Split Knee Caps and Post-Mortem Birthdays // Putting the Spite in Despite

Yesterday I found out I have a split knee cap. I will have an MRI done this Sunday to further investigate and see if I have good cartilage. This will help determine whether or not surgery will be worth it. (They'll be consulting with a trauma surgeon.) Given my condition, surgery might be a waste as it could be a recurring problem. Fearing another ruptured tendon seems stupid now, given that I wish it were now my problem. The grass is always greener elsewhere...

I am unclear as to how I injured my knee this way. My new doctor noted that isn't unusual, given my lack of/poor level of sensation in my legs. Neuropathy is a mixed blessing. However, I'm still managing pain in the aftermath of the injury. Walking is not easy. I've been doing modified moves in my swim classes. I would prefer not to add "chronic pain" to my already long list of conditions.

The doctor was very nice and is helping me set up my own "mini clinic" within the hospital for the various problems I have with my spina bifida. As he noted, people with SB have great care until they're 18, then it tends to fall off the map. Truth. (In all fairness I let it fall off the map because I am/was exhausted by dealing with it.) He also recommended that I get Canadian crutches. Kind of resisting because I am already sick of looking like the poster child for being a crip... I can only grin and take so much. Right now, I'm not even interested in color coordinating them with my clothes.

So, like the doctor said, more questions and less answers as of right now. It's never cut and dry for me. Mobility is always the end goal. Preserving my half-ass situation. I feel like the boat that keeps springing leaks...

Yesterday was also my late dad's 57th birthday. Speaking of things that never get easier, that tops the list. This year marks 25 years since his passing.

Though I had my good cry yesterday (and I feel it was completely justified given all that yesterday was) I am hanging onto the aire of mystery that will linger until after the MRI. (Heck, maybe longer.) Here's hoping, like the X-rays of the rest of my affected areas showed, that I'm in pretty good condition despite my long list of issues. Fortunately, it still feels easier to push despair away because I've got too much to do than expend all of my energy tending to my health and emotions. I'm far more interested in fighting for what I have left than pissing and moaning about what I don't.

I'm not the poster child for being a happy gimp. I hate my situation. I'd trade many things (but not everything) to change it if given the opportunity. Everyone deals with their health in different ways, and my way isn't to be the smiling inspirational speaker that tells you that you can overcome any obstacle you set your mind to. I've never been one to happily accept being force-fed this situation. My way is to say f*ck this, and to put the "spite" in despite. I do things despite my health, despite the fact that I wasn't supposed to be able to, and despite the things thrown at me. Any chance I have to spite my poor health, I take it.

Maybe it's more socially acceptable for people to say "you can do it!" rather than "f*ck this". However, social acceptability seems more of an enemy when your own body goes against the norm, and you have no choice in the matter.

Back to Glam // When You Look Good, You Feel Good

One of my favorite brands is Laura Mercier. I heard about the brand and its products and techniques through a male makeup artist at my friend's wedding several years ago. (Hence my love of male makeup artists!) A few months later, I managed to scrap together some extra cash from my student job wages and headed to Macy's at Stanford Mall to try a few of the products. Between the excellent service I received that day and the quality of the products, I was hooked. While my love of beauty products knows no bounds, Laura Mercier is one of the staples in my makeup bag and a brand to which I remain loyal.

Something I admire about the company aside from its products is its mission to give back. The Laura Mercier Ovarian Cancer Fund was established to raise funds for awareness and research through the sale of a few select products on their website, and 100% of the proceeds from the sales of these designated products go directly to the fund. One of these products is the Bonne Minne Healthy Glow palette. This palette has been cited as a product that helps women struggling with the side effects of chemo to get their healthy glow back. Having lost someone in my age group to ovarian cancer, I am grateful to any person or company raising awareness for this particular disease.

While my health struggles are vastly different, what I can relate to -irrespective of ailment- is the search for normalcy in your day. Makeup and clothing bring me a sense of normalcy that disability can sometimes destroy. I've learned that it's OK to hang onto whatever brings you joy in the moment and whatever makes you feel good despite your daily challenges. I've detached the guilt I once felt about the joy that makeup brought me as there's no frivolity in taking care of yourself. Having a routine helps me cope with changes in my health, and putting on my makeup is part of that routine.

