Friend #45 came by accident.
I had a friend request on Facebook from a man named Howard. I've only known one Howard in my life, and that was when I was 18. I smile and laugh a bit when I think of that Howard. He and I had the kind of friendship one only has in their late teens/early-20s. I dated his best friend but had a crush on Howard, and Howard, in turn, accompanied us on double dates with my best friend while having a crush on me unknowingly. Schenangians ensued with my friend, but we'll protect her dignity on this blog.
You may see why I was almost giddy when I saw the friend request from "Howard" who had no pictures of his self on his page, just two cute little kids . But this wasn't THE Howard. My schoolgirl giddiness at the possibility of talking to a former crush was crushed. The initial friend request had a message: "Hi, remember me?" I accepted his request and replied, "Of course I do! How ARE you?!?" Wrong Howard told me that he is living in Chicago with a wife and two kids. I told him my abbreviated current life story. I asked him what he does for a living, and he told me that he's a personal trainer and in my mind, I thought "Very appropriate!" I asked about his mother, "She's good" he replied. He asked about mine, "She's great. She moved to Arizona when I had my second son."
I guess I never realized that I had not once mentioned Minnesota, the friend I dated, or anything identifying how we used to know each other. We only spoke of the present.
Wrong Howard asked, "Do you ever go to the USC reunions?" Wait........what??? I heard that record scratch sound in my head.
"Ummm, I know you from Minnesota, remember? I never went to USC." His reply? "Oh, oops, wrong connection, I guess. Sorry. Have a blessed life."
And that was it. The lesson I learned: Don't befriend people on Facebook if they don't have identifying pictures, and make sure you really know them before wasting a half hour of your life chatting.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Friend #44
Because I am home alllll day long in the summer (it's true, he pretty much stay home and succumb to boredom), I am the official appointment maker and follow-througher in the house. Between dog haircuts, kids' doctor appointments, birthday parties - and the necessary birthday present shopping - I am tired. I can write appointments on the calendar, in my phone, even confirm appointments, and I'll STILL forget. For example, two weeks ago, Mike was bitten by a scorpion while relaxing before bed. A rage from the depths of hell blew from Mike's soul; one that lasted a good 30 minutes til that "little fucker" was found. His anger yelled at me when I tried to help, and yelled when I stood by watching his tools of death: a screwdriver and a flashlight. There nothing I could do.
Mike killed the scorpion on the head of the bed next to the curtains while steam blew out of his ears. I had never been more relieved to go to bed - ever. That relaxed mindset flipped the next morning when Jackson announced that there was a dead scorpion at the foot of my bed.
Immediately I called our exterminator. We weren't set for a visit for 2 weeks. I had to wait and hope nothing showed up. I made the appointment for Saturday. I received an appointment confirmation for Saturday. On Saturday, our 8-10am window came and went. I called, because again, appointments are my responsibility, although I was looking weak right about now. There was no appointment made, but there was a note that I had called. Urgh. I made an appointment for today, between 8 and 10am, with apologies from the phone scheduler.
So this morning, Eric came over at 8am. Eric is obviously a morning person. I, on the other hand, rolled out of bed at 7:56am. As he sprayed the interior of our house, Eric commented on every single framed picture we have up. He asked if we travel. He played with my three dogs as he told me stories of his two dogs. He told me about his friend's dog who just died last week. He asked me if we got our lamp at Ikea. He told me about every item in his house that came from Ikea.
This little sprout of a man would not shut up! But his magnetic smile kept me following along. In the garage, "Whoaaaa who skates???" I told him that my son skateboards. He went to the backyard and a trillion questions and comments streamed about our archery set, our chickens, our diving board, our skate ramp. He said his wife is learning to skateboard (whoa! He's married??!? I guess it's possible...)
Eric reminded me of a curious 6-year-old neighbor kid who won't leave the neighbors alone. A Dennis the Menace, of sorts.
Eric asked me to fill out a questionnaire about him. I was nice, complimentary. He said that a good survey results in him being our exterminator next time. So every month from now on, Eric will be joining us for a bit of curiosity and random conversation. yay.
Mike killed the scorpion on the head of the bed next to the curtains while steam blew out of his ears. I had never been more relieved to go to bed - ever. That relaxed mindset flipped the next morning when Jackson announced that there was a dead scorpion at the foot of my bed.
Immediately I called our exterminator. We weren't set for a visit for 2 weeks. I had to wait and hope nothing showed up. I made the appointment for Saturday. I received an appointment confirmation for Saturday. On Saturday, our 8-10am window came and went. I called, because again, appointments are my responsibility, although I was looking weak right about now. There was no appointment made, but there was a note that I had called. Urgh. I made an appointment for today, between 8 and 10am, with apologies from the phone scheduler.
So this morning, Eric came over at 8am. Eric is obviously a morning person. I, on the other hand, rolled out of bed at 7:56am. As he sprayed the interior of our house, Eric commented on every single framed picture we have up. He asked if we travel. He played with my three dogs as he told me stories of his two dogs. He told me about his friend's dog who just died last week. He asked me if we got our lamp at Ikea. He told me about every item in his house that came from Ikea.
This little sprout of a man would not shut up! But his magnetic smile kept me following along. In the garage, "Whoaaaa who skates???" I told him that my son skateboards. He went to the backyard and a trillion questions and comments streamed about our archery set, our chickens, our diving board, our skate ramp. He said his wife is learning to skateboard (whoa! He's married??!? I guess it's possible...)
Eric reminded me of a curious 6-year-old neighbor kid who won't leave the neighbors alone. A Dennis the Menace, of sorts.
