Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Poison Ivy


"One man's poison ivy is another man's spinach."  
 
This is the sort of quote you land upon when you Google "quotes about poison ivy."
 
I spent the other day tending my roses – which are looking lovely, by the way – and sitting in the cool shade with my hands in the dirt.  The kids buzzed around me, the chickens begged for worms and cats lazed all around.  Kids came and distracted me from work, begging for snacks and for help resolving all manner of petty arguments.  Time passed, I took a break for lunch, came back to it and finally finished the job.  I was so proud and it did/does look great!  I went inside, tired and happy and jumped into the shower.  Apparently it was already too late.

The next morning I was surprised to see just a little poison ivy on my leg.  Of course I had expected this but just a little, mind you.  I knew there was poison ivy around but I thought I was being careful. I was wearing gloves and being careful not to touch anything with the gloves on.  No scratching the face or running your fingers through your hair (learned the first one the hard way).  Still, I won’t deny that I knew I was near it.

Tuesday brought a few more patches and along with that, the incredible urge to scratch my skin right off my body.  I was going CRAZY with the itching.  Completely uncontrollable, couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.  Benedryl was my new BFF.  Still, nodding off all day long just to keep from scratching wasn’t feasible.  So I dropped my buddy “B” and headed off to begin my day.  Oh my WOW did I want to scratch.  Everyone that saw me told me to “knock it off”.  I vowed that I would but I secretly scratched anyway.  Don’t even think about judging me.  As if you haven’t done something equally sneaky. Please.

Tuesday night I went to bed with the “one two punch” of my favorite bedtime buddy - a couple of Benadryls.  Woke up Wednesday and I was more than a little taken aback at the lastest happening with my leg.  Huh.  That’s kind of a LOT of poison ivy on there, isn’t it? And that one section there looks a little strange. I’ll keep an eye open.

Thursday morning I was becoming concerned.  The leg was feeling pretty painful and throbbing.  The skin on my calf had become quite hardened and shiny.  I asked a co-worker (who also happens to be a nurse) what she thought about it. 

“Cellulitis,” she said.  “Let me draw a circle around it with a Sharpie marker so they can see how big it is.  You need to go see the doctor. Today.”

“OK,” I said and called my Doctor.

They couldn’t get me in until the next day.  But they might have an appointment open today, this afternoon.  “How quickly can you be here?”

Sigh. I was right in the middle of my lab reports, kind of had my groove and was knocking them out.  Didn’t really want to put off today what I could do tomorrow.  In hindsight, silly.

My other co-worker, also an RN, continued to suggest that I take the earlier appointment. Geesh, it’s what you get when you work with nurses.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Anyway, I went to the afternoon appointment.  The MD didn’t seem very concerned, “maybe just some cellulitis”, she said.  “I’m going to put you on Bactrim.  Take these as directed and that should take care of it.”

Friday was insane and I can’t even remember a single thing I did.  Dementia setting in?  That you can judge.

Saturday. Running around, doing chores, chasing kids, folding laundry, paying bills, acting like a maniac.  Lesia stopped over to hang out for a bit.  She saw my leg, or more likely, I asked her to look at it and it stopped her dead in her tracks.  I’ll admit it was kind of gross.  (Which did not in the least stop me from taking pictures of it.  I also have pictures of my shingles incident and my eyelash grow kit which, by the way, didn't work.

Now here’s where we weave the web, so to speak.  I agreed that it was time to contact my doctor’s office again.  I knew they were closing in like 15 minutes and I could never get there so I just asked for advice on what to do.  Turns out they have an after hours clinic.  I was going to be open until 5:00 and I should try to get there.  So I did.  The MD I saw was very nice.  He really took the time to listen to my story and try to figure out the next steps.  But you could tell he was more than a little nervous.  Dead gal walking here?

“I’m a little concerned about this,“ he said with a alight Indian accent.  “It looks like it’s starting to involve your knee (which had just started to hurt a little while ago) and that could mean that it has gone septic.  We could take a chance and give you an antibiotic shot to try and cover it but I would really suggest that you go to the Emergency Department.”  Sidebar: My sisters go crazy when I refer to the Emergency Department at the UM Hospital as the ED.  “It’s the ER,” they shout in unison, with a special emphasis on the R.  “Not in the UM world, it’s not.  It’s the ED, Emergency DEPARTMENT. Look it up.  Just because someone makes a TV SHOW called ER doesn’t mean it’s real.” This might suggest that I’m not the kind of person who should be so quickly put on steroids, hmmm?

So, with a little trepidation, I headed for the ED (It’s my blog afterall) to see what they had to say about the matter.  I showed them my leg at the front desk and they got me right in.  Must’ve been a slow night.  Nurse checked me in and said, “We’ve got a room ready for you right now.” This NEVER happens for me.  I’m the one who ends up going there on the same night as everyone else within a 50 mile radius.  I’ve waited HOURS in that lobby.  I’ve paid my dues.

