coming up for air

Gad, it has been forever since I was last here.  There has been very little going on other than chronic daily headaches, which are becoming debilitating and interfering with my “quality of life.”  I am out of sick days, so they are costing me money as I get docked whenever I am not at work.  Fortunately, the District docks me what they would pay a sub to cover my absence, not what I actually make in a day.  If that were the case, I would drag myself to work even if I were bleeding copiously from an arterial wound!

I am trying very hard to get my life organized — nothing major, just cleaning out closets, etc.  I have started re-reading the Urban Shaman book series as I was either unconscious or too much time had passed between books 2 and 3 because there were references in book 3 about things that happened in book 2, of which I had no memory.  Clearly, I had lost the continuity or had been reading too fast to catch those important little details.

For that and other reasons, I am trying to make myself SLOW DOWN.  When I was still seeing the psychologist, as opposed to the Buddhist therapist I am now seeing, he told me once that I processed information so fast there was no discernible thought process.  I took that to be a compliment.  It wasn’t.  Yes, I process information very quickly.  The unfortunate outcome of this is that I have spent my life reacting to people rather than responding to them.  BIG difference between those two.  Huge.

I have noticed it even when I am playing a game of solitaire on the computer.  I flip through the cards so fast that I miss plays.  Speeding through your life is NOT a good idea.  I am in no hurry to reach the end!

I am still slogging through In Praise of Slowness, which, with seriously no pun intended, is a VERY slow read.  He is one of those people who keeps saying things long after you’re yelling, “I got it!  Can we move on?”

There has been a little knitting, but not as much as I would like.  And whose fault would that be?  She’s around here somewhere.

I am working on Tweedy Vest from Knitscene, FallWinter 2005.  It is not at all tweedy because I am using Heilo yarn.  This is a rather rough yarn — clearly Norwegians come from hardy stock — and so I am making a garment which will go OVER things.  I don’t want this next to my skin.

My next great adventure?  An iPad.  I have an iPhone and I love it beyond all reason.  this should be fun.

this, that, and the other

I stopped by one of the three yarn shops in all of the Fresno-Clovis Metropolitan Area, which has a population of slightly more than half a million people.  Yes, I know half a million is nothing to some of you.  Kate (London), Bridget (Philadelphia), and Chris (Minneapolis)?  You can all stop laughing now.

In my neck of the woods 500,000 is a LOT of people in one place.  I live in the country on 3.5 acres and the town in which I work has a population less than the number of people killed last year in Mexico’s drug wars.  That last fact just stuns me — that every man, woman, and child in this town would just be gone.  Changes your perspective.

The good thing about where I live is that I am only an hour from Yosemite

About two hours from Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks, home of the Sequoia Gigantea.  The giant redwoods actually grow all along the range of the Sierra Nevada.  There are even areas above Porterville where they are growing on private property.  There is simply no way to adequately show the size of these wonders.  The ones in the Mariposa Grove in Yosemite are tiny compared with the big ones in the other parks.

Yosemite as compared with the General Sherman:

This is either an old picture or a naughty picture.  As huge as these trees are, they have very shallow root systems and you are NOT supposed to get that close to them.

The Sequoia Gigantea actually does not get as tall as its coastal cousins, the Sequoia Sempiverens, but they make up for it in bulk.

I am also about two hours from the Pacific Coast which we see most often when we visit La Cuesta Encantada, or Hearst Castle.

We are also about three hours from San Francisco and four from the Los Angeles Basin.  So I may live in the middle of nowhere, but I can escape quickly to some pretty great spots.

Got sidetracked.  Sorry.  When I started I was walking into a LYS because I had run out of Eucalan and it’s time to put the woolens away.  I asked the nice lady who owns the shop if she had Eucalan or Scour and she told me she stocked neither.  This startled me enough that I just stood there blinking in surprise.  I think I finally said, “Oh.”

Fortunately, she was better at conversation than I was because she added, “the reason I don’t carry them is because the ingredients in Dawn Dishwashing Liquid are identical to those in Eucalan or Scour.”  More blinking on my part.

