Sara is in surgery. Right now. She's not supposed to be, because she had surgery on Monday, and that took all day, but in the end it seemed to be worth it because everything looked really good and everyone was quite proud of themselves and Sara's recovery was chugging along smoothly. I was surprised yesterday by just how fine she seemed to be, and although she was in pain, I had prepared myself for so much more. She was supposed to be moving around today, possibly even standing up, and eating solid food. Instead, she's back in surgery.
It's not that there's too much to worry about, so I'm sorry to scare anyone who might be reading along in real time. The reason she's back in is that the tissue that they put in (living tissue, that they removed from her thigh) is not doing a very good job of getting blood. They checked it out last night and seemed to think that it was pretty good, but upon this morning's inspection it seems that they had a change of heart. So they're taking her back in, and they are going to attempt to rescue the surgical site. But if they can't, then they are going to remove it and move forward from there.
The unfortunate thing about that is that I imagine that this time around it's going to be much harder on her. Just the look of what it did to her morale this morning when they told her that they were going to have to do that was devastating. She is still a trooper though, and will be fine.
I had a lot of good stuff prepared about this whole experience. Stuff like sitting in the little consultation room waiting to speak to the doctor. That's the same room you see in the movies, the one where the doctor comes in and says "we did the best we can.".. That shit is scary. And it's got to suck being the doctor when there are already all of those movies out there covering what you're going to come out and say so that when you do have to come out and give some husband/wife/parents/kid the worst news that they are ever going to get it just seems cliche. That's the worst. I seriously hope that they have some super secret top secret (that's two classes above regular top secret) speech prepared that they say that is never covered in movies and does not come out sounding contrived and like the worst cliche ever at seriously one of the most important moments of the lives of the affected ones. Then again, maybe you don't care how stupid the doctor sounds when he's (or she's, I don't know why that came out so sexist.. .. yes I do, because I was imagining Sara's doctor) delivering that kind of news. I hope I never have to experience that.
I started that last paragraph the way that I did because I was going to finish it with "but I will tell you about that another time" .. and instead I told you about that. So yeah, there's other stuff.. Hospitals are filled with stories.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
pity
Cancer is a funny thing.
I keep getting the feeling that people are looking at us and assessing our situation and offering glimpses of pity. I wouldn't expect that, as I would expect that in the medical environment so many people are in similar situations that they are just used to it, that they treat it with a sort of clinical professionalism, something that doesn't leave room for pity. But then someone gives a look that says something like "that's a shit break guys, I'm sorry."
I swear I'm not making it up. Yesterday morning when we were getting prepped for Sara's first surgery and the team came to introduce themselves, there were two doctors who were around my age (correction, one of them was a medical student), and they both kind of gave me the creeps. They did not exude enough confidence and professionalism to assure me that they weren't going to be sitting in the operating room thinking "boobies." At least, not at first. But then the one guy, the actual doctor, he shot me this fleeting look as if to convey that he couldn't believe how rotten our luck was, and that he fully sympathized. And that if there was a subtext to the look it was that he was trying to assure me, telepathically, that he wasn't going to be thinking "boobies." Perhaps I read too much into things.
I keep getting the feeling that people are looking at us and assessing our situation and offering glimpses of pity. I wouldn't expect that, as I would expect that in the medical environment so many people are in similar situations that they are just used to it, that they treat it with a sort of clinical professionalism, something that doesn't leave room for pity. But then someone gives a look that says something like "that's a shit break guys, I'm sorry."
I swear I'm not making it up. Yesterday morning when we were getting prepped for Sara's first surgery and the team came to introduce themselves, there were two doctors who were around my age (correction, one of them was a medical student), and they both kind of gave me the creeps. They did not exude enough confidence and professionalism to assure me that they weren't going to be sitting in the operating room thinking "boobies." At least, not at first. But then the one guy, the actual doctor, he shot me this fleeting look as if to convey that he couldn't believe how rotten our luck was, and that he fully sympathized. And that if there was a subtext to the look it was that he was trying to assure me, telepathically, that he wasn't going to be thinking "boobies." Perhaps I read too much into things.
