Fine Young Fauves

To paraphrase the late Amy Winehouse, “Tryin’ to make me go to [cardiac] rehab and I say, okay, okay, okay.”

This week I entered my millionth and hopefully final phase in the great adventure in dizziness that began lo these 3 and a half years ago. The first part was to reduce my dependence on Cymbalta. My primary doctor, who I suspect is herself has an eating disorder or very least hysterical about all things weight-related, insisted that Cymbalta is the cause of my recent admission to the behemoth community. My husband, who I love, complained that it made me even spacier, when I am already a touch too spacey for his tastes. I myself had to wonder whether after two and a half years on this drug, my poor “hot” brain has cooled enough to go out on its own. I just wanted to know whether I could fledge.

[I’m raising a baby cedar waxwing at the moment, and the bird/nest imagery is top of mind.]

So I went in and pled my case to the neurological god. He quibbled that Cymbalta is technically “weight neutral,” and that the spaciness is merely Jimmy Buffet syndrome (admittedly, Jimmy Buffet Syndrome– JBS– is not actually bothering me, the sufferer. I’m very content living on the outskirts of Margaritaville), and that, most importantly, if I go off it I may have a really bad relapse.

So we agreed to drop it by half, 40 mg to 20, and see where that leads us. That was about 10 days ago. The first night I thought I would surely die and/or scratch my skin off entirely. I had a few days of excessive weepiness but not too terrible. But basically I said to myself, Well, that wasn’t so bad.

Then I hit the pain part. Knees, feet, hands, back, etc., etc. But especially feet and hands started feeling like arthritic crabs. Is it normal at 45 to say “ouch” with every step up or down stairs? I mean, verbally? So finally at the 7-day mark I called the neuro to ask for advice. They said to call my primary. Long story short, my primary said to split the difference and change it back to 30 mg. Her theory is possibly that my severe vitamin D deficiency (another topic) is making my joints hurt, and that the Cymbalta was masking it, and that when it was reduced the joint pain that was already there just became much more apparent. So mega-doses of vitamin D, and in the meantime, more Cymbalta. I’m all for going back up to 30. Maybe it was just too big a leap. I start the new dose tomorrow, so we’ll see where that goes.

Anyway, in the meanwhile, I started cardiac rehab finally last week. This was delayed for six months, six February, because I was too anemic for it. Whatever! It took ages to get the hemoglobin situation to improve, but finally it did, and so I finally got to go do a stress test at the Preventive Cardiology Dept. In a word: it sucked. I guess that’s two words. You get the idea. Lots of wires and what not, and an overly cheerful friendly guy and a brusque nurse and lots of machines beeping. I loved the little chart on the wall with pictures depicting a happy fellow lying in a hammock (1), then striding along happily (2), then gradually getting more and more stressed and exhausted until at 10 he’s doubled over and near collapse.

I had to walk on a treadmill, wearing all the wires and what not. Everything went fine for 7 minutes or so. They gradually increased the incline and I strode along happily in the 2-3 range. Then quite suddenly, I hit 10, started to feel very faint, started to hear the nurse commanding me to keep my eyes open, started having trouble breathing, then compounded by crying, fear, embarrassment, dread of dying and an extreme overwhelming desire to lie down at once. This they would not let me do. I had to walk, unable to see, clinging to these little handrails, for a few more minutes. Then sit for a while. And then, finally, I was allowed to become horizontal in my favorite, happy and safe position with lots of oxygeny goodness. This is why I can’t go to the normal gym! This is what it does!

What happened was that once my heart rate hit 160, my blood pressure unceremoniously plummeted by 50 points. This feels very, very bad when it happens. I queried whether this in any way happens to normal people and was assured that it does not. I can say that although the experience was dreadful in itself, I’m glad they got to see what I’m talking about, and it was verified yet again that I am not making this up and am not– repeat not– crazy.

So now I’m in the posse of very queen-sized black ladies, old white men who have had bypass surgery, and various other folks who are not in these categories. There’s a thin and fit black guy who wears a hat like Samuel L. Jackson. A few white ladies of a certain age. Some very spry-looking people. Lots of slim exercise physiologists in white coats. Everyone wearing complicated heart monitors and everyone’s heartbeats on screens. Nearly a 1:1 ratio of white coats to patients. Little blood pressure monitors on wheels. I was feeling pretty depressed about all this. How far away it seems to the days in 2009 when I was doing my BOSU workout with Pilates on alternate days.

Then I noticed one 20-something white woman who is totally fit and slim… ah, but she was wearing the mark of my people: support stockings. So I asked her, “Hey, do you have POTS?… I see your stockings.” and she laughed and said yes. We chatted quite a bit that first day. She told me how she had a sinus infection that somehow felled her completely. (I said mine started with a sinus/ear infection too!) She got POTS in April, and now is on disability because she can’t work, and had to move back in with her parents because she can’t be alone for fear of falling. Yesterday when I got there I found that my new POTS buddy was in really bad shape– ultimately she was taken out in a wheel chair to be collected by her mom!

My workouts, if you can even use that term, consist of gently paddling my feet on a recumbent bike or stepper thing. They want my heart rate to go up to around 130-138, but anytime I crack 110 or so, my BP starts to drop. 90/60 or that sort of thing. I start to see pretty white spots that aren’t there and we have to slow, slow down. Even so I made a touch of progress– from 10 minutes to 30, albeit on a pure wimp setting. Ben has been a great champion of supportiveness, reminding me that three years ago he was shuffling like an old man in his slippers and now he’s about to run his third half-marathon! I try to keep this in mind. You gotta start somewhere.

It’s a pain to drive all the way up to Cleveland M, W, and F., park, deal with the Clinic, etc. But one good thing: I feel secure there. I am not afraid of the bad thing happening again, because if it happens, which it probably won’t because they are so on the case, I’m in a place where a) I will be safe; b) people will know what is wrong with me and will take care of me, and c) I won’t be embarrassed because my compatriots have all BTDT themselves.

It’s a bridge, I hope, between this situation here and getting back to normal life. Ah, my BOSU… I never thought I’d miss you so much!! Someday we will be reunited.

