Good Grief

It's going to be one of those days.

And by that, I mean I need to use all my internal resources to figure things out.

It actually started yesterday, after Tyoma came home from school. I proudly restrained myself from my usual singing and hand clapping (I am happy to see him!). I gave him space and ignored his "rumbling" behaviors, using my own list of what to do to keep on track.

As usual, Tyoma flung off his pants.The nasty rash on his bottom had become angry, red and raised. For two weeks, I've been moisturizing the patch and applying Lanacane. Now it was worse, and he had a fever (100.9). I called the nurse who recommended he be seen today at 6:10 that evening.

Mentally, I calculated the sheer agony of an evening doctor's appointment versus the sheer agony of non-stop fretting over Tyoma's health.  When I  put off my concerns over rashes last year, Tyoma wound up in the hospital for an allergic reaction to penicillin. So, 6:10 it was.

Egor sometimes comes to appointments with me, since talking to the doctor disorganizes Tyoma (and me too!). Last night, E was in too much back pain, and I could not subject him to such a gruelling experience. So on the twenty minute drive to the doctors, T asked me every addition and place value question he could think of.  This helped organize him, but I felt greatly distracted as I I drove. My strategy--give answers and fake being interested. I am quite skilled at this!

Everything went smoothly at the doctors until she started to talk to me.  Tyoma melted down--no tears just wild behavior--tipping things over and tearing paper. I handed the doctor a notebook and asked her to write down information for me. It worked. T continued to act out until we were back in the car and everything was quiet.  His transformation into a saint was instantaneous. I might have aggravated beyond belief without my new sensory insight.

On the drive home, Tyoma was still a question machine, but in a placid, let's-be-friends sort of way.  He created interesting "puzzles" out of  a wooden block fidget and hummed to himself. I felt so stressed when I got home I wanted to scream, but I organized our bedroom closet instead.

I felt better in about twenty minutes and wnrt back to mama duty. After kiddo was in bed,  I made the mistake of watching House, MD with E.  How many times do I watch it and find myself too wound up to hit my target bedtime of 10:00?  About four times out of five.  Well, I was tired and just wanted to sit and "be" with hubby. The blaring special effects of my recent DVR movies (SyFy!) would surely melt my last two brain cells. Why not a little House?  @#$%&*%$@!!!

It wasn't even a good episode.  So what set me off? Poor House, being nastily berated for insensitivity, when it was obvious to  me that the poor fellow was simply overwhelmed by the speaker's crisis.  Did I personalize this? Yes. Derp, de, derp.  At 9:40, I was trying to fall asleep and it felt as my body was vibrating with tension.  I closed my eyes and the image of a red oscilloscope recording the vibrations of  my ribs appeared. I asked myself--if my ribs were vibrating--what did it look like? The image popped into my head and I was off :

I watched the rib oscillations and imagined myself being monitored and tested for mental and physical wellness.  The vivid vision fascinated me and I half slipped into a trance state, synchronizing the vibrations to all the bones in my body. It was almost a physical sensation and it rather freaked me out. I have always been able to close my eyes, deeply concentrate, and freak the shit out of myself.

Mind you, I knew my little hallucination was not real. It is my anxiety coping mechanism.  Instead ruminating over events, graphic and daydreams transport me to a odd, but more soothing place. Nevertheless, anxiety still intrudes, and the bliss of having odd thoughts turns ugly. I shook myself out of it, checked my email, and trotted downstairs.  I paced and watched Comedy Central until 11:00.

Dr. Dobbins

I took Tyoma to meet his new pediatrician today.  He was pretty squirmy in the office as we waited, so I was glad to have brought books for him.  I chose Dr. Dobbins for her extended experience and pleasant face.  Does it make sense that she looked like a cross between Dr. Bass and my dear sweet Grandmam?

She was not a touchy feely doctor like Dr. Settles, she was a no-nonsense sorta gal. I liked her although she disparaged me calling her "Mam" all the time.  I will make it a point to call her "doctor" in the future.  It's odd what can get under a person's skin, I was nervous and trying to be polite.

Anyway, yes Tyoma has a speech delay, enough to be evaluated for speech therapy.  I was pretty shocked, actually.  she made it sound like no big deal.  She also said that the change in our living arrangements was what was causing the sleep problems.  She said to do what I always do, regardless of the mother-in-law.  He might scream, but he will feel more secure with a return to my way of doing things.  Boy, was I relieved to hear that. 

