It only took ten days, but I am now pain free. By the fifth day of EXTREMETAKEMYBREATHAWAY back pain, new understanding came my way: first, I will never (so help me) make fun of my mother's back pain again; second, Dr. Kevorkian had an important place on this earth. Seriously. As I lay on the sofa softly moaning, hour after hour, I told myself that should this pain be chronic, I'd have to find a way to take myself out of this earth. Honestly, I do not know how chronic pain sufferers endure. Like cancer patients. Accident victims. Eight-headaches-a-month migraine victims.
Apparently I am a pansy. And I always thought I had a high pain tolerance (natural childbirth three times, sans pain medication).
I suppose I have Dr. JC Penney to thank. I'd gone to the store, hobbling (thinking walking would help me) with my sis today to take advantage of a store closing blowout sale! and after I bought several hundred dollars worth of stuff (schlepping the gigantic bag throughout the store) my back pain suddenly left me. No warning. No, "Hey, Lady, I'm getting packed up, ready to leave ... ." No, none of that. Just as Mr. Back Pain had sneaked up on me ten days ago -- suddenly and without notice of any sort -- he was gone.
Sneaky bastard.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Pain, pain go away ...
On Friday, June 13, at approximately 2:15 p.m., I dropped the soap while showering. Twisted in a weird way to retrieve it. I haven't been the same since. (Hold the prison rape jokes, please.)
For eight days now, eight days I say, pain has been my constant companion.
There are two positions that don't bring me pain, but getting into -- and then out of -- those two positions causes pain. Serious pain. The kind of pain that makes me screw up my face and mutter "shitshitshit" in rapid succession.
On the 1 - 10 pain scale, my lower back pain rates a clear 7. Maybe an 8. (Do know that, for me, a 10 would have to be how I'd feel if, say, some demented murderer chopped off one of my limbs with a chainsaw.)
Of course I went to the doctor. My 16 year old drove me and then proceeded to carry my purse even though she clearly did not want to into the clinic. I had to take itty-bitty-bird steps into the place. Obviously I was having some pain. The woman I sat down next to waited for me to get settled (Read: in the chair without crying) and then said, chomping her gum, "Ah, it's your sciatic nerve, huh?" We chit-chatted for some time and then my name was called. "Tell them I'm coming, and to have some patience," I told my daugher.
Diagnosis: sacro ileitis.
Prognosis: I'd get over it.
Prescriptions: Muscle relaxant, anti-inflammatory, painkiller.
I've played by all the rules (except the one where the doctor said to do floor exercises). Still I hurt. The pain is now throughout my hips and upper thighs. I suppose by this time tomorrow it'll be around my knees. Monday, through the calves. Tuesday, by then, well, maybe the pain will go to my toes and exit altogether.
A girl can hope.
For eight days now, eight days I say, pain has been my constant companion.
There are two positions that don't bring me pain, but getting into -- and then out of -- those two positions causes pain. Serious pain. The kind of pain that makes me screw up my face and mutter "shitshitshit" in rapid succession.
On the 1 - 10 pain scale, my lower back pain rates a clear 7. Maybe an 8. (Do know that, for me, a 10 would have to be how I'd feel if, say, some demented murderer chopped off one of my limbs with a chainsaw.)
Of course I went to the doctor. My 16 year old drove me and then proceeded to carry my purse even though she clearly did not want to into the clinic. I had to take itty-bitty-bird steps into the place. Obviously I was having some pain. The woman I sat down next to waited for me to get settled (Read: in the chair without crying) and then said, chomping her gum, "Ah, it's your sciatic nerve, huh?" We chit-chatted for some time and then my name was called. "Tell them I'm coming, and to have some patience," I told my daugher.
Diagnosis: sacro ileitis.
Prognosis: I'd get over it.
Prescriptions: Muscle relaxant, anti-inflammatory, painkiller.
I've played by all the rules (except the one where the doctor said to do floor exercises). Still I hurt. The pain is now throughout my hips and upper thighs. I suppose by this time tomorrow it'll be around my knees. Monday, through the calves. Tuesday, by then, well, maybe the pain will go to my toes and exit altogether.
A girl can hope.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Teachers let the monkeys out!
Remember, back in elementary school, running through the hallways on the last day of school, waving your arms around, shrieking "School's out, school's out, teachers let the monkeys out?"