Recently, my mother entered a contest on Laura Mercier's Facebook page which put a call out for stories about inspirational women. My mother, never one to believe that contests odds are stacked in her favor, wrote about my health struggles and how I inspire her because of what I have been through (and mentioned that I have her hooked on the products as well). Much to our surprise, she won! Last week I received my treats.

I received a "stickgloss lip color" in the shade Brown Sugar. The site aptly describes the color as a "wearable-pink-brown". As sheer, yet buildable, as the coverage is, I would also say this dusty color leans a bit mauve-purple. This color and formula is exactly what I like to wear, and it's a perfect nude/my-lips-but-better shade. I also received a lip pencil in the shade Hazelnut Tea, which is described as a "neutral-beige-pink". While this looks to be an accurate description in the swatch below, on my lips it pulls very tan, so I'll have to play with this one a bit.

All in all, I am completely happy with the products I received. I am really touched that my mom nominated me, and that they chose me. What the company perhaps didn't know when they chose my mom's entry is what an inspiration she is to me. Not only has my mother been by my side for each and every health struggle, but she did so alone after my father's death when I was 7. My mother taught me how to be strong and independent, and I couldn't have become the woman she described if it weren't for her guidance.

Currently, this blog has only one other post about Laura Mercier products, and it was a deluxe sample that I did not enjoy. To rectify this situation and to properly convey my love for this brand, I will be blogging about a beloved Laura Mercier product each Monday in June. Hope to see you back here for "Mercier Mondays"!

To the Stumps // On Deciding to Keep My Toes

I'm keeping my toes for now, but it begs the question: what shoe size would I be if I didn't?

Tomorrow I'm having "surgery" to drain an abscess of fluid from the left foot. I suppose it's technically a surgery since it will be done in an operating room, though I have requested to skip the anesthesia since I have little to no feeling in my foot. They're hesitant to use the PICC line for anesthesia (no one wants to touch it if they're not in charge of it...fine by me) and I have terrible veins. At my recent MRI, they literally had to give up looking for a vein. Literally, the thought of stabbing around for a vein frightens me more than taking a scalpel to my foot as I watch.

The doctor was unwilling to "just take a syringe and stab" as I had suggested, and opted to do the procedure in a clean operating room to minimize the risk of airborne diseases. You know, the common sense way of doing things. From my understanding, the incision should be small and minor. The doctor is aware of my unwillingness to stay off of the foot, so it's not something I'm planning on doing and he seems fine with that. Many of our conversations revolve around the phrase "but in your situation..." I've met the guy twice and he already gets that there are different rules to my game, and I'm not always making them. The game requires much strategy and many workarounds. C'est la vie.

On a much more serious note, he gave me some foot for thought for a long term strategy: transmetatarsal amputation, or a partial foot amputation. Just taking the one infected toe is not a long-term option, as the rest of the toes would break down within 3 years. Instead, they would take all toes and part of the foot. This would require staying off of my foot completely for about 6 weeks, depending on how I heal. If I do not, the foot will pop open "like an alligator mouth" as he put it, and expose the remaining tissue and bone. (Thanks for the nightmares, doc.) A wound vac device assists with the healing process of this procedure so that the skin will close around the foot.

Only a few things sway me into the direction of this: for one, it would irradiate the infection I've long struggled with. (In the left foot. Bear in mind, my right foot is only taking its turn being good. It's taken its share of turns being bad.) For another, should my foot become infected in a more serious incident than I've ever dealt with before and my entire foot needs to be amputated, a prosthetic requires 50% more energy in order to get around. With the partial foot, I would only need 14% more energy to get around. (These are his numbers.) Finally, I have to wonder if half a "normal" foot would be better to look at than an entire dilapidated one. Those who only play by practical rules might question why aesthetics comes into play at all but believe you me, say the words Manolo Blahnik and you can take both feet, no questions asked. Try having a penchant for fashion without being able to express it on your feet. It's like waving scotch in front of a recovering alcoholic.

