Do you remember Eric? My Internet boyfriend in publishing? The one who sends me books that I read and then send you all flocking to Amazon to purchase? Well, he struck again.
This time he sent me one that has prevented a decent night's sleep since I finished it. Horrorstor by Grady Hendrix is a strange mix of Ikea knock-off catalog, workplace satire, and haunted house ghost story.
According to the Quirk Books website, "Something strange is happening at the Cuyahoga location of Orsk, the all-American furniture superstore in Scandinavian drag whose forward-thinking slogan promises 'a better life for everyone.' Each morning, employes arrive to find broken Kjerring bookshelves, shattered Glans glassware, and vandalized Liripip wardrobes- clearly, someone or something is up to no good. To unravel the mystery, five employees are to spend a long dusk-till-dawn shift at the store, unaware of the darkness that awaits them."
The day it came in the mail I had to have my eyes dilated so I only got through about 1 chapter before having to give up what with all the light and movement and me looking like something out of a Japanese horror movie. Now I think it may have been a premonition.
This is one of those books that I really wanted to quit reading but couldn't. From the first, the layout of the catalog/novel intrigued me. Shopping while reading? Yes, please. But flipping through the illustrations quickly left me feeling a bit uneasy. Something just wasn't right, so I dove in and couldn't put it down. Heebie-jeebies abounded. And to be entirely honest there were about 2 pages I had to skim to keep from gagging (just remembering those pages makes my gorge rise).
The setting was meticulously mapped out (including an actual map which was a godsend for people visually inclined like yours truly). The characters were all relatable if often irritating- much like the people we all work with. The story was intriguing and unsettling. The illustrations, doubly so. The end result? I have never and now will never set foot in an Ikea (or Orsk, should they ever come into actual existence).
While Horrostor is available from Amazon for your e-reader, I highly suggest picking this one up in the physical form. The book hits shelves on September 23rd but is available for pre-order now.
Showing posts with label Scary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scary. Show all posts
August 27, 2014
December 27, 2012
They don't pay me enough for this.
As you may recall this blog once went by the title Confessions of a City Gal. It was the documentation of my slow but sure progression from a dyed in the wool city girl to a down the dirt road farm wife. I'm pretty sure my header read something like, "One chicken, goat, casserole, and stomach bug at a time." Well, today I have achieved a FarmWife necessity. I learned to drive a tractor. Not at all by choice, let me tell you.
My neck, still sore from my free fall out intonothing snow, needed some TLC this afternoon. As Husband readied himself for work, I readied myself for R&R. Advil, a warm buckwheat stuffed heart, blankets, and Lord of the Rings on DVD were all gathered as I hunkered down on the couch hoping to catch a few naps. Husband kissed us all goodbye and headed out into the snow with my cell phone in hand. 10 minutes later the phone rang. Husband's van was stuck in the snow a little over a mile down the road.
He tromped up to a neighbor's house to call his folks. His dad had already left for work meaning there was no one to help pull him out. He headed down the road towards our house only to be picked up by a guy in a truck who dropped him off at our drive. He came in, changed into coveralls, and told me to pack the kids up. We were going to rescue the van.
After dropping the kids off at his mom's we headed to the barn to start up the tractor. The tractor had other ideas. Ideas like sitting in the cold barn and not going anywhere. Husband grabbed the starter fluid and showed me where to spray it. Unfortunately it was empty. We tromped through the snow to the old barn to get another can of starter fluid from the new tractor. Then back to the new barn and the old tractor and tried again to no avail. Back to the old barn and new tractor only to discover Husband has no idea how the new tractor works and it's battery is dead and hasn't been hooked up to the charger as FIL had told Husband it had. Back to the old barn with the battery charger in tow. 30 minutes into the adventure he finally got a tractor started.
That's when the fun began. You see, FIL's old tractor is a 1970's Deutz open cab tractor. Open cab. As in a seat totally exposed to the elements. And seat as in one seat. Not two. It was 32 degrees outside so I knew I was in for a cold mile jaunt down the road. Much like driving a convertible in the snow. A convertible with only one seat and no doors. A convertible that smells like cow pies and diesel fumes. What I didn't know was that Husband thought the best way for me to ride behind him was by standing on the hitch tongue on the back of the tractor. It's a metal piece about a foot long and about 6 inches wide. It also moves somewhat freely. "Stand here, put your other foot on this bar to steady yourself, and hold on to the seat back," he tells me. "Try not to hit any bumps," I replied realizing I was basically surfing behind a giant piece of machinery down a road covered in snow, ice, and mud. I do not surf. In fact, I have the balance and physical grace of a new born giraffe.
Husband thought I'd be warmer behind him than perched up on one of the fenders. He may have been right, but I only know I will never ever ever be persuaded to stand on the hitch of a tractor again. I don't care if that's the only way to avoid a herd of hungry zombies. I'll take my chances with the undead. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I'm pretty sure I cried a full quarter mile of the trip back to the old van. It was unsteady, exposed, and so cold I couldn't feel my fingers to be sure I was still holding on to the seat properly as we jostled down a rutted, potholed road not visited by a road grader in far too long. When we had to turn around on a lease road and back the tractor toward the van, I flat refused to go another inch clutching to the back of that beast. Instead I walked/jogged the 1/4 mile from the lease road to our van.
By that time another man with a back hoe was by the van. He helped Husband hook up the chain and pull it back off the snow bank he'd pulled down the road with him. As soon as the van was unstuck, Husband realized we couldn't get the tractor, the back hoe, and our van down the same 1 lane cut in the road. I was standing behind the van when the back hoe driver asked if I was having fun. "I don't remember this being in the wedding vows. I knew I was marrying a country boy, but no one warned me about this kind of stuff." Husband hops out of our van and says, "Babe, do you know how to drive this tractor?" I laughed in his face.
45 seconds of instruction later and I was driving the tractor down the gravel road between 2 foot drifts of snow and slush so Husband and the other guy could maneuver the other vehicles around each other. Husband put the tractor in 2nd gear so I couldn't go very fast and told me to stay in the tracks in the road. The only time that 1 mile trip down the road has ever been longer was when I was standing on the hitch on the way down. Cold made colder still by the constant wind I was creating driving down a frozen country road.