“You fill the sink with cold water, add a few drops of Dawn and swish it around a bit and add your items.  You don’t need to rinse.  If you want scent, just put in a few drops of essential oil.  The only difference is that a quart of Dawn costs $2.95 whereas a quart of Eucalan costs $45.00.”

I blinked a few more times, finally recovered from the surprise and said, “Clearly, I need to go to the grocery store,” which I promptly did.  I will be buying yarn from her from now on as she obviously has my best interests at heart!  When I retire in a few years and move back to Fresno, I will probably attend her Knit Night.

I thought the information was worth passing on.

vertigone?

On the 21st I decided it was time to go to the doctor about the vertigo.  Actually, I lie.  Bob is the one who said, “This has gone on long enough.  You need to see someone.”  Community Medical Providers has an Urgent Care Clinic on the premises, but my primary physician was able to work me in.

Have I mentioned that I adore my doctor?  After years of looking for a primary care physician that I could work with, I found him and because life is like that, it turns out he knows Bob because Bob helped him when he was building his house.  It’s a lovefest, I tell you.

He was concerned about the vertigo, so much so that he told the Balance Center to schedule me STAT.

Off I went on Wednesday where I was examined and taught the Epley Maneuver.  I do not know who Epley is or was, but I love him/her.  We did the maneuver twice and the vertigo went away.

They scheduled me to come back on Friday to learn a simpler maneuver.  On Friday I woke up with vertigo, did the Epley Maneuver twice and was fine.  Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles!  Wake up with vertigo, spend five minutes doing the maneuver, and go on with your day.

Huzzah!

The simpler exercise is the Hallpike-Brandt Modification.

Apparently, this is all caused by little rocks in the inner ear (they call them crystals, because that sounds better than rocks — but a rock’s a rock) and sometimes they come loose and go exploring.

The two procedures are to help them find their way home.

I love the people who came up with this and the ones who teach it.  I got my life back!

the wheels on the bus go ’round and ’round

Ever since the surgery on January 30, I have been plagued by attacks of Benign (not cancerous) Positional (did you move your head?) Proxysmal (it happens suddenly without warning) Vertigo (boy, am I dizzy).

Everyone says it has nothing to do with the surgery and everyone I have seen thinks it’s a good idea to induce the vertigo so they can “see what happens.”  I would be more than happy to tell them what happens; but apparently they need to see it for themselves.  This of course, leads to an attack of vertigo.

It’s a vicious circle.  I am being sent to The Balance Center (who knew there even was such a thing) so that I can be taught Epley’s Maneuver which is supposed to reset things since they think it’s caused by teensy piece of calcium, no bigger than a grain of sand, that has flaked off and is floating about my inner ear.  My only concern is the maneuver starts on the “bad” side.  I have no freaking clue which ear is doing this.  I hope they can figure it out.

My favorite part is forgetting and getting up quickly and then falling down.  Hopefully, this, too, shall pass.

Things are normal here, which is to say chaotic.  All the English classes are trying to get into the computer lab to do their research assignment and the other teachers (who almost never use the library in the first place) are complaining because they can’t get in.  I would love to know why they have a sudden need to use the facility, but perhaps it is just human nature to complain about what you can’t have even if you don’t actually want it.

I have dyed my hair red (Fox Fire to be exact).  I am loving it.

Knitting has been virtually non-existent, as has any other creative endeavor.  I am hoping to spend this next week getting the house clean and my life organized.  Please don’t laugh.  It could happen.

Breakthrough at the therapist’s, which in my case generally means facing up to the fact that I, and I alone, am perpetuating something that is bothering me.  I have cut my Evil Sister out of the picture and the other players are all dead, so the issues belong squarely at my doorstop.  He suggested I read Full Catastrophe Living, and I plan to do so just as soon as I finish In Praise of Slowness, which is (ironically? coincidentally? deliberately?) a very slow read.  However, I have decided multitasking is for the birds.  I can do one thing well or several things badly.  I am opting for one thing at a time.

