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Playing "Stump the Doctor"

<whine>

 

I do not have an ulcer.

I do not have acid reflux.

I do not have a virus, a peanut allergy, or celiac disease. I do not have a heart problem, fluid in my lungs, or a perforation in my esophagus. I do not have a hole in my stomach. I am not trying to avoid school. I am not depressed. I do not have a bacterial infection. I do not have a sinus infection. I am not pregnant. My Tanner Stages are right where they should be. I do not have appendicitis. I do not have an injured skull or central nervous system. I do not have a brain tumor, concussion, or other neurotic problem. I am not vastly overworked. I do not have a sensitive throat. I do not have a kidney stone or a bezoar. I do not have gastrointestinal inflammation. I do not have cancer.

I have not been tested for lactose intolerance, but most signs point to me not having that, either.

I possibly have mild hypothyroidism. This is unconfirmed.

What I DO have is:

A slow-moving stomach

Tension headaches (sometimes possible migraines)

Nausea

Chest pain

and frustration.

You see, I'm not getting better.

The headaches are probably because I hold my tension in my body. Okay. Fine. Give me a technique to fix that. I've already given up two plays, a dance camp, and a musical to reduce stress. I still have headaches.

The chest pain is apparently an inflammation of my ribs, that "just happens" in people my age. "All the time." And no, "no one knows why." For that I have the 12-hour equivalent of Motrin. It works, mostly.

The slow-emptying stomach means that I have to eat small meals frequently, and I should try to avoid fiber: raw fruits, vegetables, whole grains, bran, beans. Also chocolate. And fat. And grease. And spices.

Fram. I like those things. ALL of them.

The hypothyroidism, if confirmed (which would require taking more blood. Did I mention that I'm possibly anemic or low-blood-sugared? Unconfirmed, of course.), means that I should eat lots of fiber. See above. I'm screwed.

The nausea can be graphed in a piece-wise function. Constant when I wake up. Increasing when I drink water. Increasing at a sharper angle when I eat breakfast. Constant up to and including the time I eat small-meal-number-two. Decreasing up to and including the time I eat small-meal-number-three. Increasing immediately afterwards. Decreasing. Constant. Past 3 steps repeat for every other small meal. Increasing or decreasing, depending upon the day, after the last small meal. Constant. Bed.

It is not getting better. I'm managing it. I have to. But it's not getting better. I've ordered some med from Canada (it's no longer available in the US) that won't arrive until October, and even then is supposed to take 2-3 months to begin working. If it does. Until that point, I'll have to continue taking the three other drugs I've got for nausea, one of which makes me hungry and sleepy.

I'm living on white bread and occasional, tentative sips of vegetable soup. I am tired. I am hungry. I am not healthy, and I can feel it. I cannot exercise more than a short, light walk; not always that.

 

I am happy when I am doing lots of activities, lots of things that I love. That is how I’ve lived for all my life, up until six weeks ago. Right now I have an insurmountable pile of schoolwork. I have no activity other then dance, which as mentioned above, nausea has/may require me to miss. I am not flexible. I cannot stretch, because I cannot bend over without the bile rising.

I am in no danger. I am far luckier than far too many people. All serious causes for my affliction have been ruled out; whatever it is now, it seems a cure will be found. I am merely uncomfortable and temporarily disabled.

And it sucks.

 

</whine>


Tags:

Endoscopy

I apologize in advance. I’m not quite up to my usual standard today. *Yawn*

 
Got my first taste of anesthesia today.

And it was...weird.

Kind of creepy to think that while I'm in a drugged sleep these people are sticking a camera on a tube down my throat to peer at my guts.

But I didn't really mind that.

I had to fast, of course; that sucked. And when I showed up they made me wait for a good hour.

They put me in a little curtained-off room before hand, and I had to sit on a bed that was too short for me so my feet stuck out at the end and got really cold. I don't know WHAT the guys do. I mean, my dad's 6'4" - he'd have an awful time. I had to strip and put on the gown, ugh, and these socks that looked scratchy but were okay. A seemingly endless train of doctors and nurses came in to talk to me. That seemed strange, because it wasn't a long procedure. It wasn't really a big deal. I mean, it was the first time I'd been to an operating room that I remember- hell, the first time I've been a patient in a hospital that I remember- but it wasn't the procedure that I was anxious about.

