Category Archives: doctor visits

Summer Update – One Down…

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

… two to go.  Months, that is.  Seriously.  This is insane!  Have you looked at the calendar?  It is June 24th already!!!

Today we are officially one full month into our summer vacation.  And we have been doing lots of summery things… staying up too late to catch lightning bugs or looking for the super moon, grilling everything we get our hands on, enjoying the summer brews, spending our afternoons running through the sprinkler and swimming at the pool.  But, at the same time, we have also been adhering to quite a full schedule, which does not seem the least bit summery to me.

Kid A just left yesterday for four weeks in the Governor’s Honors Program.  She already traveled to the beach and New York City with friends for a week.  Kid B just returned from five days at goalkeeper camp, and she is in the final week of a three-week-long summer bridge program (so she can get her driver’s permit this Fall).  Oh, and she is signed up for another soccer camp at the high school during the evenings this week.  And remember that we drove to Alabama for that regional soccer tournament as well.  Kid C earned a promotion to dancing en pointe, so she hasn’t stopped her twice weekly classes.  And last week she attended a summer intensive dance program from 10AM – 4PM every single day.  That’s nuts, right?  How did this become our relaxed, summer schedule?

In the past, I would put my foot down and we didn’t do camps or activities or much of anything in the summertime.  We just watched movies, read books and hung out at the neighborhood pool.  Then we would spend a glorious week at the beach.  I soaked it up like the summer sun, because doing nothing can be quite fabulous.  And I truly believe it is therapeutic and necessary, especially because it seems as if we do all of the things during the regular school year.  But, as the kids have gotten older, things have changed and we don’t seem to get as much down time, even throughout the months of June, July, and August.  Sports and school and their social lives have all gotten so much more intense.  Out of necessity and albeit grudgingly, I have adjusted.

But the boys are a different story.  They are still young and I can get away with keeping their summer schedules blankety-blank, just as I like it.  While the older three are off practicing for college and soccering and dancing, the boys and I are doing a whole lot of summertime nada.  Kid D has been playing real and virtual ball (all of the kinds) outside and inside and Kid E learned/ is still learning how to swim on his own.  It has been really fun, even the “I’m bored!” parts.  But then they both got super complain-y all of a sudden.  It took me a while before I realized they might be sick.  In the summertime.  Who does that?

So then I had to add a doctor’s visit to the calendar, but fortunately the doctor figured out that both of them were being so whiny because they had sinus infections.  Or maybe allergies.  Whatever… please just fix them.  So the doctor sent us to the pharmacy to treat both possibilities simultaneously.

We had to wait for our order, so I made my way to the foot care section (I needed toe spacers for Kid C’s newly acquired foot pain obsession due to dancing atop her toes… that’s crazy difficult, y’all!), and the boys followed me there.  This year Kid E also learned/ is still learning how to read.  Conveniently, the feminine products share real estate in the foot care aisle (I was not aware that the vagina bone’s connected to the foot bone.  Mental note to discuss a more logical store organization with CVS.)  While I was determining which gel product would best keep my baby from getting bunions, I hear Kid E yelling to me from just a yard away.

“Mom, what are max pads?”

I completely and blatantly ignore him.

“Mom!  I mean, what are MAX-eye pads?  What are they, Mom, huh?  What are they for?  Max-EYE pads.”  He started getting louder.

“Nothing.  They are for nothing you need to know about, ” I whisper.  I’m so not in the mood for this.  I would so much rather be feet in the sand, face toward the sun right now.

Kid D is all of a sudden interested in this conversation too.  “No!  They are not max-eye pads, they are maxi pads!  See, it says ‘maxi pads,’ not ‘max-eye’ pads.  Mom, what are maxi pads?  Look at how big the package is!  What are they, Mom?  This box is huge!”

I hear all of the people in the pharmacy snickering as I navigate this minefield.  Thanks for the solidarity, sisters.  I guess I’m on my own.

