health « Sarah Ockler, Author

Research Assistants Unite

January 3, 2008

This morning, for the first time in a week, like the sun rising after a long winter storm, the shape of my kneecap began to rise from the formerly amorphous grapefruit that had become my knee (thank you all for your medical advice and health-wise haranguing). Since I could finally hobble down the stairs and into the car with only a minimum of scene-making, Alex enticed me into a public outing by dangling – no, not the Pancake House. Not the Irish pub. Not the smell of fresh air and the warm sun on my face. But – a trip to the book store. With Libba Bray’s recent release of the third and final installment in her Gemma Doyle trilogy and only two punches away from a free book on my Tattered Cover frequent children’s book-buying card, how could I resist?

Fed, read, and coffeed, I returned home to start on my own work in progress, and here’s where I need your help. Several of my minions have already donated graciously of their expertise in various yet seemingly unrelated subjects (thank you, thank you!), but the more I write, the less I know. I mean, yesterday’s Vietnam grandparent meltdown is a good example. So here are a few more questions I need help with. Jump in any time.

When American soldiers stationed in Vietnam sent letters home, was the postmark Vietnamese, like from Saigon, or was their some military postmark involved? How long did it take to arrive from Vietnam to its destination in the States?
When someone donates bone marrow, where does the needle go? Is it in the hip? How long does it take?
How do they match you as a marrow donor? Do you have to donate the marrow first, or can they do a blood test ahead of time to determine the match?
If a zombie and a vampire got into a fight, and an alien arrived on the scene, who would the alien side with, who would win, who would leave the most blood, and where would they bury the survivors? (Honey, I’m looking to you…)

Thanks, all. And hey – Happy New Year!

6 Comments | books, health, writing | Tagged: writing research | Permalink
Posted by Sarah Ockler

Day 9, Feelin’ Fine

December 31, 2007

Okay, that whole “feelin’ fine” part is kind of a lie. I hobble when I walk, my butt keeps falling asleep, my tailbone is really bored, and the knee in question is alternating between numb from all the ice and throbbing from all the mayhem going on in my bones.

Alas, the writing is still going strong!

I’ve got a few “research assistants” on the job, schooling me on the physics of kayaking and Tarot (thank you, Jensiah & OMLFG), I only burned my thigh once from falling asleep with the overheated laptop (kids, don’t try this at home), iTunes seems to be shuffling songs that go exactly with my story and frame of mind, my favorite husband brought home Indian food, and I’m enjoying an endless cup of coffee in one of Rachel’s ceramic creations.

However, I’d be remiss if I didn’t post the following notification:

Attention knee and surrounding area of general gimp-ness: Enough! Pull yourself together, man. If I have one more sleepless night on your account, I’ll have no choice but to break into that stash of Vicodin I wouldn’t let Alex get rid of and make myself a smoothie. And let me tell you something. If you think writing is fun now… oooooh kids.

Vicodin. Not just for eedybeedybloobleedeblahblahwahhabbahabba, anymore.

5 Comments | health, writing | Tagged: knee injury, painkillers, writing goals | Permalink
Posted by Sarah Ockler

Bad Knee = Good Writing

December 29, 2007

The old knee injury* is acting up again. This happens once a year or so, mostly because I refuse to have any sort of surgery or therapy requiring needles or an intensive or even moderate workout routine. It’s usually triggered by humidity or seasonal changes and lasts a few weeks. Sometimes I can walk on it, sometimes not.

This morning, it decided to give me its best giant grapefruit impersonation. I have to say it’s pretty close. I won’t go into the gory medical details on why that happens (think, communication breakdown between the bones, ligaments and muscles), but it’s got me pretty laid up. I had to cancel a writing date and a shower. Poor Alex (no, it wasn’t a shower date, just poor Alex because he has to live with an unshowered, gimpy, demanding wife).

