cindy's world

I was talking to a friend over the weekend and he told me his family has a bad habit of not wanting to go to the doctor when something’s wrong because they’re scared. I’m certainly guilty of trying to weather most health storms, but I think when the health problem is something like cancer, preventative care is absolutely essential. This friend had a relative who was diagnosed with a type of cancer that has a high survival rate, but instead of going back to the doctor to get it taken care of, she hid out at home and prayed. The cancer eventually won.

I get frustrated at my dad for the same thing — serious problems should be diagnosed and treated, but he wants to just wait it out, hoping it’d magically go away. That’s fine if he has a cold or something, but when he was leaking out blood that was really scary! And he’d kept it a secret from my mom for days until he passed out and hit his head on his way down late one night. (If you’re interested, I’d posted about finding out here and the results here.)

When I hear that someone was doing nothing but praying for their recovery, or when they say it is God’s will that they be sick or well, my first thought is usually the cliche “God helps those who help themselves.” This weekend, I thought about that statement, and came to this conclusion about God’s will and our own free will…

I think that God answers our prayers when we ask for help, by giving us the tools we need to resolve our problem. For example, when we are hungry, God doesn’t take away our hunger pangs, he gives us food and drink. But if we just sit there and don’t pick up the food, don’t catch the fish, don’t dig for the water, then it’s just our own damn fault if we starve to death. It’s not “God’s will.” If we’ve done everything we can to help ourselves and we still fall to a disease, then maybe I’ll be convinced that it’s God’s will that we’re done with this stint on earth. This bodes true for addicts (who could seek help with AA or NA but choose instead to feel sorry for themselves, saying the urge is too strong), job hunters, people trying to lose weight, and people who don’t go back to the doctor for follow-up appointments when something is found to be wrong.

Mr. W said that older generations tend to avoid the doctor due to their different styles of thinking, and I guess I can see that. Back 50+ years ago, when medical science wasn’t as advanced, if you were told you got the “Big C,” it was pretty much a death sentence. So they’d rather not know. Today, however, so much is preventable or treatable that I think it’s highly irresponsible to your loved ones, to yourself, and even to God if you just sit on your ass.

Too harsh? Just my opinion.

…it pours.

I had an appointment this afternoon for a 2nd roof appraiser (one recommended by my Association treasurer) to come out and look at my roof, but it’s POURING RAIN so hard that he called me to cancel, saying it’s raining too hard to get to where he needs to get to and see on the roof. It’s supposed to be pouring ALL WEEK so we’re gonna reschedule when we see the rain die down. :'( All the cups, bowls, and buckets are back up inside my bedrooms under the original leaks. Yes, I live in Southern California. Land of surfers and sunshine.

On the emotional issues front, I’m trying really hard to not be affected by Mr. W’s stressors. I’m trying to see his current upheaval with his ex (kids’ mom) as nothing more than an irksome dog barking away outside my home, angry but not really involving me or putting me in direct danger. Even with that, I wasn’t able to fall asleep very readily last nite.

Oh, and I haven’t worked out in 4 days. Because today, at lunch, I chose to have lunch with my new courtroom assistant and my floating court reporter (my regular court reporter is off surfing in Costa Rica) at a Japanese restaurant in Cerritos called “Kabuki”. I had 6 pieces of sushi, 6 pieces of spicy tuna roll, miso soup, and way too much unfiltered Nigori sake.

I was telling my floating reporter today about a food revelation I had last week. Our floor does birthday celebrations. The courtroom that the birthday person works in sponsors this cookie/pie/cake/coffee/dessert/snacks/cheese-n-crackers/cupcakes feast for the day, and invites everyone else on the floor to come and sing happy birthday and pig out. Last week, I attended one such shindig, and for the first time ever, looked the free lemon cake, strawberry-topped cheesecake, coconut cake, and chocolate chip cookies in the eye(s), and reached for a cup of coffee. That was it. I hung out, wished the birthday girl well, chatted with some coworkers, drank my coffee and left. I felt so good about that.

The unexpected thing is that the “good” I felt at walking away was better than the “good” I feel eating yummy desserts. I usually eat the food just cuz it’s there and it’s festive to participate, but I have to deal with the guilt of the excessive calories and that really kills the enjoyment of the food. Plus, sometimes it doesn’t even taste good enough to be worth the subsequent guilt. So why eat the crap?

I don’t know why that’s never occurred to me before. Why I robotically eat the fat-loaded desserts just because that’s what everyone else is there for. My floating court reporter agreed with my revelation/theory. She said that yesterday, she wolfed down a leftover donut and not only did she not enjoy it because she ate it so fast, but it was too sweet and made her sick to her stomach. AND she had to deal with the guilt that night and didn’t eat much when she was out with her family for dinner.

