tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90080464562142700722024-03-12T22:15:12.582-04:00Nobody PanicI'm taking a deep breath, having a little fun - and finding stuff to laugh about, no matter what.Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-2053073414525232672012-07-16T15:06:00.001-04:002012-07-16T15:13:46.694-04:00I Have a Secret!<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The New York Times published an article last week called “<a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/09/keeping-parkinsons-disease-a-secret/?ref=science" target="_blank">Keeping Parkinson’s Disease a Secret</a>,” in which people with that illness struggled with revealing it to family, friends, coworkers and clients.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Doctors and researchers say it’s not uncommon for people with Parkinson’s to conceal their diagnoses, often for years,” wrote Kate Yandell. “But the secrecy is not just stressful to maintain; experts fear that it also may be slowing down the research needed to find new treatments.”</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t have any experience with Parkinson’s. But as someone living with a rare illness, I certainly have experience deciding when and how to reveal what I’m going through. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I first got life-threateningly sick, it was pretty much a public event. I ran out of my office following a call from a hematologist I had never met, telling me to go to the ER immediately. I called my supervisor, left a message that I was leaving, and she quickly called back and offered to have the car service bring me to the hospital. It was 4 p.m. on Friday, otherwise known as rush hour. So of course I said no, that I was sure I’d find a taxi. RIGHT. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This was the first sign I’d gone insane with panic.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KIqdM1n9lPQ/UARk7zqVHuI/AAAAAAAAAdw/E6RroHq64Eo/s1600/untitled.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KIqdM1n9lPQ/UARk7zqVHuI/AAAAAAAAAdw/E6RroHq64Eo/s200/untitled.bmp" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This should be my daily uniform.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She met me as I was leaving and followed me downstairs to help me find a taxi. I eventually negotiated a fare with a gypsy cab, having failed to find a yellow cab while I darted in and out of traffic on Lexington Avenue in midtown Manhattan. All while my supervisor ran after me, making sure I wasn’t about to die on company time. On the way downtown I cried, called my mother and told her that I was worried because I still had work left unfinished. The cabbie overheard this and told me that work could wait because my health came first. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This is all to say that it’s very difficult to keep some things a secret. Not because I was wailing about it at the top of my lungs (in what was probably an episode of “Cash Cab” or “Taxicab Confessions”). But because you can’t leave work in such a spectacularly public fashion and expect it to go unnoticed. Particularly when that’s followed by several weeks out of work, updates provided to my company during my absence, and caring coworkers who wanted to keep in contact.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">However, I could have done what many do and downplayed what was going on. Or made up a cover story. Or flat-out lied. But that’s not in my DNA. I don’t need to share every detail, but if people ask, then I’m likely to give an honest but abbreviated version of the story. Here’s my theory – people will treat my illness how they see me treat it. So if I am matter-of-fact, drama-free and positive, it puts the onus on them to avoid pity and negativity. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I really thought I was going to die that Friday. For a brief moment, the doctors thought so too. But I didn’t. The fact that it all could have been avoided is one reason that I’m vocal. I ended up in the ER when my platelets crashed, which was because my immune system was crashing. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We didn’t know that for several months afterward, thanks to a crack hematologist. But I had been sick for years, and asking doctors why I got sick so much. I was simply told that some people were “lucky” like that. Sure, I was just lucky! Not suffering from a primary immune deficiency disease. No sir.</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I’m not just honest about my illness because it could save someone else. I’m honest because it would be terribly exhausting to hide it. It would also be a continuous and losing battle. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Hey Nancy, you’ve been out a LOT lately!”</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Hey Nancy, how come you’re walking so slowly and coughing like that?”</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Hey Nancy, what’s with all the bruises on your arm?”</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">These are questions I get from people. You could say they’re out of line. But they like me. They’re curious. And I’d rather they ask than discuss it behind my back or invent reasons. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Because what’s the likelihood they’d actually hit on the right answer, when it took 31 years for medical professionals to figure it out?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don’t want to turn every conversation into a group of 80 year-olds discussing their bursitis and the pros and cons of hip replacement surgery. And I’d hardly lay this out on the line within 5 minutes of meeting someone. Or reveal anything to a person I didn’t like or trust. I’m not crazy. (Not entirely crazy, anyway.) But if it comes up naturally, I give whatever details seem appropriate and then move on. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So let’s move on, shall we?</span><br />
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</div>Nancy Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00228921912023643567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-75304367627962762392010-07-29T22:53:00.004-04:002010-07-30T12:29:06.953-04:00You’re Forgetting “Zebra Fever”<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I am having a rough few months. The kind of rough that would make Munchausen Syndrome patients jealous. It started with my botched infusion in April that led to the lumbar puncture experience from Hell (and the resulting migraine) and continued with bronchitis at the end of May that is hanging on despite five rounds of antibiotics and two inhalers. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Last week I experienced my second official migraine. I have gotten increasingly severe headaches over the last couple years, but with the immune deficiency diagnosis those headaches were put on a backburner. Well, until April, when my head exploded, and the emergency room doctor warned me that I might start getting migraines more regularly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He wasn’t wrong. I was hoping that last week was a fluke, but yesterday I noticed nausea in the morning, neck pain in the early afternoon, and a monster headache right after lunch. I went home after work, crawled into bed, and waited for the sweet release of sleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This morning my headache was present but somewhat better. However, the neck pain continues. I can barely look left or right. So I decided to follow up on the advice my immunologist gave me back in April – find a neurologist.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After speaking to several people, I was given the names of a few doctors that I was interested in approaching. I went to the website for one doctor, and was pleased to see they had an online form to schedule a preliminary visit. Among the information they requested was the following: “Primary Disease/Condition.” I scrolled through the dropdown menu, which was surprisingly inclusive and appeared to contain at least 300 conditions. These conditions included:</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Cat Scratch Fever</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Dandruff</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Deer-fly Fever</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Fox-Den Disease</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Human Mad Cow Disease</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Little League Elbow</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Montezuma’s Revenge</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Parrot Fever</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Psychopathy</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sociopathy</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Washerwoman’s Sprain</span></li></ol><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">First of all, I think we can now empirically prove that animals are making us sick.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Second of all, I’m pretty sure that Washerwoman’s Sprain is a 19th-century Dickensian invention, similar to Consumption.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Third of all, would a true psychopath or sociopath really go to a neurologist (or any specialist), look at a list like this, and think, “You know what, I should probably let them know I’m a danger to society.” I watch “CSI: Law & Order,” and I can tell you that they would not.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Fourth of all, I have always liked the word “Micronesia.” (No, this is not related, but I don’t have another list in which to insert this fact.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And finally, I was dismayed that among the 300 conditions, there was not one mention of the following:</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Primary Immune Deficiency Disease (PIDD)</span></li><li><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Common Variable Immune Deficiency (CVID)</span></li></ol><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Not that they are exceedingly widespread, but you’re telling me that more people have PARROT FEVER than an immune system disorder? Considering how many children (and adults) go undiagnosed, I find that unlikely. This is why PIDD patients are considered the "zebras" of the medical world - they appear to be an average, run-of-the-mill horse until you take the time to look closely. Something that most doctors do not do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">However, I have a proposal, one that should make everybody happy…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">If we call it Zebra Fever, can it be put on that list?</span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-55459173165923186922010-07-07T20:34:00.013-04:002010-07-08T20:19:41.611-04:00Guilty Pleasures<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">When news that Lindsay Lohan was being sent up the river hit the front page of every reputable and disreputable news source, I had one thought: why have I never been arrested?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Celebrities make it seem really, really easy. To wit:</span><br /><ol style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><li>Martha Stewart spent time in the pokey for lying to SEC investigators.</li><li>Paris Hilton violated parole and was sent to the clink for several weeks.</li><li>Paris' BFF, Nicole Richie, spent 82 minutes of a 4-day sentence in the slammer for driving under the influence.</li><li>Robert Downey, Jr. rode the prison carousel several times for possession of drugs in the late 90s.</li></ol><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Everybody's doing it!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You hear about celebrities being pinched on gun charges, accused of not paying taxes, committing sexual assaults, punching photographers, stiffing contractors and other unsavory acts.<br /><br />Now, if I were a character on "CSI," the investigators would punch my name into the system and find no record whatsoever. And unless they've been hiding some pretty big skeletons, I can say the same about all of my family and friends.<br /><br />For instance, this picture of me is hardly going to show up in the New York Times:<br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><p></p></span><p></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TDUdvQwhfKI/AAAAAAAAAMw/ubnsFbwEkOk/s1600/Prison+Bitch+Nancy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491328018437733538" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 211px; cursor: pointer; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TDUdvQwhfKI/AAAAAAAAAMw/ubnsFbwEkOk/s320/Prison+Bitch+Nancy.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So am I boring?<br /><br />Nope. I'm just not rich or famous enough.<br /><br />Yes, regular people commit crimes too -- otherwise we wouldn't have what some people call a "prison epidemic." And my experience is likely colored by a solidly middle-class upbringing that protected me from some harsh realities. But the people being arrested in Hollywood aren't from a lower socioeconomic class. They aren't living in dangerous neighborhoods, dealing with violence on a daily basis. They aren't undereducated, with uncertain futures.<br /><br />Just the opposite. Celebrities can have anything they want, any time they want, and in any quantity they want. There is no such thing as "no" in their universe.