Don’t let me stop you from the outpouring of sympathy gifts you are undoubtedly planning, but you should know that it’s really not so bad. Turns out this bad-knee-laid-up-on-the-couch thing is actually a boon for my writing. I’m on fire today (well no, not literally on fire – that’s the one thing that would get me to make an unplanned doctor visit) with the new book. Hours and hours of tap-tap-typing, ideas, scenes, yeah! I could get used to this. I have everything I need, right here on the couch:

Laptop: check
Pillows to elevate aforementioned grapefruit-knee: check
Unlimited supply of coffee: check
(Plus Bailey’s, if we’re being honest): *hiccup* check
Brick of Hershey chocolate, perforated for easy breaking: check
(Plus giant spoonful of natural peanut butter, if we’re being honest): check
2 new Brandi Carlile CDs, downloaded into iTunes: check

Really the only thing missing is a foot rub (hint hint, favorite husband, I’m looking at you).

The moral of the story is, yeah, I’m laid up for a little while, but my 100 hours goal doesn’t seem so far-fetched now!

*The old knee injury: In 1992, after an all-night road trip from Chicago to Buffalo with my BFF and her family, I went to school a complete zombie, still in road-trippy boxer shorts and sweatshirt. I was late, of course, running up the cement stairs (whose bright idea? anyway…) to my locker. In my state of exhaustion, I somehow missed the top step and, like in the cartoons, hung for what felt like a full minute, suspended in mid-air, before crashing down on my knee (I was more concerned about not spilling my precious coffee, which is why my hands didn’t fly out to save me). I kind of went into shock. Next thing I know, I’m standing at my locker and my locker neighbor is pointing to my mangled, sideways kneecap. “Uhm, you should maybe go to the nurse.” Ultimately, I was home on crutches with a contusion, a torn meniscus, and a 10-a-day Advil regimen which rendered me 100% immune to those little brown pills after about a month.

8 Comments | health, writing | Tagged: knee injury, writing goals | Permalink
Posted by Sarah Ockler

Bye Bye Brains

February 16, 2007

In about 5 hours, I’ll be taking a trip to the oral surgeon to have my wisdom teeth removed. I’ve had them for like 20 years, and I’m still not exactly sure about the connection between my wicked smarts and these old molars, but I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. Only don’t use my next few postings as a baseline – I plan on being severely medicated throughout the entire ordeal (we already covered my issues with needles and medical professionals, remember?) and can’t be held responsible for my own writing.

Speaking of medicated… in a rare and unprecidented alignment of the stars, our favorite liquor store is moving and decided to hold a moving sale yesterday, just 2 days before my surgery. The universe must be trying to tell me something! And who am I to ignore the universe?

I stopped in after work last night and went to town (for the sake of the universe, of course)!

At least I’ll be well-supplied when the pharmacopia of high-potency post-extraction pain killers runs low (after about the first day, if all goes as planned). Alex, who endured the same procedure with the same oral surgeon a year or two ago, tried to convince me that “Motrin works really well, Sarah. You should try that instead of all those prescription drugs.”

Alex. Dear, sweet, well-intentioned but sadly misinformed Alex. Motrin? I don’t think so. I’m taking Mischief Management’s advice: take the drugs and take them as often as the bottle says, because if you wait until you’re in pain, the drugs take too long to kick in. Now there’s a girl who knows how to party!

Drugs and parties aside, since I am tripping along the meandering and oft-hidden path to a healthy lifestyle, I’ve come up with a recipe for the occasion. It’s the perfect remedy for those soon-to-be bleeding orifices formerly known as gums.

Sarah’s Super-Healing, You-Won’t-Feel-A-Thing-Sweetheart Smoothie

Ingredients:

1 cup crushed ice
3 cups Bailey’s Irish Cream
5-6 Percocet tabs, crushed to fine powder
1 blueberry

Directions:

Write your name on a piece of paper, in case you don’t remember it later.
Lick Percocet dust from fingers, chasing with 3-4 swigs of Bailey’s to assure quality and freshness.
Pour all ingredients into blender and cover tightly.
If gums begin to throb, swirl finger in Bailey’s and apply generous amount directly to affected area. There, isn’t that much better?
Okay, next, press the “blend” button on the blender. If the mix of anesthesia and alcohol is making you woozy or otherwise impairing your ability to differentiate “blend” from other button actions, press any number of buttons repeatedly in any order until contents become liquified.
I know, this is getting strenuous for someone who’s just had surgery. Relax! Take 3-4 additional bails of Swigley’s to reconfirm original QA results. Better? Okay.
Get up from the floor and blend off the turner, your smoothie is ready!
For best results, garnish with half a Vicodin and drink ice cold, straight from blender. Who says healthy eating has to be a chore?

