The Coldest Feet

We have a funny, cute, little tradition in our family. Every year, for the Academy Awards my mom makes rice crispy treats in the shape of Oscars. They are somewhat primitive looking, but each year they get a little better, and we get the gist. Often times their heads are sagging, they look unnaturally gold - though my mom doesn't admit to coloring them - and invariably there is one ginormous Oscar. Who, you ask, gets that one? Well none other than the golden boy himself - Jay.

My mom is so funny, first she denies that Jay is the favorite - Jess and I know better - but she also wraps up the Oscars for whomever can't make it to the awards. We look forward to it every year. And the best part, in order to get your tasty prize you must give an acceptance speech. Generally it's better if the room collaborates on who get which award - most glittery shoes, best animal lover  - sometimes we make up our own just to get on with eating the treat without waiting for everyone to agree on the trophy's symbol. Mom usually goes a little more traditional with her award - best cook, most creative baker ( hence the Oscar treats). Everyone else usually goes for funny.

Earlier in the evening my mom and grandma were sharing war stories about getting me to put on socks - like it's a national crisis or and I'm not 30 years old- so later when the treats came out Jess dubbed mine as the Oscar for the Coldest Feet. My acceptance speech went something like this:

I would like to thank the academy, and my grandmother, and mother for constantly telling me to put on socks, you provided me with something to rebel against. Your constant nagging has made me never want to wear socks, out of spite, and helped me have this year's coldest feet.

Well, at least I thought it was funny...  Anyway, it's one of those silly little things that most people would say is nerdy or juvenile, but we like it and have fun with it. And I think, even though I am also the worst in the kitchen, I will continue this with my own family some day.

Lessons Learned - Chapter 2

I normally would not write about this sort of thing. My sister has said "You're fine", enough times that I have come to accept that aside from my mom, I'm really the only who wants to hear it.  My sister is not wrong.

But she, as well as I, takes for granted that everyone has heard enough. I've grown accustomed to meeting people and assuming they can guess enough of the story from on the scars, assume they aren't interested in details, and assume sharing them comes off as self important. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm being overly critical of myself. Maybe I sound like an egotistical ass.

Today, however, it's where this story starts, because, late in the game, things can shift. And it never ceases to amaze me what the process of "growing up" can do to your perspective.There comes a point in time when you realize that your decisions actually have consequences.

My doctor tells me every time I see him that I'll be getting a medal. It's our little joke. Apparently, I hold some sort of record, unofficially of course, amongst people who've had the same procedure. The record for "Longest Lasting Conduit". Typically, people may not think this is any great feat. But considering my original conduit lasted 16 years as opposed to the average 10 years, it's not too shabby.  But most recently, at my last visit, Dr. Griffin  went on to say he had been talking about me at a conference the previous day. ( I wonder sometimes, it would be pretty cool if my name is in a medical journal somewhere.) He said to me, "Remind me how long the newest conduit has been in."  I told him 12 years. He said, "Really, that medal should be arriving any day now...Yesterday I was talking to some colleagues, some of their patients have needed replacements within 4 months of implantation." My eyes bugged out a little. I couldn't imagine having to go through that in multiple, within only a few months time. "You're very lucky," he said, "you haven't had any of the hiccups or side effects...So check your mail for that medal"  I can't help but laugh at his goofy demeanor.

This conversation took place before the exam, which, to my dismay, was observed by a med student - I hate that. I'm all for learning, don't get me wrong, but you ever want to feel like a guinea pig, going to a teaching hospital will satisfy that craving. We did the whole rigmarole, deep breath, listen, exhale slowly, listen, repeat. The conduit would live to see another day, it sounded great. The native artery had a leak.