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

Here are some observations about Canada, a little-known yet vast, thriving country to our north:

1. It’s beautiful.
2. It’s welcoming and kid friendly; the natives are super nice.
3. Everything costs a TON, so that the prices and silly-looking currency seem like they must be play money, and yet the US and Canadian dollars are an even exchange right now.
4. They have mixed feelings about whistling– some hate it, some find it adorable, but everyone notices the habitually whistling child.
5. They have inscrutable driving etiquette, which I somehow kept getting wrong.
6. They really do use the interrogative, “ay?” Other common phrases include, “Right on!” and “no worries.”
7. They watch a lot of CNN and are very tuned into everything going on in the states.
8. Everything is in metric, which is disorienting: the rental car (a Canadian Ford Fusion) was in kph. Also, I never did figure out how to open the trunk without a key, and it had a mysterious gear called “M.”
9. In parts of Nova Scotia, signs are not bilingual English/French, but bilingual English/Gaelic.
10. The blueberries are the size of quail’s eggs.
11. There is land beyond the end of Maine, and they call it called “New Brunswick.”

It was a real mom-boys adventure. And let me pause for a moment here to admire and celebrate the reality that I was well enough, strong enough, brave and foolish enough to undertake this sort of major project on my own. A scant year ago I was still so dizzy and fatigued and generally at sea, that this sort of thing would’ve been unthinkable.  As the only adult on the voyage, I was in charge of all logistics. That meant a lot of carrying, packing, unpacking, gear management, planning, cooking, cleaning, driving, navigating, diplomacy, refereeing, and bottomless patience with youngsters who were sometimes ungrateful, whiny, and totally unreasonable to boot. Furthermore, because there was no dad on hand to do these things, I was called upon to swim, canoe, climb up and down cliffs, and most of all RIDE ON BOATS. I mean, there have been times in my multi-year bout of dizziness in which my kitchen floor felt exactly like a boat at sea. And now, I am stable enough to go on a REAL boat on a REAL SEA????!!! In that light, what you are about to see will amaze you.

PART 1: Whales

Our first order of business was to see whales. I’d seen orcas before on the US west coast, but I wanted to see like, serious whales. Humpbacks, specifically. I couldn’t be within striking distance without making it happen. This meant booking a cottage down on Digby Neck, this thin peninsula that runs along the mainland coastline in the Bay of Fundy. From there we could drive even further down the peninsula, take a ferry to an island, and catch a whale-watching boat. I had asked the kids beforehand, “Would you like a slow, secure boat that has a bathroom and tables you can sit at, or would you like a fast, scary boat that is open to the air?” Obviously, they chose fast and scary. That meant, a Zodiac.

In order to ride in this glorified rugby dingy and bounce along the waves at high speed, everyone has to put on giant orange floatation suits. The kids had rain gear plus life jackets. (All photos taken on my iPhone, the case of which slipped now and then, casting a rounded shadow along the left margin.)

The Right Stuff!

The boat ride itself was as terrifying as advertised, and we quickly struck gold with porpoises, harbor dolphins, seals, and many exciting sea birds. That was all wonderful in itself. And then…

Thar she blows!

We saw 8-9 humpbacks and one minke. For me the highlight was a moment when a mom and baby pair of whales were playing in these huge drifts of seaweed, and the baby one was rolling around in it so that for one second I got to see his giant mouth and eye. Of course, I didn’t get a photo of this fantastic thing. Nor did I get a photo of the boys’ favorite part: breaching. This one whale kept doing it over and over, but was quite far away from us. The guide guy said if we went over there to see it, it would stop, but we tried anyway, and it stopped breaching right on cue. Still even seeing it from a distance was pretty awesome, and we did get to see my other favorite thing: tails. The trick was to get it on camera, and despite repeated tail sightings, I only caught a small percentage. Here’s one!

IMG_0885

Part 2: The Bay of Fundy

The whole whale business was in the Bay of Fundy too, but actually spending four days and nights in a cottage on a cliff right above the bay was a much bigger deal. I’ve always had this romantic thing about Fundy Bay, possibly because I grew up listening to the great Gordon Bok song “Bay of Fundy,” which is too obscure now to even have an MP# download. I wanted to post it here to set the mood, but can’t. So just picture a deep baritone and lots of imagery about fog and rain and tide and men battling the waves in heroic fashion.

I am very lucky that my father’s elder sister, Aunt Betty, the matriarch of the Canadian branch of our family, has a beautiful place right on the bay. She invited us to stay with her and took wonderful care of us while we were there. Also, I had to marvel at her, herself. She’s 81. Skis in the winter, golfs in the summer, plays bridge in between, and generally is as lovely and spry and hale as many women decades younger. I look to her as a perfect example of how to be 81, and will keep this in mind for … god… is it only 36 years from now??

The Bay of Fundy is all about tides. It has the highest tide in the world, and sports like “tidal bore rafting” (white water rafting on the tide as it comes in and collides with a river head on) exist there. Everyone has tide clocks and tide charts all over the place and also seems to know by instinct where the tide is and where it’s going at any given moment.  Number one rule of Fundy: DO NOT forget about the tide.

Because when it’s out, it’s hard to fathom that it would come back. Tide in, it looks like this:

Water, water everywhere

Tide out, it looks like this:

huh? What just happened?

And it does this every six hours!

In any case, all this tidal action makes for excellent rock hunting and infinite tide pool investigations. They had the tiniest hermit crabs I’ve ever seen– like the size of a pea. I got one in my shoe during an epic walk across the bay to the formerly submerged island. It felt like a pebble but kept nibbling on me.

While there, we also went to the Cape D’Or lighthouse, this incredible point where the Bay of Fundy (and its tides) is cloven in two. At times an actual whirlpool is created, which has captured at least one kayaker. I amazed myself with my nerves of steel and let the boys have a death-defying climb all over these totally unsafe rocks and crags.

That’s right, he’s leaping.

0% of the photos do it justice.

Part 3: The Northumberland Strait and Cape Breton Island

I really wanted to go to Prince Edward Island, but it was impossible: all the cottages were booked, and everything required a full week, and it apparently is really touristy now. The Japanese fell in love, en masse, with Anne of Green Gables and now they all come there to get married, and/or pay homage to their bold, red-headed heroine.

But, no worries, there was beauty to spare where we did go, a little cottage on the opposite side of the same water, near the hamlet of Antigonish. If you might guess, as I did, that name sort of rhymes with the Greek “Antigone,” you would be wrong. The first three syllables happen very fast, with a big ISH at the end. It sounds more like “wanna knish?” Just so you know in case you go.

Anyway, we more or less used that as a launching pad for two very wonderful outings. First, to La Forteress de Louisbourg. Second, out fishin’.