“They are grown up lady woman things that you do not need to know about today.  Put them back on the shelf now and stop yelling, please.”

Kid E becomes incredulous.  “I just want to know what they are for!  Just tell me what the max-eye pads are for, Mom!  I just want to know!  Tell me!  Tell me, please!”  More blatant laughter from the traitors in the pharmacy.

Simpler summer times… no schedules, no camps and no boys asking questions about girls getting their periods

I quickly calculate that I have two choices here.  I can go for shock and awe, or I can distract.  And although I consider myself one of the hardcore members of the fan club for the former, I have not yet gotten my full summer recharge and I am not up for speeches and questions about tampons versus pads.  So, I opt for the lazy choice – the latter.  I chose a complete and utter cop-out.

“Hey, didn’t I see water guns at the front near the gum?  Why don’t you boys go pick out some squirters and we can play with them once you feel better.”

Fortunately, they run off without any more questions and I am spared continued awkwardness for the moment.

I do, however, plan to look into summer camps for these boys as soon as possible.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Rock Star

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I took Dr. Sheepdog’s advice on the life affirmation, and shortly thereafter began exhibiting signs of too much of a good thing.  So I quickly called the office of Hot Doc to see if he could analyze my urine and write me a script that would lessen my urge to pee every three to five minutes.

I knew that I was traveling on a rocky road when counsel with Hot Doc didn’t provide me even a sliver of pain relief.  His killer smile and collaboration on a prank yielded no respite (He told me to tell Sheepdog no sex for four weeks. I chose to tell Sheepdog I was pregnant.  Sheepdog found neither to be funny).

Controlled substances gave me little lull in my torture, so I reverted to witchcraft, sorcery, and tricks of old.  I practiced meditation, controlled breathing and visions of my happy place to manage the diabolical torture my body was going through.  Oh, and I had signed up to deliver dinner to not one but two friends that day, so I had that to distract me.  By the end of the day I was convinced that I was dying.  I tried to pee one more time.

Sweet relief of Jesus.  Afterwards, I dialed Sister C’s phone number and waited.  When I finally heard an adult female voice at the other end of the line I screamed, “I just peed out a rock!”

“Um… this is Mary, the babysitter.  Sister C and House Captain went to a Braves game, so you can try them on their cell phones.  But it sounds like you just passed a kidney stone.”

If April showers bring May flowers, what do Mayflowers bring?

If April showers bring May flowers, what do Mayflowers bring?

Later, I reached Sister C and she (being the kidney stone expert in our family) confirmed.  But apparently I’m supposed to save the little bastard for lab tests and whatnot (I didn’t).  And I now need to make adjustments to my diet and whatnot (less calcium, lower sodium, fewer animal proteins… basically get rid of all the fun stuff).

Hot Doc sent me a message via secure client portal this morning.  My urine culture returned negative for evidence of urinary tract infection.  Duh.

So I responded with this:

I’m not too surprised, because later that day I peed out a rock… my very first kidney stone! I just figured I was dying because it hurt like a mother all day. After it passed, I felt so much better but it took my body a day or two to completely recover. I did finish the course of antibiotics you gave me.
I guess I’ll just know for next time (fingers crossed there will be no next time) when I have acute lower back pain or throbs in my flank and groin and waves of debilitating agony that make me throw up, that another stone is rolling its way down the chute.
At least I remembered my Lamaze breathing. That really helped! Plus, I’m kind of a badass. That helps too.
I will follow up with my urologist.
Giddyup (that’s a stirrup joke because you are my gynecologist),
Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog says I’m going to get fired as his client.  I’m still on pain meds.  That’s my story and I am sticking to it.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Put ‘Em On the Glass

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I like Monday mornings.  I’m not being sarcastic.  Mondays are my “get it done/ bang it out” days… laundry, grocery shopping, a fast workout, appointments.  I figure I’ll have one long, crappy day that is filled with as many of the sucky chores as I can cram in.  Then, later in the week I can do the fun stuff… bake, visit with a friend, watch a Kevin Smith movie marathon, nap, maybe post a blog or two.

