Resolution, Immediate and Forthcoming

Today has reminded me why I'm suspicious of medical personnel. Some of them (not all!) are just so damn smug. I really get peeved when people who are supposed to be helping me instead assume that they know oodles more about my body than I do.

Take, for example, pain. Just because a person doesn't react they way you think they should doesn't mean they're not in pain. During an exam today, I was asked to rate the pain I was experiencing while the surgical resident was poking under my ribcage on the right side on a numerical scale. I gave it an 8. He told me that it couldn't be an 8 because I'd be whimpering, maybe crying, and would be trying to get away from him. I told him it was an 8 and if he didn't stop, I'd make him.

Pain is relative. Anyone who's ever been in pain knows this. I've been able to take a punch since I was a little girl, because my adoptive father delivered them regularly and I was a little kid who refused to let grown-ups see me cry. I've broken several bones and had to get myself to a place where I could call/ask for help. Once , I walked all the way to the hospital myself with my arm broken in three places and walking my bike because I refused to leave it. I've delivered two babies without drugs of any kind. I delivered the head of one of those babies on my hands and knees, then had to STOP pushing and turn over (yes, with her little head already out) so the midwife could have better access to the umbilical cord that was wrapped around her body and neck. I've had more dirtbike crashes than I can count, more surgeries than any person should have. And I've had the mother of all pain, meningitis, AND I drove myself to the Emergency Room after FOUR DAYS of it because I finally figured out I was really sick.

So, no, Dr. Resident, poking my sick gall bladder through my abdominal wall isn't going to elicit the reaction you expect. But that doesn't mean I don't feel it as an 8 on a pain scale of 1 to 10.

That guy still doesn't know how close he was to finding himself on the floor.

Another example: Prophylactic antibiotics. WTF? Let's try to ward off infection by compromising my already healthy immune system! Yes! That makes perfect sense!

Another example: Pregnancy test. Administered even though I told them there is NO WAY I could possibly be pregnant right now. Administered even though I told them 1) I'm on day 2 of my period, and 2) I haven't had sex in over 30 days because I FEEL LIKE SHIT ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Again, WTF?

Another example: Why ask me if I have questions if you aren't going to answer them??? These guys took 15 minutes explaining the procedure to me - AFTER I read the pamphlet they gave me, presumably to explain the fucking procedure - but couldn't tell me if I'd be able to teach my three D-Tac classes in March. Even after I explained that teaching these classes would mean three full days of getting the crap beat out of me by new officers without a lot of finesse - including full abdominal punches and kicks - they still waffled with "Well, it'll be up to you." Up to ME? Haven't you just spent the last hour or so trying to convince me how freaking superior you are and how much more you know about me than I do? Now it's up to me??

Anyway, enough bitching.

Boob Update: In the boob world, microcrystallization is a bad thing. Microcrystallization is the one sure-thing sign of breast cancer that can't be detected by BSE, and is the whole reason for the hype about regular mammography. I had another mammo today so they could use a different type of scan (magnified) to look at the microcrystallization that last week's mammo picked up. Generally speaking, five or more jagged-edged microcrystals grouped closely together means ready, set, lose your breast. Lucky for me, I have nine smooth microcrystals in my left breast (that damn left breast! Such a trouble maker!!) that, right now, are no cause for alarm. Hooray!

One side note to the Boob Update: The difference between digital mammography and regular mammography is HUGE! Digital mammography rquires the breast to be compressed much less than typical mammography. I DEFINITELY recommend going digital if you can. Sheesh!!!!

Gall Bladder Update: After suffering the incredible smugness of Dr. Resident, it was decided that the gall bladder's got to go. Dr. Resident's boss, Dr. Department Head, is actually a decent guy and a national leader in minimally-invasive surgery and advised that he should be able to get that puppy out laparoscopically with no sweat. Surgery is scheduled for the 15th (unless they can't get the extra room that day, then it'll be the following week) and my pre-op is the 8th. I've already done all the chest x-rays and lab work, so the pre-op will just be meeting with the Anesthesiologist so I can tell him or her to PLEASE not give me anything prior to the anesthesia, as I have a really difficult time waking up from general.

Gall Bladder Update Bonus: 2 weeks off work!!! Whoo-hoo!! But two weeks of light duty after that (still, it's up to me if I want to teach my D-Tac classes). Oh, ha ha ha.

And end to the pain is in sight!!! Hooray!!!

Even More Updates!

Update: Fast-Pitch Softball season has begun!! Whoo-hoo!!