Husband backed the van all the way down the road because he figured it would do better with the rear wheel drive if he didn't turn it around. By the time I made it back to his Mom's driveway he'd driven the old van home and jogged back to his parents' so he could get the tractor back into the barn. I moved off the single seat and back onto the fender for the last 200 yards of the trip. "I just want you to know I cried from the cross roads to the lease road."
"What? Why?" he asked in a frustratingly clueless manner.
"I have never been that scared for that long in my life!" I snapped back.
"Oh, you mean when you were standing on the hitch," he said. "Well, now you'll have something to blog about." He knows me too well.
Now I'm freshly showered to rid myself of the smell of diesel fumes, dressed in lazy clothes straight from the warm dryer, wrapped in a blanket, with a pot of coffee brewing happily in my kitchen. I can feel all of my fingers and toes once again. My neck still hurts but then I'm sure having my shoulders up under my ears for 45 minutes didn't help. Husband finally made it safely to the highway and to work only an hour or so late.
I've learned a new skill. That means the snow can melt.
My neck, still sore from my free fall out into
He tromped up to a neighbor's house to call his folks. His dad had already left for work meaning there was no one to help pull him out. He headed down the road towards our house only to be picked up by a guy in a truck who dropped him off at our drive. He came in, changed into coveralls, and told me to pack the kids up. We were going to rescue the van.
After dropping the kids off at his mom's we headed to the barn to start up the tractor. The tractor had other ideas. Ideas like sitting in the cold barn and not going anywhere. Husband grabbed the starter fluid and showed me where to spray it. Unfortunately it was empty. We tromped through the snow to the old barn to get another can of starter fluid from the new tractor. Then back to the new barn and the old tractor and tried again to no avail. Back to the old barn and new tractor only to discover Husband has no idea how the new tractor works and it's battery is dead and hasn't been hooked up to the charger as FIL had told Husband it had. Back to the old barn with the battery charger in tow. 30 minutes into the adventure he finally got a tractor started.
That's when the fun began. You see, FIL's old tractor is a 1970's Deutz open cab tractor. Open cab. As in a seat totally exposed to the elements. And seat as in one seat. Not two. It was 32 degrees outside so I knew I was in for a cold mile jaunt down the road. Much like driving a convertible in the snow. A convertible with only one seat and no doors. A convertible that smells like cow pies and diesel fumes. What I didn't know was that Husband thought the best way for me to ride behind him was by standing on the hitch tongue on the back of the tractor. It's a metal piece about a foot long and about 6 inches wide. It also moves somewhat freely. "Stand here, put your other foot on this bar to steady yourself, and hold on to the seat back," he tells me. "Try not to hit any bumps," I replied realizing I was basically surfing behind a giant piece of machinery down a road covered in snow, ice, and mud. I do not surf. In fact, I have the balance and physical grace of a new born giraffe.
Husband thought I'd be warmer behind him than perched up on one of the fenders. He may have been right, but I only know I will never ever ever be persuaded to stand on the hitch of a tractor again. I don't care if that's the only way to avoid a herd of hungry zombies. I'll take my chances with the undead. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I'm pretty sure I cried a full quarter mile of the trip back to the old van. It was unsteady, exposed, and so cold I couldn't feel my fingers to be sure I was still holding on to the seat properly as we jostled down a rutted, potholed road not visited by a road grader in far too long. When we had to turn around on a lease road and back the tractor toward the van, I flat refused to go another inch clutching to the back of that beast. Instead I walked/jogged the 1/4 mile from the lease road to our van.
By that time another man with a back hoe was by the van. He helped Husband hook up the chain and pull it back off the snow bank he'd pulled down the road with him. As soon as the van was unstuck, Husband realized we couldn't get the tractor, the back hoe, and our van down the same 1 lane cut in the road. I was standing behind the van when the back hoe driver asked if I was having fun. "I don't remember this being in the wedding vows. I knew I was marrying a country boy, but no one warned me about this kind of stuff." Husband hops out of our van and says, "Babe, do you know how to drive this tractor?" I laughed in his face.
45 seconds of instruction later and I was driving the tractor down the gravel road between 2 foot drifts of snow and slush so Husband and the other guy could maneuver the other vehicles around each other. Husband put the tractor in 2nd gear so I couldn't go very fast and told me to stay in the tracks in the road. The only time that 1 mile trip down the road has ever been longer was when I was standing on the hitch on the way down. Cold made colder still by the constant wind I was creating driving down a frozen country road.
Husband backed the van all the way down the road because he figured it would do better with the rear wheel drive if he didn't turn it around. By the time I made it back to his Mom's driveway he'd driven the old van home and jogged back to his parents' so he could get the tractor back into the barn. I moved off the single seat and back onto the fender for the last 200 yards of the trip. "I just want you to know I cried from the cross roads to the lease road."
"What? Why?" he asked in a frustratingly clueless manner.
"I have never been that scared for that long in my life!" I snapped back.
"Oh, you mean when you were standing on the hitch," he said. "Well, now you'll have something to blog about." He knows me too well.
Now I'm freshly showered to rid myself of the smell of diesel fumes, dressed in lazy clothes straight from the warm dryer, wrapped in a blanket, with a pot of coffee brewing happily in my kitchen. I can feel all of my fingers and toes once again. My neck still hurts but then I'm sure having my shoulders up under my ears for 45 minutes didn't help. Husband finally made it safely to the highway and to work only an hour or so late.
I've learned a new skill. That means the snow can melt.
December 16, 2012
Struggling
When 9/11 happened I was scared. I went to my grandma's and eventually I turned off the news and just played with BabyGirl who was only a few months old.
This time around things are different.
This time my heart is broken in a totally different way. This has scared me like no other incident.