Eric asked me to fill out a questionnaire about him. I was nice, complimentary. He said that a good survey results in him being our exterminator next time. So every month from now on, Eric will be joining us for a bit of curiosity and random conversation. yay.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Friend #43
One of the "new, exciting" things we were supposed to learn at this week's "Technology Seminar from Hell" was how teachers can use cell phones in class. This is neither new or exciting. I have tried this in an attempt to "join them" after many tries to "beat them." Cell phones and ipods - but mainly cell phones - are the biggest roadblock for teachers these days. I now add Cell Police Officer to my title, and that seems to be all I do in the classroom the past few years. Five years ago it was easier because only a few students had phones and I could take them away during class time. Now, it can be a legal issue. Think about it: if I take a cell phone away and do not return it after class, the kid goes home and encounters some sort of distress where they need to call for help and I have their phone. Parents can sue the school now. Crazy, huh? Not to mention the number of calls students receive from their parents during class time, and if I don't allow them to take the call, parents get very upset.
One of the big proponents of using phones in the class is Laurie, who was leading the conference. She showed us websites like Polleverywhere.com, where teachers can have students text in their answers to a class poll. We had to do this every minute or two in the seminar for three days. It got very old. I voiced the fact that some students don't have phones and may be left out, and others pay for their texts (and what student wants to pay for educational texts??)
Laurie ignored my comments and continued telling the audience that this is a great way to use cells. I totally disagree, but that's beside the point.
On Day Two of the seminar, I found myself teaching a baby boomer teacher how to text so that she could participate in the polls. Laurie came around to our table and witnessed this. "It's lucky for you to have been seated next to a 15-year-old who can teach you!" (the 15-year-old she referenced was me). It has been said that I look very young for my 34 years, but 15 was just offensive. I failed at teaching the other teacher how to text because even with her reading glasses, she couldn't see the tiny letters on her phone.
Later in a breakout session, Laurie used polleverywhere.com after showing us a narrative PowerPoint with music that her 10-year-old son had created in school. The participants ripped the presentation apart because her son had not fulfilled his teacher's assignment as we knew it to be.
I got the chance to approach Laurie and one of her co-planners. I told them of all my qualms (regarding the seminar in general and texting in the classroom.) They responded by assuring that not all students were like mine, and that most students can handle using cells in school.
I asked Laurie how long she has been a teacher. Her response? "Oh, I'm not a teacher! No no no no! I have a degree in computers and my job is to pass along cool stuff to teachers!"
Me: 1 Laurie: 0
One of the big proponents of using phones in the class is Laurie, who was leading the conference. She showed us websites like Polleverywhere.com, where teachers can have students text in their answers to a class poll. We had to do this every minute or two in the seminar for three days. It got very old. I voiced the fact that some students don't have phones and may be left out, and others pay for their texts (and what student wants to pay for educational texts??)
Laurie ignored my comments and continued telling the audience that this is a great way to use cells. I totally disagree, but that's beside the point.
On Day Two of the seminar, I found myself teaching a baby boomer teacher how to text so that she could participate in the polls. Laurie came around to our table and witnessed this. "It's lucky for you to have been seated next to a 15-year-old who can teach you!" (the 15-year-old she referenced was me). It has been said that I look very young for my 34 years, but 15 was just offensive. I failed at teaching the other teacher how to text because even with her reading glasses, she couldn't see the tiny letters on her phone.
Later in a breakout session, Laurie used polleverywhere.com after showing us a narrative PowerPoint with music that her 10-year-old son had created in school. The participants ripped the presentation apart because her son had not fulfilled his teacher's assignment as we knew it to be.
I got the chance to approach Laurie and one of her co-planners. I told them of all my qualms (regarding the seminar in general and texting in the classroom.) They responded by assuring that not all students were like mine, and that most students can handle using cells in school.
I asked Laurie how long she has been a teacher. Her response? "Oh, I'm not a teacher! No no no no! I have a degree in computers and my job is to pass along cool stuff to teachers!"
Me: 1 Laurie: 0
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friend #42
After taking a vacation from my brain for two weeks, I had to force myself to attend the first of a three-day conference on Technology in the Classroom today. I should have known something was awry when I got a confirmation email yesterday, stating that it started at 8am. Ten minutes later, I received a new email stating that it actually started at 10am. Ten minutes after that, another email stating that check-in was at 9:30 and the keynote was at 10am AND that we'd get parking passes at the seminar today (how were we supposed to get parking and later pay for it when they demanded payment before we parked this morning???)
At 10:25 - I hate it when things start late - the keynote speaker (if you can call him that) spoke about how we all have dreams and whatever dream we have, there's a form of technology to help us achieve it. Bad rendition of "There's an app for that." He thought he was funny. Then the next woman spoke about the U.S.'s horrible 80% graduation rate. Something we as educators hear every year and gasp in shock. We were sent to our breakout sessions 45 minutes late.
Kim, my 42nd friend, was my breakout session leader. She has been an elementary teacher and her grey hair proves that. She now conducts the teacher technology courses in an Arizona district. She has her Master's in educational technology. Or so she said.
First of all, we did the typical "State your name, school, subject area, the movie that describes your relationship with technology (gag) and what animal do you most relate to (double gag)."
I wanted to run home. And for a person with serious healing scars and back aches, that's bad.
After intros, we were told to power our laptops on, but mine would not connect to the wireless internet. I asked Kim for help. Her solution was to give me one of her laptops. I assumed correctly that she didn't know how to fix my issue. One of Kim's duties was to have us all log into the appropriate website and poke around. At 11:30, Kim announced that it was lunch time, which we all stated that the keynote speaker told us lunch was at noon. After checking and confirming that we were right, Kim voiced that she would "punt" as we call it in the classroom. So we shared interesting websites and project ideas.
