GPOYT

Before

After

I came in well under 25", which was my goal, so yeah me!

So, yeah...

Looks like I'm swimming this weekend with a friend who bikes and My Beloved, who runs.

You, either.

I definitely got my money's worth from school today.  Have you ever heard of "fetal rights"?

One of the professors described a story of a woman who was pregnant and who had syphilis.  She was at risk of passing the disease to the baby (see congenital syphilis). The woman refused treatment.  The state threatened to intervene and force treatment upon her to protect the fetus.  The woman relented.

I can't get this story out of my head, so I tried duck duck go!-ing it tonight. I wasn't able to find the exact news article, but my search provided this new term: fetal rights.

I have mixed feelings about this, as I'm sure many of you do.  Public health and human rights is a very tangled web to unweave.  In the interest of keeping it friendly here, I'll keep those feelings to myself. But please feel free to drop me a line with your thoughts and I'll share.

Memory Decay

My Beloved and I have just returned from a belated Valentine's sojourn to Charleston, SC.  I've been there twice for business in the last 5-7 the years, both times in February when the camellias are in bloom and everything is heavy with spanish moss and romance.  I wanted to share that with him, so we cashed in some travel points and got away for three days.

It was bliss, as is every moment spent with my true love.

It was also deeply, deeply disturbing because, by the second day, I realized that I have never been to Charleston, SC.

When looking at hotel options when we planned the trip, I showed My Beloved photos of the hotel where I stayed the second time I was there, but recommended we find a location closer to the Hyatt I stayed in the first time because it was closer to the historic homes.  I recommended we not linger along the waterfront because I had found it too touristy and commercial.  I told My Beloved that I looked forward to showing him the fountain where I spent so much time collecting potential names for my niece, who was due in a few months, from the bricks engraved with the names of donors who paid for the fountain's restoration.

It was this fountain I was trying to find when I realized that I was in the wrong city.  It was terrifying, frankly.  This was not on the order of misplacing my keys or forgetting my high school mascot.  This was dangerously like getting lost and not knowing how to find my way home.  In fact, that was exactly what it was.  This was a "no fooling" kind of memory loss.

At first, I was panicky with disbelief that I am experiencing failures of this magnitude already while still 30-something.  Then, I was bereft by the aplomb with which My Beloved accepted this lapse and the brief glimpse of what lies ahead for us.  Or, more specifically, what lies ahead for him.

This led to a sobering and decidedly un-romantic discussion about end of life decisions over fried pickles and green tomatoes.  We had discussed this before, but more in terms of options when we're incapacitated due to general frailty and weakness, not completely physically viable but mentally incapacitated.

My uncle just moved his MIL into a full-time care facility due to her Alzheimer's.  She is only 64.  I can be glib and joke that I'll be looking for homes for the under 50 crowd, but the truth is I am reeling a little bit.  The natural impulse is to do "something"...but there is nothing that can be done for this, aside from continuing to blog and record as much as I can.  I feel like this is a signal that we have crossed the rubricon from general to specific and that Plans need to be made like buying in to long-term health insurance or notarizing an advance directive.  In the days to come, it will be this story I relate when asked "how long have you noticed these symptoms?" It feels much like the beginning of my ending.  Granted, its (I hope!) a long novel, but, well, welcome to Chapter 1.

Pain

This is where it hurts.

A friend and I have committed to do a triathlon together this summer.  On Tuesday, I jumped into the community pool for the first time in, oh, 3 years.  Since it was Valentine's Day, I only swam for about 20" then came home to My Beloved, a warm dinner, and The Warlords.

By Wednesday night, a raging sinus infection reminded me of why I stay away from public pools.  It hurts so much, it is painful to chew.  If you were a real friend, you'd come over here and put me out of my misery.

The Life Span of a Bad Idea

As a project manager, I spend a lot of my time "herding cats" as they say:  corralling Information Holders with Decision Makers into one room so they can tell Operationalizers what to do to make it all happen.  My favorite part of this exercise is when the combination is just right, and the team starts to feed off itself and gets really creative about problem solving.  Depending on the meeting, it's my job to moderate and add gasoline or cold water as needed.  I always struggle with the cold water part.  When I hear hooves, I think "zebra" not "horse" and am deeply sympathetic towards not-obvious solutions.  Still, when it's time to call it quits on a bad idea, it's usually because of some operational issue (costs too much, lack the technology, not enough manpower), and not because of anything personal or political.

