Undomestic Diva

I just wanna cry

Hospital Tour

Now that my sister is home (she came home last night) I can feel less guilty about making light of the situation. Whew.

(BTW, for those following the overly detailed saga from my last post on her health, the biopsy the surgeon did came back with a polyp in her bile duct. Which is great news. I know. Most people wouldn't be happy about that, but we are, because it's an answer. An answer we've been waiting for... forever. Anyway, the next step is to have her swallow a camera pill, checking her small intestine to make sure there are no polyps or tumors there. And then, once she's fully healed from this nightmare - say in a couple of months or so - they will go in and surgically remove the polyp, hopefully, hopefully, hopefully solving her issues...)

If you have to be in a hospital, you might as well be at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles. Its donor lists are long, the food pretty amazing and yes, there's a Starbucks. And, if you're planning on going awol, well then you're in luck! The Beverly Center is literally across San Vincente Blvd. and Kitson, Lisa Kline Boutique and other famous paparazzi-awaiting shops are around the opposite corner on Robertson Blvd.

Because nothing's HAWTer than trying to get into Kitson in a hospital gown. Careful there, gorgeous - you might start a fashion trend.

But the signage? Very confusing. Am I entering the hospital or the Max Factor compound?

Now... hmm... This sign was in the waiting room on the 7th floor. Only at Cedars, it's not a waiting room, it's a MEDICAL PAVILION. And it was a gift from the FASHION INDUSTRIES CLUB. Which must be, like, a gift from all of Los Angeles. I'm almost certain membership is included in your property tax bill.

Gastroenterology Unit... YUMMY.

The view from the waiting room. A reflection of me in my grandma sweater.

Even the food is good at Cedars. Did you hear me? THE FOOD IS GOOD AT A HOSPITAL. Besides that, check out the catchy names. The Grace Kelly Guacamole Bacon Burger... The Greta Garbo Beef Burger...

OK, did you find Starbucks on the directory? The hospital was one huge maze of confusing, look-a-like hallways. But the Starbucks? Plaza Level. Or PL in the elevator. I learned this part very quickly.

And I kid you not, each time I went, there were patients with their IVs hooked up to those roll-along things, standing in line buying a coffee. I had to resist every urge to not take a photo. Because suddenly, I have moral boundaries.

Even the reading material is so L.A. (BTW, if you've never heard of The Onion, then you need to get your ass over to their website and lap it up. It's soooo your style, trust me.)

Um.

This was on the peg board in my sister's room. The notice about patients' rights? Got it. Al the Hair Doctor makes house calls to your room? Equally important. Of course.

(BTW, Tori Spelling & Dean What's-His-Butt... oh yeah, coulda been having their little girl there within the last couple of days, leaving the hospital yesterday ... You may argue that this is one of those patient privacy issues, but tell that to the airplane carrying the banner and to the second airplane sky-writing WELCOME HOME TORI & DEAN outside the hospital windows. I'm just sayin'.)

And despite this being a beautiful facility, chock full of celebrities admitted under aliases, the truth of the matter is that it's just another hospital. With underpaid, over-worked and therefore disgruntled nurses. There's life and death happening in every wing, just like every other hospital. There are medical mysteries and miraculous cures happening daily. In these ways, really, it's no different than anywhere else. ALTHOUGH, the gift shop is pretty bad ass and the Starbucks (did I mention the Starbucks??) makes me feel... more... healthy, just by it being there. So they have that on everywhere else, ya know? But other than that... totally the same.

Waxing Gone Wrong

Tried my new waxing pot, then read the directions. For help. Because not only did the hair not come off my leg, but neither did the wax.

Not sure why I decided to try waxing my legs two hours before a photo shoot, but let's just say I had to go take photographs with my pant leg firmly adhered to my shin the whole time. Very professional, I know.

I tried all of the 5 creams/lotions/magic potions that came in the waxing set and none of them removed the wax. Then I found a little bottle labeled "Sure Clean." Holy hell, did that sting. Apparently, "Sure Clean?" Not so much for cleaning your leg as it is for cleaning the appliance. Per the label. Which I read after.

That was Friday. This is Monday. I still have wax on my leg.

Help. For the mother effing love of god, help.

Update

My sister, she's OK. I want to get that out first, because I read through all your kind well-wishing comments from yesterday's post and I am just in awe of your support... for my sister, for me, for my family who, let's face it, you wouldn't know if you walked past us on the street. That says a lot about you.