Hmm, a girl could get used to this. While I focus on perfecting my Perco-smoothie, Alex can go to our Friendly Neighborhood Evil Corporate Video Store and pick me up a few chick flicks, and maybe a box of tampons to complete the ensemble (my cruelty knows no bounds). As long as I don’t run out of ways to self-medicate through the wonders of chemistry and Hollywood, everything is going to be just fine.

*Hiccup*

2 Comments | eats, health, home | Tagged: dentist, wine, wisdom teeth | Permalink
Posted by Sarah Ockler

"Oops, I Guess You’re a Bleeder"

January 17, 2007

Followed by, “Oh my God, you’re totally bleeding like crazy.”

Not exactly what you want to hear during your Tetanus shot, the one you’ve neglected since your last one in 1993 (when your 10-year-old brother, who’d had a liver transplant at age 4 and spent many months in the hospital, held your hand and told you it would be just fine) because your fear of doctors and hospitals pales only in comparison to your fear of hypodermic needles, all-consuming in its instant paralysis of your body and mind.

They got a name for that, Jules. It’s called… Whitecoat Syndrome.

The first time I heard the term was when I signed up for the seemingly-innocuous Wellness Program at the local YMCA. Don’t be fooled. After showing us the machines and weights, the “trainer” – who’d just witnessed my near-death experience of doing 27 situps and stifled a laugh when I couldn’t touch my toes without bending my knees – tried to take my blood pressure for my so-called progress chart. “Ah, you must have whitecoat syndrome,” she’d said, all authority, like she’d gone to medical school or something. Well I showed her! I paid for 4 months of the program and never went once! Ha, who’s laughing now, Trainer?!

Before we continue, ladies, can we talk for a moment about “Well Woman” exams? They sound so lovely, don’t they? Well woman. Why, it must be like a massage! Let’s all go, together! Girl time! I bet they have some wine and cheese at the end, too! Oh Martha, do let’s go!

Stop.

Let me tell you something. Well woman? Pure marketing. It’s just a nice way of telling you to lie back, put your feet in the stirrups, and shut up. Pay no attention to the cold-handed doctor behind the curtain rooting around down there with a spotlight, poking and pushing, observing, noting, glancing at your do-it-yourself bikini wax with those judging eyes, damn those judging eyes!

*Ahem.*

Despite the fact that I’ve been duped by marketese once again, I’ve been good about my regularly scheduled “Well Woman” exams. I’ve simply neglected/ignored/ran away screaming from anything else in the medical realm. Like cholesterol screenings. And Tetanus shots. Pretty much anything involving needles. Or pain. Or height and weight charts. But now that I’m officially over 30, I figured it was time to be a little more mature about these things. With a minimum of cajoling from Alex (very minimum – you were great, honey!), I made the appointment (and then rewarded myself by planning a new bathroom theme). I had a month to prepare (no, not my bikini wax. My mental game). Out of sight, out of mind.

But this past Sunday arrived, just 2 days before the appointment, the Big Week. I was a wreck. Fretting. Worrying. Doubting. Quite probably some vomiting, I don’t know. Mind you, nothing was particularly wrong with me. Just time for the basic physical and Well Woman excavation – I mean – exam. But when I thought about all those white coats. All that formaldehyde. All those sick people.

*Shudder.*

No more time to fret. Suddenly it’s Tuesday. Game day. I get there early, turn in my paperwork (which I was able to download in advance from their very helpful Web site, much to my delight and surprise, as the last time I was at the Dr. for a physical, there was no Web. Or cell phones, for that matter. Just those big car phones that you had to carry around with a suitcase-sized battery.), and wait patiently for my name to be called. 15 minutes later, I’m behind the secret door that separates the patients from the waiters, making small talk with a friendly medical assistant.

Medical assistant: Hi, Sarah. You’re going to love the doctor. Now, kindly remove your boots and step on the scale.
Me: *Gulp*. Okay.
Medical assistant: *Tapping digital reader on scale* Huh, that can’t be right. Do you have anything really heavy in your pockets? Like a small child or Labrador retriever? (Okay, she doesn’t really say that).
Medical assistant: Okay, I’m going to take your temperature through your ear. *Sticks thing into ear. Waits. Removes. Sighs.* Are you feeling alright, Sarah? This is rather high.
Me: Yes, my blood pressure will be high, too. I just hate-I mean, I am afraid of doctors.
Medical assistant; Ah, We get a lot of whitecoats in here.

