Thanksgiving

Mom's Turkey

This year Tennisfiend and I hosted Thanksgiving, despite my minimal participation. Momfiend did the hardest work, roasting a delicious free-range turkey with all the trimmings to perfection.  Fontessa made fassol (Russian green beans) and yams, while Tennisfiend whipped up mashed potatoes. I supervised the baking of pies, set the table, poured (and drank!) the wine. Happy to be with the family on a food oriented holiday, Misty feasted on mashed potatoes and turkey.

We all had a wonderful time, despite the language barrier.  Dad reads and writes Russian quite well, but is sometimes flummoxed in rapid conversations. On the other hand, I can barely read Russian and my grammar is marginal, yet I yammer endlessly and somehow manage to make myself understood. My mom, apparently, can read minds, so she doesn't need a translator at all.

Bangs!

Being a new mother put me in the mood for a new hairstyle, but I didn’t want to inadvertently convert myself into a soccer mom. So, I went to my stylist Rodeyo and suggested a slightly different hairstyle. He said “Lets do BANGS!” I gasped and almost fell out of his cushy salon chair. What was I to do?!

To help you understand my dilemma, the chronicle of my struggle with bangs follows:

4 ½ years old: I decide I want bangs. I chop off the hair above my forehead, continuing several inches backward to a length of ½ inch, giving myself a spectacularly unlovely reverse-Mohawk.

10 years old: The pretty new girl at school has bangs. I tell my mom I want bangs too. She says bangs are for little girls. I’m too big for bangs. I give my self an unattractive but salvageable hair cut that evening.

15 years old:  The night before a trip to Disneyland with my bff, Jean, we color each other’s hair and give each other bangs. My hair color and bangs look fabulous; Jean is rushed to her mother’s stylist at 8:00 p.m. for emergency reconstruction.

High School : I wear bangs and bleach my hair white throughout high school. In college I decide that bangs are unflattering and give them up entirely (I still bleach the crap out of my hair).

The Melanie Griffith Incident:  Several years ago, I go for a shoulder length cut with bangs. TF spends the next two months pointing out bang-less hairstyles on TV and in magazines, casually mentioning how becoming they would be on me. The real killer is an assessment from my bff, Susan. She tells me that my new hair makes me seem “mature” adding, “You look just like Melanie Griffith.” AAUUUGGGHHH! Needless to say, I swore off bangs for good—until today!

Another Week of Sleep

 I spent the week battling with a mild but draining case of the stomach flu. Sometimes I wonder if the usual contagins we pass around don't have an emotional component. I have not been myself. I've felt depressed, irritable and inexplicably stir crazy.

My weekly highlight was a brief shopping trip to the organic food market with Tennisfiend. Despite my love for exotic snack food and unlovely but healthy vegetables, I still felt bummed. Bleagh.

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....

Sleep Week

I spent most of this week either asleep, attached to the breast pump, or reluctantly making my shower quota. I’ve barely q-tipped my wound, I’m just too much of a squeamish pussy in too much pain. It’s unbelievable how tired I’ve been. Initially, I thought the pain meds I was prescribed were wiping me out, but I quit taking them during the day (using ibuprofen instead) and I’m still exhausted! Whew, who knew growing a few square inches of new tissue could be so tiring?!

Thanks to both grandmas for helping care for Tyoma, it would have been crazy hard without them. Well, back to sleep!

Dognapped!

We Have your Dog

If you xpect to see her again in good health

and with only a few bad habits, wire 5 million

Rasbuckniks (84.50 American Dollars) to

'RC2007  account 69, Bank of Nigeria'

You have till Midnight tonight, otherwise !!!

The Dirty Hand

My folks have had Misty on and off for almost two months while I have been recovering from Artyom's birth. She's back at their place again while I recuperate from my recent surgery. Anyway, this email greeted my grumpy, pain-bedeviled self this morning and really cracked me up. Heh.

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.

Breast Surgery

Yep. This is backdated, fer sure. I was in no state to write on the day of my surgery, let alone compose coherent sentences!

