(Im)Patient Patient

Dear Dr. L,

Thank you. Thank you for being a doctor who listens. I can't tell you what a relief that is. Sadly, I've had to see enough doctors throughout my life to know the really good ones from the really, really bad ones. You are clearly among the former.

I was so fortunate, all through my childhood and early teenage years, to have some of the best doctors there could ever be. Perhaps some of that had to do with my mom's connections, being one of the best nurses in the Tri-State area. Whatever the reason, my sick little self got amazing care. Yes, I was a frequently ill child. I've had Scarlet Fever..... twice. I've had Pneumonia..... twice. I got Chicken Pox...... twice. Add to that asthma as a younger child, colds and cases of bronchitis that came three times a year like clockwork, allergies in the Summer, and an ear infection so bad that the ENT doctor had to suction out my ear with this long metal tube, which hurt so badly that I screamed. Actually, Dr. L, I think that is the perfect segue to let you know about some of the wicked, incompetent, callous human beings who have introduced themselves to me as "doctors".

The whole ear infection fiasco was probably my first experience with a really horrible doctor. Fortunately, she was working with one of the best doctor's I've ever seen, so her idiocy was quickly put into check, and I was able to get the medical attention I so badly needed. This was about 18 years ago, so I don't remember all of the details. I remember my ears popping about 100 times in the span of about 5 minutes, and an hour later, pain. Excruciating pain. Naturally, to the doctor's office I go! She came at me with a cotton swab, and started poking around in my ear. When she brought the swab out, it was green.

Like this green:


Now, I would think that a doctor would look at that and say something along the lines of, "Holy Shit! You've got a serious infection going on!" (you know, something like that...). But, no. She told me, and the doctor standing beside her, that I must have stuck a green marker in my ear. That's right, Dr. L. I was 13, not 3. A green f'ing marker. Despite my insistence that I was not, in fact, a toddler, she was adamant that this was the case. You can imagine my frustration, I'm sure. Thankfully, the other doctor saw fit to send me to an ENT specialist just in case I hadn't gone all crayola on my ear canal. The result was the aforementioned ear suction, and two weeks of antibiotics and pain killers.

By now, you must be thinking, "Well, that really is awful, but everyone has bad experiences from time to time. Surely, that's as bad as it gets, right?" Oh, Dr. L, you do have a wonderful sense of humour. It's one of the reasons I like you so much. But, no. Sadly, that was neither the worst nor the last bad experience I had with a doctor. Let's fast-forward to 2003, a mere three weeks before my wedding.

I didn't know it at the time, but the pain I'd been feeling in my abdomen for the previous 5 days was, in fact, my very first ovarian cyst. In the middle of the night, this cyst ruptured, which is painful in and of itself. But this pain was more than excruciating. It was the kind of pain that makes colours more intense. If you've experienced it, you know what I'm talking about. I eventually made my way to the ER, the pain growing more and more unbearable by the minute. Once there, they contacted their on-call ob/gyn, who demanded an ultrasound before he would even come to the hospital. Fair enough.

They took me in to do the ultrasound, but, as the tech noted, she couldn't see much because, for some reason, the image was "all cloudy". Perhaps you see where this is going. After letting me sit in the hospital for six hours, the ob/gyn finally came in. By the time he got there, I was really out of it, and the pain had spread all the way through my torso, up into my shoulders. He asked me some questions, and finally agreed to do a laparoscopy (where they go in with a camera to see what's going on), but, he added, "I doubt we'll find anything". Yeah. Nice.

I went under the knife, and upon waking, the doctor was much nicer to me. You see, as it turns out, a really rare thing happened. When that cyst ruptured, it yanked open my f'ing ovary, and I'd been bleeding internally for that whole time. He ended up having to cauterize my ovary shut, and suctioned about 2 pints of blood out of my abdomen. "I doubt we'll find anything", indeed.

I could go on and on. There was another ob/gyn who allowed a room full of students observe his procedures on me, without even asking my permission. There was the time when the trunk latch on my car came down on the top of my head, but since I didn't lose consciousness, the doctor said nothing was wrong with me, even though I woke up screaming for about six months afterward, due to the searing pain in my head. There was the doctor I saw just before you, who told me to take Tylenol for pain so bad that it kept me up at night (please, don't you think I would try Tylenol before sitting in your damn waiting room for 3 hours??).