I was a bit surprised to hear of the self-care stuff that Tyoma should be doing. We still feed him, except for finger foods, and I'd only give him a real cup if I wanted to spend the day changing his clothes.  He can do many things, but some time he just won't and you can't force things on him.  Well, not easily.

Goodbye Doctor Bass

I had my last appointment with Doctor Bass today. Sniff!  I've been seeing him for over 26 years!  He was so sweet and grandfatherly. I will really miss him.

I had my yucky physical and was glad to not have the ob-gyn stuff done, but I got the usual finger up the butt tap. I thought only guy got that. Ah, well.

I had my Lexapro renewed, which will help with the move and he went over my blood work, which all came out super. so I am one healthy girl!

Well Visit

Today we caught up with our pediatrician before the move. Since she was unable to make our November visit, this will serve as our 18 month well-visit. I expressed my concernes over Tyoma not speaking very much. But she said about four words is okay for now.

 

He has spoken many words, but he seems to loose them--he used to say “mama,” “boo-ah” (papa), and “gaa-a” (our dog) frequently, but these words vanished. Other words have appeared, "aaah" for apple, and other little phonemes for food or favorite activities, but nothing seems to stick.  He gets what he wants by pointing and fussing.

 

Our pediatrician reminded me that children in dual language households often talk later. She had mentioned this earlier, but I forgot. She also stated that at 18-19 months Tyoma would have a developmental “language explosion” and everything would level out—he would learn a few new words every day. She said that some children do loose “mama” and “papa” at this age but it will return soon--don’t worry until closer to his two year well visit.

 

Tyoma liked the visit, especially since there were no shots.  He kept pawing at Dr. Settles hair.  I think long brown hair in an oddity to him. I worry about finding another doctor in NH. I won't know anyone!  It's so nice to have someone you trust to connnect with.

Meds

After weeks of sleeplessness and frazzled nerves I went in to see my regular physician, who diagnosed post partum depression. I don't feel depressed, but some folks do get positive (anxious) depression. Of course, I should have immediately suspected this with several years of psychiatric experience under my belt, I just couldn't see it. My doctor  dosed me with sleep meds, lexapro and xanax. I'll have to check with the lactation consultant for continued breast feeding, since the sleep meds are contradictory.

Hip-hip Hooray!

Today was my final appointment with Dr. Rubble. Only a few minutes passed in a waiting room inexplicably full of rambunctious children before his nurse ushered me to an exam room. Out of the blue, she told me that she thought I resembled a Hollywood actress, but she couldn’t recall which one. I secretly hoped she wasn’t thinking of Melanie Griffith.

I scribbled in my journal until Dr. Rubble entered and I popped open my blouse for the moment of truth. Ahem. I am pleased to announce that my incision scar has healed and that I will not need any “revisions” (cosmetic procedures)! Yay! I’m tossing out the q-tip box in celebration.

Dr. Rubble chatted amiably with me (perhaps he’ll even visit my blog!), gave me a topical prescription to “mature” my scar, dictated relevant notes into his recorder and warmly shook hands with me. I think it’s hard for a doctor to balance being both professional and personable. Dr. Rubble has it down pat. What a swell guy.

Afterward, I raced home since I forgot the family paycheck and my shopping list. I left an hour later since I couldn’t resist chatting with Momfiend and playing with Babyfiend. I dropped off a toasted Philly cheese steak for my poor starving father and met Tennisfiend at Big Pushy Bastard Tire Center to have a flat fixed. TF treated me to a surprisingly delicious oven-fired (translate: charred black on the bottom) pizza with a Black Forest cheesecake chaser. I continued errands until my bosom was ready to burst (I’m still breastfeeding.)

After taking care of “Mommy Business” I handed Tyoma over to his Russian Grandma and gobbled a snack while watching last night’s Metalocalypse. I just love that show! Right now TF is grilling shashlik while I enjoy a half a glass of red wine. What a great day!

I Might Need Cosmetic Surgery

Went back to see Dr. Rubble, who informed me that my infection had cleared, but that my inscision needs to remain open to heal and prevent re-infection. He also reminded me to q-tip my wound, but shot me a look that suggested that  he knew I'd avoid q-tipping at all costs.