Yesterday, Mr. W and I met up with commenter ‘a’ at The Curry House in Irvine for dinner, and I brought my leftover curried rice with me for lunch, which I ate at my desk before leaving for the gym. A reputedly tactless coworker came in, saw my food, and said, as if astounded, “You eat rice?”
I didn’t know how to take that, cuz do I not look Asian? “What do you mean?” I asked her.
She said, “I didn’t think you ate any carbs because, you know,” she pointed to my body up and down. I guess it’s a compliment.

It appears that quite a few people, mostly women, are using my wedding as a “goal date” for various personal improvement deadlines. I think that’s cool! I feel strangely influential that I can arbitrarily set a date for something, and a bunch of people now set their mental clocks to that date. The power…

I’ve been pretty true to my workouts, but I think I need to incorporate more cardio than I’ve been doing, just to increase the burn a little more. I was eating an Oreo-style sandwich cookie in the elevator yesterday, waiting to get to my floor, when a jury room clerk got on and said, “You can eat whatever you want, you’re skinny. Are you still going to the gym?”
“Every day at lunch,” I told her.
Meanwhile, I’ve been getting crap for doing weights at the gym from the previous generation of Asian women. My mom told me to stop all the weightlifting I’m doing because I’m just gonna make my arms even thicker and less attractive before the wedding, since I’m apparently not heeding her advice to get my wedding gown and Chinese dress with sleeves. The Chinese dress seamstress/shopowner advised Vicky to, above all else, avoid any weight-bearing exercise using her arms to prevent them from growing bigger by the wedding date. (The seamstress didn’t say this to be rude, she said it to address Vicky’s concerns that Vicky wants her bridesmaid dress to have sleeves because she dislikes the appearance of her upper arms.) I still insist there’s a reason why there are no fat girls on the weight floor but tons of them on the cardio equipment and in the aerobics classes.

I discussed this with my co-gym-rat-friend, college roommie Diana, yesterday evening when we met up for a healthy dinner at California Fish Grill in Irvine. Her response was, “You HAVE to keep working out!” (She meant “you” as in “one,” not saying that I personally have to keep working out or explode in outward-falling fluffy fat rolls. No, that’s more like MY personal fear.) I find it ironic that when the seamstress lady was telling Vicky to avoid working out her arms and yet had praised my figure, she was unaware that between the two of us, I was the one who hit the heavy gym weights. And when Diana and I went in to the seamstress shop Monday evening to be measured for her dress, the seamstress was all impressed by Diana’s slimness and the toned appearance of her arms and shoulders, and Diana hits the gym weights hard, too! Diana’s dress, as a matter of fact, is slightly halter-top cut because the three of us (me, Diana, and the seamstress) agree that it shows off her arms and shoulders perfectly.

Diana and I celebrated ourselves by having dessert at Mochilato, and had three ice cream mochis each. This time I had pistachio, mint chip, and toasted almond flavors. YUM. In fact, I’m sitting here eating a plain mochi I’d brought back with me right now.

On the drive to work this morning, I struggled with a drink and ended up splashing some of it on my lap, staining my skirt. Drat! I mulled over the event, and it occurred to me that what’s amusing about this, is what the drink is.
Some might think, “A drink. That means alcohol.” I don’t drink and drive!
“She’s an American, driving to work in the morning. Her drink is Starbucks coffee.” Nope, not coffee!
“She’s Chinese. Maybe it’s a box of Vitasoy or other soy milk.” Nope.
“Tea?” In the morning? Ew.
“Water.” Well, then, it wouldn’t stain.
“Soda?” Quit that years ago, haven’t caved yet.
“Duh. It’s obviously fruit juice, like OJ or something.” That would mean I’d have to go grocery shopping to have fresh juice.
Nope, what I spilled, struggling with the pull-tab opening while driving this morning, was a boxed drink of Premiere Protein shake. In chocolate. Cuz I’m feminine like that.

I have been faithful to my workouts this entire year! (har) Remember that new amped up workout gym trainee and I are trying? It’s working miracles. We’ve increased all our weights by 35%-50%, dropped our reps from 15 to 10, and we’ve decreased our cardio for the time being.

Today is upper body day, and since we’re still sore from Wednesday’s upper body workout, we did sets of 8 (but 8 was all we were able to push out at these new weights).
Machine chest press: 50 lbs.
Supine barbell bench: 60 lb barbell
Lateral shoulder lift (gym trainee calls this “flying”): 8 lb dumbbells
Dumbbell bicep curls: 15 lb dumbbells
Lat pull-down: 85 lbs
Mid-level rows: 70 lbs
Cable tricep press-down: 45 lbs (or maybe 60; the numbers were rubbed off)
5 minute elliptical warmup in the beginning, with 5 minute elliptical cool-down at the end.