After all this, I'm sure you can understand why I'm wary of doctors, and why I have little patience for those I feel are not listening to me. To be sure, I have also had some amazing doctors. Dr. G saw me throughout my teenage years. I think she may have been the only doctor in the world who wouldn't have thought me a total hypochondriac. I saw her at least 6 times a year, due to all of those conditions I mentioned earlier. She listened to me. She believed me. She talked to me like a person. But, it seems, in that way she also spoiled me. I was unprepared for the larger world of medical care due to her true expertise, in all senses of the word.

You, however, are another Dr. G. The last time we met, I brought in a three-page list of issues to discuss with you, trying to connect the dots over the last two years. I've been having pain in my joints off and on for that whole time, and I was determined to tell you about all of it. You listened. You promptly ordered blood work (it wasn't your fault the lab ran the wrong tests, and then lost the results for 2 months). You recommended me to a rheumatologist (who I will see in 2 weeks). You discussed medication options with me, to see what would make me the most comfortable - both in terms of pain relief, and in terms of what will allow me to continue my daily routines.

I had a similar experience with you yesterday. We talked. We had a conversation about my health. I can't tell you how much I value that, Dr. L. Not to mention, I noticed that you had personalized, autographed pictures of the Rolling Stones and Ozzy Osbourne on your wall. That did add a few bonus awesome-points to your score.

Back to the point, I don't know if many doctors understand how important that dialogue is. I've been pretty down lately. Every day, I wake up in pain, and even the smallest things only make it worse. That is really difficult to get through. If I were to feel like my doctor wasn't even listening to me when I shared these things, that would only add to the emotional response I'm having to all of this. It's no fun to hear that you've tested weakly positive on the ANA (lupus) test..... twice. It's no fun to hear that your blood results show signs of inflammation in your body..... twice. It's no fun when simply going up stairs, or standing up from a chair, or getting out of a car causes pain like lightning to course through your joints. But knowing that you appreciate my stance as an empowered patient makes it a little more bearable.

Thank you so much for your understanding, your attentiveness, and your tendency to be pro-active in patient care. While I dislike the reasons for my coming to see you, I am glad that I have found you, and look forward to working with you in the future.

Warmly,
Me

Demons

Dear Anxiety,

Hey there... Can we just sit and talk for a minute? By that, of course, I mean that I'll type and you'll, erm, listen, since this is a letter and all. Things haven't been great between us lately, I'll be the first to admit it. I think we may both benefit by getting some things down on virtual paper.

Everything is piling up, like the coffee cups covering a portion of my desk far too embarrassing to quantify for anyone who may be eavesdropping (hi, readers!). One stacked on top of the other, on top of yet another, some with little bits of trash thrown in, or the odd wad of chewed gum stuck to the lid... one is bulging a bit, threatening to give in to the pleas of the remaining contents, so intent on spilling out, making a lukewarm, sticky mess, for which I'll only curse at myself later.

No pictures this time, just a few side remarks. #1 - I really need to clean off my desk, and will as soon as I'm done here. #2 - this coffee cup metaphor is much more applicable than I ever imagined it would be when it began...

I've let us down, a bit, Anxiety, and circumstances beyond my control seem to have upset you as well. I didn't get the teaching job I'd so wanted this summer. Friends in my field are leaving our profession due to lack of work -- friends, that is, not only vastly superior to me in terms of intellect, but also with much more marketable specializations than my own. It snowed the day after I tilled half the soil in my garden. This TAship is taking up way more of my time than it should - time that should be spent on my dissertation, or, failing that, something that I actually enjoy. Stupid RN programs require Stupid pre-reqs that my Stupid self never took. I always knew Geology would come back to haunt me someday, despite the fact that I loved it, and did amazingly well in all three courses.