Sheepdog always calls me to chat on Mondays and I’m all like, “Why do you keep calling me… I’m BUSY!”  Plus, we just spent the whole weekend together.  What the hell else could we have to talk about?  I like doing stuff together on the weekends, with the kids or without, but the OCD in me really likes it when Monday morning rolls around and Sheepdog has pedaled his way down the street and the kids are all out the door and I can get down to brass tacks with my To-Do list.  I’m always slow to start on Mondays, but once I get going, I am a machine.

Early this morning Kid D and Kid E had crawled into bed with me to cuddle.  We still had a half an hour before we needed to start the day so I was still trying to actually sleep, but the boys were having none of that.  Kid E was perfecting his explosion sound effects (his latest hobby) and Kid D was having a full-on, all-parties-have-to-participate conversation.

“How was your sleep, Mom?”

“Mmmmmm.”

“What does that even mean?  Are you hungry, or still sleeping?  It is supposed to rain today.  80 percent chance, according to The Weather Channel.  My game will probably be canceled.  We are supposed to play the Nationals again.  They are really, really good.  We have had, like, 5 games with the Nationals get rescheduled because of bad weather already this season.  I don’t know how we’re going to make them all up.  Dad and I had a really great practice yesterday.  I was working on my hitting and he kept yelling at me and throwing things at me so I would be distracted.  But I did a good job staying focused.  Did you hear that new song by Muse yet?  I heard it on the radio and I really like it.  Are you going to buy it on iTunes?  You should and then I can download it.  Can you do that for me?  Can you do it today, so you don’t forget?  What else are you doing today?”

“Shhhhblammm!” goes Kid E.

I slowly and reluctantly began to wake up.  And I remembered that it was “bang it out” day and I had an appointment on my schedule first thing this morning.  So, without much thought, I answered the chatty kid.

“I have a doctor’s appointment early this morning.”

“What for?”  Of course.

“Well, it is just an annual exam.”

“Exam of what?”  Nosy bastard.  I’m still tired and I have a lot to do today and I’m not in the mood to play 20 Questions.  I’m just going to give it to him straight.

“Technically, it is of my boobies.”  That’ll shut him up, if only because he’ll be giggling for the next ten minutes.

“Shhhblammm!  Shhhblammm!  Shhhblammm!” goes Kid E again, and then he chimes in, “What about your boobies?”  He joins his brother in fits of laughter.

“All right, gentlemen.  That’s enough.  I am going to the doctor to have them make sure that my boobies are healthy.  It is something that every woman should do every year.  Eat right, exercise and get your girl parts and boobies checked.”

“Are they checking your boobies for milk?”  Smartass.

“No, Mr. Smartypants.  These boobies no longer make milk.”

Kid E goes back to sound effect production, but Kid D is contemplative.  I can tell his mind is back to working overtime.  And then he cracks a smile as he turns to inform his little brother.

“Oh, I get it.  They’re checking to make sure that her milk hasn’t turned into cheese!”

Shhhblammm, indeed.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

images

The Holiday Wrench

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I did all of the laundry so everybody would have clean clothes to pack.  I charged the pump so we could blow up the air mattress for somebody to sleep on when we got there.  I filled the gas tank in the truck so we could get up this morning at 3 A.M. and just drive.  I did a little early Christmas shopping for some bigger items so we could drive them up instead of shipping them.  I’m not even gonna start on the preparations that Grandma and Grandpa made in anticipation of our Thanksgiving visit… the shopping, the cleaning, the cooking, the “little” projects around the house.

Turns out they were all for naught, though, because we have kids.  And kids come with a cornucopia of wrenches that they will throw into the gears of our lives at any given moment.  And because of a sick wrench, the seven of us are all milling around our house in Georgia instead of driving somewhere along I-77 watching (or just listening to, if you sit in the front seat and can’t view the screen) a Disney-Pixar movie right now.

