And so begins the telling of tellings. I shouldn't kid myself that this ordeal was anything more than an ordeal, but I am melodramatic, and infused with an over-inflated sense of self, and so it begins.
I have some irrational fears, yes. I am afraid of car washes with long, ropy brushes. I am scared that people might be able to hear when I pee, and that this will repulse them into never speaking to me. I am TERRIFIED that the dead will come back to life and try to devour me. Up until recently, I fancied my fear of contagious and infectious disease to be one of the irrational fears.
Nope.
There is a name for my pain (and subsequent, albeit temporary disfigurement). It is MRSA. For the unfamiliar (ie, people who DON'T sit in their basements muttering about paranoid conspiracy theories), MRSA stands for "methicillin resistant staphylococcus aureus". It is one of the of the "superbugs" that have adapted faster than we have. It now thumbs its nose at most regular antibiotics...
...but this is not the problem, per se.
On Friday, I was looking forward to a nice, relaxing week off, as I had been struggling through three (!!!!) weeks of bronchitis. Ugh. I noticed a raw spot under my nose from too many tissues. Embarrassing, no doubt, but certainly not dangerous. On Saturday, it looked a little inflamed, so I gave it the ol' peroxide clean-neosporin-treatment. Metaphorically clapping my hands together and congratulating myself on a job well done, I decided to take a nap to fight off the residual aches. Oh...oh dear. I woke up on Sunday morning with what looked like a vienna sausage stuck to my face. Nope. it was my upper lip, swollen and inflamed. When I phoned my local ER (doctor's offices are not open on Sunday, silly!), I described it as "Angelina Jolie gone wild", when it actually looked more like "abused Mississippi housewife" (the ER doc did not think it was funny. Boo.) She transferred me to a Kaiser doctor (Kaiser Permanente, not a German ruler) who, I'm certain, was talking to me on a car phone...unless people were honking horns in the ER. This doctor listened for about ten seconds to me DESCRIBING the symptoms (because, after all, if she doesn't physically SEE me, what else is there to go on? Perhaps I should have told her I had sprouted a second head out of my neck.)
Inhale.
Exhale.
"Ummm...it sounds to me like you have a garden variety impetigo. Don't worry. Little kids get this all the time because they can't keep their hands clean while they have the flu, then they can't keep their hands out of their noses. They transfer germs in and out all the time. Let me call in a scrip for an antibiotic at the pharm. If it gets worse, come to the hospital." First of all, clipping your words into smaller syllables does not make you sound cool, and it definitely does nothing for fostering credibility. Secondly, DID YOU REALLY JUST ACCUSE ME OF MAKING MYSELF SICK BY PICKING MY NOSE?!?!?!?!
(ahem)
I took the antibiotics she ordered, which did nothing more than make me vomit in technicolor. After a four hour nap (can you call them naps when they're that long? I digress), I awoke with the foolish optimism of one who believes in the power of healthcare. At this point, I had gone from "abusive relationship" face to "elephant man" face. My lip, cheek, and eye had swollen, the latter being so swollen that I could not see out of my right eye. Alarm bells started to ring. I drove myself to the ER, and promptly burst into tears in front of the first person who was nice to me. The doc put his hands on his knees and bent down to look very kindly in my face. In a gentle voice, he said, "that looks like it might be MRSA. Does it hurt?" Following a snuffle-snuffle-snuffle, I squeaked out, "Yes", and began to cry. He didn't dismiss me as being a hypochondriac. He didn't try to minimize the obvious pain raging through my face. He also didn't gasp in a mix of horror and revulsion. The combination of these three things reassured me that, while I wasn't making something out of nothing, I also wasn't about to die. It was comforting, to say the least. He gave me a prescription (not a "scrip") for Hydrocodone and one for a MRSA-strength antibiotic, and then told me go to my own doctor in the morning (Kaiser does not allow out of network doctors to treat their patients...perhaps they ARE German). At the hospital the next day, the Physician's Assistant (and what the hell is THAT, anyway?!?!?!) told me it looked like a skin infection (duh), did NOT culture it for MRSA, told me to go home, and told me to come back if it gets worse.