For school, I was reading about the yellow fever epidemic in Philadelphia in 1793.  The American Revolution had been supported by France and Louis XVI, but when he was executed a number of people from France and the French Indies immigrated to the US and into Philadelphia...right as the epidemic was gaining steam.  This led a two disparate beliefs about the source of the fever.  Federalists (pro-Hamilton, anti-French) believed it was an imported disease (i.e., brought by French immigrants).  Republicans (pro-Jefferson, pro-French) believed it had a local cause due to poor sanitation (think "miasmata" and "effluvia").  At an impasse, actions were take on behalf of both theories:  immigrants were quarantined and the city organized better sanitation.  Win-win, right?

There were also two schools of medical treatment for the fever: bleeding + mercury or quinine bark + wine.  The bleeding treatment was championed by a preeminent Federalist doctor.  Hamilton, in a misguided attempt to show his support behind his doctor friend, politicized the treatment issue with an op-ed piece very complementary of the doctor and the treatment.  Suddenly, it became a Federalist thing.  When other doctors tried to declaim the bleeding treatment, they were labeled as pro-Republican and anti-Federalist.  The problem with this conflict was that the bleeding treatment required the doctor to "draw an amount of blood which we know today to be in excess of the quantity possessed by most people."*  But, because it had become a political issue and was no longer a medical issue, doctors and patients couldn't step back from the bleeding theory or switch to quinine bark without signaling disloyalty towards Federalists and favor for the Republicans.  Dumb, right?

It got me thinking about the life span of bad ideas.  What's the tipping point between exploring an idea and beating a dead horse? (<-to bring back the equine metaphor)  When have you persisted in something after it was out of favor (poor fashion decisions, excluded)?

*Pernick, MS. (1972) "Politics, Parties, and Pstielence: epidemic Yellow Fever in Philadelphia and the Rise of the First Party System." William and Mary Quarterly, 29(4): 559-586.

18 Minutes of Free Think

I am not claustrophobic, but I have had one or two panic attacks.  When I scheduled my MRI, and, again, on the day of the imaging, I was asked: are you claustrophobic?  "No," I confidently replied, "I'm not." As I kid I used to seek out small spaces to feel cuddled.  (At one point I slept in my closet for a few days...with all the clothes still inside!)  It wasn't until I was older and saw that Frontline special about the fire in the London tube that I ever second guessed going into an enclosed space.  Still, I never had an MRI of my head before and hadn't given much conscious thought to the experience.  Unfortunately, it turns out, since everyone made such a big deal about being claustrophobic, what was lurking in my subconscious was an impression of the procedure as akin to getting buried alive.

As the technician walked me down the hall, he casually mentioned that I was going to get an injection.  "They told you about that, right?" he asked.

"No," I answered, "no, they did not."

I believe I've made allusion here before about how my blood pressure plummets at the sight of blood or suggestion of anything that could possibly bring blood forth from its happy place within the human body.  Combine my mental images of getting buried alive + cue up the "Juliane fainting, episode #219" tape and I was primed to successfully fulfill their worst fears as a claustrophobe-denier.  As the carriage started to slide into the tunnel, I closed my eyes and tried to breath normally.  I kept my eyes closed, thinking if I didn't know how tightly I was entombed, I would feel freer.  Yet, I could feel the trapped animal straining in my chest and my breathing starting to stutter.  "Do I press the 'get me out of here!' button?  Can I talk myself down from this?"

My sister loves to tell stories (she's a brilliant writer).  She makes them up and encourages her kids to create tales, too.  To distract her kids from injury or dullness, she makes them tell her a story.  She'll prime the telling with a character, setting, or event, and then they'll run with it.  As I struggled with my inner dialog ("You are not really claustrophobic, Juliane!  "Oh, yeah?  Then why am I hyperventilating?!"), I thought of her.

And I was stopped panicking.  For the 18 minute procedure, I thought about my sister and her family and how we'll all be together again, soon.  Even through the injection, I kept it together.  While I won't say it was bliss, there certainly is a power in holding on to a happy thought.

