cindy's world

My coworker Andy once told me that “vent” is the actual term for a parakeet’s butthole. Which is where I’ve been the last few days.

We’ve finally, after 3 days of trying, picked our jury panel yesterday: 12 jurors and 3 alternates. While in the selection process, they actually excused another juror because she was coughing and so they asked her whether she had medical attention yet and whether she’s able to concentrate through the trial given her symptoms. She actually burst out in tears and sobbed something about how she’s sick and her throat’s sore and she’s coughing so she hadn’t slept more than 3 hours a night in the past two nights. So they let her go.

After the jurors were all out of the courtroom on a break, the defense attorney said, “Your honor, I didn’t sleep much last nite, either, may I be excused?” and the judge laughed. My sentiments exactly! I hadn’t slept well since Wednesday night, I doubt I even got 3 hours of collective sleep a night, my throat hurts like a mother (which is much of what keeps me up), I’m at work with fever, skin aches and muscle pains, my joints hurt, the jurors can actually hear me and my voice deteriorate through the day as I call out juror IDs to seat them in the jury box for interview, and I literally left the courtroom every 5 minutes to cough in the back hallway or blow my nose (so as not to disrupt the court reporter), so every time I came back in and they did something out of my presence, I gotta play catch-up. And my bailiff still won’t pick up the phone and he makes me get the phone and walk out into the hall to talk to the jurors (like excuse a particular juror or two when the judge/attys agree) when all other normal bailiffs do all of that.

Okay, I think I’m done bitching. No wait, here’s comes another one. MY THROAT KILLS!!! AARRRGGHHH!!!

I went to Mr. W’s yesterday after work to be pampered. He fed me (yes, literally, like I were a small child) a tablespoon of Robitussin DM, and handed me 2 Tylenols for the fever with some water. The first Tylenol stung like hell on the way down. I was going to make some chicken broth rice, but he heated me up some Campbell’s chicken soup. Before bed, he pointed to a bottle of Nyquil and suddenly, I was taken back to age 6…
~
My mom was sick and someone had recommended Nyquil to her. She took the recommended adult dosage (I should note here that she was 105 lbs), and my parents and I sat in the living room that evening, watching TV. My mom kept complaining about how her stomach was burning from the Nyquil, then finally, she said, “I feel horrible! It’s like someone has lit a fire underneath my stomach! I’m going to go lie down.” She got up, walked around us toward their bedroom. Suddenly from behind me, I heard a thump. I looked over the back of the sofa to see that my mom had collapsed, unconscious. I panicked. “Mama died! Waaaah!!!” I cried. My dad hurried to her side, picked her up and put her to bed. I never touched Nyquil for that reason.
~
Last nite, as I eyed the bottle, the promise of a drug-induced sleep was too tempting. I pulled the measuring cup off the top of the Nyquil cap, read the back of the bottle which advised me to take 2 tablespoons of the stuff, looked at the lines drawn on the side of the measuring cup, and poured to the line that said “2”. The flavor wasn’t too lethal — it tasted of cherries, if cherries committed suicide by jumping into vats of tar. I settled into bed with the book Eragon, waiting for drowsiness to overtake me.

60 pages later, with a nose stuffed so tightly that I couldn’t even swallow the pools of saliva that form from having to breathe out of my mouth, I gave up and turned off the light. I laid on my side, hoping to relieve some pressure from the nostril on top, which always worked in my childhood. Thankfully, the top nostril cleared up and I was able to drift into a fitful sleep.

This morning, in the light of day, I again took 2 Tylenols and some Robitussin DM, since that had worked more effectively than the Nyquil yesterday. In taking Robitussin, I read the back of the bottle and ascertained that the proper dosage is 2 teaspoons. I looked around, popped the measuring cup off the Nyquil to take the Robitussin, and looked at the cup. Lines 1 and 2 were labeled TSP (teaspoon), not TBSP (tablespoon)! The medicine cup was supposed to be for the Robitussin, NOT the Nyquil, and because it was on the wrong medicine bottle, I ended up taking only one-third of the recommended dosage of Nyquil! No wonder it didn’t do a thing for me!