Right now, the NO tally has many more checkmarks, and my doctor has emphasized that he knows it is a big decision and that it's mine to make. For one thing, I already exert more energy than the average person to get around. I won't know how much energy I will have to exert after amputation until I cross that bridge-if I ever do. For another, I've already lived with these conditions longer than I've lived without them and with each new doctor I meet, their words are always that I'm in "better condition than I should be given my situation". I'm always being told how things COULD have gone, rather than how they have. Taking care of my health has not always been at the top of my list, so I realize that this is a major streak of luck. However, playing my game by my rules has served me thus far. Who's to say that I won't get another 30 years out of this foot? Because I haven't yet met a medical Nostradamus, I'm willing to take the "risk" of my status quo. Finally, where surgery is involved my body doesn't seem to like to play by any rules at all. The doctor could tell me how the procedure and recovery will go, but there is no promise that this is how it will play out for me. In fact out of 12 surgeries, I can think of approximately zero that left me without other things to deal with. As it is I'm just bracing myself for tomorrow.

As is my surgery ritual, I'm making a list of terms to give to the surgeon before we begin tomorrow: that I am not staying off of this foot and that I will be going to Houston as planned in two weeks. No anesthesia unless absolutely necessary. Because refusing anesthesia seems like a normal thing to do, right? My mother likes to recall how she would be weepy in the waiting room as they wheeled me into each surgery when I was a child, but that she could hear me barking orders all the way into the operating room. I guess times haven't changed. Hey, if a kid tells you to leave the pain medication button off of the IV, leave it off. Sometimes well-meaning moms press it in the middle of the night and you're left wide awake with a stinging hand.

It is impossible for me (or likely anyone else in my family) to read this without thinking of my great Aunt Doris. Osteomyelitis was one of the many thing she struggled with growing up, so I had that in common with her. Multiple surgeries, hospital stays that stretched into months, and two parents who, for some unknown reason, refused amputation at a time when doctors were rarely questioned. As a result, she turned into a 4'10" powerhouse who practiced holistic medicine and died in her 80s with all ten fingers and toes attached. I don't often have the luxury of looking to others to see how my situation might go...it's always a crapshoot. But she wasn't just somebody else. She was the person who taught me that the power to make my own medical decisions was indeed mine, and that there are more options than the ones presented to me. I might not ever be able to eschew refined sugars and poultry or any of the other extreme things that she did for her health, but whenever I make a decision that benefits my health I know it is because she empowered me (and many others in my family). She is definitely a guiding force each time I mull over these types of decisions.

I don't believe it was any coincidence that a gift from her presented itself on my doorstep this week. My great Aunt Peggy (her sister) had found a book with my name on it (written in her handwriting) among her belongings after she died a few years ago that she had meant to send to me, but never did. It was a book in German that she had likely picked up for me when I was studying it as a minor in college. To have something from Aunt Doris show up this week was a Godsend. To have it be an item that speaks to who I am, a wanderer, at a time when I really want to run but don't have the ability gives me hope. Between that and having to undergo just one more thing at a time when my patience is at capacity, I've already started planning another adventure. My life feels a little like quicksand: I have to keep moving, or else I am doomed.

Today, my toes are mine. I plan on keeping them for as long as I want them. I'm already slow enough, so I refuse to "slow down". My motto about my legs has always been run them down to stumps. 

Friends Don't Let Friends Shoot Up Alone // On Being Sick in Palo Alto

Pratik was out of town at a conference last week. He offered to cancel due to my PICC line, but I insisted he keep his plans. I'm determined to do my own treatment, much as I hate it. I was really upset when I had to call him from work due to Faint Gate 2014, so I was insistent that he attend the conference as planned. (Plus, Hillary Clinton was the keynote speaker. He loves the Clintons, and I couldn't let him miss that.) His work is important to him. I don't feel like I come in second to it, but I do know that his work/company/passion is equally as important to me. I'm ever the independent one- I'm not bothered by his long hours and attachment to technology. Something I appreciate about our relationship is that we both value not only our own independence, but we value each other's independence. We like to see each other thrive in our own interests (for lack of a better word. Hope this doesn't turn into the time I told him I liked to watch him "tinker" at the lab during his PhD studies...apparently not a great choice of phrase).

Due to The Fainting Incident, we asked our good friends C+E to be on standby in case of emergency. I was still confident that despite the incident, I could carry on doing treatment myself. However, I just wanted to make sure someone knew they might receive a "hey, I fainted" phone call.

