This will be my 5th Christmas season working at the hospital and although I know what to expect, I still find it the most difficult and heartbreaking time of year. Like most workplaces during xmas, our hospital is decorated with festive cheer, there are boxes of chocolates, xmas treats, and radios softly play Boney M and all the xmas favorites as we work away. We try our best to emulate the excited Christmas buzz that you feel in the air when you're out in the community during this special time in year, but it's certainly not the same. As soon as you step off the elevator and onto the ward, it feels especially somber. For some patients in the hospital, this will definitely be the worst Christmas they've ever experienced and perhaps a xmas that will haunt their families for years to come.
As healthcare workers, I think that we all struggle at times to "leave work at work" and not allow the sadness to creep home with us at the end of the day. You have to. Although we've all shed a fear tears, especially during the holidays, we would go crazy if we let every diagnosis, every death affect our mood once we leave the workplace. On the other hand, as difficult as it is, I also think it is valuable to "feel" with our patients and families. It certainly puts things into perspective. For example, I stormed into work on Friday morning upset because Evan had eaten all my Lindt chocolates. The same Lindt chocolates that I was planning on giving out as gifts. His response when I called him out? "You're pretty." Seriously? That's all you got? I angrily relayed the story to my co-workers. Now I had to leave during my lunch hour to buy new chocolates. What an inconvenience! 15 minutes later, I was standing in a patient's room as he and his family received the news that he had suffered a stroke and it was evolving. "So we just have to wait and see if it disables him?" inquired the patient's wife, as she lovingly stroked her husband's hair. I nodded quietly and recalled my squabble with Evan. How silly. How lucky we are. I wanted to get in my car, cover Evan with kisses and tell him to eat as many fricken Lindt chocolates as he wants.
The holiday season at the hospital is also a time for fabulous people to shine. You catch co-workers going the extra mile this time of year to make life just a little more joyous for our patients. Last week I watched 3 nurses wheel a lonely and confused patient to the nurses desk. While they charted away, they tried their best to cheer up their patient, who was visibly upset. As the poor old man uttered, "I'm such a bother," I saw the Nurse take his hand in hers and reply, "No you're not. We love having you around!" I've also watched my fellow therapists stand outside in the -30 degree weather to organize and determine the safest mode of transferring a patient to and from a vehicle - all so the patient can enjoy a few hours in his house on Christmas day. A lady from housekeeping took a break from sweeping the floor to fetch a glass of water for a thirsty patient - not her job; however, she was more than happy to take a few minutes out of her busy schedule. Our fabulous social worker, Gord, came into work on his day off so that he could accompany us on his guitar while we sang Christmas carols throughout the wards. It's nice to see. It restores your faith in humanity. It makes me proud to be a healthcare worker and I feel blessed to work beside so many kind, compassionate people. Keep up the good work, peops!
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Run, Kirstie, Run!
I can walk. I can squat. I can even lunge (boo ya!). But I can't run. Yet. I had never actually tested the whole running theory until today. I definitely do not have clearance from my Physio to run at this point in my rehabilitation. A year ago I questioned whether or not I'd ever be able to run again. Now, given my sweet cartilage and the progress that I am making, I am optimistic that some day I will run. Not like in a marathon or anything, but that has never interested me. I just wanna have running as an option - you know, like if someone is chasing me or whatever...for survival. That's how I realized today that running is not yet a verb in my knee's vocabulary. My survival instincts kicked in. I wasn't being robbed. I wasn't being chased by a rabid dog. I was; however, being attacked by a rather brisk -40 degree celsius windchill in the hospital parking lot. I was heading to my vehicle, frigid wind whipping at my face, when suddenly instinct took over, and without even considering my knee, I began to break into a run. Well, my brain thought that I was running. I wasn't actually "running," I was kinda...well..."rimping" (run/limp). About halfway to my vehicle, I became cognizant of what my body was doing - a left legged long jump with speed - I was even pumping my arms with each "stride." Oh dear. I stopped suddenly, wondering if anyone in the hospital had witnessed my pathetic attempt to reach my vehicle without freezing to the cement. Embarrassed, I adjusted my scarf and continued the rest of my journey with a super cool saunter.
So... lesson learned. My body forgot how to run. We will have to work on that. How strange to realize that something that was once so automatic is temporarily out of commission. Apparently my vision of suddenly breaking into a perfect stride is not realistic. Damn you, Forrest Gump, for painting an unrealistic view of rehab.
So... lesson learned. My body forgot how to run. We will have to work on that. How strange to realize that something that was once so automatic is temporarily out of commission. Apparently my vision of suddenly breaking into a perfect stride is not realistic. Damn you, Forrest Gump, for painting an unrealistic view of rehab.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Baby Got Back
I've been pretty candid with you guys regarding the absence of my ass. To my dismay, it disappeared over a year ago when my workout routine was rudely interrupted by my angry knee. With each surgery and recovery, I watched it fade away until I was left with a loooong back that eventually attached to a pair of atrophied thighs. It was upsetting. Some may scoff at this and say, "I wish I could lose some of my ass!" Trust me. You don't. The butt is a beautiful thing, people. And aesthetically necessary. You see, all pants have a special place for a bottom. No bum? Tough luck. Your pants look stupid. I recall shopping for dress pants with Lawyer's hubby, Darren (because he will tell you exactly what he thinks) and he strongly suggested that I sport skirts until something that remotely resembled a rear end appeared on my body. Having no butt made me feel weak, unhealthy, and Justin Bieberish.
Since I've received clearance from physio in early October, I have made it my mission to get my ass back. It even made #7 on my "cool shit I will do once my knee works" list. I decided that it was time to boost this booty. Tighten the tush. Junk up the trunk. Bring back the badonkadonk.
The bottom line (no pun intended): I've been working my buttoff ON.
I wish I had a proper before and after shot, or even some legit measurements. I don't. But being that I am very familiar with my ass (we've known each other intimately for 34 years), I can guarantee you that although it's no Kim Kardashian or J-LO, there is now visual evidence that a legit bum separates my lower back from my thighs. Whoot Whoot!
Obviously, I couldn't have done it without my new cartilage. You rock, cartilage - thank you! In addition, there are a few key players that I'd like to thank:
1) Cafeteria lady at the hospital- Thank you for that extra large serving of cheesy lasagna, cheesy macaroni, and cheesy pizza. I'm certain that all that cheese contributed to booty. I do; however, have terrible acid reflux and will be avoiding you from now on.
2) Dr. Phil - I made it my goal to hold a 30 second hip bridge every single time the camera panned on Robin (Dr. Phil's wife) making a shocked/dismayed/yet attractive facial expression during the 60 minute show. It happens a lot. Trust me.
3) Sir Mix-a-Lot a lot via Evan Lindsay's cell phone - Thank you, Ev, for changing your alarm to the classic tune, "Baby Got Back." Waking up every morning to "Oh my god, Becky, look at that butt..." seriously inspired me on a daily basis.
So Ladies! (yeah) Ladies! (yeah)
You wanna roll in my Mercedes?
Turn around, stick it out
Even white boys gotta shout
Baby got back.
Since I've received clearance from physio in early October, I have made it my mission to get my ass back. It even made #7 on my "cool shit I will do once my knee works" list. I decided that it was time to boost this booty. Tighten the tush. Junk up the trunk. Bring back the badonkadonk.
The bottom line (no pun intended): I've been working my butt
I wish I had a proper before and after shot, or even some legit measurements. I don't. But being that I am very familiar with my ass (we've known each other intimately for 34 years), I can guarantee you that although it's no Kim Kardashian or J-LO, there is now visual evidence that a legit bum separates my lower back from my thighs. Whoot Whoot!
Obviously, I couldn't have done it without my new cartilage. You rock, cartilage - thank you! In addition, there are a few key players that I'd like to thank:
1) Cafeteria lady at the hospital- Thank you for that extra large serving of cheesy lasagna, cheesy macaroni, and cheesy pizza. I'm certain that all that cheese contributed to booty. I do; however, have terrible acid reflux and will be avoiding you from now on.
2) Dr. Phil - I made it my goal to hold a 30 second hip bridge every single time the camera panned on Robin (Dr. Phil's wife) making a shocked/dismayed/yet attractive facial expression during the 60 minute show. It happens a lot. Trust me.
3) Sir Mix-a-Lot a lot via Evan Lindsay's cell phone - Thank you, Ev, for changing your alarm to the classic tune, "Baby Got Back." Waking up every morning to "Oh my god, Becky, look at that butt..." seriously inspired me on a daily basis.
So Ladies! (yeah) Ladies! (yeah)
You wanna roll in my Mercedes?
Turn around, stick it out
Even white boys gotta shout
Baby got back.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Shooting fish oil and droppin' it like it's hot
I feel incredibly happy. Yes, I'm bitching about the -30 degree deep freeze we are currently experiencing and that stupid mayor from Toronto who is an embarrassment to all Canadians, but honestly, I just feel giddy with excitement - about nothing in particular - just life. I don't recall ever feeling this content with where I'm currently at - and I've spent so much time in the past 2 years worrying about my future that I really just want to take an opportunity to enjoy and reflect on this wonderful feeling. Perhaps it's the "honeymoon phase" of being a functional walker again? I'm not sure. But it's great. I have never laughed so much. I have never sang so much (particularly bad-ass Snoop from the 90's), and I have never danced so much (I drop it like it's hot at least 3 times a day. Why? Because I can. Boom).
I ran into Dr. M in the hallway at the hospital last week and he posed an excellent question: "Do you think that characteristics of the person who donated your cartilage were transplanted along to you with the cartilage?"
"YES!" I exclaimed, "That's it!"
All I know about my cartilage is that it came from a someone under 12 years of age. I often think about that child and that family. They made a decision. Knowing their child would not recover, they made a decision to donate their child's organs and tissues to people in need across North America. Someone may have received that child's lungs. Someone may have received that child's kidneys. I received a very very small part of that child, yet that tiny part, in 6 months, has changed my life. It's humbling. I feel a great sense of responsibility to care for this gift. It's incredibly powerful and I am eternally grateful.
I can't prove that a piece of cartilage that now compromises about .000005% of my total mass (I totally made that number up) can really transplant elements from the donor's character, but I think it's a really cool premise. I imagine that the donor of my cartilage was exuberant - full of energy and joy. My donor was playful and delighted in the smallest of things. I'm sure of this because this is how I presently feel on a daily basis.
I'm not sure if the "transplant theory" holds true, but one thing that I can say for certain is that my "personal age" (the age that I feel) is now significantly less than my chronological age. For about 18 rough months, I felt like I imagined an unwell 90 year old woman would feel. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a haggard, sick, old woman. Presently; however, I look in the mirror and I see 23 year old Kirstie - lively, happy, and fun. I mean, I'm not like shotgunning beer and doing headstands on tables (Yes, I did THAT), but I DID take my fish oil shooter-style this morning and laughed my ass off when I slammed the bottle down afterward.
I don't know how long this feeling will last, but I'm soaking it up. So many of my blog posts documented the pain, fear, and anxiety that I was experiencing. I've come to realize that now is the time to document and celebrate each and every victory - no matter how trivial it might seem. So here it goes. Evidence of newfound youthful "personal age":
1) 90's music: I have become obsessed with the fabulous tunes of the 90's. Every morning, I wake up, select the "Singin' in the shower 90's edition" playlist on Songza and dance. George Michael tells me "I gotta have Faith," as I apply my eyeshadow, TLC warns me, "I don't want no scrubs," as I select my pants for the day, and Blackstreet sings, "I like the way you work it...no diggity," as I perform my daily squats with a cup of tea in hand. I look forward to my mornings now - the routine of getting ready for work has become one of the highlights of my day.
My lively morning routine; however, may be just a little too much for my quietly focused hubby. The other day, as I entered the kitchen with my laptop on my shoulder, boom-box style, I said to Ev (who was sitting at the table on his computer), "Hey Evs! Don't you just wanna get up and dance?"
"Nope."
"Never? Come on. Sometimes? Don't you ever just have an undeniable urge to get up and groove?"
"Never."
Well, Ok then. To each his own. Haha.
2) Silly Games: I find myself creating little personal contests for myself on a daily basis. Examples include: Catching the microwave at the :01 mark, filling the gas tank to the perfect dollar, and holding a plank for an entire commercial break. When I "win," I quietly celebrate with a fist pump and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.
3) Cereal Obsession: Screw the unreal sugar content, I just really want a bowl of cereal! Breakfast, Supper - I don't discriminate. I recall this phase in University when I had no time to cook, no money (I had spent it all at the bar and hair salon) and consumed 3-4 bowls of cereal a day for approximately 2 years straight. Yummmm! Although I now have a steady income and the ability to purchase "real" food, lately, I've passed up the pork chops and shrimp scampi for a delightful bowl of cereal. It's even better when consumed in front of the television, whilst watching "The Flinstones." Why not?
4) Evan is hot stuff: I find myself "checking out" Ev more frequently. I mean, I've always been attracted to this guy - I fondly remember waiting outside the dressing room for Ev after games, and marvelling at how handsome he was when he emerged from the dressing room. It's pretty cool that after 17 years as a couple, I still find this guy smokin' hot. Seriously, have you seen this dude's body? He looks after himself..and he's mine. All mine. Bahahaha (evil laugh). To quote Salt-N-Pepa, "You're packed and you're stacked, 'specially in the back brotha I wanna thank your motha for a butt like that." :)
I ran into Dr. M in the hallway at the hospital last week and he posed an excellent question: "Do you think that characteristics of the person who donated your cartilage were transplanted along to you with the cartilage?"
"YES!" I exclaimed, "That's it!"