Doc was never one to be an alarmist. He always spoke calmly, casually, even years ago when he told me he wanted me to have surgery. He was not cold, but rational, confident, no big deal.  So this time I wasn't sure where the news fell within the parameters of severity. He said this can occur naturally, normally, and any future work I needed done would be no sweat. But that was what he said about the transesophageal echo 12 years ago, where, and this will forever be etched in my memory, I had to gargle what tasted like Raid  as the aerosol burned it's way down my throat before swallowing a camera semi-conscious.  - yet again my sister's voice chimes in, "I'm fine"-  But the point being, I wouldn't be surprised if Dr. Griffin was again downplaying unpleasantries for my benefit .

When I think about it though, the man is no fool. I mean his strategy seemed to work. He is almost 70 and he has been doing this for sometime, so I imagine he's picked up a trick or two. Speak comforting words, people feel comforted. Speak words of anger, people respond with anger. Speak confidently, even amidst uncertainty, people will feel at ease. I was concerned, sure, it had been 4 years since I dragged myself to see him, I knew the unhealthy aspects of my lifestyle.  But I wasn't so much scared as intrigued.  I guess I figured it was only a matter of time before there was a blip. I almost felt it coming on. And in all morbid honesty, this was my thing,  the thing that made me even remotely interesting.

 I did however have one specific reservation about the whole thing. And that was in telling my parents there was even a glimmer of an issue.  Being a patient can suck, don't get me wrong, but it's not without its perks. It's far worse to be the parent. I may not be a parent, but I saw enough of the pain and sacrifice my own made for me. I would take a needle in my arm any day to having to sit in their place and watch it happen. Nothing was going to make me tell them more than I had to. I lied to my mother for the first time ever when reporting back on a doctor visit.

"What the doctor say, Jen?"
"Oh conduit's fine, says I'm ganna get a medal"
laughs "Good, good. Did you do an echo"
"No, he's ganna have me come back for a stress test, says it's been a long time"
"Ok, so all good?"
"Yup, all good"

But being the natural born big mouth that I am, I blabbed to my sister and the jig was up. She said any more info I received I'd have to share with our parents. I agreed conditionally,  we were operating on a need to know basis. No need to work them up.

I would go back in two weeks for  a stress echo. After that I would know more, whether the leak was major or benign, and what the next step would be. My mom offered to come, but I shot her down, not necessary.

So I went alone. It felt right, empowering almost, to take this step, consciously, intentionally by myself. Like an adult.  I was making an active decision for once, perhaps in retrospect it was the wrong one, but mine nonetheless.

The waiting took longer than the tests; that's what happens when you show up an hour early. And before I knew it I was cleaning jelly from everywhere, pulling my sweat shirt back on. And this is where the going-it-alone thing backfires. I don't listen. I assume things. I make incorrect inferences and "intuitive leaps", scrambling facts. This is not specific to doctor appointments, this is my behavior in daily social interaction and in reflecting on that, I see that I am my biggest cause for confusion and misunderstanding.

After probably 10 minutes into the echo the tech said the leak was minor. That part I got. He explained  that it was the pulmonary artery that had been patched in, which was always a point of misconception on my part. And why is that? Because I'd stop listening. Overwhelmed by facts. So during round two, the stress echo, I lasted maybe 6 minutes on the treadmill, I retained even less information. They told me that I'd have to move as fast as I could when the test ended to get back on the table for the second echo. I warned them that there is one thing I don't do, and that's move fast (seriously inanimate objects move faster than me). But it all worked out.

As I walked, I started holding the rail, the faster and higher the incline the more I felt the need to grab for it. The tech reminded me the more I held on, the less work I was doing, and the longer I'd have to walk. I tried to stay conscious of that as I went. I noticed the chart printing, the doctor and tech talking, the knowing exchanges.I focused only on keeping myself going, not wanting to look like a wimp. When they decided to stop me I moved as fast as I could back to the table, with some help from pushy tech hands, and  finished the echo with my heart rate flying.

Dr Griffin started saying something about my heart beat switching something, and compared something to spark plugs in a car. Over all I had no flipping idea what he was talking about. And when he came back in the room after I was dressed and tried to break it down, I could really only half listen. My mind was going a mile a minute, I got hung up somewhere at the words "event recorder"... I don't know. And only really walked away knowing surgery wasn't going to be happening any time soon - sweet -  that he was thinking about putting me on medication, and he was going to call me next week after he reviewed the results further.