(I even mentioned to my mom in the waiting room today that "the whole internet is thinking good thoughts for her" and my mom said "WHO?" and I had to tell her - my virtual BFFs - the crazy people who actually read my blog and she was like "Oh my god, that's soooo sweet!!" Believe me, if she knew where you all lived she would bake you each some homemade cookies and deliver them herself. She's that kind of lady.)

And while I am truly grateful just to have my sister back, I am a little disappointed in the outcome of the surgery. We had hoped it would answer some questions and also "fix her" at the same time and basically, it did neither. This horrible, torturous procedure may have been for nothing. Which, in itself is torturous.

I realize everything I'm telling you must seem incredibly vague, but I just don't want to bore you with the details... and the truth is, I could never possibly give you the whole extended version of her health problems because I'd be typing for days.

So... if you don't want to know all the nasty details, stop reading here. (I wouldn't blame you.)

In brief, she was diagnosed with GERD/Reflux (only in hindsight, she may have never had GERD) and a hiatal hernia. Medicine didn't work so she had major surgery where the doctor did a nissan fundoplication and, unexpectedly, a pyloroplasty at the same time. That was two and a half years ago and she's been sicker ever since. The downside to having a nissan done is that you no longer have the ability to throw up. Sounds delightful, right? No. Actually, almost every single time my sister eats, she has the urge to throw up - an urge she cannot satisfy.

Six months after her original surgery, she had an emergency surgery where they removed her gallbladder (thought to be related to her woes at the time), her appendix and while they were rootin' around in her with a stick, removed a large ovarian cyst. It was my mom's birthday. Hooray!

But guess what? None of these things fixed my sister's problem and for the last two years, she has seen every imaginable doctor... several different gastroenterologists, endocrinologist, neurologist, urologists, etc. She's had every "oscopy" known to man: endoscopies, colonoscopies, etc. There have been numerous tests: esophageal manometries, upper GI barium tests, X-rays and CAT scans and MRIs to no end... And she's tried every medication having anything to do with the GI system, along with a few medications that were tried not for their purpose, but instead hoping she'd benefit from the side effects. My sister not only has doctors stumped, she's now a national case study.

Oh, and did I mention she's 19?

Now, the doctors have figured out she has Pancreatitis, which is not a disease, but an infection that is usually brought on by either a) decades of alcohol abuse or b) an auto-immune disease. She has been tested for every auto-immune disease (they were sure it was lupus, they were sure it was MS...) and she doesn't have an auto-immune disease. Which led doctors to today's procedure, a very unkind ERCP. Doctors were hoping to find perhaps a blockage in her bile ducts or to put a stint in her (are you ready for this?) Sphincter of Oddi to prevent further episodes of Pancreatitis... but no, they think everything is normal, with a slight chance that there could be a polyp in her bile duct, but of course, they could only biopsy it and, if it is, go back in A-FREAKING-GAIN and do something about it... not now, later of course.

If you're still reading (and I doubt you are) I am just so, so tired. Tired of the hospitals, the "procedures," the not-knowing, the doctors, watching my sister cry and shake in her hospital bed, moaning in pain and wondering why in hell she can't have a normal life. Why she can't be healthy. Why no one can "fix" her.

And you know what? I feel absolutely sick with guilt that I am here at my house, showered and sitting in front of my laptop getting to tell you all about my day when she's still there, still in pain, with no better answers than she had yesterday.

GASp!

Not to get all political on your ass, but seriously, if the government is soooo worried about a recession, about the economy, about housing, about inflation, etc... then why aren't they regulating gas prices?

Little ol' me might not have a degree in economics or a history of working in a government agency, but it seems to me that gas is the one thing we all have in common, the one thing that affects us ALL - both as people and as companies.

Wouldn't lowering gas prices leave people like you and me more money to spend on other things? Which, in my mind, would do a lot more to stimulate the economy than a one time check. (That, ironically enough, is being used by many to afford groceries and other necessities because of the higher fuel costs.)

Just venting.

Um, yeah

Grrrreaaat!

Lockdown

When my 5 year old son came home for HCLJPLP today and I asked him what happened at school, he shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "Ate snack. Had a drill. Did mail."

In an attempt to engage in conversation with him, while he was trying to see through me to get a glimpse of the TV, I pressed him for more details. "So, you had a fire drill, huh? That's good..."

Not even looking at me, still hard pressed to see what cartoon might be on, he replied distractedly, "No. It wasn't a fire drill."

I kinda gave up. He didn't want to talk to me and I had to get lunch going anyway. I let him watch his show while I got lunch together, but when it was time to eat and we were together at the table, I tried again.

"So... fire drill? Is that why you didn't have singing time today?"