Friday, August 10, 2012
For Science.
Damn. My pageviews have really jumped since this morning. It looks like you all really want to know what it's like to sit in a little corner room of a medical building and jerk off into a plastic cup. Well,.. it's weird.
I got a late start and the roads were crap, so I barely made it to my appointment. I wanted to be more composed than I was when I got there, instead of running late. Also, I think in my head that the office girls working would be like the ones at virtually every other medical appointment I've ever had, meaning younger and usually attractive. This would make it easier for me to joke about what it was that I was about to go do. Instead, there were two women, one who reminded me of someone that would be friends with my mother, and then also her mother.
"Do you have the pink sheet we gave you?" this was the older of the two.
(Crap)
"It's okay if you don't."
(well, that's a relief)
They make me a new pink sheet and say "do you know where it is?" I do not know where it is.
They send me down a little hallway which is on the opposite side of the lobby as was our appointment here previously, when we met with the fertility doctor.
I get to the end of the hallway where there is a little window and a woman on the other side who for some reason reminds me more of a lunch lady than a medical professional who will soon be handling my specimen.
I hand her the sheet and tell her my name. It's a good thing that they didn't, in fact, check my identification, because I left it in my running shorts 100 miles away.
"Do you have a sample with you?"
(that was an option?!)
"No. I do not."
"Okay, follow me." I follow her.
She comes from behind the glass window and opens the door across the hall ( the door had a sign labeling it the "collection room" and one of those slides that either covers up the part that says "vacant" or "in use"). I kind of stop listening as I take it all in but she says something like, "twist the lid on the cup really tight when you're done." Later I wonder if she also said to put the cup into the biohazard bag, because I don't remember her saying that, but I figure that that's what the bag is for. She does not, however, even acknowledge the giant television or the drawers on the cabinet. Those are apparently for me to figure out what to do with on my own.
"Can I use the bathroom first?" I really had to pee for about the last hour of driving.
"Of course, it's right next door."
I go to the bathroom and she goes back to her fishbowl across the hall. I finish and wash my hands, even though I will quickly be soiling them again. Habits, you know? I open the door to the bathroom and there is another girl, I think who worked there but I didn't really want to stick around and make eye contact or anything, who either needed something from the first girl or who was pretending to need something from the first girl so that she could see what kind of guy was about to go into the spank tank (that's what I would call it if I worked there). I'm getting paranoid at this point.
I go into the room and close the door. I take a few pictures for my facebook fans. The cabinet underneath the television has a drawer marked "magazines." I almost don't want to open it because I'm afraid that the girl in the fishbowl can hear the drawer and knows exactly what is up and I would still like for there to be some kind of mystery. I can actually hear some chatter from outside in the hallway. This is unexpected. I don't know why, but in my head this room was soundproofed... or maybe sufficiently far enough away from anywhere else that I don't have to worry about things. Or maybe in my head the room was just.. . bigger.
I am curious about what happens if I turn on the television. I had expected a pile of DVDs and an accompanying player. There was none. I thought maybe this was just regular television, that I am meant to find the most attractive person on Maury or whatever daytime television nonsense that I could find, and have my fun. I found the volume on the remote before I pushed the power button. I wanted to turn it on while immediately turning it to silent. I hit the button.
Somewhere from behind the unit I heard the unmistakeable whirring of a disc. The movie began to load on it's own. Everyone was kind of fake and typical pornstarrish. This movie was not for me. For the record, the magazines were three penthouse and two playboy. One was one of those "college" editions, and one was the Lindsey Lohan edition. Although I handled them with curiosity, I did not need them.