The Eight-Fold Path is helping as there is much wisdom there.

I finally rearranged the posters in my office.  I moved the one showing the paths to hell on the back of my door.  I purchased it because I thought it was highly entertaining, but not something to be taken seriously.  But many of the people who enter my office took it seriously and I decided to just end the conversations.

I don’t know how they can look at my poster of  The Gashleycrumb Tinies and think I actually believe that public dancing is going to lead one to hell, but I have given up trying to understanding people.

I finally got Girl with a Pearl Earring on the wall and it is making me happy.

Last weekend Brenna and I went to the Legion of Honor to see Treasures of the Louvre.  I found it rather disappointing as I am certain that the Louvre has far more “treasured” items, but you take what you can get.  It was supposed to portray the court life of Louis XIV through Marie Antoinette, which involved a lot of gold and diamonds, but I found it essentially unimpressive.

We spent the day dawdling about the museum

We were trying to get The Golden Gate Bridge from this side (the ocean side) but I guess we are too big.  It is a ways away.

 

If you look closely you can see it’s tiny orange bridgeness.

Then we went to Ikea.  With no boys to act impatient.  It was glorious.

elann.com limited edition milano tweed

I have 1440 yards of this yarn and the suggestions I got were all about cables.

And boy howdy! do these women like cables.  I like them too but they use ginormous amounts of yarn and after making Celtic Icon for my 6’1″ husband, I am a tad cable shy.

The suggestions, from England:

Whispered Inspiration

Blackberry Cardigan (which I must admit is quite yummy)

From the East Bay:

Fireside Sweater

Wash’s Sweater (which, while lovely, is not a cardigan)

Kimono Styled Sweater (which immediately sent me into paroxysms of lust)

Camden (my feelings on the subject of bobbles are not fit for polite company; nupps, yes — bobbles, no)

I have been considering:

London Bridges Cardigan (which has a wee bit of cabling, some interesting stitching, and enough stockinette to drive me nuts)

Oat Couture’s Celtic Cardigan (which I like but fear may be frumpy)

Circlet Cardigan Pattern

I am not good with a lot of choices.  I don’t like expansive menus.  The one in My Cousin Vinnie was just about perfect.

Which, I recall, offered

Breakfast

Lunch

Dinner

It is rare that I work on more than one item at a time, but Bob’s annual sweater, made with Plymouth Yarn’s Grass (cotton and hemp) has a wee bit of cabling.

Maybe I need a better cable needle.  The one I have is fiddly and snags the yarn.  It has grooves to keep the yarn from slipping off and I am here to tell you the yarn does NOT slip off.  Even when it’s supposed to.  It’s in the picture at the top of blog and may be why that sweater is a UFO.

Cable needle suggestions?

 

boring sweater vest

All indications to the contrary, there has been knitting.

Actual yarn on actual needles.

I am about halfway up the back of Interweave’s Tweedy Vest from Knitscene, Fall/Winter 2005 issue.  It is clearly not Tweedy.

Now, any suggestions on a cardigan for this?

elann.com Limited Edition Milano Tweed in dark grey.

architecture: a minor rant

As a rule I do not harbor particular feelings about buildings, unless they are striking enough to seriously catch my attention.

This building in London intrigued the snot out of me as it appeared to be encased in plastic, which was cool and confusing at the same time.  What is the view like from inside, looking through both the glass of the windows and whatever is covering the building?  Does it get condensation between the layers?  These are the kinds of questions my mind thinks up.  My therapist describes my outlook as “unique.”  I’m sure he means something else and is trying to be kind.

The Victorians have a LOT to answer for, in my opinion.  They liked to do red and white stripey brick which I found horrific.  I didn’t take any pictures of the MANY buildings in London built in this style because they were so hideous, but here is an example I found at amazon.com.

Only you need to imagine bigger and in quantity.

The Houses of Parliament and their friend Big Ben are exquisite.