I'm having a much harder time wrapping my mind around what happened on Friday than I did when those planes crashed 11 years ago. That was an attack, an act of war, of terrorism. I can grasp a militant Muslim group hating our country so much that they would attack civilians by the thousands. I cannot grasp what would drive a young man to shoot 20 small children in cold blood. I cannot grasp the loss and heart ache the parents and siblings and grandparents of those babies are feeling.
I cannot seem to step away from this. I cannot distance myself.
Is it because I work in a school building? Is it because the children are similar in ages to mine? Is it because one of the little girls looks eerily like Bitsy? Is it simply because I am a mother?
I told BabyGirl about it tonight. I didn't want her to learn about it at school and be totally unprepared. She knew there had been a shooting but didn't know any details. A few minutes later she said, "Why would people do something like that?" I hate giving her an answer that sounds like a cop-out. "I don't know, Honey. I really don't." I'd like to tell her he was sick. I don't know that. I'd like to tell her he didn't know what he was doing. The evidence seems to point elsewhere.
When I started work this year we were all given a hand book of sorts telling us the procedures for emergencies. What to do in case of a fire. What to do in case of a tornado. What to do in case of ice, earthquake, storms, etc. When I turned a page and began reading what to do in case of a terrorist incident or in case of an intruder, my stomach flipped and I went ice cold. I know we have to have such procedures in place, but the idea that they're necessary breaks my heart.
Oddly instead of being more lenient with the FarmHands in light of the tragedy, I find myself much more short tempered and out of sorts. I feel guilty when I'm angry at them. I feel guilty disciplining them. I feel guilty because I didn't hug them all tight as soon as they stormed the doors on Friday. I feel guilty because all I want to do is climb into bed and not get out any time soon.
When suicide and depression rates sky rocketed after 9/11, I didn't understand. The attack upset us all, but how many were actually affected in their every day lives? How many actually lost loved ones? How many lived through those horrors first hand? But now I understand. I understand how a tragedy that in no way figures into your daily life can break you into little pieces. I'm not saying I'm suicidal or even depressed. I'm just saying I'm struggling.
But in my struggles I'm also praying. I'm praying protection down upon our children and our schools. I'm praying for comfort for families that will never again be whole. I'm praying peace on the minds of children who've witnessed horrors no one should ever witness. I'm praying God will draw us closer to Him in the wake of the unspeakable.
This time around things are different.
This time my heart is broken in a totally different way. This has scared me like no other incident.
I'm having a much harder time wrapping my mind around what happened on Friday than I did when those planes crashed 11 years ago. That was an attack, an act of war, of terrorism. I can grasp a militant Muslim group hating our country so much that they would attack civilians by the thousands. I cannot grasp what would drive a young man to shoot 20 small children in cold blood. I cannot grasp the loss and heart ache the parents and siblings and grandparents of those babies are feeling.
I cannot seem to step away from this. I cannot distance myself.
Is it because I work in a school building? Is it because the children are similar in ages to mine? Is it because one of the little girls looks eerily like Bitsy? Is it simply because I am a mother?
I told BabyGirl about it tonight. I didn't want her to learn about it at school and be totally unprepared. She knew there had been a shooting but didn't know any details. A few minutes later she said, "Why would people do something like that?" I hate giving her an answer that sounds like a cop-out. "I don't know, Honey. I really don't." I'd like to tell her he was sick. I don't know that. I'd like to tell her he didn't know what he was doing. The evidence seems to point elsewhere.
When I started work this year we were all given a hand book of sorts telling us the procedures for emergencies. What to do in case of a fire. What to do in case of a tornado. What to do in case of ice, earthquake, storms, etc. When I turned a page and began reading what to do in case of a terrorist incident or in case of an intruder, my stomach flipped and I went ice cold. I know we have to have such procedures in place, but the idea that they're necessary breaks my heart.
Oddly instead of being more lenient with the FarmHands in light of the tragedy, I find myself much more short tempered and out of sorts. I feel guilty when I'm angry at them. I feel guilty disciplining them. I feel guilty because I didn't hug them all tight as soon as they stormed the doors on Friday. I feel guilty because all I want to do is climb into bed and not get out any time soon.
When suicide and depression rates sky rocketed after 9/11, I didn't understand. The attack upset us all, but how many were actually affected in their every day lives? How many actually lost loved ones? How many lived through those horrors first hand? But now I understand. I understand how a tragedy that in no way figures into your daily life can break you into little pieces. I'm not saying I'm suicidal or even depressed. I'm just saying I'm struggling.
But in my struggles I'm also praying. I'm praying protection down upon our children and our schools. I'm praying for comfort for families that will never again be whole. I'm praying peace on the minds of children who've witnessed horrors no one should ever witness. I'm praying God will draw us closer to Him in the wake of the unspeakable.
August 8, 2012
This Summer needs a name.
A name that denotes all manner of evil. A name that tags it every more as a summer not worth repeating. A name that leaves no doubt as to the horribleness of it. I'll open up the comments to suggestions.
We started off good. I had a new job to look forward to. We had our first 4-H fairs to attend. We had a swimming pool, heat, and sunshine. And then things started going south...and not in the I-get-to-go-south-to-visit-friends-and-family kind of way.
First Grandma M&M discovered the colon cancer she battled 36 years ago was back. Waiting and waiting and waiting finally gave way to a date for her to have surgery. May 29th she went in. Things went well. Recovery was going to take a long time, but she was going to be fine.
The next morning found me in the doctor's office in pain. That afternoon I was on the operating table. It wasn't the appendicitis nor the appendectomy that was the hard part. It was the 6 weeks of recovery after abdominal surgery that knocked me down.
In the meantime, Grandma didn't recover as quickly nor as well as we thought she would. She went to a nursing home to recover. Mama shuttled back & forth between the two of us and in the process hurt her foot.
Then I ended up in the hospital for a longer stay and still don't quite know the cause. Colitis is not something I'd wish on my worst enemy and something I hope and pray is not recurring in my case.
Just over a week ago #1 Son began complaining about his under arms itching. When I looked at them I discovered he had brown, scaly patches under his arms. He's very prone to skin issues so I told him to use the cream our doctor has prescribed many times in the past. After a few days they turned red & raw. I told him to leave the cream alone and we'd show the dermatologist when he goes on the 17th.