Even though I had waited for several days for this very moment, I didn't want to start right away. I didn't want the girl outside to know exactly when I was doing what I needed to do. I also didn't want her to know how long it took. This seemed too intimate.
Eventually, it happened. I put the lid on, tight. I put the cup in the bag, and I washed up. I thought about going for a round two, just to ensure that there was enough. I decided that this was unnecessary, and that I didn't want to be here any longer, and I opened the door. The girl took the bag, and I left.
I stopped to see my mom's friend and her mother on my way out, to make sure that I was all set. This felt odd, as I don't think that they were expecting me, and they did not have quite the same pokerface attitude about it all that the girl from the lab had. They had the air of "but you just...." and "no.. you don't need to be talking to us, at all,.. you can just leave" while they explained that I was all set. Again, paranoid.
I should mention that on my way out I asked the girl in the lab, since I am going to have to do this all over again in a few weeks, what she meant when she asked if I had brought a sample. She explained that this was only an option if I lived less than an hour away. I wanted to explain that I drive really, really fast.
I got a late start and the roads were crap, so I barely made it to my appointment. I wanted to be more composed than I was when I got there, instead of running late. Also, I think in my head that the office girls working would be like the ones at virtually every other medical appointment I've ever had, meaning younger and usually attractive. This would make it easier for me to joke about what it was that I was about to go do. Instead, there were two women, one who reminded me of someone that would be friends with my mother, and then also her mother.
"Do you have the pink sheet we gave you?" this was the older of the two.
(Crap)
"It's okay if you don't."
(well, that's a relief)
They make me a new pink sheet and say "do you know where it is?" I do not know where it is.
They send me down a little hallway which is on the opposite side of the lobby as was our appointment here previously, when we met with the fertility doctor.
I get to the end of the hallway where there is a little window and a woman on the other side who for some reason reminds me more of a lunch lady than a medical professional who will soon be handling my specimen.
I hand her the sheet and tell her my name. It's a good thing that they didn't, in fact, check my identification, because I left it in my running shorts 100 miles away.
"Do you have a sample with you?"
(that was an option?!)
"No. I do not."
"Okay, follow me." I follow her.
She comes from behind the glass window and opens the door across the hall ( the door had a sign labeling it the "collection room" and one of those slides that either covers up the part that says "vacant" or "in use"). I kind of stop listening as I take it all in but she says something like, "twist the lid on the cup really tight when you're done." Later I wonder if she also said to put the cup into the biohazard bag, because I don't remember her saying that, but I figure that that's what the bag is for. She does not, however, even acknowledge the giant television or the drawers on the cabinet. Those are apparently for me to figure out what to do with on my own.
"Can I use the bathroom first?" I really had to pee for about the last hour of driving.
"Of course, it's right next door."
I go to the bathroom and she goes back to her fishbowl across the hall. I finish and wash my hands, even though I will quickly be soiling them again. Habits, you know? I open the door to the bathroom and there is another girl, I think who worked there but I didn't really want to stick around and make eye contact or anything, who either needed something from the first girl or who was pretending to need something from the first girl so that she could see what kind of guy was about to go into the spank tank (that's what I would call it if I worked there). I'm getting paranoid at this point.
I go into the room and close the door. I take a few pictures for my facebook fans. The cabinet underneath the television has a drawer marked "magazines." I almost don't want to open it because I'm afraid that the girl in the fishbowl can hear the drawer and knows exactly what is up and I would still like for there to be some kind of mystery. I can actually hear some chatter from outside in the hallway. This is unexpected. I don't know why, but in my head this room was soundproofed... or maybe sufficiently far enough away from anywhere else that I don't have to worry about things. Or maybe in my head the room was just.. . bigger.
I am curious about what happens if I turn on the television. I had expected a pile of DVDs and an accompanying player. There was none. I thought maybe this was just regular television, that I am meant to find the most attractive person on Maury or whatever daytime television nonsense that I could find, and have my fun. I found the volume on the remote before I pushed the power button. I wanted to turn it on while immediately turning it to silent. I hit the button.