And so it began.  I laid on the gurney and showed everyone my leg.  Anyone that walked through the door, I asked if they wanted to see it.  It was kind of weird, me doing that, but I just liked seeing the reactions.  Most were able to hold it together but a few of the opened with “Wow. Can I touch it?” I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting to hear but it wasn’t that.

After much looking and touching, they decided that they wanted to put me on an antibiotic protocol.  They were going to treat it like cellulitis, hit it hard with antibiotics and watch it fade.  So off I went to the step down unit in the ER (you happy?).  It was a little more private and a little more quiet.  They stuck me with an IV and placed a port.  Yikes. Gonna be a long night, I guess.  They hit me with the first bag of antibiotics.  It burned a little bit when it went in but it wasn’t unbearable, just uncomfortable.  Then they said they’d be back for the next dose and they were.  It went like that through the night.  I’d wake up to fine someone hooking me up to an IV and waiting for the burn.

By the following morning when the MD came to check on me, I wasn’t looking any better.  As he so sweetly put it, “You failed the protocol”.  Oh.

“It’s not too big a deal actually,” he said. “We’ll just move you to a  more comfortable space, kind of an observation area and we’ll give it another day.”  ANOTHER DAY? Oh this is not good.  I’ve never been kept longer than a day unless it was a scheduled thing.  Never.  I actually PROMISED Zoe that I would be home the next day.  Way. To. Go.

So they wheeled me over to the other section, which was definitely nicer and got me all situated.  They started another bag of antibiotics and I asked again about some Benedryl.  I swear I don’t have a problem I was just ITCHING like mad!  She came back with a vial instead of a pill.  “What’s this?” I asked.

“Oh, the MD wanted to get it to you more quickly and this allows us to do that.  It’s the same medication just a different route.” Ok. Sounds good.

Wowza.  She slipped that needle in there and I was transported.  Away from my itchy twitchy body and off to someplace beautiful.  And then I fell fast asleep – narcolepsy style.

From there the “every six hour” dance began.  Vital signs every 4 hours, medication every 6 hours.  But they were so kind about it.  The nurses, the techs, the doctors and everyone were so kind to me.  

Then they decided to hit me with steroids as well so we added that to the mix.  Being in the hospital is never quite as restful as you hope it will be.  At all. Really thought I'd knock out some reading, catch up on my Facebook stuff and rest.  Not so much.

The combination of the steroids and the massive amounts of antibiotics in my system seemed to be just the ticket. The leg started to look better! To me anyway. Everyone else still deemed it fairly disgusting, but whatever.

I was ready to go home! Yay!! I went to reach into my bag for my clothes and realized that I had SENT MY PANTS HOME WITH MY MOM. That just seems to be how things roll for me sometimes. 

Anyway, I'm back home again and nursing my leg back to health. The steroids have me completely whacked out and Joe is sleeping with one eye open. 

Also, I went on a semi-maniacal poison ivy kill mission with the Round-Up today.  Imagine me maliciously aiming the sprayer at the poison ivy that got me and making all kinds of crazy statements about "you'll never get me again" and "straight to hell with you". That sort of thing. It felt pretty good. I may do it again tomorrow.




Thursday, May 17, 2012

Just Say No


Earlier I was talking with my friend, let’s call her Amy.  She lives just up the road from me. Awesome gal – really doing things right and teaching her children how to live.  She brings joy to everyone she meets – I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  She surrounds herself with beautiful things – antiques, flowers, animals and children and you can’t help but be uplifted when you spend any amount of time with her.  But enough of the mush…

She and her family farm as well.  Big time.  I’m talking hundreds of acres big time.  And it’s been a tradition in her bones for many lifetimes before, I’m sure.  She’s one of those people that are born to farm.  She naturally takes to coaxing things out of the earth and making them useful.  She makes her own soap, her own candles, her own teas and tinctures.  You can understand why I feel slightly less than my best around her.

I’m the gal that stands in the garden asking everyone the following questions:

“Are you feeling hot or is it just me?”

“What time to you think we should head in?” (After five minutes of being outside…)

“HOLY CRAP!! Did you see the size of that bee?? ”

“What level SPF do you think is best under a sun as hot as this one…?”

“It’s just so dirty out here.”

 “Seriously.  Are you hot because I am BURNING UP?”

I just don’t get farming you know? I mean I get it in theory, but I tend to fall apart when it comes to the actual “doing it” part. I actually really enjoy growing flowers and herbs but not the rest of the stuff. Not the really tough stuff. It truly makes me feel like a bad person to not enjoy farming.  Shouldn’t I have feelings of elation digging in the dirt? Shouldn’t I rejoice when I get the chance to dig in fresh compost? Yeah? No.  It’s not for me. 

