It seems that it has been ages since I last wrote, and I suppose it may as well have been for how much has occurred. The beginning of 2017 has been very difficult in many ways, and I apologize at not making time or energy to write about it. This chapter will focus on January, which I will tell about in three stories.
The CT Scan
I had a mysterious, undiagnosed bladder problem and spent a lot of time getting a CT scan, a cystoscopy, and trying modified diets only to find that nothing detectable was wrong. Eventually my symptoms went away and these health issues of November to January have been relegated to my shelf of undiagnosed or diagnosed yet unexplainable, intrusive health problems. But, if nothing else, I am grateful that I am no longer dealing with it. I will, however, tell the story of my CT scan.
Making the appointment for my CT scan was odd. It was hard to communicate with the fellow, and I felt doubtful about the experience and whether I'd even successfully secured an appointment despite the time slot he said he was holding for me. Well, when I showed up to my appointment, the receptionist told me that I had no appointment. My referral had never even been sent from the hospital. Fortunately, the technician hadn't left yet and the receptionist was able to immediately call for my referral, so I waited. I waited for an hour instead of the estimated 20 minutes the receptionist had given me. I had been told to come with an empty bladder. The technician requested that I drink three cups of water 20 minutes a part because I needed to pee before I went in.
Anyway, when I was finally led into the scanning room, I was nervous. One particular reason was that I had recently stopped taking birth control because it interfered with my epilepsy medication. If there was a chance of one being pregnant, one isn't supposed to have a CT scan because of the radiation. Well, I wasn't pregnant, and, logically, I knew that. But when there is a chance, there is a worry. Then came the IV. The technician stabbed my tendon repeatedly trying to shove the IV needle in. He didn't know it was tendon at the time, so he shoved harder when it wouldn't "take." He stopped suddenly when it occurred to him that it might not be a vein he was prodding. Taking out the needle, he said "Looks like that was a tendon. Oops. You're going have a bruise." He grabbed a band and wrapped it tight around that spot to lessen the bruising and then put the IV in my vein. The vein stung for the next 10 minutes. Initially, I had asked if it was supposed to sting. He said no and told me to let him know if it didn't stop. Well, 10 minutes later he asks me, I said it still hurt, and he decided to grab my arm at the entry point and push and move it around while in my vein until I started tearing up, at which point he looked at me and asked, "Am I hurting you?" I nodded my head yes. So he stopped. He said the scan was nearly over and quickly walked out.
The scan took another 30 minutes our so. I was in pain, extremely nauseated, and claustrophobic to boot. So I sang to myself. Spencer has a fragment of a song that he sings to me when I'm in need of comfort, when I have anxiety, or when I ask him to. He's done this since we were first married. Well I sang this segment from "Everything's Alright" to myself on repeat for 30 minutes, and I honestly think that's what kept me calm and collected.
The scan took another 30 minutes our so. I was in pain, extremely nauseated, and claustrophobic to boot. So I sang to myself. Spencer has a fragment of a song that he sings to me when I'm in need of comfort, when I have anxiety, or when I ask him to. He's done this since we were first married. Well I sang this segment from "Everything's Alright" to myself on repeat for 30 minutes, and I honestly think that's what kept me calm and collected.
After I re-entered the lobby, I had to wait another 30 minutes for the image disk. Then I checked out. The receptionist seemed uncomfortable. I had been driven into Cambridge through a taxi service that the establishment provided. I guess that I technically lived out of the bounds of their distance limit, although the man that I had called to set up the ride had mentioned nothing. The receptionist paid the bill when I arrived, which was gracious, but on my way out, he, rather passive aggressively, told me about the limit and that I never should have been allowed to use the taxi service from out in Belmont in the first place. Trying to smooth it over, I said that I could take the bus home, but he wouldn't be consoled. He wanted me to not require the taxi, yet when I said I could take the bus, he felt like a heel and objected. I was exhausted and nauseated and felt like I was going to fall over, so I just wanted to leave. I finally told him to call the taxi, which would take me to Harvard Square and that I would take the bus from there. It felt like a compromise. Still looking aggressively pensive, he called the taxi.
An hour later I was home. There were many tears, the dam kind of bursting, and much comforting on the part of Spencer. Sleeping was difficult that night. I was nauseated, dizzy, in quite a bit of pain, and the inside of my vein felt like it had been scraped around the edges. I can't really describe how my tendon felt . . . it felt bad with a ton of ibuprofen in my system. But I started sobbing and felt like I was going to faint later that night only to realize that the pain killer had worn off. I took some more. Within a few days though I was fine. I'm astounded by the body's resilience and ability to heal.