Then they wheeled me into a very white room with a very high ceiling and lots of tubes and computers and things. Cool.


They gave me a mask of something at first, because what I WAS a bit nervous about was the IV. Not the needle part- I'm fine with shots and all. It's that I'd had my blood taken about two weeks before and that really hurt. I have an issue with that kind of anticipated pain. I bruise myself and give myself accidental gashes and paper cuts all the time, but this is...different.

They stuck some weird magnetic/electric/whatever thingamabobs on my chest- it felt very Matrix.

The stuff from the mask started out tasting sweet, but after a while became sour, bitter, dead. At that point, however, my legs and arms had gone numb (though I could still feel my chest, head, and hands), so I didn't really care. It was an interesting sensation. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't comfortable either. I could still wiggle my toes, and I was aware that they were there, they just seemed...detached.

Then it was stick the needle in my hand- ow - take the mask away, but here's an oxygen nose-breather thing. Turn on your side, ma'am. I'm going to give you something. Hopefully you won't feel an icky sensation.

I'm still awake. I wonder when-

Now I'm going to give you the anesthetic. Take ten deep breaths, ma'am.

Like, opera-singer breaths?

One...

Before I woke up I had the odd sensation that I was already awake and in the little before-and-after-you-have-a-procedure room , carrying on a conversation with everyone who had been in the operating room. I don't know. I might have been. Or maybe it was just a dream. In any case, when I truly did wake up again, I felt fuzzy. Every time I moved my eyes I saw double, so I alternated between keeping them straight, closing them, and moving them around to test.

The back of my hand ached; the IV was still in. I'd acquired a new blanket. It was warm. My nose felt stuffed up and my throat the tiniest bit sore- like I was just coming down with a cold.

I felt as if I should be disoriented, but somehow I wasn't. There was a plastic fish hanging above my head. They gave me a cup of ice water, which made me realize that  I was starving, and that I desperately needed to pee. Though that might have been the water. I hadn't had anything since 5:30 the night before, so at the risk of being indelicate, certain things were working quickly.

They took the IV out, and THAT hurt. Yee-OW-zah. I have, apparently, really tiny veins.

My throat is still sore, but that'll pass, and I get enough colds for it not to be too distracting. I've got a bit of a something's-stuck-there feeling in my chest when I swallow food, which is annoying, but not enough to deter me. Eating is good.

They're limiting one of my meds, and they've ruled out ulcers and most difficult-to-live-with problems. That's good. But I just want to know when I can eat pizza and chocolate again.
 
Sigh.

I am BEYOND ready for this to be over.



Tags:

*sigh*

The nausea is still bouncing back and forth- they think it may be acid reflux, now..............................   :(

I'm experiencing a writer's bog in my Felicity fanfiction, which is extraordinarily annoying..................  :(

And the bottom of my hair is now blue..........................................................................................................   :D 

One out of three isn't so bad............................................................................................... hmmm.

SPOILERS- Mockingjay


WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS!

IF YOU HAVE NOT FINISHED "MOCKINGJAY," LEAVE NOW!

Hey.

So.

Last post (I think) I was psyched about receiving Mockingjay, the final book in the Hunger Games trilogy, in the mail. I read it start to finish with no interruptions.

And now I'm...not so psyched. I don't know what I feel.

It was kind of disappointing, I guess.

Look. War is horrible. I know. I hope to forever that I'll never understand just how awful war can be. But I know that it's awful.

And I felt like that's what Ms. Collins was telling me.

I didn't read these books because of the conflict. I read them because I liked the characters. I liked Peeta, his steadiness, the way that he was close to being the knight in shining armor but was also human enough to be real- he had weaknesses, too. I liked Prim, old beyond her years, childish enough to care for a creature like Buttercup. I liked Cinna; rational, quietly rebellious. I liked Haymitch for his sneers and the pain that he tried to hide beneath them. I even enjoyed President Snow- he was a great villain. And I liked Katniss for her strength and fragility, her knowledge and her ignorance, and the way that she never, ever gave up.