Monday showed we couldn't wait for the 17th. He was in so much pain he couldn't lower his arms. Thank the Lord the dermatologist had a cancellation that afternoon.
I willingly admit I didn't want to go. I hate the drive. I hate dragging all 4 kids that far to spend 3 minutes in an office with a nurse practitioner (nothing against the NP- she's really good). But I was beyond unprepared when she suggested his skin issues might be caused by diabetes.
Yesterday we went to the hospital for a fasting blood draw. The tech took an extra vial of blood in case the doctor decided to have an A1C done later. I'm glad she did. His blood sugar was 105- only slightly elevated. The doctor's office wanted to wait 3-4 weeks and do another draw. I told them to order the A1C. They did.
Today we got the call that his A1C was 5.7. Normal is below 6. Now doc wants a finger stick every morning for 30 days to see what we're looking at.
To be entirely honest, I am not handling this well. I can be sick. I can have surgery. I can spend my summer recovering from what ever. But not my son. He cannot go through this. He cannot spend time worrying and fretting. He cannot be scared and uncertain. These things are not OK with me.
I know he will be fine no matter how the test come out. I know that the changes that may be necessary will not be the end of us. I know that we can deal with this. But right now I'm done. I'm over it all. I'm sick to death of worry and fright and sickness.
I am ready for this summer to end.
We started off good. I had a new job to look forward to. We had our first 4-H fairs to attend. We had a swimming pool, heat, and sunshine. And then things started going south...and not in the I-get-to-go-south-to-visit-friends-and-family kind of way.
First Grandma M&M discovered the colon cancer she battled 36 years ago was back. Waiting and waiting and waiting finally gave way to a date for her to have surgery. May 29th she went in. Things went well. Recovery was going to take a long time, but she was going to be fine.
The next morning found me in the doctor's office in pain. That afternoon I was on the operating table. It wasn't the appendicitis nor the appendectomy that was the hard part. It was the 6 weeks of recovery after abdominal surgery that knocked me down.
In the meantime, Grandma didn't recover as quickly nor as well as we thought she would. She went to a nursing home to recover. Mama shuttled back & forth between the two of us and in the process hurt her foot.
Then I ended up in the hospital for a longer stay and still don't quite know the cause. Colitis is not something I'd wish on my worst enemy and something I hope and pray is not recurring in my case.
Just over a week ago #1 Son began complaining about his under arms itching. When I looked at them I discovered he had brown, scaly patches under his arms. He's very prone to skin issues so I told him to use the cream our doctor has prescribed many times in the past. After a few days they turned red & raw. I told him to leave the cream alone and we'd show the dermatologist when he goes on the 17th.
Monday showed we couldn't wait for the 17th. He was in so much pain he couldn't lower his arms. Thank the Lord the dermatologist had a cancellation that afternoon.
I willingly admit I didn't want to go. I hate the drive. I hate dragging all 4 kids that far to spend 3 minutes in an office with a nurse practitioner (nothing against the NP- she's really good). But I was beyond unprepared when she suggested his skin issues might be caused by diabetes.
Yesterday we went to the hospital for a fasting blood draw. The tech took an extra vial of blood in case the doctor decided to have an A1C done later. I'm glad she did. His blood sugar was 105- only slightly elevated. The doctor's office wanted to wait 3-4 weeks and do another draw. I told them to order the A1C. They did.
Today we got the call that his A1C was 5.7. Normal is below 6. Now doc wants a finger stick every morning for 30 days to see what we're looking at.
To be entirely honest, I am not handling this well. I can be sick. I can have surgery. I can spend my summer recovering from what ever. But not my son. He cannot go through this. He cannot spend time worrying and fretting. He cannot be scared and uncertain. These things are not OK with me.
I know he will be fine no matter how the test come out. I know that the changes that may be necessary will not be the end of us. I know that we can deal with this. But right now I'm done. I'm over it all. I'm sick to death of worry and fright and sickness.
I am ready for this summer to end.
July 27, 2012
Adventures in Colitis- Not for the Weak of Stomach
Many of you already know what has been happening on the Farm, but not the entire story....and then I'm sure there are those of you who have no clue what I'm talking about (assuming someone other than my cousin and best friend still read this).
It's been a tough week to say the very least. A week I pray I never have to relive. A week I really wish would be over & done with but unfortunately will have a few repercussions.
Monday afternoon Uncle Gick came to stay with the FarmHands while Busha took me into town to see Dr.R (the surgeon who took out my appendix). I fell asleep on and off all the way to his office. I was in more pain than I've been in since they made me get out of bed after my first c-section (on the 1-10 scale I was at a 10). When we walked into the waiting room, the receptionist asked if I'd gotten her voice mail. For the record, my voice mail message says, "I do not check this mail box. If you need to get in touch with me, keep calling." So, no, I hadn't.
She was trying to let me know that Dr.R wanted me to have blood work taken before I came into his office. Good news: the lab is 2 doors down from his office in the same building. Bad news: I have to walk half way around the building to get in the elevator, go back to the first floor, stand in line and register as a hospital patient to have the blood drawn in the first place. By the time I got back in his office, it was a full hour later and I was still in serious pain.
When the nurse came to get me, Busha and I started down the hall. A few steps in and I had to steady myself on a door frame because I was light headed. On the off chance that they would need a stool sample, I took one at home and brought it in with me (seriously unpleasant, I know, but after waking up to bloody diarrhea I thought it was a prudent step to take). I also wrote down everything that had taken place since my symptoms first began because I knew in my state of mind I would forget quite a few key points like days of the week. Dr.R looked over everything (including my sample), did a serious examination of my abdomen and torso and told me he was admitting me to the hospital. He was not a happy man.
I was seriously dehydrated. He ordered IV fluids in massive amounts and a CT scan once I'd had a full bag of fluid. Busha took me to the hospital and the real fun began. I look like I've been on a heroin bender if you go by all the track marks on my my arms. When you're dehydrated it's not easy to hit a vein and keep it from blowing out especially when you need a bigger needle to put CT contrast through. 2 nurses and 4 needle sticks later, they called in the anesthesiologist nurse to get my IV going.