I’m still at work today. Everyone’s sick and we’re extremely short on employees. I didn’t want to leave in the middle of jury selection in the complicated trial we’re in right now. But I couldn’t hide my disgruntlement (disgruntledness?) when the attorneys agreed to excuse an Asian male juror because he complained that he’s sick and has a painful scratchy throat, a cough, isn’t sure if he could talk, and HAD to go see the doctor immediately. I said I could put that juror’s symptoms to shame. My judge said, “I was going to make a joke about telling you to stop getting so close to our jurors when you go out there to talk to them.”

Wimps.

I seem to have somehow snorted mustard gas sometime yesterday. I had a tickle in my throat in the day which led to the occasional cough, then as the evening wore on the coughs increased in frequency and severity, and by night, it felt like my lungs were coated with something that prevented air from filling all the way.

This morning, I woke up with raw throat and sinuses. The intake of air hitting my throat brought on pain with each breath. As I laid there, I realized that any part of my body that had any sensation — of the comforter brushing my ankle and shoulder, the pillow against my cheek, a knot of sheets clasped in my hands, my sleeve against my wrists — was in oversensitivity hell. Then I became aware of deeper aches. My bladder hurt from the pressure of being full, my uterus and boobs hurt from PMS, and my lungs hurt. I made the mistake of inhaling a little too deeply. A torrent of hollow coughs tore through my body. It really feels like I should have a fever with all the body aches and pains, but I don’t seem to. I’d go to the doctor, but I can’t imagine what the doctor would do for me except charge $25 for an aspirin.

So I came to work. And I sound horrible. My skin hurts. *whimper*

1.) My dad’s primary care doctor, after examining him, the reports from doctors of the hospital and emergency room, thinks that he may have had a mild stroke triggered by his exertion on the bed post the morning everything happened. How could a hospital have not ruled that out? And if they did, how could a different doctor have thought that’s what it is? My dad said they did some sort of a scan of his brain and they didn’t find anything to warrant further cat scanning. My mom thinks my dad had a reaction to the construction going on inside their house with all the major remodeling, cuz he got dizzy again upon entering their home but was fine in the hospital and at my aunt’s house.

2.) You’ve probably heard of phishing (fishing?), where fraudulent emails are sent to random email lists telling you to fill out personal information to “update” your bank account, credit card account, etc. Then the link leads you to a fake site where, once you put in your information, identity thieves wreak havoc on your credit record or clean out your bank account. One of the most obvious ways to tell if an email’s a fake, despite their having real logos of the financial institution or having a site name that seems real, is by seeing all the spelling and grammar problems in the body of the email. I got this today:

Affirmation Minnie to coldman
show details 12:04 am (10 hours ago)

http://respiratoryskilfully.essforrgunme.com

I didn’t click on the site, but how stupid do they think people are? “Oh, I don’t remember giving out a cash invitation, or accepting someone’s invitation to cash. Guess I’ll give out my personal information at the ‘respiratory skilfully’ website anyway, cuz it’ll probably invite me to breathe ‘skilfully.’ And give me money to boot!” The authorities should have an email address we can forward this bullshit to so law enforcement can crack down on these assholes.

Mr. W and I spent late morning into the early evening with my dad at the hospital. He was walking around, eager to go home, cracking jokes with the family of the guy who shared his room about the “food” at the hospital. “Food” is in quotes because the joke is that they’re starving to death being only allowed to eat liquids, i.e. chicken broth, jello, popsicles and water. My mom had asked me to sneak in some food for my dad, but after my doctor friend Lily just happened to call me on our way to the hospital, I was convinced not to. She said that since they’re still trying to diagnose what’s wrong with my dad, they’re keeping him off solids in case something happens and they make a split decision to get him into surgery. If he had food in his stomach it could interfere with the op medication (anesthesia, etc.), and if he were semi-conscious and throws up on the operating table, the vomit could go back into his lungs and cause pneumonia, or he could choke on it. She said to let the doctors and nurses do what they need to do and not interfere with their feeding schedule. My mom’s concern was that if my dad’s dizziness had the same cause as last time, then he’s bleeding internally again and they need stool samples to see if there’s blood. Lily said that if he’s bleeding, the blood clots will come out either upwards or downwards and whether or not he has solid food. Plus, if he’s been throwing up already, it’s best to take it easy with the solids while they’re trying to figure out what’s wrong.

