feminist blogs

[See note re: problem w/ text size*.]

In lieu of the still-unfinished essay referenced yesterday, I give you this**.

My mother with Barack Obama, December 16, 2004, Honolulu, HI.

Someday I’ll find, and post, the one with my maternal grandmother and her hero, Oliver North. (Because I’m nothing if not fair and balanced.)

Plus the ones of my paternal grandpa (who raised me on C-SPAN, God bless him) with Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Ford.

For more goofiness, see this old post with pics of the late, great Senator Paul Wellstone, who went to high school with my dad; Wellstone’s mom and my grandmother also worked together in the cafeteria; the families also got together, on occasion, outside of school functions. (Did I mention the young Mr. Wellstone - for whom, years later - I did in fact vote, when I lived in Minnesota - looks quite fetching in a skirt?)

For better and for worse, the political thing has always been in the blood.

Not to worry though, the chances of my running for office are pretty much nil. Not only did I experiment with some blow while I was a teenager in Hawaiʻi, I also have an arrest record.

Ironically, the Olympia, Washington cop thought I had cocaine on me at the time; I didn’t. Rather, I had unlabeled capsules of another white powder in an unlabeled plastic baggie. Somehow he didn’t believe that the capsules contained boric acid: a homeopathic remedy for yeast infections. So they kept me locked up until they’d tested every last one of them. Following which he sheepishly emerged from the lab, asking whether I had any more capsules back at my dorm, so I could take care of my, ahem, “little problem.”

Needless to say, I was itching to get out of there.

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* Tech note: WordPress is doing something weird with text size, which renders the individual post with too large text, and the post as it appears on main page of blog with size of title’s text too small. No idea why, trying to figure that out now. Will delete this note after troubleshooting.

** Intended also as a follow-up to a conversation that started here. Because this is the fun response, and I’ve given plenty of energy in recent times to political discourse that is, necessarily, painfully serious.

[Note: The following post was written under the duress of both a migraine and pain related to a hematoma in my abdominal wall following my surgery last month. And also, asthma, which might not seem significant here until one factors in the effect that asthmatic coughing can have on two such sources of pain. Which is to say (duh) that it’s all rather amplified for me right now.]

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There is something about the physical plane that seems like such an affront to me lately (indeed: it’s been an affront to my whole family).

Five weeks and one day ago, I was in the ER with an ovarian cyst, said to be in the process of rupturing. I was led to believe, at that time, that it might resolve on its own. But then, days later, I learned I’d have to have surgery, though it wouldn’t happen for several more days. (Which gave me lots more time within which to worry, also - bonus! - without ever being wholly out of pain.)

There was one little event that happened between the date I found out I’d have to have surgery, and the date I finally did, which I never wrote about (much less, told my doctor). That is to say, I spent a great portion of one of the nights between the diagnosis and the surgery throwing up. (Which, in itself, is never a pleasant feeling, but with the Abdominal Demon in residence, it was that much more fucked up for me at the time.)

I didn’t tell the doctor because I was afraid he’d postpone the surgery, and I was in so much pain that I was desperate to get it all over with. I figured it was just some passing bug (which, in fact, it may have been; also, my eldest daughter had similar symptoms around the same time). But now, of course, I can’t help but laugh over recent news of a salmonella contamination of peanut butter products affecting people in our state (among others).

Though I didn’t think much of the story when it first aired, I finally got up the energy earlier this evening to go to our shelves and make sure our (mostly empty) jar did not have the dreaded “2111″ at the beginning of its lot number.

Um. Oh well:

So while I have no idea whether the respective barf-fests endured by my two children and me, at various points over the last several weeks, have anything to do with this peanut butter fiasco, it is beginning to seem a certifiable truth that, lately, the physical universe is out to get me.

Perhaps, indeed, I am being punished for a lifetime of gross overindulgence in peanut butter. (I am, in fact, responsible for most of our current peanut butter supply’s disappearance.)

If so, then perhaps the (ewwww, yuck, icky icky ewwww) hair in my pizza tonight* was also a sign from the Great Beyond; God is angry with me for eating more cheap, crappy, fatty foods (which I don’t even particularly like) than, say, blanched organic vegetables (which I would love).

To which I say, Okay, fine, God - but who’s going to finance all these nice healthy groceries?