(I can't wait to see my niece and nephew and tell them this story!)

There's No Pill for What You Got

I had an MRI to rule out brain lesions as an explanation for the progressive cognitive decline.  The good news is they didn't find anything (badum bum!  come on, Dad, I totally set you up for that one!).  Laying in the extremely loud, extremely claustrophobic space, I tried to fall in love with the sound of the machine.  The technician only said 1000x to hold still, but the thing was so loud and would start and stop that I startled every time it got going again.

"Ma'am, it's important that you hold still."

"Ma'am, please, try not to move your head."

I'm so weird sometimes.  When checking into the reception for the procedure, I had to fill out three pages of questionnaire:  do you have a pacemaker?  have you had an MRI before? what are your allergies?  I absolutely bristle at these things.  I panic, literally, that these bits of paper covered with such personal information will get lost in the shuffle (which has happened) or that my records will not be kept confidential (has also happened).  I am so overwrought by this questionnaire that I won't even answer the first question:  why are you having this procedure today?  "It's none of their GD business!" my internal voice shouts, "They should already know this!  It's in the d*mn chart!"  These nosy people, who are only trying to help, are the enemy.  And, yet, I'll thankfully pour all my fears and last health detail into a woman with whom I've worked for only 6 mos.

At the grocery, I am that woman who patiently waits behind the frazzled parent and screaming child in the checkout line.   I try to engage the young child and keep her distracted so her parent can just, please, have one quiet moment to find the coupons and clubsaver card.  Yet, when I call my benefits company, I am already spitting and screaming if I have to repeat my user ID more than once.

Schizophrenia is detectable by MRI.  I'm just not sure they were looking for it.

In Which I Lose My Mind for 30 Seconds

We recently stayed overnight at a friend's home in Connecticut.  It is a lovely home:  very traditional from the outside but redesigned on the inside to be full of unexpected architecture.  The house is decorated with an amazing collection of unique art and photos.  My Beloved and I were taking mental snapshots of the bookshelves, the picture frames, the color scheme.

In the morning, I lay in bed imagining how I could incorporate one of these design elements into my own home.  But, for a full 30 seconds, I could not conjure forth one mental image of my own home.  My own home, in which I've lived almost nine years!  Of which I am so ridiculously proud, thanks to My Beloved's efforts to make it our own!  At first, it felt like one of those moments we've all experienced when you can't recall a person's name.  But as the seconds ticked on and images of bedrooms and living rooms flashed in my mind (Hawaii, my SIL's, my parents'), I knew this was worse.  It was the lost feeling experienced as a small child when I grabbed a stranger's hand mistaking it for my mother's.  I thought of waking My Beloved, but how would I explain it?  I don't know where I live.  I don't know how to get home.  I tried picturing where I sleep at night, where I eat, thinking the memory of the action would provide the environment.  Nothing.  Nothing but glasslike panic.

And then, boom, I was able to recall a photograph taken by my MIL of the front of our home when we first moved in.  From there, I was able to re-build the interior in my mind.  This was four days ago and I am still shaken by the experience.

Oh, wicked senility!  Be quick with your dirty work!

Four Eyes

I can't read close up or small type far away.  Close up, it hurts my eyes to focus.  Far away, it's all blurry and no amount of scrunching my eyes will make it better.  Does that make me nearsighted?  Farsighted?

Last week, I went for an eye exam.  I recall the doctor talking me through his interpretation of these definitions, and we determined that my eyes focus beyond the back of my eye.  My prescription was + numbers, and, according to the intarweb, a + prescription means I'm farsighted.  Yet, the lady said "these are for distance" when I picked them up.  I've been all over Google tonight, and I don't think she's right.  Well, either she's not right or I have the wrong prescription. If I'm farsighted, why would she say "these are for distance?"  Also, the lenses are different for each eye, but I think they are too different (hence the splitting headache in my right eye).

For those who wear corrective lenses, here are my questions:

1. How long did it take to get use to them?
2. What does it mean if everything looks flat and I can see colors, particularly looking at black text on white?  Black doesn't look black, but a composite of reds, greens, and blues.  This happens with my dimestore magnifiers, but I thought it was b/c they were cheap glasses.  These new ones?  So not cheap.  I am not amused.