I
FLIPPED
OUT.
I told him what the ER doc said, that the original Kaiser doc didn't even LOOK at it, and that somewhere, a very nasty lawsuit was brewing and just how bad does it have to get before someone will actually TREAT me?!?!
He took a culture.
To make a long story only slightly less long, it was NOT impetigo.
It was MRSA.
I was right. FOUR antibiotics and TWO minor surgeries later, my face is healing but looks like the final ten minutes of Rocky IV. Ugh.
...but at least I'm not a hypochondriac.
Today's word of the day is sulfamethoxazole.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
I'm armed with the past and the will and a brick...
The word of the day (usually posted at the END of the post. I don't want to bore everyone with edu-ma-cational bilge and all) is peripeteia--an unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation, especially in a literary work. The mythological influence of a former student (yes, YOU, sir Perseus) notwithstanding, I am tempted to call it Serendipity at work. Last night, I railed and ranted and shook my teeny, ineffectual fists at the sky (and I do mean teeny. Seriously...you'd think I was a carny). I've been sick for about three weeks. You know how I get at least one HUGE sick "episode" a year, and it's usually because my relationship with my body takes on a "casual strangers" type of feel--I don't sleep enough, I don't eat well, etc.-- and it turns into a scene from Fatal Attraction..."I will not be IGNORED, Patricia!!" whilst anxiously clutching a kitchen knife. Sometimes, the only way it can get my attention is by shutting down.
uh oh...digression.
*ahem* (the cough is NOT fake. I am suppressing what can only be described as "mentholated tubercular hacking")
So anyhow...I suffered through ANOTHER day of zombified faces carrying the rigor mortis of stupefied boredom (we're winding down our last few weeks before NO CHILD GETS LEFT BEHIND <snicker snicker>, and the lessons seem to be all test prep) ANOTHER argument with an only partially interested participant about why I "shouldn't, y'know, like, complain, and should be, like, grateful to have a job-n-stuff" (I AM, and if he had been in my class, I would force him to speak more articulately...y'know?), and was walking out the door. In my mailbox, a delicate slip of paper, the most genTEEL shade of pink. GASP! Could it be? Rapture! I had NOT been forgotten on Valentine's Day!
Wrong.
It wasn't for me. It was for the guy whose mailbox is next to mine, though I can see how the mistake had been made. It read, "Mr B_______, You are the BEST English teacher, and I am SO glad I got you and not Ms. B____!!" Evidently, Cupid saw my name on the paper and assumed it had been written TO me and not ABOUT me.
Sigh.
I did ol' Cupid a solid and dropped the paper in the right mailbox, now with a Charlie Brown-Eeyore-esque raincloud following me out the door. On the way, I ran into our Union rep (I know, I know, Unions/thugs/goons/etc. Mea Culpa). To make a long story short, budget crises (plural) dictate that, for the fifth straight year in a row, my salary is going to be cut again. So I packed up myself, my diphtheria, my shattered ego, my abject poverty, my eight ba-ZILLION ungraded papers, and my coffee cup and drove home to sulk, convalesce, fester, fume, and grade.
After congested sleep plagued by chest rattles and interrupted by recurring dreams of suffocation each time my nasal spray wore off, I was, suffice it to say, tepid about going in to work today. I had a lesson planned about Elizabethan sonnets and how to write 'em. Good times. At the end of my fourth period class, a shy but BRILL--EEE-YANT girl approached and handed me a slip of paper...
of the same
genteel
pink.
Understandably, I turned it over with as much enthusiasm as if it were a court summons. On it she had written, "because you deserve it". It was a simple gesture and a brief message but, to borrow a line, "it turned the etch-a-sketch of my day upside down and shook it, and suddenly made everything else worth it".
...she may never know the impact of that one clause...and a SUBORDINATE clause at that. See today's word of the day at the top.
uh oh...digression.