I can remember visiting relatives in Massachusetts during my teen years.  Boston is an old city (for this side of the pond) and many of its buildings are brick and they have a gritty, sooty look and feel to them because they are in a town located in the Industrial Northeast.  As the cabbie was driving us to our hotel, I noticed the John Hancock building.

I was thinking, “Wow!” and said, “Look at that building!”  I was going to add, “Isn’t it beautiful!” but fortunately the cabbie growled out, “Ugliest goddamned building in the city,” so I wisely kept my thoughts to myself.

Begin Rant.

THIS is what the deYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park looked like for most of my life.

It was rather grand and stately — not particularly beautiful, but eminently constructed to be what it was — a museum of art.  It had logically laid out galleries.  It had that muted quiet you expect when people are admiring art.  I spent many happy hours there as a child and fondly remember the exhibits on Celtic art, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and just wandering the galleries.

They tore it down.

They built a magnificent modern statement of a building.

It would make a divine shopping mall.  It is loud to the point of being cacaphonic,  The spaces make NO sense.  The exhibition areas seem to be designed NOT to flow.  You absolutely must bump into people who are milling about trying to figure out which way to go next or get your toes run over by someone in a wheelchair — it’s like Disneyland.

I understand that it is creative and sheathed in copper which will age to a lovely patina like The Statue of Liberty.  Unfortunately, I. don’t. care.  I want my museum back.  The quiet one where one gallery led to the next and things were easy to find.  The one where you didn’t have to enter prepared to fight your way to the art because the art’s worth it, by god.

I would also love it if they could find the money in their budget to hire someone — anyone — who knows how to mount a show dealing with clothing and textiles.  Because of Brenna’s passion, I have been to many.  I am either distracted by how badly presented things are or just leave angry.

End Rant.

people, and pearls, and pliés, oh my!

In the long ago, far off time when I could still feel my right ear, the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco informed their membership of several upcoming exhibitions, one of which required tickets.

I was so incredibly clever and forward thinking that I scheduled our tickets for latish on a Saturday of a three-day weekend.  Peaceful, easy, artsy.  Then I had surgery a week and a half before the date on the tickets.  It was still peaceful and artsy, but more exhausting than easy.

But that’s OK, because I finally got to meet Ania du Ravelry in person.  We had met on one of the boards and one thing led to another and we have pretty much communicated since 2008.  We also discovered that we were in the same class at STITCHES West and didn’t even know it.  We have been trying to meet up since.  We live about 3-4 hours apart — SHE is in the part of California that gets rain and is green.  I live in the part that doesn’t and is brown.

I know she is a dancer of the ballet variety and one of the exhibits was on Rudolph Nureyev and thought I could entice her into a meeting.  She fell for it!  Meeting her was wonderful and I believe she has seen and memorized every ballet ever done.  I was excited about the exhibit because Nureyev was the first danseur who ever impressed me enough that I bothered to find out he had a name.  What an incredible talent (what beautiful costumes!).  Ania knew all the ins and outs of ballet costumes and casually mentioned that she had met the genius legend ballet god.

When I got my jaw up off the floor, I discovered she had worked a summer for the Oregon Shakespearean Festival and he arrived to pick up his tickets and she was the person who dealt with him.  I have met a couple of famous people in my life (I once saw Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor and their kids in line for the Jungle Cruise) but I have certainly never been in the presence of a LEGEND.

On top of that, she was wearing the only completed She Who Shall Not Be Named sweater (from Tudor Roses) that I have ever seen. Oh, and it was a thing of beauty to be sure.  No offense to the Goddess of Lewis, but I preferred Ania’s softer color palette than the rich Elizabethan colors of the original Katherine Howard.

I could not stop admiring it.  I am prostrate before her prowess as a knitter.

After lunch, she headed out for parts east and we went off to The Girl With the Pearl Earring.  I am not one of the great art experts.  I am more of the “I know what I like and I don’t like that” observers of art.  I have no idea what I was expecting.  We entered through the Rembrandt’s Century exhibit, so there were LOTS of sketches in muted tones of sepia and examples in black and white of how he played with light and shadow and pages covered with hands in different positions.

