On faith

It's still January, but our tulips are coming up. WTF?

I went out to mail something at the beginning of the week and right by the front door, there they were, these happy little green leaves poking their way up, fully confident that winter had ended. I hope they don't get disappointed by a sudden cold snap before spring really arrives. I know, it's not too far off -- everything greens up fairly early here. But there isn't exactly a way for these guys to retract or change course now that they've committed to putting themselves out there.

I kind of wish I could be that confident.

Monday, I went to my GI doctor for follow-up. I finally had that long-awaited blood draw last week, so the plan was for me to get my results from him and talk about the plan going forward after the developments from December.

Well, the results were so-so. One of the liver function tests actually came back with results in the normal range, which is great. The other one, however, was still outside of normal. It did come down, but not far enough. So we'll recheck those in three months.

This isn't what's making me feel a want for mettle, though.

Back in December, when Troubadour Dad decided to push for a consult from a specialist at Almost Dr. Sis's medical school, it wasn't just a "why don't you get a second opinion?" sort of conversation. Troubadour Dad is very opinionated, shall we say. My responses to his questions about what I'd had done so far in my workup were all met with some kind of editorial comment. "Those GI guys just like to do procedures," he said with a knowing nod when he found out I'd had the endoscopy. "That's all they're interested in."

"He did find some erosions in my stomach lining," I said meekly. "I mean, that's good that he caught those early --"

"Yeah, sure," Troubadour Dad said. "That's his way of justifying doing that procedure so you'll feel like it was worth it. That's where they make their money, you know."*

I didn't say anything more at that point. But the damage was done.

On Monday, my GI doctor said that the symptoms I'd been getting since December were still not indicative of something specific. "Basically, you're still an unknown," he said. "We can either let it hang for now, or if you're not totally, totally happy, my next step would be a colonoscopy."

Well, I can't say I want one of those, but before that conversation with Troubadour Dad, I wouldn't have questioned that treatment plan. Instead, I've got this little voice in my head now that keeps whispering my father's words over and over. Talk about crazy-making. Add to this my worries that my GI guy knows I've had my records sent to the other specialist -- and therefore has reason to believe I don't trust him -- and I start to wonder if he's suggesting we "let it hang" because he doesn't see a point in putting further effort into a diagnosis if someone else is going to do it.

Okay, that last idea was probably a bit nutty, but I do know that doctors aren't immune to their own egos. Troubadour Dad's a prime example of that. What intensifies that problem is the father-knows-best mentality he brings out whenever he doctors his own kids. This is why I don't talk about my health with him if I can avoid it. Unfortunately, I couldn't really give him any other explanation but the truth when I wasn't drinking over the holidays. He knows me too well to think I'd just stop because I felt like it.

Anyway, about confidence. I just want to feel that it's okay to trust whom I've chosen to trust while we're figuring out what in the world is wrong with me. It's no help at all to doubt those people. But that voice, my father's voice. It's dogged me since I was a child, has told me I'm not wise enough -- will never be wise enough -- to know what's best for me, in my health, my career, my life. Most days, I work pretty hard to ignore it. But during times like these, I just can't seem to shut it up.

* GI doctors, please don't take what Troubadour Dad says personally; he's not out to insult you alone. He's got plenty more to say about folks in other specialties that are also not his own.

Homework, the fun kind

Good (Enough) Woman assigned me something entertaining over at her place: seven things I haven't mentioned before on my blog. Just the thing that might get me out of a writing rut, GEW! So thanks, and here we go ...


1. I used to have curly hair because my mother thought I might look nice with a perm. Not long after my tenth birthday, she took me and my stick-straight Asian tresses to her hairdresser. I was nervous -- no one had ever cut my hair except Troubadour Mom (nor, for that matter, had anyone ever processed it). But I had visions. Oh, such visions -- of sleek, thick, raven-black waves rippling down my back like braids freshly undone at the end of a school day. Only the effect would be permanent! How, I ask you, could I have resisted?