*ahem* (the cough is NOT fake. I am suppressing what can only be described as "mentholated tubercular hacking")
So anyhow...I suffered through ANOTHER day of zombified faces carrying the rigor mortis of stupefied boredom (we're winding down our last few weeks before NO CHILD GETS LEFT BEHIND <snicker snicker>, and the lessons seem to be all test prep) ANOTHER argument with an only partially interested participant about why I "shouldn't, y'know, like, complain, and should be, like, grateful to have a job-n-stuff" (I AM, and if he had been in my class, I would force him to speak more articulately...y'know?), and was walking out the door. In my mailbox, a delicate slip of paper, the most genTEEL shade of pink. GASP! Could it be? Rapture! I had NOT been forgotten on Valentine's Day!
Wrong.
It wasn't for me. It was for the guy whose mailbox is next to mine, though I can see how the mistake had been made. It read, "Mr B_______, You are the BEST English teacher, and I am SO glad I got you and not Ms. B____!!" Evidently, Cupid saw my name on the paper and assumed it had been written TO me and not ABOUT me.
Sigh.
I did ol' Cupid a solid and dropped the paper in the right mailbox, now with a Charlie Brown-Eeyore-esque raincloud following me out the door. On the way, I ran into our Union rep (I know, I know, Unions/thugs/goons/etc. Mea Culpa). To make a long story short, budget crises (plural) dictate that, for the fifth straight year in a row, my salary is going to be cut again. So I packed up myself, my diphtheria, my shattered ego, my abject poverty, my eight ba-ZILLION ungraded papers, and my coffee cup and drove home to sulk, convalesce, fester, fume, and grade.
After congested sleep plagued by chest rattles and interrupted by recurring dreams of suffocation each time my nasal spray wore off, I was, suffice it to say, tepid about going in to work today. I had a lesson planned about Elizabethan sonnets and how to write 'em. Good times. At the end of my fourth period class, a shy but BRILL--EEE-YANT girl approached and handed me a slip of paper...
of the same
genteel
pink.
Understandably, I turned it over with as much enthusiasm as if it were a court summons. On it she had written, "because you deserve it". It was a simple gesture and a brief message but, to borrow a line, "it turned the etch-a-sketch of my day upside down and shook it, and suddenly made everything else worth it".
...she may never know the impact of that one clause...and a SUBORDINATE clause at that. See today's word of the day at the top.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
farewell, the ashtray girl--angelic fruitcake...
Seriously?!?!
After months of somnambulant bliss (don't worry; I never walk far), I can't beLIEVE that it is eye-creakingly late--4:17 a.m. I can't beLIEVE sleep has abandoned me AGAIN. I can't beLIEVE that the irritating birds will soon be up and mocking me with their unapologetic chirping. I swear, the "cheep-cheep-cheep" sounds to me like, "You can't sleep!" I'm either going to have to find a cure for the insomnia monster or else practice my aim when throwing things out the window. And, of course, the squawking of the birds will then be replaced by the squawking of my downstairs neighbor as she screeches at her zombified son with intermittent tobaccular hacks (a combination of tobacco and tubercular...see what I did there? aren't I terribly clever?) peppered in for style.
Seriously.
All these things serve to remind me that I get older by the minute. I can no more force myself to sleep than I can force myself to stop aging. A younger me used to relish this insomnia--there is always so much to DO. I doodled, I painted, I read, I wrote, I even sang (quietly, timidly and wretchedly, of course). The older I get, the more difficult it is to overcome the inertia that plagues me at night. It's kind of a cruel thing, actually. Now, I have just enough energy to make it impossible to shut my brain up, but all the musical, visual, and verbal outlets into which I used to dump its contents require more energy than I have "at my age".
Seriously.
Now, don't get me wrong, I am certainly not kvetching about BEING my age. I have loved the voyage so far and am quite comfortable with the amount of reminiscing and nostalgia I have packed in my mental holsters; however, I am also comfortable with the amount of eagerness and excitement I still have towards what hasn't happened yet. I am equal parts, "wasn't that great when...?" and "won't it BE great when...?" Add a pinch of actual circumstances and stir.
Seriously.