He discussed the possibility of me having an  unlovely scar on my left breast that might need revision (aka a cosmetic procedure), but that we'd worry about that after I have healed. Yep. I will definitely need it. I feel rather depressed and self conscious over the whole thing. Not that a nude photo shoot or Girls Gone Wild appearence is on my to-do list. But man, I don't want to look like a Fangoria centerfold either....

The Waiting Room

Much gratitude to Momfiend for springing into action at a moment’s notice to help my disabled self! She has baby-sat, given me rides, stopped by the store, picked up prescriptions and cooked meals for us. Whew!  Today she did double baby-sitting duty at 2 am for Tyoma and at 10 am for me at the doctor’s office. In anticipation of another painful procedure, I took a full dose of pain meds leaving me feeling groggy. I really needed her to drive and take notes on Dr. Rubble’s latest treatment plan.

We were lucky enough to snap up the last two unoccupied seats in a waiting room packed full of miserable looking couples. A half hour into our wait, we encountered one of Tennisfiend’s senior colleagues, Dr. Voran, who we knew to be a cancer survivor. Walking hunched with a cane, he looked disturbingly bloated. His eyes were yellowish and bulged unhealthily; one was cocked permanently to the far left. I tried not to appear shocked by his condition, but I am a lousy actress. Nevertheless, he chatted amiably with a smooth graciousness that only Christopher Walken should be able to pull off. I admired his affable attitude made a mental note to send him a card.

After another ten minutes passed, our neighbor Mr. D entered with his wife.  She looked very unwell and in considerable pain. Although the couple recognized me, they immediately avoided eye contact. I took the hint and remained silent, but I felt bad for them, both for being there and for feeling the need to avoid me. Mom and I continued to chat and make jokes, being occasionally joined by Mr. Voran and his wife. Some of the other patrons smiled at our hilarity. I wondered how many people we annoyed. When they finally called Mr. Voran, he made a point to come over to shake hands with us before he left. What a cool guy.

When it was my turn, Dr. Rubble gave me a thourough inspection and answered my neurotic questions (yes you can take Ibuprofen, any type of Q-tip, of course your antibiotic and pain meds are compatible with breastfeeding, etc). He pronounced me well, reminded me to shower and q-tip clean and said he’d see me next Friday. On the way out I gave the lone Mr. D a sympathetic smile, which he grimly returned.

The Day After

So what was the significance of Dr. Rubble instructing me to take a shower before I came to today’s appointment? I’ll tell you. By showering and letting water flow into the wound, the gauze he packed into it would not adhere to my healing abscess, making the extraction of the two feet of material not agonizingly painful. Sure wish I would have understood that clearly before I came to my appointment! Dr. Rubble even made a point of asking me if I had showered. I said sure--I showered dutifully. He asked if the gauze had gotten wet. I said sure, because it had. If he would have asked if water had saturated the gauze, I might have been spared a good deal of pain. Oh well. His nurse held my hand while I bit my lip.

Tennisfiend witnessed the extraction, later commenting that the gauze looked like “a yard of meaty bacon” as the doctor removed it. He was quite remorseful for not clarifying the doctor’s instructions to me since my perception of Wednesday’s instructions was blurry. The doctor’s next set of instructions were obediently memorized by both us. I must shower 4-6 times a day, letting water flow into and rinse my wound. Friday I should be able to clean the insides with a q-tip (gasp!).  If he noticed the look of inexpressible horror on my face, he ignored it. The doctor prescribed me a mega-dose of Cleocin, an antibiotic so powerful it gives you diarrhea for weeks after treatment. Assisted by TF, I bravely staggered out of the office five minutes later. We sat in the parking lot for ten minutes while I recovered.

It took most of the afternoon to build up enough courage to take my first shower. I started by wetting the bandage thoroughly to keep it from sticking. Heh.  I tried not to look, but morbid curiosity overcame my usual squeamishness. My first glance made my stomach clench. Immediately, an image from the Discovery Channel popped into my head. A group of fishermen butchered a great white shark. The gruesome combination of pale white skin and bloody red flesh looked exactly like eviscerated shark meat. I felt simultaneously dissociated from my incision and utterly repulsed by it. Despite my love for horror movies, I am ridiculously squeamish over real life medical procedures. I vow to desensitize myself with some Discovery Health programming.  Brrr.