Maybe that's what has you all riled up these days, making me resort to taking Melatonin to be able to sleep, urging me to snap at the people I love, and who love me, and doing that weird paradoxical thing that you do with my dreams - making them so lovely and perfect that waking up feels like another crushing defeat. Yes, maybe its the fact that all of the things that I seem to love so much, and at which I tend to do rather well, leave me with progressively smaller shots at anything even remotely resembling stability. That is not our - my - fault, of course. That would be one of those circumstantial issues, over which I have no control. The world doesn't have many places for artists, humanities students, gardeners... Maybe I'll re-visit that whole vegetarian cafe idea.

Then, of course, there's the guilt. There's the fact that grandpa, the Engineer, would be SO proud of his granddaughter getting a Ph.D. Grandpa, that is, who - despite all my skepticism - I can't help but occasionally think may have visited me in my sleep as he was leaving this world.* There are my parents, who are quite possibly the most supportive people in the world, who believe in me probably more than they should, who have done everything they could to help me get to where I am today. There is my husband, who has made sacrifice after sacrifice. There are my students, who have so often provided support, even if they didn't realize that's what they were doing. Their words have often been the only thing to keep me motivated, as I stare at blank screens or words on a page that seem to jumble before my eyes. There's the fact that I know that I probably had a promising future in any number of other pursuits - concert flautist, psychologist, nurse - but, no, I just had to follow my heart. How fucking fluffy and sentimental.

You don't like any of this, Anxiety. You never have. It's not like you're just coming around for the first time - you've been a close friend for a very long while. Seriously, who starts getting insomnia at the age of 12? What's up with that? You really aren't helping. There are, obviously, a lot of reasons for you to think that you should be hanging around right now, incessantly pulling at my already tightened muscles, clamping down on the sides of my head, prying my eyes open when I need them shut, wriggling your way up my spine and out my mouth with angry, unacceptable words. I just need you to stop. I need you to be still. I need you to be quiet. You really, really are not helping.

As soon as the snow melts, we'll get back outside into the garden. I'll try to get us to yoga at least three times a week. We'll keep trudging through the work, and it will eventually get done. This can't last forever.

As for the other things, the future things, those dirty, awful things which bring out our greatest insecurities.... well, they are part of the unknowable future. You've never agreed with my thoughts on such things, but I'm the boss here. The future is unknowable for a reason, so stop enforcing your will upon it. That doesn't make things better. Neither of us can foresee what will happen, so we have to let it go for the time being. Keeping me up at night right now is certainly not going to make a job magic itself into existence in a year's time. So, please just stop.

I hope we can come to an understanding about this sooner rather than later. I have to do my taxes soon, and you just love to throw me surprise parties for that splendid occasion. Go ahead and hold off on that this year, ok? In fact, I have neither the time nor the money for a vacation, so why don't you take one instead? Take off for a few weeks, go somewhere nice and sunny - the Bahamas, maybe. Have some drinks. Chat with locals. Learn a new recipe. Send me a postcard. I'm sure it will be lovely.

Diplomatically,
Me



*For those who don't know this story: I was asleep. I was dreaming that a friend and I were walking down a long, white, doorless hallway. We came upon a hole ripped in the wall. Inside was the bedroom of my grandparents. My grandfather was on the floor, he looked up at me and asked for help. Then he said goodbye. At that moment, I was awakened by the phone ringing - it was about 4am. It was my grandmother, calling to let us know that my grandpa had just died of a heart attack. I know that there are rational ways of explaining all of this. I believe them. I know that this was likely coincidence. But it is still a hard feeling to shake - especially when thoughts of failing his hopes or expectations start to seep in.

The Elder Son

Dear Cairo,

Dear, dear Cairo. Poor, damaged Cairo. I meant to send a note yesterday for your birthday, but Life got in the way (as always). You are, however, a very.... ahem.... special cat, who deserves a letter all his own. In your own way, you help support my convictions about animal uniqueness, though not in the way most would assume.

You are, in a word, striking. You are an astoundingly beautiful cat, with your kohl-lined eyes (which, I suspect, is probably what led to your name in the first place), silver tabby stripes, and massive mitts for paws, which lead many to believe that you must be at least part Maine Coon.