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.usc.edu/uscnews/stories/12711.html">A study released in 2006</a> demonstrated that celebrities have a higher rate of narcissistic personality traits than the general population. Put a narcissist in an environment with access to excess, and the recipe is deadly. And for someone with an addictive personality to be surrounded by assistants who double as friends, friends who double as an entourage, and parents who manage you instead of parent you, that leaves you without a safety net or a support system.<br /><br />I actually feel for Lindsay Lohan. From all appearances, she has a father that can't shut up about her to the press and a mother who partied right alongside her. She grew up too quickly. She is a 24 year-old that could easily pass for late 30s, thanks to alleged drug and alcohol abuse.<br /><br />As my mother always says, "I</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">t’s a shame that Drew Barrymore and Robert Downey, Jr. can’t take her under their wings."</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I guess that's one solution.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The other is what Judge Revel is doing: sending her to prison and then an in-patient rehabilitation facility, following the violation of her probation.</span> It was a good decision. People often claim that the legal system is harder on celebrities, but in this case Lindsay had three years to comply with the terms of her deal. Since she couldn't do that, prison time and rehab is only right.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This isn't a case of schadenfreude. I truly hope that she gets clean. She once had a promising career, and at 24, has decades of time left to work. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hollywood </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(whose products I so thoroughly enjoy) </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">along with the nouveau riche/old money/filthy rich upper class, foster a toxic environment.<br /><br />Lindsay is going to have to learn how to survive it.</span></p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-26013308287932255642010-06-28T21:38:00.005-04:002010-07-08T18:45:02.705-04:00Until We Meet Again<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have met my people, and they are tired.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Last weekend I attended the Immune Deficiency Foundation 2010 Retreat in Rye Brook, New York. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It was extremely exciting to meet people who have primary immunodeficiency disease (PID). As I have mentioned, I have CVID, one of nearly 150 diseases in this [dysfunctional] family. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I was, well...I think "relieved" is the word, to find out that a lot of the stuff I experience every day is NORMAL. Feeling fatigued, achy and overwhelmed is not uncommon. I felt lucky to benefit from the experience of other women my age who had more years under their belts dealing with this disease.<br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />I also met a celebrity -- the IDF Zebra:</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TClgK8GFxzI/AAAAAAAAAMo/lqpj42liKY4/s1600/Nancy+%26+IDF+Zebra_8x10.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TClgK8GFxzI/AAAAAAAAAMo/lqpj42liKY4/s320/Nancy+%26+IDF+Zebra_8x10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488023361974290226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />Prior to this weekend, I had met only one person with a PID. He was 4 years old, and I told him that he was now my support group. He promptly went back to playing with his toy truck.<br /><br />When my mother and I decided to go the IDF Retreat, we didn't know what to expect. By the time it was over we were both thrilled by what we had learned and who we had met.<br /><br />What I learned:<br /></span><ol style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Stop taking Levaquin immediately</span>.<br /><br />I spoke to a doctor following a presentation about antibiotics, and mentioned that I was taking Levaquin for bronchitis and had begun to experience muscle and joint pain. He looked concerned and proceeded to scare the bejeezus out of me by explaining that this side effect could lead to long-term tendonitis and fatal muscle ruptures. I proceeded to go home and sleep for 19 hours on Sunday, another lovely side effect. Needless to say, I'm done with Levaquin for ever, thank you very much.<br /><br /></li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">If I ever feel like treatment is too overwhelming, I need to just suck it up</span>.<br /><br />I learned from several parents that their children administered their own treatments. Mind you, these children were 5 and 6 years old. I am at least FOUR TIMES their age (ahem...) so I really have no excuse for whining. If someone who is still expected to throw periodic temper tantrums and demand cookies for breakfast is mature enough to handle weekly subQ infusions, then I should be too.<br /><br /></li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Doral Arrowwood Hotel in Rye Brook New York has the most amazing breakfast and lunch buffets. </span><br /><br />At lunch, we spotted mussels in a fresh broth and my mother sprinted over to get us a plate to share. Seriously, it was ridiculous, and I'm going to crash another event there so I can get some more of that buffet action.</li></ol><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I learned a lot more than that -- and will continue to write about it -- but thanks to a Levaquin-induced stupor I can barely keep my eyes open. </span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sweet dreams, my fellow PID-people. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">May we get the rest we need and the cure we deserve!</span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-86136089423326361202010-06-21T22:43:00.004-04:002010-06-21T23:56:58.546-04:00Red Herrings: A Love Story<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Friends, I am in love! And her name is Anna Katherine Green.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Here is a picture of my beloved:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TCAkHaHw8QI/AAAAAAAAAMg/g-1ExvyG6Z0/s1600/Annagreen.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TCAkHaHw8QI/AAAAAAAAAMg/g-1ExvyG6Z0/s320/Annagreen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485424055826837762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Let me tell you about how we met.<br /><br />I had just finished reading Stieg Larsson's "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" for my book club, the Manhattan Chapter of the Northeast Regional Book Club Association. (A name I made up when I invited celebrated author <a href="http://www.charliestella.com/">Charlie Stella</a> to come speak to us, and it stuck.) I decided I needed a palate cleanser before starting Larsson's second book, and a name popped into my head: Agatha.<br /><br />Dame Agatha Christie, the <span style="font-style: italic;">grande dame </span>of mystery fiction. Reading her books as a teenager made me fall in love with the genre. <br /><br />(As a college student I visited The British Museum, where on the tour our guide discussed artifacts from archeological digs at </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Arpachiyah, Iraq. She mentioned that the man in charge of the dig was Sir Max Mallowan, and asked if we knew to whom he was married. I raised my hand, and she glanced over and nodded at me.<br /><br />"Agatha Christie," I said. Her face lit up.<br /><br />"Archeology buff?" she said.<br /><br />"No," I replied. "Mystery fan.")<br /><br />Like an addict discovering temptation, I started to explore other authors from the "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Age_of_Detective_Fiction">Golden Age of Mystery Fiction</a>," a term commonly used to refer to works from 1920s and 1930s. This included Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and G.K. Chesterton. It was chicken soup [laced with arsenic] for the soul. <br /><br />But when the name "Agatha" popped into my head last week, it had been years since she and I had sat down to tea and crumpets together.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> Sure, I watched the Miss Marple mysteries on PBS, but that wasn't the same. Oh, and I rented Hercule Poirot DVDs with David Suchet. And there was the updated Miss Marple series. That was good too.<br /><br />Still, there had been no actual Christie book in my hands in the longest time.<br /><br />In search of a bargain, I went to Amazon's Kindle store and looked at the cheapest mysteries they offered. (I am no great fan of the Kindle app for iPhone, which is far inferior to the eReader and Barnes & Noble apps, but they do have some cheap-as-dirt books.) I found a bargain -- for $2.99, an anthology of short stories that appeared to include some Dame A. Well...well...<br /><br />I plunked down my hard-earned change, downloaded the book, and was shocked to find, instead of the expected 50 stories -- FIFTY BOOKS! FOR $2.99! Once my heart started again, I virtually cracked open a classic Tommy-and-Tuppence mystery (one of Dame A's less-popular crime-fighting duos). And then a second.<br /><br />When I was done, I perused the table of contents and found Anna Katherine Green. Never heard of her. But I decided to give it a try.<br /><br />The first thing I noticed was the use of dashes in dates and place names. For example: "Nancy Smith, was going to -----, New York, on September 30, 20--."<br /><br />This was an immediate throwback to reading "Bartleby the Scrivener," by Herman Melville, published in 1853. Not that Melville was the only writer of that era who employed the privacy dashes, but he was the only writer I read in high school who did. And I only have access to my memory. (For now. I'm sure Apple is working on something.)<br /><br />I saw those dashes and wondered who this poseur was, pretending to hearken back to an earlier era. As I read on, curiosity soon took hold, and off I went to Wikipedia. What I learned bowled me over:<br /><br /></span><b>Anna Katharine Green</b> (November 11, 1846 – April 11, 1935) was an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States" title="United States">American</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poet" title="Poet">poet</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Novel" title="Novel">novelist</a>. She was one of the first writers of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Detective_fiction" title="Detective fiction">detective fiction</a> in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories. (Courtesy of Wikipedia.)<br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />How had we never met?<br /><br />When I read Agatha, and Dorothy and G.K., I didn't know I would fall in love. I just tore through every word they wrote and didn't appreciate how one can never read a book twice for the first time.<br /><br />Now that I'm reading Green's</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> "The Millionaire Baby," I'm taking my sweet time. <br /><br />(P.S. I'm writing this blog from a secret passage!)<br /></span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-85560930394641748282010-06-16T22:55:00.007-04:002010-06-17T00:46:16.670-04:00Strike Me, Spare Me<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Last Saturday I celebrated an early Father's Day with my family -- what I called the "'Smith' Family Pre-Father's Day Extravaganza." It consisted of bowling with my parents and brother and a lovely dinner, followed by a showing of "The Blind Side." I should point out that I call all events "The 'Smith' Family [Name of Holiday] Extravaganza." Of course, I'm the only one in my family who does this. I think it makes everything more special. Try it sometime.<br /><br />(In the future, I'm considering switching it up and using "Celebration" instead of "Extravaganza." Opinions?)<br /><br />This is me -- in New Jersey, if you couldn't tell -- right after enjoying our delicious meal of Cuban food:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TBma1WJEHZI/AAAAAAAAAMY/Xu1UC1Eoi40/s1600/Me+with+Signs.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/TBma1WJEHZI/AAAAAAAAAMY/Xu1UC1Eoi40/s320/Me+with+Signs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483584262567632274" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(It looks like I'm posing, but really I'm demonstrating my sense of direction, which I do not have. At all. When I started driving, I repeatedly asked my parents to draw maps to places I had known all my life. My mother, who was born with a compass in her brain, was flummoxed by this. She gave in and started drawing maps for me when my father explained that they had agreed to love me no matter what. Later, when my brother inherited my </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">car, he opened the glove compartment and was buried under dozens of scraps of paper bearing all the places I had driven during the previous four <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">years.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In any case, my pre-Father's Day "Extravaganza" made me realize something important -- I am very lucky to like my family. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I always find it strange when people tell me they aren't close to their siblings. And they seem to find it equally strange when I say that my brother and I are good friends. My family is no Norman Rockwell painting, but he was painting an ideal that never existed. In real life, all of those scenes would have been captured about five minutes before everybody started arguing.<br /><br />I know this, because my picture was taken about five minutes (give or take 15 hours) before we all started arguing. However, when we calmed down and apologies were exchanged, we sat down at the dinner table and carved our Thanksgiving turkey.