To be fair, I should explain that I see Excellent doctor frequently. Why? Because she is a true PCP. She is the hub around with all my other medical specialists operate. In a given year I see her at least three times - usually more like six. Between all my various specialists, I see her to review all the wreckage. And last year when I made my first trip to what might rightly be called a developing country, she chose what immunizations I should have. When she rattled off the list of hepatitis vaccines, I stopped her and told her that I was determined, despite all my human frailty, not to do it with any Moroccan men - or any other men of any other nationality. As I announced this, she chuckled in a way that only a doctor who knows far more than you do can chuckle. Then she started cracking jokes about me smoking hashish and whoring my way across the Sahara desert. At the time it was hilarious. I laughed so hard it hurt.
Since then, every time she gets a chance to obliquely suggest I get laid, she takes the opportunity. And we giggle, and it is all very funny. Ha ha.
Only this time she wasn't laughing. This time I think what she meant, as usual, was not that I engage in all manner of inappropriate reproductive behavior with any creature not dragging his knuckles and drooling onto his shirtfront. She meant that I ought to move the fuck (pun very intended) on. And that moving on might mean making my own family, somehow, someway, so that the destruction of the one I was born into can be left firmly behind.
I suppose, since I am in a clarifying mood, that I should explain further what I meant by getting the information about my current fertility or lack thereof. I meant only that I know now that if I have children, it will be alone. Since that is the last option open to a woman two weeks shy of 39 years old, I thought I should at least know if even that is possible. I do not mean to say that I am determined to do it alone; merely that I want to know if even that is possible.
Other news is otherwise good, but I don't have to stamina to write about other things. Be assured I am better every day.
Love,
Aelalea
Showing posts with label Starting now. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Starting now. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Normal people
Today at the doctor's office, my doctor and I reviewed my recent blood work. We noted the absence of two results: TSH and FSH. TSH is thyroid stimulating hormone and FSH is follicle stimulating hormone. My doctor is interested in my TSH because although my blood work is otherwise unremarkable, she wants a benchmark for "later." Also, she believes my thyroid function might not be as speedy as it should be. To which I say: whatever.
The other number interests me more. A low FSH would mean that I am still theoretically able to have children. Never in the history of reproductive ideas has my having a baby been a good idea. It is right at this moment the worst possible idea in the realm of any and all possible ideas. However, however bad an idea it is, I suspect that right about now is the last time I will be able to entertain it. So I want to know if it is even possible. My doctor, having heard my reasoning for being desirous of the information, said the following:
Excellent doctor: "There are other tests you can perform all by yourself that are far more accurate."
Ordinary Me: "Oh good. What can I do?"
enter *pregnant* silence
Excellent doctor: "You could find out much more easily than I can by changing your lifestyle."
enter *total* bewilderment
Ordinary Me: "I can't do that."
Excellent doctor flips through my file while my bewilderment grows more complicated. She looks up at the ceiling as she performs a few simple mathematics problems.
Excellent doctor: "Your mother got sick when you were sixteen and died when you were twenty-five. Your dad then got sick when you were thirty-five. That means your entire reproductive life has been bookended by the deaths of your parents."
enter super-pregnant silence
Ordinary Me: "It has?"
Excellent doctor "You do the math."
Ordinary Me: "Oh."
Excellent doctor: "It's time to start living for you. And in case you are not sure what I meant, the easiest way to determine whether you can get pregnant is to have sex."
Ordinary Me: "You are kidding, right?"
Excellent doctor: "Normal people do it all the time."
The other number interests me more. A low FSH would mean that I am still theoretically able to have children. Never in the history of reproductive ideas has my having a baby been a good idea. It is right at this moment the worst possible idea in the realm of any and all possible ideas. However, however bad an idea it is, I suspect that right about now is the last time I will be able to entertain it. So I want to know if it is even possible. My doctor, having heard my reasoning for being desirous of the information, said the following:
Excellent doctor: "There are other tests you can perform all by yourself that are far more accurate."
Ordinary Me: "Oh good. What can I do?"
enter *pregnant* silence
Excellent doctor: "You could find out much more easily than I can by changing your lifestyle."
enter *total* bewilderment
Ordinary Me: "I can't do that."
Excellent doctor flips through my file while my bewilderment grows more complicated. She looks up at the ceiling as she performs a few simple mathematics problems.
Excellent doctor: "Your mother got sick when you were sixteen and died when you were twenty-five. Your dad then got sick when you were thirty-five. That means your entire reproductive life has been bookended by the deaths of your parents."
enter super-pregnant silence
Ordinary Me: "It has?"