The good news is that they’ve ruled out hernia, internal bleeding, brain issues (stroke), and heart issues. They’d done a CT scan, several EKGs, and some scan of his carotid arteries and his brain. Everything was normal, so the doctor believes that my dad had simply had a virus that infected his inner ear, leading to labyrinthitis. The doctor thinks the virus has already run its course and after warning my dad that it’s not uncommon for a recurrance of these dizzy spell symptoms in another month or so, the doctor signed the discharge paperwork. My dad happily left the hospital earlier this evening.

I want to thank everyone for their concern and phone calls and many check-ups on me, and also for all of Vanessa’s offers to “do anything, bring food to the hospital, anything.” I probably could’ve taken advantage of the “anything” cuz my laundry’s still sitting in 5 sorted piles in my bedroom waiting to be washed. 😉

I put in for 2 hours sick time and left work early on Friday, after receiving a frantic phone call from my mom shortly after lunch telling me my dad’s in the hospital again. He had issues at work that concerned his coworkers enough to call an ambulance which delivered him to a hospital in West Covina, where my mom was driving to when she called me. So the bday dinner for my grandmother was postponed. People at work were concerned enough to keep telling me I can go ahead home, but I wanted to finish some deskwork I was in the middle of first, after I ascertained that I got permission to take off. Mr. W slipped out of his work a little early, too, and we dropped off my car at my house and went together to meet my parents in the emergency room.

The emergency doctor was very nice. They haven’t figured out yet what’s wrong with my dad, as there was no bleeding this time, so they’re running a battery of tests. She’d told us she wants to do a heart stress test this morning, but I spoke to my mom earlier and they just did an EKG (normal), was prepping for an MRI, and there was no order for a heart stress test. The people sitting in the little glass-encased admittance booth to let people into emergency were a whole different story that I’m not going into cuz it’d just piss me off more. The emergency doctor thought my dad may have had some heart issues, altho she’s not sure as he didn’t have classic heart attack symptoms. Plus, heart problems don’t exist in my family history on either side. It’s because of his risk factors (high blood pressure, high cholesterol, borderline diabetes, high triglycerides) that she wants to double-check his heart. Hey, I just realized I have a few medical professionals that visit my blog. I should explain what happened on Friday with my dad.

My dad was trying to move or disassemble their giant 4-poster bed in the morning, and he had thrown his entire body weight into it to try to turn the posts. He felt nauseated and slightly dizzy after that. He recovered in a few minutes and went to work. All through the morning hours at work, he had waves of dizziness, light-headedness, cold sweats and nausea. He said it was the exact sensation as what he’d felt the last time (I posted about it here with the diagnosis here.) Finally, he started throwing up and couldn’t stop. My dad’s boss took my dad’s cell phone to call my mom, and my mom said she would leave work and go pick my dad up at work to take him to the hospital. Because the vomiting was so severe, however, and because of my dad’s recent history with such similar symptoms, his coworkers called 911 to get him more immediate medical attention. He threw up throughout the ambulance ride, too. My dad had finished his medication they gave him for his bleeding ulcer just earlier in the week, and my mom said he hadn’t been good about sticking to a low-sodium, non-spicy diet. (In the hospital, my dad said he’s feeling hungry, which must be a good sign that his body’s functioning properly now. I said, “Of course you’re hungry, you threw up your food all day.” He said good humoredly, “No, I didn’t have food to throw up. I threw up water. And a couple of peanuts.” So I guess he’s been taking his regular vitamins and prescriptions meds on an empty stomach, too. Except if you count the peanuts, which he seems to.)

Mr. W and I still went through with our dim sum plans with Vanessa and another friend, Lisa, and the four of us had a grand time. Vanessa kept calling to make sure I wouldn’t rather cancel lunch, and I had to keep telling her I’m fine. Everyone else is really concerned with my dad and how I’m holding up, too, which felt strange to me because I’m thinking, “I’m not the one who’s sick.” But that got me thinking — should I be more concerned? I feel no fear or anxiety internally over this, it really feels to me like he had a little upset something or other, he got proper medical care very readily, and now they’re just checking to see what needs to be repaired or what lifestyle habits he needs to modify. The fact that there was no blood or severe internal bleeding this time is a comforting thing.