All I know about my cartilage is that it came from a someone under 12 years of age. I often think about that child and that family. They made a decision. Knowing their child would not recover, they made a decision to donate their child's organs and tissues to people in need across North America. Someone may have received that child's lungs. Someone may have received that child's kidneys. I received a very very small part of that child, yet that tiny part, in 6 months, has changed my life. It's humbling. I feel a great sense of responsibility to care for this gift. It's incredibly powerful and I am eternally grateful.
I can't prove that a piece of cartilage that now compromises about .000005% of my total mass (I totally made that number up) can really transplant elements from the donor's character, but I think it's a really cool premise. I imagine that the donor of my cartilage was exuberant - full of energy and joy. My donor was playful and delighted in the smallest of things. I'm sure of this because this is how I presently feel on a daily basis.
I'm not sure if the "transplant theory" holds true, but one thing that I can say for certain is that my "personal age" (the age that I feel) is now significantly less than my chronological age. For about 18 rough months, I felt like I imagined an unwell 90 year old woman would feel. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a haggard, sick, old woman. Presently; however, I look in the mirror and I see 23 year old Kirstie - lively, happy, and fun. I mean, I'm not like shotgunning beer and doing headstands on tables (Yes, I did THAT), but I DID take my fish oil shooter-style this morning and laughed my ass off when I slammed the bottle down afterward.
I don't know how long this feeling will last, but I'm soaking it up. So many of my blog posts documented the pain, fear, and anxiety that I was experiencing. I've come to realize that now is the time to document and celebrate each and every victory - no matter how trivial it might seem. So here it goes. Evidence of newfound youthful "personal age":
1) 90's music: I have become obsessed with the fabulous tunes of the 90's. Every morning, I wake up, select the "Singin' in the shower 90's edition" playlist on Songza and dance. George Michael tells me "I gotta have Faith," as I apply my eyeshadow, TLC warns me, "I don't want no scrubs," as I select my pants for the day, and Blackstreet sings, "I like the way you work it...no diggity," as I perform my daily squats with a cup of tea in hand. I look forward to my mornings now - the routine of getting ready for work has become one of the highlights of my day.
My lively morning routine; however, may be just a little too much for my quietly focused hubby. The other day, as I entered the kitchen with my laptop on my shoulder, boom-box style, I said to Ev (who was sitting at the table on his computer), "Hey Evs! Don't you just wanna get up and dance?"
"Nope."
"Never? Come on. Sometimes? Don't you ever just have an undeniable urge to get up and groove?"
"Never."
Well, Ok then. To each his own. Haha.
2) Silly Games: I find myself creating little personal contests for myself on a daily basis. Examples include: Catching the microwave at the :01 mark, filling the gas tank to the perfect dollar, and holding a plank for an entire commercial break. When I "win," I quietly celebrate with a fist pump and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.
3) Cereal Obsession: Screw the unreal sugar content, I just really want a bowl of cereal! Breakfast, Supper - I don't discriminate. I recall this phase in University when I had no time to cook, no money (I had spent it all at the bar and hair salon) and consumed 3-4 bowls of cereal a day for approximately 2 years straight. Yummmm! Although I now have a steady income and the ability to purchase "real" food, lately, I've passed up the pork chops and shrimp scampi for a delightful bowl of cereal. It's even better when consumed in front of the television, whilst watching "The Flinstones." Why not?
4) Evan is hot stuff: I find myself "checking out" Ev more frequently. I mean, I've always been attracted to this guy - I fondly remember waiting outside the dressing room for Ev after games, and marvelling at how handsome he was when he emerged from the dressing room. It's pretty cool that after 17 years as a couple, I still find this guy smokin' hot. Seriously, have you seen this dude's body? He looks after himself..and he's mine. All mine. Bahahaha (evil laugh). To quote Salt-N-Pepa, "You're packed and you're stacked, 'specially in the back brotha I wanna thank your motha for a butt like that." :)
Monday, November 18, 2013
Dress to impress?
My nice little groove of writing and sharing my blog posts on the weekend was interrupted by a most unwelcome guest. Sleeping soundly in my bed Friday night, I had no clue that I would soon be struck down for 36 hours by.....dun dun dun... the "Which End?" flu.
Do you know that flu? At the risk of grossing you out, I'll present a brief description: You're suddenly overcome with nausea/upset stomach and you race to the bathroom because stomach disaster is imminent. Once you get to the toilet; however, you have approximately 3 seconds to assess the situation: will you be sitting or will you be kneeling? It's like the Russian roulette of stomach viruses. It's horrible. It's gross. No one wants to be your friend. I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy (well, maybe one of those Kardashians - they're so flippin smug). Anyways, that was my weekend. My entire fricken weekend! I'm pretty sure that I lost at least 5 lbs (from my boobs and butt, of course) and given that my "last meal" before it hit was sushi, I'd say it's safe to say that I will never eat Sushi again. Ugh.
Prior to that, I was having an exceptional week. The knee was performing at it's highest level in over a year and I was feeling like I had officially turned a corner with all this knee business. On Wednesday, I decided to showcase the knee in a pair of sweet tall leather boots that were given the shaft last winter due to the pink knee brace. As I strutted around the hospital in my tall leather boots, my confidence high with every non-limping step, I felt like "me" again. Just happy Kirstie, headed to rounds, wearing a sweet pair of leather boots. When I got upstairs to level 5, I ran into Lawyer's hubby, Darren, a Nurse on the unit. Darren is notorious for commenting on my wardrobe - good or bad, he'll tell you exactly what he thinks.
"Oh my god, KL! Where is your horse?" he exclaimed.
"Oh my god, KL! Where is your horse?" he exclaimed.
"Darren, these are totally trendy right now. You're an idiot," I fired back.
About an hour later I was confidently strutting back to my office when I ran into Dr. M in the hallway. I smiled, sure that he was completely impressed with my fabulous gait.
"Wow. Nice boots. Where's your horse?" he commented sarcastically.
OK. that's 2 encounters with 2 men (there's like 5 men in our whole hospital) and 2 negative man reviews of the boots (Although, I must say, I received numerous compliments from women).
This lead to a great discussion with some girlfriends after work, over a glass of wine (of course): What kind of clothes do men prefer to see women wearing? Do guys "get" trends? and Who do you dress for? Yourself? Other women? or do you dress to impress men/a special man in your life?
The consensus at the table was that although we would like men to find our attire attractive, we typically dress for ourselves or to impress our female peers with our style sense. In addition, we decided that the average dude doesn't really appreciate the trendy/fashionable items that women may find stylish. Given our small sample size, we can't verify that this is the norm, but it certainly seemed to be the case with the men that we knew. We came up with a few examples of styles that our men poo-poohed, despite Pinterest informing us that they were super cool:
1) Ruffles/lace: Lawyer has a few beautiful ruffly blouses (I think they're fabulous) Hubby thinks she looks like a "clown." Boo hubby!
 |
| Oh, are you doing a children's party today, dear? |
2) Flowers (both the floral pattern and the "brooch" flower that people sometimes wear): Colleen donned a flower brooch one day and boyfriend pointed and exclaimed, "What the hell is that?" I wore a flower-patterned top once, to which Darren commented, "That looks like my grandma's couch."
 |
| Now don't panic, but there's something attached to your shirt! |
3) Stylish hats/touques" - I sported the slouchy touque that sits on the back of your head. It was cute. Ev immediately pulled it forward on my head, "It's not a touque if it's not even covering your ears!"
4) Anything outside of the norm: Examples include: a) a new hairstyle ("What's going on with this curly stuff? Is that a wig?") b) Glam makeup ("I don't know what a "smoky eye" is. All I know is it looks like someone beat you up.") and c) funky jewellery ("Why are you wearing anal beads?") and yes, Lawyer's hubby actually said that to me once while donning a cool chunky wooden necklace!
So what do men prefer? My buddy and co-worker Heidi summed it up perfectly, "I think all guys like women in ponytails and high heels." Hmmmm....interesting. And incredibly boring. I think I'll continue to dress to impress myself and my female peers. Horse or no horse, those high leather boots made me feel invincible.
 |
| Your touque's falling off. Let me fix it for you. |
4) Anything outside of the norm: Examples include: a) a new hairstyle ("What's going on with this curly stuff? Is that a wig?") b) Glam makeup ("I don't know what a "smoky eye" is. All I know is it looks like someone beat you up.") and c) funky jewellery ("Why are you wearing anal beads?") and yes, Lawyer's hubby actually said that to me once while donning a cool chunky wooden necklace!
 |
| call 911! Who did this to you? |
So what do men prefer? My buddy and co-worker Heidi summed it up perfectly, "I think all guys like women in ponytails and high heels." Hmmmm....interesting. And incredibly boring. I think I'll continue to dress to impress myself and my female peers. Horse or no horse, those high leather boots made me feel invincible.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Fondue: just like having a baby
The knee had a really good week. The swelling finally went down and I was crutchless and relatively pain-free every day. I noticed; however, that whenever I praise the knee on social media, it backlashes. That being said, this is the only paragraph the knee gets this week.
I was in a celebratory mood so I was tickled pink to see that I had been invited to an "event" via facebook. Interestingly enough, as I read through the invite, promising "Oktoberfest beers of the world and bratwurst," it occurred to me that this party was being held at my house! Yep, Ev had planned a shindig. Good on Ev. We built our current house with a fabulous basement bar, with every intention to put that bar to good use as frequently as possible. Unfortunately, the knee put a damper on that plan, and to be honest, given the long flight of stairs, I've probably been in our basement less than 5 times in the last year. Squatters could be living down there, watching my big screen TV and drinking my booze from the lovely boozy carousel for all I know. It's definitely time to start realizing the full potential of that basement bar.
Since Oktoberfest was the theme, there was a beers of the world beer tasting contest, lots of bratwurst and sausage, and cheese fondue. I was in charge of the cheese fondue. I envisioned the occasional stir throughout the evening, but was shocked to find that cheese fondue supervision is a actually high maintenance activity. The flame was too high - the cheese began to separate. The flame was too low - the cheese began to clump. As I scurried back and forth trying to keep the fricken cheese happy, I commented to a friend, "man, it's just like having a baby." Haha. I could tell by the look she gave me that no, it was actually nothing like having a baby. We had a good laugh and it occurred to me that although I can imagine what it is like to have children, I truly have no idea.
Ev and I do not have kids. Things may change - I can't see the future, but today, we do not have kids. When we first got married, people would nag us constantly, "When are you having kids?" "Better get to it!" or the most cringeworthy question, "Are you trying?" - Um, you just asked me if I am having unprotected sex. Awkward. And then I noticed some people were just downright mean, actually trying to scare us into having kids? Not having kids? I didn't get it. "Oh, you better enjoy sleeping now because once you have kids, that'll all change!" "Oh, must be nice to work out and get your hair done, just wait - once you have kids you will have no time for yourself!" Well, gosh, that doesn't inspire me to "start trying."
Now that we're well into our 30's, most of our friends have young families. And although I can definitely see that our day-to-day lives are very different, we can certainly all get together, have a great time, and still have plenty to chat about. Sometimes I feel like there's this club that everyone belongs to except for Ev and I. As I sit back and listen to moms discuss the art of potty training, I nod and smile and have absolutely nothing to contribute other than sharing stories about changing cat litter (fyi: people with kids don't appreciate your comparison of your 10 year old cat's bowel movements to their 2 year old child). But, for the most part, I take it all in, consider what life could be like with children, and continue to enjoy my quiet life with Ev and the animals. As an outsider to this world, I observe how unbelievably frustrating and difficult it is to raise these little people, but I also see how much love and pride people have for their own children. Although I love my animals and Evan more than words can express, I really don't know what it feels like to love my own child. But, today, I'm ok with that.
One thing I've come to learn is that people with children require a lot of notice before they can leave the house. It kind of annoyed me and I didn't really get it until I watched my sister attempt to wrangle one of her children to the door after a visit with aunty Kirstie. Keep in mind, this was 1 child! I can only imagine what 2...or even 3 would be like!!!! As I watched in dismay, I couldn't help but recall an instance in University when I had to remove my drunk buddy from a bar. It looked like this:
Bartender: "Is that your friend? (pointing at drunk buddy who just dropped and broke glass bottle) You need to get him out of here."
Me: "Drunk buddy, let's go. You've had a good night, but it's time to go now."
Drunk Buddy: "NOOOOOO. I'm having so much fun. I don't want to leave!"
Me: "You're breaking shit. Let's go."
Drunk Buddy: "K, but I'm going to the bathroom first."
(wait outside bathroom for drunk buddy. 30 minutes later find him on floor playing with something he found on floor)
Me: "What are you doing? Put that down! That's gross. Come on!"
Drunk Buddy: "But I can't get my coat on!" (has head in sleeve)
(help drunk buddy get coat on...then help drunk buddy put shoes on correct feet. Finally get drunk buddy to door while attempting to remain calm and patient.)
Drunk Buddy: "I'm just gonna go get something that I left in the bathroom"
Me: (now pulling out stern voice) "Hurry up. You've overstayed your welcome here - they won't let you back in here if you keep acting like this!"
15 minutes later Drunk Buddy emerges from bathroom with his hat.
Drunk Buddy: "See, I told you I left something behind."
Me: "Ok, time for you to go to bed. Let's go."
Drunk Buddy: "But I'm soooooo hungry! I need to eat now."
Me: "Well I'm just never taking you out again if this is how you act!"
Ok, now go back, re-read that script, but change location to Aunty's house, change "me" to "mom," and wherever it says "Drunk Buddy," insert "3 year old child."
And that is why people with children require a lot of notice before leaving the house. I get it now. If you have children and are running behind today, that's totally cool with me.