At noon, we headed to lunch. It wasn't there yet (of course) so I decided to ask a woman I knew, Jen, if she could help me with my wireless, since she is a computer expert. Our noon lunchtime turned into 12:40. Our 12:45 breakout session turned into a 1:30 session. Chaos. No one knew what was going on. My boss paid $280 for me to be in this mess, so I made sure to text him and tell him what was going on. "I hope it gets better in the next two days, and I hope you're feeling better also!" was his dry reply. So, I now had no "out." I had to stay.
Kim led session two of the breakout session. In this session, Kim was to show us a powerpoint and lead a discussion of how we can use Skype in the classroom. This may have been nice, but Kim didn't know how to use a Mac and her PC was dead. Nice.
Kim called the seminar leader and asked her to bring a new laptop, which she did. A new Mac. More chaos ensued as we, the participants silently dozed into day-dreamland. "I'll get this, I promise" Kim notified.
My phone alarm clock buzzed with a reminder that I had a 3pm doctor's appointment. I joined Kim in the front of the room and explained, "I have a doctor's appoin..." "Oh, Go ahead! Have fun!" She probably wanted every participant to say they needed to leave. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
Tomorrow is Day Two of this disaster. Let's hope they have their stuff together by then.
At 10:25 - I hate it when things start late - the keynote speaker (if you can call him that) spoke about how we all have dreams and whatever dream we have, there's a form of technology to help us achieve it. Bad rendition of "There's an app for that." He thought he was funny. Then the next woman spoke about the U.S.'s horrible 80% graduation rate. Something we as educators hear every year and gasp in shock. We were sent to our breakout sessions 45 minutes late.
Kim, my 42nd friend, was my breakout session leader. She has been an elementary teacher and her grey hair proves that. She now conducts the teacher technology courses in an Arizona district. She has her Master's in educational technology. Or so she said.
First of all, we did the typical "State your name, school, subject area, the movie that describes your relationship with technology (gag) and what animal do you most relate to (double gag)."
I wanted to run home. And for a person with serious healing scars and back aches, that's bad.
After intros, we were told to power our laptops on, but mine would not connect to the wireless internet. I asked Kim for help. Her solution was to give me one of her laptops. I assumed correctly that she didn't know how to fix my issue. One of Kim's duties was to have us all log into the appropriate website and poke around. At 11:30, Kim announced that it was lunch time, which we all stated that the keynote speaker told us lunch was at noon. After checking and confirming that we were right, Kim voiced that she would "punt" as we call it in the classroom. So we shared interesting websites and project ideas.
At noon, we headed to lunch. It wasn't there yet (of course) so I decided to ask a woman I knew, Jen, if she could help me with my wireless, since she is a computer expert. Our noon lunchtime turned into 12:40. Our 12:45 breakout session turned into a 1:30 session. Chaos. No one knew what was going on. My boss paid $280 for me to be in this mess, so I made sure to text him and tell him what was going on. "I hope it gets better in the next two days, and I hope you're feeling better also!" was his dry reply. So, I now had no "out." I had to stay.
Kim led session two of the breakout session. In this session, Kim was to show us a powerpoint and lead a discussion of how we can use Skype in the classroom. This may have been nice, but Kim didn't know how to use a Mac and her PC was dead. Nice.
Kim called the seminar leader and asked her to bring a new laptop, which she did. A new Mac. More chaos ensued as we, the participants silently dozed into day-dreamland. "I'll get this, I promise" Kim notified.
My phone alarm clock buzzed with a reminder that I had a 3pm doctor's appointment. I joined Kim in the front of the room and explained, "I have a doctor's appoin..." "Oh, Go ahead! Have fun!" She probably wanted every participant to say they needed to leave. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
Tomorrow is Day Two of this disaster. Let's hope they have their stuff together by then.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Friend #41
I have often discussed and pondered what I would do the next time I encounter a wayward mother with unruly children while shopping. Today I had the opportunity to put my thoughts into action.
I did not make a friend today. I'm pretty sure this lady hates me.
From the time I shopped for veggies, through the frozen foods aisle and beyond the shelves of bread, all I could hear was "Stop that right now or you're gonna get it when we get home!" I looked down the aisle to see a mother in her late-20s and three children under the age of four. Quite the threat for such small children! It sounded like something a dad would say to a 17-year-old son after breaking the car engine.
I followed this family because my Ego and I feel that we can turn a family around like SuperNanny. In the rice aisle, the year-old little girl dropped her purple ZhuZhu pet. The mother yelled to the 3-year-old, "DO NOT give that back to her! I'm sick of the noise!" I reality, the mom was making much more noise than anyone in the store. Five steps later, I handed the animal to the girl and smiled at her. She stared at me with drool seeping down her chin.
In the meat section, the older children questioned each mound of meat, wondering what part of which animal each package came from. The mother yelled at them to stop poking the meat. I smiled at them and whispered that what they were looking at was pig's feet. Yay me! I satisfied a child's curiosity!
We all ended up at the checkout together. The older boy asked for M&Ms as the younger boy asked if he could have Mom's change after she paid. "PUT...THAT...BACK!" she yelled. "No you can't have my change, are you retarded?" Whoa. My mind fast forwarded to these children at home that night, next year, as preteens, as adults/parents themselves. I hoped that they will have nice teachers or other caring adults in their future.