Anyway, I went in for breast surgery today at 12:30 p.m. This is twelve hours after I learned that surfing the internet at light speed under the influence of  Tylenol 3 can make a person barf, big time. I spent the rest of the night worrying about dying from my infection prior to surgery (think Jim Henson) or dying during surgery (think my grandpa) or waking up in recovery without a left breast (think neighbor lady).

Around two in the morning, I woke up to discover that my giant red lump had developed a purplish center. Since I still had no fever, I calmly called our nurse hotline and chatted with Barry, who assured me that I was not going to die--abscesses sometimes develop purple centers. He told me to truck down to the emergency room if I developed a fever or red streaks (I knew that having googled my condition extensively). Overall, he was sweet and reassuring; he made me feel much better. Mwah! Big kiss to Barry. 

How ironic that someone who worries so much over her health in general could be taken by surprise and wind up needing a surgical procedure. Someone should have told me to see the doctor if a milk duct is plugged for more than three days.  I also should have started pestering the radioligist sooner. Waiting the extra day and a half for surgery allowed my abscess to double in size--the difference between a needle in a doctor's office and general anesthesia in the hospital. Well, I survived the ordeal--

9:00 Arrive at Dr. Rubble's office.  The nurse gasps when she looks at my abscess. She puts some pain relif lotion on it and tells me that the doctor will be in to lance the abscess shortly. I balk.

9:15 Dr. Rubble enters, non-chalantly looks at my breast, frowns at the nurse  for putting on the lotion and tells her to schedule me for general anesthesia and a Incision and Drainage at noon today. I was rather expecting this. I actually request an IV from Dr. Rubble since I feel so dehydrated from last night's puking festival.

10:45 At the hospital with Tennisfiend, with the IV sloshing glucose, electrolytes and water into my system. A loquacious asian nurse makes me comfortable and continues a dialoge about asian culture with me nonstop until her lunchtime. I appreciate the distraction.

11:00 Momfiend and her backpack arrive. She leaves in an hour to relieve Fontessa, who has been babysitting Tyoma.

11:15 I am grateful that I brought my breast pump, since one is not readily avaible. I pump for a half an hour and worry about genral anethesia while TF tries to stay awake. My abscess is spectacularly painful and I can't take any meds for it.

11:45 The anesthesioligist arrives. He is a short, swarthy Robert Duvall with an inscrutably dry sense of humour. To prevent another barf-fest he orders medication to prevent nausea. Oddly enough, the anti-nauseant nauseates me. Bring out the pink puke cup!

12:00 The chatty nurse returns to inform me that Dr. Rubble will arrive shortly. In sotto voce, she tells us that he is running late.

12:30 The nurse starts the happy meds. I'd be sillier if I weren't so groggy. Pain decreases, yay!

12:45 Dr. Rubble arrives and I am whisked off to the operating chamber.  They put a mask on me and my lights go out.

1:??  I wake up in recovery, still thinking i am in the operating room about to go under. Everything is foggy. I try to make some jokes, but clearly I'm the only one who realizes how hilarious I am. TF arrives. Dr. Rubble gives me detailed instructions related to wound care. I repeat everything back to him. He gives me a prescription for oxycodone. The next hour  mysteriously disappears.

3:30 On the way home my lack of pain meds kicks in. Every bump is agonizing. I curse and whine at TF in a never ending stream. He escorts me to the couch and heads to Walgreens to drop off prescriptions. At home Mom listens patiently while I blather on endlessly. Must be some drugs left in my system! 

4:00 I call Pat to let her know I survived the surgery (she told me I would) and to beg her to stop by with some trashy mags after work. Fontessa naps and Mom continues to listen to me blabber non-stop.

Sometime after the pain meds kick in: Ewbliette arrives with a super sweet halloween ghost-bag full of goodies: The Enquirer, Star, Sun, The Globe, Weekly World News ("Alien Mummy Goes on Rampage," YAY!), Acoustic Guitar Magazine (for TF), chocolate covered macadamia nuts, and my favorite cheaparoonie candy--a Christoper's Big Cherry! Ewbliette takes over for Momfiend in listening to me prattle on, even giving me a foot massage! Friends and Family rule!

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.