Just so you know, we teachers do that exact celebratory singsong dance after the kids leave on the last day. Nirvana, that's what it is, once the last student walks down the hall. Into File 13 go the last-minute assignments ("Yes, you're getting a grade for this worksheet, and a big one at that!). Happy dances abound. Even the old-fart educators have bounces in their steps.
The lockers are cleaned out, the classrooms are boxed up, the bulletin boards are dismantled.
And we teachers have two glorious months off. Not three, which is what most people think. Same kind of thinking to being pregnant for nine months when really it's 40 weeks.
In case you're reading this, thinking Spoiled Teachers, Always Complaining About Low Salaries and Look They Don't Even Teach the Whole Year, just let me say that my salary is so low even the school custodian outearns me. Seriously.
And of course there are "mandatory" courses to take in June and July.
But I am not complaining. No way.
There are lazy hours to spend out on the porch talking to the kids. Museum trips coming, picnics at outdoor festivals (Kansas City has a yearly Shakespearean Theatre in the Park soiree ... delectable!), a gazillion movies to rent, a neighborhood swimming pool to visit, sunscreen and iced tea in hand. Even though I don't swim it's relaxing to sit poolside with an Anne Tyler or Elizabeth Berg something. Each summer I vow to read Some Sort of Classic; inevitably I end up with a women's fiction, recently published.
And this life, this "I'm home all day life," this is the life I love the most. It's my comfort zone. Domesticity brings me joy. I love doing laundry. Really. Ironing is meditative. Preparing a dinner for the family makes me happy. Vacuuming soothes my soul.
Ah, sweet, sweet summer. Bless your heart!
Just so you know, we teachers do that exact celebratory singsong dance after the kids leave on the last day. Nirvana, that's what it is, once the last student walks down the hall. Into File 13 go the last-minute assignments ("Yes, you're getting a grade for this worksheet, and a big one at that!). Happy dances abound. Even the old-fart educators have bounces in their steps.
The lockers are cleaned out, the classrooms are boxed up, the bulletin boards are dismantled.
And we teachers have two glorious months off. Not three, which is what most people think. Same kind of thinking to being pregnant for nine months when really it's 40 weeks.
In case you're reading this, thinking Spoiled Teachers, Always Complaining About Low Salaries and Look They Don't Even Teach the Whole Year, just let me say that my salary is so low even the school custodian outearns me. Seriously.
And of course there are "mandatory" courses to take in June and July.
But I am not complaining. No way.
There are lazy hours to spend out on the porch talking to the kids. Museum trips coming, picnics at outdoor festivals (Kansas City has a yearly Shakespearean Theatre in the Park soiree ... delectable!), a gazillion movies to rent, a neighborhood swimming pool to visit, sunscreen and iced tea in hand. Even though I don't swim it's relaxing to sit poolside with an Anne Tyler or Elizabeth Berg something. Each summer I vow to read Some Sort of Classic; inevitably I end up with a women's fiction, recently published.
And this life, this "I'm home all day life," this is the life I love the most. It's my comfort zone. Domesticity brings me joy. I love doing laundry. Really. Ironing is meditative. Preparing a dinner for the family makes me happy. Vacuuming soothes my soul.
Ah, sweet, sweet summer. Bless your heart!
Monday, May 26, 2008
Too many ribs ...
,I have gained upwards of three pounds these last few days; a new fat roll has surfaced.
I blame it on the ribs. And the barbecued chicken and potato salad and beans and slaw and all the accompaniments to a Kansas City cookout.
Holyfrijoles I am a pig. Guess "you are what you eat" rings true.
Basically I've eaten the world this entire month. Memories of this time last year have surfaced and I've turned to the fridge. Last May I was taking care of the parentals, watching one wither away to cancer (stupid cancer); the other in intensive care with a multitude of coronary/pulmonary difficulties.
Mom lived; Dad didn't.
This time last year he was still sitting in his brown corduroy chair. I was feeding him pancakes dripping in butter and full-calorie syrup. Half a pound of bacon each morning. Orange juice. Five pills on his tray. "Let me break this one into two pieces, Dad," I'd say, picking up the Vicodin tablet, heavy between my thumb and forefinger.
I hate cancer. Stupid cancer.
One day, last May, maybe mid-month, I took Dad his morning coffee, only to notice (like a blaring neon sign: "I've changed! Look at me! I've changed!) a different dad sitting in the brown corduroy chair. A slighter man. Overnight, the muscles in his forearms had vanished. And that little hunk of muscle that only guys have, that half dollar sized chunk of meat above the kneebone, that had left in the night, too. Dad's bermuda shorts showcased the absence.