Ultrasound Adventure

I had my breast ultrasound early this morning and spent the rest of the day twiddling my thumbs waiting for results. Fortunately,  the cool US tech girl gave me a heads up on the radiologist's propesnsity to drag his feet on sending reports. As a result, I spent an hour on the phone harassing various agencies to get my reults sent to my doctor's office. Lucky me. Almost ten minutes to the second after my final phone call,  a Dr. Rubble calls me. I have no idea who he is, but he will be my surgeon tomorrow! I have a serious breast abscess. I need surgery. Would I like to come in tonight? Perhaps tomorrow would be better since I need to be without food for at least six hours to avoid aspirating my meal and dying a horrible death? A nine o'clock appointment with Dr. Rubble is scheduled for tomorrow. The evening passes with about five more phonecalls to prepare me for tomorrow's procedure, including a call from Sarah Seamstress for stronger pain meds (codeine).  I make a few more phone calls to my mommy (Wah! Poor me!) and Ewbliette (am I going to die?). Damn, I was hoping to avoid all this.

Allergic To My Baby?!

I went in for my annual physical today, visiting the avuncular Dr. Trout, my doctor  (and occasional savior) for many years. After the he gave me usual congratulations on the new baby, I made my usual comments on continuing breast problems. After much questioning and an exam, he diagnosed me with allergic dermatitis of the nipple and suggested that I might actually be allergic to Artyom's saliva! Whoa. He prescribed a powerful anti-inflammatory  (Ultravate) and gave me the litany about breastfeeding and topical steroid use. All of this is at odds with the "you still have thrush" coming from my nurse practitioners. I'll see if the meds help.

When I came home, I spent my obligatory hour and a half on gooogle checking all this out. Tomorrow I'll call Gretta Granola and ask about the both the diagnosis and medication before I use it. What a weird diagnosis! And how depressing. I feel like I need to call Maury Povich.

On a cheerier note, I spoke to Patricia for almost a half hour today. Our schedules have been incompatible--she comes home from work when I go to sleep prior to my evening/early morning baby shift. I can't remember everything that was said, but I know that I yelled "Ahhhh!" into the phone and that she had some delicious gossip for me.

E.T.A. Subsequent doctor visits revealed that I still had thrush compounded by dermatitis. I was allergic to the nipple cream originally prescribed to me for thrush. Go figure.

Tyoma's First Appointment

Whew! Today we took Tyoma for his first pediatrician appointment. The hardest part was getting comfortable in the waiting room. Dr. Candy Coppola recently moved to a new location, and with it came new furniture. Her Southwestern decor is quite tasteful but a bit of an odd choice.  It looks as if she duplicated a trendy page from Santa Fe magazine, right down to the Navajo rugs and carved hardwood furniture.  It was more of a dentist's office than a waiting room for kids. Actually, her new furnature would be an odd choice for any office since the hard wood furniture is bulky, angular and unpleasant as stone to sit on. Looks swell, though.  Strangely, the toys looked shabby and overused.

Maybe the problem wasn't the furniture so much as it was my poor sore bottom. I could not sit down!  The couches had no cushions, and the stack of Highlights magazines was not any softer. I had to ask the receptionist to borrow a computer chair so I could sit. With surprise she told me that no one had mentioned the uncomfortable seats before. I would have been offended if they had been in their new location for more than a week. As it was, I gave her a wan smile and gratefully sat down.

Tennisfiend quickly became bored with the wait and began rolling his eyes and making faces. At least he wasn't moaning, "Skuchna!"  ("Boring") in deep baritone. The nurse, Lupe,  who took us to the exam room managed to pronounce Artyom's name correctly the first time. She weighed him and Dr. Coppola joined us. She fielded questions for the next half hour, encouraging us to call the nurse if we have any questions. I wonder if she knows how neurotic I am. Heh.

Placenta Problems?

I asked my midwife if she had received the results of from my perinatologist appointment in El Paso. Clara said yes and proceeded to read me the results, which were, "Normal, normal, normal, normal, normal, huhn?!"

Apparently my placenta is maturing a bit rapidly, which could be a problem. She scheduled an ultrasound for me next week to check on the age of the placenta. I've spent the balance of the day perusing the babycenter.com chat rooms, feeling successively relieved and anxious.