Our friends went above and beyond--they called every day, provided me with dinner (and chocolate) twice, and even let me shoot up at their house in the dining room window in full view of the neighborhood. Friends don't let friends shoot up alone.  They really went out of their way to check in on me. Really, I shouldn't be surprised...it's the kind of people they are. They aren't satisfied with a simple phone call to make sure you're not unconscious on the floor. They want to know you're alive AND well. They want to make sure you've got a meal and that you're in good health. I don't often "take the help", but I'm trying to do so before I corner myself into another situation. If there's anyone that can make you feel at ease about accepting help, it would be C+E.

What I love most about them (always have) is their tongue-in-cheek attitude about Palo Alto. They were the first permanent residents of this town that I got to know well, and they completely acknowledge and embrace PA's wackiness. When I first moved here, I felt out of place. (When you're living in an apartment a mile away from the home of Steve Jobs and parking your 1999 vehicle next to a Maserati, it's impossible to ignore how surreal the situation is.) Ironic, because I never felt like I fit in in my own hometown. I fled to California because I'd always felt it was where I'd belong. In moving to Palo Alto, however, I quickly began to feel out of place again. I wasn't quite sure how I'd traversed my life to get from rural Michigan to here but I was certain that, despite being well-traveled, I had "fraud" written all over my face and that this writing was only visible to Palo Alto's elite. The feeling wasn't totally based on our own socioeconomics. It was more that blatant wealth combined with being a hub for some of the world's greatest innovators has created a culture more foreign to me than any I'd ever experienced abroad.

Because of C+E's acknowledgement of the "surreal life" of Palo Alto, I began to realize that not everyone lives in the bubble. I loved the way they described raising their kids here, avoiding the entitlement pitfalls that come with the territory of one's high school being adjacent to Stanford campus. I loved the way they embraced who their kids really are and didn't make them fit into the same Silicon Valley mould many parents here seem intent on shaping their kids with. I loved their hilarious tales about how their neighborhood has evolved over the years, and most of all I love that they flat out say: this town is weird. And they don't just stop at saying it: E details Palo Alto's wackiest news stories and police blotter blurbs in their yearly family newsletter. I credit them with helping me feel at home here. It seems that this is a place for my brand of weird, too.

There's more to the Silicon Valley than being the epicenter for the shit you see on the news...there's the rest of us that have to live in its wake. We think it's effed up, too. Yesterday I was passed by a Ferrari. While it may never cease to be surreal seeing such a thing of material beauty up close, I was at peace with it. I may be accustomed to doing the passing (after all, you can overtake a John Deere in pretty much anything with a gas pedal), but I was at peace with letting the Ferrari get ahead of me. Because my 2011 Mini Cooper and I live here, too.

California has been so good for my health. I kiss the ground of the land of the fruit and nuts because not only is it thawed (everyday!), it doesn't pose a threat to me as I walk. I no longer have shooting pains in my leg from the cold air and a tensed gait as I ease my way across the ice. Even though I dreamed of ending up here, I am still bewildered that it came true. Bewildered, but eternally grateful. The weather lets me maintain my independence. I may feel like I belong here because I elbowed my way in, but my legs are all the more appreciative that I did.

And after all, no matter where you live, there's always something screwy going on to judge the neighbors for. Am I right? And we all take turns being that neighbor...sometimes we're that neighbor with the Ferrari, and sometimes we're that neighbor in her pajamas teetering on a cane while trying to pick up dog crap in a plastic bag as IV tubes dangle out from under her PJ sleeve...


Thank you, C+E, for always being such great friends to us. Thank you for going above and beyond the call of duty last week. Thank you for making us feel at home here and for being like family. My experience here has been enriched because of the two of you. Thank you for being, as it was put, "the nice family".

And above all, thanks for the chocolate when all I expected was triage!

So Much for Bravery // Revocation of My Big Girl Panties

It should be noted that two posts ago, my plan was to stay in Michigan for 6 weeks of PICC line treatment. To make a long story short, that plan was aborted and I am currently home with my husband in California. Given that I am writing this with the sun pouring into my open patio door, I'm going to make a hashmark in the silver linings category.