Stupid cancer.
The anniversary of his death approaches, and while I await it, I have eaten the world.
Salty or sweet, no matter. I've consumed it. Gumdrops, licorice, Cheetohs (what kind of a grown woman binges on Cheetohs?). Potato chips. Dip #1, Dip #2, Dip #3. Ice cream. Sorbet. Frappuccinos. That disgusting fake dairy QuikTrip "malt" you mix yourself and then pay the cashier $2.49 to consume.
Stupid cancer.
I blame it on the ribs. And the barbecued chicken and potato salad and beans and slaw and all the accompaniments to a Kansas City cookout.
Holyfrijoles I am a pig. Guess "you are what you eat" rings true.
Basically I've eaten the world this entire month. Memories of this time last year have surfaced and I've turned to the fridge. Last May I was taking care of the parentals, watching one wither away to cancer (stupid cancer); the other in intensive care with a multitude of coronary/pulmonary difficulties.
Mom lived; Dad didn't.
This time last year he was still sitting in his brown corduroy chair. I was feeding him pancakes dripping in butter and full-calorie syrup. Half a pound of bacon each morning. Orange juice. Five pills on his tray. "Let me break this one into two pieces, Dad," I'd say, picking up the Vicodin tablet, heavy between my thumb and forefinger.
I hate cancer. Stupid cancer.
One day, last May, maybe mid-month, I took Dad his morning coffee, only to notice (like a blaring neon sign: "I've changed! Look at me! I've changed!) a different dad sitting in the brown corduroy chair. A slighter man. Overnight, the muscles in his forearms had vanished. And that little hunk of muscle that only guys have, that half dollar sized chunk of meat above the kneebone, that had left in the night, too. Dad's bermuda shorts showcased the absence.
Stupid cancer.
The anniversary of his death approaches, and while I await it, I have eaten the world.
Salty or sweet, no matter. I've consumed it. Gumdrops, licorice, Cheetohs (what kind of a grown woman binges on Cheetohs?). Potato chips. Dip #1, Dip #2, Dip #3. Ice cream. Sorbet. Frappuccinos. That disgusting fake dairy QuikTrip "malt" you mix yourself and then pay the cashier $2.49 to consume.
Stupid cancer.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Of allergies and housework and end of school grading
Today I'm in a pissy mood. The house is a disaster: dog and cat hair everyfreakinwhere. Kitchen sinks needs a good Ajax scrubbing but somehow the new scrubber I bought a month ago has disappeared. No kitchen towels in the drawers. A half sheet of paper towel glued to the holder.
Someone washed the metal cake pan but neglected to dry it: It's rusted, really rusted. A thick orange edge surrounds all four corners. I'd rather throw the pan out than subject Self or family to some sort of rust poison that I haven't discovered yet on WebMD.
Dust on every surface. My allergies are screaming GET ME OUT OF THIS ENVIRONMENT.
I get out of this environment only to escape to the front porch, where the green things grow; allergies send me back inside. Yesterday, I'd escaped to Border's to grade but my ADD kicked in and I was annoying even myself. Allergies were at bay but OCD cut loose.
"Grade three papers and then you can look at a magazine," I told myself. "Just three. C'mon, you can do it!"
Couldn't do three because I hadn't lined my coffee cup exactly ... where .... it .... should.... be.
Must grade two, or four, an even number. Yes. Then the magazine, something decorating related.
After four hours at the bookstore, I'd graded approximately thirteen essays and looked through a dozen magazines. Drunk two honey-cinnamon lattes. Eaten a bagel.
It's that time of the year when LifeFunk takes over. I'm in that end-of-year teaching zone: Summer's coming but it's not quite here.
"Give everyone an A," my husband says, satisfied with himself. "That's what I'd do."
Someone washed the metal cake pan but neglected to dry it: It's rusted, really rusted. A thick orange edge surrounds all four corners. I'd rather throw the pan out than subject Self or family to some sort of rust poison that I haven't discovered yet on WebMD.
Dust on every surface. My allergies are screaming GET ME OUT OF THIS ENVIRONMENT.
I get out of this environment only to escape to the front porch, where the green things grow; allergies send me back inside. Yesterday, I'd escaped to Border's to grade but my ADD kicked in and I was annoying even myself. Allergies were at bay but OCD cut loose.
"Grade three papers and then you can look at a magazine," I told myself. "Just three. C'mon, you can do it!"