My gym trainee loves her new muscle tone and noticed the inches are leaving. I dropped some weight, not sure how much as my home scale is out of battery, but I definitely dropped inches. I’m comfortably back in my size 2 pants. So for all those people out there who say women should do light weight with high reps to keep from looking like a man and bulking up, and for my mom who told me to stop weight-lifting so my arms don’t look big and ugly in a strapless dress…

PTTTHHHHH!@#$

Mr. W and I had a very low-key New Year’s. For the first time since we’d been together, he wanted to stay up (and did stay up) till midnite to toast the new year in. I asked why he’s bothering for this year instead of sticking to his 9pm bedtime like all the previous years. He said because the year we’re toasting in would be “our” year, the year we get married. =) I do not like champagne. I’ve decided.

New Year’s Day, we mostly stayed in and watched “Angel” and “Buffy” on DVD. As we finished Season 5 of “Buffy,” Mr. W’s daughter stopped by to give us Christmas presents. We hadn’t seen her for weeks. She gave Mr. W a big Jack Skellington coffee mug (he’s a huuuuuge fan of Nightmare Before Christmas). Before she gave me my present, she hid it behind her back and explained that it comes from the Disney movie Lilo and Stitch, one of my two favorite Disney movies, and said, “You know how that movie’s all about ‘ohana’ and family?” She handed me an adorable small figurine of Stitch playing a ukelele, which is dangling from a curved wire attached to a clear suction cup. “You’re gonna be family and he’s blue and your car’s blue,” she said.
I was touched. “Oh, now I love it even more!” I said and gave her a big hug. Starting this morning, Stitch hangs from a corner of my windshield, bobbing and twirling and playing the uke.

My mom made out really well this holiday season, too. It all started when one of the prongs on her engagement ring broke. She and my dad took the ring into a jewelry store and asked if they’re able to affix another prong. The jeweler examined the ring and said, “You know this isn’t real gold, right?”
My mom was shocked. “What? It’s 18K white gold! It’s even stamped so inside the band!”
The jeweler said he’s pretty sure it’s not real gold, the weight isn’t right, but they’ll test it in the store’s lab to make sure. My parents were shown samples of silver and gold, and what happens when a particular chemical solution is dropped on them. Then they watched my mom’s ring get tested. Yup. My mom’s ring is silver, with gold plating. They tested their wedding bands, too, which were purchased at the same place as the engagement band. Same shit. My parents had been swindled for the past 32 years.
Luckily, the diamond tested to be real, and of a pretty good quality. (They’d gotten the stone separately at a place recommended by some friends.) My dad had my mother select a new ring setting at the store, and the lab immediately switched the diamond onto a new very chic white gold band covered with small accent diamonds. Feeling bad for my parents, the salesperson took out a tray of good-quality Russian cubic zirconias, and had my mother select one to put into her old (fake) engagement ring, so that she could still wear it for sentimental value. For free. And then while my mom watched the diamond setting process going on at the lab, my dad wandered around the store and bought her an amazing 1.27 carat diamond solitaire which he had mounted onto a white gold pendant that looked to be a set with her new engagement ring. Money was earned to be spent, he said, and they’d been frugal and saved for so long that they can afford to spend some of it on themselves now that their child is independent and they aren’t saving for the next big thing. Besides, he reasoned, he didn’t waste the money; he simply changed it from cash into a different form. The diamond will hold value and can be resold later if need be. It’s not like he blew it all gambling or traded it for junk. True, true.

My mom got to pick up her new pendant this last weekend after she got recent liver tests back from her doctor. The cirrhosis is still there, but they have it under control now with the medication they’d put her on the past 6 weeks. The drugs did their job and they can now drop one of the prescriptions. So it’s a good start to the new year all around.

My doctor e-mailed me 10 minutes ago:

Sent: 12/24/07 2:39 PM
Subject: Results fo the LEEP

Hi Cindy,

I have the results of the LEEP we did a few days ago.

Excellent news. Yes, we found the PRE cancer changes we expected but nothing more AND it appears that we got it all!

So I would like to see you every 6 months for a year or two to make sure this doesn’t come back. I’ll send reminder cards.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Dr [K]

My reply to him is insanely gross, so UNLESS you’re nurse Jordan or some other medical tech or someone with experience regarding cervical cancer and gyno procedures, or into psychological self-flagellation, don’t click on the “more” below. You will not view me the same again. I will lose you as a friend, even if you’re only a blog pal. Seriously. Warning. Mental images. TMI. Don’t click.
(more…)