This comedy sketch is hilarious - I think both people with and without children will appreciate the humour in it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFQfylQ2Jgg
I was in a celebratory mood so I was tickled pink to see that I had been invited to an "event" via facebook. Interestingly enough, as I read through the invite, promising "Oktoberfest beers of the world and bratwurst," it occurred to me that this party was being held at my house! Yep, Ev had planned a shindig. Good on Ev. We built our current house with a fabulous basement bar, with every intention to put that bar to good use as frequently as possible. Unfortunately, the knee put a damper on that plan, and to be honest, given the long flight of stairs, I've probably been in our basement less than 5 times in the last year. Squatters could be living down there, watching my big screen TV and drinking my booze from the lovely boozy carousel for all I know. It's definitely time to start realizing the full potential of that basement bar.
Since Oktoberfest was the theme, there was a beers of the world beer tasting contest, lots of bratwurst and sausage, and cheese fondue. I was in charge of the cheese fondue. I envisioned the occasional stir throughout the evening, but was shocked to find that cheese fondue supervision is a actually high maintenance activity. The flame was too high - the cheese began to separate. The flame was too low - the cheese began to clump. As I scurried back and forth trying to keep the fricken cheese happy, I commented to a friend, "man, it's just like having a baby." Haha. I could tell by the look she gave me that no, it was actually nothing like having a baby. We had a good laugh and it occurred to me that although I can imagine what it is like to have children, I truly have no idea.
Ev and I do not have kids. Things may change - I can't see the future, but today, we do not have kids. When we first got married, people would nag us constantly, "When are you having kids?" "Better get to it!" or the most cringeworthy question, "Are you trying?" - Um, you just asked me if I am having unprotected sex. Awkward. And then I noticed some people were just downright mean, actually trying to scare us into having kids? Not having kids? I didn't get it. "Oh, you better enjoy sleeping now because once you have kids, that'll all change!" "Oh, must be nice to work out and get your hair done, just wait - once you have kids you will have no time for yourself!" Well, gosh, that doesn't inspire me to "start trying."
Now that we're well into our 30's, most of our friends have young families. And although I can definitely see that our day-to-day lives are very different, we can certainly all get together, have a great time, and still have plenty to chat about. Sometimes I feel like there's this club that everyone belongs to except for Ev and I. As I sit back and listen to moms discuss the art of potty training, I nod and smile and have absolutely nothing to contribute other than sharing stories about changing cat litter (fyi: people with kids don't appreciate your comparison of your 10 year old cat's bowel movements to their 2 year old child). But, for the most part, I take it all in, consider what life could be like with children, and continue to enjoy my quiet life with Ev and the animals. As an outsider to this world, I observe how unbelievably frustrating and difficult it is to raise these little people, but I also see how much love and pride people have for their own children. Although I love my animals and Evan more than words can express, I really don't know what it feels like to love my own child. But, today, I'm ok with that.
One thing I've come to learn is that people with children require a lot of notice before they can leave the house. It kind of annoyed me and I didn't really get it until I watched my sister attempt to wrangle one of her children to the door after a visit with aunty Kirstie. Keep in mind, this was 1 child! I can only imagine what 2...or even 3 would be like!!!! As I watched in dismay, I couldn't help but recall an instance in University when I had to remove my drunk buddy from a bar. It looked like this:
Bartender: "Is that your friend? (pointing at drunk buddy who just dropped and broke glass bottle) You need to get him out of here."
Me: "Drunk buddy, let's go. You've had a good night, but it's time to go now."
Drunk Buddy: "NOOOOOO. I'm having so much fun. I don't want to leave!"
Me: "You're breaking shit. Let's go."
Drunk Buddy: "K, but I'm going to the bathroom first."
(wait outside bathroom for drunk buddy. 30 minutes later find him on floor playing with something he found on floor)
Me: "What are you doing? Put that down! That's gross. Come on!"
Drunk Buddy: "But I can't get my coat on!" (has head in sleeve)
(help drunk buddy get coat on...then help drunk buddy put shoes on correct feet. Finally get drunk buddy to door while attempting to remain calm and patient.)
Drunk Buddy: "I'm just gonna go get something that I left in the bathroom"
Me: (now pulling out stern voice) "Hurry up. You've overstayed your welcome here - they won't let you back in here if you keep acting like this!"
15 minutes later Drunk Buddy emerges from bathroom with his hat.
Drunk Buddy: "See, I told you I left something behind."
Me: "Ok, time for you to go to bed. Let's go."
Drunk Buddy: "But I'm soooooo hungry! I need to eat now."
Me: "Well I'm just never taking you out again if this is how you act!"
Ok, now go back, re-read that script, but change location to Aunty's house, change "me" to "mom," and wherever it says "Drunk Buddy," insert "3 year old child."
And that is why people with children require a lot of notice before leaving the house. I get it now. If you have children and are running behind today, that's totally cool with me.
This comedy sketch is hilarious - I think both people with and without children will appreciate the humour in it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFQfylQ2Jgg
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Happy Halloween!
Since we last chatted, the knee became very angry, swelled up, and I was ordered back on the damn crutch. I've been on physio rest for a week and, I'm not gonna lie, it's been a bummer. In fact, I may or may not have consumed 30-some mini chocolate bars whilst wallowing in my self-pity last night on my couch...and due to excessive sugar intake, I may or may not have had to wear my glasses for the last few days because my eyes were too swollen to wear contacts. But Dr. M says this knee reaction is "normal." The knee will go through some rough phases - I've named this phase "the angry teenager" because the knee is overly sensitive, overreactive, and bitchy - just like I was during those horrible teen years. If the knee starts stealing/refilling my vodka bottles with water then we are done. Done!
But...it is one of my favorite days of the year today so screw the knee - let's discuss Halloween!
Halloween is such a great time of year. I love being someone different for a day and I enjoy seeing people's creativity shine. Yay for original costumes!
I do have one Halloween pet peeve, however. My H'ween pet peeve is....the sexy costume. You know - "sexy insert any person or object here"
Fine. If you're dressed up as a person who is just naturally sexy (like Britney Spears or Brad Pitt) then you go for it. You be sexy!
If you; however, are sexifying your costume to fulfill some void - sexy maid, sexy devil, sexy angel, sexy cat etc, then, sorry, but you kinda suck. You are not creative. You are abusing this special day and are simply looking for an excuse to dress like a skank. Not cool in my books. But perhaps I'm biased because I've never been able or confident enough to pull off the "sexy" look.
I didn't realize the extent of the sexy H'ween costume until I attended a H'ween dance a few years ago. I was super pumped about my costume that year. Check it out:
"What the hell are you?" you're asking. Why I am a "party in my pants," of course. See? Giant pants full of party paraphernalia? Kinda brilliant, no? As I attempted to dance (with balloons overflowing out of my ass) next to sexy vampires, sexy nurses, sexy cops, and...what? Is that a sexy slice of pizza? (You've got to be kidding me!), it occurred to me that Halloween had turned into a skankfest. Brutal.
Ok, I think I've made my opinion known. Less skank! More creativity!
Last year, due to my extensive experience in orthopaedics, I decided to dress as an Orthopedic Surgeon. It went over pretty well at the hospital. When I showed Dr. M, my Orthopedic Surgeon, he replied, "I find it humerus that you're actually holding a femur." Oops. Silly bones. Cant' win em all.
This year, I decided to work with my injury and go as "cat with broken paw." (It's incredibly difficult to eat, drink, walk through doorways, and lick your butt while donning the cone of shame, by the way)
A few brave souls from the Therapies department came to work dressed in costume. This was brilliant, actually. Colleen (Occupational Therapist) and April (Physiotherapist) decided to dress up as Speech Pathologists - me and my co-worker, Heidi, to be exact. I thought they looked fabulous! April even curled her hair and donned not only high heeled boots, (I wore high heels back in my heyday) but she even limped on a crutch all day - now that's dedication!
Finally, not to be outdone by Dundee, Biloxi, the cat, decided to don a costume this year as well. He's a sexy lion, of course. Purrrrrrrrr. Happy Halloween!
But...it is one of my favorite days of the year today so screw the knee - let's discuss Halloween!
Halloween is such a great time of year. I love being someone different for a day and I enjoy seeing people's creativity shine. Yay for original costumes!
I do have one Halloween pet peeve, however. My H'ween pet peeve is....the sexy costume. You know - "sexy insert any person or object here"
Fine. If you're dressed up as a person who is just naturally sexy (like Britney Spears or Brad Pitt) then you go for it. You be sexy!
If you; however, are sexifying your costume to fulfill some void - sexy maid, sexy devil, sexy angel, sexy cat etc, then, sorry, but you kinda suck. You are not creative. You are abusing this special day and are simply looking for an excuse to dress like a skank. Not cool in my books. But perhaps I'm biased because I've never been able or confident enough to pull off the "sexy" look.
I didn't realize the extent of the sexy H'ween costume until I attended a H'ween dance a few years ago. I was super pumped about my costume that year. Check it out:
Ok, I think I've made my opinion known. Less skank! More creativity!
Last year, due to my extensive experience in orthopaedics, I decided to dress as an Orthopedic Surgeon. It went over pretty well at the hospital. When I showed Dr. M, my Orthopedic Surgeon, he replied, "I find it humerus that you're actually holding a femur." Oops. Silly bones. Cant' win em all.
This year, I decided to work with my injury and go as "cat with broken paw." (It's incredibly difficult to eat, drink, walk through doorways, and lick your butt while donning the cone of shame, by the way)
 |
| Ev says, "Arrr matey!" Dundee says, "F you. This is dumb." |
Finally, not to be outdone by Dundee, Biloxi, the cat, decided to don a costume this year as well. He's a sexy lion, of course. Purrrrrrrrr. Happy Halloween!
 |
| I will never ever ever forgive you. Ever. |
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Stop looking at me! No, I am NOT having an affair. I think I'm going to puke.
I had a pretty good week! Some days were better than others, but overall, steady progress is being made. I'm up to 4 hours a day at work and although sometimes exhausting, the routine of seeing patients again, writing reports, and problem-solving is a great distraction from the occasional nagging knee pain. In addition, my physio is going well and I'm learning how to push myself without exceeding the limits that my knee will allow.
I've been looking back on my blog, reading some entries from the past year, and it's really helping me to appreciate how far I've come. I was thinking back to where I was a year ago, how much I still had to endure, and recalled an interesting experience that, in retrospect, seems pretty funny to me today.
I shall call it: "Stop looking at me! I am NOT having an affair. I think I'm going to puke"
A year ago, I received a cortisone injection in my knee. Initially, it screwed me right up. I was dizzy, nauseated, and sweating profusely. Apparently like 0.0000000001% of the population suffer side effects of cortisone injections. Yay me. The next day; however, when I stepped out of bed, the knee felt remarkably better. I had been saved. I strutted around the office that day, sans crutches, and even gave Dr. M a cocky little wave as I sauntered past his office. I felt amazing. The effects didn't last long and I soon felt myself craving that injection once again.
I waited the obligatory 4 months and then, a week before Ev and I were set to leave for a week in Hawaii, I begged Dr. M to give me another injection. Like Lance Armstrong before the Tour de France, I knew the only way I would conquer this vacation was with a little doping. Just a bit. Dr. M agreed and I met him in the clinic that afternoon for my sweet little injection.
"Ok, since you had side effects last time, I'm keeping you here for while to make sure you don't pass out or anything," Dr. M instructed as he prepared the syringe.
Yep, Yep, just give me the injection. Hurry. Damnit. I need it.
He carefully injected the cortisone into my knee and I laid back, picturing myself frolicking on the beaches of Maui.
"OK. She's going to stay here for a while - she had side effects last time so just keep an eye on her," he instructed nosy nurse (that's what we shall call her).
Disclaimer: I really respect the nurses that I work with. It's a tough job and the majority of the nurses at our hospital are awesome. I had 4 knee surgeries at this hospital and have nothing but praise for the people who cared for me. This just happened to be an "off" experience with one particular person.
After about 20 minutes of laying quiet, I decided to get up and get my coat on. I felt fine.
As I sat up in bed and reached for my coat, the room began to spin and I so elegantly started slipping off the bed and onto the floor.
Nosy nurse came rushing in, spotted me falling to the floor, and yelled, "Dr M, she can't go. She's falling off the bed!"
Um, awesome, thanks for telling on me, but could you just maybe help me off the floor?
Dr. M came rushing in and helped me back onto the bed.
"You're going to need to call someone to come and get you. You can't drive like this," he stated.
I nodded groggily as the room spun circles around me.
Hmmmm, it was 1pm on a Tuesday. Ev was at work. My friends all have jobs....except for one. Lawyer's hubby, Darren. You could always count on Darren. Like me, he was an injured mess and off work for a while. Darren is also a patient of Dr. M's! We often joke that that Dr. M really hit the jackpot when he received both of us as patients. Score! In addition, Darren is a nurse. He would understand.
I texted Darren and he informed me that he would be there ASAP.
My symptoms were worsening rapidly. I felt puky and sweaty and a little panicked. Nosy Nurse took my blood pressure and it was high. I laid back and tried to relax, staring at a specific spot on the wall to prevent the room from spinning so quickly.
My buddy Darren soon arrived and it was apparent that Nosy Nurse knew him personally, "Darren, what are you doing here?"
"I'm here for my friend, Kirstie," he replied.
"Re---alllly? And does your wife know?"
Are you frickin kidding me?
"Yes, she knows," replied Darren calmly. "We are all friends."
Nosy Nurse couldn't handle this. She went behind the nurses desk and began chattering with her co-worker. I could hear every gossipy word she was saying.