Eventually a dose of Toradol and a bolus of fluid made me comfortable enough to stretch out so I could lay down for the CT. My second CT in 2 months, mind you. After I was settled and a bit more comfortable, Busha went home. Dr.R came in just after 9 to tell me I didn't have any bowl obstruction but that my entire colon lit up like a light bulb.
Sleeping in the hospital wouldn't have been bad if it hadn't been for the 800 times a night they had to come check and see if I was still alive. Toradol every 6 hours wasn't bad either. More samples were collected, more labs done, more blood drawn.
The next morning Dr.H came in to see why I was back in the hospital. I told him I had decided to spend my summer there. "If I had 37 kids, I'd spend my summer here, too!" he said. I love my doctors. He took me off all food or drink by mouth and went off to investigate what was going on with me. Dr.R said he thought Dr.H was trying to starve me to death when he discovered the NPO order a few hours later. I told him they'd have to duke it out amongst themselves. I didn't care so long as no one took my pain meds away.
I'm not sure when it happened, but eventually words like inflammation, ulcerative colitis, crohns, colonoscopy, and flexible sigmoidoscopy started getting tossed around.
Wednesday morning rolled around and Dr.R scheduled me for what is affectionately known as a flex sig (see above paragraph). He didn't want to go in for a full colonoscopy because there was a massive amount of inflammation and he didn't want to risk perforating my colon. Personally, I'd like to keep my colon un-perforated as well. That involved being put under conscious sedation (that is a bit of a misnomer). I don't remember anything before they moved me from the gurney back into my bed in my room. Ulcerative Colitis was his initial suspicion.
Wednesday they finally decided I could be put on a clear liquid diet. By that time I hadn't ingested anything since the glass of lemonade I nursed all Monday morning. Chicken broth has never tasted so good. Do you have any clue how many food commercials are on television each hour? At least 85,000.
After breakfast (my third meal of chick broth, orange jell-o, apple juice, and a Popsicle in a row) on Thursday, Dr.R came back and said all my tests had come back negative and I was feeling leaps and bounds better so he thought I should eat & possibly go home.
My pathology reports from the flex sig are negative. All my cultures, samples, blood work, and other various tests are clean. Right now it's a guessing game. Dr.R has me on medication for Ulcerative Colitis until I see him again Friday, August 3rd. He said there will eventually be a full blown colonoscopy but he wants to wait until he's sure my colon has healed from this flare up.
I'm praying this was caused by some kind of infection/bacteria that isn't going to be an on going battle (U.C. is a chronic condition and not something I'd wish on my worst enemy). Things are beginning to return to normal. QM is here taking care of all of us. I'm resting as much as I can.
Maybe next time I'll tell you about my rather entertaining neighbor from the hospital.
It's been a tough week to say the very least. A week I pray I never have to relive. A week I really wish would be over & done with but unfortunately will have a few repercussions.
Monday afternoon Uncle Gick came to stay with the FarmHands while Busha took me into town to see Dr.R (the surgeon who took out my appendix). I fell asleep on and off all the way to his office. I was in more pain than I've been in since they made me get out of bed after my first c-section (on the 1-10 scale I was at a 10). When we walked into the waiting room, the receptionist asked if I'd gotten her voice mail. For the record, my voice mail message says, "I do not check this mail box. If you need to get in touch with me, keep calling." So, no, I hadn't.
She was trying to let me know that Dr.R wanted me to have blood work taken before I came into his office. Good news: the lab is 2 doors down from his office in the same building. Bad news: I have to walk half way around the building to get in the elevator, go back to the first floor, stand in line and register as a hospital patient to have the blood drawn in the first place. By the time I got back in his office, it was a full hour later and I was still in serious pain.
When the nurse came to get me, Busha and I started down the hall. A few steps in and I had to steady myself on a door frame because I was light headed. On the off chance that they would need a stool sample, I took one at home and brought it in with me (seriously unpleasant, I know, but after waking up to bloody diarrhea I thought it was a prudent step to take). I also wrote down everything that had taken place since my symptoms first began because I knew in my state of mind I would forget quite a few key points like days of the week. Dr.R looked over everything (including my sample), did a serious examination of my abdomen and torso and told me he was admitting me to the hospital. He was not a happy man.
I was seriously dehydrated. He ordered IV fluids in massive amounts and a CT scan once I'd had a full bag of fluid. Busha took me to the hospital and the real fun began. I look like I've been on a heroin bender if you go by all the track marks on my my arms. When you're dehydrated it's not easy to hit a vein and keep it from blowing out especially when you need a bigger needle to put CT contrast through. 2 nurses and 4 needle sticks later, they called in the anesthesiologist nurse to get my IV going.
Eventually a dose of Toradol and a bolus of fluid made me comfortable enough to stretch out so I could lay down for the CT. My second CT in 2 months, mind you. After I was settled and a bit more comfortable, Busha went home. Dr.R came in just after 9 to tell me I didn't have any bowl obstruction but that my entire colon lit up like a light bulb.
Sleeping in the hospital wouldn't have been bad if it hadn't been for the 800 times a night they had to come check and see if I was still alive. Toradol every 6 hours wasn't bad either. More samples were collected, more labs done, more blood drawn.
The next morning Dr.H came in to see why I was back in the hospital. I told him I had decided to spend my summer there. "If I had 37 kids, I'd spend my summer here, too!" he said. I love my doctors. He took me off all food or drink by mouth and went off to investigate what was going on with me. Dr.R said he thought Dr.H was trying to starve me to death when he discovered the NPO order a few hours later. I told him they'd have to duke it out amongst themselves. I didn't care so long as no one took my pain meds away.
I'm not sure when it happened, but eventually words like inflammation, ulcerative colitis, crohns, colonoscopy, and flexible sigmoidoscopy started getting tossed around.
