Doctor Who Poses Unusual Questions

So, I just finished watching Dr Who The Unicorn and the Wasp (hysterically funny for fans of Agatha Christie, by the way), and I have to say this: if the person who I loved, really and truly, more than anything, revealed to me that he was in fact a giant insect who had taken human form to "learn about us" I would kill him.

I wouldn't be able to help myself.

All ye space insects, ye be warned.

Really, in the words of Allie Brosh--another brilliant author who swears a lot--specifically regarding spiders:

"Sometimes when I express the hatred and fear I feel when I think of spiders, someone will be like "But spiders have families too!!"  Like somehow that will make me become sympathetic and understanding toward spiders.  But that's exactly the point.  Spiders have families and their families are also spiders."

Why I Wore Lingerie to My Colonoscopy

Yes, the parade of doctors have yet to find a reasonable answer, so they assured me that the next step in the chain was a colonoscopy.

PLEASE NOTE: IF YOU READ ON, YOU'RE ASKING FOR IT.

Now, thanks to these health professionals, I have had my nether regions poked and prodded by all sorts of people. I used to think a pap-smear was weird and gross. Now all I can say is "at least things are SUPPOSED to go up there". #1 on the List of Places I Don't Ever Want People's Fingers To Be? Answered last month, and a week after that, and a week after that...

So back to the colonoscopy. I of course realized, when they informed me that my lower intestines were going to make their film debut, that we had only two options for costuming here: either Alien Abduction Victim ('cause I was getting probed) or Prom Night (since my butt was losing its virginity). I was leaning towards Prom Night since it was more fun, but it was settled when I realized how down I've been on myself lately. I am disgusting quite a lot of the time because I just feel too tired or gross to make an effort. And really, I don't know of anything LESS sexy than a colonoscopy. So this was my stand. I may be doing something totally gross, but that does not make me any less of a sexy, sexy, brick-house senorita.

Now, even I am not crazy enough to post a picture of myself in lingerie on my blog, but let's just say that it was medium blue with white polka dots and red ribbons. And that my roommates got to get into it by going with me to get manis/pedis so I could have matching nails. And that I finally got to trot out the 3 inch, net, red heels I've been saving for a special occasion. Ditto the perfume and lotion. I felt like a million bucks.

That was of course before the night before. I feel like it needs to be its own title: "Stay tuned for The Night Before!" After some pretty fabulous advice from my only colonoscopy friend, I booked a night at a hotel, so I could have my own bathroom while the preparatory purges took effect (and brought toilet wipes. Would have died without the toilet wipes). Of course, I was so little looking forward to this stage that I decided to just eat less. Which means I spent from Sunday to Tuesday nights not eating. It's a miracle that everyone survived. But back to the hotel: at first it wasn't so bad. Cable tv, squishy bed, private (and connected) toilet. But the funny thing about laxatives are, they don't stop when there's no more food in your stomach. I began to curse the fact that liquid had ever been invented. I poured out the bottles of soda/water that I had bought "to ensure that you do not suffer from dehydration". I have never been so up close and personal with my stomach acid, and I puke a LOT. There's a sweet little note on the prep sheet: "if irritation is a problem, simply spread some Vaseline on affected areas". If you ever read this and think, like me, that this must not be a problem for most people, have someone hit you in the face, and bring the freaking Vaseline. Believe me.

Fast forwarding past the "Holy *?!#$%, what am I going to do?!" moment, I made it safely to the waiting room the next morning, though, due to check out times, I arrived 3 hours early. Please note, if you ever have to pick somebody up from a colonoscopy and you bring food into the waiting room, you are THE BIGGEST JERK EVER.  Never before have I appreciated what a nicotine addict feels when someone lights up near them. I felt like all those descriptions of vampires hunting by smell and had multiple visions of myself leaping at them, teeth bared and claws extended. Then I went to the restroom to get away from the smell and salivated at all the lovely tap water that I couldn't drink anymore.