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*At a cheap pizza joint that shall remain unnamed, and which I did not complain about at the time, as 1) I was too grossed out to speak and 2) I was pretty sure the only result of such action would be that some minimum wage worker would lose his or her job, or at least get yelled at. I must say, however, that it deeply disturbed me to have Lou Dobbs issuing anti-immigrant invective from the television set there, all the while young Hispanic women and men worked at furious speeds to bus the tables. The clientele was comprised of mostly working class black, white, and Hispanic families, and it seemed to me that (on the macro- level, at least) our accumulations of buffet plates were, on some collective level, compensatory indulgences, responses to learned deprivation. (I, for one, never qualified for the medical moniker of “obese,” until I’d been through involuntary periods of severe hunger, at various points in the late 80s and early 90s, following which my metabolism was screwed and I was far more prone to binge eating.) How many of us in that room had, or will eventually develop diabetes, I wonder?

Oh, and if you think it’s funny that I can take a post about peanut butter and turn it into some self-conscious political screed, see this post by Morgaine at The Goddess (a blog of which, I might specify, I am a fan). She actually manages to work in a tangent about Anthrax!

Tags: classism, immigration, Overtly Political, Parenting, The Body, womens healthclassism, immigration, Overtly Political, Parenting, The Body, womens health

I promised earlier that I would post an update once the biopsy results following my recent surgery were back, and the news is good (even if I’m still not completely recovered) - no cancer.

Given the “complex” nature of the cyst that had been taken out, with multiple walls and masses within its structure, it was something that had to be ruled out, although they told me at the time that they didn’t consider it especially likely that they would find cancer.

Call me a high-strung healthcare consumer, but when a doctor uses the term “cancer” in the course of a consultation about my substantially aggrieved innards, I rather prefer estimations concerning the likelihood of malignancy to be more along the lines of “zero.”

*whew*

I still have to go back to the doc Monday for follow up stuff (all that most loathesome poking and prodding that I’d deferred for years, until there was an obvious crisis requiring surgery), but for right now, I’m exceedingly pleased.

Tags: The Body, womens healthThe Body, womens health

Less than a month ago, I made the following tangential comment at the bottom of this unrelated post:  

Of course, if there is a “statistical hiccup,” I am going to be a part of it. Just like when my ENT doc said, “Not to worry, only 1% of patients experience complications with this surgery…” I knew, knew I was going to be in that 1%. But that’s (still) another story…

And, no, I still don’t have time to tell that particular story, but the anecdote is relevant to the moment because, that’s right, out of two surgical procedures thus far encountered in my life, I have now experienced “complications” following all two of them.

A trip to the ER today provided some relief at least (albeit more on on a cognitive than on a physical level). I’d had a growing concern over a protrusion emerging from just above one of the incision sites. It was a hard, almost knobby thing that definitely didn’t feel like it should be there, leaving me to wonder: “Okay, so they took out my ovary, the cyst, a fallopian tube, and a bunch of the endometriosis, but what the fuck is it that they put there in its place?”

The answer turns out to be fairly anti-climactic (which, incidentally, is quite how I prefer my post-surgery revelations): it’s a hematoma, a buildup of blood in the abdominal wall which will eventually go away on its own.

(On the other hand, I was also led to believe, after ER visit #1 two weeks ago, that my apparently ruptured ovarian cyst would also go away on its own. But fuck it, I’m going to be optimistic here.)

So, that’s the good news.

Bad news is, I’m still in more pain than I really should be this far after surgery. I have all the requisite pain medication and whatnot, so that’s good, but…

GODDAMMIT I JUST WANT TO BE ABLE TO WALK MY DOG!

At least.

But, for now, I’ll have to be content with lounging about with this heating pad forever stuck to my abdomen, and my generous husband waiting on me hand and foot.

Oh, and also.

A dear friend wrote me the loveliest email yesterday, updating me on various goings on in her life. Toward the bottom of the message, she wrote this:

I recognize that this message is all about me. I can only hope that it has distracted you, if only for a few minutes, from your pincushion tummy. I’m thinking of you. Feel better soon.

For the record, I was desperately glad for this distraction and certainly didn’t need to hear her prattling on about me. (I’m sick enough of doing that on my own behalf!) So while friends’ continued get-well wishes and such are naturally appreciated, I love and appreciate even more hearing about what’s going on in their lives. So, if folks (whether friends or strangers) care to leave comments at this post, forgodssakes, give me your own news! Tell me something wonderful or terrible that happened to you this week.

Because I care, and I want to know.

Tags: Friends, The Body, womens healthFriends, The Body, womens health

Note: For those who aren’t regular readers here, the following post pertains to my having surgery on Friday to remove my left ovary, Fallopian tube, and a bunch of other stuff… see, if you wish, recent entries in ‘The Body‘ category for the background.