<br /><br />Wait...I think I'm flashing back to Rockwell's "<a href="http://www.google.com/images?q=freedom+from+want&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=SZkZTIuHDYKKlweSoIipCw&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CC8QsAQwAA">Freedom From Want</a>":<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/powers_of_persuasion/four_freedoms/images_html/images/freedom_from_want.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 440px;" src="http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/powers_of_persuasion/four_freedoms/images_html/images/freedom_from_want.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />What I meant to say was, we sat down at the kitchen table and planned a family vacation.<br /><br />Or as I called it, "The Smith Family Vacation-Planning Extravaganza."<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-19178823830307753852010-05-27T21:28:00.005-04:002010-05-27T21:48:05.341-04:00Pharmville<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Since I was diagnosed with Common Variable Immunodeficiency (CVID), I sometimes catch myself thinking that I am OLD. Perhaps this is because I qualify for home nursing, or because my depressed immune system so often makes me feel tired. I had a dream the other night that I was going bald (not a problem for women of any age in my family), and I woke up and ran to the mirror, where I inspected my very-much-intact tresses.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> Over the past couple years I have periodically received this postcard:</span><br /> <br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S_8gK1D7TWI/AAAAAAAAAMI/myXnC228xKw/s1600/Pinelawn.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 201px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S_8gK1D7TWI/AAAAAAAAAMI/myXnC228xKw/s320/Pinelawn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476131042320141666" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Being actively pursued by a cemetery also makes me feel old. However, I feel progressive, too, because even though I am not married, my fictional husband appears to have taken my last name. It's either that, or "Nancy" is the next big thing in gender-neutral names. The first postcard arrived right after I returned from a four-day stay in the hospital, when I was diagnosed with a platelet disorder (which turned out to be the first symptom of the CVID). I worried for a moment that the hospital had put me on some kind of list. You know..."People Who are Going to Die In the Near Future, Even Though We Lied and Told Them They Would Be Absolutely Fine."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And now, like many old people, my house is turning into a pharmacy. Four months ago, I started doing home infusions of IVIG (intravenous immunoglobulin) with a visiting nurse. The medication and supplies were shipped to me in a large box. This is what it looked like when I unpacked everything, for a SINGLE monthly infusion:</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S_8f4oVIatI/AAAAAAAAAMA/Tacx4FUxTvg/s1600/Supply+Table.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S_8f4oVIatI/AAAAAAAAAMA/Tacx4FUxTvg/s320/Supply+Table.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476130729664998098" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">There's something about receiving your very own IV pole that cements the idea that you have now begun a slow descent into old age.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And then, as I mentioned in a previous post, I had an unfortunate experience with IVIG that landed me in the hospital several weeks ago, begging for pain medication. (Ah...nostalgia!) This prompted my immunologist to change my treatment to ScIG, subcutaneous immunoglobulin, which is something that patients can self-administer weekly after two or three training sessions.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">So a new box of supplies arrived, followed a few days later by a nurse. He ran me through the steps, gave me written directions and completed my first treatment. The medication is absorbed under the skin, which makes the area receiving treatment tender. Frankly, I was sore and lumpy. (Lumpy: my new nickname.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I was determined to become proficient in two sessions, so I could finally stop asking for time off from work. After my first session I hunkered down and got serious. I retyped all 15 steps so I could drill them into my head. I watched the Vivaglobin training video about a dozen times, often while holding the supplies in my hand, so I could practice. It was like being back in school and cramming for final exams.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">By the time the nurse arrived, I was almost excited. Which was unusual for treatment day. But I breezed my way through, and he told me I had prepared more than any other patient he had seen before. He was confident I would be fine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">For the first time in a while, I was actually confident I would be fine, too. Granted, ScIG isn't fun, by any means. I still have to take Benadryl, because it makes me itch. And whichever area you chose to stick with the four administration needles is quite sore for the next day or two.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">However, I finally realized that even with all of that, ScIG is a MUCH better solution for me. What it represents is treatment on my own time – no more half-days off from work (or more, depending on side effects). No more planning my life around the weekend I needed to recuperate from the IVIG. I will finally be able to take the medication, a small pump and supplies with me wherever I want to go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Ultimately, it means freedom.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";" ><o:p><br /><br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And nothing screams "I'm still young!" like freedom.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-75407151367734260822010-05-20T18:47:00.004-04:002010-05-20T18:56:35.937-04:00It's a Miracle!<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Talk about truth in advertising -- I do believe that the woman on the left is going to lose weight...</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S_W8ffNlhLI/AAAAAAAAALY/EjFK13jrD74/s1600/Pregnant+Weight+Loss.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 254px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S_W8ffNlhLI/AAAAAAAAALY/EjFK13jrD74/s320/Pregnant+Weight+Loss.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473488171279156402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">...in about nine months.</span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-43388785850073071672010-05-11T20:19:00.006-04:002010-05-11T20:32:48.348-04:00I Can See Clearly Now, the Pain is Gone<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Dear Readers,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">It has been more than a month since I last blogged. And lo! the wondrous places I've been! Mainly: an emergency room in Queens and an emergency room in Manhattan.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Let's hop into the Wayback Machine and pretend it's April 2, 2010. I am at home, awaiting a new nurse, so I can get my third at-home infusion of </span><span style="color:black;">intravenous immunoglobulins</span><span style="color:black;">. She arrives, seems nice, bangs out the infusion in record time, and leaves. I feel tired, as per usual, and crawl into bed for a nice nap.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">BAM!</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I wake around </span><span style="color:black;">10 p.m</span><span style="color:black;">. with a massive pain in my neck. Excruciating. Unable-to-move-my-head pain.<span style=""> </span>I grab a </span><span style="color:black;">heating pad</span><span style="color:black;">, wander over to Bob (my recliner), and settle in for a heat-and-greet session.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">By the next morning, I remain awake and </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">immobile.<span style=""> </span>But I know that muscle pain is a potential side effect of the infusion. So I wait it out. I call Dr. Mom, who makes me promise to go the hospital if it doesn't get better.<span style=""> </span>Reluctantly, I agree.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">By </span><span style="color:black;">Sunday morning</span><span style="color:black;">, I had traded "reluctant" for "Dear God, please give me pain medication!"</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">So I called a car service, hustled over to my local ER at 7 a.m., and was seen pretty much immediately.<span style=""> </span>The concern was clear on my do</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">ctor's face -- I presented with fever, headache and neck pain.<span style=""> </span>We had to rule out an uncommon but potentially </span><span style="color:black;">dangerous side effect</span><span style="color:black;"> of the infusion: </span><span style="color:black;">meningitis</span><span style="color:black;">.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">After I was given Percoset for the pain, I waited for my initial </span><span style="color:black;">blood tests</span><span style="color:black;">.<span style=""> </span>The demented elderly woman in the next bed, who was restrained to her gurney, kept trying escape so she could meet her husband at 3 p.m. "He has a </span><span style="color:black;">brain tumor</span><span style="color:black;">, but I think he'll be ok," she kept saying.<span style=""> </span></span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I reassured her she wouldn't be late, and perhaps she would like to stay in bed for a few more minutes.<span style=""> </span>I was having visions of her brea</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">king a hip as she feebly launched herself out of the gurney.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">"I think the nurse stole my handbag!" she replied.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>"Good thing she doesn't know I brought two!"</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">The doctor returned with good news -- the blood tests were clean.<span style=""> </span>I was ready for pain medication and marching orders, but he shut that down.<span style=""> </span>We still had to eliminate meningitis.<span style=""> </span>Which meant a </span><span style="color:black;">lumbar puncture</span><span style="color:black;">, commonly known as a "</span><span style="color:black;">spinal tap</span><span style="color:black;">."</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Unlike the eponymous movie, this experience was a lo</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">t less funny.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">This was me on Percoset, prior to the first spinal tap:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n2d0HFfYI/AAAAAAAAALQ/PZay_KfFxz4/s1600/Hospital+5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n2d0HFfYI/AAAAAAAAALQ/PZay_KfFxz4/s320/Hospital+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470174214483180930" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I was told it's like an epidural, but without the pain relief at the end. </span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">After the SEVENTH attempt, the doctor told me that due to my "physique" (i.e., my plus-size stature), he was having trouble getting the needle inserted correctly. We switched to a bigger needle, to no avail.<span style=""> </span>He kept reiterating that</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"> my size was an issue.<span style=""> </span>I had been understanding up until that point, but I suddenly yelled (whimpered, actually), "What do you do with your other fat patients?!"</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">On the tenth try, with my parents listening from outside the door, he finally did it.<span style=""> </span>I felt triumphant.<span style=""> </span>This is me, right after, looking triumphant: </span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n2J2T_P1I/AAAAAAAAALI/erVibRCfWxQ/s1600/Hospital+2.jpeg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n2J2T_P1I/AAAAAAAAALI/erVibRCfWxQ/s320/Hospital+2.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470173871476784978" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><b><span style="color:black;">Old motto:<span style=""> </span>No spinal taps!<br /></span></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>N</span></b><b><span style="color:black;">ew motto: No more than 10 spinal taps in 2010!</span></b></span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">After confirming I was meningitis-free, I was released with Percoset for the neck pain, and orders to follow up with my doctor.<span style=""> </span>My parents whiske</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">d me off to New Jersey to recuperate.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">However, recuperation was not in my near future. I woke up </span><span style="color:black;">on Monday</span><span style="color:black;"> and felt funny.<span style=""> </span>I spent that morning clutching my head in pain, crying, vomiting, then apologizing to my father for putting him through this.<span style=""> </span>Every time I tried to sit down, I had to run back to the bathroom to throw up.