My First Yankee Swap
The rest of January and my winter recess, I worked, did a bit of crocheting and extra sleeping and had some downtime with Spencer, but on the whole, it was the least restful break I have ever had. There were two definitive highlights however. The first was our church ward's Yankee Swap. Essentially we brought a white elephant gift, technically an odd Christmas gift they'd received, and swapped them through a fun game. Spencer and I though it was hilarious that an insult had transformed into a label for a treasured tradition. "Yankee" has been an insult for over 200 years. It was originally just a term for Americans, albeit an insulting term. Eventually it became a label for people thought of as distrustful traders, street-smart, intelligent but craftily so. (Just picture it: A bunch of Yanks come to an evening of gifts, bringing the "worst gifts" from last Christmas, and then proceed to steal each other's gifts in the attempt to come out with the best stuff.) Eventually it became an exclusive term for "our Northern Neighbors." Here's the idea behind it.
"If you're in Mexico, anybody north of the border is a Yankee. If you're over the border, its someone from above the Mason-Dixon line. If you're above the Mason-Dixon line a Yankee is someone from New England. If you live in New England, you know a Yankee is some one from Maine. You go to Maine looking for a Yankee and they'll tell you its an old hard tack farmer out in the country. Finally, if you go up to Maine, find yourself an old hard-tack farmer, and ask him where you can find a Yankee? He'll tell you "Well, yuh take thet ruhd theh, noth 'bout 12 miles, till yuh come tuh the fok, n'beh right, go 'nother 8 miles till yuh get t'the end. When the ol gent with the shotgun comes out t'meetchuh, why thet's a Yankee. Eyuh." http://mullenclan.com/misc/YankeeSwapRules.htm
At this point, "Yankee" basically refers to someone from New England. It seems that this identity has been thoroughly embraced. At this point it's become an event unto itself, but it's still hilarious. Feel free to browse all the sites dedicated to Yankee jokes; they're pretty great. http://yankeejokes.com/
Anyway, some people brought weird gifts that recurred every year and were now a tradition (a small basketball crockpot that eve
ry receiver had signed). So here's the game: every person who brought a gift received a number, and we opened presents from lowest to highest number. So the gift pile dwindles. The catch, though, is that you can swap gifts up to three times. So the person opening the gift is Owner #1. The next person opens their gift, doesn't like it as much and switches with Owner #1. This new person is now Owner #2. A few presents down the line, a person opens a gift that they don't like, but they really like Owner #1 and now Owner #2's gift. So they swap. Because Owner #3 is the third owner, it is now their gift for sure. It has been swapped it's maximum amount of times. And that's how it goes. It was a blast! Spencer and I ended up with a framed and signed photo of one of the parent's teenage boy in the ward. It was the best, 80s-esque picture ever. The gift also included an extra large sleeve of Toblerone. We fared pretty well in my opinion.
ry receiver had signed). So here's the game: every person who brought a gift received a number, and we opened presents from lowest to highest number. So the gift pile dwindles. The catch, though, is that you can swap gifts up to three times. So the person opening the gift is Owner #1. The next person opens their gift, doesn't like it as much and switches with Owner #1. This new person is now Owner #2. A few presents down the line, a person opens a gift that they don't like, but they really like Owner #1 and now Owner #2's gift. So they swap. Because Owner #3 is the third owner, it is now their gift for sure. It has been swapped it's maximum amount of times. And that's how it goes. It was a blast! Spencer and I ended up with a framed and signed photo of one of the parent's teenage boy in the ward. It was the best, 80s-esque picture ever. The gift also included an extra large sleeve of Toblerone. We fared pretty well in my opinion.
The Boston Women's March
The second highlight was the Boston Women's March the weekend before Spring Term began. It really was inspiring. The buses were packed with energized and pleasant people chatting. Everyone headed to the same place with shared conviction broke down the social barriers that usually keep people quiet and to themselves through their commute. The Red Line Subway had the ticket gates thrown open, letting everyone through and onto the train cars for free. The Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority had adjusted the line schedules, sending empty cars back and forth between the Boston Common and Harvard in order to quickly transport everyone. Every time an empty car rolled into the station the crowds cheered. Not everyone was as lucky as I was because I only waited five minutes before being carried along and shuffled into a car that was filled to capacity. It had only one last space for one last body, and I claimed it.
Once I arrived in the common, I waited for an hour for my cohort of friends whom I was to meet but had gotten slowed at a station with fewer cars coming back and forth. Even so, I had a delightful time reading signs, looking at the pussy-cat hats, and spotting a Betsy Ross costume, Suffragette costumes, etc. There was no cell service because of the sheer mass of people overwhelming the signal, so it was a miracle that I found my classmates, a sheet stroke of luck amidst the throng. The rest of the experience was characterized by waiting. The Boston chapter had planned for 20,000 people and nearly 175,000 people showed up. Many people weren't actually able to march due to logistical issues, bottlenecks, etc., but we all felt good for having shown up to show our support to the causes, values, and people we loved. My friends and I, with Spencer joining us later, spent the rest of the day resting, talking, and making soups for dinner and brownies for dessert. We finished the evening by watching some Planet Earth because I had never seen it and that just wouldn't do.
Then term began.