The baby reached out to her brother, seemingly knowing that her mother would not carry her. The four-year-old tried pulling her out of the cart while the younger boy talked sweet baby talk to her. "You wanna KitKat? You wanna sucker? You wanna magazine?" It was so heart wrenching and heartwarming at the same time. "Leave her in there!" the mom grumbled. The older boy replied that he was just trying to help his mom. At this time, both boys started getting antsy and running in front of the store. The mom purchased her groceries and cigarettes and wheeled the baby outside. Having only few items, I was soon finished and found them parked three cars from me. The mother struggled to get them in her car. As I walked by, I played Peek-a-Boo with the baby and received a very dirty look from Mom.
I always feel badly for these kids. There wasn't enough time to educate Mom on how to parent her kids. There was no time or space for me to show the kids love.
I'm sure these kids will end up at my school in ten years. At that point, I will do what I can to un-do what Mom has done for years and hope I can teach them that adults are safe.
I did not make a friend today. I'm pretty sure this lady hates me.
From the time I shopped for veggies, through the frozen foods aisle and beyond the shelves of bread, all I could hear was "Stop that right now or you're gonna get it when we get home!" I looked down the aisle to see a mother in her late-20s and three children under the age of four. Quite the threat for such small children! It sounded like something a dad would say to a 17-year-old son after breaking the car engine.
I followed this family because my Ego and I feel that we can turn a family around like SuperNanny. In the rice aisle, the year-old little girl dropped her purple ZhuZhu pet. The mother yelled to the 3-year-old, "DO NOT give that back to her! I'm sick of the noise!" I reality, the mom was making much more noise than anyone in the store. Five steps later, I handed the animal to the girl and smiled at her. She stared at me with drool seeping down her chin.
In the meat section, the older children questioned each mound of meat, wondering what part of which animal each package came from. The mother yelled at them to stop poking the meat. I smiled at them and whispered that what they were looking at was pig's feet. Yay me! I satisfied a child's curiosity!
We all ended up at the checkout together. The older boy asked for M&Ms as the younger boy asked if he could have Mom's change after she paid. "PUT...THAT...BACK!" she yelled. "No you can't have my change, are you retarded?" Whoa. My mind fast forwarded to these children at home that night, next year, as preteens, as adults/parents themselves. I hoped that they will have nice teachers or other caring adults in their future.
The baby reached out to her brother, seemingly knowing that her mother would not carry her. The four-year-old tried pulling her out of the cart while the younger boy talked sweet baby talk to her. "You wanna KitKat? You wanna sucker? You wanna magazine?" It was so heart wrenching and heartwarming at the same time. "Leave her in there!" the mom grumbled. The older boy replied that he was just trying to help his mom. At this time, both boys started getting antsy and running in front of the store. The mom purchased her groceries and cigarettes and wheeled the baby outside. Having only few items, I was soon finished and found them parked three cars from me. The mother struggled to get them in her car. As I walked by, I played Peek-a-Boo with the baby and received a very dirty look from Mom.
I always feel badly for these kids. There wasn't enough time to educate Mom on how to parent her kids. There was no time or space for me to show the kids love.
I'm sure these kids will end up at my school in ten years. At that point, I will do what I can to un-do what Mom has done for years and hope I can teach them that adults are safe.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Friend #40
I want to talk about my doctor. His name is Richard. Richard is a doctor who also performs surgeries and is in constant contact with women. Richard is from New York City, the Bronx to be exact. Women issues + doc from the Bronx does not equal an experience you see on TV (well, maybe on House).
I immediately took to Dr. Richard because my sister had used him for her doctor needs in the past and there's something to be said about using your sister's doctor. At my first appointment in April, he was more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. He showed me an ancient (read: 1970s) book that illustrated my surgery over ten pages. He put me at ease with his "No nonsense" approach to cutting people open. "You do it, you go home and rest, you come back the next day. Bam, done" he stated.
I think I loved Richard at first because he reminded me of me. My lack of emotions mirrored Richard's Bronx bedside manner. In the days leading to my surgery people asked me each day, "Are you scared? Are you nervous?" No. I wasn't scared, nervous, upset, none of those things. I was ready to get it over with and focus on the recovery (which, by the way, was horrid - one week of recliner musical chairs and loopy brains.) People couldn't understand why I wasn't a ball of messy emotions the week beforehand. I'm with the mantra of the ants when talking about the bad bugs on "Bug's Life": They come, They eat, They leave. But in my case, I get cut open, I go home, I recover. Period.
The day of surgery, Dr. Richard was alllll business. Even though I'd met with him three times before, he didn't seem to remember me. Drat. But seriously, what made me so special that this doctor from the Bronx should remember me?
After surgery he was already on to his next patient. I didn't see him until the next day at my post-op visit. He asked me, "Ok, when was your surgery?" Really? This guy can't remember that he just cut me open yesterday??? I reminded him patiently that it was 24 hours ago. He said I was recovering perfectly. They come, they eat, they leave, I thought. I left.
I had my mom bring me back in the day after that, when I had issues with the gross drains in my abdomen. "Of course you're going to have problems, you just had surgery two days ago. Quit worrying and sleep sleep sleep." Ok, Dr. Bronx, I will.
Fast forward one week. One week post-op to be exact. Same scenario: Dr. Richard enters the room, asks me when I had my surgery, gives me the once-over and says I'm healing very well, tells me to come back in one week and leaves. They come, they eat, they leave.
The absence of empathy and love should have been expected. I mean, that's why I chose Dr. Richard in the first place. I can't pick and choose when people will be exceptionally nice to me and when they'll stay away (as I typically desire).