"Darren is here to pick up Kirstie - you know, the Speech Therapist. But he's married to that blonde lawyer. Hmmmmm."
I couldn't stand it. In my delirious state I hollered, "He's just my friend!"
Suddenly from another room, I heard Dr. M, in his best Garth Brook's voice break into song, "I got friend's in low places." Funny.
Gong Show.
"Darren, grab me a bucket or something. I'm gonna puke," I pleaded pathetically.
Darren quickly grabbed me puke bucket and I gripped it and took deep breaths. Dr. M, Nosy Nurse, and Darren all stood at my feet, staring at me with concern. Unfortunately, Dr. M was now standing directly in front of my special spot that I was staring at - the one that prevented me from falling out of bed. He stood in such a position that I ended up staring directly at his...um...ahem...man package area. Awkward.
"Ok, staring at me doesn't make me feel any better, " I snapped, "Stop looking at me!"
The entourage quickly vacated my room and I was free to focus on my special spot without distraction.
"Hey, why don't you give her some gravol," questioned my wise buddy, Darren.
"Well, we can't just give her gravol here. We need a doctor's orders," replied Nosy Nurse.
"Hey!" hollered Dr. M from another room, "I'm actually a Doctor, you know. Give her the gravol." Poor Dr. M.
So the gong show continued as Nosy Nurse tried several times to insert an IV. Once the IV was in, she realized there were no IV poles in the vicinity. Dr. M, completely frustrated with the situation, marched in, sighed emphatically, and stood on a chair beside my bed, holding the bag of gravol above my head so that it would infuse. Good God. Wow, this guy is being paid a shamillion dollars an hour to act as an IV pole. Like me, I'm sure Dr. M just wanted this day to be over.
Eventually, the symptoms began to dissipate and I just desperately wanted to be home and in my own bed.
Darren took over the IV holding duties and suggested we make a break for it. "I'll grab a wheelchair, pull the truck up front, and get you out of here," he suggested.
"OK, but it's 4:30. I'm going to see all my co-workers. I don't want to be seen looking like this in a wheelchair," I complained.
"Throw a bag over her head!" joked Dr. M from another patient's room, "How's your knee feeling?"
"F*&# the knee!" I yelled back. Wait a second. Did I just holler an f-bomb at my surgeon? - the one guy who can actually help me? F me.
I actually couldn't help but laugh at that point. Was this for real? Where are the hidden cameras? It felt like a ridiculous Seinfeld episode.
After 4 hours of idiocracy, the debacle came to a close and I was able to walk myself out of the hospital.
"Thanks for joining us today," joked a defeated Dr. M, "I think that was your last cortisone injection."
"Yep. Best day ever," I sighed.
I've been looking back on my blog, reading some entries from the past year, and it's really helping me to appreciate how far I've come. I was thinking back to where I was a year ago, how much I still had to endure, and recalled an interesting experience that, in retrospect, seems pretty funny to me today.
I shall call it: "Stop looking at me! I am NOT having an affair. I think I'm going to puke"
A year ago, I received a cortisone injection in my knee. Initially, it screwed me right up. I was dizzy, nauseated, and sweating profusely. Apparently like 0.0000000001% of the population suffer side effects of cortisone injections. Yay me. The next day; however, when I stepped out of bed, the knee felt remarkably better. I had been saved. I strutted around the office that day, sans crutches, and even gave Dr. M a cocky little wave as I sauntered past his office. I felt amazing. The effects didn't last long and I soon felt myself craving that injection once again.
I waited the obligatory 4 months and then, a week before Ev and I were set to leave for a week in Hawaii, I begged Dr. M to give me another injection. Like Lance Armstrong before the Tour de France, I knew the only way I would conquer this vacation was with a little doping. Just a bit. Dr. M agreed and I met him in the clinic that afternoon for my sweet little injection.
"Ok, since you had side effects last time, I'm keeping you here for while to make sure you don't pass out or anything," Dr. M instructed as he prepared the syringe.
Yep, Yep, just give me the injection. Hurry. Damnit. I need it.
He carefully injected the cortisone into my knee and I laid back, picturing myself frolicking on the beaches of Maui.
"OK. She's going to stay here for a while - she had side effects last time so just keep an eye on her," he instructed nosy nurse (that's what we shall call her).
Disclaimer: I really respect the nurses that I work with. It's a tough job and the majority of the nurses at our hospital are awesome. I had 4 knee surgeries at this hospital and have nothing but praise for the people who cared for me. This just happened to be an "off" experience with one particular person.
After about 20 minutes of laying quiet, I decided to get up and get my coat on. I felt fine.
As I sat up in bed and reached for my coat, the room began to spin and I so elegantly started slipping off the bed and onto the floor.
Nosy nurse came rushing in, spotted me falling to the floor, and yelled, "Dr M, she can't go. She's falling off the bed!"
Um, awesome, thanks for telling on me, but could you just maybe help me off the floor?
Dr. M came rushing in and helped me back onto the bed.
"You're going to need to call someone to come and get you. You can't drive like this," he stated.
I nodded groggily as the room spun circles around me.
Hmmmm, it was 1pm on a Tuesday. Ev was at work. My friends all have jobs....except for one. Lawyer's hubby, Darren. You could always count on Darren. Like me, he was an injured mess and off work for a while. Darren is also a patient of Dr. M's! We often joke that that Dr. M really hit the jackpot when he received both of us as patients. Score! In addition, Darren is a nurse. He would understand.
I texted Darren and he informed me that he would be there ASAP.
My symptoms were worsening rapidly. I felt puky and sweaty and a little panicked. Nosy Nurse took my blood pressure and it was high. I laid back and tried to relax, staring at a specific spot on the wall to prevent the room from spinning so quickly.
My buddy Darren soon arrived and it was apparent that Nosy Nurse knew him personally, "Darren, what are you doing here?"
"I'm here for my friend, Kirstie," he replied.
"Re---alllly? And does your wife know?"
Are you frickin kidding me?
"Yes, she knows," replied Darren calmly. "We are all friends."
Nosy Nurse couldn't handle this. She went behind the nurses desk and began chattering with her co-worker. I could hear every gossipy word she was saying.
"Darren is here to pick up Kirstie - you know, the Speech Therapist. But he's married to that blonde lawyer. Hmmmmm."
I couldn't stand it. In my delirious state I hollered, "He's just my friend!"
Suddenly from another room, I heard Dr. M, in his best Garth Brook's voice break into song, "I got friend's in low places." Funny.
Gong Show.
"Darren, grab me a bucket or something. I'm gonna puke," I pleaded pathetically.
Darren quickly grabbed me puke bucket and I gripped it and took deep breaths. Dr. M, Nosy Nurse, and Darren all stood at my feet, staring at me with concern. Unfortunately, Dr. M was now standing directly in front of my special spot that I was staring at - the one that prevented me from falling out of bed. He stood in such a position that I ended up staring directly at his...um...ahem...man package area. Awkward.
"Ok, staring at me doesn't make me feel any better, " I snapped, "Stop looking at me!"
The entourage quickly vacated my room and I was free to focus on my special spot without distraction.
"Hey, why don't you give her some gravol," questioned my wise buddy, Darren.
"Well, we can't just give her gravol here. We need a doctor's orders," replied Nosy Nurse.
"Hey!" hollered Dr. M from another room, "I'm actually a Doctor, you know. Give her the gravol." Poor Dr. M.
So the gong show continued as Nosy Nurse tried several times to insert an IV. Once the IV was in, she realized there were no IV poles in the vicinity. Dr. M, completely frustrated with the situation, marched in, sighed emphatically, and stood on a chair beside my bed, holding the bag of gravol above my head so that it would infuse. Good God. Wow, this guy is being paid a shamillion dollars an hour to act as an IV pole. Like me, I'm sure Dr. M just wanted this day to be over.
Eventually, the symptoms began to dissipate and I just desperately wanted to be home and in my own bed.
Darren took over the IV holding duties and suggested we make a break for it. "I'll grab a wheelchair, pull the truck up front, and get you out of here," he suggested.
"OK, but it's 4:30. I'm going to see all my co-workers. I don't want to be seen looking like this in a wheelchair," I complained.
"Throw a bag over her head!" joked Dr. M from another patient's room, "How's your knee feeling?"
"F*&# the knee!" I yelled back. Wait a second. Did I just holler an f-bomb at my surgeon? - the one guy who can actually help me? F me.
I actually couldn't help but laugh at that point. Was this for real? Where are the hidden cameras? It felt like a ridiculous Seinfeld episode.
After 4 hours of idiocracy, the debacle came to a close and I was able to walk myself out of the hospital.
"Thanks for joining us today," joked a defeated Dr. M, "I think that was your last cortisone injection."
"Yep. Best day ever," I sighed.
 |
| Ok so cortisone isn't really "doping," but it sounds way cooler. |
Saturday, October 12, 2013
No...you listen to me!
I was flying high after my first week back to work. Mentally, I felt invincible, and I was sure that my body would just follow along. So I went for a bike ride. A real bike ride. I rode the shit out of that bike (well, let's be honest, I took it around the block). Wind in my hair, flies in my teeth, the taste of freedom on my lips - it was invigorating, to say the least. The last time I had seen the end of my block was during one of my wheelchair walks with Ev. Although the wheelchair walks were lovely (except for that one time when Ev took me down the hill and forgot to buckle me in), and often the only thing that I looked forward to in my day, the bike ride was kicking wheelchair walks ass. Nothing hurt. I was riding my bike like a regular bike-riding person. I felt a sense of pride when a car would drive past me. In my mind they were thinking, "look at that regular person going for a regular bike ride." Once I turned the corner; however, and the wind picked up speed, howling against me, I realized that the bike ride was getting...well, hard, I guess. I limped back to the house at top speeds of 0.5km/hr and immediately collapsed on my couch. Although exhausted, I was still pretty cocky about my epic bike ride and even had the nerve to post it on facebook, "First bike ride. Boo ya!" Boo ya, my ass. Within an hour, I realized that the bike ride was a bad idea.
The next morning, I awoke to one swollen, hot, puffy knee, one angry aching knee, a hip that popped when I moved, and a rib out of place (can a rib actually fall out of place? I don't know. All I know is, the only way I could breathe was to aggressively push on a specific spot on my back). The only position that gave me relief was flat on my back on my hard wood floor. Within minutes, both Dundee, the dog, and Biloxi, the cat were laying top of me, obviously concerned with their owners predicament (or laying claim to my body should I drop dead at that point?)
Now, normally I would have just called in to work "immobile," but I had a video swallow study arranged that day. While I was off work, patients awaiting swallow studies were told to wait until my return or go on Saskatoon's wait list, so I felt obligated to suck it up, get into work, and do this swallow study.
Back on the crutch (how the hell do you hold a crutch when both your knees hurt and your rib is "out"?) I limped into the therapies department. I had been so cocky about how awesome I was doing that my first thought was, "Please don't let me actually see anyone I know today." Of course, I ran into everyone and their dog in my state of disrepair.
"Uh oh, pushing yourself a little too hard?" asked a colleague, "Listen to your body, Kirstie."
"Thanks. Yep. Got it," I wheezed.
Making my way to x-ray with a patients file, a tray of food, and my crutch, I secretly hoped that a sniper was hiding in the halls to finish me off at this point.
Ron, my awesome OT buddy, caught site of me and noticeably flinched in dismay, "You need help?"
"No, I um....Ya. I totally need help, Ron."
So thankfully Ron helped me to x-ray where I was able to get going on this swallow study.
Of course, the Radiologist that I was working with that day was young and hot, as opposed to the typical old angry Radiologists on call. Given that the only way I could breathe was in a shallow panting manner, and the fact that I frequently gasped while passing the barium to my patient, hot, young doctor likely suspected that I was in heat.
Bottom line: I did it.
As I shuffled out of the hospital, I, of course, ran into another colleague that I hadn't seen since my return.
"Oh, you're still on the crutch? Things not going well?" he asked with concern.
"No, it's going well. Just pushed myself a little too hard, " I panted.
"uh oh. Listen to your body!" he replied.
Yup. Got it.
My body's message was not subtle. My body was communicating to me loud and clear: "F*ck You!"
Lesson learned. Mentally, I was ready. Physically - not quite there yet. But you know what, I'm tired of "listening to my body." I think it's time that my body listens to me, damnit! However, I don't really feel like fighting with the body this week. Truce? Body, let me pour you a nice glass of wine and run a bubble bath for you. You're welcome. Love you.
The next morning, I awoke to one swollen, hot, puffy knee, one angry aching knee, a hip that popped when I moved, and a rib out of place (can a rib actually fall out of place? I don't know. All I know is, the only way I could breathe was to aggressively push on a specific spot on my back). The only position that gave me relief was flat on my back on my hard wood floor. Within minutes, both Dundee, the dog, and Biloxi, the cat were laying top of me, obviously concerned with their owners predicament (or laying claim to my body should I drop dead at that point?)
Now, normally I would have just called in to work "immobile," but I had a video swallow study arranged that day. While I was off work, patients awaiting swallow studies were told to wait until my return or go on Saskatoon's wait list, so I felt obligated to suck it up, get into work, and do this swallow study.
Back on the crutch (how the hell do you hold a crutch when both your knees hurt and your rib is "out"?) I limped into the therapies department. I had been so cocky about how awesome I was doing that my first thought was, "Please don't let me actually see anyone I know today." Of course, I ran into everyone and their dog in my state of disrepair.
"Uh oh, pushing yourself a little too hard?" asked a colleague, "Listen to your body, Kirstie."
"Thanks. Yep. Got it," I wheezed.