Couldn't do three because I hadn't lined my coffee cup exactly ... where .... it .... should.... be.
Must grade two, or four, an even number. Yes. Then the magazine, something decorating related.
After four hours at the bookstore, I'd graded approximately thirteen essays and looked through a dozen magazines. Drunk two honey-cinnamon lattes. Eaten a bagel.
It's that time of the year when LifeFunk takes over. I'm in that end-of-year teaching zone: Summer's coming but it's not quite here.
"Give everyone an A," my husband says, satisfied with himself. "That's what I'd do."
Friday, May 9, 2008
Nineteen Days and Counting
In nineteen days I can read a book on my porch without feeling guilty that I should be doing something more productive. In nineteen days I can stay up past 9:30 and sleep in past 6 a.m. I can hurl my alarm clock across the floor. I can unplug my alarm clock entirely. I can give it away; sell it at a garage sale. Hell, I can just throw it away.
In nineteen days I can go to the gym on my schedule. A regular schedule. A schedule I will actually follow. Hopefully follow.
In nineteen days I will be surrounded by only my own children. Three instead of 103.
Yes, in nineteen days school will have ended.
Hello, Summer.
In nineteen days I can go to the gym on my schedule. A regular schedule. A schedule I will actually follow. Hopefully follow.
In nineteen days I will be surrounded by only my own children. Three instead of 103.
Yes, in nineteen days school will have ended.
Hello, Summer.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
A friggin' good day ...
Today was the kind of day where things get done. No procrastination. No dilly-dallying.
Awoke at a reasonably early time for a Saturday (8 a.m.). Made food for the writers' group: taco bars, spinach-cheese dip, brownie squares (that my girls made into an adorable crossword pattern to celebrate several group members' successes).
C
O
JE NNIFER
G
R
A
T
S
Attended a luncheon in honor of one of my amazing students. She's one of about 20 Kauffman Scholars from the Kansas City metro area. She's a dynamo and one of the most intelligent and articulate students I've ever had the privilege to teach. I felt honored to be asked to attend (she had chosen me as her most influential teacher). Teaching is worth the pain when an event like this surfaces, I can tell you that!
I got home with only three minutes to spare before the writers group showed up. Fortunately the girls had tidied up the house in addition to playing Martha Stewart. It was wonderful to look around my dining room at all the creative people sitting at my table: poets, essayists, short story writers, novelists. My friend who scored big with the publishing houses talked about her journey. Says she's feeling overwhelmed with what's being expected of her (revisions and new synopses on projects she hasn't yet written).
Another group member lingered for a full hour to discuss a community issue.
It does feel like a kind of family, meeting with these folks ... .
"Come, let's take a night ride," I said to my oldest daughter, after the last guest left. "It's beautiful out. "
And so the two of us got into the Grand Prix and drove around the town square, the moon suspended low and large in the sky. We talked. I sang along to a song on the radio -- Celine Dion's "Taking Chances," and felt, truly felt, that I am ready to do that very thing.
Awoke at a reasonably early time for a Saturday (8 a.m.). Made food for the writers' group: taco bars, spinach-cheese dip, brownie squares (that my girls made into an adorable crossword pattern to celebrate several group members' successes).
C
O
JE NNIFER
G
R
A
T
S
Attended a luncheon in honor of one of my amazing students. She's one of about 20 Kauffman Scholars from the Kansas City metro area. She's a dynamo and one of the most intelligent and articulate students I've ever had the privilege to teach. I felt honored to be asked to attend (she had chosen me as her most influential teacher). Teaching is worth the pain when an event like this surfaces, I can tell you that!
I got home with only three minutes to spare before the writers group showed up. Fortunately the girls had tidied up the house in addition to playing Martha Stewart. It was wonderful to look around my dining room at all the creative people sitting at my table: poets, essayists, short story writers, novelists. My friend who scored big with the publishing houses talked about her journey. Says she's feeling overwhelmed with what's being expected of her (revisions and new synopses on projects she hasn't yet written).
Another group member lingered for a full hour to discuss a community issue.
It does feel like a kind of family, meeting with these folks ... .
"Come, let's take a night ride," I said to my oldest daughter, after the last guest left. "It's beautiful out. "
And so the two of us got into the Grand Prix and drove around the town square, the moon suspended low and large in the sky. We talked. I sang along to a song on the radio -- Celine Dion's "Taking Chances," and felt, truly felt, that I am ready to do that very thing.
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