If I had to choose doctors all over again I would still choose Dr. Richard. He did what I asked of him. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not shelling out money for people to coddle me when I'm in recovery. After all, that's what my children are for.
I immediately took to Dr. Richard because my sister had used him for her doctor needs in the past and there's something to be said about using your sister's doctor. At my first appointment in April, he was more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. He showed me an ancient (read: 1970s) book that illustrated my surgery over ten pages. He put me at ease with his "No nonsense" approach to cutting people open. "You do it, you go home and rest, you come back the next day. Bam, done" he stated.
I think I loved Richard at first because he reminded me of me. My lack of emotions mirrored Richard's Bronx bedside manner. In the days leading to my surgery people asked me each day, "Are you scared? Are you nervous?" No. I wasn't scared, nervous, upset, none of those things. I was ready to get it over with and focus on the recovery (which, by the way, was horrid - one week of recliner musical chairs and loopy brains.) People couldn't understand why I wasn't a ball of messy emotions the week beforehand. I'm with the mantra of the ants when talking about the bad bugs on "Bug's Life": They come, They eat, They leave. But in my case, I get cut open, I go home, I recover. Period.
The day of surgery, Dr. Richard was alllll business. Even though I'd met with him three times before, he didn't seem to remember me. Drat. But seriously, what made me so special that this doctor from the Bronx should remember me?
After surgery he was already on to his next patient. I didn't see him until the next day at my post-op visit. He asked me, "Ok, when was your surgery?" Really? This guy can't remember that he just cut me open yesterday??? I reminded him patiently that it was 24 hours ago. He said I was recovering perfectly. They come, they eat, they leave, I thought. I left.
I had my mom bring me back in the day after that, when I had issues with the gross drains in my abdomen. "Of course you're going to have problems, you just had surgery two days ago. Quit worrying and sleep sleep sleep." Ok, Dr. Bronx, I will.
Fast forward one week. One week post-op to be exact. Same scenario: Dr. Richard enters the room, asks me when I had my surgery, gives me the once-over and says I'm healing very well, tells me to come back in one week and leaves. They come, they eat, they leave.
The absence of empathy and love should have been expected. I mean, that's why I chose Dr. Richard in the first place. I can't pick and choose when people will be exceptionally nice to me and when they'll stay away (as I typically desire).
If I had to choose doctors all over again I would still choose Dr. Richard. He did what I asked of him. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not shelling out money for people to coddle me when I'm in recovery. After all, that's what my children are for.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Friend #39
I am back! I took a week off, not by choice, but by the pain meds' choice. I was loopy and strange. And considering I've only been home and to the doctor's office in the past eight days, my new peeps are all medical personnel (still!) and I'm getting tired of it.
My surgery was Monday. Went well...I showed up, they had me lie down, all the nurses Ohh-ed and Ahh-ed at how pink and beautiful my skin is, someone pushed a needle through my hand and that was it. I woke up 5 hours later with a woman calling, "Kirsten, Kirsten? You need to wake up now." This was Cheryl. Oh, what an angel I was waking up to! "Kirsten, open your eyes now." I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep for days. Cheryl started telling me where I was and what had happened. I knew where I was though, because the anesthesia hadn't allowed me to dream that I was elsewhere. "Sweetie, you HAVE to keep your eyes open." And there it was: Oh My God it was a flashback from my college days and Shannon saying, "You are NOT going to pass out in my car! Keep your eyes OPEN!"
So I let out an airy laugh at Cheryl. She had no idea why I was smiling, but in my mind, it was hilarious.
After numerous reminders to keep my eyes open, Cheryl brought my Knight in, Michael, my hero. She gave him the directions for how to care for me in the next 24 hours until I returned for a checkup. The next thing I knew I was in the car. The next 24 hours were a complete blur of pain meds, trips to the potty, and Mike diligently taking my temp.
I spoke to Cheryl three more times that week on the phone, as she called to check in on me. I told her why I had laughed in the recovery room and she agreed that it could have been a moment from her college days as well.
One week later, and I'm still in pain, still a bit out of it, but I did my first load of laundry this morning.
This afternoon I have an appointment to get my drains (they are as gross as they sound) out and hopefully get permission to stop sleeping in my recliner. Fun times.
My surgery was Monday. Went well...I showed up, they had me lie down, all the nurses Ohh-ed and Ahh-ed at how pink and beautiful my skin is, someone pushed a needle through my hand and that was it. I woke up 5 hours later with a woman calling, "Kirsten, Kirsten? You need to wake up now." This was Cheryl. Oh, what an angel I was waking up to! "Kirsten, open your eyes now." I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep for days. Cheryl started telling me where I was and what had happened. I knew where I was though, because the anesthesia hadn't allowed me to dream that I was elsewhere. "Sweetie, you HAVE to keep your eyes open." And there it was: Oh My God it was a flashback from my college days and Shannon saying, "You are NOT going to pass out in my car! Keep your eyes OPEN!"
So I let out an airy laugh at Cheryl. She had no idea why I was smiling, but in my mind, it was hilarious.
After numerous reminders to keep my eyes open, Cheryl brought my Knight in, Michael, my hero. She gave him the directions for how to care for me in the next 24 hours until I returned for a checkup. The next thing I knew I was in the car. The next 24 hours were a complete blur of pain meds, trips to the potty, and Mike diligently taking my temp.
I spoke to Cheryl three more times that week on the phone, as she called to check in on me. I told her why I had laughed in the recovery room and she agreed that it could have been a moment from her college days as well.
