911

Hey all. 

I've been working on a plan for a while to get back to blogging here (as well as over on Filthy Casket Book Reviews) but some serious health issues have slowed things down. My hope is to get a post up this week just kind of talking about what's been going on medically, and outline some business goals - I'm not able to do landscaping right now, so a few months ago I decided to start a small (tiny) business selling bookmarks, paintings, prints, decor, furniture, etc. Fun stuff! But more on that later. 

Two nights ago I was rushed to the emergency room (lights and sirens, VIP treatment!) with fears of sepsis (again). Luckily I had called early enough and we were able to get my fever to break and my heart rate and blood pressure move closer to my normal range and I turned out to not need surgery or a long stay, so I was pretty happy with that... but not too happy with the unclear diagnosis. Basically we just know I have a whole host of serious abdominal issues. It was a super fun way to spend my 28th birthday.....

About an hour ago I started to feel very sick. Similar symptoms to what I felt the other day, except worse. And for the last hour things have gotten worse. Rapidly. Severe abdominal pain, fever, nausea, coughing up blood, pounding headache, chills, shakiness, sky high heart rate, bad blood pressure... you get it. 

I don't think I've ever said this before, but... I actually very badly want to go to the hospital. 

The problem is that there are other urgent things I need to take care of - namely financial stuff. Since I'm hoping to get to the hospital I can't really go over everything right now, but the most urgent problem right now is money for prescription copays. I personally have several medications I haven't been able to take in days (almost two weeks for one of my antidepressants, actually...) because the copays are just too high (the two-weeker is $58, for instance). And let's not even discuss my grandma's medication... her breathing medicine has a copay of $354. Don't try to tell me that shit isn't criminal. 

Anyway. I also managed to screw my grandparents over with a fairly common mistake. A couple weeks ago I had an appointment and they let me use their card to pay the $120 copay. Well. It just now came out of their account. And overdrew it. And got them a nice automatic fine from their bank. 

I think it's probably a lot of fun having me as their granddaughter. 

I can't sit here and outline my business plan right now, or talk about how sick I've gotten and how uncertain my future is with the latest prognosis I've been given, or how I'm juggling emotions ranging from fury to hilarity. I'm at the point where right now I'm actually afraid that if I don't get my ass to a hospital pronto, things won't end well. I felt the need to post this first because, well, things are bad. Really bad. And if I end up in the hospital I can't help my grandparents at all. So for now I'll just say that I/we could really, really use the help. I appreciate it more than I can say. Thank you all so much for the help you've already given. Here's the paypal link:

paypal.me/charlotteshealth

And if you could, please send up a few prayers. <3 

God said to march

For months I have despaired. Years, maybe. My heart and my mind have almost ceased to work, absolutely pummeled by depression and suffering. I've struggled to to escape fear's grip on me, but to no avail. The depression spawned fear, and fear spawned hopelessness, which in turn spawned a sort of paralysis. The physical illnesses and financial struggles have not helped.

For quite a while now, scary thoughts have taken hold of me. When I drive, I pass telephone poles and trees and I think to myself, "I could do it. I've just got to take my seat belt off and I can do it, and then things wouldn't be so hard." Fortunately, I recognize these thoughts for what they are: twisted, sick, effects of depression and anxiety. And luckily, after talking with my doctor, we agreed that these thoughts don't make me suicidal. It's not "I want to kill myself," it's "I wish I wanted to kill myself." It's wanting an end of suffering, but not in that way. This is all hard to admit, especially because I grew up in a really bad situation, and I feel like I've become weak; back then I was able to tell myself things would get better, but now I feel like "things will get better" is just wishful thinking. But maybe I haven't gotten weaker - maybe the reason 15 year old Charlotte could feel hopeful was the fact that there was an endpoint: graduating and leaving for college. But me, now.. I have no such comfort. 

But what I actually want to focus on is the possibility of change. 

