Not My Regularly Scheduled Blog Post

Today I don't have a regular post. Sorry. My new computer came--yay! But getting all my data transferred is way more complicated than I thought. (Thanks, computer-savvy minions, for all your help!)

In the meantime, I was interviewed by Kevin Domenic at the the Searching for Heroes blog. Check it out.

One more bit of information:  I got good news yesterday on my biopsy. Yay.

I Am Patient. Sort Of.

I consider myself a patient person. And I am really patient. Unless I’m provoked. Then, not so much. Of course, the definition of patience probably includes “even when provoked.” I like to forget about that part.

As a writer, I’m even more convinced that I’m a patient person—after all, writers can submit something and wait six months or more for a response. You see, I am patient.

But then the provocations happened. My computer is dying, so last week I ordered a new one (Costco had an amazing sale). And I didn’t find out until after I ordered it that it would take 10 to 15 days until arrival. But since my old computer is still working, most of the time, I tried to be grateful and tracked my computer via FedEx across China. (Which means, it was probably made by oppressed people in unsafe working conditions. Gulp.) Yesterday my computer made it to Alaska—now it’s on the same continent as I am!

So I felt like I was doing pretty well in the patience department. Until yesterday evening.

Multiple times before and right after my surgery, my doctor told me that I’d have all the biopsy reports on Tuesday. Great. I marveled at how quick it would be—surgery late Friday afternoon, results on Tuesday. I even Googled response times for this type of biopsy and discovered that a week was quick. I wasn’t going to have to wait a week. Yay! I could handle a couple of days. So I didn’t worry. I waited. And if I’m honest, I spent most of the time asleep. Who knew you could sleep 12.5 hours out of 16 without the help of medicine?

So Tuesday came. I made sure my cell phone was fully charged and the volume was turned up. I ordered the minions to pick up the home phone if it rang—they like to ignore the phone. (What is it with young people these days—they don’t like to talk on the phone? They only communicate through emails and texting.)  Fully armed with all possible communication devices, I waited. All day. At four o’clock, I called the office. I got the answering machine. Apparently, they don’t answer the phone after 4pm. And the recording announced that any messages will wait to the next business day. Oh, and by the way, they don’t work on Wednesdays. You know how they say when someone’s angry they see red? I think I saw pink.

In case, the doctor is confused, here’s some advice. You don’t say, “I’ll get the results to you on Tuesday” and then not call. Especially when post-surgery, the doctor discusses your problem and says to you, the patient, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

You don’t say, “I’ll have someone from the office call and schedule your post-op visit for next week so you can be cleared for regular activities,” and then not have anyone call.

In all fairness, they probably didn’t call because the results weren’t back. I know when I worked as a cytogenetic tech while I was in college, anything that came in Friday afternoon waited until Monday. Not necessarily because we were lazy or were eating cake (though someone always brought cake, cookies, etc., on Fridays), but mostly because we were trying to get all the stuff that was already late finished before the weekend.

So I’m waiting. I no longer see pink. I’m having fun watching my computer travel from Anchorage to Memphis. And I’ve got my doctor’s office phone number ready and waiting. Because Thursday at 9:00am when the office is opened, I’m going to be their first phone call.  

Surgery

After the craziness of pre-op, I wondered what surgery would by like. It was totally different. I have only nice things to say about the staff at Parkridge East. I don’t even have a bruise where the nurse put in the IV, and I was even dehydrated. (I’ve been known to have my whole arm bruise when I’ve gotten an IV before.)

After the surgery, the codeine was lovely. That night, my wonderful husband set the alarm to go off every 4 hours, so he could give me another dose of pain killers. (Yeah, he’s a keeper.)

The weird thing is that I had a very vivid dream during the surgery. Or maybe it was during recovery. I didn’t think you were supposed to have REM sleep with surgery.

There’s also one more important thing I discovered. When the anesthesiologist noticed that I was a migraine sufferer, she left and came back with a patch of scopolamine. According to her, migraine sufferers have a lot more problems with post-surgical nausea. So the patch deals with that. And I must say, the patch was amazing. I didn’t get a hint of nausea. I’m so thankful.

The only bad thing is that I lost my voice. Which isn’t such a big deal. Except that I got a phone call from American Express. Someone was making fraudulent charges on my credit card. Some loser/thief was charging hundreds of dollars of perfume, etc., on my credit card. I was very pleased the AmEx called me and told me that they were suspicious. Obviously, they know I’m not a big perfume user—in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever bought perfume. But the craziest thing was that I had to talk to a woman from India or Pakistan about the problem. Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation with a woman with a heavy accent while you have post-surgery laryngitis? It doesn’t go so well. There are a lot of “pardons” and “could you repeat that please.” But in the end, we solved the problem, And since it was AmEx, I’m not responsible for any of the faux charges.  Yay, AmEx!!!

At some point, it would be great if some member of the gov’t would do something about all the identity theft.

PS For all that are interested, I should get the results of my biopsy on Tuesday.

PPS If any of you would like to read the Amazon Experts Reviews on my novel, which so far has made it to the quarterfinals of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest, here's a link.