One week later, and I'm still in pain, still a bit out of it, but I did my first load of laundry this morning.
This afternoon I have an appointment to get my drains (they are as gross as they sound) out and hopefully get permission to stop sleeping in my recliner. Fun times.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Friend #38
Again, going with the theme of medical personnel this week, we have the Doctor of Inappropriate Comments ...a.k.a. Dr. Brian, my boys' dentist.
My boys have been to Dr. Brian twice per year for five years now. I've stayed loyal through four different houses/areas of town because of his dental hygienist, Peggy. Peggy is the mother of four boys, all in their teens. She knows, loves, and fully understands boys. She knows how to get them to open their mouths "Open as wide as you do when you yell at your brother," make the spit go through the vacuum "Kiss the straw," and what questions to ask, "Do you have a girlfriend or are girls still yucky?"
On this visit, everything went as planned. Peggy performed x-rays, cleaned the boys' teeth, did a fluoride treatment, handed out prizes, and then excused herself while we waited for the dentist to go over everything.
Dr. Brian came in. He first checked Jack, who was very excited to show him his first lost tooth. Dr. Brian confirmed my fears that Jack will some day need braces. Cha-ching. Luckily, he is not our orthodontist, otherwise I'd assume he was in it for the money. Next he examined Isaiah's braced-up teeth. "What is the orthodontist planning for the gaps in his mouth?"
I replied sheepishly, "He's going to close the gap. He offered to do implants but I'm not big on cosmetic stuff unless it's medically necessary. It's $4,000 to do implants." Dr. Brian was not happy. But I was standing my ground. And that's when Dr. Brian became our former dentist Dr. Brian.
"If it were my kid, first of all, he wouldn't be wearing an Obama t-shirt." GASP! The two nurses in the room and I literally were taken aback. "Secondly, I'd make sure he got implants because by the time he's old enough to get them, he can pay for them his self."
Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the truck up for a second. "Did you just knock our President?" The dentist smirked. Even if Isaiah weren't wearing an Obama t-shirt I'd be offended. Even if Isaiah didn't 1000% look up to Obama because he, also, has a white mother and a black father, I'd be offended. Even if Obama had lost the election, I'd be offended. Even if it didn't put a tear in my child's eye at the thought of his dentist commenting that he didn't like his t-shirt, I'd be offended.
I could tell that my 12-year-old future astronaut/engineer/artist/filmmaker/president/actor was confused and dumbfounded. So we left. I told Dr. Brian that it is not his place to comment negatively on his patient's clothing, nor is it his place to smirk when called on it.
I passed the check-out desk that I've checked out of at least ten times before and asked that my records be mailed to me so that I could transfer dentists.
Looking back, I usually realize that I was over reacting with things of this nature, but when you hurt my child, Mama Bear means business. Goodbye Dr. Idiot.
My boys have been to Dr. Brian twice per year for five years now. I've stayed loyal through four different houses/areas of town because of his dental hygienist, Peggy. Peggy is the mother of four boys, all in their teens. She knows, loves, and fully understands boys. She knows how to get them to open their mouths "Open as wide as you do when you yell at your brother," make the spit go through the vacuum "Kiss the straw," and what questions to ask, "Do you have a girlfriend or are girls still yucky?"
On this visit, everything went as planned. Peggy performed x-rays, cleaned the boys' teeth, did a fluoride treatment, handed out prizes, and then excused herself while we waited for the dentist to go over everything.
Dr. Brian came in. He first checked Jack, who was very excited to show him his first lost tooth. Dr. Brian confirmed my fears that Jack will some day need braces. Cha-ching. Luckily, he is not our orthodontist, otherwise I'd assume he was in it for the money. Next he examined Isaiah's braced-up teeth. "What is the orthodontist planning for the gaps in his mouth?"
I replied sheepishly, "He's going to close the gap. He offered to do implants but I'm not big on cosmetic stuff unless it's medically necessary. It's $4,000 to do implants." Dr. Brian was not happy. But I was standing my ground. And that's when Dr. Brian became our former dentist Dr. Brian.
"If it were my kid, first of all, he wouldn't be wearing an Obama t-shirt." GASP! The two nurses in the room and I literally were taken aback. "Secondly, I'd make sure he got implants because by the time he's old enough to get them, he can pay for them his self."
Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the truck up for a second. "Did you just knock our President?" The dentist smirked. Even if Isaiah weren't wearing an Obama t-shirt I'd be offended. Even if Isaiah didn't 1000% look up to Obama because he, also, has a white mother and a black father, I'd be offended. Even if Obama had lost the election, I'd be offended. Even if it didn't put a tear in my child's eye at the thought of his dentist commenting that he didn't like his t-shirt, I'd be offended.
I could tell that my 12-year-old future astronaut/engineer/artist/filmmaker/president/actor was confused and dumbfounded. So we left. I told Dr. Brian that it is not his place to comment negatively on his patient's clothing, nor is it his place to smirk when called on it.
I passed the check-out desk that I've checked out of at least ten times before and asked that my records be mailed to me so that I could transfer dentists.
Looking back, I usually realize that I was over reacting with things of this nature, but when you hurt my child, Mama Bear means business. Goodbye Dr. Idiot.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Friend #37
I always feel strangely when I have to answer medical questions at the doctor or before giving blood. I hate the questions where they ask me if I take any illegal drugs. I mean, if I was taking illegal substances, would I admit it? And if I answer with an honest "No" they just have to believe me and move on to the next question. There's got to be a better process, like drug testing before donating blood or having surgery. Drug users = liars. It's that simple. I'm not sure why it bothers me SO much, it just does.