<span style=""> </span>I was so exhausted and could barely walk from the previous day's spinal taps -- (in fact, this was my back the next morning:</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n14zwtMxI/AAAAAAAAALA/a2vbqup38Zg/s1600/Hospital+4b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n14zwtMxI/AAAAAAAAALA/a2vbqup38Zg/s320/Hospital+4b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470173578734154514" border="0" /></a></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">)<o:p></o:p> that my father, brilliant man that he is, finally offered me a bucket so I could finally sit down.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">"Vomit Bucket," as I came to call it, became the Wilson to my Tom Hanks in "Castaway."<span style=""> </span>I finally collapsed on the couch, bucket in my lap, glad for the sweet release that a short nap brought me.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">By </span><span style="color:black;">Tuesday morning</span><span style="color:black;">, following a sleepless night, I was dehydrated and in </span><span style="color:black;">excruciating pain</span><span style="color:black;">, and begging to back to the emergency room.<span style=""> </span>However, I wouldn't make the trip without Vomit Bucket at my side.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I must have looked awful, because my arrival was like The Price is Right -- once the triage nurse saw me, she was like, "Come on down!"<span style=""> </span>She asked about my pain level, on a scale of one to 10.<span style=""> </span>I whispered, "Eleven."</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I couldn't open my eyes.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I couldn't eat.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I couldn't drink.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Let just say it was somewhat unpleasant.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">The </span><span style="color:black;">neurology</span><span style="color:black;"> students stopped by to test me about 20 minutes after I received Dilaudid, a synthetic morphine.<span style=""> </span>They asked me to count backwards from 100, in blocks of seven. My mother, clearly doubtful I could do it even when not drugged, said, "She's heavily medicated, can we wait a little while?"<span style=""> </span></span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">After tests, tests and more tests, it was determined by my fantastic immunologist that my nurse had run my immunoglobulin infusion too quickly, which was causing severe migraine-like side effects.<span style=""> </span>I was given intravenous anti-nausea medication, as well as the Dilaudid and saline to re-hydrate me. </span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I was prescribed bed rest and </span><span style="color:black;">pain killers</span><span style="color:black;"> to take for another week.<span style=""> </span>In addition, my doctor strongly suggested caffeine, which apparently works wonders for people with migraines.<span style=""> </span>This led to interesting conversations in which my parents said things like, "C'mon, just one sip of </span><span style="color:black;">Mountain Dew</span><span style="color:black;">!", "I got you 64 ounces of Dunkin Donuts coffee...try to drink it all" and "Hey, Red Bull isn't </span><i><span style="color:black;">that</span></i><span style="color:black;"> vile."</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I was too tired to move, but too wired to sleep. So this is what I did for the next five days:</span></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n1g4m3u0I/AAAAAAAAAK4/fpsxMW30Uyc/s1600/Hospital+1b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S-n1g4m3u0I/AAAAAAAAAK4/fpsxMW30Uyc/s320/Hospital+1b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470173167718218562" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">I am so grateful that my fantastic family was there to shepherd me through this awful experience.<span style=""> </span>My mother never left my side, even when there was no chair for her to use at the emergency room.<span style=""> </span>My father listened to me cry, told me it would be ok, and then uncomplainingly took away any box, bucket or bag in which I had thrown up.<span style=""> </span>He was a trooper.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">However, there is one acknowledgment I would be remiss to forget, a debt of gratitude so great I will never be able to repay it.</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Vomit Bucket, I owe you one!</span><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-52296396479394251042010-03-22T22:33:00.007-04:002010-03-22T23:45:29.887-04:00A Horse of a Different Color<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Prior to its migration to ABC for a long and unfunny march toward cancellation, I was an avid Scrubs viewer. <span style=""> </span>I was reminded of a particular episode this afternoon in which a doctor named J.D. is discussing a difficult diagnosis with his mentor, Dr. Cox:<o:p></o:p></span> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNoSpacing" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style="">Dr. Cox</span></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;">: Newbie, do you happen to know what a zebra is?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style=""><br /></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style="">J.D.</span></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;">: That patient just mocked me!</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style="">Dr. Cox</span></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;">: It’s a diagnosis of a ridiculously obscure disease when it’s much more likely that the patient has a common illness presenting with uncommon symptoms. In other words, if you hear hoof-beats, you just go ahead and think horsies – not zebras. Mm’kay, Mr. Silly Bear?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNoSpacing" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNoSpacing" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Well, even the brilliant Dr. Cox was wrong sometimes.<span style=""> </span>According to the Immune Deficiency Foundation (IDF), “Patients with primary immunodeficiency diseases are the zebras of the medical world.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNoSpacing" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >I was <a href="http://www.primaryimmune.org/publications/surveys/National_Patient_Survey_Report%282007%29.pdf">looking at a chart</a> today that showed the time between whe</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >n people first manifest symptoms, until the time that they are diagnosed with an immunodeficiency.</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S6g1PbqHIHI/AAAAAAAAAKo/tgC0-RuzO20/s1600-h/Diagnosis+Chart.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S6g1PbqHIHI/AAAAAAAAAKo/tgC0-RuzO20/s320/Diagnosis+Chart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451665888170680434" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yours truly falls at the far end of the bar chart. I started having recurrent ear infections when I was a baby that continued throughout childhood, and was out more than 50 days my senior year of high school due to chronic sinusitis.<span style=""> </span>I spent a lot of my life being sick and then being well but feeling exhausted. <span style=""> </span>However, doctors told me that I simply “got sick a lot.” Even after sinus surgery and surgery to remove a giant (or as I like to think of it, “deluxe”) lymph node, no one considered looking at the bigger picture.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">As the IDF points out, “Primary immunodeficiency diseases are a group of relatively rare conditions caused by intrinsic or genetic defects in the immune system.”<span style=""> </span>Doctors rarely look for them. People don’t know they have them.<span style=""> </span>According to research, this category of diseases occurs in one in 1,200 people.<span style=""> </span>However, it’s speculated that the number would be higher if we had adequate screening at birth, or if doctors thought to look for an immune system issue when their patient had recurring infections.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was finally diagnosed with Common Variable Immune Deficiency (CVID) after a hospital stay for an uncommon blood disorder.<span style=""> </span>When I was 31 years old.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yesterday, I wrote about a fantastic trip I trip I took during winter break of my junior year of college while studying in France.<span style=""> </span>I mentioned how I got sick during those two weeks.<span style=""> </span>What I didn’t mention was how sick.<span style=""> </span>I had trouble sleeping in new places back then, so all the time my friend and I spent in youth hostels was time that I didn’t sleep.<span style=""> </span>After a few days, my body was exhausted and I quickly developed the sniffles.<span style=""> </span>By the time we wound up in Prague for New Year’s Eve, I was calling myself “Typhoid Nancy.”<span style=""> </span>At midnight I rang in the new year on in the main square, giving healthy strangers viral kisses on each cheek as we wished each other a “Bonne Année.” <span style=""> </span>(Still had the time of my life!) <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I visited the doctor after we returned to school, and was told that along with an infection in both ears, I had sinusitis, laryngitis and bronchitis. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Many of my happy memories are colored by parallel memories of being sick.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yet since I was diagnosed, I get sick a lot less often.<span style=""> </span>I still catch everything everyone else has, but now I can get over it sooner than I used to.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I don’t usually leverage the [admittedly limited] power I have here.<span style=""> </span>But it’s my blog. It’s my disorder. And there are too many people who go through hell on the way to diagnosis, and then go through hell once again as they try to navigate their new-found disease.<span style=""> </span>So I’ll put myself on the line and direct you to the <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255); font-weight: bold;" href="https://www.primaryimmune.org/you_can_help/donate.asp">IDF donation page</a>.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Granted, it’s not a sexy cause – it doesn’t come with a ribbon or a celebrity. </span></p><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hang on a minute…I’m wrong about that. It has a super sexy animal print logo</span>!</span><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S6g17T0u_TI/AAAAAAAAAKw/37qUrOtA4YA/s1600-h/Zebra.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S6g17T0u_TI/AAAAAAAAAKw/37qUrOtA4YA/s320/Zebra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451666641981996338" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This month, IDF launched their <span style="font-weight: bold;">Think Zebra!</span> campaign, to raise money for research.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So donate money for research, all ye horses! </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-6907994429740954492010-03-21T23:31:00.003-04:002010-03-21T23:45:28.046-04:00Playing Dress-Up<span style="font-size:100%;">My cousin and his wife visited </span><span style="font-size:100%;">New York City</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> this past weekend. My family and I just saw them during our business trip...I mean, um, family visit...to </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Florida</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> in early March. Not much time to let the heart grow fonder, but it was still exciting. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was J's first trip to "La Grande Pomme," as I like to think the French call the </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Big Apple</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, and she had asked us what she and my cousin D should wear to see a Broadway musical. I looked at her jeans, t-shirts and flipflops and said, "Well, it's cold in </span><span style="font-size:100%;">New York</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, so you might want to put on sneakers." And that's the state of </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="">Thee-ay-tuh</span></i></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> today – you don't dress to the nines unless you're attending a special event.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This instantly catapulted me back in time 10 years</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> (ahem, 12 years), to junior year of college, when I was studying in </span><span style="font-size:100%;">France</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> and planning my winter break excursion with my roommate, Sarah.<span style=""> </span>We planned to take a two-week trek through Europe, with the halfway mark falling on Christmas in Vienna.<span style=""> </span>And what does Christmas in Vienna mean? Vienna Boys’ Choir, and world-renowned opera.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Here is what I knew about Opera: <span style=""> </span>it was spectacular, it was slightly boring, and, if <i style="">Pretty Woman</i> was any indicator, one was obliged to wear a gown.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Backpacking through Europe does not lend itself to packing a gown. Or more than two pairs of pants. So I settled – to the amusement of my friends – and stuffed a spring dress into my bag, insisting I would wear it to the opera.