Louisbourg is this huge, French fort from the 1740s, when France and Britain were duking it out for control of North America in general. This was apparently a pretty important fort, judging from all the large and imposing structures there. And people all in costume. Lots of French speakers, and military drills all in French. Beautiful seascapes all around, and a boys’ paradise of cannons, muskets, barracks and blacksmiths.

Future Olympic runner

A massive gate to keep out the redcoats

kind of a huge walled city

The drive to and from there crossed Cape Breton Island, and went around the Bras D’Or (“Arms of gold”) lakes, which were stunning in a way that evoked fjords. I got no good pictures of them, however, as I was driving the whole time and it was quite a haul.

On our last day abroad, we had an opportunity to go out on a serious tuna boat, just us. It had this thing called a “tuna tower” where you can go 20 feet up and look out to spot tuna way in the distance. And it had one of those chairs you get tied into when battling deep sea fish. We didn’t need it, however, as we were only jigging (? I think that’s the term) for mackerel.

two mackerel and a tomahawk

We also caught a flounder

They let both boys drive the boat *and* use the sonar to locate fish. We were followed by many sea birds, including the incredible rocket-like gannets, who shot down into the water to capture fish the boys threw in for them.

Isaac was a little too fascinated with his pet fish head.

And we got the one and only picture of all three us in our moment of glory. Really, it could not have been a better trip!

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  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2013 Catherine Park

He wasn’t wearing a sarong, nor working the NYT Sunday crossword, but Obama in person, even in a suit and crossword free, is a sight to behold.

Yesterday I had to good fortune to see our president give a speech at Tri-C (local community college). My friend Simona works there, and as a recovering Romanian, she’s very politically conservative. My informal survey of anyone who’s ever lived under Communism is that, when they come to the U.S., that’s how they are. (I can understand that, but I still think we need health care.) In any case, Simona is not a fan of Obama and gave me her ticket. (Thanks Simona!!)

I was worried about how I would pull it off logistically. Step one, I got another mom (thanks Lori!) to pick up the kids from Science Center Camp that afternoon. Step two, I canceled an after-camp appt, so that I had nothing to worry about in terms of when and how I got out of the speech/traffic situation. That part was pretty easy. The part I really worried about was the physical end of it.

Seeing the president, if you’re not familiar, involves a lot of standing in lines. I mean, a LOT.  Also they don’t let you bring anything in whatsoever… I mean, nothing to eat or drink, nothing to read or do, just… nothing. Three things that make me dizzy: standing upright for long periods of time, dehydration, and low blood sugar. This day seemed like a fine mix of all, and I pictured myself lying on the pavement instead of being in the presence of my boyfriend in person.

I did what I could to avoid trouble– mostly I went to a restaurant (thanks Lucky’s!) and ate the hugest possible breakfast. It was called the Shipwreck, a massive scramble of organic eggs, veggies, and no-nitrate bacon. No matter how much I kept eating it, it never seemed to get any smaller. Finally I sent it away. The waitress encouraged me that I had made a nice dent, but I wasn’t so sure. I had the anxious concern that I hadn’t eaten anything at all.

The next challenge was parking. The doors opened at 11:30, and rumor had it Obama would speak at 1:45. I headed over there around ten, wanting to thread the needle between too late and too early. It turned out I hit it just right. I found a parking space rather easily, and it was only $3.00 for six hours. So easily in fact that I doubted whether I truly was allowed to park there. A police officer pulled up in a golf cart and so I asked him, “Can I really park here to see Obama?” He replied, “You just did!” That was a good omen… as the jovial cop began to tell me how to get to the venue, he was waiting for an older lady with a cane to get her purse. As she hobbled up to the cart, he said to me, “Okay, okay, just hop on back! I’m not supposed to do this!” I got a good belly laugh out of both of them when I said, “I’ll try to look innocuous.”

Grateful! So grateful that I got a ride up out of the ramp and all the way, close to the gym where the line was forming. I helped the little old lady across the street and to a bus shelter where she was going to wait for special handicapped access to the event. I think that got me some good karma, because next thing I know I was in the red-ticket line, get this, IN THE SHADE.

Yes, the shade and the cool breezes really are what saved this whole event, because I had to stand there, as it turned out, for the better part of two hours. The line behind me began to stretch and stretch off into the high noon sun, but I was really up quite close to front.

Way back there someone must've collapsed, because the EMTs came at one point.

I chatted with those around me, and made friends with some ladies in front of me, which proved to be an asset later in the game. The crowd was overwhelmingly African-American, with a few white folks like me sprinkled in. The energy crackled with happiness and pride. I especially loved all the old black ladies with their sparkly Obama vests and hundreds of Obama buttons and fancy Sunday-best hats.

It turned out that my “red ticket” was a good one to have for some reason and our line felt very special. The doors did not open at 11:30, though, nor 12:00. College age volunteers kept roaming up and down the line, asking everyone urgently whether their tickets were filled out, whether they had photo ID, and were prepared for airport-like security. As the line finally started to move, a huge hoard — maybe 20 people– of Tri-C students in special blazers just totally butted in in front of me. They claimed they were “ambassadors” and “had to stay in a group.” Luckily my new friends from the line– a group of young black professional women– fished me out of the mess, and said, “You’re with us!” Luck, I tell you, lady luck smiled on me the whole time.

Indeed, later after security I wanted to go ahead and save seats for them to repay the favor, but I was shuttled into the gym and lost them in the crowd (thanks ladies, wherever you are!). It was very hard to control one’s own pace and location in the sort of cattle-like way we were being handled. The people didn’t have electric prods per se, but they were quite firm. Anyway, eventually I got to my seat, and this was the view:

How great is this?

I mean, so great!! I could not believe how small the venue was, just an ordinary gym with bleachers along one side, some folding chairs on the floor, and a large area blocked off for press. The black ladies around me clued me in that the VIP area was brimming with dignitaries from local black churches. I said that maybe he wanted to woo them because of the gay marriage thing, and they assured me that nothing, nothing, nothing Obama could ever do would lose him the black vote. Maybe this was a biased group of people, but they seemed to know what they were talking about.

I expected a whole string of dignitaries introducing each other, working up to maybe Mayor Jackson or something. But in fact they just had one guy give a prayer, one guy lead the pledge, and one lady sing the national anthem. Then there was another half hour pause, during which people walked up and down in front of the crowd starting cheers. Helene Cooper of the NYT described it well:

In Cleveland, the crowd of about 1,500 at the community college was kept purposely low because this was a “speech, not a rally,” campaign aides said…. But many in the crowd acted as if they were at a rally anyway, doing the wave, chanting the ubiquitous “fired up, ready to go” slogan from Mr. Obama’s 2008 campaign and interrupting his speech with raucous cheers and expressions of agreement.