When they pulled me into the room, I like that the nurse totally got my rationale of doing un-sexy things in sexy clothes, though she made me change into the paper shorts anyway (after I saw how they had torn them, I was kinda glad she had). They tried to find my veins for forever (ha! good luck with that when I've been off water for 12 hours!) while the doctor tried to find the suitable words to describe the sedative they'd be using. Finally I just looked at him and said "Happy Juice". My happy juice worked wonders at first (spinning rooms are fun) but then they kept asking me to turn over while pumping air into my colon and I all I could think was "PLEASE HEAVEN NO! MY INTESTINES ARE BURSTING!". In fact, the sedative didn't work at all after the first few minutes, particularly not when they were ripping the SIX (count 'em) biopsy samples from my bowel.

After a recovery time that I was completely awake for, they set me down in a room with a cookie basket and told me that I had no tumors. Would have been better news if I hadn't proceeded to throw up the two packets of chocolate cookies I just ate.

Oddly enough, today the sedative was in full force. I had a mild case of couch-lock as I tried to get up this morning (ie. mind on, everything else off). I also understand why they tell you not to use any machinery (including kettles) or sign any legal documents or checks for the next 24 hours (so does my Amazon account. Do I really need that blender?).

Wasn't that bad of an experience, really. I mean, cameras are less invasive than fingers. Still, not wanting to ever do that again.

Update (not interesting)

So I went back to that hospital from last time to hear the analysis of my blood test. If they get any worse, there will literally be a camera following Michael Scott around. I expected Eric Idle or John Cleese every time a new doctor walked out.

On a side note: Rose macaroons=Big-time loser. Ew. On the other hand, almond marshmallow was nice.

It's snowing, and for the first time ever, Tottenham is pretty (and I love getting all sassy and screaming "Cause that's how we DO it in Tottenham!").

So far I love my classes a lot.

Just reread Northanger Abbey: good insight for the super young/immature.

I want to take ribbon climbing classes.

I get to see Sarah (my sister) in Minnesota for half-term! Mexican food, here I come!

On a similar note, Qdoba: You may want to get the nacho cheese ready, cause I'm buying the tub.

All in all, not one of my better mornings.

So this is mostly a gripe post. But then, I feel that this is gripe-worthy.

So a few days ago (Sunday), I got a blister. I really didn't think anything of it--just a blister. Not even bad enough for a band aid. I was, however, pretty concerned about my roommate, who had picked up some virus that left her exhausted, vomiting, and, at one memorable moment, convulsing on the floor.

On Monday, I noticed that my blister was really starting to hurt. Half of it was a water blister, the other half look all weird--it was probably healing already. So I sterilized a needle and very gently squished the water out. That oughta do it. Band-aid! Talked to Lu (flatmate), who still had this whatever-it-was and was actually having a relapsed that night. She said that the first time she started convulsing, she'd gotten really nauseated, then started to pass out, and then was really, really tired, and some of that was happening again. Poor Lulu!

Tuesday I'm out and about and heading for classes, and am just having a really hard time concentrating. Enough so that I finally just ditched Latin at the halfway break. Well, I told the professor that it'd been real, and then I dropped the class (ps, I did this with a lot more tact and charm than it sounds like). I went to my next class and all I could keep thinking was "My foot hurts. My foot really hurts." Afterwards, I pulled off my shoe, and lo and behold, there was a round red spot around the band aid. I had a Dr's appointment the following day anyway (to discuss allergy options, but surely we could squeeze this in), so I went to Covent Garden to meet a friend for dinner. I arrived before she did and as I was waiting, all of the sudden I was sure that I was going to throw up. Badly enough that I started looking for a secluded corner or a sewage drain. In the fresh air that started to pass, but then I was sure that I was going to pass out. I started edging towards the security guards, so they'd take care of me when I did. My friend showed up, we started walking to dinner and I thought "Maybe it's just PMS. After all, my legs are kinda shaky, too, and that's usually a sign."  Had a lovely dinner with her, but right at the end I got tired. TIRED. We parted ways and I barely made it home. I know I went into the bathroom. I know I meant to wash my face. I have no idea if I did it. All I remember was suddenly thinking that I was so tired that it really didn't matter whether or not I had. The only thing I really focused on was washing my foot, because it still hurt and I was worried that it might get infected. This all happened at 8:15pm. I texted my roommate and passed out immediately.