Update: I have an appointment with the General Surgery Department tomorrow at 0930. While making the appointment, the Corpsman who was helping me made it a point to say that this is only for an exam, and "may not result in surgery." I'm not sure what that means... does it mean "might not result in surgery THAT DAY?" Does it mean "might not result in surgery AT ALL?" Does it mean "might not result in surgery FOR AWHILE?" I am sure this, and many other mysteries will be revealed during tomorrow's appointment. Just in case, I completed all my reports through February, did my stats, and prepared a case summary for each of my clients so other officers can wade their way through my business should I not return for a while.

Update: I had a mammogram last week and was called by the Breast Health Clinic at the Hospital yesterday. Anyone familiar with the "Navy Way" of medicine knows that mail = good, phone = bad. Only this time, phone = "questionable," not necessarily bad. They are going to do another mammo before they give me any bad news. So, since I was going to be at the Hospital tomorrow anyway, I asked if I could get in. They said they didn't have any appointments available until March 3, then put me on hold for a few minutes. When the Clinical nurse Manager, Deb, came back on the line, she told me to come in right at 0800 tomorrow and they would get me in. And all I could think was: Hmmmmm. But just in case anyone hasn't caught this from earlier sentiments posted on this blog, I am DONE with breast issues. As I said to a friend today, this time I'll just tell them to take them both - and any ancillary tissue they can get their sterile little fingers on - and I'll get beautiful tattoos to cover the scars. I AM DONE.

Hoepfully that won't be necessary. It's probably just a glitch or something they couldn't see very well.

Update: Every single lymph node on my right side is swollen. Some of them you can actually see from the outside. I have no idea what this means.

Update: Still no transfer or promotion! Go figure!

Summary of All Updates: I'm a flippin' mess. How the heck did the wheels fall off the wagon so quickly?? I'm really looking forward to having all of this resolved so I can go back to enjoying really good health, a strong constitution, and an attitude befitting a human being. I'm also starting to feel like 5 weeks off work - even recovering from full abdominal surgery - might not be such a bad thing, even if I do have to beg for donated sick time.

And oh by the way, I'm kinda scared too. Not that there's really any reason to be, I just am. And I hate being scared just about as much as I hate to vomit. Show me the enemy so I can fight it, for God's sake! I'm sick of all this nebulous "maybe" crap.

Eulogy for My Gall Bladder

In thinking about what I've been told by various medical personnel during yesterdays' adventure at NavMedCenSD, I've been feeling rather guilty about how I've treated my internal organs. It's a silly sentiment, but I honestly feel it.

The thick, rigid, scarred walls of my "jacked up" gall bladder are a testiment to how long it has valiantly attempted to do its job under the duress of dysfunction with no help from me whatsoever. Though I don't have many of the risk factors for gall bladder disease (besides being a female over 40), the fact is that I've never tried to do anything to protect the little guy - and the little guy in question has been doing all kinds of stuff to protect me. The fact that I've only been having symptoms for a few months, when the scar tissue that has accumulated is the result of years of chronic inflammation and clogging, is proof positive that my gall bladder is a fearless warrior who has fought for my body's continued absorption of Vitamins A, D, E, and K despite its own pain and compromised ability. If I could salute my gall bladder and tell it to stand down, I would.

Stand down, little soldier, and let the others take the watch from here. I apologize for taking you completely for granted, and for expecting so much from you while giving you so little to work with. In a few days you will have the rest your dedication has earned.

Good News and News to be Somewhat Indifferent About

Good News: I evidently have a "textbook" anatomy. During my ultrasound today, I was asked to stay longer so folks could be trained using my internal organs because of - yes, you guessed it - their inherent and stunning beauty. Four Corpsmen were allowed to transduce my midsection and marvel at my beautiful liver, my very large aorta and IVC, my lovingly crafted pancreas, and my perfect and marvelous right kidney. They took several "snapshots" of my organs to use in training. It was rather strange to be so fawned over about internal organs!!

News to be Somewhat Indifferent About: The mystery is solved. In the words of the first ultrasound tech, "Your gall bladder is very sick." In the words of the Radiologist, "Your gall bladder is seriously jacked up." He said that he is surprised that I walked into the clinic on my own power. He was floored when I told him I'd been having problems for five months. They were amazed that amidst all this internal perfection, my gall bladder stuck out like the drunk girl at the prom with its thick walls, clogged hepatic ducts, and constant state of contraction. Everyone agreed that I will be much happier without it.

I'll be talking to my Internal Medicine guy on Tuesday and I guess we'll be deciding to get rid of that black spot on my internal perfection!!!

