Of nasal exoskeletons and forcible exhaustion

It may be surprising to my viewers that I am awake at 3am.  The typing kind of awake.  Shed your marvel, my friends, for this has been my habit for a month, now.

In June, when the allergy bug settled in my sinuses, this was just a regular infection, and I treated it as such with saline, my trusted Nasal Crom, and even hopped on the Neti Pot wagon.  By mid-July, when none of these therapies worked, I threw up my hands and called it in.  By this time, I have developed inner nasal scabs which made mucous expulsion quite the bother.  A prescription of Flonase was bestowed without even an appointment.  Beautiful.

Fifteen dollars and three glorious weeks of regular breathing later, it was time to abandon the steroids and hope that their effect would be sustainable.  Fat chance.  So I called it in again, asking my doctor what the next step might be.  "Try saline washes and using the Neti Pot," says my doctor's replacement.

"Are... are you serious?" I wanted to respond, but refrained in the interest of actually getting some help on the stagnant-green-pool-harboring nasal exoskeleton front.  So I actually tried these saline treatments again, hoping that with the steroids having brought me back to stage one, they might work.  Negative.  A month later, the scabbing and green mucous flow are worse than ever, so I call it in again.

"Hi, I've been having some problems with my nose and may need antibotics."

"Well, why don't you give me an idea of what's been going on, sweetheart," says the Southern Bell on the other end of the line, who I must trust to translate my story to my doctor.

"Well, three months ago I just had what appeared to be a regular sinus infection.  I treated with all the different saline washes for a month, was prescribed Flonase for a month, and the infection got worse when the steroid treatment ended.  So now I'm concerned that I might have a more serious infection and be in need of antibiotics.  This is my first allergy season being on Remicade, so I'm susceptible to infection.  This is the first time in my life I've had a sinus problem nearly this severe and that may have something to do with it."

"Well bless your heart, you poor thing.  Let me send this message to the doctor and call you right back!"  I've spoken to this woman many a time. She is, if not effective, very sweet.

[Time lapse of three hours, Southern Bell calls me back]

"The doctor says she'd like you to continue using saline washes and wait until the peak season is over in October."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, she said continue with the saline.  You're doing the right thing."

"Alright, look.  I know this isn't your fault, and I apologize for getting upset, but I'm at my wit's end, here.  Saline has not been anything resembling helpful during this whole situation.  I have gotten progressively worse with the exception of the fast-acting and fast-disappearing effects of Flonase.  I have been expelling green mucous out of my mouth at least ten times a day because my nasal passage has developed an exoskeleton so strong that I can't blow my nose because the mucous has no way to push through.  I bleed every time I sneeze, I now have scabs on the outside of my nostrils, I wake up at 3am every night, and frankly, I can't breathe at all unless I flush my nose with hot water every morning and try to peel away some of the blockage, and to exacerbate this I am in the crux of the most stressful time of my entire life.  Saline nor steroids have been helpful in this matter and have, in fact, allowed things to get much worse, and the doctor doesn't think that I might have an infection that my immune-suppressed body just can't fight on its own?"

"Well honey, I'm sorry.  Let me send a more explicit message to the doctor and get back to you soon."

That was a week ago.  I think I may have scared off poor Bell.

My exoskeleton needs a hot shower.  I'm effing tired.  I'm effing stressed.  Please give me some effing antibiotics.  I am working 50-hour weeks, writing grants, writing graduate school applications and studying for the GRE (something which I can't quite support logically).  I haven't run in two weeks because, well, it makes my sinuses swell.

Anyone have thoughts on just chopping the thing off, going Tycho Brahe style?

L'shana tova, u'metuka!

If I can't hold to a marriage resolution, perhaps I can cling to a new year's resolution.  My favorite holiday -- at one time, for no other reason than the unassuming joy of casting away my sinful bread crumbs into a flowing body of water -- comes to the rescue.

L'shana tova u-metuka, everyone!  May the new year 5771 be the one during which I finally set sail for graduate school and begin actually working toward my and my husband's future.  And may Gaia accept this Jewish celebration, absorb my bread crumb sins into her bosom and recycle them back to me as renewed opportunity.  May there be abundant apples and honey, and may the Pedant Neuroscientists of the world not get in my way again this year.