Ultimately, if a problem serious existed, Dr. Topgun would have said something and Clara would have given me an Ultrasound right away. I am going to eat a banana with a heap of peanut butter for comfort.

Sweet Relief and the 3D Ultrasound

I am so relieved to report that Artyom’s appointment with the perinatologist revealed that his heart arrhythmia was nothing to be concerned about. I was so worried for him! I spent most of the night sleepless and became almost hysterical when I could not feel him move first thing in the morning. Sheesh.

The drive to El Paso seemed interminable for everyone. I annoyed both Tennisfiend and myself being neurotic over driving and parking. Other mothers in the waiting room at the specialist’s office seemed sleepy and bored, except for the older pregnant lady in a wheelchair who looked completely miserable. I made a mental note to be more grateful for my life.

The perinatologist, Dr. Topgun, pretty much ignored me, except for the routine health related questions and struck up a conversation with Tennisfiend about North Korea and nuclear weapons. He intently studied the ultrasound, explained why Artyom had a slight heart arrhythmia and that it would disappear at or before birth.

He then examined the rest of the baby’s little organs, proclaiming him to be perfectly normal and healthy. I asked a question or two, and Dr. Topgun made me feel like we had regressed to the 1940’s, when the “little woman” shouldn’t worry when the doctor tells her it’s all going to be okay. I was so relieved that I didn’t even mind. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that his attitude actually helped me to feel better at the time.

Although in retrospect, it still chaffed a bit, and a non-pregnant, unworried Bestfiend would have certainly asserted herself with dignity and aplomb. To pay me back for a sleepless night, morning panic attack and backseat driving, Tennisfiend (quite chummy with Dr. Topgun, who seemed genuinely impressed with TF’s work with lasers) made me ask the question that I was too embarrassed to mention concerning umbilical cord entanglement.

His answer was totally redeeming. He said, “You can’t let yourself worry over every little thing, bad things can and do happen. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you do. Just focus on being parents. That’s the best you can do.”

Cool. Adding to the warm fuzzy feeling I left the office with, they gave us a nifty 3D ultrasound picture of Artyom. That blurr in the upper right hand corner is his foot! I personally think that he looks just like Tennisfiend, look at those lips! Naturally, he inherited his flexibility from me (not!). I wonder how long it will take me to find something horribly wrong with this picture. I’ll keep you posted!

Heart Arrhythmia

I am so grateful to always take someone with me to my appointments. Today, my midwife, Sarah Seamstress, found a heart arrhythmia with Tyoma. Ewbliette was with me in the office, taking copious notes. All I heard were the words “heart arrhythmia” and I sank into despair and anxiety. I did not seem to hear that 90% of the time that this is developmental and indicative of nothing. After telling me about the arrhythmia, Sarah scooted me over to the ultrasound room “for my peace of mind.” When the tech confirmed the arrhythmia, I heard the concerned in her voice as she asked Sara about scheduling an appointment with a perinatologist. I was so overwhelmed that I spaced out while they discussed whether they should send me to Albuquerque or El Paso. The Ultrasound tech said she’d give me a call tomorrow (translation, in three days) to let me know about the appointment.

I went home and immediately googled everything I could find on heart arrhythmias, and made peace with myself, vowing not to obsess over the problem since I can do nothing. I did vow to give up my daily indulgence of a cup of white tea, since I had two cups today. With less caffeine that a soda, this should not be a problem, but at least I feel like I am doing something.

The best thing I can do for myself is to read Ewbliette’s notes and reassure myself that everything is okay. I am so thankful to have a no-nonsense, non neurotic friend. What a lifesaver!

Amniocentesis

An unfortunate consequence of putting off child bearing until your thirties is the increased risk for having a child with a genetic disorder.

Accordingly, Tennisfiend and I decided to have a procedure called amniocentesis performed to identify any serious problems with our new baby. Now those of you who are familiar with the procedure know that it involves a very long needle. Those of you who are familiar with me know that I don’t like needles (please read "Why I Don’t Like Needles" for the horrifying details). Anyway, a needle is inserted into the abdomen to withdraw a sample of amniotic fluid, which is then tested for abnormalities.