I remember being 6 years old and watching my mom worry and fret when it got dark and my dad hadn’t come home from work yet. She’d pace from room to room, she’d separate the living room’s miniblinds and peer out into the street for my dad’s car. There were constant fights about how he could’ve called if he were going to be late so that she didn’t have to worry that he got into a car accident driving 50+ miles of freeway to and from downtown LA each way. (I just suddenly remembered that Cheating Ex tried to tell me my dad was late because he was having an affair. Whatever, not every man cheats.) At some point, my dad established a new routine of calling my mom really briefly from the office shortly before he left. It was a “I’m coming home now;” “Oh, you’re coming home? Okay;” “Bye!” “Bye” phone call. But before he started doing that, I’d watch my mom as she seemed sick with worry, and soon I became nauseated like at the beginning of a panic attack with tingly knees and wide, scared eyes, and I’d find myself going to the window, separating the blind with my tiny fingers, looking into the dark street, and praying, “Please, God, let my dad come home soon. There’s a car’s headlights. Please let that be my dad. Oh, that’s not him, they drove by. Please let this next headlights be my dad’s. I’ll be good if you make this next car be my dad’s coming back home,” and I’d visualize my dad’s car turning into the driveway and entering the garage with all my mental might. Now, after my big depression a couple of years ago, I react less strongly to things. I have my sensitive buttons that the last relationship created within me, but Mr. W has been systematically doing away with those and I’m generally calmer and less mentally emotional now (except for the thin line keeping me from irritation when I’m PMSing). All that makes me wonder whether being overly-dramatic, or anxiety disorders, even, are a learned behavior.

Mr. W and I are invited to his boss’s awards ceremony banquet this Saturday evening, where we’ll be rubbing elbows with high society as Boss is awarded [Her High Position] of the Year. It’s a black-tie optional affair, so that means “pretty formal.” I thought I’d try to wear a classic black designer original gown I’d purchased my freshman year in college, a $400 number I’ve had occasion to wear all of twice. It’s not like me to blow that much cash, especially as a poor starving student, on non-tax-deductible stuff like clothing. But eleven years ago, my college roommate was a karaoke video model and a slave to Chanel makeup and United Colors of Benetton clothing. What happens when I shop with someone like that is I make a frivolous purchase or two with no occasion to use the new attire.

The dress has a strapless straight neckline, a fitted bodice down to the hip and a slightly A-line skirt going down to my ankles. A wide slit up the left side of my leg is partially covered with two layers of slightly flared, sheer black chiffon. It’s timeless, romantic, classy, and…a size 4. Nervously earlier in my bedroom before the floor-length mirrors covering my sliding closet doors, I stripped and stepped into the dress. I pulled it up, reached behind me, and zipped the sucker right up to the top! Woohoo!! I can sit in it and bend and everything! I should probably be able to eat, too. Talk about making my night! Oh, and also, now I’m a bit guilty for skipping the workout at lunch today. Vanessa’s on her way over to meet for dinner and hopefully we’ll make it to the gym afterwards.

Now I gotta figure out if I have shoes to go with the dress. And jewelry! Because of the simple neckline of the strapless bodice, I’m free to accessorize as much or as little as I want. Maybe I’ll go with pearls, something simple to complement the simplicity of the dress. But I think I may have to go shoe shopping.

Whoa. Suddenly…prom flashbacks.

I’ve been going strong at the gym, not because I’m motivated, but because I’m being dragged. I had Saturday off because the various activities Mr. W and I had planned, but we more than made up for it on Sunday’s 3-hour gym sesh in which I killed myself. Monday, I hit the gym at lunch as usual, then met up with Vanessa for that cardio weight-lifting class after work. Tuesday (yesterday), I skipped the gym at lunch to actually eat with some coworkers since I was too sore to do more weights, but after work Mr. W got me to a gym local to his house and he pounded out an hour of cardio on the elliptical trainer as I did 20 minutes on the bike, 22 minutes (2 miles) on the treadmill, 25 minutes on the elliptical trainer.