Making my way to x-ray with a patients file, a tray of food, and my crutch, I secretly hoped that a sniper was hiding in the halls to finish me off at this point.
Ron, my awesome OT buddy, caught site of me and noticeably flinched in dismay, "You need help?"
"No, I um....Ya. I totally need help, Ron."
So thankfully Ron helped me to x-ray where I was able to get going on this swallow study.
Of course, the Radiologist that I was working with that day was young and hot, as opposed to the typical old angry Radiologists on call. Given that the only way I could breathe was in a shallow panting manner, and the fact that I frequently gasped while passing the barium to my patient, hot, young doctor likely suspected that I was in heat.
Bottom line: I did it.
As I shuffled out of the hospital, I, of course, ran into another colleague that I hadn't seen since my return.
"Oh, you're still on the crutch? Things not going well?" he asked with concern.
"No, it's going well. Just pushed myself a little too hard, " I panted.
"uh oh. Listen to your body!" he replied.
Yup. Got it.
My body's message was not subtle. My body was communicating to me loud and clear: "F*ck You!"
Lesson learned. Mentally, I was ready. Physically - not quite there yet. But you know what, I'm tired of "listening to my body." I think it's time that my body listens to me, damnit! However, I don't really feel like fighting with the body this week. Truce? Body, let me pour you a nice glass of wine and run a bubble bath for you. You're welcome. Love you.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Thethil
I'm back at work! Yay! It feels great. I'm starting slow with just a few hours a day, but it's enough to get me out of bed, force me to put some pants on, and actually use my brain (there's also the added perk of socializing with my work buddies!) I'm still experiencing some pain in both knees, but the pain is totally manageable and I'm spending most of my days sans crutch and sans brace. I texted Dr. M, "Guess what? I'm crutchless and braceless!" and then nearly had a heart attack when I thought I had typed, "I'm crotchless and braless" (although entertaining, that would have been...weird). Anyways, I'm free! I was also happy to hear that Britney was releasing her new video, "Work Bitch" this week. It's no coincidence that she's back in fantastic shape singing, "You better work bitch," the exact same week that I'm returning after 5 months of being down and out. I'm pickin' up what you're puttin' down, Brit Brit.
After 5 months away from the hospital, I really do appreciate my job and the people that I work with. It seems to me that so few people actually enjoy what they do for a living, and although 5 months away from the office may sound like a grand idea, it's made me realize just how much I appreciate and enjoy the people I work with and the job that I do. My awesome office-mate, Heidi, covered my patients for me the entire time that I was gone. She never complained to me once. Heidi rocks. Heidi and I share a passion for speech therapy and the adult population. It's our thing. This week as we caught up, discussing complicated cases and brainstorming therapy ideas, I felt whole and consciously aware of the fact that this piece has been missing from my life. It feels great to be back doing what I love.
The one thing that's been missing from my epic week back to work is a phonecall from my favorite patient, "Thethil."
When I first began working as a Speech-Language Pathologist nearly 8 years ago, I received a call from a man who was in desperate need of speech therapy services.
This man explained that his name was "Cecil," however, with the terrible frontal lisp that he demonstrated, it sounded more like "Thethil." He explained that he had lived with this frontal lisp his entire life and now that he was 30, he was ready and willing to work on improving his speech.
Calmly and professionally, I explained to Cecil that he would need to commit to regular therapy with myself in order to eliminate the frontal lisp. As I explained the process, Cecil began laughing hysterically. It soon became apparent to me that "Thethil" was actually Evan. Funny. What a jerk - mocking my noble profession 3 weeks into my first job!
About a month later, I received a call at work from a gentleman with a terrible stutter. As he painfully attempted to explain that he had stuttered his whole life and was now finally ready to receive therapy, I put two and two together and and just knew that Evan was playing with me again. I wasn't going to let him get away with it this time.
"Yep, Ok sure, " I responded on the phone, "sounds like you stutter alright - good one."
As the line went silent, a sickening sensation took over me....Shit. This was not Evan. This was a patient. A real patient. Oh my god. I quickly backtracked and began a professional and compassionate response that I would normally offer a patient in this situation. I managed to save it, but felt terrible for the way I had initially responded, assuming Thethil was back at it.
Four years later when I received my job as an SLP in Prince Albert, I was excited to check my very first voicemail message. I sat down, pen in hand, ready to document my communication with my first patient in my new position. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically when i heard,
"Kirthtie! It'th Thethil! Where have you been? I mithed you tho mucth!"
Thethil! If you're out there, I'm back at work again buddy! Call me :)
After 5 months away from the hospital, I really do appreciate my job and the people that I work with. It seems to me that so few people actually enjoy what they do for a living, and although 5 months away from the office may sound like a grand idea, it's made me realize just how much I appreciate and enjoy the people I work with and the job that I do. My awesome office-mate, Heidi, covered my patients for me the entire time that I was gone. She never complained to me once. Heidi rocks. Heidi and I share a passion for speech therapy and the adult population. It's our thing. This week as we caught up, discussing complicated cases and brainstorming therapy ideas, I felt whole and consciously aware of the fact that this piece has been missing from my life. It feels great to be back doing what I love.
The one thing that's been missing from my epic week back to work is a phonecall from my favorite patient, "Thethil."
When I first began working as a Speech-Language Pathologist nearly 8 years ago, I received a call from a man who was in desperate need of speech therapy services.
This man explained that his name was "Cecil," however, with the terrible frontal lisp that he demonstrated, it sounded more like "Thethil." He explained that he had lived with this frontal lisp his entire life and now that he was 30, he was ready and willing to work on improving his speech.
Calmly and professionally, I explained to Cecil that he would need to commit to regular therapy with myself in order to eliminate the frontal lisp. As I explained the process, Cecil began laughing hysterically. It soon became apparent to me that "Thethil" was actually Evan. Funny. What a jerk - mocking my noble profession 3 weeks into my first job!
About a month later, I received a call at work from a gentleman with a terrible stutter. As he painfully attempted to explain that he had stuttered his whole life and was now finally ready to receive therapy, I put two and two together and and just knew that Evan was playing with me again. I wasn't going to let him get away with it this time.
"Yep, Ok sure, " I responded on the phone, "sounds like you stutter alright - good one."
As the line went silent, a sickening sensation took over me....Shit. This was not Evan. This was a patient. A real patient. Oh my god. I quickly backtracked and began a professional and compassionate response that I would normally offer a patient in this situation. I managed to save it, but felt terrible for the way I had initially responded, assuming Thethil was back at it.
Four years later when I received my job as an SLP in Prince Albert, I was excited to check my very first voicemail message. I sat down, pen in hand, ready to document my communication with my first patient in my new position. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically when i heard,
"Kirthtie! It'th Thethil! Where have you been? I mithed you tho mucth!"
Thethil! If you're out there, I'm back at work again buddy! Call me :)
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Nothing to fear but fear itself
I have big news. I have turned a corner. Not just a regular street corner. A huge corner. If I was meandering along the yellow brick road, I just caught sight of the Emerald City.
It's difficult to put my feelings into words. It feels bigger than words. So I've attached some pictures of extremely happy animals that might help communicate just how I am feeling.
Get it? It's good. It's a life-changing corner and I now have the clarity to see myself and my journey from a different perspective. I was buried under the fear, pain, and sadness, asking, "Why me?" But it now feels as though I've dug my way out of this nightmare and am finally ready to begin walking away (with a bit of a limp, mind you). I am looking back. I think It's important to look back because I did learn so much. I had no idea that I possessed this much mental and physical strength. I didn't fully realize the extent of Evan's love for me. I didn't appreciate how much I needed and relied on my friends and family, and in turn, just how much my friends and family really do love and care for me.
Although I don't quite know the magnitude of it just yet, this experience has altered my path in life. I was headed in one direction, cruising down the path that I had chosen, the path that I had determined was best for me when I was suddenly slowed to a halt and veered off in a different direction - a direction that I never had any intention or desire of going. It forced me to re-evaluate and re-examine my hopes, my dreams, and my priorities in life. Good or bad, this experience has changed me.
Pretty intense, huh?
First things first though. You may be wondering how my MRI went. You know, the MRI that I completely built up in my mind as a horrifying experience. Seriously Kirstie? How frightening is laying still in a loud tube while your nuclei rotate about? It doesn't hurt at all, and although it's a tight squeeze, there is absolutely nothing to fear. Anyway, I worked myself up into a frenzy and decided to take an Ativan as soon as I arrived at the hospital. When the Tech explained that I would require x-rays first and would not likely begin the MRI for at least an hour, I panicked a bit (Wha? Me? Panic?) - would my Ativan wear off half-way through the test? Yikes. So, I did what any overreactive spazzy pants would do, I took a second Ativan an hour later just as I was entering the tube.
So, needless to say, I was relaxed. I was unset soupy jello relaxed. I may have even enjoyed it. I have no idea. At one point, as Justin Timberlake sang, "I'm bringing sexy back" through my giant headphones, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the obnoxious siren of the MRI machine was actually on beat with Justin.
"I'm bringing sexy back, " WHAAAAAA WHAAAAA WHAAAAA
Brilliant. I giggled happily to myself. Silly MRI.
After an hour, I was almost disappointed when the Tech came in to pull me out of my happy sexy song machine.
Evan met me in the waiting room and it was apparent by the shocked expression on his face that I resembled a crack whore after a bad trip (I actually have NO idea what a "crack whore" looks like). I wiped the drool from my chin and shuffled into our vehicle, snoring the entire way back to Prince Albert.
I then proceeded to freak out for 2 days. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't focus. I convinced myself that I would never walk again. The longer I went without sleep and food, the stronger the knee pain became. Negative thoughts infiltrated my brain and I found myself laying on the couch, staring at nothing on the television, planning a lonely life of pain, wheelchairs, and surgeries.
And then I heard the news. My Radiologist called to tell me that although Dr. M had yet to review the scan, things looked very good on the MRI. The cartilage transplant looked to be securely in place - a huge improvement from the bleak MRI a year ago, which indicated that my cartilage was falling apart in chunks. The left knee, he explained, did not show signs of Osteochondrial Dessicans (OCD), the disease that I was convinced had destroyed every piece of cartilage in my body. The left knee did show a chronic condition called chondromalacia patella - which basically just means that the cartilage behind my kneecap sucks. Although it causes pain, it is not a precursor to OCD or arthritis. It's just there. It's a non-issue compared to what I was dealing with in the right knee. It would; however, be a source of pain that I would have to learn to live with.
My initial reaction was not, "Right on! that's great!" (As one would expect). My first reaction, strangely enough, was to cry - for about 8 hours or so. "This can't be right," I sobbed, "I feel pain. My knee hurts. Something is wrong. Am I crazy?"
I had the weekend to process the news before I would meet with Dr. M on Monday to discuss. Slowly, as time passed over the next 3 days, my thoughts and feelings began to shift. Once I could attribute the pain to something real and identifiable - chondromalacia patella, knowing that I was not, indeed, falling apart as I had imagined, nor was I imagining the pain, the pain began to dissipate. I stopped taking painkillers every 4 hours and realized that although I could feel pain, the pain was not indicative of a degenerating knee, riddled with disease.
On Sunday night, I met with my BFF, the lovely Janna, who has suffered through her own nightmare of health issues over the past 2 years. Janna was diagnosed with Crohn's disease following the birth of her baby. My buddy has been through the wringer and the disease presently appears to be under control with a new med regime. Janna is looking fabulous and finally feeling healthy again. Although Janna and I have completely different health issues, we share a lot of similar feelings and fears. We talked about how unfair it was that 2 strong women be afflicted by life-altering health issues at such a young age... but we also discussed a positive experience that we both share as a result of what we've been through. We both feel that our experiences have forced us to to slow down and really appreciate those little moments in life - those small seemingly insignificant moments where you stop and think, "Right now - life is good." When Janna hears her little guy laugh, she stops and processes how sweet it sounds. When Evan predictably kisses my forehead every morning, I am consciously aware of how much I am loved. The ability to be in the moment is an amazing gift that we've been given.
I began to feel like I was ready to move on.
The next morning Dr. M went through my MRI with me in amazing detail - not only were my images displayed on all of his computer screens, but he had props - text books, line drawings, and elastics to illustrate everything that my MRI indicated. I'm surprised that he didn't act out the MRI, stretching himself out like the ligaments in my knee!
When we looked at the pictures of my cartilage transplant sitting firmly - exactly where it should be, it finally occurred to me how unbelievably fortunate I am. My knee was a mess. This man took a chance on me - I was a guinea pig of sorts - I was the first recipient of a juvenile cartilage transplant in Saskatchewan - and it worked! Because of Dr. M and this gift of cartilage, my quality of life has been greatly improved..and will continue to improve as my muscles get stronger and my confidence increases.
Dr. M told me that it was time to stop being afraid. He gave me the green light to move forward with my life.
I could say a million wonderful things about Dr. M. He's a brilliant, compassionate, confident, committed, progressive Doctor. But he's so much more than that. Many brilliant, confident surgeons would have taken one look at me and told me that nothing could be done. Simply put, Dr. M is a kind human being who saw another human suffering and decided that he could make a difference. I feel strongly that I did not meet Dr. M by accident. Our paths crossed for a reason and he's made it clear that he feels the same way. We have both learned from this experience and from each other. This man, who was once was a stranger I passed in the hospital hallway, has become an important part of my life journey. I will always hold a special place in my heart for this "fellow traveller" who has taught me so much about myself and this unpredictable journey called life.