It was a raucous crowd, although I would say the wave was not a success. People around kept saying, “C’mon people! We’re on TV! Let’s make some noise!” And indeed there was a wall of cameras trained on us. At some point, a rumor spread that his plane had landed. Someone nudged me and pointed out that the wall of cameras had turned from the crowd to point at the podium. A wave of reporters and camera people came in and began to station themselves in front of the podium. (Incredibly long lenses, although they were three feet away?). “OOOH!” one lady told me, “I’m getting goose bumps! I think they’re going to play ‘Hail to the Chief’!”

But they didn’t. In fact, impressed as I was by the smallness of the gym, and the simplicity of the folding chairs, I was even more impressed by the simple way Obama was introduced. A working mom and Tri-C nursing graduate came out and talked about her struggles and successes, and her desire to send her daughter to college. And then the president simply walked in. Just like that. Hum-de-dum, yes, I’m the leader of the free world, hello.

The crowd of course went berserk, present company included.  I took many pictures with my phone, which were mostly pretty blurry and bad. I think this is the best of the lot.

Yes!! There he is!

He delivered what really felt like a serious campaign speech.  I would summarize it as saying, “If you liked 2000-2008, and how the economy was handled during that time, you should vote for Romney. That’s what he’s going to give you if he’s president.”

He spoke for almost an hour, eloquently, of course, but also passionately. I just loved watching him– I loved his intensity and his passion. I hadn’t realized, in all the times I’ve heard him and seen him on TV, how much of a firebrand he is. That’s the word that kept coming to mind, “Firebrand.”

He is wonderful!!

As he started winding up his speech, I was stunned to see some foolish people beginning to file down the aisles, like in the seventh inning of a losing baseball game. “It’s not a movie, people!” someone yelled. Seriously. Also, this did them no good whatsoever. Even after it was all over, and the crowd flowed down and out towards the door, we all had to wait some more.

A bad part of the experience.

This is the part where I started to feel pretty bad. Dizzy, weak, very, very tired. I had to stand there in that crowd another — what? — twenty minutes maybe while they emphatically did not open the doors. At least it was cool, and I don’t have claustrophobia, no one pushed, and I’m sure there was a good reason for it. But I really wanted to crumple to the floor. By this time it was 3:00 p.m., and I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since about 9:30. I needed a bio break. My body, which had held up incredibly well through all this, truly started to rebel.

But eventually they let us free. I walked out into the sunshine, and found an old man selling buttons. Of all the copious Obama paraphernalia on sale that day, this is the one thing that truly called to me. I wear it now with pride.

My boyfriend in his natural habitat

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

Lest I leave you with the impression that our life consists of alternating medical procedures with unwanted inappropriate comments, I’ve put together a medley of recent activities. Lordy lord we’re busy, but in a good way.

The boys won many trophies in the TaeKwonDo All-school Grand Championship a couple weeks ago. Admittedly, it’s impossible to NOT win trophies if you go there. But both boys got a couple second place awards, which means they beat out two other kids in that belt/age group/event.

Elias kicked A** and some boards

Isaac kicked many things as well.

Of course, we’ve also been playing hockey.

Watch out Wayne Gretzky.

And taking our dragon for walks on her leash.

Beardina loves her new harness!

Not crazy about the harness, but does love dandelion greens and sunshine.

Getting scary face paintings with scales all down the neck.

Face emerging from cobra's mouth!

Going on awesome trips… like Ben’s dad-lads-granddad Revolutionary War tour in April.

Niagara Falls

Plimouth Plantation

The Old North Bridge

Learning to play the saxophone.

Seriously, Charlie Parker at age 9

The marvelous Mr. Aaron

Building and shooting off rockets.

If only the parachute would deploy!

SpaceX prototype

And harvesting out own red ripe strawberries. Plural (there were two of them last night.)

The bunnies keep getting them first.

After a long day full of action, we tend to feel like this:

I feel that way too, but, you know, I'm the driver.

Now we’re planning a busy summer of trips and camps. I’m trying to make it less insane than last summer, and put in some empty weeks. But at the very least Isaac is doing Lego Robotics camp at the Great Lakes Science Center, and a week of SCUBA diving. Elias is doing space explorer camp and inventors’ camp. We’re going out to my mom’s farm in June to help with an important turtle relocation project, going to Minneapolis for July 4. And most importantly, embracing our Canadian heritage with a big, BIG trip to Nova Scotia to see my aunt Betty, and some whales, and the world’s biggest tides. Just bought the tickets this morning! So excited!

🙂

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

Okay… this is why I said to hell with them all a year or so ago and just gave up on the medical profession entirely. On Monday I had a bewildering, dehumanizing experience at the Cleveland Clinic– AGAIN. When will I learn?

To put this in context, here’s the timeline:

Oct., 2011, At a well woman check up, I confess to Nurse Practitioner that I’m having trouble swallowing. She orders a barium swallow.

Nov., Barium Swallow shows some issues, I get referred to Akron GI Doc.

Jan., 2012: Akron GI Doc does an endoscopy and says hiatal hernia, ulcer, paraesophageal hernia. Recommends surgery to repair.

Feb., I go to Cleveland Clinic for second opinion. Cute old Chinese GI doc orders some more tests to see if he agrees– radioactive eggs, another barium swallow.

March, I go to normal doctor near home to see about my anemia problem, and as an aside she says, “Don’t do the surgery– I wouldn’t! People live with that for years.”

April 2: Cute old GI doc at clinic says, YEP you need surgery to fix this mess. Or else the “serious complication” in which the paraesophageal hernia (some stomach coming up along side my esophagus) COULD get strangled, and die, and then, Sister, you’re in a world of hurt. Go see a surgeon.

Which brings us to… April 10, Monday, in which I went to see the surgeon.

First off, severe instinctual hatred of the whole place kicked in soon after I arrived on the surgical floor. Intense fight or flight response. Poor souls wandered the halls in their hospital gowns, pushing IVs. Apparently along with the laparoscopic abdominal stuff I was there for, they also do bariatric surgery in the same place. Too much… gross, upsetting imagery on all sides.