Needless to say, Mary was person #2 from my surgical center to call me this week. We went over all of the prescriptions and herbal pills that I take. Not only did I have to list the medications, but I also had to tell this complete stranger WHY I take each pill. Mary is a "by the book" person, I imagine. She has to be. But I started laughing - I mean, belly laughing, when she asked me what I take my birth control pills for. "I'm sorry, I have to ask" Mary replied to my laughs. "And what do you take Prozac for?" Really??? I decided to go there. "Well, I've had six of my at-risk teen students die in various ways over the past five years. The last two were two of my favorite students of all time. When each died, my world collapsed and I could not be the mother, partner, co-worker and teacher I needed to be while grieving. I still miss Eric and Brendan to this day and I hope for a connection to students like that each year. The pain never goes away, it's just managed." Chirp chirp. Mary was stunned. What came next was numerous apologies from each of us. Then we laughed together at the absurdity of these medical questionnaires.
Mary told me that she's proud of me for what I do and stated (as everyone does) that she could never do what I do. She looks forward to meeting me on Monday for my surgery and I'm sure we'll have a repeat performance of our laugh-attack.
Needless to say, Mary was person #2 from my surgical center to call me this week. We went over all of the prescriptions and herbal pills that I take. Not only did I have to list the medications, but I also had to tell this complete stranger WHY I take each pill. Mary is a "by the book" person, I imagine. She has to be. But I started laughing - I mean, belly laughing, when she asked me what I take my birth control pills for. "I'm sorry, I have to ask" Mary replied to my laughs. "And what do you take Prozac for?" Really??? I decided to go there. "Well, I've had six of my at-risk teen students die in various ways over the past five years. The last two were two of my favorite students of all time. When each died, my world collapsed and I could not be the mother, partner, co-worker and teacher I needed to be while grieving. I still miss Eric and Brendan to this day and I hope for a connection to students like that each year. The pain never goes away, it's just managed." Chirp chirp. Mary was stunned. What came next was numerous apologies from each of us. Then we laughed together at the absurdity of these medical questionnaires.
Mary told me that she's proud of me for what I do and stated (as everyone does) that she could never do what I do. She looks forward to meeting me on Monday for my surgery and I'm sure we'll have a repeat performance of our laugh-attack.
Friend #36
Suzanna is my angel and I haven't even met her in person yet.
I got phone call #1 from the surgical center where I'll be having my surgery. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm nervous. I'm so not. I'm focusing on my two week recovery after the surgery because if I think about the surgery itself, I'll start freaking about maybe not waking up and my kids becoming orphans. Yeah, not good.
Suzanna is the keeper of records at the surgical center. She introduced herself in the sugary-sweet southern accent that I long for. "Are you nervous at all, sweetie?" I explained the absence of nervousness and she understood. We went through my surgery and what would happen during every step. Suzanna praised me for my - well, Mike's - preference for a surgical center rather than a MRSA-infested hospital. Suzanna was very nurturing and motherly which is not exactly what I need, since I'm not an emotional person, but I'm sure most patients appreciate.
As asked about recovery and what to expect. "Well, you're going to feel worse before you feel better. This isn't like a cut or scrape that gets better right away. You're going to progressively feel and look worse for about three weeks and then by a month, you'll start to get better." Then she offered something very personal and comforting: Suzanna and her daughter have both had the same procedure I'm having!
Suzanna gave me her daughter's phone number and said that she'd be delighted to be a phone-shoulder to cry on during my recovery. That's going to be a huge help, I'm sure.
A few hours later, I dialed Brittany's number. I explained who I was and she had been expecting my call. We talked about what to expect (she explained that her mom can't talk about her own procedures as an employee of the surgical center) and how to best care for myself.
I can't wait to meet and thank Suzanna in person on Monday.
I got phone call #1 from the surgical center where I'll be having my surgery. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm nervous. I'm so not. I'm focusing on my two week recovery after the surgery because if I think about the surgery itself, I'll start freaking about maybe not waking up and my kids becoming orphans. Yeah, not good.
Suzanna is the keeper of records at the surgical center. She introduced herself in the sugary-sweet southern accent that I long for. "Are you nervous at all, sweetie?" I explained the absence of nervousness and she understood. We went through my surgery and what would happen during every step. Suzanna praised me for my - well, Mike's - preference for a surgical center rather than a MRSA-infested hospital. Suzanna was very nurturing and motherly which is not exactly what I need, since I'm not an emotional person, but I'm sure most patients appreciate.
As asked about recovery and what to expect. "Well, you're going to feel worse before you feel better. This isn't like a cut or scrape that gets better right away. You're going to progressively feel and look worse for about three weeks and then by a month, you'll start to get better." Then she offered something very personal and comforting: Suzanna and her daughter have both had the same procedure I'm having!
Suzanna gave me her daughter's phone number and said that she'd be delighted to be a phone-shoulder to cry on during my recovery. That's going to be a huge help, I'm sure.
A few hours later, I dialed Brittany's number. I explained who I was and she had been expecting my call. We talked about what to expect (she explained that her mom can't talk about her own procedures as an employee of the surgical center) and how to best care for myself.
I can't wait to meet and thank Suzanna in person on Monday.
Friend #35
The In-Laws are gone, back to NY after a whirlwind week-long stay. The house is back to being messy and I am back to being relaxed.
I am preparing for my surgery and subsequent two week bed rest in four days and that means doctor appointments for all!
Isaiah was reminded in March when he had his Sports Physical, that he'd never had his blood tested. This was the first time in three months that I could bring him in to get blood drawn while fasting, so away we went to our friendly neighborhood lab.