Although I am not a huggy, cuddly person (at all!) when I stood up to leave Dr. M's office, I hugged the bejeezus out of him. I squeezed him as tight as I could and I did not want to let go. I don't really know how to express my great appreciation to him, but as he squeezed me back, I knew he understood what I was trying to convey. When I did finally let go, as cliche as this sounds, I felt myself letting go of all my fears. I don't need to be afraid anymore. The fear has literally been paralyzing...but it's time to let go and move on. I am ready. I have a lot of hard work ahead of me but this chapter is closed. As we released our embrace, I said goodbye, limped down the hall, exited the Orthopedic Department and felt an overwhelming sense of freedom.
It's difficult to put my feelings into words. It feels bigger than words. So I've attached some pictures of extremely happy animals that might help communicate just how I am feeling.
Although I don't quite know the magnitude of it just yet, this experience has altered my path in life. I was headed in one direction, cruising down the path that I had chosen, the path that I had determined was best for me when I was suddenly slowed to a halt and veered off in a different direction - a direction that I never had any intention or desire of going. It forced me to re-evaluate and re-examine my hopes, my dreams, and my priorities in life. Good or bad, this experience has changed me.
Pretty intense, huh?
First things first though. You may be wondering how my MRI went. You know, the MRI that I completely built up in my mind as a horrifying experience. Seriously Kirstie? How frightening is laying still in a loud tube while your nuclei rotate about? It doesn't hurt at all, and although it's a tight squeeze, there is absolutely nothing to fear. Anyway, I worked myself up into a frenzy and decided to take an Ativan as soon as I arrived at the hospital. When the Tech explained that I would require x-rays first and would not likely begin the MRI for at least an hour, I panicked a bit (Wha? Me? Panic?) - would my Ativan wear off half-way through the test? Yikes. So, I did what any overreactive spazzy pants would do, I took a second Ativan an hour later just as I was entering the tube.
So, needless to say, I was relaxed. I was unset soupy jello relaxed. I may have even enjoyed it. I have no idea. At one point, as Justin Timberlake sang, "I'm bringing sexy back" through my giant headphones, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the obnoxious siren of the MRI machine was actually on beat with Justin.
"I'm bringing sexy back, " WHAAAAAA WHAAAAA WHAAAAA
Brilliant. I giggled happily to myself. Silly MRI.
After an hour, I was almost disappointed when the Tech came in to pull me out of my happy sexy song machine.
Evan met me in the waiting room and it was apparent by the shocked expression on his face that I resembled a crack whore after a bad trip (I actually have NO idea what a "crack whore" looks like). I wiped the drool from my chin and shuffled into our vehicle, snoring the entire way back to Prince Albert.
I then proceeded to freak out for 2 days. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't focus. I convinced myself that I would never walk again. The longer I went without sleep and food, the stronger the knee pain became. Negative thoughts infiltrated my brain and I found myself laying on the couch, staring at nothing on the television, planning a lonely life of pain, wheelchairs, and surgeries.
And then I heard the news. My Radiologist called to tell me that although Dr. M had yet to review the scan, things looked very good on the MRI. The cartilage transplant looked to be securely in place - a huge improvement from the bleak MRI a year ago, which indicated that my cartilage was falling apart in chunks. The left knee, he explained, did not show signs of Osteochondrial Dessicans (OCD), the disease that I was convinced had destroyed every piece of cartilage in my body. The left knee did show a chronic condition called chondromalacia patella - which basically just means that the cartilage behind my kneecap sucks. Although it causes pain, it is not a precursor to OCD or arthritis. It's just there. It's a non-issue compared to what I was dealing with in the right knee. It would; however, be a source of pain that I would have to learn to live with.
My initial reaction was not, "Right on! that's great!" (As one would expect). My first reaction, strangely enough, was to cry - for about 8 hours or so. "This can't be right," I sobbed, "I feel pain. My knee hurts. Something is wrong. Am I crazy?"
I had the weekend to process the news before I would meet with Dr. M on Monday to discuss. Slowly, as time passed over the next 3 days, my thoughts and feelings began to shift. Once I could attribute the pain to something real and identifiable - chondromalacia patella, knowing that I was not, indeed, falling apart as I had imagined, nor was I imagining the pain, the pain began to dissipate. I stopped taking painkillers every 4 hours and realized that although I could feel pain, the pain was not indicative of a degenerating knee, riddled with disease.
On Sunday night, I met with my BFF, the lovely Janna, who has suffered through her own nightmare of health issues over the past 2 years. Janna was diagnosed with Crohn's disease following the birth of her baby. My buddy has been through the wringer and the disease presently appears to be under control with a new med regime. Janna is looking fabulous and finally feeling healthy again. Although Janna and I have completely different health issues, we share a lot of similar feelings and fears. We talked about how unfair it was that 2 strong women be afflicted by life-altering health issues at such a young age... but we also discussed a positive experience that we both share as a result of what we've been through. We both feel that our experiences have forced us to to slow down and really appreciate those little moments in life - those small seemingly insignificant moments where you stop and think, "Right now - life is good." When Janna hears her little guy laugh, she stops and processes how sweet it sounds. When Evan predictably kisses my forehead every morning, I am consciously aware of how much I am loved. The ability to be in the moment is an amazing gift that we've been given.
I began to feel like I was ready to move on.
The next morning Dr. M went through my MRI with me in amazing detail - not only were my images displayed on all of his computer screens, but he had props - text books, line drawings, and elastics to illustrate everything that my MRI indicated. I'm surprised that he didn't act out the MRI, stretching himself out like the ligaments in my knee!
When we looked at the pictures of my cartilage transplant sitting firmly - exactly where it should be, it finally occurred to me how unbelievably fortunate I am. My knee was a mess. This man took a chance on me - I was a guinea pig of sorts - I was the first recipient of a juvenile cartilage transplant in Saskatchewan - and it worked! Because of Dr. M and this gift of cartilage, my quality of life has been greatly improved..and will continue to improve as my muscles get stronger and my confidence increases.
Dr. M told me that it was time to stop being afraid. He gave me the green light to move forward with my life.
I could say a million wonderful things about Dr. M. He's a brilliant, compassionate, confident, committed, progressive Doctor. But he's so much more than that. Many brilliant, confident surgeons would have taken one look at me and told me that nothing could be done. Simply put, Dr. M is a kind human being who saw another human suffering and decided that he could make a difference. I feel strongly that I did not meet Dr. M by accident. Our paths crossed for a reason and he's made it clear that he feels the same way. We have both learned from this experience and from each other. This man, who was once was a stranger I passed in the hospital hallway, has become an important part of my life journey. I will always hold a special place in my heart for this "fellow traveller" who has taught me so much about myself and this unpredictable journey called life.
Although I am not a huggy, cuddly person (at all!) when I stood up to leave Dr. M's office, I hugged the bejeezus out of him. I squeezed him as tight as I could and I did not want to let go. I don't really know how to express my great appreciation to him, but as he squeezed me back, I knew he understood what I was trying to convey. When I did finally let go, as cliche as this sounds, I felt myself letting go of all my fears. I don't need to be afraid anymore. The fear has literally been paralyzing...but it's time to let go and move on. I am ready. I have a lot of hard work ahead of me but this chapter is closed. As we released our embrace, I said goodbye, limped down the hall, exited the Orthopedic Department and felt an overwhelming sense of freedom.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Why you should take me on your next vacation
I'm not gonna lie, I've been feeling pretty down the last few weeks. I'm generally a pretty happy, upbeat person, but I do feel like I'm wavering on the edge of "mildly"depressed (Can you be mildly depressed?) In my mind, it's a difficult thing to diagnose and I don't want to trivialize depression. I think people are quick to say, "I'm depressed," without fully understanding what depression really is. I've always thought of depression as a chemical imbalance in the brain - not necessarily triggered by an event. It sounds like a horrible thing to me - feeling "down" without really knowing why. The brain is not releasing the neurochemicals the way it's supposed to. How frustrating. I think that the feelings I have, on the other hand, are different. I'm sad because my knees suck. I'm sad because I'm constantly in pain and I can't do the activities that I enjoy doing. Right now, I'd settle for simply being able to walk. My feelings of sadness are directly linked to something shitty in my life. However, I am aware that this low mood could quickly translate into a full-blown depression. I'm cognizant of that and am totally receptive to considering medication that will help my brain produce more happy chemicals. Did you know that there is also research that shows that anti-depressants can increase the release of neurotransmitters that decrease pain signals in the brain. Plus, when you're happy, you are better equipped to deal with stress in your life. So, I'm keeping an eye on things, monitoring how I'm feeling, and maintaining an open mind. Feeling depressed/sad/whatever is nothing to be ashamed of, nor is asking for help when you're not coping well on your own.
On a brighter note, I just returned from a very uplifting, mood-boosting, laughter-filled vacation in the Okanagan. God that place is beautiful. The scenery alone is enough to melt all your worries away - add endless wine samples, ideal weather, and good friends and you have the perfect recipe for happiness.
I found that I am quite a useful accessory on any vacation. Although my present disabled state sucks ass, there are some benefits, you know. First off, the parking is unreal. We basically parked on the grapes at each and every vineyard we visited. Not only is the parking for handicapped folks very conveniently placed, but those spots are massive. You could park sideways and no one would blink an eye, "Oh, look at that poor girl on crutches. Bless her for parking sideways." In addition to exceptional parking, navigating crowds is actually much easier on crutches. Anyone ever try wandering around Banff on a busy weekend? It sucks. People step on you as they strive to capture the perfect picture of a moose in a mounty hat on their iPad. They slam shop doors in your face. People are assholes. Not if you're pathetically shuffling on crutches. These assholes suddenly have a heart and will actually clear a path for you. They run ahead and say, "Let me get that door for you." People seem to genuinely want to make your life easier. It restored my faith in humanity, actually. It's often followed by a 10 minute explanation of, "this one time when I broke my leg..." but whatevs. People love to share tales of misery.
I also managed to score our group a free breakfast at a pro golf tournament. Yep, I'm that good.
Crutching pitifully through the lobby of our hotel, I inquired about the complimentary breakfast for hotel guests.
"You can take the elevator upstairs dear," responded the woman at the front desk sympathetically (everyone speaks to me sympathetically. I'm getting used to it. I've been on and off crutches for a year and half now. I've decided to embrace and milk the sympathy. Why not?)
As I exited the elevator, it was immediately apparent that a ladies golf tournament was taking place at our resort that day. Women sat behind tables, signing in golfers as they entered the restaurant.
"I'm assuming you're not golfing, hon?" asked a woman sympathetically. See? Everyone is sympathetic.
"No, I'm just looking for breakfast," I responded.
The woman pointed me in the direction of the restaurant where a buffet of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and every breakfast food imaginable sat.
Expecting the typical continental breakfast of cereal and muffins, I was immediately taken by the extent of the hotel's breakfast. I went to work filling my plate with all the fixings and chowed down as I waited for my crew to meet up with me.
When my buddies arrived, they marvelled at the complimentary buffet and went to work on their breakfast.
Eventually a waitress stopped at our table and in a hushed tone stated, "This breakfast is actually for the ladies in the pro golf tournament today. Our hotel complimentary breakfast is over there," She gestured toward a wall with cereal and muffins. The waitress then glanced at my crutches and giant pink knee brace, and smiling (sympathetically, of course) said, "But it's fine. Enjoy. Just so you know for next time..."
OMG. How embarrassing. Well, I was embarrassed. My entourage, on the other hand, was ecstatic.
"We scored an awesome free breakfast! Yay for Kirstie and her sad little crutches!"
See. I am useful. Everyone should bring a crutching friend on vacation with them. Guess what? I'm on crutches - pick me! Pick me!
My MRI is set for tomorrow. They will be taking pictures of both knees. I'm nervous and anxious to see why I'm experiencing so much pain. Let's be honest - I'm kinda terrified - terrified of the actual MRI experience as well as what the pictures will show. If they show nothing then why am I having so much pain? If they show bad shit then what does that mean for my future? More surgery? Ugh. Cringe. Puke in my mouth. I've decided to take an pre-MRI Ativan this time. Anyone remember how I totally freaked out at my last MRI? Ya, that wasn't so good. Wish me luck. $5 says I score a sweet parking spot at the hospital :)
On a brighter note, I just returned from a very uplifting, mood-boosting, laughter-filled vacation in the Okanagan. God that place is beautiful. The scenery alone is enough to melt all your worries away - add endless wine samples, ideal weather, and good friends and you have the perfect recipe for happiness.
I found that I am quite a useful accessory on any vacation. Although my present disabled state sucks ass, there are some benefits, you know. First off, the parking is unreal. We basically parked on the grapes at each and every vineyard we visited. Not only is the parking for handicapped folks very conveniently placed, but those spots are massive. You could park sideways and no one would blink an eye, "Oh, look at that poor girl on crutches. Bless her for parking sideways." In addition to exceptional parking, navigating crowds is actually much easier on crutches. Anyone ever try wandering around Banff on a busy weekend? It sucks. People step on you as they strive to capture the perfect picture of a moose in a mounty hat on their iPad. They slam shop doors in your face. People are assholes. Not if you're pathetically shuffling on crutches. These assholes suddenly have a heart and will actually clear a path for you. They run ahead and say, "Let me get that door for you." People seem to genuinely want to make your life easier. It restored my faith in humanity, actually. It's often followed by a 10 minute explanation of, "this one time when I broke my leg..." but whatevs. People love to share tales of misery.
I also managed to score our group a free breakfast at a pro golf tournament. Yep, I'm that good.
Crutching pitifully through the lobby of our hotel, I inquired about the complimentary breakfast for hotel guests.
"You can take the elevator upstairs dear," responded the woman at the front desk sympathetically (everyone speaks to me sympathetically. I'm getting used to it. I've been on and off crutches for a year and half now. I've decided to embrace and milk the sympathy. Why not?)