They parked me in a little room, and I found myself waiting there with no computer! If only I could have spent my time doing the trusty NYT crossword, a daily diversion for my brain, I would’ve probably fared a lot better. But no. I had NOTHING to do, and they made me wait… and wait… and wait…. I started reading brochures, but then stopped in revulsion. I looked at the innards on the posters on the wall. I paced around. I started actually reading something on my ancient flip phone, which hardly works as a browser, but these were desperate times. (I’m getting an iPhone soon!)

Then finally a young chipper resident came in, all cheerful, and cute and palsy-walsy. He started asking me questions, and I started answering them, and then none-too-gradually, I just began to emotionally unravel. I started crying, and once started, could not stop. There were no tissues, only scratchy paper towels, which he kept providing for me with a pitiful look of confusion and embarrassment and concern on his face. I can’t even tell why I lost it, but call it battle fatigue.

So eventually he left and went to talk to the real surgeon about the situation. (Probably adding: Danger! She’s hysterical!!) So they came in and the main guy started talking about this gruesome additional test he wanted. I couldn’t really follow it, but it involved putting me under, putting a tube down my nose, and implanting some sort of small piece of paper??? That would then broadcast to some little gadget I would then wear for two days??? As to how much acid coming up?? And so on. This he explained was to decide what to do about my inner parts and how to fix them.

Option A, which was what I thought was the only option, was the obvious fix. Get the stomach back down where it belongs, patch up the torn diaphragm, and then, go on your merry way.

OR Option B: Cut off large chunks of your stomach, reroute everything, and voila! Mini-bariatric surgery as a bonus, and a tiny remaining bulb of a stomach, and direct line to your small intestine, and basically a total revamp of the system.

Wha—?

He even added, “You’re not a candidate for bariatric surgery per se, but this would facilitate weight loss also!”

So I said at this point, “So I take it we’re way beyond whether or not to have surgery, and on to trying to figure out what kind?” (See above history.)

And this is where the whole thing took a turn for the weird. He goes, “Oh! No, not at all! you don’t HAVE to do any of this!”

And I’m like, “What???”

And he’s all, “No, people say there’s this “risk” or doing nothing, but it’s no problem! You’re a young woman! That necrosis thing only happens to the 80-year-olds!”

It’s all sort of a blur from there, but I can assure you that the crying faucet got bad again and I just could not get it together after that. The young resident just kept bringing me a steady supply of paper towels. Finally the doc gave me his card, said think about it for 3-6 months, and then call back. I left still openly weeping and continued to weep intermittently all the way to car, through the valet process, and much of the way home, and much of the day.

So, tally so far: GI doc # 1: you need surgery. Primary Care Provider: You don’t need surgery. GI doc #2, YES you do! Surgeon who’s supposed to do the surgery: Well, if you WANT to. … As if I “want” to. Holy shit!! If it’s optional I would never return to that place or any hospital ever!

So, I wash my hands of the whole ordeal.

I’m just going to try to forget about the whole thing for several months. Perhaps the Gods will send me a clear sign of some kind?

Meanwhile, all my heart stuff is on hold while I attempt to get over anemia. Whatever.

I will now write an entry about happier subjects.

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

Okay so on Tuesday I had to eat the radioactive breakfast special at the Cleveland Clinic (radioactive egg beaters, slimy and extremely hot from the microwave, with very, very welcome toast and jelly on the side and a refreshing paper cup of tap water). It was tedious. They made me and this other lady scarf down the feast in a narrow time frame. Then for the next 4 hours we had to occasionally lie down inside a large machine and get our picture taken. (This was the “gastric emptying” test. Turns out — good news– my esophagus is quite a mess, but the rest of my stomach works fine!) In between photo ops we were free to sit in uncomfortable chairs listening to FOX news blare about Super Tuesday.

Somehow I came home from this experience feeling very wiped out, exhausted, starved thirsty and all around miserable. Then yesterday I just felt like everything was a struggle, being as utterly bone tired as I was. I had a lot of running around to do, per usual, and made some recordings on my heart rate monitor. I did notice that it was clocking in at over 160 bpm and, yes, it occurred to me that it was quite fast. Also, I felt like crud, was seeing spots, and generally wanted to gently crumple to the floor on more than one occasion.

But I made it through the day somehow– got the kids to and from school, and Isaac to gymnastics and so on. Then around 9:00 I noticed that my monitor was full and so called it in. To be honest I suspected that they wouldn’t like it. And I was right. I got put on hold for ages listening to relaxing music. Finally the lady came back on and asked me for another recording. I took one, and my HR was only 105-110 while I was lying down, and so I thought that would appease them. She put me on hold again for a long time. Then came back and said that the on-call cardiologist at the Cleveland Clinic recommends that I go to the ER for evaluation. At my discretion.

It was the “at my discretion” part that made it tricky. I discussed it with Ben and I could see that he thought it would be a huge hassle and waste of time and I shouldn’t go. I did a cost-benefit analysis. Option A: go to bed and be cozy vs. Option B: go to the ER, get poked, be held prisoner for hours, and then go home and lie awake trying to unwind after all the stress. But along with the first option came just that little trace of dread. What if…?

Ultimately I decided that being anxious instead of cozy was not a good choice. I figured– it’s just routine. They’ll just put me on an EKG for five minutes and say I’m fine and then I can go home and go to sleep. I had this nagging little voice that said “maybe the cardiologist is right and there is something to be concerned about.” So I went. Ben and kids stayed home in bed. The kids were anxious about it and Ben I could see was just bone tired and fatigued by the whole thing.

Unfortunately– and I’ll remember this next time– they don’t just put you on an EKG for five minutes and let you go. They set up tons of monitors and wires and of course run an IV, draw lots of blood, make you pee in a cup, and generally make a fuss. It takes on life of its own.

They ran in a liter of fluids, which felt sort of nice (cool, and refreshing!). I just lay there and watched random TV. It was very boring, and uncomfortable. The nurse intimated that they might admit me!! Which was not on my radar screen at all. But when it was all over, in fact, they set me free. It was 1:30 a.m. and if I was tired before I was now even MORE tired! The doctor frowned on me driving myself home, and I was less that totally steady on my feet leaving the place, but finally I got out on parole.

