The Quicker Picker-Upper

If you thought bleach cleaned your counter really well, just imagine what it would do to your baby's bottom!

Oh...bleach shouldn'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:

In retrospect, is just seems so obvious!

Gray Matter

I am feeling very restless tonight. It’s 2 a.m., and I just discovered several gray hairs (white, actually) when I was looking into the bathroom mirror. They were nestled at the hair line above my ear, just behind my bangs.

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, Why is he so happy? What did I just agree to? There was no need to worry about Carlos, of course. But as he was snipping away this time, he paused, then shouted, “Look, you have a gray hair!”

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. 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.

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.

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. 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. Or something similar.

The malaise caused by the book will pass, but something else is weighing on my mind tonight. My birthday is about 4 weeks away. I don’t particularly love birthdays, but this time of year also marks another anniversary – the onset of my immune system disorder, CVID. I will be celebrating by starting home care, which my insurance company just approved. 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.

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. I then spend 3 hours hooked up to the IVIG, during which time I sleep, due to the Benadryl. 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.

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 find a cab during the lunch rush.

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. They also explained that I should expect an introductory package in a couple weeks, which would include basic supplies. Like an IV pole.

My very own IV pole.

Nothing screams, “Hey, I’m young, I don’t have gray hair and I’m available!” like your own IV pole. In fact, I may add it to my eHarmony profile.

It’s funny, because reading “Still Alice” reminded me that I am actually very lucky. My immune system deficiency isn’t fatal, although it does increase the risk of other illnesses. It will never impair my cognitive function. And by discovering it and receiving treatment, I am sick much less often than I ever was before.

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. I can’t believe I am old enough to have an IV pole, let alone a home health care worker. 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.

Unlikely, I know. 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.

Oh well. I guess that’s why they invented Garnier Nutrisse.

We Are Not Alone

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.

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, 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, Hmmm, where can we go? 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.

But Mickey...he was smart. He was already inside, and he had no intention of being caught.

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.

The entrance to my living room, also known as "Glue Trap Alley"

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.

(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.)

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!"

In his excitement, he got sloppy.

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. Like the evil queen from Sleeping Beauty, I laughed gloriously, thrilled that Mickey had taken my bait.

Sleep tight, sweet Mickey...

One Ringy-Dingy...

Here are three things that you should know about me:

1. I like making lists.

2. I think raisins were put on Earth to ruin perfectly good desserts.

3. I love my family, because we are all crazy. But in a good way.

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.

My grandfather passed away in 2006 just short of 99 years old. 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.

Now I’m used to it, and I look forward to my morning call with my father.

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.

While You Were in Bermuda,
Here is What We Talked About

November 9, 2009

Hi Dad,

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!

(Don’t ever die, because then my routine would be really interrupted. I’d have to start calling Josh every morning, and he would never forgive you for allowing that to happen.)

So, in your absence, you and I discussed the following:

1. why hopping is so great;

2. how soon you can send me $4;

3. the fact that Mom is evil, but we love her anyway; and

4. anything that includes the phrase, “or as I like to call it…”

Good talk! See you tomorrow.

-----

To: Mom
From: Nancy
Date: November 9, 2009 at 11 a.m.
Re: Howdy!

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.

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.

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.

Wow, I have so much work to do! Gotta go!

November 10, 2009

Hi Dad,

Our conversation this morning was somewhat contentious. 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. But I reminded you that we both love ducks, and all was quickly forgiven.

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. Then, you told me about your plans for the day. I started fake snoring, but you didn’t realize it because you were too busy concentrating on Tetris.

You got another call. You said, “Hold on for a second,” and then proceeded to hang up on me. I still think it might have been on purpose.

-----

Nancy: (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. 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.

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!

Hilarity.

November 11, 2009

Hi Dad,

This is what you told me you would do today: go to the You (aka “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.

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.

You responded by begging me not to tell Mom about my dream, for fear she would be inspired.

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.

Nancy, FTW!

----

To: Mom
From: Nancy
Date: November 11, 2009 at 2 p.m.
Re: Hola!

Hi Mom,

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.

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. He was slumped against a building, eyes open, being poked by a paramedic.

I said how this reminded me of the time you and I walked into an office building in New York and saw a dead body being dragged out of an elevator, a trail of blood dripping in its wake. 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.

At this point you signed off to go home. I worked another half hour, contemplating the reliability of childhood memories.

___________________________________________

Welcome home, guys!

Contest!

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.

I was walking home from work the other day and saw this:


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:

1. Nerve Supply
2. Nerves Apply

Ok, I didn't get too far. I know this means something, but what?

Also intriguing was this scribbled message, which I saw in a public garden downtown:


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?

If this is a regional term, like when southerners refer to soda as "pop" (which is ridiculous), please clue me in.

In conclusion, I am confused and I desperately need your help.

Down the Hatch

Last Friday I was informed by my doctor that I have a duodenum and an esophageal junction.

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.

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.

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 sounds like "Ass Effects."

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.

My endoscopy took 10 minutes. The IVIG infusion takes several long, Benadryl-filled hours. But I'll take IVIG over another endoscopy any day.

Never saw that coming.

Dream Girl

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.

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.

We laughed at our shared guilty pleasure.

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.

Neil and I smiled at each other, took another sip of coffee and settled in to chat.

I woke up.

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.

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."

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

I went back to sleep and had a nice, normal dream about the newest craze in mass transportation: blimps.