I loved the first book because not only were there kick-butt characters, but a sufficiently creepy setting: the future of North America, a government in complete control, a yearly killing field that devoured children from the oppressed populace. It was a place that needed a hero. Katniss, I thought, is just the one. She won't stand to be controlled and she'll set everybody in motion.

All of that was gone.

Katniss was a wreck. She was a pawn. She was nearly useless, deteriorating into completely by the end. I know that she had gone through horrible things. But this was a fiction book. I didn't expect her to be the same at the end, but I expected something Frodo-esque: she'd defeat the evil overlord with the help of her friends and would always carry the burden, but she'd get another chance at the end. She'd be all right. Mostly.

She did nothing. She killed Coin, yes, and probably saved Panem from reverting back to its old ways; that was good, I suppose. But she did not defeat President Snow or his government. All she did was make people die.

And killing Prim, while I appreciate the parallels- she's what started this and she's what ends it- was too cruel. It was like killing Tonks: it didn't make enough sense. And yes, I know that war makes no sense. But books do. That's the difference. In a book, everything is done for a reason. I can only reason that Prim's death was to show the horror and senselessness of war. But I knew that war was senseless already. I didn't need the lesson.

So that's another reason, or maybe the same one. It was a book about war. There are plenty of books about war for me too read, should I choose, and I have read some in the past. But I wanted a book about Panem, about Katniss, about Hunger Games. Not about war.

Another thing is the whole Peeta-Katniss-Gale triangle (really more of a V when you think about it). That had no satisfactory ending. It wasn't enough. And, again, I get that after a war in the real world it might not be. But still, it wasn't enough. Yes, I liked Peeta better. But I still wanted Gale and Katniss to be friends; I liked their relationship that far. And Peeta was so out of it for so much of the book that I missed him. Now, I liked the tracker jacket venom story. It made sense, and showed the cruelty of the Capitol without lecturing. But I wanted something at the end, some realization, some show of love. And there wasn't really. There was only a small bit, and not nearly enough. And Peeta's steadiness was gone from the whole book. That was an important part of the other two. It kept the readers sane as well as Katniss.

Again, perhaps the point was that war is insane. But I knew that already.

Gale- I liked him more in this one. He knew how to fight a war. That thing with the mountain in District 2- you have to do those sorts of things when you're at war. Yes, it was awful and horrible. It also had many easy parallels to the atom bombs. But it was necessary. You can't be kind-hearted and run a war at the same time. Gale was demonized through Katniss's eyes because of this plan. I lost respect for Katniss and Ms. Collins at that point. I know that Katniss was whacked out. But that bit seemed rather...clumsy. I didn't expect Katniss to be happy, and I'd have been surprised if she didn't object at all, but the way the Katniss-Gale thing ended, with never seeing each other again, was disappointing. I didn’t expect everything to be fine between them, of course. But I wanted them to still have some sort of contact, even if only over the phone or something. Gale could've found someone else, or stayed a bachelor: I don't care. But a lifelong break? Too much.

I think that I understand the points that Ms. Collins was trying to make through this book. I have no objections to those points. They were just the wrong ones for the trilogy. The other two books were better because at the end, hope remained, love, something. There was nothing at the end of this. The epilogue pretended to give us something, but it gave nothing. And I repeat for the umpteenth time that I know war is bad, I didn't need her to tell me, and if I had wanted a book to discuss that I would have picked up something about WWII or something.

I didn't expect this book to give me everything I wanted. I expected a creative and heart-rending account that gave me my characters, older and wiser, still fractured but healing (even if never completely). I expected people to die. I could have stomached Prim's death (as I did Tonks') if the rest of the book was satisfactory. But it wasn't, so I couldn't. The figure of Katniss that I was looking for was gone. It wasn't even sad at the end. Just empty. And maybe that's how survivors of a war feel.

Except, I know that not all of them do. Both my grandfathers can still feel, love, live.

There was no climax to the book, or none that I could feel. It was a string of chopping off loose ends or leaving them hanging, a hurricane of people and plans and bombs that were at the end just repetitions. You only need to describe something once for it to have an impact. Sacrificing dialogue, characters, virtue for a discussion on the hideousness of war was too much.

