2nd x-ray.  Then I have to come back in 24 hours for another and then every other day until the 7th day for a total of 6 x-rays of my abdomen.  On each subsequent visit, Bill took my x-rays.  He was a nice guy and we shared a few laughs.  In between him confirming that I was indeed “backed up” or “full of poo.”  This test took up a lot of my time and energy over the course of a week and all for an obvious conclusion!  The test results:  “You have slow motility”.  Well guess what you could have saved yourself the 100’s if not 1,000’s of dollars and I could have simply told you that I was constipated.  Oh yeah, I DID!!! So, now I’m back where I started.  The GI’s conclusion…take a drug.  Her assistant told me that was the recommended follow-up. Take a pill, go potty—the end.  I told her that I didn’t want to add another drug to my repertoire.  The assistant was seemingly shocked at my refusal for drugs and said “one moment, please.”  The line picked up again and it was the doctor.  She bluntly asked “why are you afraid of drugs?”  I explained to her that I am in my 30’s and completely healthy [minus the thyroid thing] and didn’t want to take a drug until I’m 99 just to go to the bathroom.  This made complete sense to me.  Why did the doctor just want to throw another medication at me and be done.  What was the real underlying issue to my lack of “movements?”  Stay tuned to Part 3

Here I grow AGAIN! February 24, 2009

A person reaches a certain age and things begin to move and change and not necessarily for the better.  If you haven’t experienced these changes yet, well—GOOD FOR YOU—but some of us are not so lucky.

One morning I was washing my face and moisturizing in preparation for the daily application of powder foundation which covers up the ever expanding collection of age spots, freckles and broken blood vessels that I seem to be collecting–just like I collected stickers back in the eighties.  You gotta love those days when puffy and pickle scented scratch ‘n sniff stickers were all you were concerned about.  So, where was I?  Ah, yes–washing my face…then I lean in to do the all important close up inspection of any stray eyebrows that have managed to grow back since my last examination.  And what to my wondering eyes should appear?  Well, it wasn’t St. Nick, more like St. Hairy and it wasn’t growing in a “normal” location.  I seriously had a hair in the middle of my forehead.  Now, granted it wasn’t black or even dark brown.  It was blonde, but nonetheless in the middle of my forehead.  Where do these rogue hairs come from and why must they grow on my body?  I’m sure there is a physiological reason why hair grows in places we don’t want it too and disappears from places that we prefer it to stay.  However, this does not make one feel better about it growing in the first place.  Like most situations in my life, I handle the stress [or at least attempt to] with humor.  Like when I breastfed 3 kids and my bossom decided to fall and not get back up.  The girls had a theme song – “Lord lift us up where we belong”.  I think rogue hairs deserve the same opportunity.  Therefore, I declare any hair growing in the wrong place at anytime deserves an altered version of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”!  Please read below and sing it loud, sing it proud and the next time you find a hair where it shouldn’t be, maybe you will laugh a little and possibly sing the theme song — “Here I Grow Again”!!!!

I dont know where Im growing

But, I sure know where Ive been
Hanging on to follicles
In the hairs of yesterday
An Ive made up my mind,
I aint wasting no more time
But, here I grow again
Here I grow again

Tho I keep searching for a place to grow,
I never seem to find what Im looking for
Oh lord, I pray
You give me strength to carry on,
cos I know what it means
To grow along the lonely hair of dreams

An here I grow again on my own
Goin down the only follicle Ive ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to grow alone
An Ive made up my mind
I aint wasting no more time

Im just another hair in need of rescue,
Waiting on tweezer’s sweet charity
An Im gonna hold on
For the rest of my days,
cos I know what it means
To grow along the lonely hair of dreams

An here I grow again on my own
Goin down the only follicle Ive ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to grow alone
An Ive made up my mind
I aint wasting no more time