Exactly what we were trying to avoid
*photo courtesy of Google Images*

On Monday, Kid A came home from school in tears.  She was extremely nauseous and on top of that another girl in her lit class had written an essay about her (a very flattering one, not a mean one) that made her extremely emotional.  Since naps are my go-to cure-all, I immediately sent her to bed.  She felt a little better after that, but ended up not going to school on Tuesday because she got worse through the night.  She had a fever and didn’t have the energy to get off of the couch.  She was shaky and dizzy and icky, but I figured whatever it was would run its course and be gone after 24 hours.  So I kept on packing.

But by Tuesday at 5 P.M., while standing amidst 6 fully packed duffel bags (Sheepdog, of course, waits until the very last minute to pack.  He also feels the need to run every article of clothing past me as he does it, despite my insistence that I DO NOT CARE which damn shirt he wears to drive home), 7 winter coats, 7 sets of hats and gloves, 7 pairs of sneakers, 7 backpacks filled with charged electronics and books, a soccer ball, a football, a few baseball gloves and balls, the travel pillows and blankets, the sleeve of DVDs, the camera bag, the snack bag and the drink cooler, Sheepdog and I made the decision to cancel our trip.

The kids’ reactions were similar… all of them were very sad that they wouldn’t be seeing their Grandma and Grandpa, or their aunt and uncle and cousins.  Kid D started to cry inconsolably and he continued through bedtime.  Kid E was mad at me.  But I saw an ever so slight look of relief pass over Kid A’s face when she realized that she wouldn’t have to fake tough for ten hours riding through the ups and downs of the mountain roads while trying not to even think about throwing up even though she would have the Tupperware vomit bowl within her arms’ reach the whole time.  We would also be sitting right next to her the whole time, breathing her sick air and coming into contact with her cooties, pretty much guaranteeing that somebody else would have what she has for the trip home.  It was definitely the right call.

The next call I had to make was to my in-laws, who were vibrating with so much excitement in anticipation of our arrival that I could feel it through the phone lines.  Ironically, our trip to visit them earlier last summer was canceled on their end, as they were all dealing with some sort of plague that we couldn’t take a chance contracting, especially since Kid A’s boyfriend had just had a bone marrow transplant and was extremely immunocompromised.  I was scared that my mother-in-law would be furious or cry or have some sort of extreme reaction that would cause me even more guilt than I was already experiencing, but she was understanding and gracious and so sweet about everything.

So now we are all home.  We have the gift of an unexpected day with nothing much on the schedule.  Kid A is recuperating and we are all keeping our distance.  Kid B went to the movies to see Breaking Dawn Part II (which was AWESOME by the way… best of the series) for the sixteenth time.  Kid C and Kid D are running around in shorts outside playing some sort of bucket, snoochie boochie game.  Kid E is shadowing Sheepdog while he changes the air filters and applies wood putty to a broken door and generally performs a bunch of Sheepdog chores around the house.  I am going to take a much-needed nap.  And tomorrow, as long as everybody has been fever-free for at least 24 hours and nobody shows any signs of being sick, we will join two of my sisters and their families, as well as my mom and dad for Thanksgiving dinner down the street.

I sure hope nobody throws a wrench into that plan.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Put ‘Em Up

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I got in a fight and lost.  Against the Sun.

I made an appointment with my dermatologist to have her look at a little thing on my foot back in late February or early March, but when I returned from Cabo I had a tan.  I didn’t want my dermatologist to think that I was some kind of irresponsible sun worshiper, so I canceled the appointment.

Then came the summertime, and I was an irresponsible sun worshipper.  I took the kids to the pool or the beach regularly and, while I sprayed their little backs and fronts and ears and noses and even scalps with hundreds of dollars worth of “the really good stuff,” I will admit that there were some days when I forgot to slather it on my own cheeks.