<span style=""> </span>Let’s just say there were doubts.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Our first opera was in Budapest. Not my finest experience. I was sick, and the songs were in Italian. There was a digital sign above the stage that translated the words...into Czech. Watching the lyrics be translated from one language you don't know into another language you don't know, while suppressing a hacking cough and popping unidentifiable pills that a German pharmacist (or someone you hoped to god was </span><span style="font-size:100%;">a pharmacist) had promised you in broken English was "for the nose concern," is not particularly conducive to enjoying opera. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christmas Eve in Vienna arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was winter. It was much too chilly for my dress. I hadn’t brought heels, stockings or a nice jacket. Or makeup or jewelry, for that matter. <span style=""> </span>But I was determined to bring this vision to life.<span style=""> </span>So I stepped into my green corduroy pants, threw on a long-sleeved cotton shirt and tied my French sneakers (which are similar to American sneakers, but purchased in France). And last, but not least, I shimmied into my "gown."<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I remember Sarah doing a double take when I emerged from the bathroom in The Christmas Outfit. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This is my artistic rendering of what I wore to see Don Giovanni:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S6bkynZgtNI/AAAAAAAAAKg/okSmJdqI9lk/s1600-h/Opera+Outfit.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S6bkynZgtNI/AAAAAAAAAKg/okSmJdqI9lk/s320/Opera+Outfit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451295957199140050" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I looked ridiculous.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But you know what? I felt GREAT!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarah and I entered the magnificent Vienna State Opera and ascended the carpeted staircase.<span style=""> </span>I looked down on a crowd of people wearing tuxedos and gowns. And I knew that I fit right in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And corduroy pants or no corduroy pants, Julia Roberts had nothing on me that night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-27326206307909175512010-03-11T18:51:00.008-05:002010-03-11T19:09:51.495-05:00This is Why I Love New Yorkers: Winter Wonderland Edition<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:verdana;" ><span class="568510921-11032010" style="font-size:100%;">Living in New York City means having access to a rich cultural landscape but a somewhat anemic yard-scape. (Unless your penthouse happens to overlook <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1268351470_1">Central Park</span>.)<br /><br /></span></div> <div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:verdana;" > </div> <div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" face="verdana"><span class="568510921-11032010" style="font-size:100%;">So what is a city kid to do when all he can think about is forming three perfectly round circles and topping them off with a carrot nose and a coal mouth? </span><span class="568510921-11032010" style="font-size:100%;">He uses a little elbow grease so he can make this little fellow:</span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S5mCQs-NAmI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/O8ixgRl_zHQ/s1600-h/Snowman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S5mCQs-NAmI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/O8ixgRl_zHQ/s320/Snowman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447528447742902882" border="0" /></a><span class="568510921-11032010" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >by scooping up every inch of snow in front of his entire apartment building:</span><br /><br /></span></span> <div><span class="568510921-11032010" style="font-size:85%;"></span> </div> <span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S5mDELMs0VI/AAAAAAAAAKY/h2PpVO3Z_RQ/s1600-h/Snowman+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S5mDELMs0VI/AAAAAAAAAKY/h2PpVO3Z_RQ/s320/Snowman+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447529332030099794" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" class="568510921-11032010" >Landlords, take note. A New York City toddler will do what your super won't -- clear all the snow from your sidewalk!</span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-85437913692518452702010-02-12T23:07:00.008-05:002010-02-17T23:03:38.389-05:00"Thanks, Dad."<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In a recent post I mentioned that I can often hear my father on his headset after he </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >thinks</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> he has disconnected our phone calls. Well, in the clip below, you can hear me forgetting that my handy little point-and-shoot camera, which takes short video clips, also has sound.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This was from Key West, Florida, a couple years ago, and I find the water absolutely mesmerizing. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I think you'll find the dialogue equally impressive.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> Or not.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz9IKyChJu2VnbhhNhKwoq7-6cZdHaAST_gx9Xf8kMEUAlVFTLMd34DGgbubsKHIm9ontssbH9TPvxlvynlRg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I'm thanking him for bumping into me and ruining my shot. Because I am clearly the Scorsese of low-quality vacation videos, and he blew my one chance to be featured at the next Tribeca Film Festival.<br /><br />So...thanks, Dad.<br /></span></div></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-90396062645593552842010-02-08T23:47:00.005-05:002010-02-09T10:24:35.664-05:00Eat, Pray, Shove<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This afternoon, a coworker and fellow avid reader handed me a book that she said was “spiritual” and “transformational.” It had changed her outlook on life. </span><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I promised I would give the book a try.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">But I was instantly brought back to July 18, 2007.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It was around 6 p.m., and I was standing just inside the AT&T store on 43<sup>rd</sup> Street and Lexington Avenue. The line was long, and I was thinking that if I stayed I would probably be late to my book club. </p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">I had turned to leave when I heard a loud <i>boom!</i> and saw a couple people outside the store look behind them and start to run. As I’ve mentioned before, my fight-or-flight response is pretty heavy on the flight, so I opened the door, adrenaline already sparking like electricity throughout my body.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It wasn’t unfounded.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I stepped outside and saw a thick cloud of dark gray smoke. I couldn’t see the Chrysler Building right behind me.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">As I ran uptown along Lexington Avenue I heard – and felt – a series of at least a dozen explosions and thought, <i>I’ve always been afraid of dying. I can’t believe today is the day that I’m going to die.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">I heard someone scream, “They’re blowing up Grand Central” and someone else yell, “The subways are exploding!” Shockingly (to me, at least), my brain kicked in and I thought, <i>Hmmm, if the subways are exploding, is it a good idea to run along the Lexington Avenue line of the SUBWAY?</i><span style="font-size:0;"> </span>At 45<sup>th</sup> Street I took a quick right and kept jogging until I hit First Avenue.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">The decision to get out of harm’s way was an unexpected yet heartening flash of logical thinking for someone prone to panic.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">My second flash of brilliance also happened at the corner of 45<sup>th</sup> Street and Lexington Avenue. I realized I needed to get rid of dead weight. Since I couldn’t drop 50 pounds on the spot through the miracle of the Hollywood Cookie Diet, the Hollywood Juice Diet or the Hollywood Methamphetamines Diet, I did the second best thing. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>I looked down at the book in my hand, which I was forcing myself to finish for my book club that night. I knew that my life was worth more than a crummy book – no matter how beloved it was – and as I was fleeing the 2007 Con Edison Midtown New York Explosion, I threw it on a pile of black garbage bags.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">I never finished “Eat, Pray, Love,” by Elizabeth Gilbert.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">I don’t care how much Oprah loved it. I don’t care that it was optioned for a movie that is being released this August and will probably be a smash hit. I don’t care that I seem to be the only person who hated it. But I really, really did.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">I’m sure that Ms. Gilbert really did have a transformational experience. But once she left the bacchanalian portion of her journey, I had to keep suppressing the frequent eye-rolling that her earnest prose seemed to induce in me. I have read and enjoyed truly inspiring books. But this was not one of them.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">Without a second thought, I released “Eat, Pray, Love” from my left hand and took off across town.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">I eventually hot-footed it up to 59<sup>th</sup> Street and First Avenue, where I barged into a pizzeria and demanded napkins to wipe my face. It was July, after all.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They hadn’t heard the news yet, so I got some choice looks. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">I called my father, hoping he could tell me what was happening.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>At first, he said nothing was on the news. And then he called back, saying that by all reports a transformer had exploded.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I told him that it had seemed worse than that, and much louder.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He calmed me down by saying that it had probably sounded like that due to the noise bouncing off buildings. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">My mother called and told me that I should take a deep breath, radio reports were saying it wasn’t a big deal, and that I should go to my book club.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">Despite shaking, sweating and crying, I walked over to the subway and met my book club at Katz’s Delicatessen on Houston.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I spent the first 15 minutes taking deep breaths and telling my friends what had happened.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">During dinner, which I wasn’t eating, my mother called.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">“Oh my god, are you ok?” she said, sounding a lot more upset than she had earlier.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">I asked what was wrong.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">The real story had hit CNN and she was finally seeing what I had seen a couple hours earlier. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>According to Wikipedia (not always the most accurate source, but I promise this is what happened):</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 1in 10pt" face="trebuchet ms">The July 18, 2007 New York City steam explosion sent a geyser of hot steam up from beneath a busy intersection, with a 40-story-high shower of mud and flying debris raining down on the crowded streets of Midtown Manhattan in New York City, New York, United States. It was caused by the failure of a Consolidated Edison 24-inch underground steam pipe installed in 1924, at 41st Street and Lexington Avenue, near Grand Central Terminal, just before 6 p.m. local time, near the peak of the evening rush hour. The towering cloud of billowing steam, higher than the nearby 1,047-foot (319 m)-tall Chrysler Building, persisted for at least two hours, leaving a crater about 35 feet (10 m) wide and 15 feet (4 m) deep.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">I assured my mother that while I was upset, I was basically fine. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>I hung up my cell phone and proceeded to discuss “Eat, Pray, Love” (well, minus the last 20 pages I hadn’t read) with my fellow book clubbers.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">I already disliked the book prior to July 18, 2007, but now it would forever be linked to one of the most traumatic events in my life.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms">So, I’ll read my coworker’s “transformational” book.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But if I don’t like it, I'm going to ditch it at the corner of 45<sup>th</sup> Street and Lexington Avenue.</p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-88782306420085511302010-02-02T20:42:00.007-05:002010-02-02T21:01:38.222-05:00Dial "A" for Annoying<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My father does not know how to use his <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1265161737_0" style="border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer; ">Bluetooth headset</span>, so after we speak I am constantly treated to his inner thoughts. For instance, I get to hear him sing made-up songs as he drives.