So… I’m anemic. Big whoop. My first concern was whether I’ve been anemic all along, and this incredibly obvious thing got missed while they were busily checking my blood volume with radioactive isotopes and what not. The Clinic had no record of a CBC (complete blood count) among the tons of blood tests I had done in 2009. This distressed me no end. But lo– so happy! — I called my ordinary doctor and bless her she did test for it that extremely dizzy summer! And it was fine. So I’ve developed anemia for some reason in the last two years. Okay, fine. Whatever. It may be making me more dizzy than usual now, though. But once we figure out why it’s like that, it’s quite treatable.

Today at least teaching my writing class was cancelled for me because the kids have a big science olympiad this weekend. I got the boys to school — with clean clothes and hair combed and homework and nutritious lunches and a purple hoe Isaac needs for a skit they are preparing. This seems like enough of an achievement for one day.

And now, as Samuel Pepys would say, “So to bed.”

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

Who let the doctors out?

Okay, I’m the one who effectively sicced (?) them on myself. After my endoscopy in January, I decided to go up to the Cleveland Clinic (Land of 10,000 specialists) and get another opinion on whether I do/do not need surgery to fix my tummy troubles. So I recently went up to see a GI doc I can only describe as the Taiwanese Dr. Marcus Welby. The upshot of that conversation (and he did look at my tongue– wonder what it told him?) is that he wants more tests before deciding about surgery. These doctors! They just love measuring things.

So on to my third barium swallow next week– surely my least favorite drink ever. Third time’s a charm?? But at least it’s familiar and I know the drill. Then, and this is even better, I get to eat radioactive eggs! This amused Isaac no end. He came along to the appt with me because he was home with his ear infection. And so he spent the next hour riffing on the radioactive eggs. I won’t need a reading light because I’ll just open my mouth and a beam of light will come out; I won’t need to take the elevator because I’ll just climb up the outside of the building and come in the window; etc. First the radioactive blood and now this. I wonder if I’ll get another wallet card to alert the feds that I’m not carrying a suitcase nuke.

After all that, which is to say in early April, I’ll meet him again and we’ll see what he says regarding surgery or no. My mom has recently been regaling me with a horrible story of a dear elderly friend of hers who had his entire stomach go up into his esophagus and… well… it was awful to contemplate. The good news is that he did survive and is on the mend. The cautionary tale part of it is I don’t want this to be me. A quarter of my stomach in there is more than enough!

Okay, so onward. I then went to see the colleague of the good old Toni-Tenille-wig wearing ancient cardiological goddess I saw two years ago. You may remember that that experience left me in a state of total despair and hopelessness. For some reason I therefore avoided the whole department for two solid years. But finally I decided that I did need another cardiologist to lift the curse of the first one and find out whether or not exercise will actually kill me or cure me. So I made an appt with a jovial middle aged man, kind of a god in his field, I’ll call Dr. Fezziwig (not his real name). You won’t be surprised I suppose that I found myself in a state of emotional distress when I had to recount the goings on of the past two years, especially the bad nearly-passing-out-at-the-gym thing, which I do think has left me with a trace of PTSD.

But Dr. Fezziwig listened to all this and then told me all about the POTS study! I mean, THE POTS study that I’ve been trying to get into and even tried to do on my own in the fall. Suddenly it’s no problem to get into it– just call his secretary! Meanwhile, he began writing a long, long list of tests, including huge amounts of blood work when it’s already well established that I have not quite enough of the stuff in the first place.

He says he really thinks that what we’ll find is that nothing is actually wrong with my heart, but that i have mild dysautonomia (sort of a blanket term that includes POTS). He also said that they have no idea what POTS actually is, or how it works. He said it’s like the blind men and the elephant… I said, “You mean one says it’s like a rope and another says it’s like a tree trunk?” He said, “Yes! You’re the only person who knows what I’m talking about with that!” Wonderful– but the reality is a bad thing. … No one knows what this is… so that’s not all too reassuring. Some say it’s too small of a heart (The Grinch Syndrome guy). Others says it’s peripheral nerve damage. Others say it’s neurological. ANd while Dr. Fezziwig agrees that Cymbalta helps in some cases, like mine, no one actually knows why.

Can you guess where this is leading? More tests! I actually want these though, because the heart fear worries me enough that I’d be very happy to make sure that it’s okay. So… I’m wearing a wire! This makes me feel so awesome, like I’m informing for the FBI, or might just choose to detonate something remotely if the mood strikes me. It’s a 30-day heart monitor called, charmingly enough, “The King of Hearts.” It has these little sticky things that I stick on my right upper chest and left lower rib cage and then snap the wires on to it and wear this little walkie-talkie thing clipped to my pocket. When I’m having “a cardiac event” I press record and it tracks it for a minute and a half. Then when I get three I call it in and the little box tells their computer what’s been happening through the phone.

So far it’s shown that my heart rate goes up way too high at the slightest thing, which makes me dizzy. This is a way of life to me, and not new, but it’s nice to have it tracked. And when my heart pointlessly starts to race at bedtime, when I’m 80% asleep, it’s nice to track that too.

In addition to the monitor, he’s ordered a stress test, which I really should have had ages ago, and this weird thing called a QSART. I’ll just attach the link and you can try to figure it out if you want. It’s very technical but I guess it tests your sweat response as a way of finding nerve damage.  And he’s sending me to real exercise physiologist to again put me on a treadmill and see if I faint or turn green or grow antlers or what.

I called today to try to schedule a follow-up appt with Dr. Fezziwig after all that, and shockingly– or not all shockingly– the lady was a complete bitch about it. I can see that once again I will be made to wait eternally for a horrible letter that will tell me nothing useful. I can only hope that when I get back into to see Dr. Fezziwig in person, whenever his henchwomen let me near him again, he will explain it all. He seems to actually be interested in helping me and I certainly hope he can.

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

It’s a new year, a new day. I’m home today with two sickish kids (sore throats and ennui), which has forced a grinding halt to my recent rather frantic pace of life. I’ve been teaching a creative writing workshop at the kids’ Montessori school, to grades 4-8. This is using my brain again and good for me in so many ways. Meanwhile, the kids are both engaged in many kid things of great import– skiing, gymnastics, hockey, and TaeKwonDo. I’m a serious minivan-driving, kid-schlepping, gear-managing, schedule wrangler.

Just yesterday (admittedly Wednesdays are insane) I drove to all over NE Ohio, literally. My route: Bath-Brecksville-Cleveland-Brecksville-Boston Mills-Bath-Brecksville-Boston Mills-Bath-Medina-Bath! No wonder everyone woke up groaning and hacking this morning.