The detail was exquisite.  Then I turned the corner and I was in the room with the still lifes, all of which were painted in COLOR!!!!  After the muted tones, it was like, “My retinas!  They burnses!”  Once I got used to color and light, I was able to appreciate the paintings.  Then I walked into the next room, which was very softly lit and there at the end of the gallery was The Painting.

It is not a large painting (17.5 by 15.25) and it was surrounded by a crowd.  I said under my breath (I thought), “This is going to be just like the Mona Lisa.”  The guard said, “Well, it is The Mona Lisa of the North.”  Huh?  I was referring to how hard it had been to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre surrounded as she is by guards, stanchions, bulletproof glass, and dozens of tourists.  I had no idea the painting was known as the Dutch Mona Lisa.

Luckily, the experience at the de Young was very different from the Louvre.  I was able to get front and center TWICE and looked for as long as I wanted.  It is a stunningly beautiful piece. When I got to the gift shop I wanted to buy EVERYTHING with her image on it — the magnet, the cup, the porcelain box, the tote bag, the umbrella, the t-shirt — EVERYTHING.  I settled on the poster.

When I go back to work on Wednesday there will need to be major rearranging of the wall decor.

Did you know that if I press on what I thought was the solid hematoma under my ear it makes a squishy, gurgling noise that is both gross and mesmerizing?  You don’t have to dig very deep to find the kid in me!

‘splain, please

Every time I have met with a doctor, especially prior to a procedure, they want an extended list of all the medications I am taking and the dosage.

My personal list is:  Tamoxifen, 10mg 2x day; Clonazepam, 0.5mg 2x day; Sertraline, 100mg 1x day; Crestor, 10mg 1x day; Vitamin D, 3,000IU 2x day; Calcium, 600mg 2x day; Zinc; Vitamin B Complex; and Vitamin E.

I know they have this list because they have given printed copies back to me.

Sertraline, which is the generic for Zoloft, is an anti-depressant of the SSRI variety.  SSRI, for those of you who dabble not in depression, stands for Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor — it is supposed to keep your brain from reabsorbing all the available serotonin in the hopes it will keep you on a more even keel.

With all this information, some of it in printed form, I was prescribed an antibiotic and a painkiller.  I do not, as a general rule, handle meds well.  I don’t think antibiotics make anyone feel better as they have all manner of nasty side effects — usually of the gastrointestinal variety.  I am allergic to codeine and can only tolerate hydrocodone (Vicodin) IF there is food in my stomach and it’s the third full moon that week which happened to occur on a Wednesday.

So I got something else.  It was about as effective as most painkillers are for me, which is to say M&Ms or skittles would have done the trick just as well; but I started noticing some odd things.  I couldn’t focus very well.  I was running into walls.  Things that didn’t seem right.

Brenna had maintained since I got home from surgery that I was on too much medication (please see list above).  In my own defense, when the Vitamin E, Vitamin B Complex, and Zinc are gone, they are gone.  Finally I looked up the pain medication which specifically stated that it should NOT be taken with cholesterol medicine OR any type of SSRI.

Why do doctors ask for all this information and give me printouts of what I already know I am taking, if they are going to completely ignore the information?  Most of the time it is the pharmacist who catches the conflict and mentions that medications shouldn’t be taken together.

I only have to wear the attractive head dressing for 10 hours a day; but today I wore it longer.  When I woke up this morning, the incision was bleeding a bit and the hematoma seemed a bit larger.

It was a question of vanity vs. healing.  Healing won.  There are many things in my life I have wanted to do well.  Hematomae were never on the list.  But I seem to be very good at them.

warning: if you have a sensitive stomach, leave now

On January 30 I went to the hospital on an outpatient basis to have a lymph node with “atypical cells” removed.  I thought it would be a quick incision, I’d go home, and be back at work the next day.

wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong

It must have been the word “atypical” that resulted in my misunderstanding just about everything, since that is how the 6cm tumor in my left breast was described — there are no signs of cancer, but there is an area that looks atypical.

