Not a Selfie Fan

When I was on vacation in Europe in the last millennium, my friend asked me, “Why are you taking pictures of all these statues? Why don’t you ever want to be in the picture?” My answer: I hate having my photo taken. Getting a passport photo is as stressful to me as presenting in public or going on a first date.

Fast-forward to the current day, mobile society where most everyone LOVES to post photos of themselves…aka “Selfies.” I’ll be honest - this practice annoys me. It’s kind of self-absorbed. OK, not kind of. It is. And it can get you in trouble if you’re of the mind to experiment with more…uh…experimental… uh…arsty shots and scenes a la a Kardashian video. You know what I mean.

Obviously, my opinion is WAAAAY in the minority, given that everyone from Ellen to the President is snapping selfies. Given that that the term selfie was proclaimed 2013 Word of the Year by the Oxford English Dictionary. http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/selfie Given that when you Google, “How to take a Selfie,” there are over 73 million – yes, million – links that pop up.

So I am woefully outnumbered. I did however, take this photo while on a cruise this summer – I’m calling it my first selfie, but this friend contends that I’m simply photo-bombing her and that it isn’t my selfie because she took it.

Lastly, back to my friend and I in Europe oh those years ago: She also asked, “If you’re not in the photo, how will people know you’ve been here?”

Duh. I took the picture – you’ll just have to trust me.

Mother Nature's Anthrax

Ahhh…Spring is here. A time for growth and rebirth. For beautiful blooms and a palette of greenery right out of a Monet masterpiece. A time for Mother Nature to start fresh. And a time for Mother Nature to exercise her twisted sense of humor on all us allergy sufferers. You know what I’m talking about: POLLEN.

Forget volcanic fallout…forget acid rain…forget tear gas. Pollen is powerful. It causes almost two months of nose-clogging, eye-watering, throat-stripping plant dust that single-handedly keeps brands like Sudafed, Zyrtec and Claritin in the black. But zapping grown men into sniffling babies and keeping the drug manufacturers in quarterly bonuses isn’t Pollen’s only gift…

Let’s not forget the boon to car washing businesses. Owners of car washes all over the south are planning their Riviera vacations, thanks to the little gems of germination. Mr. Bubbles is sitting at the Captain’s Table because my vehicle looks like its wearing a yellow fur coat. But wait, there’s more…

Did your neighbor compliment you on your new yellow tablecloth? What? You don’t OWN a yellow tablecloth? That’s just our trusty Pollen, floating into an open window or door to make itself at home in your home and promote yet another industry: cleaning products and maid services. You’ll either have to hire a maid or you will be the maid, thanks to our friend Pollen.

So when Mother Nature sends you her annual terrorist package of Pollen, thank your lucky stars for antihistamines, central air conditioning, a strong vacuum and sealed garage. Maybe that’s why they call it “Allegra” – which means joyous – because you’re so darn happy to have some relief!

The MRI - Testing More Than My Health...

I have been blessed with very good health. Hospitals and procedures are not something to which I’m accustomed. In Fall of 2010, I was told by my doctor that I needed to get a chest/body MRI done. While I realize an MRI is a major procedure, it’s fairly commonplace. I had an MRI done on my foot once, so no biggie. I was worried more about what we would find versus the actual procedure. WOW. My worry was completely misdirected.

First, the doctor asks if I’m claustrophobic. Why, of course I’m not, I scoff. I’ve been in an underwater submarine to look at pretty fish and coral. I’ve hidden in closets for surprise parties. I’ve driven in very small cars. Piece of cake. Second, the doctor asks me if I’d like a sedative for the procedure. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. As I re-tell this story back at the office, several friends warned me that “you will need valium.” I write them off as weenies.

I arrive at the MRI facility and check in. The nurse outfits me (very painlessly, I should add) with my IV and asks if I am taking a sedative. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. Any normal person would see a pattern here. Not me. I’m escorted into the MRI room and I see the machine that sort of resembles a wine chiller on its side. So it’s got THAT going for it. I’m presented with my ear plugs, a cozy blanket and a plastic ball on a tube. “This is your panic button,” the technician explained. “If you are at all nervous, just squeeze the ball and we’ll pull you out.” I grasp it, but I think to myself, obviously I won’t need that….

WRONG.

Oh, don’t misunderstand. It all started out all right. I actually made it through about 14 minutes. But on Minute 15, the machine started closing in on me like a rolling kaleidoscope. As I clicked in, inch by inch, I started to lose sight of the white, tiled ceiling. Then, I attempted to keep up with the drum-rapping song that beat in my head. Oh wait – that’s not a song, it’s my heart beating faster than microwave popcorn! I can literally feel it in my chest, as my arms are crossed over my heart. I actually thought, “Well, it’s good that I look like I’m in a coffin, because I may just die.” Minute 15:30, I’m squeezing that rubber ball as if I could make it disintegrate and they start to pull me out. Minute 15:50, I’m out and they help me back to the waiting area to calm down.