Wednesday morning rolled around and Dr.R scheduled me for what is affectionately known as a flex sig (see above paragraph). He didn't want to go in for a full colonoscopy because there was a massive amount of inflammation and he didn't want to risk perforating my colon. Personally, I'd like to keep my colon un-perforated as well. That involved being put under conscious sedation (that is a bit of a misnomer). I don't remember anything before they moved me from the gurney back into my bed in my room. Ulcerative Colitis was his initial suspicion.
Wednesday they finally decided I could be put on a clear liquid diet. By that time I hadn't ingested anything since the glass of lemonade I nursed all Monday morning. Chicken broth has never tasted so good. Do you have any clue how many food commercials are on television each hour? At least 85,000.
After breakfast (my third meal of chick broth, orange jell-o, apple juice, and a Popsicle in a row) on Thursday, Dr.R came back and said all my tests had come back negative and I was feeling leaps and bounds better so he thought I should eat & possibly go home.
My pathology reports from the flex sig are negative. All my cultures, samples, blood work, and other various tests are clean. Right now it's a guessing game. Dr.R has me on medication for Ulcerative Colitis until I see him again Friday, August 3rd. He said there will eventually be a full blown colonoscopy but he wants to wait until he's sure my colon has healed from this flare up.
I'm praying this was caused by some kind of infection/bacteria that isn't going to be an on going battle (U.C. is a chronic condition and not something I'd wish on my worst enemy). Things are beginning to return to normal. QM is here taking care of all of us. I'm resting as much as I can.
Maybe next time I'll tell you about my rather entertaining neighbor from the hospital.
July 23, 2012
The weekend of Art (and TMI)
Art came to see me this weekend. At first the trip was to be a surprise, but she gave up on that idea very early on in the game.
I was so excited to have her coming...and then Thursday hit. I ended up sick. Without going into gory details, I was having stomach issues. I figured it was no big deal. She wouldn't be here until Friday night & I'd be all better by then.
Well, I wasn't. Friday afternoon rolled around & I opted to take an Imodium AD thinking it would take care of the problem & I'd be good to go for the weekend. It took care of one problem, but seemed to lead to a whole mess of other issues.
I was in pain. A lot of pain. Like pre-appendectomy pain. Saturday, Art convinced me that I needed to go to the doctor. Unfortunately we made it to town a little late & ended up in the ER instead of the walk-in clinic.
3 hours later they sent me home saying there was no infection so my pain was probably related to my surgery (that happened a month and a half ago....that hasn't caused me pain of any kind in weeks). They gave me a shot of Torodol that wore off before we ever left the hospital.
Saturday was spent laying on the couch- hurting.
Sunday was spent laying on the couch - hurting. Sunday morning, when I found myself unable to pee, I called the hospital and made them page my surgeon. He was off on vacation and had a house full of people. But he told me he wanted me on clear liquids for the rest of the day (by this time the only thing I'd eaten in nearly 24 hours was 1/2 an order of McDonalds fries on Saturday afternoon- yes, the pinnacle of heath, but it was the only thing that sounded remotely appetizing and I was starved). He said it sounded like I either had a stomach bug and had blocked everything off taking the Imodium or I have scar tissue adhesion from my surgery that has caused a bowl blockage. Either way, he said the best way to go was clear liquids and wait to see if things being working on their own. If I was still in pain, he wanted to see me in his office this afternoon.
They're going to work me in at 3.
The QM says that when I get better I owe Art a visit in Tennessee to make up for the failed visit here. I think that's a splendid idea....or I would if I thought anything was splendid right now. It's hard to see the bright side when your stomach hurts like that chick who had an alien pop out of hers. I'm so glad Art was here. I only wish things could have been, "Way funner," to quote Elle Woods.
I was so excited to have her coming...and then Thursday hit. I ended up sick. Without going into gory details, I was having stomach issues. I figured it was no big deal. She wouldn't be here until Friday night & I'd be all better by then.
Well, I wasn't. Friday afternoon rolled around & I opted to take an Imodium AD thinking it would take care of the problem & I'd be good to go for the weekend. It took care of one problem, but seemed to lead to a whole mess of other issues.
I was in pain. A lot of pain. Like pre-appendectomy pain. Saturday, Art convinced me that I needed to go to the doctor. Unfortunately we made it to town a little late & ended up in the ER instead of the walk-in clinic.
3 hours later they sent me home saying there was no infection so my pain was probably related to my surgery (that happened a month and a half ago....that hasn't caused me pain of any kind in weeks). They gave me a shot of Torodol that wore off before we ever left the hospital.
Saturday was spent laying on the couch- hurting.
Sunday was spent laying on the couch - hurting. Sunday morning, when I found myself unable to pee, I called the hospital and made them page my surgeon. He was off on vacation and had a house full of people. But he told me he wanted me on clear liquids for the rest of the day (by this time the only thing I'd eaten in nearly 24 hours was 1/2 an order of McDonalds fries on Saturday afternoon- yes, the pinnacle of heath, but it was the only thing that sounded remotely appetizing and I was starved). He said it sounded like I either had a stomach bug and had blocked everything off taking the Imodium or I have scar tissue adhesion from my surgery that has caused a bowl blockage. Either way, he said the best way to go was clear liquids and wait to see if things being working on their own. If I was still in pain, he wanted to see me in his office this afternoon.
They're going to work me in at 3.
The QM says that when I get better I owe Art a visit in Tennessee to make up for the failed visit here. I think that's a splendid idea....or I would if I thought anything was splendid right now. It's hard to see the bright side when your stomach hurts like that chick who had an alien pop out of hers. I'm so glad Art was here. I only wish things could have been, "Way funner," to quote Elle Woods.
February 27, 2011
Somethings you don't want to have to learn.
Yesterday morning, Busha called me to tell me they'd taken Grandma B to the hospital. They suspected she'd had a stroke. Long story, short: It's not a stroke but a UTI. Apparently in geriatric patients, UTI's can mimic a stroke or dementia.
Uncle Gick & I sat with her most of the day yesterday so Grandma B & Unkie Di could get some rest (they'd been up with her all night). We spent the first few hours trying to keep her in bed & make her leave her IV in. Eventually she settled down & fell asleep.