I prepared for the procedure by reading avidly about it for two weeks straight. I then pretended that the test was never going to occur up until the moment that they whipped out the giant needle, which I vowed not to even glance at. As a result, I went into the procedure room cushioned by a Zen-like calm. When Loretta, the ultrasound tech handed me the legal paperwork, I read it dispassionately (having familiarized myself with the risks extensively two weeks ago), signing and initialing in the appropriate places.

Then Dr. Agitator entered the room. Dr. Agitator, the clinic’s amnio expert, resembles a smug, blond Stephen King. He swept into the exam room twenty minutes late, positioned himself tic-tac distance from my face and with intense, almost threatening eye contact, dramatically recounted every single risk associated with the procedure. Every sentence seemed like an accusation. I felt like a crime victim being cross-examined by a particularly hostile and morally outraged defense attorney.

My Zen-like calm disintegrated. It would have been replaced by mortal terror for my unborn child if I hadn’t been very determined and half pissed-off by the doctor’s theatrics. Prior to the test, I instructed Tennisfiend to distract me during the procedure, which was supposed to last under five minutes. Six minutes into the procedure, as Tennisfiend was nervously struggling to keep up conversation, when Dr. Agitator quietly exclaimed, “Huhn! That’s really weird!”

I then felt a punching where the needle was being inserted, followed by continued jerks of pressure and the certain rupturing of various tissues and organs. I was afraid to look up and find Dr. Agitator with one shoe on my hoo-hah and both elbows bellybutton deep in my abdomen. Tennisfiend went white and our banter died, just in time to hear Dr. Agitator faintly say, “Damn, look there’s blood!” My insides went cold. You know that feeling when you see your first crush kissing someone else when they are supposed to be your steady? A clenching in the bowels that indicates that something very, very wrong has happened? It was like that, but icier.

Containing my terror, I looked back at Tennisfiend and asked him (in Russian) to talk about our dog. He sputtered out a laugh and looked away. Then the hand that was clenching mine began to tremble. We stared at each mutely for a handful of excruciatingly long minutes until my quavering voice broke the silence with some inane remark that I had made three times before. At that moment, Dr. Agitator announced that the procedure was finished.

As the ultrasound tech swabbed my belly, I made eye contact with Dr. Agitator and gave him a weak smile. “Were you scared?” he asked. “I felt a few scary moments,” I confessed. “Well, I wasn’t scared at all,” he replied proudly, as if I should congratulate him for being so brave during my procedure. I laughed and quietly congratulated myself on not fainting, screaming, puking or crapping my pants during the ordeal. When Dr. Agitator left the exam room, I quizzed Loretta about the Doctor’s comments. As it turned out, my skin is extraordinarily thick and tough, so he had difficulty inserting the needle. This complication resulted in a wisp of my blood finding its way into the sample. Loretta soothed our frazzled nerves with an ultrasound of the baby, revealing to us that we are expecting a boy. Yay!

Why I Hate Needles

Every one has something that they dread enormously. After a loathing of black widow spiders, few things unsettle me more than hypodermic needles.

My dread originated when I underwent a glucose tolerance test in my teens. The afternoon-long test took place at our local hospital in a shabby trailer that was half bookmobile and half Big-O Tire Center. I clearly remember downing a nauseatingly sweet, gritty orange drink and having my blood taken at intervals by a variety of phlebotomists in-training. After the third draw, despite numerous frantic pokings, the specialist couldn’t find a vein (or something like that) and she called a nurse for advice.

The nurse recommended drawing from my ankles. The whole procedure seemed endless. Every half hour the jabbing resumed as over-concerned students and the Butcher of Dresden alternately tried to “find a vein.” By end of afternoon I was sore and nauseated. The sight of a needle sent cold prickles up my spine and an oily lurching in my bowels.

As if my transformation into a giant needle-fearing pussy was not complete, a veinogram at nineteen was the coup de gras. Returning late from a date with my Biology Lab instructor (shame on us) and Robert Mondovi (shame on me), I realized that I had locked myself out. I hopped the back fence and crawled in through the dog door to avoid waking my folks. The next day, the pain I experienced was more than a wine induced headache; my left foot and leg ached.