At that point I caved and called my mom. I told her what I could remember, sans the leak - that was news was obsolete anyhow. I added that she probably should come to these visits from now on because I couldn't explain a damn thing the doctor said. But that everything was basically good. She took it well, talking to me like the child I am, warning me to ask a million questions when he called, if that was what it took for me to understand what he was saying. Otherwise she was going to sic my aunt, the nurse, on me.Nobody wants that...

The week went by and I didn't hear from the good doc, so I called him the following Monday.When he called me later that day I sat with my pen ready, with Lauren watching the phones for me at work. 
Dr. Griffin explained that they stopped me on the treadmill because they noticed an arrhythmia.  He said it was atricular, rather than ventricular - meaning the arrhythmia occurs in the atrium of the heart not the ventricles. He said that he didn't want to put me on medication yet. In 6 months I was to come back, and he'd reevaluate the situation, unless of course I was to continue to get dizzy spells or notice the extra beats of the arrhythmia. He went on to joke like his normal self, that all we ask is that we get 70 more years or so out of this conduit.  I was laughing when I hung up. I understood the message this time, but was unsure what the wait was for. I didn't want to worry that I would constantly be out of breath with minimal effort. I don't exactly know what extra beating feels like...  Doc also didn't give me any restrictions. He didn't reprimand me, he didn't offer an explanation of  "over extending" myself or  tips on how to lose the extra weight. Nada.  By now he figured I knew the drill.

But I did some research anyway. Caffeine, exercise, nicotine are just a few of the things that can contribute to arrhythmia. Well, you can forget the idea of giving up coffee. And lord knows I don't exercise. So the smoking had to go. I mean that was a given, it never should have been happening in the first place. In fact, I wouldn't be surprise if it was the sole cause of the situation. Although my doctor didn't say so.But now I had a mission.

I decided to take it slow, that I needed a plan. For a while I thought I could just "try" and that eventually I would just get over the need to smoke. I realized quickly that I would need something a little more concrete than that.  My initial reflex to keep it under wraps, I learned too, was actually a hindrance to the process. At first I just thought I wouldn't want to look like a failure, if my attempts to quit didn't last.  But then  I found a website called "Become an Ex".  Support plays a big part.

So far I like the site. It allows you to take things slow. It teaches you about smoking triggers and addiction, and teaches you how to take steps to overcome the triggers, to "relearn' everyday activities without smoking. 

The first step is to pick an end smoke day. The site recommends a date about a month out for two reasons: one so you have time to prepare- learn their strategies and tell your friends/family, and 2, no longer so as to not lose the motivation. I set mine as March 9th.

The next step is tracking your cigarettes. For three days they want you to record every cigarette you have, the time of day, what you were doing , how strong the urge was, and any thoughts you have on the "event". After 3 days you begin the process of  "separation". Each time you come to a smoking trigger, for instance having a cup of coffee, you delay the cigarette by 5 minutes. If you normally smoke during the cup of coffee maybe you wait until you have finished the cup until smoking. After a couple of days like this they say to continue to stretch the separation. The idea is that eventually, the "trigger" will no longer be a trigger to smoke, it will simply be a cup of coffee again.

The site gives you tips on distracting yourself through the "separation" period, talks about support - how to maximize it's benefits, things to avoid - people to avoid, as well as an online community of support. The advice doesn't end with your last cigarette either. "Become an Ex" has resources to help you stay quit, to avoid the side effects that may go along with quitting - withdrawal, weight gain, stress.

So I'm going with it. I think this is something that can actually work. Today I officially start separation. So far so good. I delayed the smoking in the car this morning and so far haven't had my "mid-morning boredom" cigarette. I will have to try to delay the after lunch cigarette as well... But I guess the point of this blog has become making the attempt public. Now I have to be accountable. Now I have purpose.