A couple of days ago I read Rome Sweet Home, a story of conversion to the Catholic Church by Scott and Kimberly Hahn. As I was reading, I was struck by how earnestly they both prayed - for guidance, for help, to give thanks. Now obviously I've prayed before. But, if I'm being honest with myself, I have never quite poured my heart out to our Lord. I've said plenty of Our Fathers, but I've never been very personal in prayer... and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I never gave God my full trust. I think this lack of trust likely stems from two decades of being let down (to put it very, very nicely) by parents, parent figures, and most adults I tried to trust as a child and again as a teen. Mind you, while this makes my lack of faith in God understandable, it doesn't make it justifiable. Going forward, this is going to be one of the three main tasks I've set for myself to get better. The other two: becoming physically healthy and in shape and; becoming mentally healthy and seeking more help. These three tasks were decided two days ago... after I prayed - really prayed - for guidance. 

I had finished reading the Hahn's conversion story, and I wondered why I had never prayed like them.. and I knew I wanted to. Both Dr. and Mrs. Hahn had described moments of "sensing" God's responses to their prayers. I know this isn't the proper or good way to react, but I was downright jealous. 

Several hours later (or maybe the next day), I found myself sitting on my bedroom floor, balling my eyes out. I was in the middle of sorting every single item I own and attempting to organize them in the little amount of available storage space. I was doing this because the clutter was overwhelming me, so much so that I couldn't write, couldn't read, couldn't paint. And I desperately needed to do those things; I've started a small (very small) business just so I can earn ten bucks here, ten bucks there. And I know creating things to sell would alleviate some of my depression symptoms. 

So there I was, unable to make anything to sell. All I could think was, "I could be making money. Not a lot, but when there's no food, $20 is a big deal." I felt pathetic. I was so angry at myself for letting a messy room stop me from doing something that could really help me. 

And if you've ever been depressed, you know that one bad thought leads to another, and soon you're unable to move, unable to do anything.

I just started crying. Crying and crying... and thinking about Rome Sweet Home, and feeling as though now was the moment, now I needed to trust (or tell myself I trust - fake it til you make it) and I needed to humble myself and earnestly pray. I said a lot of things in those moments, one of them along the lines of, "When the Hahns prayed for guidance, they sensed your response. Please, please let me sense your answer to just this one prayer. Just this one - I'm at my breaking point and don't know what to do."

And at first I felt nothing. My sobs had subsided, but that was it. I started wondering if I had done something wrong. Maybe I put too much emphasis on the Hahns? Maybe pleading for an outright answer was akin to trying to command God, which no man can do. And then I felt an all too familiar stabbing pain from my liver and lamented: I can't keep doing this. Hunched over and reaching for my bottle of ibuprofen, I had to pause and gather myself, because as suddenly as I felt that stab, I felt the word "march." Whoa. 

"Wait, wait."

"Really?!" 

"Wait! ...was that actually you?"

It wasn't as though I heard another voice other than my own. Morgan Freeman didn't narrate. Angels didn't appear, the heavens did not open, the earth did not shake. Really, I didn't hear the word "march" but I felt it. I felt it everywhere and I knew (and know) that it did not come from me.

Needless to say, I felt like a kid at Christmas. I was elated. I was giddy, overcome with joy. God had, however vaguely, answered.

For the last two days I have pondered this. I have spent nearly every waking moment wondering what was meant by this command to march. Part of me wished for more specific instructions. At the end of the day, though, I think he meant to say that I am not weak (how can I be, when I am baptized and he dwells in me and I in him?), and that I need to push forward. March into war, do battle with depression. March, continue to march, even when everything around me is broken, even when I am broken, like soldiers must do even when things seem bleak. March with my head held high, don't cower out of fear that others will think me fat, sickly, unattractive. March like Joan of Arc. March like the archangel Michael. March like Dorothy Day. 

I believe I was told to march in faith. Set goals, have dreams, and lean into Jesus to achieve them. Most importantly, continue marching forward, even when cloaked in misery. In the end, maybe the suffering will stop, maybe it won't. Maybe I'm living out my time in Purgatory while still here. Perhaps I'll reach old age and still be battling these demons. But if that's the case, I will remember the oft-evoked truth: joy cometh in the morning. So if I don't escape suffering in this life, I will find joy the moment I arrive in the next, as long as I'm steadfast in my convictions, marching toward the ultimate goal of joy: everlasting life with Jesus. 

Or maybe God meant something important will happen next March. Who knows? 