I had a great opportunity tonight to visit with a recently former student of mine. He is almost entirely,"won't it BE great when...? and no, "wasn't it great when...? I enjoyed listening to him talk about all of his "used to"s without a hint of sad nostalgia. While he was my student, we traded words like baseball cards (still do). I gave him books about writing poetry; he taught me some fundamentals of geometry. I honestly think he benefitted me more than I did him (in his infinite grace, he would probably disagree...if only to be nice.) It's nice to know that, despite the fact that pedagogy often creates a narcissistic feeling of knowing everything, I still enjoy to learn things, and especially love learning things from people I have taught. The feeling of reciprocity is nice.
Seriously.
Best of all, he talked about things he has been writing lately. Best of all, he still writes poetry and infuses it with an appreciation of science and maths uncharacteristic of a poet. Best of all, the...energy in his description made me miss writing enough that I overcame my inertia enough to reach to seventeen inches from couch to computer, uncorked my right ear (you all know why), and dump the ingredients of my mental stew onto the keys.
Seriously.
My brain is now purged. My computer is satiated. My cat is dream-twitching in my lap. The birds are not yet awake. I'm...I'm...sleepy!!! (Don't mistake the exclamation points for energy, though) me--1 insomnia/birds/basement harpy--nil.
...Seriously.
After months of somnambulant bliss (don't worry; I never walk far), I can't beLIEVE that it is eye-creakingly late--4:17 a.m. I can't beLIEVE sleep has abandoned me AGAIN. I can't beLIEVE that the irritating birds will soon be up and mocking me with their unapologetic chirping. I swear, the "cheep-cheep-cheep" sounds to me like, "You can't sleep!" I'm either going to have to find a cure for the insomnia monster or else practice my aim when throwing things out the window. And, of course, the squawking of the birds will then be replaced by the squawking of my downstairs neighbor as she screeches at her zombified son with intermittent tobaccular hacks (a combination of tobacco and tubercular...see what I did there? aren't I terribly clever?) peppered in for style.
Seriously.
All these things serve to remind me that I get older by the minute. I can no more force myself to sleep than I can force myself to stop aging. A younger me used to relish this insomnia--there is always so much to DO. I doodled, I painted, I read, I wrote, I even sang (quietly, timidly and wretchedly, of course). The older I get, the more difficult it is to overcome the inertia that plagues me at night. It's kind of a cruel thing, actually. Now, I have just enough energy to make it impossible to shut my brain up, but all the musical, visual, and verbal outlets into which I used to dump its contents require more energy than I have "at my age".
Seriously.
Now, don't get me wrong, I am certainly not kvetching about BEING my age. I have loved the voyage so far and am quite comfortable with the amount of reminiscing and nostalgia I have packed in my mental holsters; however, I am also comfortable with the amount of eagerness and excitement I still have towards what hasn't happened yet. I am equal parts, "wasn't that great when...?" and "won't it BE great when...?" Add a pinch of actual circumstances and stir.
Seriously.
I had a great opportunity tonight to visit with a recently former student of mine. He is almost entirely,"won't it BE great when...? and no, "wasn't it great when...? I enjoyed listening to him talk about all of his "used to"s without a hint of sad nostalgia. While he was my student, we traded words like baseball cards (still do). I gave him books about writing poetry; he taught me some fundamentals of geometry. I honestly think he benefitted me more than I did him (in his infinite grace, he would probably disagree...if only to be nice.) It's nice to know that, despite the fact that pedagogy often creates a narcissistic feeling of knowing everything, I still enjoy to learn things, and especially love learning things from people I have taught. The feeling of reciprocity is nice.
Seriously.
Best of all, he talked about things he has been writing lately. Best of all, he still writes poetry and infuses it with an appreciation of science and maths uncharacteristic of a poet. Best of all, the...energy in his description made me miss writing enough that I overcame my inertia enough to reach to seventeen inches from couch to computer, uncorked my right ear (you all know why), and dump the ingredients of my mental stew onto the keys.
Seriously.
My brain is now purged. My computer is satiated. My cat is dream-twitching in my lap. The birds are not yet awake. I'm...I'm...sleepy!!! (Don't mistake the exclamation points for energy, though) me--1 insomnia/birds/basement harpy--nil.
...Seriously.
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