Or some such gibberish.

Squatter Evangelism

I want a squatter toilet.  With a Bidet.

http://www.slate.com/id/2264657/

Hell Month

As Hell Month comes to a dragging close, I feel inclined to explain my "prolonged" absence and attempt to begin September anew.  August is typically difficult for me no matter what; it's the month where summer student projects realize their failure to culminate properly, when grant money comes in, when last years money must be spent or be lost to the government, when deadlines abound, and when I realize that I have been dawdling all summer and must reclaim some kind of focus.  This August, however, has been particularly acerbic.

I have not written much since July because my emotional mind has been inhabiting a very dark place.  It appears that I did not actually recover from my PWD phase until very recently.  Since I have not cried for a mind-boggling four-day continuum -- with the exception of M&L's wedding yesterday, which does not count -- I think it's time for a celebratory return to the real world.

This August, everything came crashing down.  My baby brother alone and unhappy in his new college surroundings; summer student projects failing to culminate; the complete revamping of my journal papers, which would be fine except for that the longer it takes my boss to edit them, the less likely it is that I will have their publication on my graduate school C.V.; weddings of those dear friends who decided last-minutely not to attend my own or send a gift, or a card, or even acknowledge an intent to do so, but who expect my attendance at showers, bachelorette parties and their special days (and, yes, I know exactly how that sounds); the sickening regrets about my own wedding that I seem to hunt down, which is its own special kind of painful and stupid act; the desperate need to get H.K. on my health insurance, which has been delayed by the marriage certificate fiasco, the name-changing social security card fiasco and the title and registration DMV fiasco that is guaranteed to occur; the realization that I am, Crohn's wise, exactly where I was last year at this time and somewhat terrified that it will all begin to replay at any moment, and the major anxiety that last year will fully repeat itself and I will not get into school again, even though I'm more qualified than 90% of applicants in the country (yes, I know exactly how that sounds, too).  This is do-or-die year.  If it doesn't happen now, it's not going to.

There have been several instances of tummeh turbulence that put my Crohn's panic into play.  Namely, a weekend out in Seattle with dear friends where eating out twice a day, despite my greatest efforts -- and I was very careful... excepting the alcohol -- sent me into a painful reenactment Monday evening.  Secondarily, the immense stress I've felt deep into the dorsal horn of my spine makes even butter a dangerous contender.  'You're doing so well,' I tell myself, 'don't throw it all away in the name of gustatory freedom.'  And it's so much more easily said than done.

Sleep?  None to be had.  Exercise?  Fluctuating with the consistency of supermarket produce quality.  Meditation?  Intimidatingly unsuccessful unless there is alcohol involved.

I need something good to happen here.  In the mean time, I am at least escaping from the grasp of beastly depression.

how we are hungry

No one in my line of work ever says, "It's so beautiful - so meaningful - what you're doing."  People don't look at graphs and n's and alpha values and feel the shell harboring their emotions crack.

I have to.  Every so often, I have to hunt for a study that is so powerful, and so beautiful that my jaw clenches and my eyes swell.  If I don't, I break under the politics of science.  I rarely find one.

So many years spent choreographing souls, extending life in my arms and dancing disease out of existence.  Science is not like dance.  No one ever reaches through the laminate of graphs and methodology to find the empathetic compassion of a fellow scientist.

I need to know that it can be so powerful - so beautiful - what I'm doing.

Apparently, it can be, and I lose sight of it:

What you do makes my jaw clench and my eyes water, though.

You see the day to day, deadlines to keep grants, shooting mice in the stomach with needles, and training new med school idiots who are clearly beneath you.

My second host mother, E, had the most warm, loving, wonderful parents. Her tall, strapping, powerful father slowly began to shake more and more each day until he was diagnosed with Parkinson's. All of a sudden this strong man was made to feel like an incapable child in his own body, leaving his tiny, frail wife to treat him like an infant. He felt emasculated and helpless.  He went on the most top-notch medication known at the time in order to control his uncontrollable shaking and ended up having psychedelic nightmares every waking and sleeping moment of the day. Waking up, shitting himself from fear, literally seeing a wrecking ball smashing through the room, muscling his weak body over his wife to protect her from his delusions.