Excellent doctor "You do the math."
Ordinary Me: "Oh."
Excellent doctor: "It's time to start living for you. And in case you are not sure what I meant, the easiest way to determine whether you can get pregnant is to have sex."
Ordinary Me: "You are kidding, right?"
Excellent doctor: "Normal people do it all the time."
Monday, December 22, 2008
What I meant to say
Perhaps I could have managed yesterday's post with a little more class and a lot less whine.
I am okay. Things are okay. I guess. No one new has gotten sick or died, and I haven't racked up any more catastrophes. I am okay. Except not, which I will now try to splain.
A few weeks ago I decided it was time to exhale and clean up the wreckage of the past four years. I gave it a name: Season of Badness (SOB)*. I declared the season over and attempted to reclaim my former personality, reorganize my life, and rejoin society without reference to the SOB. I got off my ass, flossed, exfoliated, applied a little elbow grease to my inner beauty and resolved to leave SOB behind.
It so didn't work.
My first clue was that with just a moment or two of reflection, I discerned that good intentions notwithstanding, I still required one (and sometimes two) of four things in order to sleep: a) alcohol, b) anti-histimines, c) xanax or d) piles of prescription sleep medication. Not applying one (or two) of the above to my brain is 100% certain to end in me being awake literally all night. Not sleeping at all. And no, it's not because I am busy twisting the heads off the voodoo dolls. I do not lay awake thinking about "it". But sleep and I have not been together in, oh, four years.
My second clue was that despite every good intention of groveling my way back into the good graces of all my friends, I persisted in failing to call any of them. Note: if you knew me in real life, you would know that I have not been able to handle even perfunctory friendship responsibilities, such as returning phone calls, showing up at the gym, and expressing interest in other people's affairs. For about a month after the funeral, I kept up with my friends. And then I went underground. And since they have seen this kind of behavior from me before, they don't track me down. They know I'll be back around when I have enough emotional chee to at least feign interest. But no amount of flossing or exfoliating makes me feel capable of behaving like a normal citizen. So I am awol from my friends for, oh nearly six months. That even includes some of you who live in the computer.
Oh and that final clue? That would be that I wake up (please note this would be after I intoxicate myself by one means or another) in the middle of the night crying. I apologize. There is no way of reporting that information that doesn't sound ass-dragging pathetic. (Just be grateful you are not my boyfriend).
So what does all this data tell me? Does it tell me that the weather hasn't changed? Does it tell me that SOB is not yet over?
Oddly, no. The weather has changed quite a bit and the flossing will surely get me on the lower half of the waiting list for heaven. My skin looks much better, even if I am no more nice a person. SOB is definitely over.
The data, in short, tells me that reclaiming my former personality, reorganizing my life, and rejoining society is not going to work. Whoever I was before the SOB is not someone I can be again. That me is over. And while you might assume the news would be distressing, it isn't really. More than anything, I am just confused.
When I say I am not okay, therefore, what I am saying is that I do not know who I am anymore. I can't go back to the way I was, and I literally do not know how to proceed with the post-SOB season. I don't know how to behave, and I don't know what to think, and I don't know what to do. So do I hate everything, like I said? Not exactly. I just don't know anything anymore and it's disorienting and scary. Just go with it for now. I have to go with it, too.
* Pronounced "Saab" - only at the end you have a huge ass and brain damage from all the crying - not the European luxury car we would all prefer.
I am okay. Things are okay. I guess. No one new has gotten sick or died, and I haven't racked up any more catastrophes. I am okay. Except not, which I will now try to splain.
A few weeks ago I decided it was time to exhale and clean up the wreckage of the past four years. I gave it a name: Season of Badness (SOB)*. I declared the season over and attempted to reclaim my former personality, reorganize my life, and rejoin society without reference to the SOB. I got off my ass, flossed, exfoliated, applied a little elbow grease to my inner beauty and resolved to leave SOB behind.
It so didn't work.
My first clue was that with just a moment or two of reflection, I discerned that good intentions notwithstanding, I still required one (and sometimes two) of four things in order to sleep: a) alcohol, b) anti-histimines, c) xanax or d) piles of prescription sleep medication. Not applying one (or two) of the above to my brain is 100% certain to end in me being awake literally all night. Not sleeping at all. And no, it's not because I am busy twisting the heads off the voodoo dolls. I do not lay awake thinking about "it". But sleep and I have not been together in, oh, four years.