Last night, when Unkie Di & Grandpa B were with her, she got upset & restless again. Uncle Gick told me she'd had a really bad night. Please pray she gets some rest tonight & the antibiotics will clear this infection up quickly so she can come home.
I did learn a few things yesterday.
Uncle Gick & I sat with her most of the day yesterday so Grandma B & Unkie Di could get some rest (they'd been up with her all night). We spent the first few hours trying to keep her in bed & make her leave her IV in. Eventually she settled down & fell asleep.
Last night, when Unkie Di & Grandpa B were with her, she got upset & restless again. Uncle Gick told me she'd had a really bad night. Please pray she gets some rest tonight & the antibiotics will clear this infection up quickly so she can come home.
I did learn a few things yesterday.
- Sitting with a sick loved one can be scary, but in the end, you'll be glad you did.
- UTI's not only cause dementia symptoms in older people, they will also cause people to want to disrobe. (Yup, getting naked is an actual symptom.)
- Dealing with someone who's suffering from dementia is much like dealing with a stubborn toddler. There's no use arguing, just try and re-direct them. And the kindest, calmest, sweetest of people can get surprisingly rowdy when they're out of it.
- Good nurses who work in nursing homes do not get paid enough.
- Grandma B is not impressed with the hospital's mashed potatoes.
June 3, 2010
Sweatin' to the Samba
I went to the doctor today to see about having some moles my back and shoulder looked at. Totally awesome, I know! I have to go back on the 28th to have them taken off. Nothing scary, nothing truly suspicious, just a precaution. No worries.
But while there, I had to hop on the scales in the hallway. Much to my surprise, I'm tipping them at 112 1/2 pounds. Wow. I mean, really...for me...Wow! As Art would say (and only Art & a few select others are allowed to say such things), I'm looking normal. I would like a bit of control over where this weight is living, but so far, no one's asked me where to direct the half pint of Ben & Jerry's I just ate.
In related news, I added something cute, summery, and slightly bigger to my wardrobe today:
Look familiar? Yeah, it's the same as the one below, only in Waterfall as opposed to Hibiscus. The last one Wal-Mart had in a medium. And again, only three dollars. Yeah me...again.
In an effort to push my new curves into the places I want them, I'm very seriously considering taking a Zumba class starting next week. To be completely honest, I'm terrified. I'm horribly out of shape. I'm horribly uncoordinated (as Bella Swan would say, "I'm so clumsy, I'm practically disabled"). I'm worried that I won't make it through a class without giving up, passing out, or vomiting. But I'm willing to give it a shot. The fact that there's a class in the little town where the kids go to school, is a really big deal. The fact that it's only $5 a class is even cooler. Having never taken an exercise class of any kind, I'm going to pull up my big girl yoga pants and get to it.
And in the mean time I'm going to dance around my living room, like the white girl that I am, to the sounds of Glee. Oh, how I love Glee.......sigh.
April 5, 2009
Exorcism of sorts
I have a hard time letting go of things. Especially when they are in any way traumatic. The incident I mentioned yesterday is one of those things, and I'm hoping blogging about it will help me stop dwelling on it. Nothing serious happened, but it was just enough to put me on edge for hours afterwards.
We were in a small town near the half way mark of our trip home last night when #1 Son decided he was on the verge of dehydration (forget that he'd just finished a juice box & drank all his milk for the trip already). Husband wanted to get gas since it was 10-12 cents cheaper there than here, so we pulled into a Casey's gas station. I marched the three older FarmHands in to use the bathroom & get 2 bottles of water for them to share.
When we got to the bathroom, the attendant was almost done cleaning it, so we waited around the back of the store until she was done. I told the kids exactly what was going to happen (they need specifics sometimes). "We're going potty...everyone get the job completely done because we aren't stopping again until we're home. Then I'm going to buy 2 bottles of water. In the van I'm going to put half a bottle of water in Daddy's empty cup from McDonald's & #1 Son gets that(he'd already eaten all the ice out of his dad's cup, so I figured he should be the one to drink out of it). B.B. gets the rest of that bottle & BabyGirl gets a bottle." Then #1 Son says he wants some more ice in his cup. I told him no, just water, we didn't have any ice. He starts eyeing the 10 pound bags of ice in the freezer by us. "We could get one of those!" I explain that it would melt & I don't want 10 pounds of water in my van floor. The boys start trying to figure out a way to get the giant bag of ice the rest of the 2 hours home.
While we were waiting I noticed a man lingering by the Lotto machine a few feet from us. He looked to be in his late 50's or early 60's, was not what I would call well groomed, and was carrying a black cane. I knew he was listening (it's hard not to in a store that small & kids as young as mine) but didn't think much of it. I'm used to people listening to us. We're not a quiet bunch.
One of the boys went to the freezer & I was afraid he was going to open it, so I brought him back to stand by me & said, "We are not getting ice." The man turned & said, "Come here." I started to ignore him because I wasn't 100% sure who he was talking to & to be honest, he made me a bit uncomfortable (he reminded me of someone I have issues with). He said it again & I said, "Me?" He said yes & I took a small step in his direction (he wasn't far from me). My kids followed me instinctively & the man looked at them & said, "Not you. Get back." They got nervous & all stepped even closer to me. I put my hand out to gently direct them behind me & nodded for them to stay back but still keep close. They were watching him very intently & he said again, "Not you. Just your Mama. Now get back." This really freaked #1 Son out & he tried to walk up & get a hold of me. When he did, the man raised his cane to push #1 Son back.
That was it. My head snapped around to face him & I said, "Um. Do NOT poke my children with your cane. What do you want?" He looked taken back by my reaction & said, "Oh, I wasn't gonna' poke them," and I kept staring him down. He finally told me something about getting a cup with ice in it for a quarter & I said, "OK. I'll check that later." Then I stepped away & pulled all three of the kids close to me.
Just then the attendant came out & let us in the bathroom. I had been thinking I'd let the boys go in one & BabyGirl in the other while I waited in the middle (they were both single toilet bathrooms, so no one would be in with them), but after that I wasn't about to let anyone out of my sight. When we came out, he was gone. I got our water & paid for the gas & headed out the door.