Summer ended.  My tan faded.  It crossed my mind once or twice to make another appointment with the dermatologist, but other things came up which required my attention.  It was laundry day or dinnertime or someone needed new socks or a new hairbrush or it was someone’s birthday or soccer game or book fair.

That’s weird… “book fair.”  Why did “book fair” just come to the forefront of my consciousness?  Wait a minute.  What day is this?  Oh, crap!  What time is it?  I was supposed to be at the book fair for Kid D ten minutes ago.  See what I mean about the other things taking over?

OK, I’m back.  I barely made it to the media center before his class was shipped out.  When I found him, Kid D was just wandering around with his wish list, looking abandoned and sad.  But it was nothing a few baseball books couldn’t cure.

So I finally got around to making (and going to) an appointment with the dermatologist on Monday.  She told me that my foot thing was nothing and then she did an all over body scan.  While she was staring at my cheek I asked, “Oh, so you like my age spot, do you?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, that’s no age spot…” she responded as she blasted my face with her evil freeze bottle.

Mama said knock you out.

So now I have a nasty cut on my cheek that will take some time to heal.  In the meantime, I am wearing a band-aid over it because it makes me look more like a tough boxer than a dumb sun bunny.  I might even keep the Everlast glove on while I run my errands.  What?  Don’t you judge me.

The doctor confirmed that I am still allowed to go to Cabo in February.  And in the summer I can still go to the pool and the beach too.  I just need to be extra vigilant about anything new or interesting, and I have to remember to put the good stuff on me.  Every single time.

Speaking of time, take some right now and make your own appointment.  Don’t brush me off.

Wait.  “Brush.”  Somebody said something about a brush this morning.  Oh yeah, Kid B broke hers and she needs a new one.  I’ll go to the store right now, I just need to find my boxing glove first.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Once Was Blind

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

At the beginning of the school year a neighbor walked by wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.  It turns out he recently underwent laser eye surgery to correct his vision, and light sensitivity was a short-term side effect.  Nonetheless, he spoke very highly of the procedure.

When I went to get my hair cut (and colored, if I’m being honest) last month, my hairdresser reminded me that she had the same procedure done about a year ago.  She also was extremely pleased with the results.

That very same week I got a flyer in the mail about the very same surgery from the very same doctor who those two couldn’t stop raving about.  I figured that it was the universe telling me it was time to stop spending all of Sheepdog’s money at 1-800-contacts.  The flyer had a QR code, so I scanned it with my phone and booked a free consultation for the morning after my birthday.

Bad vision or too much wine?

After explaining to both the tech and the optometrist that “my eyes weren’t normally that red,” (I drank an entire bottle of wine all by myself at my happy birthday dinner) they said no matter, everything looked great and I was an ideal candidate.  The only problem was that the thickness of my cornea was borderline and the surgeon may choose to do something more conservative called PRK instead of LASIK on me.  It has similar success as far as results (some say even better), but it is more painful and comes with a longer recovery time.  They recommended not wearing contacts for a few days prior to the procedure because sometimes that helps to tip the scales in LASIK’s favor.  I checked with Sheepdog about the schedule for the surgery and recovery and he gave me the thumbs high.  Excited about finally seeing the world without corrective lenses (and maybe still slightly loaded from the night before),  I scheduled my eye surgery for one week later.

One week later just so happened to be the morning after Halloween.  Not a big deal, except I forgot to do all of the pre-surgery stuff that they instructed me to do.  With Sheepdog driving, we showed up for early morning pre-school carpool without any car seats in the car.  I realized I had forgotten to fill all four of the prescriptions they told me to fill prior to coming in.  And I left the extremely important paperwork folder at home.  I was a total mess.