On the subject of health, many developments to report. I have learned without a doubt that I am NOT pretty on the inside. In January I had the dubious honor of having an endoscopy and seeing full-color horrible pictures of my innards afterwards. Long story short, my esophagus and stomach region is all messed up. I have an ulcer. My esophagus is all constricted, and the worst part: roughly a quarter of my stomach is going up into my esophagus where it is not at all welcome. So this answers the question: why do I have trouble swallowing? (And why for years did I enjoy Tums as a major food group?) Which is what started the investigation. Anyhoo, the upshot of it all is probably surgery at the Cleveland Clinic. I’m going up there in a couple weeks to consult with another GI doc about it. Meh. But the good news is no cancer, which honestly I was worrying about.

In dizziness news, I’m doing a lot better. I get along most of the time sans serious dizziness. One of the remaining details to mop up is the problem of exercise. It’s just so damn annoying when a famous specialist cardiologist says “Do NOT exercise”– especially to me, of all people, who has had a long and trying history with the subject anyway. At some point I decided to say to hell with her and try it anyway, which went along okay — until it didn’t. The experience of nearly, very very nearly blacking out at the gym put the fear of God back in me and I have been too terrified to try again since. So I finally decided that I what I need to break the spell is a different world-famous cardiologist who will disagree with the first one. Test me! Put me on the tilt table again if you must! (dread) or give me a stress test or whatever. But just do whatever it takes to then douse me in holy water and bless me and say, “go forth and exercise thyself like a normal overweight 45-year-old.” This would be ideal. Anyway, I have an appt at the Syncope Clinic (syncope=fainting) in a couple weeks also.

Okay!! So, meanwhile a friend of mine with POTS pointed me to this wonderful person: Dr. Terry Wahls. In brief, she’s an MD from Iowa who came down with really bad bad MS and was almost to the point of being fully bed-ridden (while getting the best possible care in the world, even traveling to our own Cleveland Clinic to the MS specialists there), and then she managed to completely turn it around with a highly specialized diet. Now she’s fine, biking to work, and quite normal. It’s a longer story than that, of course. If you want you can find all the details here.

The diet is almost paleo, but not quite. It’s basically veggie madness. I always thought of myself as a pro-veggie person, but this takes it to a much higher level. 9 cups a day! Of course, all organic. Divided into thirds: 3 cups dark leafy greens and “sulfur” veggies, mushrooms and the onion family; 3 cups bright colors (this can include fruit); and 3 cups other veggies of your choice. You also eat a small amount of wild-caught fish or grass-fed meats, and once a week you are supposed to (NOOOO!) eat organ meats. I was lying awake last night trying to figure out how I could possibly do this when they’re all so revolting. Did I mention gluten grains or simple carbs or dairy? No, I didn’t. Did I mention cookies or ice cream or other high-sugar delights? Um, no.

But the idea behind the whole thing is this: nourish your brain and it can repair itself.  Terry Wahls’ book is called “Minding My Mitochondria” — the little repair guys inside each cell. Take care of them and they will fix whatever is wrong in there. Her idea is “intensive nutrition”– and yes, she tried supplements first. They helped slow her decline, but what finally stopped and then reversed it was doing it with real foods. She thinks this is because of micronutrients we haven’t identified yet inside the food, and possible synergies between them that we totally don’t understand. That’s why a pill doesn’t cut it. You need to eat the whole beet, including the greens, from top to toe.

So I’m in phase one: adding a million veggies to my life. So far, so good. This morning I made a brilliantly green kale smoothie, which I managed to make palatable (even frankly tasty) with pear and frozen pineapple. It’s neon green and contains a packed cup of kale.

Phase two is going to be harder. WAY harder. I’m aligning it with Lent. Now that we’re de facto Episcopalians, we’re going to observe Lent for the first time as a family. Ben is giving up alcohol for 40 days!! The kids have agreed to give up liver… (Honestly, they are not into it. But at least at church there will be no sweets.) and I… I’m going to give up both gluten and dairy and see what happens. I suspect that gluten might be a problem for me in terms of making me feel bad, but I’m not too worried about giving it up. I’ve been scaling it way back and doing fine. Dairy, however, dairy my dear dear friend… this is going to be tough.  But I hope informative. I’ll gently add it back in post-Lent to see what happens. I’ll test gluten too, and hope to learn something. I can do anything for a finite period of time. I think.

So! My brain is going to get nourished and heal itself all up. (I’m supposed to exercise it too– crosswords and sudoko, which otherwise I would feel too guilt wasting my time with). I’ll get surgery on my messed up tummy and so it will be fixed. I’ll get exercising blessed and be able to move again. I’ll get off my prescription drugs and be a healthier new me, and spend the summer out in my garden growing my own organic kale.

I’m feeling pretty good about the plan and 2012 is looking very promising already.

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park

…But since I have to sit here and drink salty liquids and monitor my BP and HR for a while, I guess I’ll take a little break from holiday prep and, well, just SIT. I was just shopping away in the lemming like manner of the holiday season, when my heart started to go pitter pat and my head started to go WHOOPSIE DAISY and I had to stumble out with some shopping unshopped.

It was a little reminder of the bad old days, c. summer of 2009.  I’ve been doing so, so well I almost forgot I was supposed to be dizzy. I’ve been eating any and everything with abandon. I’ve been letting my support hose collect dust in the drawer. I’ve been forgetting to drink and getting very dehydrated and neglecting my salt intake… actually I think this may be where I went wrong today. Hence the liter of Emergen-C and tsp of pink salt I am now attempting to ingest rapidly.

Anyway… Elias has been doing his best Tasmanian Devil lately. I mean, really. Here’s an example from last week. We were all getting ready for school and work in the morning, and Ben, thank god, was still home. I went upstairs to take a shower. Here’s what happened from my perspective: Elias came into the bathroom screaming and with a substantial bloody wound on his wrist. I was, of course, bathing– wet, naked, hair full of shampoo. And since Ben was alive and well downstairs my first question was why did Elias come to me with his bleeding cut? I said, “Where’s Daddy?” But got no reply more than screams, wails and blood! So I hastily bound up the wound in Kleenex and instructed Elias to apply pressure and elevate while I got the soap out of my hair. Then wrapped in a towel, with a towel on my head, I took the little victim downstairs to investigate the cut more throughly and provide proper first aid in the first floor bathroom triage unit.