Yes, this is what people see when they visit our house, when they are taken aback at your stunning physical presence, when they assume that you are a majestic beast, full of elegance and pride, as would fit a feline of your stature. You look like a miniature snow leopard.



Sadly, your cunning largely consists of your ability to dupe people into believing such things. I was taken in by your falsehoods as well (though I'd have still fallen in love with you, had you been truthful when we met). This is closer to a true representation of your personal felinity:



You were an older adoption, six years old, when you came to us. We understood there was likely to be some psychological and emotional baggage, as there always is in such matters. Your previous people gave you up when they decided they couldn't have a cat and a baby at the same time. We're not sure exactly how they treated you, but we do know that for a long time, you had a particular fondness for hiding, you shrunk back when anyone tried to pet your face, and you always - ALWAYS - think you are in trouble. This tells me a lot, in general, about how you were raised, and it breaks my heart.

How could anyone hurt this sweet guy?



All of that neglect, however, has unfortunately resulted in a certain.... stunting, we'll say, of social skills. In short, you're kind of a doofus.



Now, don't get me wrong, I love every silly inch of you, and you leave me laughing very healthy laughs on regular occasion. You wouldn't be You if you were anything more or less. You think you're in trouble whenever anyone else is, you exist in near-permanent fetal position, and you're probably the whiniest cat I've ever met. And then there's the sucking...



It wouldn't be so bad, Cai, if we could just get you *a* blanket or something. But, no, you seem obsessed with the idea of sucking on my shirt, or my robe, or my pants leg, or my shoulder... basically, on me. I get that you're damaged, sweet boy. I really, really do. But there are times when it goes too far. You become rather intrusive... you violate my personal space... you become, for lack of a better word, a bit "rape-y" with the whole thing.* Your eyes glaze over, you become intent beyond all admonishment or nudging away, and you get angry when you are denied. I'm sorry, kitty-son. I love you, but there are some boundaries that just can't be crossed.



All that said, I love you all the more for your flaws. I'm so sorry, Cairo, that we didn't get to you first, that you had to spend six years with people who obviously didn't appreciate you or treat you properly. I wish that we could have given you the home you deserved for your whole life. But the fact that you show these signs of emotional distress illustrates the conviction that I've had my whole life - you are an individual, you were shaped by your circumstances, your past is reflected in your present. We can keep working on the future, but for now, you are who you are because of who you have been. That shows a deep kinship, I think, between your psychology and my own (or any of ours, really). I wish you never had to go through those things, but I thank you for coming out of it the loving cat that you are.



With Love,
Me



*Please note, I'm not just throwing that term around willy-nilly. Cairo has a few wires crossed, it seems, but I'm leaving out details for your sake, and for his remaining dignity.

Birthday Girl

Dear Izanami (aka Nami, aka Muffin),

Today is your second birthday, and let me just say: Well Done (*slow clap*). You have turned out to be a spectacular little feline. If sunshine and sprinkles could become manifest in living form, they would combine through some mysterious glitter-magic and blossom their way into the world as you.




Somehow, despite the chaos that is our home, and despite the best efforts of your evil little brother...






...you still manage to brighten every room you enter. I would barely bat an eye if I turned one day to see little sparkly fairies and rosy-cheeked elves circling your ears and laying candied lavender petals in your path.



Even our introduction left me speechless. I received a phone call from Dez, saying that I just had to come see the beautiful litter of kittens that had just been brought in to his work. I went in, prepared to snuggle some little sweeties, to feast on some tiny purrs, and head home. I remember readying myself before entering the room (knowing full well that I am weak-willed in such matters). "Ok, we enter, we execute Plan Nuzzle, and we exit. That's it." I entered with nigh-military precision. Surveying the room, adorableness abounded. I sat on the floor, just as one of your brothers started climbing in my purse. Little mews and kitten sighs surrounded me, snuggling and snorgling, and I tried to steady myself. I felt confident, though. "My home is full. We've already got enough going on, with the other cats and all the rabbits. I can give these kitties some love, and still walk away."

Then, you made your appearance.




You were neither shy nor timid. You walked right over to me, scaled my knee to find purchase on my lap, curled up into a tiny ball, buried your head in my sweater, and purred and purred and purred. My jaw dropped. You had claimed me. I was yours.