<span></span>I hear him curse at other drivers. And this morning, I heard him pick up lunch at the supermarket, during which time I texted him:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S2jVizduuLI/AAAAAAAAAKI/WVeRGznxv4k/s1600-h/Texts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 138px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S2jVizduuLI/AAAAAAAAAKI/WVeRGznxv4k/s400/Texts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433827744329676978" border="0" /></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;">My brother has a propensity for butt-dialing. I arrived at work last week and found a 14-minute voicemail from him, recorded after he came home one night and chatted with my parents. Because I wear a headset and can type pretty quickly, I transcribed my favorite parts and e-mailed it to all three of them so they could enjoy.<br /><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And now you can enjoy it, too.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad: …even temporarily.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>Josh enters.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Josh: What’s that?<br />Dad: Just an adventure movie, a good one…<br />Josh: [Burp.]<br />Dad: …Rock Hudson …<br />[Unintelligible.]<br />Dad: What are you doing tomorrow?<br />Josh: I don’t know, I forget. I think I have plans.<br />Dad: ‘Cause you’re welcome to watch the game with me.<br />Josh: That will never happen. In a million years.<br />Dad: C’mon....<br />Josh: I hate sports.<br />Dad: You're a clicky head.<br />Josh: I'm a nerd.<br />Dad: This movie is wonderful, by the way.<br />Josh: Remember, I’m a nerd? Hey, if you want to watch the first season of Firefly, let’s do it. I’m down. Let’s do it, right now!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em> </em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>A few minutes later, as conversation continues…</em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad: <span style="background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; cursor: pointer; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1265161737_1">Blah blah</span> blah, <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1265161737_2">Sam Rockwell</span> in “Moon.”<br />Josh: Plot spoiler.<br />Mom: Let’s ruin the movie for Nancy !<br />Josh: Awesome! But let me butt-dial her again, so when this message cuts off we can ruin the rest of the movie!<br />Dad: Yay! Let’s do it!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Exeunt, stage left.</em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><br /></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">[Note: I was paraphrasing that last bit.]</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And now I have begun to suspect that <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1265161737_3">Duane Reade</span> is drunk-dialing me.<span style=""> </span>I got an automated call today that said: “Your prescription of [<i style="">silence</i>] is ready at [<i style="">silence</i>]” several times, and then cut off in the middle of the sentence.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">So beware, you drunk, butt-dialing, techno-incompetents – I have a blog, and I am not afraid to use it!</span></p></div></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-47061090967335822422010-01-24T16:00:00.006-05:002010-01-24T16:07:49.328-05:00The Quicker Picker-Upper<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">If you thought bleach cleaned your counter really well, just imagine what it would do to your baby's bottom!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oh...</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">bleach </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >shouldn</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">'t be used on human skin? Well, what about bleach wipes? Wait, those either? I guess that warning label makes a lot more sense now:</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S1y1v_eKFfI/AAAAAAAAAKA/W8K6JN57-kg/s1600-h/Clorox+Baby+Wipes.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S1y1v_eKFfI/AAAAAAAAAKA/W8K6JN57-kg/s400/Clorox+Baby+Wipes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430415086798378482" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">In retrospect, is just seems <span style="font-style: italic;">so obvious</span>!</span><br /></div></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-52405619762846650332010-01-15T02:50:00.003-05:002010-01-15T13:03:29.664-05:00Gray Matter<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I am feeling very restless tonight.</span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It’s 2 a.m., and I just discovered several gray hairs (white, actually) when I was looking into the bathroom mirror. </span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;"></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">They were nestled at the hair line above my ear, just behind my bangs.</span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was at the salon recently, getting a cut from Carlos. I always tell him, “Do whatever you want.” The first time I said this he broke out into a huge grin, and although he always does a fantastic job, I thought, <i>Why is he so happy? What did I just agree to?</i></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> There was no need to worry about Carlos, of course. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But as he was snipping away this time, he paused, then shouted, “Look, you have a gray hair!” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I saw age 30 a couple years ago, but I had yet to see a gray hair. So I yelled, “Pull it! Pull it!” He wouldn’t do it, so I asked him to single it out so I could pull it myself.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I think Carlos assumed I was having a fake meltdown, but I still believe a minor anxiety attack was the correct response. When I saw it was snow white, I was both horrified that he was right about its very existence, and relieved that it wasn’t dishwater gray. It also reminded me of my grandmother, Celia, whose snow white hair always looked so pretty, albeit perpetually in need of a slight trim. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was hoping that Snow White was an anomaly. A single strand that peaked before its time. But after my experience this evening, I know it wasn’t.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Normally, I don’t think this would be hitting me so hard but about half an hour ago I finished “Still Alice,” by Lisa Genova, a novel about a woman’s rapid descent into early-onset Alzheimer’s.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It was very moving but deeply depressing, and left me vowing that my next read would involve a Parisian police detective who solves a heist at a candy factory with the help of his friends, a pair of married chocolatiers.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Or something similar.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The malaise caused by the book will pass, but something else is weighing on my mind tonight. My birthday is about 4 weeks away.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I don’t particularly love birthdays, but this time of year also marks another anniversary – the onset of my immune system disorder, CVID. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="font-size:100%;">I will be celebrating by starting home care, which my insurance company just approved.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A nurse will visit me every four weeks to administer my intravenous immunoglobulin treatment (IVIG), replacing my monthly trek to the infusion center at my immunologist’s office.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Intellectually, I know this is a great development. Going to the infusion center isn’t fun. I get there at 8:30 a.m. and am hooked up to my pre-meds (a cocktail of Tylenol, Benadryl and a steroid, to prevent reactions) by 9:15 a.m., and start my infusion at 10 a.m.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I then spend 3 hours hooked up to the IVIG, during which time I sleep, due to the Benadryl.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Afterwards, I trudge out, exhausted from the medication and the amount of liquid being pumped into me, and pour myself into a taxi so I can go home and sleep for the next four hours and gradually regain energy over the next couple of days.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">At least if I get it at home I don’t have to leave, don’t have to wait for the nurses to attend to anyone else, and don’t have to worry that I won’t</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">find a cab during the lunch rush.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The home care company called me several times. I have, thus far, spoken to an intake coordinator, a nurse and someone from the pharmacy department. They all asked me a myriad of questions, including my height, weight, medications, fruit intake, freckle-to-skin percentage and linen thread count.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They also explained that I should expect an introductory package in a couple weeks, which would include basic supplies.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Like an IV pole.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My very own IV pole.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nothing screams, “Hey, I’m young, I don’t have gray hair and I’m available!” like your own IV pole.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">In fact, I may add it to my eHarmony profile. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s funny, because reading “Still Alice” reminded me that I am actually very lucky.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My immune system deficiency isn’t fatal, although it does increase the risk of other illnesses.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It will never impair my cognitive function.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And by discovering it and receiving treatment, I am sick much less often than I ever was before.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But the last two years has seen my life change in many ways, confronting possibilities I never thought I would be considering at this age.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I can’t believe I am old enough to have an IV pole, let alone a home health care worker.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m a little worried someone will pick me up one day, drive me to a nursing home and park me in front of a television, where I will nap in a wheelchair and only wake up long enough to complain that the television is both too loud and not loud enough.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Unlikely, I know.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But frankly, I was kind of hoping that if I had to have a lifelong illness that I would at least get to keep my hair color for a few more years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Oh well. I guess that’s why they invented Garnier Nutrisse.</span></p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-72919885071870179772010-01-08T02:38:00.005-05:002010-01-08T02:49:49.902-05:00We Are Not Alone<span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have a new roommate. His name is Mickey. I've had worse roommates, but I've also had better. Mickey is happiest when I'm not home. When I am, he keeps to himself, only going from room to room when he thinks I'm not paying attention. He also has an annoying habit of pooping on the floor.</span><br /></span><div style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div> <div face="trebuchet ms" style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" class="ecx852145117-29122009" >Mickey is the mouse I acquired during my neighbor's recent renovations. All New York buildings have creepy, crawly critters lurking behind their aging walls, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);font-size:100%;" class="ecx852145117-29122009" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">and my pre-war space is no different. These four-legged foes seek warmth, sustenance and quiet surroundings. So when the pounding of walls and screeching of power tools started last week, they thought, </span><em style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Hmmm, where can we go? </em><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">This is when they all scurried right into my pleasant little apartment. I caught two right away, after which I called the landlord, who sent the exterminator to plug up every hole we could locate. He used foam that expands and hardens to fill gaps, glue traps and blocks of poison strategically placed in out-of-the-way spots.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">But Mickey...he was smart. He was already inside, and he had no intention of being caught.<br /><br /></span></div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div face="trebuchet ms" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">I saw him fly across the floor a couple times, weaving his way around the long line of glue traps I had added over the course of the week. From the amount of traps, it looked like I was living in a crack den with an extensive infestation, rather than targeting one evil rodent.