As we started across the parking lot I saw him talking to a couple filling up their car just behind our van. I ushered the kids quickly into the van keeping myself between him & them & keeping them close together. When we got the doors shut, I locked them quickly to Husband's surprise (our van locks when you put it in gear). As we pulled out of the station I told him what happened. Husband didn't seem phased by it. I, on the other hand, was a bit sick at my stomach most of the trip home.
I kept replaying the incident in my mind & I really believe he meant no harm. He was trying to help me out....but he went about it entirely the wrong way & instead made me angry & scared.
The boys were completely unfazed by the entire thing. They barely remember it happening. B.B. said, "He was a stranger, so I didn't talk to him." BabyGirl said she was scared that he was going to kidnap them. I told her that I would never let anyone take them away from me & she said, "I was afraid he was going to kidnap you too!" I assured her that her daddy was right out side & no one was getting past him. She seems happy with that promise.
I've always wondered how well I would deal with someone doing something to my kids that I was not comfortable with (especially a stranger, I've had to deal with issues with Husband's sister's attempts to discipline them against my wishes, but that's another very long story) and I've always feared I'd succumb to panic & be useless. I tend to panic in emergencies, just ask the Queen Mother about me & the fire alarm at the museum when I was 11. Yesterday I was proud of myself. Part of me wishes I would have told him immediately not to tell my children what to do, but in the end the Mama Bear in me (as Inkling would call it) came out. While no teeth were used, I'm pretty sure they were shown just enough.
We were in a small town near the half way mark of our trip home last night when #1 Son decided he was on the verge of dehydration (forget that he'd just finished a juice box & drank all his milk for the trip already). Husband wanted to get gas since it was 10-12 cents cheaper there than here, so we pulled into a Casey's gas station. I marched the three older FarmHands in to use the bathroom & get 2 bottles of water for them to share.
When we got to the bathroom, the attendant was almost done cleaning it, so we waited around the back of the store until she was done. I told the kids exactly what was going to happen (they need specifics sometimes). "We're going potty...everyone get the job completely done because we aren't stopping again until we're home. Then I'm going to buy 2 bottles of water. In the van I'm going to put half a bottle of water in Daddy's empty cup from McDonald's & #1 Son gets that(he'd already eaten all the ice out of his dad's cup, so I figured he should be the one to drink out of it). B.B. gets the rest of that bottle & BabyGirl gets a bottle." Then #1 Son says he wants some more ice in his cup. I told him no, just water, we didn't have any ice. He starts eyeing the 10 pound bags of ice in the freezer by us. "We could get one of those!" I explain that it would melt & I don't want 10 pounds of water in my van floor. The boys start trying to figure out a way to get the giant bag of ice the rest of the 2 hours home.
While we were waiting I noticed a man lingering by the Lotto machine a few feet from us. He looked to be in his late 50's or early 60's, was not what I would call well groomed, and was carrying a black cane. I knew he was listening (it's hard not to in a store that small & kids as young as mine) but didn't think much of it. I'm used to people listening to us. We're not a quiet bunch.
One of the boys went to the freezer & I was afraid he was going to open it, so I brought him back to stand by me & said, "We are not getting ice." The man turned & said, "Come here." I started to ignore him because I wasn't 100% sure who he was talking to & to be honest, he made me a bit uncomfortable (he reminded me of someone I have issues with). He said it again & I said, "Me?" He said yes & I took a small step in his direction (he wasn't far from me). My kids followed me instinctively & the man looked at them & said, "Not you. Get back." They got nervous & all stepped even closer to me. I put my hand out to gently direct them behind me & nodded for them to stay back but still keep close. They were watching him very intently & he said again, "Not you. Just your Mama. Now get back." This really freaked #1 Son out & he tried to walk up & get a hold of me. When he did, the man raised his cane to push #1 Son back.
That was it. My head snapped around to face him & I said, "Um. Do NOT poke my children with your cane. What do you want?" He looked taken back by my reaction & said, "Oh, I wasn't gonna' poke them," and I kept staring him down. He finally told me something about getting a cup with ice in it for a quarter & I said, "OK. I'll check that later." Then I stepped away & pulled all three of the kids close to me.
Just then the attendant came out & let us in the bathroom. I had been thinking I'd let the boys go in one & BabyGirl in the other while I waited in the middle (they were both single toilet bathrooms, so no one would be in with them), but after that I wasn't about to let anyone out of my sight. When we came out, he was gone. I got our water & paid for the gas & headed out the door.
As we started across the parking lot I saw him talking to a couple filling up their car just behind our van. I ushered the kids quickly into the van keeping myself between him & them & keeping them close together. When we got the doors shut, I locked them quickly to Husband's surprise (our van locks when you put it in gear). As we pulled out of the station I told him what happened. Husband didn't seem phased by it. I, on the other hand, was a bit sick at my stomach most of the trip home.
I kept replaying the incident in my mind & I really believe he meant no harm. He was trying to help me out....but he went about it entirely the wrong way & instead made me angry & scared.
The boys were completely unfazed by the entire thing. They barely remember it happening. B.B. said, "He was a stranger, so I didn't talk to him." BabyGirl said she was scared that he was going to kidnap them. I told her that I would never let anyone take them away from me & she said, "I was afraid he was going to kidnap you too!" I assured her that her daddy was right out side & no one was getting past him. She seems happy with that promise.
I've always wondered how well I would deal with someone doing something to my kids that I was not comfortable with (especially a stranger, I've had to deal with issues with Husband's sister's attempts to discipline them against my wishes, but that's another very long story) and I've always feared I'd succumb to panic & be useless. I tend to panic in emergencies, just ask the Queen Mother about me & the fire alarm at the museum when I was 11. Yesterday I was proud of myself. Part of me wishes I would have told him immediately not to tell my children what to do, but in the end the Mama Bear in me (as Inkling would call it) came out. While no teeth were used, I'm pretty sure they were shown just enough.
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