"No mom, it wasn't a fire drill, I told you," he retorts like I had been the one who wasn't listening. Then he continued, mouth full - of course - saying, "They locked the door to the classrooms and covered the window in case a madman who shouldn't be there was trying to get in and get us. They said police would be all around the building and would tell us on the radio when it was safe to open our doors. Then my teacher would go check. THAT'S the drill we had. Not a fire drill!"

WTF.

I had to ask, "What's a madman?" thinking hoping perhaps he mistook "friendly clown" for "madman." Instead, he quickly explains, "You know, a  m-a-d-m-a-n. A really bad guy. Somebody who steals cable."

Oh no he didn't. Steals cable? WHAT?

My mouth just sorta fell open and stayed open as I had no idea what to say. The stealing cable thing? Funny. The fact that the pre-school just freaked out my 5 year old? Frustrating.

Then I got pissed. At no point did the PRE-SCHOOL, mind you, inform me that they would be practicing for such a drill. And um, while I'm certainly glad there is a plan in place, I can't believe the school was leaving it to 5 year olds to inform their parents of such an event. I mean, it's a lot to process for someone who can't tie his shoes. Perhaps even a bit scary for most of the kids. And all I can imagine are all these young, impressionable kids with vivid imaginations and slightly slurred speech running home to explain to mom and dad some skewed version of what happened at school today.

So you know what I did? I was THAT parent. Oh yeah, don't mess with me, I called the director, pronto.

ME: "Director Lady, hi, um, did you happen to send home a notice about the drill you guys had today? 'Cause I didn't get one."

DIRECTOR: "No. We're not doing the drill until tomorrow."

ME: "So there was no drill today?"

DIRECTOR: "No. But there will be one tomorrow."

ME: "That's weird, because (E-man) came home and told me about the drill you had, about locking the doors and covering the window and the madman and the police..."

DIRECTOR: "Oh, well... We had a mock drill today, I guess you could say. So that kids would understand what was happening tomorrow. In case there is ever an intruder. Not a madman."

[I'm confused. A "mock drill?" Isn't that a little redundant? And does a 5 year old understand what an "intruder" is? And how did he then come up with "madman?" Insert silent middle finger angled toward telephone here.]

ME: "Did you send anything home about it?"

DIRECTOR: "To be honest, I didn't think about it. I guess I could send something home tomorrow after we do the drill."

ME: "I'm sorry, but this concerns me. I mean, I am all for you guys having a plan in place, but when you leave it to a 5 year old to explain the drill to their parents, you're asking for a lot of unhappy moms and dads. This is quite a bit to process for someone so young and I think that the parents deserve to know about such an event BEFORE it happens."

DIRECTOR: "Yeah, you're probably right. I'll get something ready to send home tomorrow after we do the drill. By the way, don't be late tomorrow because anyone who shows up late will not be allowed in the school as all the doors will be locked."

BY THE WAY, laaaady, MY SON WILL NOT BE RETURNING NEXT YEAR. Put that in your bible and smoke it.

OK, here's the deal. I realize this is a "sign of the times" and unfortunately, having a "lockdown" plan is not just inevitable, but smart. I get that. What I don't get is how the parents are somehow not a part of this plan. God forbid my son is at school and there is some need for a lockdown, then I want to know HOW THE EFF DO I GET MY KID? What communication plan is in place?

More importantly, I want to know how the hell I'm supposed to explain this scenario to a very anxious little boy who is (easily) prone to nightmares.

And to be honest, I'm quite pissed (if you couldn't tell) by the director's nonchalant attitude with me. Does she have kids? No. So... Perhaps this is why she doesn't understand a parent's need-to-know. But this, THIS, A PARENT NEEDS TO KNOW.

So what do I do? Do I keep him home from school to avoid the trauma that, while being "pretend," is still very scary in his mind? Or do I send him, because what if? what if? I would want him to know what to do, right?

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Whoever let me have kids, did not disclose that shit like this is part of being a parent. And frankly, "I DON'T WANNA" is all that comes to mind when having to face decisions like these. I'm not qualified to handle this kind of crap. I tend to over-think it all (who me? no!) and not because I want to worry about it, but because I just want to do the right thing for my kid. And goddamnit, WHAT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO FOR MY KID?

At the same time, I'm also feeling like... SHIT. This is what life has come to? Lockdown plans for gunmen on a pre-school campus? EFFING FANTASTIC. It almost makes me feel somewhat irresponsible for bringing kids into a world that's... just so goddamn cruel, ya know?

I mean, why can't we go back to a time when stealing cable was the worst thing a person could do?

And I thought my day was bad.

All I have to say is, damn!

Things that make you go "Ugh."