At 2:30 Wednesday morning I woke up because my foot HURT. I tried to move it, or get my mind off it, but it just hurt way too bad. At 3:00 I decided to go to the restroom and had to hop and slink down the banisters so I wouldn't put any pressure on that foot. At 4am I went downstairs and called Medical Advice to see if there was something that I should be doing for my foot. She told me to go to my GP and tell them that I needed to be seen within 24 hours, because it did sound like my foot was infected. I made myself something to eat and then remembered--fasting blood test that morning. I went back upstairs and tried to rest, but I had to be up early anyway for an appointment made weeks ago with a stomach specialist at St. Bart's Hospital. When I got back into bed, I flopped backwards and yelped because it hurt my hip. At 6, when my roommate woke up, she said that she'd read my text last night and it sounded like I'd got what she had (which, by the way, no one knows what it is. The ER that she went to after convulsing told her simply "a virus"). She was attempting to go to work for the first time in a week or so. When I showed her my foot, she said I shouldn't leave the hospital without getting someone to look at it. She left shortly afterwards which is when I attempted to get dressed. Setting my foot on the floor, however, made me scream. I had to put my pants on with one leg resting on the bed. Putting my sock on was an experience not to be repeated, and when I finally hobbled downstairs, I couldn't put my shoe on for 10 minutes. I'm glad that none of my other roommmates were home, because it probably sounded like I was being stabbed. I limped to the bus station, where (naturally) my bus came right before I got there, and then not again for 20 minutes. The bus was packed full, but I had to keep my foot up to keep from dying. About halfway there I wanted to jump out and tell somebody to call me an ambulance. And then vomit. Somehow, I held on until my stop, which was unfortunately still a 10 minute walk away. Then I realized that I wasn't going anywhere on that foot. I finally did call 999, and explained how I was unable to reach the hospital, and they told me that since I wasn't life-threatening, no one would come for an hour or so and I was much better off taking a cab.

I called up a cab company and when I said I needed to go to St Bart's hospital, and he said "That's where you want to go?". Really, what kind of person tosses out the name of a hospital and then is like "Psych! Naw, I want a tea shop."?! He more or less refused to send me a cab because he said I could catch a black and white and it would be quicker. So as I'm desperately trying to stay upright, I hobble out to the curb and wait for 15 minutes until a free cab comes by. Of course, he only takes cash, so we have to do a loop to a cash machine, where I hobble out to get enough to pay him. He did at least drop me as close as he could. Incredibly long walk to Minor Injuries Reception, and no one's there. Finally I threw caution to the wind and decided to get to my appointment first, because the doctor's booked a month in advance. I removed my shoe, and limped across the building, the courtyard, and to an elevator that actually worked. When I got in the technician told me that the doctor was out sick that day, so we'd just take some blood and then I'd get a letter when he could see me again. When he asked me if I fainted at the sight of blood I said yes, just so I could lie down. Since I'd been fasting, my veins were moving at a snail's pace. That, however, gave me time to show him my foot and after that he called a wheelchair for me back to Minor Injury.

I finally got in to see the nurse and he said that since this was an Injury Unit they couldn't do anything about the possible virus, but that yes, my foot was infected, and was currently spreading up my leg, causing the hip (or lymph) pain that I'd been experiencing. He then offered to draw around the red part of my foot, because if it spreads I will need further attention, stat. For now, he gave me a dose of codeine and paracetamol (the British answer for whatever ails you), told me to rest with my foot iced and elevated for at least 48 hours, and gave me 2 different types of antibiotics. One is to be taken 3 times a day and the other 4, and to be taken on an empty stomach only, because food interferes with them (*Side Note: when I worked this out at home, I realized that this means that I can eat only between 10-11am, 2-3pm, 6-7pm, and 10pm-7am). I told him that I was fasting already so I might as well take them now. Then he wheeled me to the hallway so I could call a cab. When the cab arrived, he kept telling me to come out, but finally came in to get my wheelchair and took it to the car. Another cash-only cab, he told me that we'd stop on the way if I could manage it.