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I’ve been out of the hospital since Friday night, but have since been unable to summon either the mental clarity or the physical strength required to haul my sorry ass upstairs, where my computer lives, to post even a drive-by update.    

Not that I have particularly ‘recovered’ these essential capacities.  I’m using a borrowed laptop from the living room couch, so getting up the stairs is (thankfully) a non-issue for now. And where mental clarity is concerned: I just spent five minutes staring at my own spelling of the word ‘convalescence’ which serves as the title of this post. I know it’s spelled correctly, but it just looks wrong.

And it feels like my ‘wiring’ is all wrong. There are are these disconnections, these cauterized interruptions of my ‘normal’ mental flow, in apparent imitation of what has been surgically disconnected/cauterized. Every cell of my being is bloated with exhaustion.

Please note that I have no idea whether any of the above makes sense (or the degree to which it makes sense). Absolute coherence is, I suppose, too lofty a goal for me to have right now. Most of the time, I’m using a cane to walk even short distances (e.g., from the couch to the bathroom), so I damn sure can’t be walking my dog, which is at least as difficult for me to accept as the fact that I can’t think straight for extended periods of time.

But, there it is.  And I’m glad, at least, that I have fine family members and friends (including all of you who sent supportive emails, get-well cards and/or who left friendly comments) who are collectively seeing me through the strange ordeal. I appreciate all of you so much.

I’ll post more again when I have the energy to do so and when there’s any new information available (e.g., biopsy results). Time, now, to hobble back to the loo. And then, back to the couch, where, if I’m appropriately propped up (not to mention medicated!), the pain will remain a dull, throbbing thing, rather than an acute, stabbing thing, as it has often been over the last few weeks.

Rest assured, in any case, that I’m in good hands, and am certifiably ‘on the mend’ - however slow and tedious* the mending process may be.

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* Re: “slow and tedious” - from “The Department of Redundancy Department.”     

 

Tags: The Body, womens healthThe Body, womens health

In having to go the pharmacy to purchase, of all things, a betadine douche.
Tomorrow is the big day. Will return home with one less ovary. I’m completely freaked out.

If the procedure ends up being a laparotomy (as described earlier), I’ll be in the hospital for 2-3 days. If it’s just a laparoscopy, I’ll be able to come home late tomorrow night or early the next morn.

Either way… Wah!

Tags: The Body, womens healthThe Body, womens health

A few days ago, I reported on the great fun of being in the Emergency Room with what was then diagnosed as a ruptured ovarian cyst. My understanding, at the time, was that following this rupture, my body would absorb the cyst remnants following which I’d be able to walk again without agonizing pain.

Alas, after a visit to the doc yesterday, I’ve since learned that this “now it will just go away on its own” notion was wishful thinking; whatever was in there is still there (even if something did “burst”), and it’s something like the size of a softball. Bottom line: I’m gonna have to have laparoscopic surgery this Friday, which may or may not result in the loss of the actual ovary.

In the latter event, the laparoscopic procedure would turn into a more complex laparotomy, wherein, as the doc explained, a “smiley face” would be cut below my navel, etc. Needless to say, there is both a literal and figurative issue of perspective here. From where I’m looking at things, this would be a frowny rather than smiley face, thankyouverymuch.

Too tired now to report much (still in significant pain, though at least it’s diffuse rather than relentlessly acute as it had been on Friday), but that’s the update. Depending on what they find, I’ll either be in the hospital for just this coming Friday or for a few days following.

Anybody with illuminating experiences (or just cheerful messages of distraction!) to share may feel free to do so via email or the comments. I’ll be checking both every now and then through the end of this week.

P.S. It’s now becoming clear that this problem had been developing for awhile and that I’d been ignoring the symptoms completely. “Geez, why can’t I fit into any of my pants anymore?” was just rationalized as a sudden (and mysteriously disproportionate) weight gain. Prior to this last week, I hadn’t had a pelvic exam in five years. My women friends: if you, too, have issues around deferring such exams until there’a crisis, may I kindly encourage you to get yourself to the doctor right away? You really don’t want to wait until something like this (or worse) erupts, trust me. Take a friend with you if it helps (hell - take a sedative if it helps, too!), but just… go already.

Tags: The Body, womens healthThe Body, womens health

It’s not every day that I have cause to think about my ovaries. They’ve been steadily doing the things ovaries do - releasing eggs once a month, with the usual result of my bleeding like a stuck pig for 4-6 days - ever since I was 11. (Though twice, with the result of actual fertilization! Resulting in fantastic daughters - so, yes, I am grateful for my ovaries, despite this whole tedious menstruation nonsense.)