Sheepdog thinks I was secretly scared to get blasted in my peepers with a laser and that’s why I was so uncharacteristically discombobulated.  But since most places presume that they will be dealing with idiots, the eye surgeon had me covered and even my juvenile subconscious attempts at failing to prepare were thwarted.  So after signing away my life (or at least my right to have eyes that can actually see) in waiver forms, I was lying on a table with my right eye numbed by drops and clamped wide open.  What was I thinking?  Let the torture begin!

“If you’re going to swap my eyeballs for new ones, will you be sure to give me something really funky… like neon green or amethyst eyes?  I look wicked good in purple.” – Me trying to break the ice with my surgeon prior to PRK.
Photo (and my worst nightmare) courtesy of Minority Report (2002)

Actually, the procedure itself didn’t hurt.  It was definitely weird, but it was not painful (even though I had to have PRK instead of LASIK).  Afterwards, I did mention to the doctor that the smell of burning eyeballs is something he may want to consider warning the folks about.  He gave me a scroll of instructions and a scrip for Vicodin and sent me on my way.

My vision was extremely blurry and I was blinded by the slightest glimpse of sun, but I could already sense an improvement in my vision.  The scroll said that Days One and Two would be tolerable, but during Days Three and Four I “may experience some discomfort,” so I hunkered down and got stuff ready for Sheepdog to be in charge for the long weekend.

I learned several things during my recovery period:

1.  I am a fast healer.  By 8PM on Day One I could no longer keep my eyes open, which meant I was a full day-plus ahead of the scroll’s timeline for “discomfort.”
 
2.  I am capable of hibernation.  I went to bed on Thursday when my eyes started hurting, and I slept until 6AM the next day.  Less than two hours later I was back down for a nap.  Throughout the rest of the day I would sleep for two or three hours, wake for thirty minutes or so, then go back to sleep.  I do not know if I slept so much because my body was healing or because I was so bored.  Probably both.  I could not open my eyes, therefore I could not watch TV, nor could I read.  All I could do was hang out and chat with God, but he was preoccupied helping people in NJ and NY because of stupid Sandy.  So I was basically on my own, without even a bloody-handprinted volleyball to call my friend.
 
3.  Doctors can be tricky little wordsmiths.  “Light sensitivity” can imply that you may need to have a pair of dark sunglasses handy on a bright day.  Yet it can also mean that you have to turn off every source of light inside your home, close every curtain or blind and duct tape the cracks because even the smallest ray will send your brain into a tailspin.  It would be best if you lived in a windowless cave. “Discomfort” is also apparently on a spectrum.  My particular level of “discomfort” was akin to having my eyeballs rolled in sand, boiled, then put back into my head.  The doctor said that my recovery would take longer if I used the pain drops, so I toughed it out.  Fortunately, I am a Jersey girl and Jersey girls are badass.  Also fortunately, the painful part lasted less than two days.
 
4.  You can actually get dehydrated from your own tears.  During Days Two and Three my eyes did not stop watering.  I had a constant river of salty drips streaming down my face.  It was so bad that by Day Four I had a red, flaky fu manchu mustache of dry skin on my face.  I used an entire bottle of Oil of Olay that weekend. 
 
5.  Sheepdog is a lousy nurse.  He is wonderful at many, many things, but caring for a temporarily blind wife is just not in his wheelhouse.  I didn’t look any different to him, so he was over the whole, “But I’m handicapped!” even before that first weekend came to an end.

I am now 11 days post surgery, completely pain-free and able to see so much better than before.  I no longer have to wear my sunglasses at night and I have visual improvement every single day.  I may not have gotten the ‘”I can see!” said the blind (wo)man’ moment that LASIK patients apparently get to have, it is still so amazing to me that I am walking around the planet wearing no corrective lenses.   It is truly awesome.

Oh, and 1-800-contacts bought back all of my unopened boxes of contacts!

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

 

What’s Up? Nothing Much… Got Leukemia.