Yes, whitecoats, that’s what she calls me. A whitecoat. Like I’m some Revolutionary War spy or something.

Next she leads me into the exam room and instructs me to undress and don the cloth gown, which is actually made of a thick paper that only plays cloth on TV. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to put the ties in the front or the back, or if I’m supposed to sit on the exam table or the old chair. Fret fret fret. Blood pressure increasing. Heart pounding.

Minutes pass. Maybe days. I lose all sense of time and space. Finally, the doctor arrives and, undoubtedly sensing my inherent whitecoatness, spends 5 minutes or so asking me about my job and my life. It works. I relax. Smile, even. Tell her my life story (at least, as it pertains to current medical status). She nods. Smiles. Furrows brow at appropriate times. Advises. Gets to work. I’ll spare you the details of her spelunking adventure (you’re welcome), but during said adventure, we also discuss the importance of sun screen and of course, diet and exercise – the dastardly duo I cant seem to escape. She surfaces. Removes gloves. Answers a few more questions. Writes an Rx. We exchange farewells. Now that she’s spent so much time with me, and seen me naked, we’re practically family.

Fast forward to the Tetanus shot, and a new person – we’ll just call her Shot Girl. Shot Girl is also very nice, calming me down while I hyperventilate (she cleans my upper arm with a cotton ball. Oh, how it burns us, it burns us!) before administering the shot. Expecting the worst, I turn my head and will my heart to slow down as she sticks me. One. Two. Three. And we’re done.

I know people always say this, but I really don’t feel the needle. I do feel something warm trickling down my arm and dripping onto the table (a special leave-behind for the next patient, I guess) as Shot Girl gasps, declares me a bleeder, gasps again, tells me I’m bleeding like crazy, and springs into action. She goes to town on those cotton balls to clean me up. It all happens so fast, I barely have time to register the fact that she isn’t wearing gloves as she mops up my bodily fluids (I guess I don’t fit the profile for someone with a scary transmittable blood disorder?). As soon as I see that dark line of maroon moving down my arm like warm molasses, it’s all I could do to keep my heart in my chest. Must. Stay. Calm. Must. Not. Pass. Out.

I realize, then, that maybe it’s not so much the needles that scare me. Maybe it’s the blood (that would explain my aversion to vampire and zombie movies). Or the unplanned potential for blood. See how quickly life can change? What was supposed to be a routine Tetanus shot (which now also includes protection from Whooping Cough, FYI) turns into a dangerous race against the clock – quick, Shot Girl! Hold her steady! You’ve got to apply that Band-Aid!

Phew. After that kind of near-death experience, I hope against all hopes that Shot Girl can pass the soaked cotton balls on to Phlebotomy Girl so she can simply ring them out into vials, saving me the pleasure of yet another hole in my arm for the blood draw. Alas, my pleas are unheard. There is no way around it. I must let them tourniquet me up for another go. Tight. Tight. Tighter. Rubber on skin. I turn my head, slam my eyes shut, pump the obligatory fist, and go to my happy happy place for a Very. Long. Time. Despite Shot Girl’s testimonials to the contrary, the blood draw is significantly more painful than the Tetanus shot.

*Oh, ouch!*

Blood. So creepy, yet so vital.

Anyway, bleeding abated, holes patched up, glossy 8×10 describing my birth control options in hand, arm throbbing like I’d just lifted my car with it, I am on my way. All in all, not so terrible. Since I am such a Big Girl at the doctor’s (kindly keep your scale comments to yourself), I treat myself to lunch at Whole Foods after my appointment. As I drink my corn poblano soup, I think, hey, I kind of dig this tit-for-tat thing. Go to the doctor. Be a Big Girl. Get a treat.

That said, I’ve gone ahead and scheduled open heart surgery for next week. I figure if a blood draw earned a trip to Whole Foods, heart surgery is worth at least week in Hawaii. Tit. Tat.

4 Comments | health | Tagged: doctors, needles, shots, whitecoat syndrome | Permalink
Posted by Sarah Ockler