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S0bh0PMS4yI/AAAAAAAAAJw/TXlYRtBGjzQ/s1600-h/Mouse+traps.jpg.aspx"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/S0bh0PMS4yI/AAAAAAAAAJw/TXlYRtBGjzQ/s320/Mouse+traps.jpg.aspx" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424271088761889570" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">The entrance to my living room, also known as "Glue Trap Alley"</span><br /><br /></div></div> <div face="trebuchet ms" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div> <div face="trebuchet ms" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Mickey began taunting me. He left droppings directly on the glue traps and still managed to walk free, which should have been impossible. I accidentally flipped a couple of those bad boys glue-side down on my hardwood floors, and let me tell you -- it was a nightmare, trying to remove the residue. And here was Mickey, using them as a bathroom and casually going about his business.</span><br /><br /></span></div> <div face="trebuchet ms" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">(Dear PETA, please do not complain about my use of "inhumane" glue traps. I tried other contraptions that don't harm the mice -- but they also didn't catch the mice. I respect animals, but I reserve the right to defend my home from unlawful intruders. Also, I enjoy foie gras, wear fur and eat veal.)<br /><br /></span></div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">I went away for the weekend, and upon my departure I suspect Mickey said, "Finally, she's gone! I get the place all to myself!"<br /><br /></span></div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">In his excitement, he got sloppy.<br /><br /></span></div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">I walked into my bathroom last night and saw what I thought was dust behind the toilet. I looked closer and noticed it was green dust. In the middle was the bar of poison, a quarter of which was eaten. </span><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">Like the evil queen from Sleeping Beauty, I laughed gloriously, thrilled that Mickey had taken my bait.<br /><br /></span></div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="ecx852145117-29122009" style="font-size:100%;">Sleep tight, sweet Mickey...</span></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-32116453861899168072009-11-21T00:12:00.003-05:002009-11-21T12:10:59.784-05:00One Ringy-Dingy...Here are three things that you should know about me: <p></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN-LEFT: 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">1. I like making lists.</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN-LEFT: 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">2. I think raisins were put on Earth to ruin perfectly good desserts.</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN-LEFT: 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">3. I love my family, because we are all crazy. But in a good way.</p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">When I was growing up, my father called his father every morning from work. He and George would have a short conversation about the weather, about which son sent him the dried fruits dipped in chocolate, and about his need to buy a new clock radio the next time we visited.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My grandfather passed away in 2006 just short of 99 years old.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Which is when I carried on the tradition – I started calling my father every morning from work. It just felt like the right thing to do.</p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now I’m used to it, and I look forward to my morning call with my father.</p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But my parents took a cruise recently, and I needed something to blog about, so here are our conversations from the three days we didn’t speak.</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText" align="center"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText" align="center">While You Were in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:place st="on">Bermuda</st1:place>,<br /><u>Here is What We Talked About </u><u></p></u><p class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms"><i>November 9, 2009</i></p><p class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">Hi Dad,</p><p class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">It’s Monday at 9:45 a.m., which is when I would usually be calling you. We didn’t chat yesterday, which was no big deal because it was a weekend. But today is a work day, and my routine includes our morning call. So darn you for taking a vacation and ruining my routine!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">(Don’t ever die, because then my routine would be really interrupted.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’d have to start calling Josh every morning, and he would never forgive you for allowing that to happen.)</p><p class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">So, in your absence, you and I discussed the following:</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">1. why hopping is so great;</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms"></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">2. how soon you can send me $4;</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms"></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">3. the fact that Mom is evil, but we love her anyway; and</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms"></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.75in" class="MsoBodyText" face="trebuchet ms">4. anything that includes the phrase, “or as I like to call it…” </p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Good talk! See you tomorrow.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">-----</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">To:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Mom<br />From:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Nancy<br />Date:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>November 9, 2009 at 11 a.m.<br />Re:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Howdy!</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">I asked how you were doing, if you had fun last night at your concert/movie/dinner/meeting, and how your bedroom renovations are going.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">You told me that you had fun but are super tired. You made a very strong cup of tea (with two tea bags) in order to stay awake, but it’s not really working. </p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">I proceeded to inform you that I have now decided what to name my future kidlets (Cinnamon Toast for a girl, Radiator SteamHeat for a boy). Which prompts you to ask if I’ve even looked at eHarmony lately. </p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Wow, I have so much work to do! Gotta go!</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText"><i>November 10, 2009<o:p></o:p></i></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Hi Dad,</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Our conversation this morning was somewhat contentious.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>After I called mustard “God’s favorite condiment,” you reminded me that a) I am an atheist and that b) only people fighting in Satan’s army would choose mustard over ketchup.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But I reminded you that we both love ducks, and all was quickly forgiven.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Afterwards, I told you about a funny dream. You started fake snoring, so I drew out the rest of the story in order to torture you.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Then, you told me about your plans for the day.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I started fake snoring, but you didn’t realize it because you were too busy concentrating on Tetris.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">You got another call.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You said, “Hold on for a second,” and then proceeded to hang up on me. I still think it might have been on purpose.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">-----</p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: -45pt; MARGIN-LEFT: 45ptfont-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoBodyText" >Nancy:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>(11:30 p.m.) Hey Mom, we didn’t e-mail today. Instead, you called me at 5:40 p.m., when you knew I would be on the subway.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I called you back on my way home, but you were already shopping at Trader Joe’s, so we had a quick IM around 11:30 p.m.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms; MARGIN-LEFT: 45pt" class="MsoBodyText">We’re both night owls, so even when we stop instant messaging we both start posting on Facebook around midnight. This is when I send you another IM: “Hey, I thought you were going to bed!</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms; MARGIN-LEFT: 45pt" class="MsoBodyText">Hilarity.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText"><i>November 11, 2009<o:p></o:p></i></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Hi Dad,</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">This is what you told me you would do today: go to the You (<i>aka</i> “the gym” or “the Jim”); pick up groceries at Wegmans; play guitar with your brother; play pool with Ed, and then start dinner. Retirement agrees with you, I think.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">I told you about last night’s dream, in which you had renovated your entire house. Your bathroom had an amazing cherry wood floor, a claw foot bathtub, a sauna, bidet, towel warmers and personal valet. </p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">You responded by begging me not to tell Mom about my dream, for fear she would be inspired.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">I agreed, but only on the condition that over Thanksgiving you let me fill in some answers in your New York Times crossword puzzles in PEN, with no moaning, groaning, or gnashing of teeth. You reluctantly accepted my deal.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Nancy, FTW!</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms">----</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText"><br />To:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Mom<br />From:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Nancy<br />Date:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>November 11, 2009 at 2 p.m.<br />Re:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Hola!</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">Hi Mom,</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoBodyText">I told you all about my dream. You were inspired, so I blew my deal with Dad. However, I like redecorating with other people’s money more than I like crossword puzzles, so it was totally worth it.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">Then I mentioned the dead body I saw last night on the way home from work. There was a fire truck, paramedics and a crowd of onlookers.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He was slumped against a building, eyes open, being poked by a paramedic. </p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">I said how this reminded me of the time you and I walked into an office building in <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place> and saw a dead body being dragged out of an elevator, a trail of blood dripping in its wake.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You told me that I was only 5 or 6 years old, and was greatly exaggerating what happened. You also told me that when I was 5 years old I believed in flying spiders. I reminded you that while flying spiders may not be real (they totally are! I know it!), I definitely saw a trail of blood in an office building.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">At this point you signed off to go home. I worked another half hour, contemplating the reliability of childhood memories.</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">___________________________________________</p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal">Welcome home, guys!</p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-67805567181500803302009-11-15T22:37:00.007-05:002009-11-15T22:57:33.394-05:00Contest!<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">So the theme of this week is: I am confused and I am on the loose in New York City with a crummy mobile phone camera.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I was walking home from work the other day and saw this:</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/SwDKTGcBZTI/AAAAAAAAAJg/HQYSDDuVC00/s1600/photo%285%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/SwDKTGcBZTI/AAAAAAAAAJg/HQYSDDuVC00/s400/photo%285%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404541982339065138" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The first person who tells me what this means gets a great prize (or a nice shout-out on the blog). Here's what I came up with:</span><br /><ol style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><li>Nerve Supply</li><li>Nerves Apply</li></ol><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Ok, I didn't get too far. I know this means something, but what?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Also intriguing was this scribbled message, which I saw in a public garden downtown:</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/SwDKG4_hZ0I/AAAAAAAAAJY/kOMH-XNHkSg/s1600/photo%283%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/SwDKG4_hZ0I/AAAAAAAAAJY/kOMH-XNHkSg/s400/photo%283%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404541772571436866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Let me first say that no rolly-bugs were harmed in the making of this picture. At least, none that I know of. Frankly, some rolly-bugs may have been harmed, since I don't really know what they are. Don't they sound adorable, though?