I started out the night before, telling Mr. Needle-Hater that he was going in to get his blood drawn the next morning. The football-playing, skateboard ramp-building, high dive-jumping 12-year-old turned into a puddle of jitters in .01 seconds. "No, no, no, no, Mom!"
I reminded him that for some crazy reason, he had never gotten blood drawn as a toddler, like his brother had and that if he could go back in time and talk to his 2-year-old self, it would say "Thank you."
Blood Day arrived way too soon for Isaiah. I reminded him to refrain from eating or drinking anything (BIG mistake, as we found out later.) We arrived at the lab, signed in, and waited for our number to be called, and soon after that we found ourselves waiting for an hour for the hard part. Isaiah listened to his ipod to distract his nerves. I secretly hoped he'd have a lab technician who was an understanding mother, filled with love and support.
"Eye-sigh-ae?" Apparently his name was being called. "Your turn, Isaiah", I urged. He shook, he breathed quickly.
Crap! Shit! Our lab technician was the same grumpy, old, middle eastern man that both Jackson and I have had. Syed is his name. Syed the Terrible. Syed had Isaiah say and spell his name and birth date for verification. Isaiah sat and shook his legs while doing lamaaze breathing and listening to his ipod. "Do Not Look at the needle!" Syed demanded. "You Must stop shaking! You're making me nervous! I can't do this with you shaking!" I wanted to punch the old guy. I offered, "Isaiah, look at the poster and imagine you're at the cabin." Isaiah looked briefly at the picture of an ocean sunset, but was quickly back to the needle about to enter his arm. "You MUST NOT look at the needle! Are you going to pass out? Do I need to do this while you're laying down?" Syed looked at me as if pleading for respite from this demon-child.
"He'll be fine." I stated, matter-of-factly. "Isaiah, you're fine. Do it." This was cake compared to Isaiah's 6th grade shots a year ago (that took two nurses and myself to hold him down!).
"I cannot get a needle in anywhere! Did he drink water this morning?" I got a lump in my stomach, "He was supposed to fast; I thought that meant no water either."
"No, No, No! He was supposed to drink lots of liquids! Now I can't find a vein!"
Shit again. At this point, Isaiah's ipod was turned up so loud so he couldn't hear Lord Syed and his Attitude.
Five more minutes passed and the needle was in. "See? It's in and you acted crazy for nothing!" Syed explained to a still-shaking Isaiah. We watched as the blood filled the two tubes. The needle came out and everything was fine again. Well, not for Syed. Even as we walked out the door, he was still shaking his head in disappointment and anger.
Dude, a little patience and understanding will go a long way in your career...just sayin.
I am preparing for my surgery and subsequent two week bed rest in four days and that means doctor appointments for all!
Isaiah was reminded in March when he had his Sports Physical, that he'd never had his blood tested. This was the first time in three months that I could bring him in to get blood drawn while fasting, so away we went to our friendly neighborhood lab.
I started out the night before, telling Mr. Needle-Hater that he was going in to get his blood drawn the next morning. The football-playing, skateboard ramp-building, high dive-jumping 12-year-old turned into a puddle of jitters in .01 seconds. "No, no, no, no, Mom!"
I reminded him that for some crazy reason, he had never gotten blood drawn as a toddler, like his brother had and that if he could go back in time and talk to his 2-year-old self, it would say "Thank you."
Blood Day arrived way too soon for Isaiah. I reminded him to refrain from eating or drinking anything (BIG mistake, as we found out later.) We arrived at the lab, signed in, and waited for our number to be called, and soon after that we found ourselves waiting for an hour for the hard part. Isaiah listened to his ipod to distract his nerves. I secretly hoped he'd have a lab technician who was an understanding mother, filled with love and support.
"Eye-sigh-ae?" Apparently his name was being called. "Your turn, Isaiah", I urged. He shook, he breathed quickly.
Crap! Shit! Our lab technician was the same grumpy, old, middle eastern man that both Jackson and I have had. Syed is his name. Syed the Terrible. Syed had Isaiah say and spell his name and birth date for verification. Isaiah sat and shook his legs while doing lamaaze breathing and listening to his ipod. "Do Not Look at the needle!" Syed demanded. "You Must stop shaking! You're making me nervous! I can't do this with you shaking!" I wanted to punch the old guy. I offered, "Isaiah, look at the poster and imagine you're at the cabin." Isaiah looked briefly at the picture of an ocean sunset, but was quickly back to the needle about to enter his arm. "You MUST NOT look at the needle! Are you going to pass out? Do I need to do this while you're laying down?" Syed looked at me as if pleading for respite from this demon-child.
"He'll be fine." I stated, matter-of-factly. "Isaiah, you're fine. Do it." This was cake compared to Isaiah's 6th grade shots a year ago (that took two nurses and myself to hold him down!).
"I cannot get a needle in anywhere! Did he drink water this morning?" I got a lump in my stomach, "He was supposed to fast; I thought that meant no water either."
"No, No, No! He was supposed to drink lots of liquids! Now I can't find a vein!"
Shit again. At this point, Isaiah's ipod was turned up so loud so he couldn't hear Lord Syed and his Attitude.
Five more minutes passed and the needle was in. "See? It's in and you acted crazy for nothing!" Syed explained to a still-shaking Isaiah. We watched as the blood filled the two tubes. The needle came out and everything was fine again. Well, not for Syed. Even as we walked out the door, he was still shaking his head in disappointment and anger.
Dude, a little patience and understanding will go a long way in your career...just sayin.
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