I put myself in the hands of the hairdresser, let her wrap my scalp in curling rods and douse me in chemicals that smelled like rotten eggs. I remember her explaining to me that one solution would break the bonds in my hair while the other would re-fuse them so each strand would conform to the shape of the rods. Rods, braids; same idea, right? I trusted her completely.

After nearly three hours in the hairdresser's chair, I got my first look at the result. It was frizzy. Cloud-like. A wiry, raven-black mass that could hardly move, much less cascade. I went home and told my mother I liked it, even though as soon as I saw my little sisters' still-unsullied locks, I wanted to cry.


2. If you've ever permed your hair, you know how awful it is when the perm is half grown-out. Because I looked so bad during that in-between stage, I continued to get perms for the next thirteen years. I had to finish college before I got up the guts to let nature put my hair back the way it was supposed to be. It took almost two years.


3. Continuing the bad-hair theme: I have watched every episode of MacGyver ever filmed. Including the two made-for-TV movies that followed a few years after the series ended. While Richard Dean Anderson's mullet did little to inspire me to get out of the vicious perm cycle, watching the man escape from various tight spots did turn out to have educational value one summer when my sisters and I got trapped in an elevator with our grandfather, who started to panic and have chest pain. Remembering what MacGyver had demonstrated many times, I wedged my fingers into the crack at one end of the elevator's single door and rolled it open. (The car was already right at our floor, so there was no need to do anything really wild like climbing up the shaft, thank the gods.) Once Grandpa got some nitroglycerin in him, all was well again.


4. I age people. Not by getting them trapped in elevators -- I mean that, when I've got nothing to do in a public location (say, while waiting for the bus), I look at people, particularly children, and imagine what their faces will look like when they're older. I don't know how long I've been doing this, but I'm guessing it's been going on since I was a kid. I say this because when I was a sophomore in college, I recognized a girl whom I randomly bumped into at a start-up meeting for a creative writing group. I hadn't seen her or kept in touch with her since I moved away from our home state at the end of third grade, but I was 99.9 percent sure of her identity when I saw her from across the room -- something familiar about the shape of her slightly turned-up nose, the position of her eyes in relation to it, still squinty whenever she smiled. "Christina?" I said. "It's CT."

Her jaw dropped. "I totally didn't recognize you!" she said. "Wow, your hair's curly now ..."


5. I took my first bath last month. Wait, before you run away from any imagined stench, let me explain! On an ordinary day, I'm a shower girl -- have been since the day I could stand in the stall without slipping. (It was easier for my mother to get three girls clean using a removable shower head rather than bending over the edge of the tub to scrub us while kneeling.) On occasion, she would let my sisters and me play in the tub with about three inches of water in it, but definitely no filling it all the way. We lived very frugally.

So the house we bought last spring has an enormous soaking tub in the master bathroom. The weekend before D and I were to leave for all our holiday visits, I decided to treat myself to a proper luxury bath. I lit candles, put on soft music, ran the water till the tub was full. I added the bath salts we'd received as a favor from somebody's wedding and body wash for some bubbles. Sank in, melted. Bliss.


6. I do my best thinking in the shower. Sometimes this leads to fairly comical moments of near-indecency -- if I come up with an idea I'm afraid I'll forget (which is a strong possibility, the forgetting), I'll jump right out from under the spray to go write my thoughts down. Most of the time, I'll grab a towel, but I'm sure that many years ago, when my sisters and I were sharing a bathroom, I streaked past them at least once. You'd think I would have learned by now to put a piece of paper and something to write with by the sink, but sadly, I have yet to do that. And if you're wondering, no, baths aren't the same. In fact, they cause the opposite effect: total mind vacation.


7. I would not have reclaimed my girl-ness without my sisters. Even though they are younger than I am (or perhaps because of that), they were the ones who taught me, among other things, how to put on makeup, how to use a razor, how to treat myself to pretty underwear. These were things my parents didn't want to encourage, and they had good reasons (probably influenced to a degree by the disastrous perm but more likely born of the culture in which they grew up). By the time my sisters were old enough to handle eyeliner, though, the parents Troubadour had relaxed somewhat.