As I exited the elevator, it was immediately apparent that a ladies golf tournament was taking place at our resort that day. Women sat behind tables, signing in golfers as they entered the restaurant.
"I'm assuming you're not golfing, hon?" asked a woman sympathetically. See? Everyone is sympathetic.
"No, I'm just looking for breakfast," I responded.
The woman pointed me in the direction of the restaurant where a buffet of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and every breakfast food imaginable sat.
Expecting the typical continental breakfast of cereal and muffins, I was immediately taken by the extent of the hotel's breakfast. I went to work filling my plate with all the fixings and chowed down as I waited for my crew to meet up with me.
When my buddies arrived, they marvelled at the complimentary buffet and went to work on their breakfast.
Eventually a waitress stopped at our table and in a hushed tone stated, "This breakfast is actually for the ladies in the pro golf tournament today. Our hotel complimentary breakfast is over there," She gestured toward a wall with cereal and muffins. The waitress then glanced at my crutches and giant pink knee brace, and smiling (sympathetically, of course) said, "But it's fine. Enjoy. Just so you know for next time..."
OMG. How embarrassing. Well, I was embarrassed. My entourage, on the other hand, was ecstatic.
"We scored an awesome free breakfast! Yay for Kirstie and her sad little crutches!"
See. I am useful. Everyone should bring a crutching friend on vacation with them. Guess what? I'm on crutches - pick me! Pick me!
My MRI is set for tomorrow. They will be taking pictures of both knees. I'm nervous and anxious to see why I'm experiencing so much pain. Let's be honest - I'm kinda terrified - terrified of the actual MRI experience as well as what the pictures will show. If they show nothing then why am I having so much pain? If they show bad shit then what does that mean for my future? More surgery? Ugh. Cringe. Puke in my mouth. I've decided to take an pre-MRI Ativan this time. Anyone remember how I totally freaked out at my last MRI? Ya, that wasn't so good. Wish me luck. $5 says I score a sweet parking spot at the hospital :)
 |
| hmmm....something tells me this b'fast isn't "complimentary" |
 |
| this is how rock stars tour the vineyards - no biggie |
 |
| Life is good |
 |
| Ya it is. |
 |
| Can we tour 1 more vineyard? Pleeeease. |
Thursday, September 5, 2013
My body is NOT a wonderland
You know that lovely song by John Mayer, "Your Body is a Wonderland"?? That song sucks. It's stupid. It's making me really angry right now. Screw you John Mayer and your stupid song.
I'm so completely frustrated with my body. I've always worked hard to maintain it - I've prided myself on working out regularly and although I don't follow any particular diet or special way of eating, I definitely try to make healthy choices. I have always been satisfied with my body - not just aesthetically, but I've always been proud of my strength, balance, and endurance. Typically, I would tell my body to do something and it would just do it.
"Body, you're going to figure out how to do a handstand push-up. Go!"
"No problem, buddy. Watch this!"
Where did that body go, dammit? Now when I look at myself in the mirror I see a body that is not mine - I mean it looks like mine. I can do sit-ups and push-ups until I'm blue in the face, and sure, I look decent in a bikini, which is great for Facebook, right? - but what's the point if I can't do anything with this body? It seems to have a mind of it's own. It doesn't listen to me. It's defiant. I feel like I'm rapidly losing control. Like a parent of a wayward teenager, I've tried to calm it down and love it, but sometimes (like right now), I kinda hate it. The worst part is that I can't get away from it. I would love a vacation from it for just one day, but everywhere I go, it seems to follow me. Stop following me! So annoying.
In the past two weeks, my left knee has deteriorated rapidly. We came to a standstill last week in the Winners parking lot when left knee completely gave up on life at the front mall entrance.
"Dammit left knee, the car is like 10 feet in front of us. Just make it to the car!"
"Nope. I'm done. It's over. You can't expect me to carry you forever. "
SHIT.
After two days of complete and total left knee protest (Read: PAIN!), I contacted Dr. M and told him Que sera sera wasn't cutting it anymore. He agreed to see me immediately. Why? Because he rocks, that's why. Back on two crutches, I pathetically shuffled into his office.
"Where shall we start?" he sighed, "How about pre-birth? Were you a difficult pregnancy?"
Haha. I actually smiled for a good half a second.
For two hours we talked. I cried. He listened. He talked. I listened. We may have deciphered the meaning of life...we solved some of life's greatest mysteries, I'm sure of it. Then we decided that an MRI was an appropriate move at this time.
So now I'm just waiting for that MRI. I don't really feel a sense of urgency. If it shows what I think it might show, I highly doubt I'll be a candidate for surgery anytime soon - at least until the right knee can take over duties for a while. Maybe it's better not to know? Perhaps it's just suffering from exhaustion - you know, like a rockstar on tour. It just needs a good break...it's like Britney Spears in 2007...and If Brit can get through 2007 in one piece, then so can this fricken knee (if you spot me with a shaved head, trying to smash people with umbrellas, you'll know exactly what's happening) :)
I'm so completely frustrated with my body. I've always worked hard to maintain it - I've prided myself on working out regularly and although I don't follow any particular diet or special way of eating, I definitely try to make healthy choices. I have always been satisfied with my body - not just aesthetically, but I've always been proud of my strength, balance, and endurance. Typically, I would tell my body to do something and it would just do it.
"Body, you're going to figure out how to do a handstand push-up. Go!"
"No problem, buddy. Watch this!"
Where did that body go, dammit? Now when I look at myself in the mirror I see a body that is not mine - I mean it looks like mine. I can do sit-ups and push-ups until I'm blue in the face, and sure, I look decent in a bikini, which is great for Facebook, right? - but what's the point if I can't do anything with this body? It seems to have a mind of it's own. It doesn't listen to me. It's defiant. I feel like I'm rapidly losing control. Like a parent of a wayward teenager, I've tried to calm it down and love it, but sometimes (like right now), I kinda hate it. The worst part is that I can't get away from it. I would love a vacation from it for just one day, but everywhere I go, it seems to follow me. Stop following me! So annoying.
In the past two weeks, my left knee has deteriorated rapidly. We came to a standstill last week in the Winners parking lot when left knee completely gave up on life at the front mall entrance.
"Dammit left knee, the car is like 10 feet in front of us. Just make it to the car!"
"Nope. I'm done. It's over. You can't expect me to carry you forever. "
SHIT.
After two days of complete and total left knee protest (Read: PAIN!), I contacted Dr. M and told him Que sera sera wasn't cutting it anymore. He agreed to see me immediately. Why? Because he rocks, that's why. Back on two crutches, I pathetically shuffled into his office.
"Where shall we start?" he sighed, "How about pre-birth? Were you a difficult pregnancy?"
Haha. I actually smiled for a good half a second.
For two hours we talked. I cried. He listened. He talked. I listened. We may have deciphered the meaning of life...we solved some of life's greatest mysteries, I'm sure of it. Then we decided that an MRI was an appropriate move at this time.
So now I'm just waiting for that MRI. I don't really feel a sense of urgency. If it shows what I think it might show, I highly doubt I'll be a candidate for surgery anytime soon - at least until the right knee can take over duties for a while. Maybe it's better not to know? Perhaps it's just suffering from exhaustion - you know, like a rockstar on tour. It just needs a good break...it's like Britney Spears in 2007...and If Brit can get through 2007 in one piece, then so can this fricken knee (if you spot me with a shaved head, trying to smash people with umbrellas, you'll know exactly what's happening) :)
Friday, August 30, 2013
This one time I tried to be sexy. It didn't work.
So on a scale of one to completely sucking at life, I am most definitely on the sucking end of the spectrum this week. I honestly can't even talk about my knees or any part of my body today or I will break into tears and salt water is bad for the keyboard and for my new mascara-wearing look. It just all really sucks and is unbelievably frustrating right now. I'm thinking of completely overhauling this blog to something like, "My adventure in orthopaedics: My knees suck at life and don't deserve any more attention."
Anywhoo, let's talk about something else. How about...Miley Cyrus. What the eff was that performance at the VMA's? Firstly, I'm pissed because although I did not legally patent "twerking," I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I pulled that same move off in 2001 on Rick's Lounge dance floor. That was MY move. And to make matters worse, Miley's tweaked the twerk into some "sexy" dance. NO, Miley, NO! it's not a sexy dance move. It makes people laugh. It's a joke. It was my go-to make your friends howl with laughter dance move. Shit. Miley ruined one of my best dance moves. Unless...perhaps there is an alternative explanation for what she was doing on that stage. It's far fetched, but...there is this test my orthopedic surgeon has done with me before to check for lumbar involvement with lower back pain. The patient stands and touches her toes and the doctor stabilizes the patient's hips by holding the iliac crests. So either Miley was just being a skankball with Robin Thicke or she had asked him for an examination of her lower back. Either way, it was yucky and I was concerned that I had contracted an STD from witnessing such a display.
Did Miley think that she was being sexy? Is that the look that she was going for? Sexy means different things to different people. Obviously, Miley's version of sexy is skanky slutty plastic gyrating hot pants. As an adult, I am mature enough to create my own interpretation of sexy - my definition of sexy, for example, is someone who is funny, interesting, intelligent, and witty...and a British accent helps. Unfortunately, during our awkward, self-conscious teen years, it's difficult to arrive at our own thoughts and opinions; we are very much influenced by the media. In my teens, I associated sexy with a topless Claudia Schiffer rolling around in her Guess Jeans. I ran out and bought those sexy red guess jeans immediately...but that was nothing! Now these poor kids are seeing a waify girl dry hump a giant foam finger in icky lingerie. Where do I buy plastic panties???? Good god.
I had a dear friend in high school, Carly, who was, without a doubt, sexy. She just pulled it off - long dark hair, smouldering eyes, and form-fitting clothes. She stood out in a crowd. She was actually very shy, but it was often interpreted by boys as "mysterious." While the rest of us girls laughed nervously at any joke a boy ever told, Carly would sit quietly, seductively play with a strand of her long dark hair, and appear completely unimpressed. The boys loved it. Whenever we would go out with Carly, we always attracted attention. Unfortunately, as her sidekick, I was often approached by boys requesting, "Introduce me to your friend."
In addition to being smoking hot, Carly was always up for an adventure. It was grade 11. It was New Year's Ev, and Carly convinced our group of girlfriends to abandon the high school scene in Prince Albert and head to Saskatoon for a legit University party. To be honest, I'm not sure if we were ever officially invited or anything, but Carly convinced us that this was where we belonged - it was time to expand our horizons and see what our future held...hot, mature, educated men who would be enamoured with us! (yes, because the only men in their 20's who would be remotely interested in giggly awkward high school girls would be the super creeps. Hello?)
As 5 of us girls attempted to cake on the makeup and glam up the hair, other than confident Carly, I think a few of us girls suspected that this party might be just a bit out of our small-town highschool party league.
Janna practiced her "sexy pout," also known as smiling seductively without ever revealing her braces.
I desperately covered up the acne on my forehead by creating a sideswept bang with my terrible Clarol orange-blonde dye job.
Krista struggled with her clothing for the evening and finally settled on jeans and a ratty t-shirt in an attempt to look as though she really didn't give a shit (that was important too of course - never look too eager to impress).
Finally by 10:30pm, we were drunk, full of boozy confidence, and ready to hit up our first University party.
Carly found the yellow pages and began searching for a taxi service that could transport us to the party.
"What do you mean you stuff animals?" she responded drunkenly into the phone, "we need a ride to a party!"
"Shit, Car..." we interrupted her, "You called the taxidermist, hon. Too far...back up in the yellow pages."
Ohhhhhhhh, "Never mind. Thank you, " she responded as she hung up the phone.
Surprise surprise! at 10:30 on New Year's Eve, we were having a fair bit of difficulty reaching a taxi service that could take us to the coolest university party of our lives.
Finally after an hour of busy signals, Carly reached a dispatcher.
"Is everyone in the party able to walk?" asked the dispatcher.
Silly question. We weren't that loaded, "Yes," replied Carly.
"The van will be there in 10 minutes, " replied the dispatcher.
5 giggly, drunk, "sexified" 17 year old girls stood outside, anxiously awaiting the taxi van. To our shock and dismay, a Handi-van pulled up - a van for handicapped people - like with the wheelchair accessible doors...not to mention the large dark font on the side of the van "HANDI-VAN"
"Oh my god. We cannot show up to the party in this!" exclaimed Carly. Our goal was to blend in with all the other sexy university people at the party, dammit. This was totally going to blow our cover! "They" would know that we were grade 11 PA girls, trying desperately to fit in at this (in our minds) epic New Year's Party.
We had no choice. This was the only ride option. We took it. In retrospect, I'm surprised they took us, actually. Perhaps after all the booze we consumed, we passed for possessing some type of disability.
Hoping no one at the party would notice a Handi-Van pulling into the driveway, we emerged from our "taxi"in stealth mode and attempted to throw off the awesome vibe as we entered the super cool University party.
Upon entering, seeing a group gathered at the window laughing hysterically, it was apparent that most of the party-goers had witnessed our epic entrance in the handicapped van.
"Hey, you come on the short bus?" one smartass University student asked.
"Is this a telemiracle fundraiser? Ring those phones!" another ingenious university student added.
One guy started communicating to me in sign language, as the party-goers laughed at his witty attempt to make me feel super cool.
This wasn't going well and I was too embarrassed and intimidated to see the hilarity of the situation.
As I looked around the best party ever at a real house lived in by real university students, I took in the scene: people chilling on couches, rolling joints at a table, and honestly, looking quite bored with life. This party kinda sucked.