But, here I grow again,
Here I grow again,
Here I grow again,
Here I grow…

Do you see what I see? November 30, 2008

I was having a few female problems.  My “Aunt Flo” was visiting 2-3 times a month and she was only welcome once a month to confirm that I indeed was not pregnant and could live another 28 days in peace.  In order to rule out any BAD things that might be causing these extra visits they ordered a test of my uterus.  It’s called a sonohystogram.  Instead of just telling you in plain English what it is, I thought I would explain to you the procedure from my point of view.  I walk into a sterile room with a medical table and a sonogram machine in plain site.  Keep in mind the when you walk into this tiny room the bed is directly in front of you.  Once you are lying down your “privates” will be facing the doorway [NICE-who thought of this layout?  Would it have killed them to angle the bed or provide some kind of protection for your HOO-HOO from the outside world?]  The technician walked me back and gave me the standard issue gown and said “please remove all your clothing and put this on”.  Being the good patient that I am, I obeyed and waited on the table for her to return.  She positioned me just right on the table as I placed my feet into the stirrups and she positioned my pelvis in a more tilted position by inserting a pillow wedge underneath my low back.  So my legs are spread, my pelvis is tilted and we are awaiting the doctors arrival, for what is sure to be a wonderful time [insert sarcasm here].  Luckily, the door leading into this tiny room has a secret code on the doorknob so no one walks in accidentally and is surprised to see my other half.  The doctor surprises us somewhat by opening the door abruptly after entering the secret digits.  We must not have been able to hear him over the dull buzzing of the flourescent lights, that I’m sure were doing nothing for the public image of my nether regions.  He walks in and introduces himself and offers up his hand to shake mine.  I don’t remember what he said his name was but it didn’t matter all I could think was—he just saw my vajayjay!  He proceeds to explain to me how he is going to enter a long tube up through my hoo-haa and into my uterus via the cervix and inflate my uterus with water.  Then the lovely technician will perform a vaginal sonogram to ensure me and the radiologist that I indeed have no polyps, masses or other structural malformations in my uterus that would cause my current issues.  Even after having 3 children, this is one of the most humiliating yet humorous adventures I have endured.  Before I know it, I’m all done and upon standing I feel a mad rush of fluid, like my water is breaking.  The technician ensures me that all is well and that’s just the gallon [exaggeration] of fluid leaving.  Fortunately, all was well and as it turns out I was just experiencing what most woman don’t start until their late 30’s early 40’s—PERIMENOPAUSE.  The kicker to this whole ordeal was getting a mammogram the next week and passing the sonohystogram technician in the hallway of the Breast Center.  She stopped and stared at me quizically.  I said “hi” having recognized the woman who invaded my privacy a week prior.  She contemplated where she knew me from and I quickly put her out of her misery.  I said “It’s okay.  You probably don’t recognize me with my clothes on.”  I quickly moved to the waiting room and prepared myself for the squishing I was about to brave.

PMS – Pretty Much Starving November 2, 2008

You’re probably wondering what that title means. Well, let me explain it to you. When I am PMSing, it’s not pretty. Besides the cramps, bloating, irritability, fatigue, mild depression, mood swings and pointless crying I am absolutely, 100% insatiable when it comes to food. I normally adhere to an eating regimen of chicken, rice, veggies, salad, fruit and whole grains. That all goes out the window, the week before I start! I want everything! I want crunchy, salty, chewy, gooey, sweet, sour and anything chocolate. I could eat from the moment I wake up, until I go to sleep. Nothing seems to satisfy that urge. I feel like a crack-head in lock up. You get the point. I do the best I can to stay within the normal range of foods I allow myself to have. I will inevitably break down and give in to the need to feed the beast that dwells within me one week out of every month. So to all of you think that PMS stands for premenstrual syndrome, you would be wrong. Because for me it means I’m pretty much starving and if it ain’t nailed down, I’m eating it.