There I found Ben In a state of high excitement, indeed in full rant, waving his arms and dramatically explaining what had happened. Apparently Elias had accidentally toppled a large box of glass Christmas ornaments in the sunroom, causing a wide area to be covered with broken glass. Ben dutifully got the vacuum and was cleaning that up. During that three minute process, Elias rushed in the nearby bathroom and developed a sudden curiosity about the inner working of the toilet. So he removed the toilet lid to watch it flush. In that process the huge heavy toilet lid crashed to the floor and side of the tub, smashing into many pieces, somehow creating a borderline-stitch-worthy cut on Elias’s wrist as it fell. However Ben didn’t know about the cut. He only knew that he was cleaning up on major mess when another one was created and so he yelled at Elias (one would argue quite justifiably), who then ran (bleeding) up to me.

The cut almost passed the “is it gaping as wide as a Q-tip” test. But I managed to close it fairly well with a butterfly closure and then cover that with a large band-aid. Later on in the day I regretted this when we were at skiing at his wound was gaping open again and a teacher said it looked like it could use a stitch or two, because the butterfly and the bandaid had both fallen off during the day. But it’s been several days now and it seems to be healing up okay. I’ve just kept antibiotics on it and tried to keep it closed and it’s healing from the inside. … One more scar for the collection!! And the moral is: 9 years into motherhood, I STILL cannot take a shower!

Meanwhile. Elias had his epiplocele surgery on Friday. This was basically a little hernia thingy on his stomach. Not that it was so bad that intestines were bulging out of it or anything. It was just a little wide area in the woven mesh that is his stomach muscle, and had a little bump on it, and apparently it had to be fixed. So… medical ordeal du jour. Mostly the problem was the endless waiting with a small, hungry, thirsty, highly active, nervous boy dressed in hospital tiger jammies. The staff were all very nice and did everything possible to make it as pleasant as they could. For instance, when the surgery turned out to be delayed by two hours, they let Elias free from the little room where we were incarcerated. He had already shredded the paper examining table cover into ribbons and exhausted all the possible fun out of making paper airplanes from it and flying them willy nilly. They had a play area outside that room, and it was as fun as could be. There were even awesome yellow elevators with all their pulleys and parts showing going up and down in the glass atrium place that we could watch. And a group of teens in evening attire showed up and performed the Grinch as a musical for a while. The girls started blowing Elias kisses and he was very shy about that (hiding behind the couch to avoid contact with the trajectory of the kisses). But still, the boredom and hunger and fatigue got the better of him many times and after begging to “leave outta here!” He finally slumped to the floor sobbing.

The only scary part was that Elias has this big history of croup (inflammation of the upper airway) and during general anesthesia they put a tube in there and basically inflame your upper airway with it. The anesthesiologist came to talk to me and I could smell his fear about it, and his fear contaminated me with fear also. He said, “Well, it’s likely that he will have a croupy cough after the procedure, and may go into respiratory distress, and need to be intubated again, and may need to go into Intensive Care.” And then he basically shook my hand and left me to ponder this potential. Have a nice day!

So I spent a hour or so totally anxious, attempting to eat bad hospital food (for I too had been starving and dying of thirst along with the boy). The moment when the lady with the surgery bonnet led him away down the hall, hand in hand, with his tiny, trusting, sweet self going along calmly with her, just about broke my heart. But it all went well. Finally I was allowed to come see him. He was totally out and would not rally for the longest time. The nurse brought him a stuffed pterodactyl, which even in his sleep he reached out and snatched and tucked under his chin. At which point I knew that he was going to be okay.

He didn’t have a cough to speak of either. His tummy has been sore all weekend, which is not surprising because Isaac keeps “forgetting” about the stitches and grabbing/punching/squeezing/rolling on/elbowing, etc., Elias’s incision. We did keep him home from TaeKwonDo last night, because, even with gear on, getting truly kicked in the stomach would be bad.

So– the holidays are upon us! We’ve got almost everything done, and before I got so dizzy in JoAnn I managed to snag a lot of new decorations (seeing as many we once had have been smashed recently *ahem*) at 70% off! And now to stabilize my BP and get them on the tree.

The little patient

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Isaac is an atheist. Religion just offends his scientific mind. Church is merely an ordeal of pew-sitting and enforced quiet, with the lone benefit of baked goodies at the end. Also, since he spent the first several years of his life attended Quaker Meeting, and then a couple years of nothing, and now is being bodily dragged to Episcopal services, I suppose our spiritual journey has confused him a bit.

He points out, quite logically, that if God existed, then someone would’ve seen Him, up there on a cloud. He says, “Listen, people fly all the time. Think of all the planes criss-crossing the sky! And yet no one has ever seen him!”

However, he does still believe in Santa. Not only like a normal child, but that Santa has these extreme supernatural powers. He never wants Santa to just bring him something you could buy at Toys R Us or Target. He wants Santa to blow his mind. He wants Santa to, for instance, get him the powers of Aquaman and a room-sized tank to swim in. That was last year. This year he wants something like a greenhouse, where he can grow things and do his experiments. Also he wants an iPad2 and an iPhone, neither of which Santa can afford! Dear Lord the kid is 9!

I said that I too would like a sort of studio cottage. It would have a place for me to write and to do artwork, play flute, and knit and keep my spinning wheel and fiber projects and you know, maybe grow some orchids or something special there too. I explained this to Isaac while we drove.

Isaac: Well, you should ask! Maybe he’d bring you one.

Elias: No, Santa doesn’t bring toys to grown-ups, only to the children.

Isaac: But how do you know? No one has ever tried it!

True. I think I will ask. It couldn’t hurt, right?

Meanwhile, Elias in his sweet pure 5-year-old innocence, told me the other day: “I believe in Jesus, God and Santa: all the persons!” He’s been going to church with us and to Sunday school afterwards, where he’s absorbing Christianity like a sponge. When his little friend at school was home with the flu, Elias suddenly insisted to me, “Pray to God!! Pray! Pray!” and stone cold forced me to pray right then and there. You may not know that I’m not a big pray-er, so this felt very strange. Also the kid was only mildly ill and it seemed a little overwrought.

But I’m trying to be a team-player on the church thing in the interest of domestic harmony. Ben and I have a sort of truce on our various lifestyle choices: I have to attend church; he has to recycle and eat organic locally-sourced foods. These are just some of the compromises that come along with a lifelong marriage, I guess, and pretty manageable as these things go.

So. We have to get these kids to write their Santa letters and finalize their choices. Little do they know that Santa is already planning to get them each the Devil’s own Nintendo DS.

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2011 Catherine Park