Your little personality has bloomed over the last two years, and I cherish every moment we've had together. I love that you still do the "Nami Wiggle"...



...where you flop on your back and stretch and wriggle and show me your belly every time we see each other. I love that you still have your little kitten voice, and that you use it often. I'm glad that you love your brothers enough to bathe them and cuddle with them, even if they can be obnoxious little buttheads sometimes (and I say that with love, truly). I love that we still have so many years ahead of us, and that we'll only grow closer in time.

So thank you, Nami, for being a really awesome cat. I love you, little one, and happy birthday!



In Adoration,
Me


P.S. Before I was alerted to the fact that it is Nami's birthday (thanks, Dez), today's letter was going to be directed to one of my other good friends, "Free Haircut". I was also going to examine the distinct possibility of dressing up as Robert Smith from The Cure for Halloween, if the current incarnation of Free Haircut makes it to October (which it probably won't -- not because I don't like it, but rather because Free Haircut and I like to get down a few times a year, y'know? ;) ).

One Night Stand?

Dear Adult Dance Class at the Y,

I'm not sure if you'll remember me or not. We became acquainted last night, but the room was crowded, the music was loud, and many people were vying for your attention. I fumbled a bit at our introduction - I'll admit, I was quite nervous to meet you.

I was all decked out in my finest black tank top, black yoga pants, and new-enough-to-still-be-called-new gym shoes.



I pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail, and prayed that my glasses would stay on my face. Should we meet again, I'll definitely opt for contact lenses. I glanced around the room nervously, lithe bodies obviously accustomed to your standards stretching and showing off for you. Oh, how I envied them.

This is what I wanted to look like.



Fortunately, as you began to build your rhythms, I found another young woman (am I too old to still consider myself a "young woman"?) who was also just meeting you for the first time. We agreed that one of the most liberating things in life is to make a fool of oneself, while being completely aware that one is making a fool of oneself. It was a bold decision of conviction, but, it turns out, one that was commendable in its accuracy.

This was probably closer to reality.



You see, it's not that I'm rhythmically challenged, necessarily. I have years of musical experience - I'm just used to playing the music that makes people move, rather than being the mover myself. Perhaps that says something significant about me. But, aside from that, I'm just more accustomed to dancing like a slu-- erm... like a sexually empowered 21st century woman at a goth club.



You had other things in mind. You wanted me to dance like Michael Jackson (no, really, the first five songs were a mash up of MJ songs - it was f'n hilarious), you wanted me to dance Bollywood, you wanted me to be a belly dancer.

You'd see through my lies in an instant if I tried to say that I picked up the moves like a pro, that I was a quick learner in these things, that I was on my way to being the star student. I didn't, I'm not, I wasn't. But, you know, I'm really ok with that. For once, I've decided to take a class in which failure, or even just mediocrity, is acceptable. I don't have to stress over this, I can just move. Sure, I might be making a complete ass of myself, but it's fun and there is no pressure other than that which I put on myself. I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for that.

I'll admit, there were times when I was a bit jealous of your rival, Low/High Impact: the structure, the counting, the encouragement - "5...4...3...2...1... C'mon, Ladies! Other side! And 5...4...3..." I found myself craving that about halfway through our 90 minute meeting. You were wild, untamed (like Mars*). My life is often about how much structure I can cram into chaos.

This is my desk calendar from last month. Notice that it is colour-coded...



...as are these papers I'm going over for a publication (but you can see the chaos trying to breach the walls here: Linseed Oil, wire, Reactine, glue?).



Low/High Impact seemed to epitomize that. But, no, I decided to venture out into unknown realms, so I danced like Michael Jackson, I danced like the beautiful women in Bollywood films, I belly danced, I danced traditional African dances. I hopped and twisted and gyrated and flailed my arms and bobbed my shoulders and almost ran into the person next to me more times than I can count. And you know what? I laughed the whole time. So did the people around me. Let me be clear, though - these were good laughs, not "Oh my god, what a clumsy oaf of a woman" laughs. We were laughing together, because most of us there, in the back of the room, barely able to even see the teacher, had no clue what we were doing. But we were moving, and we were smiling, and we were laughing.