This morning, it seemed to pay off. While I was getting dressed, I noticed that my lower abdominal flab, which hangs like a smile under my belly button, was less smiley today. It was more like a tight-lipped smirk. So it’s going away! My reporter said something about how I must be losing weight, too. My pantsuit yesterday felt looser in the thigh, butt and lower abdomen area.

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” my gym trainee said yesterday when I told her that I was being dragged to an hour of cardio after work despite taking the noon workout off. “Yeah, apparently the gift also ricochets,” I said.

I can’t tell whether I’m bitching or bragging.

(In case anyone’s wondering about Mr. W’s progress, he had to tighten his belt one notch down this weekend.)

Vanessa invited me to attend a 24 Hour Fitness recreation class with her last nite, something called “24 SET.” I understand that SET is an acronym, but I don’t know what it stands for, except that it was a Seriously Excruciating Time. I didn’t realize how hard-core that class would be, so I maxed out all my major muscle groups plus biceps during a 3-hour workout the day before, on Sunday. Everything hurt during class except my ass, and I’m sure that’ll hurt later. The class, as it turned out, did some Seriously Excruciating sTuff on every muscle group, plus cardio. Hopping around the stepper while doing bicep curls (with weights), one-legged dumbbell squats and squats with the bar over our shoulders, pushups, crunches, lunges, hammer curls, tricep extensions, hip extensions, bench presses, deadlifts, we worked our shoulders, chest, back, hamstrings, quads, abs. The last time I sweat that much in just an hour of exercise was in a spinning class. Jeebus!

Vanessa asked at the end of class, as we dripped and oozed our way back to the locker room, whether I’m up for taking the class with her again next Monday. I said, “Okay.”

I’m in so much pain today that I’m skipping the gym. I’m going to lunch.

Let’s see…what to say about the new belly dancing class?

Instructor – Fahtiem has a cutsie personality that comes across in her dancing. Her choreography is playful, like she doesn’t take her dancing too seriously. She was trying to get the class to smile while dancing, and since so many of us were concentrating and not smiling, she stood and turned in a circle in the center of the class making clown faces at all of us in turn to get us to laugh. Because of her personality, she’s likely a better belly dancer than my last instructor. My last instructor was much better on teaching technique, however. She was very clear on how each move is done, she tells you what the move is called, and you practice the moves individually. Fahtiem, on the other hand, you just have to follow and hope you’re doing what she’s doing.

Class – The usual variety of people you’d find in a mixed-level dance class. There’s the newbies who’re self-conscious and confused. And then you have the semi-newbies who think they’re better than they actually are and get all in your space doing exaggerated moves that don’t look as good as they seem to think. And then there are the old-timers who dance with their noses in the air, except when they’re facing a mirror in which case their eyes are glued to the dancing image of themselves and they are apparently enraptured and deeply in love with what they see. A very large girl who was supposed to be to my left in the dancing circle kept making what my coworker called “elephant steps” and overstepping her bounds into our space. My coworker, annoyed, finally told her to move over and stay within the circle instead of stepping in front of it.

Me – Man, do enough unfeminine stuff like jujitsu and weight-lifting and suddenly, all the grace is gone. I felt stiff, awkward, uncoordinated, and definitely not sensuous. I couldn’t bring out the playfulness of the routine because I was concentrating so hard on just remembering the steps first and not being rammed by the elephant trunk arm of the big girl to my left. Hopefully the artistic expression of the dance will come through soon, once I get the technical parts down.

My coworker remembered the class cost wrong and we each wrote a check for $54 for the remaining 7 sessions instead of the $50 advertised in the course guide. When we realized this, my coworker went back to the instructor and told her, and the instructor wouldn’t refund the difference, saying if we had paid through the City instead of to her directly, it would’ve cost us an extra $10 for not being City residents. But we’re not paying through the City, she wanted us to pay her directly so she gets all the money without the City taking a cut. Whatever. 6 weeks left. You know it’s bad when I’m doing a countdown of sessions left already in the first class. I did that all through yoga with the Crazy Yoga Instructor.