We drank enough of their University booze to lose one of our girls to cool University dude's bathroom - where she was found puking, um....aggressively. I experienced my first awkward exit from a weed circle, lamely explaining, "I have to go to the bathroom," minutes before midnight and minutes before the joint would be in my hand. By 1am we were ready to go. We called back our handi-van driver and were relieved to be transported home in our very spacious and super sexy ride.
I think we all died a little inside that night. We certainly didn't make the impression that we were striving to make (what the hell impression were we trying to make anyway?) But most of all, the party was actually...disappointing. It was kinda lame. Was this what university life was like because It kinda looked sucky. Music? Dancing? Nope, just a lot of weed smoking and handi-van ridiculing. We would have had more fun if we would have invited the Taxidermist over.
But...when we returned to high school after winter holidays and fellow students asked what we did for New Years, we replied confidently, "Oh we went to an Epic University new years party." Haha. Lame.
We never spoke of the Handi-Van...until now. Cover is blown, girls.
Anywhoo, let's talk about something else. How about...Miley Cyrus. What the eff was that performance at the VMA's? Firstly, I'm pissed because although I did not legally patent "twerking," I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I pulled that same move off in 2001 on Rick's Lounge dance floor. That was MY move. And to make matters worse, Miley's tweaked the twerk into some "sexy" dance. NO, Miley, NO! it's not a sexy dance move. It makes people laugh. It's a joke. It was my go-to make your friends howl with laughter dance move. Shit. Miley ruined one of my best dance moves. Unless...perhaps there is an alternative explanation for what she was doing on that stage. It's far fetched, but...there is this test my orthopedic surgeon has done with me before to check for lumbar involvement with lower back pain. The patient stands and touches her toes and the doctor stabilizes the patient's hips by holding the iliac crests. So either Miley was just being a skankball with Robin Thicke or she had asked him for an examination of her lower back. Either way, it was yucky and I was concerned that I had contracted an STD from witnessing such a display.
Did Miley think that she was being sexy? Is that the look that she was going for? Sexy means different things to different people. Obviously, Miley's version of sexy is skanky slutty plastic gyrating hot pants. As an adult, I am mature enough to create my own interpretation of sexy - my definition of sexy, for example, is someone who is funny, interesting, intelligent, and witty...and a British accent helps. Unfortunately, during our awkward, self-conscious teen years, it's difficult to arrive at our own thoughts and opinions; we are very much influenced by the media. In my teens, I associated sexy with a topless Claudia Schiffer rolling around in her Guess Jeans. I ran out and bought those sexy red guess jeans immediately...but that was nothing! Now these poor kids are seeing a waify girl dry hump a giant foam finger in icky lingerie. Where do I buy plastic panties???? Good god.
I had a dear friend in high school, Carly, who was, without a doubt, sexy. She just pulled it off - long dark hair, smouldering eyes, and form-fitting clothes. She stood out in a crowd. She was actually very shy, but it was often interpreted by boys as "mysterious." While the rest of us girls laughed nervously at any joke a boy ever told, Carly would sit quietly, seductively play with a strand of her long dark hair, and appear completely unimpressed. The boys loved it. Whenever we would go out with Carly, we always attracted attention. Unfortunately, as her sidekick, I was often approached by boys requesting, "Introduce me to your friend."
In addition to being smoking hot, Carly was always up for an adventure. It was grade 11. It was New Year's Ev, and Carly convinced our group of girlfriends to abandon the high school scene in Prince Albert and head to Saskatoon for a legit University party. To be honest, I'm not sure if we were ever officially invited or anything, but Carly convinced us that this was where we belonged - it was time to expand our horizons and see what our future held...hot, mature, educated men who would be enamoured with us! (yes, because the only men in their 20's who would be remotely interested in giggly awkward high school girls would be the super creeps. Hello?)
As 5 of us girls attempted to cake on the makeup and glam up the hair, other than confident Carly, I think a few of us girls suspected that this party might be just a bit out of our small-town highschool party league.
Janna practiced her "sexy pout," also known as smiling seductively without ever revealing her braces.
I desperately covered up the acne on my forehead by creating a sideswept bang with my terrible Clarol orange-blonde dye job.
Krista struggled with her clothing for the evening and finally settled on jeans and a ratty t-shirt in an attempt to look as though she really didn't give a shit (that was important too of course - never look too eager to impress).
Finally by 10:30pm, we were drunk, full of boozy confidence, and ready to hit up our first University party.
Carly found the yellow pages and began searching for a taxi service that could transport us to the party.
"What do you mean you stuff animals?" she responded drunkenly into the phone, "we need a ride to a party!"
"Shit, Car..." we interrupted her, "You called the taxidermist, hon. Too far...back up in the yellow pages."
Ohhhhhhhh, "Never mind. Thank you, " she responded as she hung up the phone.
Surprise surprise! at 10:30 on New Year's Eve, we were having a fair bit of difficulty reaching a taxi service that could take us to the coolest university party of our lives.
Finally after an hour of busy signals, Carly reached a dispatcher.
"Is everyone in the party able to walk?" asked the dispatcher.
Silly question. We weren't that loaded, "Yes," replied Carly.
"The van will be there in 10 minutes, " replied the dispatcher.
5 giggly, drunk, "sexified" 17 year old girls stood outside, anxiously awaiting the taxi van. To our shock and dismay, a Handi-van pulled up - a van for handicapped people - like with the wheelchair accessible doors...not to mention the large dark font on the side of the van "HANDI-VAN"
"Oh my god. We cannot show up to the party in this!" exclaimed Carly. Our goal was to blend in with all the other sexy university people at the party, dammit. This was totally going to blow our cover! "They" would know that we were grade 11 PA girls, trying desperately to fit in at this (in our minds) epic New Year's Party.
We had no choice. This was the only ride option. We took it. In retrospect, I'm surprised they took us, actually. Perhaps after all the booze we consumed, we passed for possessing some type of disability.
 |
| Now just add "Handicapped transportation" in blue font on side |
Hoping no one at the party would notice a Handi-Van pulling into the driveway, we emerged from our "taxi"in stealth mode and attempted to throw off the awesome vibe as we entered the super cool University party.
Upon entering, seeing a group gathered at the window laughing hysterically, it was apparent that most of the party-goers had witnessed our epic entrance in the handicapped van.
"Hey, you come on the short bus?" one smartass University student asked.
"Is this a telemiracle fundraiser? Ring those phones!" another ingenious university student added.
One guy started communicating to me in sign language, as the party-goers laughed at his witty attempt to make me feel super cool.
This wasn't going well and I was too embarrassed and intimidated to see the hilarity of the situation.
As I looked around the best party ever at a real house lived in by real university students, I took in the scene: people chilling on couches, rolling joints at a table, and honestly, looking quite bored with life. This party kinda sucked.
We drank enough of their University booze to lose one of our girls to cool University dude's bathroom - where she was found puking, um....aggressively. I experienced my first awkward exit from a weed circle, lamely explaining, "I have to go to the bathroom," minutes before midnight and minutes before the joint would be in my hand. By 1am we were ready to go. We called back our handi-van driver and were relieved to be transported home in our very spacious and super sexy ride.
I think we all died a little inside that night. We certainly didn't make the impression that we were striving to make (what the hell impression were we trying to make anyway?) But most of all, the party was actually...disappointing. It was kinda lame. Was this what university life was like because It kinda looked sucky. Music? Dancing? Nope, just a lot of weed smoking and handi-van ridiculing. We would have had more fun if we would have invited the Taxidermist over.
But...when we returned to high school after winter holidays and fellow students asked what we did for New Years, we replied confidently, "Oh we went to an Epic University new years party." Haha. Lame.
We never spoke of the Handi-Van...until now. Cover is blown, girls.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Que Sera Sera
Last we chatted, I had confessed to you that left knee is a now a biatch and right knee's status has improved dramatically from "asshole" to "on the edge of pretty decent. "
Since then, I met with Dr. M to discuss this interesting change of events. We contemplated the possibility of an MRI to properly diagnose the biatch, but decided against it at this time. Knowing or not knowing won't really change our course of treatment right now. I'm in no shape to undergo any surgery on my left knee. Presently I need to keep making the right knee happier and stronger.
Dr. M then shared his sandwich with me (he always wants me to eat his food) and we chatted about life.
"So how are you doing?" he asked with a mouthful of bread.
Like that annoying brown-nosing kid at the front of the class whose hand shoots up eagerly every time the teacher asks a question, I began to confidently list all the things that would surely rank me as superior healer, "Oh I'm doing really well, " I bragged, "I alternate physio with push up and sit up ladders to increase my endorphin rush, I meditate on healing my soul, I visualize changing my gait pattern, I watch Dr. Phil and have incorporated his sweet sixteen tips for success, " I continued, "and then I make a list all that I'm thankful for. I'm just doing awesome. "
Dr. M looked up slowly from his sandwich (in disbelief?) "Ok," he replied calmly, "How are you sleeping?"
"Well...I'm not. I'm usually awake most of the night freaking out about my knees and my future, " I replied honestly.
Dr. M then went on to explain his theory of why I was struggling at night. He suggested that I had created somewhat of a competition for myself. (Gasp! Me??? competitive???) I was working so hard to "win." I was setting a bar of undefined awesomeness that I was striving so hard throughout the day to achieve. I was operating at an unnatural high during the day and my brain was telling me to calm the eff down by waking me up at night. He likened my brain activity to that of a stock market. I was so artificially high that it was forced to correct itself; hence the dives I took at night in the form of spazz attacks. My brain was yelling, "Enough. You win. Stop the madness and just "be" already!"
I listened intently and it slowly occurred to me that he was right. He was so right. How does this man know me so well? I thought I was doing all the right things, trying so hard to be that "perfect specimen" rehabbing machine, when I realized something. I am so tired. I am exhausted. It's one thing to remain positive and work hard, but just like that social studies project in sixth grade where I chose 5 states to report on instead of the required 2 (and then cried because I had to work all night to finish it on time), I was overachieving and it was interfering with my well-being. Overachieving sounds like a positive word, doesn't it? It suggests "going above and beyond what is required." It's really not a positive thing. There is certainly a fine line between overachieving and striving for an unachievable, undefinable goal.
With enlightenment and insight comes discomfort. So I went home and had a good solid cry. I put Natasha Bedingfield's, "Pocketful of Sunshine" on repeat and bawled. At one point I looked down and noticed my white shorts were now black and splotchy with ink (I just recently started wearing mascara for the first time - you know, to create a "glam" look) and with that discovery my crying hit the point of no return. Do you know what I mean when I say "hitting the point of no return?" It's that point where you just feel so utterly and pathetically sorry for yourself that you are no longer functioning like a proper human being. Maybe you're walking around your house sobbing, "This isn't fair! I hate my life!" when suddenly you stub your toe and then you're all like, "And now I stubbed my toe??? Well what else can possibly go wrong? GAWWWWW!" That's exactly what I did. "My stupid knees! And I'm tired of trying so hard to be effin happy! And now my stupid mascara wrecked my stupid white shorts!!! GAWWWWWW!" (I really hope I'm not the only one who has hit the point of no return before; otherwise, this is really quite embarrassing, isn't it?)
Anyways, once that was over and done with (it felt pretty good, dammit!) I began to really think about and process Dr. M's words of wisdom. He suggested that I stop worrying, "worrying is only wishing for things to go wrong." He suggested that I take one day at a time, just go with it, and adopt a new life mantra, "Que sera sera - What will be, will be."
Cool. It was all too much to process at that point. So I decided to spin my own "Kirstie" interpretation on his recommendations.
"What did Dr. M say today?" asked Ev when he returned home to find his puffy-eyed wife sitting quietly in her dirty white shorts.
"He said that I should party like a rockstar," I replied with quiet confidence.
So that's what I did.
With an exceptional group of friends ready to participate, I fed that biatch knee pina coladas, malibu and juice, vodka and club soda....you name it - the knee got it.
Typically at the lake, we sit around the campfire and chat into the night - we rarely have nights past midnight or 1am, but I was on a mission. I had gotten this left biatch knee drunk and I wanted to take advantage of it.
We found ourselves at a campfire down the road, where we met up with some more exceptional people. Only good things can happen when exceptional people party with exceptional people. As the night progressed, something magical happened. An impromptu beach dance party erupted and carried on into the wee hours of the morning. It was epic. As Pitbull blasted, "Give me everything tonight...for all we know we might not get tomorrow..." about 15 of us danced our hearts out on the sand, under the stars. I'm not sure exactly how I "danced." I suspect that it wasn't pretty. I kinda awkwardly clung onto objects or people, and I certainly admit to a little bit of jumping on that biatch left knee - but it was in no shape to complain...and I did not give a care or even think twice about it.
Then there was this moment of drunken clarity. As I danced with reckless abandon on that cool sand, just like a regular, real person at a beach party, I looked up at the stars and thought, "This is living. This is one of those amazing, fantastic moments in life." The moment lasted for a split second and then I was right back in there, arms flailing in the air as Pitbull chanted, "grab somebody sexy tell them heeeeeeey!"
It wasn't all happy endings and fairy tales. The knees certainly protested the next day...and the day after....and maybe the day after that. In addition, my exceptional group of friends were anything BUT exceptional the next day. They were so totally hung over and useless that they could barely get out of bed....and unfortunately lawyer's husband lost his favourite pair of socks in the sand (who wears socks to a beach party?) But it was completely worth it and I will never forget that priceless moment under the stars. I wasn't looking for that moment. I wasn't searching for that feeling - I just went with it. It just happened. Que sera sera.
 |
| Sometimes that's a risk you just gotta take. |
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