I had noticed something was wrong in October, 1999, but it was July, 2000, before I could get anyone’s attention and stop being dismissed.  I had a very aggressive, hormone-induced cancer.  Thank how small it was in October, 1999.  A lumpectomy, a little chemo and radiation and Bob’s your uncle.  Nooooooo.  I fought for nine months and got a radical mastectomy (and the physical and mental scars that go with it), breast reconstruction, and the chance to spend the rest of my life feeling like a freak.

But am I bitter?  You bet your sweet ass I’m bitter.

As a result, “atypical” is not one of my favorite words.

Actually, I was having surgery on my parotid gland (salivary), which my specialist knew (and probably mentioned).  The anesthesiologist was wonderful, he put me under just enough that waking was not a complete climb out of the pits of hell.  I just woke up.  Wow!  Who knew?

I am a side sleeper and for whatever reason, when I woke up in Recovery I was on my right side, as was the incision.  The nurse told me to roll over, which I did, whereupon she began yelling at me that I had pulled out my drainage tube because it was tangled in the blankets.  Since I hadn’t known I had a drainage tube, I did not understand why I was at fault.  I do remember telling her to “stick it back in,” to which she replied, “that can only be done surgically.”  I know I said, “Bullshit.  I’ve pulled drains loose before and always reinserted them.”  I think she was so upset she had to go lie down because I don’t remember seeing her again.

The incision began at the front of my ear.

I did call the hospital’s patient advocate to complain about being yelled at for pulling loose a drain I didn’t know was there, and she cut right to what she saw as the real issue:  in the turnover Surgery had not informed Recovery that there was a drain inserted.  She was sorry I had been yelled at, but it had alerted her to the larger issue.

I was told I needed to spend the night in the hospital (which in light of later events, would have been the best course) and I began complaining.  I have spent two nights in the hospital — each time I gave birth.  The first time, I had the bed by the door and the woman in the other bed knew every single person in Fresno and they all came by to say a big hello.  Then, that night, when I thought there would be sleeping, they came in to give her a transfusion because her doctor (a GP) hadn’t called in a surgeon (she had a BIG baby) and she had lost massive amounts of blood.

The second time, my roommate snored, so I asked if I could change rooms and they put me in a freezer.  AND they told the woman I had moved because of her snoring so she came around for a chat.  I was mortified.  I don’t like being in hospitals.  I can be very persistent and they let me go home.

I slept all of Thursday.  I would wake up, have a bite to eat, and think, “A nap sounds good right about now,” and go back to sleep.

Friday, I went to hell.  I apparently excel in the creation of hematomae — remember the back of my hand?  The absence of the drainage tube meant all the blood and plasma and detritus of the surgery had nowhere to go.  I had no neck on the right side.  My ear had gone into hiding and I was just generally miserable.  I called the exchange and the doctor on call told me I should definitely do something.

So I went to the ER.  They did an ultrasound and confirmed a subcutaneous hematoma, which they kept referring to as a lake.  However, they would, under no circumstances, touch it.  I explained to them that aspirating it would be a piece of cake.  Oh, nonononono.  The carotid artery and facial nerves are in there.  So I had spent a long time accomplishing nothing.

The scar goes around the back of my ear and down my neck.

I love bruising.  So colorful.  So festive.

My specialist had no qualms whatsoever about carotid arteries and facial nerves.  On Monday, she numbed the side of my face, and withdrew the gunk in there.  I said, “That’s not blood.”  She said, “It is blood that has started to break down.”  “Oh!  It’s rotting blood!”  A patient sigh:  “It is blood that has started to break down.”  The only thing for a hematoma is compression which I knew from the hand thing, but this was my neck and it does things like breathe.

But medical science has found a way.

I went back three times to have “blood which has begun to break down” removed.  I have worn this thing pretty much 24/7 since February 4.  Today I got the stitches out and I only wear my wimple for 10 hours a day.  I swear I do not know how women in the Middle Ages ate since opening the mouth is pretty optional in this thing.

I have never felt so old, worn-out, and just plain unattractive in my life.