Rubicon

My friend, Jenny Jen, and I will turn 40 within a year of each other (our birthdays are almost exactly a year apart).  We agreed to make it a year of celebration.  At first we pondered what turning 40 means to us.  Is it a time to prove our mettle, and go skydiving?  Should we define our selflessness and go dig wells in Africa?  Should we embrace the wrinkles and grey hair and do a long, spa weekend?  Last weekend while doing laps in the pool, we hit upon the perfect solution: one activity per quarter representing the healthier, wealthier, and wiser souls that we are. So far, we have 1) triathlon, and 2) $X savings goal [I'm saving for that car, still].  For wiser, I decided to apply to the Drexel executive MPH program for this fall.

We need a fourth category.  Any suggestions?

Design by Ann Taintor

Strep

It's not strep, but it feels like it. Both My Beloved and I are down for the count, but not with the same thing (or at least it is manifesting very differenlty between us). Possible culprits:
1. I am defenseless against the 8yo-and-under crowd and have just returned from visiting several of that demographic
2. There is a head cold whipping through the office and people mistake the alcohol hand pumps at every common area for furniture
3. I flew on a crowded airplane

No matter the source, it will put a crimp in our romantic anniversary plans for Labor Day. Instead of cycling and hiking through New England, we will hole up on the couch with take out and NetFlix. Tonight's movie? Academy-award winning Gigi!

Good deed, punished!

My Beloved has been down with a wicked summer head cold, so I mowed the lawn for him this weekend. I was weeding as I went, and picked a stem of poison ivy/sumac.  As I picked it, I noted to myself "Hmm, these has three leaves like poison ivy," but it was growing under thick shrubs and wasn't shiny so I discounted it.

Cut to me, three days later, with a hand imprint of poison on my face. It's all over my neck, chest, fingers, scalp and abdomen.  Taking a shower is like being buried in an ant hill. I've spent the past two days working from home so I can medicate regularly with Benadryl. Also, I'm insanely cranky and not fit to be around a work environment.  Thank heavens for telecommuting!

Tomorrow we have a pool party and while my ugly red welts will likely cause the 11yo birthday boy to cry and the other guests to lose their lunch, I will soak in the cool chlorine.

Unknown Etiology

Earlier this year, my FIL had cardiac surgery.  He's fine now and completely recovered from the surgery, but balancing all the new meds is, well, a balancing act.

Settling into the new reality can be a pain in the a**.  Even very slight changes can feel like crippling disabilities to someone so used to enjoying fine health.  My FIL is definitely not one to bemoan his condition and will be the first to count his blessings, but I know it is bewildering and insanely frustrating to him for things to not be what they used to be.  And to not know why or to not have a name to describe this new condition?  We all still see ourselves as the 20-somethings we once were (thank goodness!) but the reality is that we're not.  And when doctors can't provide a rationale for why things aren't working they way they once did, well, that's hard for the brain to wrap around.  They should be able to name it, diagnose it, not just throw more medications at it.  WHAT IS IT?!?   Yes, this pill may make me feel better, but what is wrong with me?  Why don't I feel right in the first place?  What is going on???!?!

Why is it that the act of naming something gives one a sense of authority over it, a sense of control?

Jiggity-Jig

We're home again and recouping, both of us. I am not good without sleep and there was little of that in the hospital, which made for some very unpleasant times for My Beloved. All plans for travel to Spain are on hold indefinitely as it looks like I will consume my allotment of PTO during my convalescence. As I've written before, our neighborhood is its most loveliest at springtime and I am grateful to have so much vibrant beauty out my windows to keep my spirits up. Of course, the flowers outside plus the unending bouquets from family and friends inside make me cheery wherever I look!  The weather promises to warm and soon I'll be able to sit outside and get some fresh air.  The visiting nurse strongly (sternly?) encouraged me to keep moving about and recommended a drive.  My Beloved seized upon that and there is an outing to Dairy Queen in our near future.  Take away the sutures and external drain, and I'd have it all!

Week 2

I'm on Week 2 of my two week free membership at the gym.  And I'm meeting with the trainer for the first time tomorrow, Friday.

Day late, dollar short much?