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last summer Kid A began dating a boy she had become friends with at school.  She told me all of these nice things about him first (too good to be true?) and then she broke the news to me that he was going to be a senior and was almost 18-years old (she was 15 and starting her sophomore year at the time).  Immediately I had a flashback to my high school days and being asked out by older boys while wearing my catholic school girl uniform (it was mandatory; I wasn’t just being all slutty) and the warning sirens went off in my head.  But knowing very well what happens when you tell a teenage girl that she can not do something, I decided to take a different tack.  I told Kid A that it was fine that they dated, as long as she brought him to our house so we could get to know him.  So she did.  A lot.

It turns out that Kid A was right about the boyfriend being a great kid.  He is smart, witty, a little bit sarcastic, a lot cynical, well-read, comfortable around adults, and he has street smarts too (he lived in Washington, D.C. with his dad for a while).  He was on the cross country team at school and he held a part-time job waiting tables at a restaurant.  Plus, he listens to good rock music and not that odd, hipster stuff by Lights or Meg & Dia.  He is just the right amount of scared of Sheepdog and he is always respectful of our family and our rules.  He plays with Kids B – E and he rarely seems to get sick of them (I don’t get it because I get sick of them all the time).  Most importantly, he is very respectful and sweet to our daughter.

So time has passed and they go out on dates and hang out here and talk and text and have continued to build their relationship.  They have had mostly ups, but they’ve experienced some downs too.  It is pretty amazing to watch both of them handling a high school relationship with such maturity.

Then last Thursday, the boyfriend (although technically he is now her manfriend, as he turned 18 last November) was admitted into the hospital for suspected epiglottitis (an inflammation of the epiglottis, which is the flap that covers the windpipe during swallowing).  While there, his doctors ran a bunch of tests.  By Friday he was in the ICU, where he was diagnosed with leukemia.  He was then transferred to the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit.  He shaved his head on Monday and started chemotherapy Tuesday afternoon.  It has been a whirlwind.  I really can’t believe it has only been a week since his diagnosis.

I am in shock.  Sad.  Scared.  Heartbroken.  Worried.  Angry.  Frustrated because I have no control.  Studying to learn more about the medicine.  Yearning to make it all better.

Stupid cancer.

Then I look at him.  I am in awe of his strength, even in his vulnerable moments.  My heavy heart gets a little bit lighter every time I hear him make a joke or laugh about his disease, because it takes a very strong person to laugh in the face of adversity.  Everyone knows it’s not really funny, but what else is supposed to take down the elephant in the room that makes its presence known every few seconds with a click-click as the poison gets pumped directly into his heart.  Kids should never have to contemplate their own mortality.  Sarcastic optimism really is the best medicine in my book.  That’s how you face down a monster.

News of Manfriend’s leukemia is now starting to reach people in the community.  He’s getting a ton of friend requests from people on Facebook.  He gets texts and phone calls and cards and visitors and cancer presents (DVDs, video games, hats, warm socks… all excellent gifts) every day.  People want to reach out and show their support and let him and his family know that they care and they want to help.

Some people know all too well what this disease can do to people’s lives.  But others have been lucky enough to never have been touched by the clammy hand of cancer themselves.  It is most interesting to see how people act around someone who is sick.  Some say or write just the right things.  Some are extra nice.  Some do the nervous talking thing.  Some are cautious.  Some are the same as they ever were.  Manfriend seems to be responding to everyone with a natural extension of his already sardonic teenage personality and I think it is going to serve him very well through the inevitable ups and downs of his recovery.

A friend came by the unit to see him the other day.  When he knocked and entered the room he saw his sick friend wearing a gown, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors and machines.  Seeming to gloss over the unmistakable, the friend simply asked, “What’s up?”

Ever the smart-aleck, Manfriend responded, “Nothing much… got leukemia.”

Yeah, I think he’s doing just fine.