Meth Queen

This Friday (March 30), I’m having diagnostic surgery. I’ve never had surgery or general anesthesia before, so pre-op was something of a “surprise.”

A better word might be shock. Don’t get me wrong. I have great love for modern medicine—the idea of blood letting is abhorrent to me. But when the intake administrator started “informing me about the procedure” and threw around words like resection and catheter, it sounds more like a medieval trial-by-ordeal.

As if anxiety by threat wasn’t enough, she told me that the nurse would take several vials of blood and asked to see my arm. I held it out. Her eyes went sparkly. She said, “Ooo, you have juicy veins. I’m going to do the blood draw.” I swallowed. Clearly, this woman had seen Twilight way too many times. Thankfully, the nurse in the room next door yelled, “I’m doing that blood draw.” Vampire admin chick yelled back. “But—” The nurse stuck her head into the room and said, “She’s mine.”

Having lost her venapuncture dominance, the admin started the pre-surgical questionnaire. “Have you ever had surgery before?” I said, “No.” Easy and simple. Of course, eight pages later my eyes were glazed. But we’d only just come to the interesting part. She focused on what non-foods I ingest. Medications, etc. It got a little old. One thing after another. My answers were “No, no, no...”  She scowled. Apparently, I was boring. And then she got a twinkle in her eyes. “What about herbs?”

Me: No.

Her: You don’t take chamomile?

Me: No.

Her: What about vitamins?

Me: Nope.

Her with accusation in her tone: You don’t take a multi-vitamin every morning?

Me: No.

She looked at Calvin, who shrugged and said, “No, she really doesn’t take anything.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

Then she giggled. “What about street drugs? Do you take any of those?”

I rolled my eyes. She and Calvin burst out laughing. Then they made jokes about me running a meth lab in my kitchen.

I survived the pre-op though I’m sure I’m known in the hospital as the Meth Queen. Then the other day, a post-it note showed up on my bathroom mirror reminding me “No meth before surgery.” Calvin has a bizarre sense of humor, but it makes me smile every time I see it.

Queen of the Universe

I have a special role on the earth. Every Sunday I teach two and three year olds. I have 12 students (most of whom are two) and two sainted helpers, Miss Ariel who is the preventer of the crayon pounding and table kicking and Miss Leah whose extraordinary reflexes snag the little deserters before they make it out the door. And while teaching two and three year olds is a bit like herding cats, I love it. Although I must admit that I have been privileged to teach very articulate two and three year olds. (BTW, if you are the parent of a child in my class, don’t worry. Names are withheld to protect the guilty.)

One reason is that it is hilarious. Me to child: “Honey, why are you coloring Adam red and orange?” Child: “Because Adam is on fire for Eve.” Miss Ariel, Miss Leah, and I burst out laughing, and I tell the child, “Great idea.” Another time, one of my little girls asked to try on my heeled sandals, so I let her. Afterwards, I said, “I need my shoes back.” A tear streamed down her cheek. “I know and that makes me sad.”

Besides the fun, I love that my students are completely honest. Me to a child, “You need to sit in your seat.” Child, “What if I tell you no?” Me: “And what if I tell you that I’ll go get your Daddy.” Child considers the situation. “I think I’ll sit in my seat.” Me, “That would be wise.” Or, Me: “You may not color on the table, do you understand?” Child, “No, I don’t understand.” Me, “I think you do.” Child scowls and stops coloring on the table.

After a few skirmishes where we determine that I’m in charge of the class and they are not, they are exuberant with their love. Their faces smile at me, and it feels like I’m looking at the sun—and that’s not just when I’m passing out Winnie the Pooh cookies. In fact, I become the Queen of the Universe, their first teacher. Their first step into “being big.” In fact, one parent told me that when his son is unhappy with them he says, “I’m telling my Sunday school teacher on you.”

Yep, I love being Queen of the Universe.

Post-Modern Angst

My computer died. Well, hopefully not my laptop itself. I think it's my power cord. My son Jacob, who was born to be an electrical engineer, jury-rigged the cord, which gave me another hour or so. But now it's totally dead. And since laptops are fussy about powercords, I had to order one, and it won't be here until Monday. In the meantime, I'm mooching my family's computers. Right now, I'm using the desktop that Matt and Jake use. (BTW, do you know how many typing errors you make when you're using a weird keyboard?) And, of course, none of my bookmarks are saved on this computer. So I'm trying to remember passwords, links, etc. (I have a file of all my passwords, but it's on my computer. Really dumb mistake.) And who actually remembers their Facebook or Triberr passwords? And my Amazon author account--um, I guess I won't be checking my sales figures any time soon.

What makes it worse is that when my Google and Twitter accounts got hacked, I changed all the passwords to a really obscure, random alphanumeric combination. But I didn't change all my passwords everywhere...the trick is remembering which is what. And it's even harder to recall the passwords when the minions are tapping their feet saying, "Could you hurry, please? I have a lot of stuff to do."

Monday can't get here fast enough. And if it's not the powercord causing the problem...let's not go there.

Amazon Quarterfinalist

Amazon just announced the quarterfinalists in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. And I made the cut. Screwing Up Time is now in the quarterfinals! YAY!