My geography sets the stage for my telling of yesterday's adventure in misplaced bravery. My husband is self-employed and works for the company he founded, so he works very long hours. Because I've gone into this PICC line treatment with guns blazing, I was determined to both maintain my independent lifestyle and not burden him with the administration of my new routine. As I said, physical repulsion to the PICC line is really my only hurdle at this point. Because I knew that I was eventually able to take care of my last PICC line myself, even if only for a few weeks, I was confident that I could handle it myself this time.

Yesterday, my big girl panties were revoked and replaced by a pair of Underoos. 

On Tuesday I had gone over the home medication routine with my home nurse, who comes once a week. She taught me my new routine and made an appointment to see me next week, at which time she'll be changing the dressing over my PICC line. I was able to administer all of the meds myself as she watched and instructed me.

Yesterday while home alone, I took the meds out of the fridge as I made myself lunch. I let them come to room temperature as instructed and began setting up for my treatment after I ate. Like a modern moron, I even Instagrammed my setup. I began with the saline flush. This is when things started to go downhill.



I noticed an air bubble in the line of my IV. While I know this isn't a HUGE deal, and I know that I removed the air from my saline flush as instructed, I started to panic a little. I collected myself, and kept going with my treatment. I started to feel a little uneasy, so I did what any self respecting adult would do:

I called my mommy.

My mom was happy to talk me through the process even from 2,500 miles away. I knew I could do it, but I just felt like crying for no reason. And even though I wasn't crying, I still felt uneasy. I finished the saline flush as my mom and I were chatting and hooked up the antibiotics.

My particular medication comes in a syringe, rather than a bag, and has to be administered through the line over a 3-5 minute period. I administered some of the medication, still chatting away with my mom, but I still wasn't feeling better. The prickly sensation of nausea was still coming over me in small waves. Having fainted only twice in my life, doing so seemed a far-fetched prospect to me. Denying the possibility to myself was as important as denying it to the person sitting at the other end of the line. If I just keep talking and saying how ridiculous it is that I feel this way after already treating myself yesterday, I can get through this. As we chatted I thought to myself "I'm probably just going to throw up or something at some point..."

And that is when ground control lost connection with Major Tom...

The next thing I remember, I heard my mother's voice coming through saying "Lindsie...talk to me..." I remember not wanting to get up for school, until I realized I was face first on my kitchen table covered in sweat. A box of chive crackers came into view, and I declared that I'd just passed out (duh), a declaration made based on my false presumption that I had slipped out of consciousness in relative silence. According to my poor mother, I had moaned several times and sounded like I was in horrendous pain. Though I don't remember making such sounds (after all, trees falling in the forest don't make sounds...especially when they're ladies) I do remember asking for my husband, whom she got in contact with immediately. He was on his way to an important meeting and dropped everything to come check on me, with my mom on standby on the phone until he got there. How embarrassing.

I know that's what family is for. I know I would do the same for my family, given the circumstances. However, when you faint on the phone with your mom 2,500 miles away and call your husband away from an important business meeting because you couldn't handle a simple IV...you feel like a moron no matter what they tell you.

A few weeks ago when the wonderful Phillip Seymour Hoffman died, my family and I noted the ridiculousness of the media reports stating that he had died of an "apparent" drug overdose as he was found with a syringe in his arm. An awful way for such a talented man to go, to be sure, but wasn't the use of the word "apparent" overkill? "What else could it have been?" we scoffed. As I struggled to maintain consciousness as my mom and I waited for my husband to arrive, I briefly toyed with seeing if my upstairs neighbor (or any human, as my dog was quite oblivious to the situation) would sit with me, until I realized that a half-conscious, unshowered person with various tubes and syringes hanging off of her would probably be a frightening sight to an unsuspecting neighbor! I can only pray that no one looked through the window and saw the scene taking place in my dining room. As it turns out, a person slumped over and unconscious with stray syringes might not be in an "apparent" situation! Though I did always admire heroine chic in the 90s, it's safe to say that vasovagal responses, and cupcakes, stand in my way of achieving the look.

Today, I feel 80% confident that I can carry on. I feel grateful for the ability to see the humor in everything, even if this transfer habit gives me false confidence and stifles my anger. New plan of action? Wait until the husband gets home to do my meds...at least for a little while!