My second clue was that despite every good intention of groveling my way back into the good graces of all my friends, I persisted in failing to call any of them. Note: if you knew me in real life, you would know that I have not been able to handle even perfunctory friendship responsibilities, such as returning phone calls, showing up at the gym, and expressing interest in other people's affairs. For about a month after the funeral, I kept up with my friends. And then I went underground. And since they have seen this kind of behavior from me before, they don't track me down. They know I'll be back around when I have enough emotional chee to at least feign interest. But no amount of flossing or exfoliating makes me feel capable of behaving like a normal citizen. So I am awol from my friends for, oh nearly six months. That even includes some of you who live in the computer.
Oh and that final clue? That would be that I wake up (please note this would be after I intoxicate myself by one means or another) in the middle of the night crying. I apologize. There is no way of reporting that information that doesn't sound ass-dragging pathetic. (Just be grateful you are not my boyfriend).
So what does all this data tell me? Does it tell me that the weather hasn't changed? Does it tell me that SOB is not yet over?
Oddly, no. The weather has changed quite a bit and the flossing will surely get me on the lower half of the waiting list for heaven. My skin looks much better, even if I am no more nice a person. SOB is definitely over.
The data, in short, tells me that reclaiming my former personality, reorganizing my life, and rejoining society is not going to work. Whoever I was before the SOB is not someone I can be again. That me is over. And while you might assume the news would be distressing, it isn't really. More than anything, I am just confused.
When I say I am not okay, therefore, what I am saying is that I do not know who I am anymore. I can't go back to the way I was, and I literally do not know how to proceed with the post-SOB season. I don't know how to behave, and I don't know what to think, and I don't know what to do. So do I hate everything, like I said? Not exactly. I just don't know anything anymore and it's disorienting and scary. Just go with it for now. I have to go with it, too.
* Pronounced "Saab" - only at the end you have a huge ass and brain damage from all the crying - not the European luxury car we would all prefer.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Elevator music
Why do we call it elevator music? When was the last time you were riding in an elevator and had the pleasure of listening to familiar melodies piped into the elevator car as you ascended or descended?
Never, right?
So why do we call it elevator music? Why?
We hear elevator music when we are on hold with the credit card companies or the IRS or the brokerage holding our shrinking IRA accounts. We hear it in department stores but never in department store elevators.
From whence did this term come? Seriously. From whence?
A big step forward has been made in the reclamation process. I have not had the time to describe it yet, but I will describe it on, I think, Wednesday after my first appointment with the archetypal therapist (who thinks and behaves just like a little fairy and has thoughts and opinions similar to those one might expect from one). She is a piece of work and a half. I'll describe her for you Wednesday.
Love,
Aelalea
Never, right?
So why do we call it elevator music? Why?
We hear elevator music when we are on hold with the credit card companies or the IRS or the brokerage holding our shrinking IRA accounts. We hear it in department stores but never in department store elevators.
From whence did this term come? Seriously. From whence?
A big step forward has been made in the reclamation process. I have not had the time to describe it yet, but I will describe it on, I think, Wednesday after my first appointment with the archetypal therapist (who thinks and behaves just like a little fairy and has thoughts and opinions similar to those one might expect from one). She is a piece of work and a half. I'll describe her for you Wednesday.
Love,
Aelalea
Friday, November 28, 2008
Kitchen during part 2
And because Rome wasn't built in a day (or even three) the side of the kitchen I still can't manage:
Tomorrow I expect, I hope, I pray to get curtains up around the counters (to hide all that stuff there I can't even begin to deal with) and the cover the remaining counter tops and wash all that stuff in the sink.
What do you y'all think? Better, no?
Love,
Aelalea
Monday, November 17, 2008
Well, that was bullshit
Hi.
You have (probably) landed here because a coward (named Ni-na) quit writing her blog because she knew she might insult all kinds of people if she continued writing.
She was completely full of it.
She wanted a new place to write where no one she knew in real life could find her and crease their frontal lobes at her because she swears so much, because she is so ungrateful, because she is so finger on the trigger ready to blame everyone in the whole wide universe for anything that does not suit her. (This might be a good time to stop talking about Nina in the third person).
Welcome to my new blog about nothing. Well, sometimes it will be about something, but if you were reading the old one, you know know that one day might net you a post about chicken torture and then next day might be pictures of me rock climbing. Then you might get vicious ridicule of my students or if I am not quite in that mood, a mitten haiku.
Welcome. This is my (our) new home, and here we need not worry who is reading. (It's just us. Doesn't it feel good to be just us again)?
Love,
Aelalea
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