Somewhere from behind the unit I heard the unmistakeable whirring of a disc. The movie began to load on it's own. Everyone was kind of fake and typical pornstarrish. This movie was not for me. For the record, the magazines were three penthouse and two playboy. One was one of those "college" editions, and one was the Lindsey Lohan edition. Although I handled them with curiosity, I did not need them.
Even though I had waited for several days for this very moment, I didn't want to start right away. I didn't want the girl outside to know exactly when I was doing what I needed to do. I also didn't want her to know how long it took. This seemed too intimate.
Eventually, it happened. I put the lid on, tight. I put the cup in the bag, and I washed up. I thought about going for a round two, just to ensure that there was enough. I decided that this was unnecessary, and that I didn't want to be here any longer, and I opened the door. The girl took the bag, and I left.
I stopped to see my mom's friend and her mother on my way out, to make sure that I was all set. This felt odd, as I don't think that they were expecting me, and they did not have quite the same pokerface attitude about it all that the girl from the lab had. They had the air of "but you just...." and "no.. you don't need to be talking to us, at all,.. you can just leave" while they explained that I was all set. Again, paranoid.
I should mention that on my way out I asked the girl in the lab, since I am going to have to do this all over again in a few weeks, what she meant when she asked if I had brought a sample. She explained that this was only an option if I lived less than an hour away. I wanted to explain that I drive really, really fast.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Balls (the other kind)..
Tomorrow I get to masturbate into a cup. I'm going to drive to Ann Arbor, sign in, provide my insurance card (and hopefully identification, just imagine if anybody could pretend to be me and do it instead!), and then be taken into a back room somewhere, shown to a collection of pornography, and then left alone to do my business. While everyone knows exactly what business I am doing.
Weird.
And who pays for the pornography? Is it something that the university has in their budget? Does it get donated? Should I bring something in for the pot. Do they have gay porn for all the gay guys who want to donate their specimen for other people? Do they do fetish stuff? I mean, on the one hand I understand how it seems that I might be being a bit childish about all of these questions. Especially when you consider that I am currently being disallowed to so much as shake more than three times so I won't actually need the visual aids. But on the other hand, these are the sorts of things that I've always wondered about fertility clinics. Excuse me, "Reproductive Services."
I'm someone who typically tries to put myself into other people's shoes. So, over a lfietime of growing up where a great many television shows have covered the experience of fertility treatment, I have often imagined what it must be like to go through it all. What will it be like to know that someone is looking at my little soldiers (and soldierettes) in a microscope? I mean, that's what tomorrow is all about. Tomorrow's donation isn't even meant to make any kind of babies. Tomorrow's warriors give their lives for science. Tomorrow is just an exercise, wherein they ensure that the guys are fit to fight, so that we don't waste time harvesting from Sara if we can't win the war (I don't know why I'm making this all military analogy. SPERM. I'm talking about sperm. And fertilizing an egg. There will be no conquering (well, sort of)).
Provided that my semen is good, we will go through this all over again in a few weeks. This time in what the military would call "real world." Hopefully the second time around I'll be a little more prepared. More comfortable, anyway. Because, believe me, I'm prepared.
So yeah, this was the sperm episode. I'm sorry for the crastness, but we had to get through it (also, apparently crastness isn't a word. Oh well).
Weird.
And who pays for the pornography? Is it something that the university has in their budget? Does it get donated? Should I bring something in for the pot. Do they have gay porn for all the gay guys who want to donate their specimen for other people? Do they do fetish stuff? I mean, on the one hand I understand how it seems that I might be being a bit childish about all of these questions. Especially when you consider that I am currently being disallowed to so much as shake more than three times so I won't actually need the visual aids. But on the other hand, these are the sorts of things that I've always wondered about fertility clinics. Excuse me, "Reproductive Services."