I've seen another man, not much older than your parents, with a teenage child. But instead of looking his age, the stress from Parkinsons leaves him looking in his 70's, barely capable of continuing his accounting practice because it takes him over 5 minutes to write his name. He can't keep a conversation because the shakes take over and he can no longer concentrate. "It's a bad day," he says to me, when he can't even complete a sentence, asking me about his [business transaction].

My heart breaks. But you are doing something about it. Your blood, sweat, tears, frustration, stress, training...your life will contribute to the future. So other people won't go through life like this.
When I found out this is what your focus was, I heard my host mother in my head. "I don't wish this disease on anyone." She was on the verge of tears as she watched her father try to simply walk through a doorway with so much difficulty. I was so proud of you, and to even know you, right then and there.

Thank you, K, for reminding me that what I am doing can be so beautiful, and so meaningful.

marital resolutions

On July 10th, I got married.  On July 11th, I made a marriage resolution to never again cry over small things like having to buy a second marriage license because of a single ink slight or having to swim through endless legal bologna to change my name in all of the necessary systems, or the haunting mistakes surrounding the beginning of H.K. and me that have resurfaced in my conscience.  July 14th through the 19th, I failed my resolution.

Post wedding depression, I discovered, is actually a thing, like postpartem depression.  My business-week long PWD, however, had nothing to do with realizing I was trapped with this man, or with adrenaline withdrawal, or with no longer being the center of attention, as the classic syndrome characterizes.  My emotional imbalance came from recognizing that this man actually married me; he is the one who is stuck -- I successfully conned him into thinking I was the greatest thing on earth -- and I don't know what to do with that amount of happiness and fortune except worry that he will someday regain whatever rationale I've temporarily numbed, and want out.  And that is way, way too much paperwork to even think about...

I would like to think that I've come to my senses, and found a way to cope with being the most fortunate and undeserving twenty-something in the galaxy.

The wedding was beautiful, the guests were amazing, the "minister" could not have been better chosen and the adventure afterward was phenomenal.  There are no adequate descriptions.  It was all far too sweet and far too short.  I demand a replay.

As an aside, the top of the cake was devoured with no reservation over the course of the honeymoon.  Being covered in dark blue final frontier-like fondant, it died the Throughput a rich green color for the remainder of the trip.  Vegan cake was a brilliant decision, because other than the odd color I suffered no nausea/hot flashes/constipation or stabbing pain until the evening we returned home.  Success, almost.

romantic ruminations and rhubarb

H.K. and I answering a questionnaire and trying to figure how we're going to personalize our wedding ceremony:

HK: 'What do you most look forward to about life with this person?'  The summers. If you have seen Raga in a bikini you know what I'm talking about.
Raga: I said, "everything we haven't experienced yet."  I look forward to everything because I get to share or experience it with you.  ... and that is the lamest thing I've ever said.
HK: the question says, "most"
Raga: I know.  It's all the most.
HK: the summers aren't better?  I think the summers are better.
Raga:  I think I'm so painfully love-struck that it's all just a wash.

I know it sounds like we're having our own personal conversations here, but we're really on the same page.  Truly. 


It appears that I have eaten one-too-many salads of late, and my supposedly non-existent ileal stricture has beaten me down.  Therefore, I have taken a personal day today in order to mollycoddle my belleh in the interest of surviving (dare I say, enjoying) my wedding day.  My beloved cake chef is making the chocolate kahlua tier a vegan one .  In his honor, I will be dining on rice, chicken and the goodies featured below for the next eight days.

Here's what happened to that rhubarb I mentioned:

I may or may not but almost certainly did over-bake the crust, add sugar to the egg whites too quickly whilst beating the meringue, give up the meringue-beating too early and then forget that I had left it all in the oven after adding the meringue to crisp; but these rhubarb custard meringues were nonetheless delectable.