This isn't the worst thing in the world // My PICC Line

There is little you can do to me, medically speaking, that scares me.  IVs are probably the top of the list ranking even over injections (a breeze), dental work (bitch, please), and blood draws (temporary setback). So having to live with a PICC line for the next six weeks is not only daunting for me...I find it a downright disgusting prospect.

What's a PICC line? Quickly, so that I do not pass out while typing, PICC stands for peripherally inserted central catheter. (Gagging.) Basically, it's an IV that can be used for a longer period of time than a standard IV, and goes farther into the vein toward the heart for faster dispersal of medication. (Gagging and fidgeting my arm.) It is located on the inside of my left arm. The catheter hangs out of my arm 3 centimeters and is held in place with a stitch and covered by clear bandages. I have extensions on the catheter so that I am able to administer the medication myself. All of this is covered by a gauze arm cover in order to help protect it.

Why do I have it? Briefly, this is to combat a bone infection of the left foot. I had a PICC line 6 years ago to combat the same diagnosis in the right foot, and it was successful. Having the PICC line 6 years ago helped me be much less anxious about my current one. I knew what to expect, and in fact my medication regimen is far simpler than it was 6 years ago as it is being treated with a different antibiotic. While the doctor estimates I will be doing this PICC line for 6 weeks, my last one was nearly 3 months.

I had the PICC inserted on Tuesday. While I couldn't have watched the process even if I wanted to (the view was blocked by a blue sterile cloth), I can tell you that any pain or discomfort I have or had with the process is 90% mental. I have terrible veins, but because they used an ultrasound to locate a viable vein, they did not have to poke me repeatedly as they normally do. I was given a few injections of local anesthetic, but I cannot tell you exactly how many as it wasn't even a big deal. (I think 2?) In fact, other than inserting the catheter and stitching it down, I cannot tell you much else that went down. There were other small things, like stretching the skin slightly to make sure that the opening was large enough for the catheter, but for as awful as it sounds I barely remember it.

Do good writers relay every small detail with colorful descriptions? Yes. However, I was breathing and meditating my way through this entire process. As I said, this was 90% mental anxiety, 10% physical discomfort. (I wouldn't even call it pain.) Anything to do with veins positively revolts me. That being said, I have moved, shifted, swallowed, and taken many deep breaths just trying to write what I have thus far. My biggest problem is that I'm grossed out.

I have two mental hurdles with this PICC line, and one was getting it placed. Now that that's over, my next battle over the next six weeks is repulsion. With my first PICC line, I was repulsed to the point of barely moving my arm for several weeks and had difficulty sleeping. My first experience equipped me with a better frame of reference: I knew that I eventually got used to (as much as I could) my last line. I knew that during the last few weeks of treatment, I was able to finally administer the meds myself. (My husband did them EVERY DAY for nearly 3 months for me because I could hardly stand to look at it, let alone move.) This time, I hit the ground running: I met with the home nurse solo in order to learn how to administer the meds myself. Success.

I think about the actual problem very little. As with most things, this is probably a mixed blessing. Because I am so mentally preoccupied with being revolted by this setup in my arm, I'm hardly worried about healing. This is probably because 'healing' is a relative term for me. I'll never be 'NORMAL' (everyone's favorite word). I only get to swing for the fences of normal (harder than most people do) and hope that I'm actually playing baseball because it looks like there's a ball coming my way. (OMG, this is my first sports analogy.) And then once we figure out what sport I'm playing, I'm the alternate on the bench of NORMAL. This is my medical calling. And I'm only slightly less angry about it than I used to be. That's a start. 

I have no feeling (neuropathy) in my feet, so I am luckily not plagued with physical pain. (Another mixed blessing.) For this reason, I bow down to anyone who has dealt with BIGGER medical issues. Is it helpful to remind people enduring medical issues that other people have bigger problems, so they should be grateful for the ones they have? No. However, this is a realization I came to myself for this particular issue. There are worse things I could be dealing with. And people enduring those issues look to someone else and think about how their own situations could be worse, and thus the cycle continues. When we come to this thought process ourselves the empathy helps us endure. Perhaps this is slightly selfish, but anyone going through medical drudgery would wish it upon very few people. If someone can look at me and feel better about that root canal they have next week, more power to them, because I'm thanking my lucky stars I'm not enduring the chemo the other patients in the infusion center were getting. I don't get a gold star of martyrdom for feeling for them, I am in their debt that their burden made mine look simple.