At this point, I agree to the sedative. One problem: it’s only 1 milligram and my anxiety level is now at a gazillion milligrams. But I take it anyway, and being the oh-so-patient patient, I quiz the nurses, techs and my husband: “Is it working?!...What should I feel like?!?...Will I know when it kicks in?!?...Will I feel groggy?!?!...How long does this take?!” If you’d like to set my diatribe to music, I suggest using “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” as your music bed. I tried one more time, but to no avail.

Needless to say, my mission was scrubbed faster than the Space Shuttle getting yanked from Houston’s Johnson Space Center. I looked at my arm, where the nurse had so skillfully inserted the painless IV, only to find a coaster-sized, blue-red bruise around the insertion area where I had squeezed myself even harder than I had squeezed the panic ball.

So what did I learn from this? Well, I learned that an Open MRI is the way to go. I learned that Valium (20 mgs to be exact) is my friend. And I learned that I’ll probably never have a career as a Chilean Miner. In the end, all involved are healthy and happy (except maybe for that little panic ball – I WAS pretty abusive…).

Giving Tendonitis “The Boot”

I have been so very blessed with good health in my life. No broken bones, no sprains and very few stitches. Even the taking out of my teen-aged wisdom teeth took about 30 minutes from anesthesiology to a gauze-packed, incomprehensible speaking voice. When I think of all the bike spills, horse throws and tree falls I endured as a kid, I remind myself how lucky I am. At what point did my bones, joints and muscles start to bark back at me?

So last year, when the outside of my foot had a subtle, nagging pain, I went to a podiatrist. He informed me I had tendonitis. Tendonitis? What? Isn’t that an athletic disease? (All you people who know me can stop snickering now.) With all his years of medical study, years of residency and private practice -- and how does he figure this out? By looking at the bottom of my shoe heels. Thank you, Dr. Scholl.

Apparently, I pronate. Before you think I’m supporting some segment of the porn industry, it just means I roll out on the right side of my foot when I walk, thus putting pressure on the point where tendon meets bone. In defense of Dr. Happy Feet, he did also take x-rays and ordered an MRI on my ankle and foot area to confirm what my shoe heels told him. Not only did it confirm his initial diagnosis, but he believes I had a major – like “oh my gawd my foot” – foot injury in my life that might have weakened it. I know I’m a blonde, but that’s news to me.

He’s not quick to go to surgery, for which I’m very thankful. He exhausts – and below, you’ll see why I use “exhaust” – all options first. The tendonitis diagnosis led to three months of fun-filled foot frolicking:

Month 1. Wrap the foot/ankle and wear a Not-Ferragamo Walking Boot. But it might as well have had a Ferragamo logo on it to go with its $400 price tag. Zero to deductible met in .7 seconds. And on top of that, I found the exact boot on Walgreen’s website later for $70. Nah – there’s no price-gouging that would yield a healthcare crisis.

Month 1 – Part 2. Prescribes a TENS unit. There’s another $200 toward the deductible. TENS stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator – an electrode that attaches to my foot to shock the blood into flowing through my foot. Great…he’s giving this to a blonde who enjoys drinking wine in the evenings.

Month 2. Just walking on the boot is not making it any better. Let’s keep the boot and raise her a pair of crutches. Remember me? The one who’s never had a broken bone? I would have had more coordination in a hip-hop dance class.

Month 2 - Part 2. Prescribes shoe inserts supposedly designed to keep me from rolling out when I walk. Here’s another $300, complements of my healthcare provider. And they don’t work…to this DAY I’m still shaving off the outsides of my heels.

Month 3. Orders for physical therapy. Ten sessions of using my foot to “write” an imaginary alphabet in the air. Ten sessions of doing things with weights and rubber bands on my foot. Ten sessions designed to either (1) make it better or (2) make it worse – either way, it’s supposed to predict the next course of action.

After Month 3, I knew that if none of this worked, my next step would involve surgery. I didn’t need Dr. Metatarcel to tell me that. And quite honestly, my foot’s not in that much pain. So I just abandoned the whole production and decided to play my own doctor. Lose weight; watch how I walk; wear well-made shoes. So far so good.

Oh well, at least my foot does tell me when rain is coming, so that’s a bonus!

MAMMOGRAMS (Or How to Go From Cantaloupe to Crepe in 15 Seconds)

Because of my Mom’s history surviving breast cancer, I’ve had to get annual mammograms since the age of 30. I’m not complaining; it’s uncomfortable and a bit unnerving, but it’s just a fact of life.

But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.

You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.

Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.

Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.

“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.

Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.

Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.

See ya next year, Rocky.

When Did I Reach the Geritol Demographic?

So I’m watching TV. Who are all these new friends I have? Sam Waterston, Wilfred Brimley, Robert Wagner and Sally Field. And why is that aging garage band annoying me with “Viva Viagra?” I’m already feeling my age, due to the genre of advertisements popping up in my current choice of programming: retirement funds, osteoporosis meds, medic alert bracelets, hover-round chairs. Oh yes – and I can also install an easy-bathe tub and shower combo that will accommodate my wheelchair.

Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.

So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.

And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.