About 10 minutes in I realized that I was going throw up. Immediately. So I told him to stop, stop, pull over, pull over and then GOING TO VOMIT! which got his attention. I opened the door and he screamed "Not in the car!", which fyi, was the reason I told him to stop. Just when I had about finished, he told me that the company didn't like "people like this" in the cars, but there was a pharmacy just ahead, so I could go there and get a cab. He ripped my coat, purse and shoe out of the backseat and handed them to me, so I could walk a block to the pharmacy and get him his ("we'll just call it") 10 pounds. Luckily, the paracetamol was taking effect by this time. I got into the pharmacy looking like death served cold, and told the pharmacist that I was sick and my cab had just kicked me out, so could he call me another one and let me buy something so I could get cash back to pay the driver? The guy jumped on the phone, and gave me my cash back, so cab driver #1 could get out of there (he'd driven up and then came in), and then offered me a chair so I could wait until the car came. As we started driving (and after I'd gotten a second batch of cash out for this guy) I told him that I didn't mean to sound like a 3 year old, but I was having a rough morning, and how far away were we? I ended up telling him the whole story, and he was appropriately indignant about the other guy (and I'm just sayin, it's not like I threw up in the car. Rude.). Out of gratitude, I didn't puke my guts up again until after I was dropped off, even though we got caught on a 15 minute detour.

I made it home by 12. All of that managed to happen in the am. Really, not one of my better mornings.

Tangents

Here's how I feel about verbal tangents: when you're just sitting around enjoying a good chat, a tangent is like taking a leisurely stroll in the woods, and wandering down a small path. Why not? It's just as lovely here as on the path. Maybe more so. When you have something important to tell me, its like watching a tv drama: 

Friend: "Oh! I have something I need to to tell you!"

(Detective: "We've identified the missing woman.")

Friend: "It was crazy! So this woman walked into the store..."

(Detective: "And our jane doe is ...")

Friend: "Oh and today my boss was wearing the same sunglasses as my friend Nina!"

(Announcer: "Come on down to Mattressland!")

Friend: "...such a coincidence!..."

(Announcer: "Eat it up! Eat it up! Here at Moe's you'll eat it up!") 

Friend: "...and then she couldn't return them!... 

(Announcer: "those embarrassing itches...") 

Friend: "but getting back to the point, she got arrested!"

(Detective: "Andrea Wheeler.")

Me: "I don't remember why I cared..."

Potty Lessons

Well, I'm a nanny and for my kids, lately it's all been about the potty.

D's big news is that he can now pee standing up! It's a great moment for him. Meanwhile, while we were discussing the bathroom, his sister turned to me and said "Mommy doesn't like pee on her floor". All I could respond was "Well, that's fair." Getting to the potty in time is a big issue in this house...for both of them.

Meanwhile, H is just learning to use the potty, so he likes to sit on it, but just as a nice place to read.  If I ask him what it's name is, he says "poo-poos". And yet it's still his favorite place to store his toys...

Lastly, Liz's family came over to pick up her bed and stuff, and after their young daughter used the potty, she told me "the toilet is the right place to pee". Seems that her family had been camping quite a bit this summer, and she was starting to believe that peeing in trees/jars was perfectly normal. They're starting a retraining program with her.

As a side note, I used to hate it when people told me to "go potty before we leave" because it sounded so babyish. Now when I ask people where the restroom is, it comes out something like "where's the po...oh...um...toilet."

Things I Don't Want To Think About

You'd think that NOT talking about things would make them better, wouldn't you? Well, you'd be wrong. As they say, what hasn't begun can never end. Besides, I find that expressing myself usually helps. So, the list features:

-I feel really jiggly because I've been gorging myself for a week.

-My tv is now on its way to Utah as payment for fostering my cat.

-My roommate is now her way to Utah because she wants she see this guy that's she marrying in 2 weeks.

-A rather long time ago, I drilled 2 rather large holes in the wall to hold the tv, before remembering that tv mounts and indeed, screws of any kind, are specifically mentioned in my contract in the "You May NOT" section. I now am staring at those 2 holes.

-I need to find a buyer for my car (and hopefully not one who's going to turn out to be the next Craigslist killer).

-I'm going to have to clean this place top to bottom in a month.

-I'm going to need to dispose of all my stuff with the month (including some things that I like but just don't have room for).

-Shoes, my poor shoes...

-I need to find a roommate/place to live where I won't a) go crazy or b) drive anybody else crazy.

See now? Getting all those out made me see the nice things clearer. It's great to have a good vent.