It’s My Potty and I’ll cry if I want to! September 28, 2008

Public restrooms are a necessary evil. Without them we would be in serious trouble. Nonetheless, I still hate them. Unfortunately, after having several children I must use them more often then I would like. I have also been known to hover over a Honey Bucket or two [that's a port-o-potty FYI]. I carry anti-bacterial wet wipes in my purse for just such an occasion. I also have an OCD disorder when it comes to clean hands, but that’s a whole other story. There are many reasons why I loathe the public restroom. This is also the place where mom’s change their babies dirty diapers. So every once in a while you find your self “in the need” and before you realize what’s hit you, a wall of undeniable stank has bathed over your entire body. You are left feeling uncontrollably grossed out, all the while trying to maintain composure in front of the doting mom. Choosing a stall is like playing the scratch tickets from the lottery. You don’t know what’s behind each door. You may open one where someone forgot to flush, tinkled on the seat or heaven forbid had their monthly visitor and wasn’t aware there is an appropriate trash receptacle for that stuff. Sometimes I am in too big of a hurry because I’m about to wet my pants and you sit down only to find that there is no toilet paper. And the backup roll is gone too! What’s a girl to do? You cringe, hesitate and grudgingly reach behind you to grab a toilet seat cover. It’s not nearly as soft as regular tissue, but there’s no way your risking a drip dry. Who wants to spend the rest of their day feeling like they wet themselves? Not me! You finally make it through the actual act of relieving yourself and you are off to wash your hands. There you are faced with several kinds of faucets. There is the automatic kind that you have to have your hands positioned in the exact spot to get the water you so desperately desire. There’s the push down kind, where you are rinsing fast and furiously before it shuts off and you have to do it all over again. Occasionally you luck out and get an old fashioned twist type where you have all the power to turn it off and on. The soap is equally as frustrating. It’s either foamy or liquid but you have to fight for it. If it’s automatic, they never give you enough to get a good lather going. If it’s foam you feel like it’s barely enough and pump non-stop until you have enough for a good old-fashioned bubble bath. At some point, your hands are finally clean, but now you have a new problem…they’re all wet! Now you’ve got two options, blow dry or paper towel. Paper towels are never soft. They are never thick [unless you are at a fancy place]. You must pump out a good 3 feet of towel to get your hands sufficiently dry. The air blower obviously saves paper towels, but then your left there for a good 5 minutes rubbing your hands together repeatedly. After all that, you still have to do the gratuitous wipe-off on the jeans you are wearing. If you are lucky, by the time you’ve finished you won’t have to go again.  The most annoying thing about public restrooms is not the restroom itself, but all the crazies you meet while in the restroom.  Theres the crying toddler who protests too much saying loudly “I don’t need to go potty mommy”.  Meanwhile the mommy in her best I’d liked to beat you but instead I will talk to you in a condescending baby-talk tone, tries to convince the child of their need to pee.  Then there’s the people that try to carry on a complete conversation with their friend who is outside the stall, while doing their business.  Please!  The one that gets me the most, is when you are stuck next to a person who is on THE PHONE.  Seriously?  Really?  A phone conversation while you are on the toilet, in public?  What is this world coming to?  I do not want to hear you talking on your cell, while I am shopping at the grocery store, waiting in line at the Post office and especially while I am using the restroom.  So the next time you enter a public restroom remember my words.  No talking while peeing. Clean up after yourself.  And if you hear someone in a stall crying, that’s probably me.  It’s my potty and I’ll cry if I want to!

Period. End of Sentence. September 10, 2008

Ladies, we all know that a “period” is more than the end of a sentence. It’s that lovely visitor that comes once a month to remind you that you are indeed a W-O-M-A-N. Lately, it seems that the advertising agencies working for the manufacturers of feminine products are trying to make us think it’s cool to have your period. Honestly, I have never thought, “Wow, my period is here–now I’m unstoppable–the world is my oyster.” Tampax refers to a woman’s cycle as “mother nature’s gift”. I agree! Too bad I don’t have the receipt, so I can return it. If its really a gift, why is it wrapped in 5 pounds of water weight? Playtex seems to have so many options to choose from, that it’s hard to make up your mind. There’s the gentle contoured cardboard…um, NO THANKS! There’s the beautifully wrapped classic contoured gentle glide. A Classic. Then there’s the sport line where you can be as active as you want to be. I recently purchased them because they were on sale. I love half price tampons! The package is brightly colored in pink and green with silhouettes of woman dancing, playing sports etc… Each individual tampon comes in a bright green and magenta wrapper. They actually have positive affirmations written on each one like— “take the plunge”, “move your feet”, “you’ve got the moves”, “keep going”, “try something new”, “get out there and show them what you’ve got”. These are all perfectly lovely, but made me laugh the first time I used one and I was dealing with serious feminine business. First off, I was in the midst of “taking the plunge”. I couldn’t “move my feet”—AWKWARD! Obviously, “I’ve got the moves”, I’m able to use your product and read at the same time. “Keep going”? Like I have a choice. “Try something new”—DONE. And to the final affirmation, “get out there and show them what you’ve got”. I’d like to, but I don’t think they are interested in a bloated, zit-ridden, chocolate eating, salt-craving mother of three. Seriously, this probably works on the young girls, but I’ve been doing this for over 25 years and it’s not that exciting anymore. I appreciate the effort, but do they really have to work this hard to get us to use their products. It’s not like we have a choice in the matter. It’s kind of a no-brainer–like diapers for a baby. Anyway, my third and final feminine product rant is the Always brand. I happen to love their products, but again, their slogans and methodology is a mystery to me. Here it is ladies…wait for it, wait for it…. HAVE A HAPPY PERIOD! Now doesn’t that make it all better? Whenever you get down that you are holding onto 8 pounds of water weight and it feels like you’re either getting your period or having a small child [HAVE A HAPPY PERIOD]. Oh, the cramps are lovely. Then your skin does crazy things. [Yes, even at my age]. And a few days before “the gift” comes I could seriously eat anything not nailed down. It’s crazy, but true. I thought maybe I should give this Happy Period thing a try. I logged onto their website and found an overabundance of Happy Period copy. There were pages to help me plan my very own Happy Period party, texting lingo that I could use with my “peeps”, virtual postcards to send a friend [wishing them a happy period] and stickers I could download [to remind myself to have a happy period]. Just in case that wasn’t enough, I could get my very own screensaver or wallpaper for my computer. I’m all about girl power, but this was over the top. I only like to think about my “gift” once a month. So for now, I’m going to take my gift each month and smile and say thank you. I will not, however, be HAPPY about it. Although, I will probably giggle each time I read an affirmation.