I'm someone who typically tries to put myself into other people's shoes. So, over a lfietime of growing up where a great many television shows have covered the experience of fertility treatment, I have often imagined what it must be like to go through it all. What will it be like to know that someone is looking at my little soldiers (and soldierettes) in a microscope? I mean, that's what tomorrow is all about. Tomorrow's donation isn't even meant to make any kind of babies. Tomorrow's warriors give their lives for science. Tomorrow is just an exercise, wherein they ensure that the guys are fit to fight, so that we don't waste time harvesting from Sara if we can't win the war (I don't know why I'm making this all military analogy. SPERM. I'm talking about sperm. And fertilizing an egg. There will be no conquering (well, sort of)).
Provided that my semen is good, we will go through this all over again in a few weeks. This time in what the military would call "real world." Hopefully the second time around I'll be a little more prepared. More comfortable, anyway. Because, believe me, I'm prepared.
So yeah, this was the sperm episode. I'm sorry for the crastness, but we had to get through it (also, apparently crastness isn't a word. Oh well).
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Balls...
Let's face it, blog. I'm bad at you. Even when I shouldn't be. Even when I have things to write about, like when my car gets hit by a douche on his phone. Or like when I get the rejection letter from the school that was simultaneously offering to give me a full ride.
Yeah, my car got hit. I was following my brother to get something to eat after work two days ago and there was someone stopped in the middle of the road making an illegal left hand turn. This was not a huge problem, as there was plenty of warning and my brother stopped behind this person and then I stopped. And then I heard tires shrieking for just a split second, and then they were my tires. My tires for a second more, in an attempt not to slide into my brother's car in front of me (I had virtually this exact same accident play out in much the same way exactly ten years prior, with the notable difference being that my attempt to not hit the car in front of me was not successful then). I didn't hit my brother's car.
We all pull off into a side lot and wait for the police to come (45 minutes). The driver of the car that hit me apologizes again and again, and I assure him again and again that he has nothing to worry about, that accidents happen. It was a bummer, as having an accident on my title is something that is going to reduce the value of my vehicle, something I've taken great pains to protect, but oh well.
But then he makes a mistake. This guy, this guy who I didn't really have any hard feelings against says something, sheepishly. "Yeah, I just looked down at my phone for two seconds." He lost me. If he'd had the wherewithal of a fence post he would have seen my face go from "don't worry about it, man" to "get away from me, ass stain." He didn't.
People, Sara in particular, sometimes think that I tend to overreact to situations which piss me off. The truth is that I have a hard time understanding how other people deal with them so calmly. When I see other drivers swerving all over the road and then casually chatting away on their phone, I seriously want to ram them. I want to pull them out of their vehicles and give them the beating they deserve. They are recklessly endangering my life so that they can fart around with their spoiled-ass technology and feeling entitled about it the entire time. Driving is not a right.
Rejection letter last night from law school. After calling around about it today I come to find that it was because they based everything off of the information that they had in their file as of last year. Even though I already updated everything and essentially handed it to them on a silver platter (through lsac, the law services governing body), it seems that somewhere along the way one hand stopped talking to the other. Whatever. I can fix this if I want to resubmit everything, reapply, rewrite my letters, and then call to make sure that it all gets done properly. I can probably get this all done and be ready to start just barely in time for the September deadline.
But now the question that I have to ask myself is: Do I want to? Do I want to spend the next couple of weeks busting my ass so that I can barely make the cutoff to be ready to start, still have to deal with getting my scholarship processed, and then deal with financial aid to make sure that I can afford to live (that we can) while I'm in school, just in time to hit Sara's surgery and recovery, just in time to hit year one, which is notoriously one of the hardest things a person can do in their education.