Hellos to everyone from the Courthouse! Yup, we’re here for one day, off for Christmas day tomorrow, then back on Wednesday. Same thing next week for New Year’s Day which falls on Tuesday. I’m not complaining though…things are slow around here so it’s pretty painless, and hey, I’m happy I’m employed. I’m also glad I have these two consecutive Tuesdays off. And I’m glad I’m not in pain from my procedure last week, and I’m glad they found the abnormal stuff early so that they’re doing cancer prevention by removing the potentially bad stuff. When I get my results back from the doctor, I hope to be glad then that they got it all and that it’s confirmed to not be full-blown cancer. I’m glad my cold is going away (except for the occasional cough), that I can work out soon, that my loved ones are still around and not terminally ill (despite what my mom thinks), that my fiance gets along with my family, that I get along with my fiance’s family, that I’m not mentally or emotionally hurt right now. PMS is doing a number and every little thing steps on my nerves, but I’m glad I’m with someone super tolerant. Crazy tolerant. Sainthood tolerant. I’d hate to be with me at this time of month.

Over the weekend, I felt a small spark of inspiration to write a post counting my blessings, but since I have that new policy of not accessing my blog from Mr. W’s laptop, and I was there most of the time, I didn’t write the post and have since then forgotten what I was going to write. But this forward, which I saw on email today, probably says it better than I would’ve:
~ * ~
I hired a plumber to help me restore an old farmhouse, and after he had just finished a rough first day on the job: a flat tire made him lose an hour of work, his electric drill quit and his ancient one ton truck refused to start.
While I drove him home, he sat in stony silence. On arriving, he invited me in to meet his family. As we walked toward the front door, he paused briefly at a small tree, touching the tips of the branches with both hands.
When opening the door he underwent an amazing transformation. His face was wreathed in smiles and he hugged his two small children and gave his wife a kiss.
Afterward he walked me to the car. We passed the tree and my curiosity got the better of me. I asked him about what I had seen him do earlier.
“Oh, that’s my trouble tree,” he replied. “I know I can’t help having troubles on the job, but one thing’s for sure, those troubles don’t belong in the house with my wife and the children. So I just hang them up on the tree every night when I come home and ask God to take care of them. Then in the morning I pick them up again. Funny thing is,” he smiled, “when I come out in the morning to pick ’em up, there aren’t nearly as many as I remember hanging up the night before.”

Yesterday, at like 10:30 a.m., I became a little less of a woman. A couple chunks of my woman parts are now bobbing in a cup of solution somewhere waiting to be examined in a lab.

The LEEP procedure went surprisingly well. I wasn’t nervous coming up to it (my blood pressure right before the procedure was 109/64, pulse at 65 bpm), and I think my blood pressure only rose when I saw the needle. It was huge, and filled with stuff to numb my cervix. I felt better when Dr. K told me the tip of the needle, the only part entering the cervix, is hair-thin and I would feel tiny pricks at the most as he injected in a circular pattern all the way around the cervix. I felt only pressure by the speculum holding my vagina open. Thank God. The actual cutting part took only 3 seconds or so, while an extremely high-pitched dental drill-like sound filled the surgery room. I had to plug in my ears. And then he re-numbed my cervix, sliced another piece off the top, and was done.

After I was cleaned up, I got to check out the pieces of me bobbing in the sealed cups. I’d kept telling myself that the thought of an ice-cream scoop (as it was described to me) taking out big hunks of flesh was just my imagination, and that in reality, it’d be just a thin splice, but I was shocked at the quarter-sized diameter, inch-deep semi-circle bobbing in there. “That’s HUGE!” I exclaimed involuntarily. “No it’s not!” the doctor said. I was also surprised it floated; I would’ve thought something like that, especially of that size, would sink. It was also pale pink, not red and bloody at all.

He asked if I had questions or concerns and I told him my reservations about the 6-weeks of no exercise thing. He laughed it off and said he never understood that, and that I can walk and be fine immediately after the procedure, just stay off the heavy weight-lifting for about 4 days. Yay! I’m going to Disneyland! All through my “recovery” at Disneyland that day, I had no additional bleeding. I may have cramped a little, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t normal PMS-related cramping. Just to be safe, though, I did stay off the more jolting rides. He said that by the time the numbing injection thing wears off, I’d already be over any surgical pain so that I’d never feel the procedure, and he was right.

I did wake up this morning with a tweaked lower back, and THAT’s annoying. So it looks like SOMETHING’s still trying to hold me back from the gym.

Dr. K said he’d email me early next week with the lab results to make sure that 1) it is PRE-cancerous like they’d thought, not actual cancer, and 2) that they got it all with this scoop, which he’s confident of. Well, they should’ve gotten it all, it looks like my entire cervix was floating in there! He said that once my cervix fully recovers, it may be a tad shorter than it used to be, but a gyneocologist examining me in future pap smears won’t be able to tell by looking at it that I’d ever had surgery there. Amazing.

Talked to my mom today, told her I’ve had these few days off, but said it was because my judge was on vacation that these days were offered to me. Didn’t tell her for what purpose they were offered.