Oh So Tired

This week has left me wondering who I have to blow to get a freakin' break already? Apparently hard work, dedication to the cause, consistent sacrifice, and a willingness to work in one of the most toxic environments on Earth day in and day out isn't getting me anywhere. Apparently my ability - and willingness! - to do the jobs of four people on one person's paycheck and VERY limited time (with no overtime authorized!) isn't enough. And, as I've recently learned, apparently if I chose to be a mediocre employee rather than a stellar employee, my employer would be infinitely more willing to give me what I want instead of sucking me dry.

I spoke at length with my old Supervisor - who I trust implicitly - late last week. I told him how my Department had re-opened the Supervisor Exam under the same recruitment number as the exam I took and asked why the Department would need more that 40 applicants, especially since som many of us have already interviewed and 5 have already been promoted. I told him that I had almost completely lost faith in the system because 5 promotions had been made and none of them was a certain co-worker who has been doing the job of Acting Supervisor in one of our units for 13 months. I told him that I had interviewed for the new Youthful Offenders Unit project position and was feeling rather confident about my chances of being selected. I told him that I am floundering in my current position, and have had transfers in since early August, and wondered aloud why none of them have been honored.

With his "crinkle-face" (most serious face) on, he said, "There are so many things you don't understand. So many things you might not ever understand. But I'll tell you this, and not because I want to hurt you: You won't be promoted this year. You won't be selected for that YOU spot. And you won't be transferred. Don't take it personally."

Like the extrememly intelligent person I am, I said, "What?"

Patiently, he said, "Don't take it personally. It isn't about you. Keep hanging in there until next year or find another job. You are not going to get what you want any time soon. If you're wondering if you sold your soul, wonder no more: you did."

After I finished doing what I needed to do in that office, I chewed on that conversation all the way home and several times over the weekend.

Yesterday I found out that I wasn't, as predicted, selected for the YOU project. And I cried all the way home... not necessarily because I wasn't selected (yes, I wanted that job very badly and still believe that I am the most qualified for the job), but because if I still had the luxury of believing that I had just tanked the interview or just plain wasn't what they wanted for their vanguard project, it would have been very easy to NOT take it personally. But because my old Supervisor and good friend put the bug in my ear that it might be something else entirely, I now feel like the whole thing is just one, big, futile conspiracy. It would be easy to take the failure into myself and take some sort of action against the same mistakes "next time," but now I have to wonder if he's right? If every effort, every interview, every stupid thing I do matters not at all because I'm just the hulking, stupid pawn who takes the abuse and smiles like a dumbshit and is grateful for the paycheck. And it comes to this: if I were just like everybody else, if I just showed up and did just enough to get by, no one would try to prevent me from leaving this unit and no one would try to prevent me from coming into another.

Today I found out that I wasn't selected for the most recent round of promotions. The Deputy Chief informed me of this personally today. She also told me to "keep on plugging, there will be three or four more before March." I told her that I had already resigned myself to probably not being promoted this year because she had told me that I didn't do as well as I could have in the interview. And then I told her that I am drowning where I am and asked why, having had at least ten transfers in since August, I haven't been able to transfer? She said, "Don't lose faith."

Nice side-step, eh?

In general, it's been a tough week for me. I'm feeling something far beyond disillusionment, something beyond disenchantment. I'm feeling... caged.

Another Wish Granted

This is the first year we've allowed the Desert Tortoises to hibernate for the entire winter outside. They have a little enclosure, and they've dug their own little tunnel where they disappear into the depths of the earth underneath the garage, where it is presumably somewhat warm. This is what they do in the wild, and we figured we better stop "babying" them, just in case they ever escape (which would be horrible and expensive, but due to their tunneling nature is quite possible).

It's been raining quite a bit this year, and I've been worried about the little guys. We put a cover over the mouth of the tunnel entrance so they wouldn't be flooded out, but I still worried. It's gotten pretty darn cold, too. I've been afraid I'd never see them again... that they'd freeze or drown or whatever down in the depths and I'd never be able to dig far enough to find them.

Today, for whatever reason, they came out. I offered them food and water, and they have since returned to the bowels of the earth.

Today I am grateful to know that the tortoises are okay.

The Solution, of a Sort

So, after several man-hours, several bleeding fingers, several blown fuses, and several unladylike utterances, here is my final solution for the Mystery of the Signals:



No external back signals at all.

Heartbreaking, really, since I had just purchased the new housings and LEDS. But this is the only way I could get it to work, and I was out of new fuses.