In short, Adult Dance Class at the Y, you were intimidating, but you were also amazing last night. I've never moved my body like that before. I might drop by again tomorrow to see how you're doing, and if you'll have me back. In the meantime, I'll work on my Moonwalking while thinking about what the hell I'm going to write next in this dissertation chapter, ok?

Fondly,
Me


*You're welcome, fans of Sealab 2021! Get in on the joke here

P.S. No matter what anyone else thinks, my boys know I'm a Dancing Queen.

A Lost Form

It seems that proper letter writing is an increasingly lost art, what with all the *insert old person comments about technology*, and whatnot. Yet, being the odd person that I seem to be, many of my daily thoughts occur in letter form: letters to people I love, to people I absolutely do not love, to people I don't know, to my animal companions, to random inanimate objects, to myself (or even just to parts of myself). Those of you who are my friends on Facebook may have noticed bits of this from time to time. I'm hoping that getting some of this down somewhere will help unclog my brain a bit, which feels as though it constantly sits at max capacity of late.

Hence, blog.

Why not? It might not stick, it might not suck - but then again, it totally might. We'll see, I suppose. The one thing I will try to do is stay true to my original goal of writing *actual* letters -- that is, I'll attempt to refrain from simply saying things like, "Dear people-who-canceled-Caprica, I hate you. Signed, Me."... even though such things totally go through my mind on (frequent) occasion. There will probably be some profanity, some crass humour, and some flip-flopping between Canadian and American spelling (trapped between worlds as I am). Forgive me, if you will.

For now, I'll start with the most recent letter to bubble up, from about 10:00 this morning.

Ahem.

Dear Body,

I would ask how you are doing, but I am quite certain you do not know the answer to that question. Seriously, what the hell is going on with you?

(A lovely introduction, don't you think, dear reader?)

I'm trying, Body. I really, really am. I know that I wasn't the best tenant for many years. We both know I put you through some really difficult things (that were nonetheless largely awesome). But I'm really trying to make up for that, and have been for some time now. I'm eating all the good foods, I got us signed up at the YMCA (and have been going frequently), and I'm always trying to lower our stress levels.

We've been doing this whole Ph.D. thing for a while now, I know. And I know you've responded to that by developing what I lovingly refer to as a "dissertation booty". I get it. We sit in front of a computer for far too many hours each day.

I tried adding some more dynamic organizational/research methods into our daily routine.


When that proved insufficient on its own, I figured that getting us into a gym might help. For the first three weeks, we went almost every single day. I'm not sure how, but we made the time for it, didn't we? I know it felt amazing for you, just to get up and move and swing and kick and be. I know this, because I felt amazing about it, too.

I even made us a "Gym" playlist.


Life (who will be getting a letter at another time) always seems to interrupt our happiness, though, and so we missed a few days last week. Previously, you'd rewarded my three weeks of hard work by ditching almost five pounds. Five. I was so happy for us! But you were too quick to punish, Body! I took four days off, and you held on to every little calorie, putting those five pounds right back on. How is that even possible?

Now, I know I shouldn't be a pound-counter, and there are far more reliable ways of determining successes in these things. But, you see, there aren't always a lot of quantifiable achievements in my life. I do well in the areas in which I'm expected to do well, and I know that is a great thing. It just doesn't always feel as great as something so concrete as watching a scale steadily drop.

There are a lot of other issues going on with you right now, Body, but we'll just stick with this one for today, as I don't want to overload you with my complaints. So, can we just work together on this? I'll work on keeping us motivated, signing us up for all sorts of fun classes, and forcing myself to walk away from the dissertation and the marking and the course outlines and the Facebook and the conference proposals and the vacation daydreaming and the research and all the other crap that has to be done in front of a computer.

And let's not forget the books...


If it makes you happy, I'll even try to substitute a bit of gym time here and there for artistic pursuits, which also please us both thoroughly. You just need to work with me, then, on reinforcing my motivation by holding on to our successes, and not so callously brushing them off over a minor relapse. Ok?

In Patience,
Me

P.S. Nami agrees.