Wish me luck for tomorrow (and please keep the manfriend and his family in your prayers)…

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yesterday morning I went into the shop for my annual lady parts check-up.  I can’t imagine that anyone would ever think of this as a fun thing to do, but I will let you in on a little secret.  I figured out a way to make the yearly pull back of the drapes not so awful.  First, you need to laugh out loud about the ridiculousness of it all.  Then you need to get a totally hot doctor.  Trust me, it makes a world of difference.

I have been going to the vaginacologist since my late teens.  My first one was a woman doctor in Philadelphia, and the only things I remember about that experience are that I went by myself, I wore jean overalls to the appointment (it was 1989, cut me some fashion slack), and I got my very first flat tire on the Atlantic City Expressway on the drive home.  I vaguely recall believing for a second that a police helicopter had landed upon my Honda CRX just after I passed through the Egg Harbor toll plaza (a la Goodfellas) and I figured they were coming to get me because I lied to the doctor about not having sex and needing birth control (that, apparently, is one of the things that Catholic high school guilt will do to you).

Now, after years of modesty-obliterating experiences… a vaginal delivery, four cesarean sections, a D&C procedure, three mammograms, trans-vaginal ultrasounds for every pregnancy and what seems like doctors putting everything short of a partridge in my pear tree, a simple annual exam should not faze me in the least.  Plus, it seems like every doctor I see is one of those teaching types who always has an entire boy scout troop following them around (presumably earning their pap smear badges).  So, at this point I am totally used to being naked on a table in front of a crowd.

Yet every year I get all sweaty and nervous as I sit in the chair and fill out my paperwork.  Then I get even more uneasy as I put on the paper vest and blanket (apparently it has more fashion staying power than the jean overalls) and stare at a poster of all of the possible types of uterine tumors while I wait for the nurse to come in.  Is this really the best time to take a blood pressure reading?

So I do my relaxation exercises and take deep, cleansing breaths and count backwards from ten and think of my happy place.  Then the hot doctor comes in and I feel better immediately.  Could it be that he is getting cuter?  Seriously, the man is really attractive.  I shake off the distraction and we catch up on our families and go over the standard medical stuff and he asks if there is anything I am concerned about.

I tell him about my recent weight gain and crazy mood swings and waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep.  He then asks me how old my mother was when she started menopause, and I tell him that he is not really that cute when he says mean things.  He rolls his eyes at me.  Then he says we should check my thyroid just in case and then he has me lie down on the table to begin the examination.

Hot Doc is totally feeling me up for a breast exam.  I am trying to be mature and maintain a professional tone, but there is this ornery part of me that always feels the uncontrollable need to say something.

“So, the one good thing about this stupid weight gain is that my boobs are totally huge now.  My husband sure isn’t complaining about that!” I say to no one in particular.  The regular nurse suppresses her laughter but the nurse-in-training at the foot of the table lets at least one giggle out before she composes herself.  Hot Doc just shakes his head.  The boy scouts titter and confirm to one another that I just said, “boobs.”

I hang on because I know we are almost at the grand finale… the internal exam.  Hot Doc is now situated between my legs with a miner’s hat and a tool that resembles a small post-hole digger.  Awesome.  I hate this part, especially because the lawyers make the docs say, “I am going to touch you now” before they start, which makes it super creepy.  It gets even more weird if the doctor makes small talk as he is nosing around down there.  Then, after the pap smear (oooh, I’m totally getting a bagel afterwards), just as Hot Doc is elbow-deep in my hoo-hah and palpating my abdomen, somebody’s phone starts to ring.

In my next life I want to come back as a lion. Nap in the sun. Eat a big steak. Repeat.

We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way

A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh

Awkward silence.

Once again the ornery in me takes control and I blurt out, “Well, it’s a good thing that I shaved this morning.  Otherwise I would be totally offended by that ringtone.”

Hot Doc actually had to put down his tools and step out of the room for a minute.  He was still wiping away laughing tears when he returned and said to me, “I’m sorry, but that was by far the funniest thing I have ever heard while sitting in this position.”

Hot Doc definitely loves me back.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…