I have to admit, that I'm leaning towards no, maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should admit defeat. I was supposed to be relaxing this month. That was the plan. Then I would hit school super hard and wouldn't have any other distractions. Instead, I have every other distraction imagineable. Maybe it really is in my best interest just to put this off for a few months (it doesn't have to be a year). They have classes starting in January. Maybe I could get all of my ducks in a row. Sara would not have just completed surgery. In fact, she would be partially done with chemo, and could potentially even have a steady job then, maybe even with insurance. I mean, it's entirely possible that if I just hold off a little bit, that maybe I'll be able to do virtually everything as planned anyway, instead of killing myself trying to get it done.
Still, I've already stalled for a year. I'm getting impatient. But the truth is, that probably my biggest concern with when I start law school has always been that it means putting off having children. I suppose that's something that's going to be put off, anyway.
Yeah, my car got hit. I was following my brother to get something to eat after work two days ago and there was someone stopped in the middle of the road making an illegal left hand turn. This was not a huge problem, as there was plenty of warning and my brother stopped behind this person and then I stopped. And then I heard tires shrieking for just a split second, and then they were my tires. My tires for a second more, in an attempt not to slide into my brother's car in front of me (I had virtually this exact same accident play out in much the same way exactly ten years prior, with the notable difference being that my attempt to not hit the car in front of me was not successful then). I didn't hit my brother's car.
We all pull off into a side lot and wait for the police to come (45 minutes). The driver of the car that hit me apologizes again and again, and I assure him again and again that he has nothing to worry about, that accidents happen. It was a bummer, as having an accident on my title is something that is going to reduce the value of my vehicle, something I've taken great pains to protect, but oh well.
But then he makes a mistake. This guy, this guy who I didn't really have any hard feelings against says something, sheepishly. "Yeah, I just looked down at my phone for two seconds." He lost me. If he'd had the wherewithal of a fence post he would have seen my face go from "don't worry about it, man" to "get away from me, ass stain." He didn't.
People, Sara in particular, sometimes think that I tend to overreact to situations which piss me off. The truth is that I have a hard time understanding how other people deal with them so calmly. When I see other drivers swerving all over the road and then casually chatting away on their phone, I seriously want to ram them. I want to pull them out of their vehicles and give them the beating they deserve. They are recklessly endangering my life so that they can fart around with their spoiled-ass technology and feeling entitled about it the entire time. Driving is not a right.
Rejection letter last night from law school. After calling around about it today I come to find that it was because they based everything off of the information that they had in their file as of last year. Even though I already updated everything and essentially handed it to them on a silver platter (through lsac, the law services governing body), it seems that somewhere along the way one hand stopped talking to the other. Whatever. I can fix this if I want to resubmit everything, reapply, rewrite my letters, and then call to make sure that it all gets done properly. I can probably get this all done and be ready to start just barely in time for the September deadline.
But now the question that I have to ask myself is: Do I want to? Do I want to spend the next couple of weeks busting my ass so that I can barely make the cutoff to be ready to start, still have to deal with getting my scholarship processed, and then deal with financial aid to make sure that I can afford to live (that we can) while I'm in school, just in time to hit Sara's surgery and recovery, just in time to hit year one, which is notoriously one of the hardest things a person can do in their education.
I have to admit, that I'm leaning towards no, maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should admit defeat. I was supposed to be relaxing this month. That was the plan. Then I would hit school super hard and wouldn't have any other distractions. Instead, I have every other distraction imagineable. Maybe it really is in my best interest just to put this off for a few months (it doesn't have to be a year). They have classes starting in January. Maybe I could get all of my ducks in a row. Sara would not have just completed surgery. In fact, she would be partially done with chemo, and could potentially even have a steady job then, maybe even with insurance. I mean, it's entirely possible that if I just hold off a little bit, that maybe I'll be able to do virtually everything as planned anyway, instead of killing myself trying to get it done.
Still, I've already stalled for a year. I'm getting impatient. But the truth is, that probably my biggest concern with when I start law school has always been that it means putting off having children. I suppose that's something that's going to be put off, anyway.
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