The other day while Jeff and I were visiting with two other couples in “mixed marriages” (i.e., boy-girl), I remarked that the lovely baby one of these pairs had recently produced (Eric and Heather Shipp’s daughter, whom I affectionately call “tugboat,” as in “the little Shipp”) was “making my ovaries jump.” Meanwhile, the other pair, Chip and Lisa, are going to become parents in matter of weeks - if not days - and Lisa is absolutely glowing, a living reminder of how much I really liked being pregnant, most of the time.

I further remarked that the one time I had to have an ultrasound for an other-than-pregnancy reason (a hugely painful ovarian cyst, written about in an irreverent - if not downright scandalous - manner in 2002), I felt completely ripped off, as my only other experience with ultrasound technology had centered around my two beautiful, chosen daughters. Of course when the ultrasound techs had offered printouts from the exams, I wanted them. My babies’ first pictures - how lovely! But the subsequent experience of ultrasound was wholly unsentimental and painful. No fetal acrobatics to cheer on the screen; no breathlessly wondering whether my babes would reveal their genders, etc.; that was no fun at all.

And, since my husband had the decency to get fixed after our second girl was born (he says “broken” while I say “fixed” - whatever), barring some freak episode of parthenogenesis on my part, or reversal of the vasectomy on his, it ain’t likely I’ll be having any fun ultrasounds ever again.

So there I was, telling Lisa and Heather and their respective spousal units how I’m living vicariously through them as breeders, and how all the excitement around their respective babes was, Jeff’s vasectomy notwithstanding, “making my ovaries jump.”

Somebody smack me if, ever, I make such a statement again. Because, shortly afterward, I started to have some dull abdominal pains, which I didn’t tell anyone about, until it got really, really awful the night before last. At which point, Jeff was at a bachelor party. (Mark Morton’s, matter of fact, in advance of his wedding which was yesterday - so all you desperate would-be girlfriends-of-rock-stars can just stop bothering my server with search strings like “Does Mark Morton have a girlfriend?” All the guys in LoG are now officially - not to mention happily and deservedly - married off, so, please, go find some other Grammy-nominated band to stalk.) And I didn’t have the heart to make Jeff come home from that (NO, for the record, it was NOT at a strip club, I’m glad to report), and drag my sorry self to the ER (which would have meant waking up the kids and all sorts of other hassles).

But by the time Jeff finally did come home I was in a very bad way. Could barely walk. My poor cat gently climbed into my lap, then leapt off in terror in reaction to my howling in pain. Also, I was still in denial, figuring this was at worst some embarassing case of Worst Gas Ever. But as morning broke Jeff knew he had to take the day off, and drag me kicking and screaming to my primary care doc’s. The doctor, then, spent all of five minutes evaluating me before commanding us to get to the nearest ER (to rule out appendicitis, kidney issues, and any other possible reason for this excruciating pain). He also refused to hear out my crackpot theory that this was all because I’d eaten too many rice cakes the day before.

Let me just say that I fucking hate hospitals. Have had some really bad experiences. (Like the time when, after I had post-op bleeding after my tonsillectomy, I spent hours politely waiting to be seen in one ER, while copious amounts of blood were shooting out of my mouth and into the huge bowl I’d brought with me. People with apparently far simpler, less immediately alarming complaints were seen before me. Triage, dear nurses: have you heard of it?)

Long story slightly-less-long: I spent about eight hours in the ER yesterday, in pain so wretched, the two doses of morphine administered barely impacted it. (But, hey, at least they gave me the morphine. I actually had a pretty competent, friendly healthcare team today, which mitigated the overall misery somewhat.)

So I ended up having my second of two utterly un-fun ultrasound tests endured to date, through which I cursed as imaginatively and loudly as possible, until the pain was so severe I could no longer muster the breath even for cursing, and just withdrew into some pathetic whimpering. (Through which Jeff was as steady as a rock for me, constant in his compassion. What a fine human being he is.)

Finally, the diagnosis: an ovarian cyst that had ruptured, causing my abdomen to fill with blood and whatever else such cysts contain (they told me at the time, but I was past the ability, by then, to retain the specifics). Treatment consists, essentially, of bupkis. The body, eventually, will absorb the cyst remnants (aren’t bodies miraculous?); I’d be able to walk, soon enough, at a pace more brisk than the inch-per-hour I was at that point averaging (and without yelping all the while like an injured pup).

Now I’m home, on some excellent pain medication (I *heart* Percocet), and wondering what all I might have missed.

Tags: Lamb of God, marriage, The Body, womens healthLamb of God, marriage, The Body, womens health