Thank goodness. My sisters were and continue to be the best teachers I've ever had.

Photo courtesy of Almost Dr. Sis

I'm passing this homework assignment along to these seven people (in no particular order), whose blogs I love reading:

• hypoglycemiagirl at hgg
• Medieval Woman at Purring Prophecy
• French Fancy at her blog of the same name
• Amanda at A Lady Scientist
• Mrs. Whatsit at I Love Science, Really
• Jade Park at Writing Under a Pseudonym
• Teresa at On Three Kids

No rush, though! And if I didn't name you, it's very likely that it's because you've already been tagged with this very recently and I didn't want to make you redo it. (I have a fairly small blog circle, but it does grow, even if it's a very gradual process ...)

On accumulation

We went skiing this weekend.

It was a much-needed getaway for me. We decided sort of at the last minute to meet up with two of D's friends from his office when we found out they had a trip planned -- they have similar slope preferences (intermediate level runs, groomed, with the occasional trail through the trees and powder). A quick stop at Hotwire revealed a place to stay the night at a very affordable price, so we made our reservations, attached the ski rack to the car, and took off at the crack of dawn Saturday.

Wearing my body out felt good for once. It's funny how exhaustion feels different when you're in control of its degree. I did wish I could take something for the muscle soreness (no anti-inflammatories allowed until after my next blood draw) but I knew what I was in for when I agreed to go. Overall, we had a really terrific time -- time to cut loose and feel light-hearted, even if our limbs felt impossibly heavy at the end of each day.

We didn't have a chance to take many pictures, but take a look at the ones we did get:


It was misting at the top of the mountain because of a heavy cloud sitting over the peak. Water droplets condensed out of the fog and froze to everything, including my hair, which I'd put in two braids to keep it out of the way. The shot above is from just before lunch on Saturday. An interesting effect, no?

And here's a shot at the end of the day.


Still interesting! But also a bit shocking. I had no idea all of that was there.

I think that's how these last few months felt to me yesterday -- small things building up and building up without my realizing they were doing so until I got a picture of it all. A picture of where D and I are. I try to deal with little issues between us as they come so they don't grow into bigger ones, but what about those that continue to haunt us, sticking to us? It seems many things have, and when that realization hit us yesterday, we didn't know how to handle it. We've fought because we've had to readjust to each other and, now we're fighting because that process is revealing those icy ghosts on our shoulders. But we're trying to crack them off.

We had an explosive Monday. I'm glad we had Saturday and Sunday before that to remind us it's not always like Monday was.

For the record

Twenty minutes of my life I will never get back. May the following phone conversation at least provide entertainment (or something else?) here.


Monday morning. Contemporary Troubadour dials the number of her future doctor's office at Almost Dr. Sis's medical school and places the phone to her ear. After three or four rings, someone answers.

Female Receptionist: [Laughing loudly at something] "Hello? ThisisFemaleReceptionisthowmayIhelpyou?"

Contemporary Troubadour: "Hi. This is Contemporary Troubadour; I called --"

F. Receptionist: "Hold on." Click.

A slight hiss is just audible from the phone, indicating that the connection is still intact. Many minutes later ...

F. Receptionist: "Hello?"

C. Troubadour: "Hi. This is Contemporary Troubadour; I called just under two weeks ago to set up an appointment with Dr. Specialist. You and I spoke about having my records sent to him for a consult --"

F. Receptionist: "What's your name?"

C. Troubadour: "Contemporary Troubadour."

F. Receptionist: "Mm hold on." [Sounds of typing.] "How do you spell that?"

C. Troubadour: "First name Contemporary, last name T-R-O-U-B-A-D-O-U-R."

F. Receptionist: "Hold on." [Several more minutes pass.] "I'm not finding you in the system. What was it you had faxed?"

C. Troubadour: "Well, there were records from my GI doctor and my endocrinol--"

F. Receptionist: "Who's the referring doctor?"

C. Troubadour: "Er -- I don't have one; my sister is a student at Medical University who contacted Dr. Senior Specialist to ask whom I should see, and he e-mailed her Dr. Specialist's name."