Now I'll have to find something to cover that ridiculous divot in my fender! I have little chrome caps that go in the bolt holes, but they just aren't cutting it. I'll figure something out.

Lest I Forget

Updates and a Little Disrespect

Gang Update: MSU has been "patched."

The jury is still out on how I feel about this. I can relate, however, that of about 70 photographs of the event, the one at the top where you can see me is the ONLY one of me and my husband together.

Health Update: The "ulcer" theory has been sacked and the new theory in practice is "gall bladder/gall stones." I have an ultrasound scheduled for the 25th and they took about a gallon of blood today for reasons known only to medicine. I love how these little body mysteries take MONTHS to solve while I spend several hours each day debilitated by pain and afraid to eat. Ha!

Disrespect update (this update correlates to the Gang Update above): MSU's gang (you can view the website at www.wolfpackmc.org) has a rather unique philosophy. The club is open to members of all races, genders, orientations, and bike preferences. Which, on the face of things, seems like a radically wonderful idea.

HOWEVER... (and here's the disrespect part)

There are now three women involved in MSU's chapter. one is a full-patch member (Hispanic, heterosexual, and very young. You can see her in the pictures above - long brown hair with red highlights). One is a "prospect" (lesbian, late 30's, not visable in the photos above.) The other is has been recently designated an official "hangaround." I haven't met her yet, but she seems to be sassy, hetero, and a bit spoiled.

Here's the thing: the reason that most motorcycle clubs don't allow women is because women are DIVISIVE. A group of men can hang out until the cows come home without any problems. Add one woman and she's the little princess who can do no wrong. Add two women and one is going to be jealous of the other and try to win favor from the men, sometimes with extreme and untoward behavior. Add another and the intrigue begins in earnest. And THAT'S where MSU's gang is now. The President recently asked me what I would do at this juncture to further the club's vision. I told him that not only should he refrain from actively recruiting women, but should actively NOT ACCEPT women until the ratio of men to women in the club ranks is significantly increased on the XY side. He looked at me like I had suddently grown another head. Why? Because having members of both genders is intrinsic to the club's charter. Pardon my vulgarity, but what a fucking mistake that was. I told MSU later that if they allow more women into the chpater, the women will take over and NOBODY will be happy. I guarantee it.

I hate dissing my own gender, but that's the way of it. There are precious few women that can stand the sight of THEMSELVES, much less another woman, even much less several other women. Keep in mind that these are women that are coming together not because they have become natural friends, but because they have demonstrated interest in a peripheral activity. This, in and of itself, begets competition.


All I can say is: Woe to MSU's gang. Having one female was working out just fine. Having two was probably recoverable, given the different orientations. Three? Look out!!! The gang is about to change, and NOT for the better!!!!!!!!!!!!

Finally... Something I Can Use!

Reaching

I've checked my email at least 13 times today. Not just my personal email, but my work email and the email I made up specifically for dA. It didn't strike me as strange until just now - and just now I realize that I am feeling quite alone. Funny that I didn't pick up the phone and call someone or go visiting, isn't it? Instead, I checked my email about once per hour.

I think the finality of Friday evening's events has affected me more than I anticipated. A catharsis, to be sure... but new and strange territory also. I find myself without a "backup plan." As plans go, that one was pretty lame and starkly sophomoric, but it was still a (rudimentary) plan. If nothing else, in him I always had a place to go. For anything, for nothing, for everything. Yes, it was an illusion. But it was comfort and memories and passion so rare. Until he went psycho, of course. And he always did.

Whatever broke in me Friday has stayed broken. I am truly on the frontier of a life I haven't known in a decade. But instead of wildly relieved, ultimately liberated, or scared shitless, I just feel alone. So alone that I am waiting for someone to reach out to me, rather than taking the first communicative step and possibly facing rejection (common rejection like lack of time or squalling kids or voicemail). A few have, and I know how blessed I am to have people who know I want a connection without having to commit to actually talking. Bless you all for your insight and compassion for this old, tired fool.

Jim Steinman, composer extraordinaire, said this about writing "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" in an interview:

"It's about obsession, and that can be scary because you're not in control and you don't know where it's going to stop. It says that, at any point in somebody's life, when they loved somebody strongly enough and that person returns, a certain touch, a certain physical gesture can turn them from being defiant and disgusted with this person to being subservient again. And it's not just a pleasurable feeling that comes back, it's the complete terror and loss of control that comes back. And I think that's ultimately a great weapon."

Well said, Jim. Again, as your song was an anthem to me for many years of darkness:

Yup. Bitter regret is all I taste. So much wasted time, so much wasted energy and hope. I am ready for the new day.