Please, someone tell me how a Bic pen makes its way into the laundry load with my BRAND NEW white sheets.

At least, they used to be white.

Ugh.  

Fly Fishing and Death

Mr. Life Insurance paid us a visit Saturday, an appointment we had put off far too long; an appointment one never enjoys but is always glad they did it. I know I'm happy that we finally got a decent policy, not because of the sense of security it provides, but because it was one of my New Year's Resolutions and I don't know if I've ever actually crossed something off of that list before. Oh, and of course, for the security it provides.

Before Mr. Life Insurance arrived at our house, I bound the kids to the couch with some old rope I'd found in the garage and promised them surprises and long lives filled with happiness and bliss if they behaved while he was here. This is a perfect example of when a parent should rely on the TV, which can be an excellent and inexpensive babysitter.

When Mr. Life Insurance showed up, I gave my kids the look glare and showed him to the kitchen where we tried to make awkward small talk awaiting his archaic laptop to boot up. "Company-issued," he told us ashamedly. Still waiting for it to load, I replied with, "So, when we die..."

Well. Give me a break. I was just trying to get straight to the point. No sense in sugar-coating it or trying to be cheesy and all beat-around-the-bush about it. Besides, it's not my style to make small-talk. What exactly is small talk? How does one talk small?

Finally, two hours later, Mr. Life Insurance started in on the questions. The questions that would determine whether we were insurable. The questions that would basically tell us if we were high risk or if our lives are so dull and boring they would pay us to be insured with them. Mr. Life Insurance started with my husband, the Candy Ass:

Mr. Life Insurance: "Do you smoke?"

Candy Ass: "No."

Mr. Life Insurance: "Family history of heart disease?"

Candy Ass: "No."

Mr. Life Insurance: "You're not the pilot of an aircraft, right?"

Candy Ass: "No."

Mr. Life Insurance: "No extreme sports?"

Candy Ass: "No."

Just to survive the appointment, I had to interject some humor: "Um, honey, what about that CRAZY fly fishing you do??"

OK, maybe I'm not all that funny. But come on! that was kinda funny right? All I was getting was a blank stare of disbelief from Mr. Life Insurance. I was beginning to think Mr. Life Insurance didn't 'get me'. I mean, who doesn't get me?? That's when Mr. Life Insurance turns his glance from me to Candy Ass and says, "You fly fish? Awesome. So do I!"

[Sigh.]

Can I get a break here, folks?

My eyes immediately glaze over as the conversation goes from estate planning and imminent death to where to find the biggest golden trout, where most of the steelheads are and about the 13 pounder that got away. I damn near fall out my chair when they go on about using flies and nymphs and talk turns to float tubes and backpacking. They talk strategy, rods, reels and location, location, location - this lake and that lake, Hot Creek and Some Other Creek and all I know is that the next time Mr. Life Insurance even sends a glance my way, with a single look, I let him know he's up Shit Creek with me. I could tell him with words but he'd probably reply with a story about having already fished there and how it's rumored that the salmon are yey-big.

BFD in my world, buddy. And I'm the one who solicited your services, buddy. I'd rather talk about when I'm gonna die, buddy.

After Candy Ass and Mr. Life Insurance have discussed every possible fishing hole and puddle within the California/Nevada area, we return to the subject of life insurance and I'm feelin' a little like up-ing the policy on my dear husband who is feverishly taking notes not on rates and policies but on hiking trails and lakes.

When we FINALLY finish up the business at hand, Mr. Life Insurance shakes our hands and says he will follow up with us on Monday to be sure and bring by our... MAPS. "Oh," he adds, "and I might as well bring by your applications and paperwork too."

Good idea. Buddy.

But before he leaves, I have to double-check: "So, Mr. Life Insurance, just to be clear, if something were to happen to husband, oh say, today, we're already covered, correct?"

Mr. Life Insurance just stares at me for a few seconds, gives Candy Ass a quick "Is she serious?" glance and says, "Uh, yeah..."

"Just checking."

Mr. Life Insurance sooo didn't get me.

OK, so I knew I was making the guy a little nervous. Maybe I was even making Candy Ass a little nervous. (I see nothing wrong with that.) But you would have done the same thing had you been forced to talk about brown trout and fly lines and death concurrently. In fact, in my mind, it was all related anyhow. For me, it was like a slow death. I think I just may have died from boredom only moments after purchasing the policy for myself. I'd come back from the dead to tell my husband to collect on the policy, but I'm afraid the money would go toward a new Winston Fly Rod or an Abel Reel --- something fly fishing. And that would just be too ironic. Even for me.