F. Receptionist: "Oh, okay, Dr. Senior Specialist ... and what was your name?"

C. Troubadour: "Contemporary Troubadour."

F. Receptionist: "Could you spell that?"

Contemporary Troubadour takes a deep breath and obliges. Glances at clock. Ten minutes have passed since she first dialed the doctor's office.

F. Receptionist: "Yeah, we don't have anything for you. Well, wait, there are some lab results from Seattle Business --"

C. Troubadour: "Yes! My husband faxed those from his office."

F. Receptionist: "Oh, well then we've just got those two sheets! They don't have any patient information on them."

C. Troubadour: "But -- I'm sorry, what now?"

F. Receptionist: "We haven't got anything. No date of birth or social security number; these are just lab results. But while I've got you on the phone, let me ask you --" [Ruffles papers.] "Okay, okay, who is this D. Troubadour on the cover sheet?"

C. Troubadour: "That's my husband."

F. Receptionist: "Oh, see we thought that was the patient. Now how do you spell your name so I can put it in the computer?"

C. Troubadour: "Contemporary. T-R-O-U-B-A-D-O-U-R."

F. Receptionist: "Mmkay, now how about your address?"

C. Troubadour: "1234 555th Way --"

F. Receptionist: "Hang on, 1234 555?"

C. Troubadour: "House number 1234. Then the street is called 555th Way."

F. Receptionist: "Way? Like W-A-Y?"

C. Troubadour: "Yes."

F. Receptionist: "And 555 with a T-H?"

C. Troubadour: "Mm hm."

F. Receptionist: "Okay, 1234 555th Way. Man, you must not get a lot of mail with that address."

C. Troubadour: "?!?"

F. Receptionist: "All right. Got it in the system. You'll be contacted shortly by someone now that you're there."

C. Troubadour: "Okay, but --"

F. Receptionist: "Have a nice day." Click.

Thirty seconds later, the phone rings.

F. Receptionist: "Hi, could I speak with Contemporary?"

C. Troubadour: "This is Contemporary."

F. Receptionist: "Hi, this is Female Receptionist; we just spoke a minute ago. Could you give me your date of birth and social?"


Aaaaaaand scene.

There's a first time for everything

And for my family this Christmas, it was Mario Kart -- our gift to Troubadour Dad. I looked at the video that Almost Dr. Sis shot while Troubadour Dad was racing Marketing Sis, and I'm not sure which is funnier: the driving or the spectators' reactions.

(Troubadour Mom is the loudest one in the audience telling the drivers to "Turn, turn, TURN!" at the end. I love her.)

Keep in mind that, because of his work hours and cultural conditioning, Troubadour Dad didn't really play with us when we were kids (aside from the occasional Monopoly game, during which he would clean us out so thoroughly that we weren't inclined to ask him to play again anytime soon). So introducing our dad to the Wii as a bonding tool has been kind of momentous.

While we were visiting, my sisters and I also pulled out some ancient home videos from our childhood. I used to be embarrassed to see myself on tape (unlike my sisters, I was not a cute kid when I knew the camera was rolling -- more like awkward). While I was being filmed, I was always afraid I'd be corrected or chastised, which happened enough to make me dread the camera's awful record-keeping power -- and fear the obligation to perform at all, wherever and whenever I might be judged, on video or otherwise. But instead of being openly fearful or shy, I'd try to cover up my discomfort with silly faces and voices, things that invited correction.

And so, the vicious cycle began, until I learned how to avoid situations that demanded performance. Well, no, that's actually not true. I enjoy teaching, which is a fairly performative job, if you want to engage your students. It's certain kinds of audiences I avoid, ones where I'm clearly at a hierarchical disadvantage. Perhaps this is why it is so hard to spend time with Troubadour Dad even now that I'm an adult. I can't really be myself around him because he is so judgmental in certain ways, and as much as I want to believe his judgment shouldn't matter, it still does to the little girl in me who just wants to be accepted.