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">If this is a regional term, like when southerners refer to soda as "pop" (which is ridiculous), please clue me in.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">In conclusion, I am confused and I desperately need your help.</span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-71966074539608448082009-11-11T21:33:00.007-05:002009-11-11T23:58:13.804-05:00Down the Hatch<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Last Friday I was informed by my doctor that I have a duodenum and an esophageal junction.<br /><br />No worries, though. Apparently they're lurking within all of us. I found this out following my endoscopy. Considering a colonoscopy is actually in your, um, end, I think an endoscopy, which involves a camera down your throat, should be called an other-end-oscopy.<br /><br />Here is what I learned from pictures of the procedure: I am very pink inside. On a side note, I also learned that my stupid veins will explode spontaneously, leading the anesthesiologist to have to stick me FIVE TIMES before we found a successful vein. (By the by, oh-my-god-sweet-jesus that hurt.) And I learned that I do not like anesthesia. I was fine right afterward (although thanks to those damned Yankees and their ticker-tape parade, I was forced to take the subway home -- the bridge-and-tunnel crowd stole all my taxis!) and stopped at the Union Square Greenmarket for a fresh cup of steaming hot apple cider. I went home, took a brief nap, during which I was convinced I was sleeping on a bed of velvet. But once the anesthesia wore off I was jumpy and incapable of sleep.<br /><br />Cue me at 4 a.m., waiting for slumber and considering some heavy subjects, including why I didn't know Veteran's Day was coming up, but I could give you the date of Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19th); what kind of reviews Fantasy Island would get on Expedia, since it never actually fulfilled anyone's fantasy; and why you would name a medication Aciphex, when it clearly <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >sounds like "Ass Effects."<br /><br />It's almost a week later, and this Friday I go in for my IVIG treatment, which I get every four weeks. I can tell when I'm due for treatment depending on how I'm feeling. The first week I'm a little tired and then slowly perk up. Week two I feel much better. Week three starts out well, but by the end I'm getting a little tired. And by week four I'm ready to go in again. I call it my "monthly cycle." Which, in retrospect, might have another meaning.<br /><br />My endoscopy took 10 minutes. The IVIG infusion takes several long, Benadryl-filled hours. But I'll take IVIG over another endoscopy any day.<br /><br />Never saw that coming.<br /></span></span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-40987026826964039402009-10-23T10:14:00.003-04:002009-10-23T12:20:21.053-04:00Dream Girl<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Last night I poured Neil Patrick Harris a cup of coffee and sat down to join him at the café table in my apartment. Across from me, the large picture windows looked out on a chichi Upper East Side apartment in the building next door, where we could see a large party in progress. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />I blew on my steaming cup of coffee and asked Neil if he had ever seen a reality show on TLC called “Say Yes to the Dress,” in which women spend money they don’t have at a posh New York bridal shop. He had seen it, he said, and couldn’t believe how ridiculously addictive it was. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />We laughed at our shared guilty pleasure.<br /><br />Suddenly, the roar of the party grew unbearable until a women in a beaded, Cinderella-inspired bridal gown sauntered to the window, looked over at us and called out, “Sorry for the noise!” as she closed the windows.<br /><br />Neil and I smiled at each other, took another sip of coffee and settled in to chat.<br /><br />I woke up.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">When I was a kid, I would periodically wake up in the middle of the night, run into my parents’ room with a particularly vivid dream, and recount it at length. My mother – in what I believe may have been her most ingenious parenting maneuver – always told me that if you “gave” someone your dream, it couldn’t haunt you. So I went back to bed, free to stop picturing every minute detail.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I would remember these dreams during the day, so in order to get rid of them I’d find the closest parent and "give it away."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don’t think my parental units would appreciate a 3 a.m. wake-up call from your truly at this point in my life, so I hold on to the insignificant dreams, and only unload those that won’t go away. But it occurred to me recently – I have a blog. Yes, I know that hearing about someone else’s dreams is potentially like watching paint dry. But this is my blog! So suck on this, I’m going to tell you my awesome dream and you can…um…skip this post, I suppose.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I have cogent story lines in my dreams. I often think I’m picking up a ten year old boy’s thoughts via wifi. (Not the naughty thoughts, though. Those are my own.) There’s a lot of shooting, running and chasing. Aliens. Spies. Astronauts. Secret missions. It’s exhausting!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But on Friday night it was a lot quieter than that. I was in space, floating among the stars. I didn’t have a body; I was just a presence, as if I had always been there. From my vantage point I could see our entire solar system. All the planets were aligned on one flat plane. I could see that the solar system was like one vast ocean, and the planets were peacefully bobbing in this black ocean.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">At first I was amazed by the sheer size of my surroundings, and then the dream shifted. I could see that I was a great distance from any other star. I felt a chill, and then the emptiness of the vacuum became overwhelming.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I woke myself up, sprung out of bed and put my feet on the floor. I was thankful to be anchored to something solid. I got back into bed after taking a sip of water, and drowsily hoped that I would be earth-bound for the next few hours. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I went back to sleep and had a nice, normal dream about the newest craze in mass transportation: blimps.</span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-37403060894892116802009-10-13T20:30:00.006-04:002009-10-13T20:44:54.292-04:00Quick Question...<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So what am I supposed to use?!</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/StUeU7IaahI/AAAAAAAAAJA/cwTVRhiWQSc/s1600-h/Veggie+Tales.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/StUeU7IaahI/AAAAAAAAAJA/cwTVRhiWQSc/s400/Veggie+Tales.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392249473665231378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0BfBeQhoBhc/StUd32mJurI/AAAAAAAAAI4/ibIDIlnKDJU/s1600-h/Veggie+Tales.jpg"><br /></a>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-58278955418111326572009-10-08T23:03:00.006-04:002009-10-09T00:25:50.691-04:00Murder, She Blogged<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have long held up my lack of gray hair as both lucky and proof that I am not yet old. However, I have realized that old age is not just in the color of one's hair. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;font-family:trebuchet ms;">The following are five signs that I am rapidly aging even though I refuse to accept it: </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;font-family:trebuchet ms;">1. <span style=""> </span>I abruptly ended a telephone conversation on Sunday night because I was excited that Masterpiece Mystery was starting on PBS. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;font-family:trebuchet ms;">2.<span style=""> </span>My teeth are falling out of my head. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: trebuchet ms;">I was brushing the other day when I noticed a slight jagged edge on the bottom of my front tooth. After dreaming all night that Martha Raye was offering me Polident martinis, I went to the dentist and was informed that I had indeed cracked my tooth due to excessive grinding while sleeping. After a little bondage (or is it "bonding"?), my repaired tooth was sent home with instructions to not open beer bottles and to come in immediately if it decided to take a trip to Paris for the weekend and left me behind with a hole in my mouth. On a side note, I don't understand how I both snore and grind my teeth. You would think one would exclude the other! I guess I'm talented. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"> (I was reminded of a trip my family took to <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Florida</st1:place></st1:state> a couple years ago, where the cap on my father's front tooth popped off. We called him "Farmer Jim," and when he laughed I swear it sounded like "Haw haw haw." We found it immensely funny, even if he didn't. In retrospect, in light of my recent scare, I am trying to have my sympathy. But I do not.) </p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">3.<span style=""> <span style=""> </span></span>I lose my glasses while I am wearing them. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">4. <span style=""> </span>The ringer on my iPhone is the theme song to "Murder, She Wrote." </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;"> This has more to do with my love for mystery shows, but I have secretly wanted to be Jessica Fletcher as long as I can remember. She's feisty! She's a successful writer! She solves crimes! Granted, all of her acquaintances die or are accused of murder, but she's always perfectly fine. So as long as I am Jessica Fletcher, and not Jessica Fletcher's friend, there should be no problem. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/7/72/MurderSheWrote_Cast.jpg/300px-MurderSheWrote_Cast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 184px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/7/72/MurderSheWrote_Cast.jpg/300px-MurderSheWrote_Cast.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in; text-align: center;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Jessica Fletcher and two friends/potential murder victims.</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;">5. <span style=""> </span>My family wants to take the car keys away from me because they think I am a terrible driver. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; text-indent: 0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;"> When I visit my parents, they offer to chauffeur me everywhere instead of letting me drive. I am well aware this is not because they are extremely magnanimous or because they are applying for a livery license and need to practice.<span style=""> </span>I am easily lost, directionless, and drive about 20 miles per hour no matter where I am. I can’t merge onto highways, and I once took a detour through <st1:city st="on">Morristown</st1:city> while going to Edison…from <st1:place st="on">Princeton</st1:place>. For those of you who are unfamiliar, that would be like driving from <st1:state st="on">Florida</st1:state> to <st1:state st="on">New York</st1:state> via <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Maine</st1:place></st1:state>. (It made sense at the time.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;">So, even though I do not have gray hair or wrinkles, I think today is the day to buy that bottle of peroxide and find my local Botoxologist.</p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;">I want to be like Jessica Fletcher – not look like her! </p>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008046456214270072.post-60486706074272286452009-10-04T22:33:00.003-04:002009-10-04T22:44:48.863-04:00Prize Patrol<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I wish that just once I would get a message like this and it wouldn't be junk mail.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Dear Nancy: </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;">We are having trouble shipping you your XPS M1530. Please click the link below to confirm your zip code: http:\\please-clam-prize.com\xps1530. Confirmation Code: hdbz409481.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Thank You, </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Associate #24149 </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Shipping Department </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">First of all, the M1530 is a nice laptop that starts at $1,000. And I like Dell laptops. In fact, I own one. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">However, I suspect that "Associate" is not a given name. And that it's a bad sign when the "Shipping Department" isn't attached to an actual company. But the biggest clue that this e-mail promising riches via laptop was not real? The e-mail address was: www.please-CLAM-prize.com.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">So, in conclusion, I decided not to clam my prize.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'm holding out for a free flat screen television.</span><br /></span>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11545023832360658380noreply@blogger.com0