Which stinks because, well, it’s what Joe wants to do.  So I do my best to cheer (and sometimes jeer) from the sidelines.  I try to take him the mandatory lemonade and sandwich in the middle of the day (though I regularly forget or just go get it from Subway).  I try to help when I can, if I happen to be the only one standing there.  I mean really, the only person for miles around.

I guess I’ve always been more of a bookworm.  Totally content to snuggle up with a good book and a cup of tea.  A contemplative person really, not so much into all that “hard work” business I suppose.  I far prefer the winter months when you are FORCED to be inside.  You must stay in due to the weather and that’s precisely what I want to do.  Fill up the woodstove, pick a good book, heat up some tea and relax.

ANYWAY, back to my conversation with Amy…

I mentioned to her that we needed some hay for our goats.  She leaned in, just a little, and said, “We’ve got some really good stuff right now.”

Really good,” I ask?

Really good,” she assures me.

We’re inching closer together just a bit when she looks to the side and then back to me and says in a hush, “He won’t even tell me which barn it’s in.”

My eyes grow wide and I look around then whisper back, “I have to call him.”

Then my eyes fill with concern.  “What about your goats? Do they need some?”

She looks down, “He says they’ve been spoiled and they can’t have anymore.”

“Listen,” I say, “Let me help you out.”

“How?” she asks, looking at me with her eyes wide.

I begin to weave my plan. “I’ll tell him I need a certain amount – like 20 when I really only need 15.  I’ll put the extra aside for you to come and get whenever you’re ready.  I’m all in if this is a “dark of night” mission – dressed in black, crawling through the mud to make the delivery.  Whatever it is.  I’m in.  Unless, I guess, it’s really late.  I kind of start to lose steam around 9:00ish so anytime before that would be great.  Really all in!!”

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Sex is like a hot fundge sundae

Well it's happened again. I was caught unaware and unprepared and went ahead with it all anyway. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut and hope it all turns out.

Now that my son is in 6th grade, he is learning about reproductive health.  The teaching is a little more advanced than I remember.  He comes home every night with a sheet of paper that has some questions on it and he is supposed to talk to a parent or trusted adult about these questions. Of course I didn't notice my dear husband stepping to the front of the line to answer any questions so I took it upon myself to be the one to handle it.

The first night the questions were pretty benign:  “What did you like to do when you were my age?” “Do you remember your body going through changes in puberty?”  No trouble at all.

The questions last night got a LOT more detailed: “How did you learn about sex?”   “What are your beliefs about sex?” and “How old were you when you first had sex and why didn't you wait until you were married?”  (Ok, that last question wasn’t really on there but it sure sounded like it.) I started to sweat.

I tried to be direct in my answers and open and honest as well.  We talked about abstinence and that it is the only sure way to prevent an unexpected pregnancy.  I told him stories about kids I knew who had gotten pregnant way before they should have and how it ruined their lives. Most of them, to this day, I assured him emphatically, work in gas stations.  Not that there's anything wrong with working at a gas station, there isn't, it's just that these particular, albeit fictional kids had full ride scholarships to Ivy League schools prior to the pregnancies.

Then the wheels kind of came off the bus.  I'm not going to go into all of the gory details - you'll thank me later - because it's all too bizarre. Suffice it to say that I told him that he couldn't have sex until he was 18, that it was illegal to have sex without a condom and that sex is like a hot fudge sundae.

I also invoked the use of a visual aid in the course of this discussion - a condom - but thankfully decided against demonstrating the use on a banana. That decision is going to save me some BIG bucks later when he's in therapy.

His only comment upon opening and unrolling the condom was "Wow. That's kind of big." Which is precisely why you can't have sex until you're 18 because, prior to that,  the condom won't fit.

Folks, there's no training for this sort of thing, ok? I'm out here winging it and trying to do the best that I can. I felt a desperate need to give him all of the information I could because I was pretty sure he'd never want to talk about this again. I'll take every shot I have to make it clear to him what a big deal it all is.

Ok, back to the hot fudge sundae... He made the comment that all of his buddies were all jazzed up about sex. Thinking about it, talking about it, wondering when they're going to have it. So I said:

"Sex is like a hot fudge sundae. It looks so good, so yummy, so pretty! All that hot fudge and whipped cream. All you want to do is eat it!! Finally, you do and it's wonderful. But the next day, you have another hot fudge sundae and then another and then another. After awhile, they all start to taste the same and they aren't all that exciting. After an even longer time - say 20 years - you start wondering why you didn't order a strawberry sundae instead."  

Totally kidding about that last part - I didn't really say that. Still, I think I made my point in a strange, convoluted and bizarre way. I'm hopeful that our discussion will give him a healthy understanding of sex and what it means. I'm hoping that he'll feel safe talking to me about all of this in the future. But seriously, right now I just have a craving for a hot fudge sundae and not the metahorical kind. I really want a damn sundae. Why is the Dairy Queen not open 24 hours??

I've Got You