We all have problems, and this is mine. And this isn't the worst thing in the world. You could compare it to some issues and it could look extreme, while it could look minuscule in comparison to the plight of someone else. Either thank your lucky stars you're not me today, or scoff at my adversity. Today, I'm feeling a bit better than I was in my last post. But that won't stop me from medicating with cupcakes and retail, nor does it guarantee I will maintain this relatively positive attitude.

Health & Beauty // When Health is Poor

Things are decidedly unglamorous in my life at the moment. While good bloggers manage to have streamlined (and, you know, new) content and themes to their blogs, I'm about to get a little rogue with my own. It's my blog and I'll go rogue if I want to. We'll just file it under "Poor Health & Beauty".

To condense over 30 years of health history into a sentence: I have a form of spina bifida that inhibits my mobility and has caused several "side effects" that have become greater problems than the actual SB. Currently, I am dealing with another round of bone infection (osteomyelitis) in my left foot, which got into my foot via a 25 year old open ulcer on the bottom of my foot. Which was caused by a cast that I had on after a leg surgery when I was 7. A leg surgery that was necessary because of the SB. This is generally how my biggest problems occur: the snowball method. 

In the past, I was very hesitant to discuss my medical issues with people. Of course, most of this occurred during the formative years where "blending in" was the main mode of survival. Gimpy kids don't get the benefit of blending in. My next survival method was silence. I only discussed my health problems with a small group of close friends. (People I still call friends today.)

I used to be embarrassed about my issues. I also was afraid of "oversharing" or people thinking I was a hypochondriac. Perhaps the Facebook age of oversharing has cured me of this. Perhaps it is becoming a bit "older & wiser" that has made me want to open up. I could say that I want to open up in the event that it helps "just one person", but at this point that one person is just me. I am hoping for some healing and outlet through sharing on the journey I am about to embark on. And if I can cough out a post or 2 on lipstick to keep this ship of dreams alive, we'll be all the more glamorous for it.

While this is not my first time at the osteomyelitis rodeo, this marks the second time in which I will be getting treatment via a PICC line. This IV port will be in my arm for 6 weeks so that I can receive fluid antibiotics in hopes that it will rid the bone of infection. The first time I had this done (for my right foot) was successful. My hope is that my experience will be similar, though my benchmark of "normal" is not the same as the average person.
The side effects of just maintaining the current infection are numerous: other sites become infected, oral antibiotics give nasty side effects, and the topper: a piece of bone broke off of my metatarsal and shot out of my foot ulcer like a cannonball. It currently lives in a Ziploc bag. (To answer your question: I am fucking serious.)
To complicate matters, I am currently visiting my mother in my home state of Michigan. While luckily I have a doctor here that has known me for several years, I make my home in California with my husband. Due to the severity of my symptoms (and the extreme severity of anxiety I am having), I made the difficult decision to stay in snowy Michigan for the six weeks of treatment. On the plus side, this will expedite the process as the hospital is small. The first available appointment I could have had with my doctor in California was next week, and that was no guarantee of getting the treatment started same day, if at all. (Isn't it just like a doctor to dink around questioning the orders of another doctor? At least, that was my previous experience!)
On the downside, of course, is the fact that I've left my husband and home in California behind. This is compounded by the fact that I have only been home for 3 days since Thanksgiving having spent 2 weeks in Taipei (an old haunt) and then to Michigan for Christmas. Because of the increasing difficulty with my foot, I put off going back to California twice because of my inability to board an airplane with an inflamed foot. The guilt I feel for leaving my home and family in California is that much greater as I spent so much time on myself in November and December. Complicating matters is everyone's friend: anxiety. Every time I think I have a plan in motion, I second guess myself. To be honest, the anxiety is more crippling than being crippled...
Yesterday I was brave. Today, I am running on fumes having had little sleep. Tomorrow I look forward to the arrival of my husband who will escort me to my PICC line insertion. I will do my best to stick with a plan and not let 55 plans run through my head (one of which includes running away to avoid treatment). But for now, I am exhausted, devastated, and though I hate to admit it, scared.
Today I am in: basket case mode.