In Brisingr, there are several discussions about the effect of killing on the human mind.  In one of them, Arya says something along the lines of "I realized that my reasons for killing were justified and I calmed myself through that." Granted, she is an elf, and this is an oversimplification, as Eragon finds it. But it's possible. People can cope. Katniss has proved that SHE can cope. This...was a let down. Ms. Collins has a wonderful way with words. She just picked the wrong genre.



BIG NEWS!

 

Yes, I know, two posts within a what...half hour? Of each other. BUT I MUST share this NOW!

I've just ordered MOCKINGJAY! You know, the third book in the Hunger Games trilogy?


YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! *punches fist in air* Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Happy dance! Jump on the chairs! Stand on the roof! I love you, Suzanne Collins!


Blurghhhayay!



Weird, weird week this one is becoming. I'm feeling nauseous, still, but not as bad as before, and I'm hungry all the time. I can't even jog, or anything, because of the nausea that I DO have, so I'm stuck feeling restless and expanding. The library's computers are down, so I can only take out 3 books at a time; usually I take out something like 15. I want something to do, but I'm too tired to do it, but I'm very awake and I can't sleep. I want a play to rehearse, or something. I DON'T want to do the stupid summer reading, because everything is depressing and I have to take the most ANNOYING notes, so the ordeal is much prolonged and I have to re-read stuff because I lose my place. I'm a fast reader; reading slowly messes with my concentration.

Saw THE MATRIX last night with dad and brother. Awesome. Duh. They keep seeming to forget that I like the action movies, too; maybe because I like a plotline along with the action. I have a VERY low tolerance for soap-operay stuff. It makes me gag, and feel embarrassed for the actors and the characters.

All dressed up and I've got no place to go...and no shoes to go there with, because my sneakers are the same color as my jeans (which are too tight) are the same color as my shirt, and I don't feel like changing. Too much work.

Odd feelings, floating, wispy, dulled, smothered, muffled. Wanting to do something but finding nothing to my liking. Wanting to eat the fridge but knowing that I shouldn't when all I'll be doing is sitting around, and I'll regret it later because this stomach of mine will have trouble accepting mah offeringz.

It's the end of summer, and classes haven't started yet (my school's starting REALLY late this year) and it's raining, and it's in thr 60's- cold for this season, but not cold otherwise and downright warm if it were winter.

Oy.....


Tags:

What's all this then?

Hey, everybody. Been a bit since my last post, eh? Here's me to tell you why.

There's a Destination Imagination* (DI) camp about 5 hours from where I live that I went to for two years, after the seventh and eighth grades.

It's the freaking BEST CAMP EVER!

And, for reasons unknown to me, I was accepted to be a counselor there! WOOO! WOOO!! DANCE! DANCE! SCREAM! CHEER! LEAP AROUND! CRASH INTO THE TABLE!

Ow. *rubs shin*

Anyway, the entry-level counselor position is known as the "Paint Princess" (male version = the "Go-To-Guy") which means, basically, that the other new counselor and I were the slaves of the camp director for a week. Oh, and I was in charge of the art supplies, including the five hundred billion plastic thingamajiggers of paint that like to squirt out at odd angles and “decorate” the only pair of shorts you have, because you haven't had the time or funding to buy any others.

And, jeez, those little stinkers they call campers are awful at cleaning up after themselves. Hey, I need to eat, too! Don't all dump your half-empty containers and slimy brushes around the building and then waltz off to lunch without a second thought!

I never did that when I was a camper. I never painted anything, either- I had the sense to stay far, far away- but still.

Aw, they're not all bad. Actually, as middle schoolers go, they're AWESOME. Kooky and zany and not sullen and lots of fun! Of course, there are a few whiny kids- there always are. And this one girl who looks sort of like me kept following me everywhere, and being really negative- keeping up the constant stream of encouragement got old pretty fast. And another counselor swears that a kid was making death threats. But 90% of them are super.

In fact, I was having the best week yet of the summer (despite being exhausted- now I appreciate how much work the counselors had to go through). Teaching campers my plethora of silly songs, my mad skills at T-Shirt deconstruction, and how to injure themselves (though the last wasn't intentional. The first day, I tripped backwards over some stairs and sliced open my leg- I'm talkin' six Band-Aids here, count 'em, SIX- and the second day I grated the skin off my knees with the sandpaper someone apparently put down instead of carpeting).