The Last Bit of Time I'll Waste on You

I know you read this blog, and this is the only forum that I will allow you.

You need to know that I am not going to take your calls, I am not going to return your calls, and from this point forward I am not going to even listen to the messages you leave. It’s over. It’s been over for 9 years. I’ve tried to incorporate you into my life in a sane way, and you’ve refused to allow it. I’ve tried to protect you from yourself and your choices, but the point of diminishing returns came and went long ago. Yes, I could tell you all of this in person, but I am not willing to share the proximity that such a conversation would require.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it one last time: your existence is toxic to mine.

I don’t care that she’s gone. I don’t care that you’ve “seen the past and the future.” I don’t care that you’ve “matured and (are) ready.” And I certainly don’t care that you have that fancy house all to yourself. None of these events affects me at all. You can spout off about love and destiny and predetermination until you’re blue in the face; still, you fail to realize that nothing – nothing! – has changed. I don’t dispute that your love is true, I only remind you that you give it on your terms alone and I haven’t been willing or able to accept those terms for quite some time.

There is nothing left for us. Why I tried to find a place for you in my life – minimal though it may have been – might have been out of my own misconceived fear that failing to do so would close a door forever that perhaps shouldn’t be sealed. Maybe you were going to get less psycho. Maybe I was going to get less married. Maybe there really was a place for us after all. Maybe you were going to stop spouting your self-righteous bullshit and admit your own humanity.

No, the time has come to shut, seal, and brick over that door once and for all. The fear that I had somehow sacrificed honest True Love in order to save my existing family has been assuaged. I am grateful for the happenstance that brought us to collocation, and I thank you heartily for your little display of hypocrisy, as the toxicity emitted from it melted the scales from my eyes. My tears of disbelief and finality washed them clean again.

How dare you judge me, you sanctimonious windbag? How dare you share your soul with everyone BUT me and then deign to begrudge me the small measures of comfort that I have taken? Your duplicity knows no bounds, your deceit no determination. Your treachery backfired, your assumptions proved false, and now your castle crumbles… how amusing it was to hear you scrabble about for the words that would somehow convince yourself that you were not wrong. You were. You are. And I will no longer allow myself to be poisoned and polluted with your deluded judgment and the injudicious travesty of control that you have pompously labeled Love.

In short, fuck you. Save yourself the humiliation of a showdown and just don’t come near me ever again. There is nothing of me left for you.

The Name of the Game

The name of the game is subtlety, ladies and gentlemen. Have no doubt.

Subtlety is not my strongest talent. In fact, it's not a talent at all... it's more of a cultivated necessity. But the work I've done to nurture this trait that goes so very far against my nature has been worth every moment of practice.

For example: I heard some disappointing news today. So disappointing, in fact, that it broke my already battered heart on a number of levels and made me want to scream in frustration and outrage, and not just about the part that affects me directly. But did I? Oh no. I practiced the art of subtlety, despite my overwhelming desire to make things happen my way. Because throwing the tantrum that I was dangerously on the verge of would only make matters worse. I can wait for my way. That is the strength of subtlety.

Another example: What does one do with potentially harmful information gleaned surreptitiously? Here is the art of subtlety at it's best. A subtle snoop would keep that info in their "back pocket," awaiting verification, and then, awaiting just the right moment to use it to one's advantage - but NEVER directly. Confronting someone with this sort of information - especially before it's been verified! - is disastrous and can only result in a lose-lose situation. Once that hand has been played, it's over... and if one is wrong, well, it can be next to impossible to regain that advantage. Better to practice subtlety. I'm here to tell you: if knowledge is power, then my "back pocket" is a god. Confrontation is the nemesis of this sort of subtle power.

Yet another example: when one's feelings are hurt, what is the best tactic for resolution? Make a scene and cry about the injustice of it all? Project the whole dirty mess of one's feelings back on the emotional aggressor? Send the offender on a guilt trip so lengthy that they'll find themselves describing it to a therapist at some point in the future and at considerable cost? No, no, NO. This is the Crown Jewel of subtlety: Taking responsibility for one's own feelings. Practiced to perfection, this tactic will leave the opposition in such confusion that he or she will fall all over him/herself to rectify the situation because they have no idea that it was his/her fault. Emotional compliance is so easy to enforce when there is no blame involved. Don't believe me? Give it a try. I dare you to take full responsibility for your own emotions and NOT dramactically improve your relationships. Go on, I dare you!

Subtlety: it's the name of the game.