So to any of you that are willing and able, I can use all the support I can get - not scolding just support - thank goodness my grandmother doesn't know how to use a computer... It's going to be a bumpy road and I may slip, but I want it now, it's time. Life is too short, I've seen that, no need to make it any shorter.

Lesson: Smoking is not worth it.
Did I Learn It: God,  I hope so

Lessons Learned - Chapter 1

You have to be completely honest with both sides of the story, if you want people to have an accurate perception of events. It means nothing at all if only half the truth is told. As painful as it is to recount my errors and naivete , my poor judgement and cruelty, full disclosure is paramount to pinpointing where the most devestating missteps occured.

My friends and I joke about how we are going to hell for the things we have done, but they tease me that there is no way I have done anything warranting my one way ticket to hell. I guess it's all relative. But you know what they say : Karma's a bitch. Maybe that explains everything... 

Books and movies have quite thoroughly ruined me, but I believe there is a reason for everything, that all the mini moments in our lives lead up to a climax and conclusion like the plot of a good story. This presumption possibly started me out on the wrong path, making all subsequent  decisions and beliefs a product of faulty logic. But my hopeless idealism won't allow me to give up on the notion that the best is yet to come... I just wish it would get here already.  

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During college I learned a valuable lesson, that I should have made a more active effort to remember as the years went on.

We met Adam at our summer job, and, at first, we hated him. He dressed and spoke like he thought he was some sort of thug - a total poser considering we were all from River Grove.

He was a big hit though with the other guys, so we were forced to be around him pretty frequently. I'm not going to lie - sorry- but he was not attractive. Somehow, over time he grew on all of us. He was funny, and you never knew what he was going to say. And, unlike most, he didn't judge people before he met them.

So before I knew it I found myself actually liking him - as a friend. We talked on the phone, we hung out all the time. And so did the other girls.

And in only a couple weeks I was working on convincing Andrea to agree to go out with him. It was a long, extremely long, process but finally she did. And they dated for a while. But when they broke up, somehow I remained better friends with Adam,  than with Andrea.

I think I knew why even then. I just didn't talk about it. I wouldn't even admit it to myself.  But all the talking, all the happy hours - they eventually got to me. The unthinkable had happened, I liked Adam. So I continued to hang out with him, without Andrea, all but forgetting about her completely.  It wasn't long before I didn't even consider us  to be friends. But that doesn't excuse my actions. There is a girl code. Clearly I didn't care. And I didn't consider the one useful bit of insight into the mind of guys that Adam had been beating into my head since I met him.  Even today I reiterate it to myself : If he's interested, he'll make a move - no exceptions.

Unfortunately for me, it took sometime to realize that making a physical move has nothing to do with being interested in a relationship.  So I went along with the hooking-up. In fact, I more than went along with it, I often instigated it. And  each time the next day came we'd talk like it was nothing and would do the things that any "just - friends" would do. He'd tell me about other girls he liked, he started seeing Andrea again, and still I didn't get the hint. 

I thought the problem was that he didn't know how I felt. (Another thing I'd later learn is that I am an open book) So instead of taking it all as useful life experience, I decide it would be wise to tell him the whole story and let it all hang out. 

Things were never quite the same after that for me. He took it as a bit of shock, but didn't seem to let that effect how we were together. For a while we pretended things would automatically go back to normal. And for him they did, but you tell me what girl can continue to constantly spend time with a guy who doesn't return her feelings, and still thinks hooking up with eachother isn't a problem. Probably can't.

I finally got the message, nothing would change, and the current situation wasn't working for me. So I walked away, and cut Adam out my life completely. I deleted his email, removed him from MySpace (dating myself) and facebook, and deleted his number from my phone. That worked pretty well actually. I gradually forgot about him, the drunk texting - having memorized his number- dwindled and soon enough his name became one that rarely if ever crossed my lips.  

The Lesson: If interested, he'll make the move.

Did I learn it: Probably not.