UNTIL...(dun dun dunnnhh)

Thursday.

Now, for several months I've been feeling a bit queasy after eating. Nothing serious, nothing disabling, and it was gone quickly. I never figured I had time to get it checked out. I thought it would just go away, and it seemed to, especially when I began taking Lactaid pills (my mom is lactose intolerant).

For several years now I've been getting bad headaches in my temples, necessitating the use of ibuprofen to get rid of them. Not migraines. They'd increased in number and intensity since the beginning of high school, and so the whole family figured that stress was culprit, as my eyesight was fine (my dad gets tension headaches).

Well on Thursday, these two things joined forces (though I didn't learn the reason until yesterday) to not only sink my battleship but blow up the whole freaking ocean.

I felt horrible. Nausea, stomach cramps...ugh. The weird thing was, though, I didn't seem to have any other symptoms. By the supremely hi-tech method of poking my abdomen and observing that I didn't scream in pain, the camp nurse determined that I didn't have appendicitis. I stayed in the dorm for the rest of the day and then on Friday I was taken about two hours down to a friend's house, where I stayed until Sunday. I was then driven back up to camp to get picked up by my parents as they dropped my brother off for HIS camp session (him as a camper). Five hour car ride home was NOT fun when I felt like vomiting.

Things didn't improve from there.

Yesterday I finally got to a GI (Gastrointestinal, not Government Issue) doctor and he told me that the probable lactose intolerance, and, more than that, the frequent doses of ibuprofen have worn away at the lining of my stomach and let a sneaky little bacteria take hold, which also contributes to and explains why I'm starving, eat a small amount and get full, and then two hours later am starving again.

In other words, I have stomach ulcers.

SHIT!

This is NOT COOL.

I'm supposed to go to ballet camp this week, so that I can advance a level in classes! Never mind that for almost every day this summer I've been doing an hour of ballet: stretches, sit-ups, psoas muscle strengtheners, barre, pointe. This is NOT ALLOWED TO HAPPEN!

He filled out a prescription for two medicines, which are supposed to help. I hope they kick in soon. Because eating ANYTHING brings back the nausea. And I am HUNGRY. And SO sick of saltines.

Oh, and one of the meds has a side effect of headaches.

Isn't that how I got into this mess in the first place?

 

*Consists of teams of students that compete on the district, regional, state, and global levels. They do creative problem-solving challenges, such as building a secure structure out of playing cards, paper clips, and plastic straws or figuring out a way to get objects balanced on top of a canopy from 5 feet away. Skits, both improvised and scripted, are made and performed. I've never been on a team- I'm more of a play and musical girl myself.


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OTP

I've been thinking a lot about my OTPs lately (thanks to the stolen_breeches community) and which one was my first- I hadn't really considered this before. The first one I got really excited (as in, their fanfiction became my life) about was Susan/Caspian, or Suspian, as a result of my friend's obsession. We spent nearly every weekend together at a sleepover, and that much talk over them got me hooked, too. Besides, it's adorable, and I don't like any of the books but LWW anyway: the LWW and PC movies, I absolutely adore, especially the first. So that was an occupational hazard.

But before that, I'd had some OTPs that I thought about in an almost entirely non-fluff-romantic way. They just seemed right. Going back to the kiddie days, most of them came from Disney movies: that Lady and the Tramp should be together, that Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Ariel, and respective Princes should be married. Now most of the Disney princesses make me want to vomit, but that's not the issue here; the issue is that even then, it was a duh!

Anyway, back to why I started rambling in the first place: I've just remembered what my very first OTP was. Ready? Jappy and Polly.

Not familiar?

They're from a book called Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and I read it when I was young enough for ten to be old and the book to seem tremendously long (I remember I was very proud to be finishing it). Then that means...let's see, I started the Nancy Drews in second grade so...around that time. It wasn't, as mentioned above, romantic: it was a matter of course. I remember (SPOILER ALERT!) at the end of the book, when everyone but Jappy and his father find out that they're related, feeling sorry that those two should be left out; and so I decided that Jappy and Polly should marry, and then everyone would be fine. Somehow Phronsie and Davie and Joel and everyone else remained the same age and played with the kids of that union all together in the big house. Hey c'mon, I was only what, 8?