Bra-zarre June 9, 2008

I’m sure one day my daughter will look back on this and say “Mom, why did you blog about that?” It doesn’t seem like I have a teenager. First, I’m not old enough [right?]. Second, she was just born yesterday [where does all the time go?] So I find myself bra shopping today with my daughter who was just a toddler two seconds ago. I’m amazed at how quickly the time goes. Having worn a bra myself for about the last 25 years, it’s all about comfort for me. It’s refreshing to have a teen perspective on undergarments. It’s all about the cute factor. When you are changing clothes for P.E. daily it would horrifying for someone to see you in a basic black or beige bra, right? So it’s all about the colored stripes and zebra prints for her. This cracks me up. I don’t remember my mom taking me bra shopping. I’m sure it happened because I didn’t have cash or a car at 11, so someone had to drive me. Anyway, now I am feeling extremely old, because I have a daughter that is beyond the training bra stage. On that note, I’m off to exfoliate and moisturize. Looks like I might have to double up on the beauty sleep too.

My life as an 80’s Television Show May 14, 2008

We all go through it. It’s a right of passage–It’s called growing up. Well, growing up isn’t as simple as it sounds. Mom always told me to take One Day at a Time. There will be Happy Days and there will be days when you just want to shout Gimme a Break. Well Nell Carter isn’t going to save you now. We’re not all born with Silver Spoons in our mouths and some of us have to work to make it to the Head of the Class. There are Diff’rent Strokes for different folks. At times you may feel like your movin’ on up, like The Jeffersons and other times that you just feel like Square Pegs in round holes. Getting along with your parents through the teenage years is rough. Gone were the days of thinking your dad was The Greatest American Hero and the Family Ties don’t seem quite so tight and on occasion we felt like Perfect Strangers. We just wanted to please them and every once in a while get a That’s Incredible or at least hear their Cheers. With the ups and downs of mood swings and hormone shifts it feels like Hill Street Blues. You cry yourself to sleep at night wondering why you don’t live on a Little House on the Prairie or come home to The Walton’s every night. Things may get a little Too Close for Comfort, but you can always count on your Bosom Buddies. My girlfriends and I were tight, like Laverne and Shirley. Although, every once in a while we would let a boy get between us [and I never drank milk and Pepsi]. That’s when my mom would sit me down for a Hart to Hart chat and try explaining to me the Facts of Life. Was it so wrong that I too wanted to catch a ride on the Love Boat? I knew boys would come and go but a friend is for always, but come on my heart’s not made of Remington Steele! And just when I’d think that boy [that got between us] was in love with me, I’d realize that I too, was living on Fantasy Island. That’s ok, because I don’t need a Knight Rider. I’ll be The Fall Guy and stay home and try to piece together a Newhart for myself. Little did I know that one day I would be a Thirty Something, Married with Children, with my very own Ricky Shcroder and a Full House. To all you guys who passed me by, I have one question! Who’s the Boss now?

Seen one, seen’em all? January 2, 2008

Here I am a 30 something. I have breastfed 3 kids for a total of almost 4 years. Needless to say, my breasts had morphed into hanging sacks of flesh. I appeared to be [at least in that particular region] an 80 something. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Power to the older generation. But at 30 you don’t want to be forced to tuck your breasts into your pants or roll them up just to get them in a bra. I longed for the days when I went bra-less and my breast actually stayed where God intended them to. Well, the bra-less days were far behind me and I was looking forward. Which was more than I could say for my breasts. They were so bad that I actually gave them a theme song. Now don’t laugh, it was to encourage them to be all that they could be. You know the few, the proud, the perky! The song was “Lord, Lift us up where we belong”. I am all about the power of prayer, but this was one that was sure to be low on His list. [no pun intended]. I figured after gaining and losing 50 pounds 3 times [once for each kid] and going from a natural 36B to a 40EE [and then back to a barely there B] , surely they’d bounce back, right? Wrong! Those perky days were gone and here to stay were the swing low, sweet chariot days. Thank God for padded bras and underwire.