Part of me still cringes a little when I see myself on those old videos, but it's because I can see now what I was really feeling. I think these last few months of thinking and writing about childhood have let me understand that. As I think about those tapes, I no longer hear the voice that tells me I should have acted differently -- just the voice of the child asking her parents, as best she could, to put the camera away.

Back!

As in flat on it, until the rest of today is over.

Oh no, you're thinking, this doesn't sound good. My apologies in advance. I hate, hate, hate to make the first post of 2010 a less than jolly one, but I didn't start this blog to create yet another place where I'd have to hide my real thoughts and feelings. I will throw in happy things at the end, so don't worry. Bumming in awaits! But if you're not up for (down with?) less than jolly, feel free to skip right to the photos. The happy starts there.

So. I feel moderately guilty that I've spent most of the afternoon in a travel-induced daze while D had to go straight to work from the airport, but I'm accepting my pathetic lack of vigor for now because I'm in a weird place. Limbo, I suppose, but it's a different limbo than the one I was in before the holidays.

Before we left town in December, I was doing my best not to get too worried about my not-so-great liver enzyme test results. There were presents to pack and people to look forward to seeing. And there was nothing to be done regarding the liver stuff until my seven weeks sans alcohol were up (more on that later). I did have some GI symptoms in the few days before we headed for D's parents' place, but I chalked it up to stress. (It's been known as early on as high school to cause me such problems.)

But the symptoms didn't go away. And they got more and more severe until on the morning of Christmas Eve, D and I decided I'd better give my GI doctor a call. One of his partners got back to me right away, advising me to double the dose of Pancrecarb I'd been taking before meals and call back after the weekend with an update on how it was working out. Simple enough -- and effective. By the end of the day, I was feeling tons better. I can't emphasize how nice it is to be able to eat without worrying how sick it might make me feel 30 minutes later.

I knew, though, that the previous ten days of ramped-up symptoms signified that things with my pancreas were getting worse. And once Troubadour Dad got news of the liver enzyme issues on top of the GI distress, he decided that something "wasn't right," particularly for someone my age, and suggested it was time to get a consult from a doctor at a more academic institution, i.e., a specialist with access to the most current research.

As it happens, Almost Dr. Sis has doctor-professors who are just those kinds of specialists. She very kindly contacted a senior doctor in the GI department to ask whom I should see, given my history, and he sent back a recommendation right away. So during the remainder of the week at my parents' house, I faxed off requests to all my doctors here in Seattle to get the pertinent parts of my medical records forwarded to said chosen specialist. The plan is to try to schedule a trip for me to get checked out by him in February. We're guessing it'll be a two-week visit, but we'll know better once this doctor has had the chance to review everything in my chart.

So, limbo. It's eating at me more than before -- probably because the whole flying-across-the-country-to-see-an-expert thing makes everything feel way more serious. Not sure what to do about that, so here I am, writing.

In the meantime, I have one more blood draw scheduled with my GI person here to look at those liver enzymes. I was a good girl and didn't even have a drink on New Year's Eve, even though Troubadour Dad was serving this:


But I was mildly naughty (from a blood sugar standpoint) and joined in the Spanish tradition of eating twelve grapes at midnight for good luck in the new year. One of Troubadour Dad's colleagues, who hails from Madrid, introduced us to the ritual that evening. Fun and hopeful! And excellent with really good cheeses afterward ...

Overall, my time with family was all right too. I have tons of photos to go through from the visit, which I might look at tomorrow when I need a break from thesis work (yep, it's time to get back to that before the semester starts up in two weeks). For now, here are a few shots of Troubadour Mom's bathroom residents. Proof that plants really can thrive by the tub!




I'm also thrilled to report that the rose we received back in October survived our absence marvelously. I wasn't sure it would, but these watering globes, which D picked up from Home Depot, actually worked. I'll take it as a good omen.

On that note, here's to a happy 2010, everyone. May it bring good things, surprising or otherwise, to you and the people you love.