Make a long story short, I happened to look up the Peppers on Wikipedia (as all schoolteachers past, present, and future give a scream of horror) a couple of days ago and find out that not only does Peppers have a few sequels, but Jappy and Polly do indeed get together in one of them. That, my friends, was one of the best moments I've experienced in front of a computer.

*sigh*

So no important point to this post, really, other than the sharing of a thought or two and a moment of bliss. I love it when things work out the way I want them to. Well, who doesn't?


Oh Joy

Wonderful. I'm starving. All the time. But no matter how much or how little I eat, I feel like barfing afterwards. Have a nice strangled sound of revulsion at that short yet far too informative update.

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Time for some fanfiction!

Hey! So! I figured, since none of you can tell who I really am anyway, why not start posting my fanfictions to LJ? Bad plan? Well, you don't have to read them. Most of them are stuff that I wouldn't read if you paid me (unless it's a lot of money *eyes empty wallet mournfully*), but the estrogen fumes that arise from sleepovers are wont to poison my brain and take control of my fingers. Anyway ON WITH THE SHOW!

Ah yes, and every single one of my fanfictions has spoilers. Every one. Ha.

This first one is from the Books of Pellinor, after the end of The Riddle. It's Maerad/Cadvan, Cadvan's POV.


An Excess of Fire

There are shadows in her eyes.

She sits across the small camp-fire, staring motionless into the reaching flames. Her gown is little more than mud, her hair matted and filthy, and when she lifts her hand he can see the missing fingers, cruel, taunting.

She could not have been more beautiful.

Again, his mind wanders back to the moment of discovery; that moment of…of…he can not describe it. A hundred years of song and poetry, and he can not describe a meeting. He wishes that he could fit it into a rhythm: pure joy, pure thankfulness. But it had not been pure.

Oh, how he wants it to be! Cadvan tries to turn away from her, for fear that his mask is cracking, for fear that she will become aware of his scrutiny. He can not manage it. Oh, how he yearns to forget the strange souring in his stomach at the end of that Moment, the blaze that he could only hope had been contained.

Her eyelids droop, lashes dark against the cheeks with the new ridges and hollows. Maerad does not have a glass to see the bruising on her forehead, or the small cut across her lip. Cadvan had offered her his dwindling supply of salve, but she had merely stared blankly; he knew that he should have tended her wounds for her, as she had for him and he for her in the past. It was not so hard a thing, and necessary- except, he does not trust himself, not yet. Not with her return so raw and painful. A welcome pain, a wonderful one, but pain nonetheless.

The wind blows, and she shivers. Before thought, his cloak is around her shoulders- and as she flinches, he realizes that it is not from cold that she recoils. Anger, hot and hateful, rises behind his teeth. What has the Ice Witch done to her? It takes some time, then, for Cadvan to unclench his fists, but he will not risk her seeing his emotion. Only when he can ease back safely to his seat on the bare ground does he chance a word. It might well have gone unsaid. She does not hear. He leaves her his cloak, though now he remembers that she is used to the bone-ache of ice and snow. Still, her fingers tighten on it and she draws it closer, absentmindedly, fixated once more on the fire.

There is a space beside her that needs filling. With effort, Cadvan resists it. It would be far too easy to allow this flood to sweep him up, this hurricane that he does not understand to carry him away. Until he can contain himself he will not touch her.

Self-loathing is dank in his throat and at last, with this, he can avert his gaze. He is still her teacher, and still a lifetime-and-a-half older than she. By all rights he should be dead, and she should be free; he should not keep her to himself as he does. This is unhealthy, for both of them. When they get back-

And here a wave of homesickness washes over him, and he shudders suddenly. As nothing else has, this causes her to look up. Comforting is the smile he gives her, comfort is what she takes from it. Why has that which he has learned to suppress arisen again to haunt him? He is an open sore, and the world is full of salt.

She cannot know the flames within his heart. She cannot know that burns brightest among them the most fleeting, the most forbidden; his Fire Lily.