Three agonizing days later, x-rays revealed--nothing. Four days later, our concerned and cautious family doctor sent me to the hospital to have my leg injected with iodine isotopes to check for a deadly blood clot. In a battered room at the local hospital, I made the mistake of watching the nurse prepare my iodine IV. The needle seemed super-size, as if radioactive iodine was granulated like paving sand. I looked away as he inserted the IV and pumpded in what felt like ten million microscopic ants. Within seconds, the ants transformed into ipecac syrup and assaulted my stomach, producing the most intense nausea I have ever experienced.

I told the handsome linebacker-esque nurse that I might be ill. Brusquely, he instructed me to be still or the procedure might need to be repeated. With that, I fainted, transforming myself into a full-fledged trypanophobe . I vaguely recall regaining consciousness, feeling relief to the point of giddiness, and noting that the nurse seemed mildly disgusted with me. Fortunately, no clot was found and a second x-ray reading revealed an elusive stress fracture of my left foot. D’oh.

Since then, I am grateful for my fundamentally good health, as it has reduced my exposure to needles. When I must have my blood taken, I warn the phlebotomist of my squeamishness. Generally, the medical staff is kind to me and engages in my banter, helping me to recover some self respect.

Dr. Twinkie and The Corpse Bride

(This is last night's post. An electrical storm prevented me from completing my update.)
I went to my annual physical exam today. Despite my tendency towards hypochondriac speculation, I loathe an actual doctor appointment. I guess I prefer my fanciful but dreadful illnesses to the reality of a legitimate diagnosis. Naturally, I arrived fifteen minutes early, ostensibly to soothe myself with crossword puzzles. Actually, I intended to reassure myself by observing other apprehensive patients.

Only one seat remained in the crowded waiting room. I crammed myself between an anxious looking grandmother and a nondescript magazine table. I smiled at the grandmother and she immediately averted her eyes. Across the room from me sat a trio of sorority sisters. Two girls flanked their sister, who was obviously very unwell. I was touched by their concern, especially since I noticed that each girl held one of their sick friend’s hands. Everyone else seemed to be nervously shifting in their seats and sighing. As I began to study people more closely, my name was called.

How fortunate we are to live in a society that allows both men and women to become doctors. Physical contact seems less invasive when performed by a sister (or brother). Dr. Twinkie performed her annual squeezing, probing, thumping, listening and measuring. She responded to my catalogue of neurotic questions with compassion and gentleness. I felt healthier and a bit embarrassed each time she responded, "That’s perfectly normal, Bestfiend." I was grateful to have culled half my list of questions the night before. When my appointment was over, I felt relieved to the point of joviality.

**Potential Spoilers**

In the late afternoon, I went to see The Corpse Bride with two friends. Princess Jeanne made me snort water out my nose when she whispered that the Corpse Bride looked just like LaToya Jackson (the boobs, the make-up and the tiny nose). Wonder Warthog was delighted by the song "Remains of the Day," and did an improvised song and dance as we left the theater. He continued to serenade us as I drove them home. He is probably still singing to Princess Jeanne as I write. I am still recovering from the dancing black widow scene--there is no such thing as a "cute" black widow.

The movie was so incredibly beautiful you could easily overlook the cliched plot. It was bittersweet, just as the critics from Rotten Tomatoes promised. Every scene was painstakingly crafted to entertain on multiple levels. Yet it left me feeling strangely unfulfilled. I scratched my head all evening, trying to understand exactly what was troubling me. It finally occurred to me: the movie was too hurried. Victor and Victoria rush towards marriage, but then the Corpse Bride abruptly takes him as her husband. Frightened, Victor dashes away, the Corpse Bride flits after him. Suddenly, Victor decides to marry the Corpse Bride afterall, etc., etc. It was as if all the characters were in a frantic race to end the movie as quickly as possible.

The Corspe Bride seemed to be a Reader’s Digest treatment of a more substantial work. Fifteen minutes of footage was clearly missing. The charm of a good Tim Burton film lies in his poignant characters and their gradual development. Thus, the progression of even a simple plot is given depth and verisimilitude. This aspect far outweighs the slickness and visual wizardry of the usual big budget films. The Corpse Bride seemed to put more emphasis on the gee-whiz graphics and clever sight gags, than the actual characters. It looked like a Tim Burton film, but it did not feel like a Tim Burton film. Nevertheless, I would have been outrageously thrilled with this movie as a kid. It’s the adult in me that is disaffected. Am I missing something? Well, after I have bought the DVD and watched it ten more times, I’ll let you know.