Charlotte  

a mini-miracle

unrelated blurry selfie bc it's GAME DAY

Fair warning, this post is about endometriosis and talks about organs and medical stuff so if that's not your jam, tomorrow will hold a lighter, fun post - see you then. :)

I mentioned the other day that surgery revealed something a bit amazing. 

I talked to the doctor who operated on me when I woke up, but that conversation is a little blurry to me. I know I asked him about the possibility of kids in the future and he gave an enthusiastic "yes." It was a huge relief to hear. For a long time, my endometriosis was mostly on my non-reproductive organs. Weird, I know. It was problematic because it was on my intestines, but my original doctor wasn't worried (in 2015) about fertility much because my ovaries weren't covered at all. Then a couple of months ago one of the doctors said it was clear to him that things had progressed and that my ovaries were now "stuck up" with everything else. The theory was that everything - uterus, intestines, vagina, ovaries, rectum, ureters were sort of fused together and stuck to my peritoneum (I think), which is the lining of the abdominal cavity. 

Suddenly, I was really worried about any possibility of children. My surgeon happens to be a reproductive specialist and reassured me that in he'd look at certain things to get a better idea during surgery (but as always, there's no way of knowing until you're actively trying to conceive) and that we'd come up with plans if we needed to, plans that stayed within my comfort zone (aka Catholic teaching), etc... but I still worried often. 

When he told me post-op that I should be able to have kids I was, of course, happy. But the real amazement came four or five days later when I had a visit with my primary doctor who read the surgery notes and described the whole thing to me. Not only were the organs sort of fused together, but the endo growth was everywhere. Everywhere. The entire lining, within the intestines, just... everywhere. And the real weird part, the part that my primary kinda commented on with joy himself, since he knew how I felt about fertility? The only things that were spared from the growth were the parts of the fallopian tubes and the parts of the ovaries that produce eggs/"catch" eggs, etc. The only parts spared. They're such tiny areas, it's crazy that the endometriosis affected everything except the ends of the tubes and the ovaries. A lot of women who suffer infertility due to endo do so because it's covering those areas. Surgery can often fix that, but it's even better because I won't have scar tissue right where eggs go. 

I don't know where I'm going with this post so much as I know I felt I should write about this because it is just wild to me. It's like the endo went out of its way to not grow on these super important areas. 

Over the last couple of weeks and months I know a lot of folks have been praying for me (thank you!!), and I know one of those hopes and prayers was that endometriosis wouldn't affect my ability to have kids (because my friends all know how obnoxious I am about babies :). This is one of those things - I know it's not technically a "miracle," but it feels a little miraculous to me, you know? Too good not to write down. 

Anyway, happy Sunday! And let's go G-Men!

xo Charlotte    

Medical Update + run-on sentences describing my hospital stay in more detail than anyone wants

LOL

The last time I posted on the blogette I was semi-optimistic about my health and even went so far as to say I was going to start a routine at the Y that week. Well plans change. The next day I was admitted to the hospital. Again. Sigh. The bad news is they're not really sure what's wrong with me. The good news is I haven't dropped dead yet. I needed to go to the emergency room after over 13 hours of non-manageable pain. My symptoms were the same as my September stint in the hospital: severe pain, nausea, vomiting. Tests showed elevated liver enzymes and I guess my bile duct was dilated. Luckily, there wasn't an obstruction in the duct this time (or if there was, it was gone before imaging was done) and so my bilirubin was fine, I wasn't at risk for infection, it wasn't life threatening, and I only stayed for two days. I was, most unfortunately, back on my clear liquid diet.

I'm glad it wasn't as crazy as last time, but... it's harder this time. I'm more anxious, more stressed, more sad, and they are sending me to Charleston, SC. There's a hospital there that does special tests and procedures. They're risky - riskier than any other surgeries or procedures I've had. My doctors think I have a greater chance than most of developing pancreatitis from the procedures. But they also think I need to take those risks. My other option is to not only be in pain frequently, but endure multiple hospital stays a year and risk getting another obstruction (which again, could become life threatening). 

The hospital stay was shorter, but man. It sucked. Like I said, I'm weirdly anxious this time. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I was really, really starting to think I was doing better. I've made huge lifestyle changes, I haven't been to the ER (other than the car accident), I haven't needed to see the GI. No surgeries! Mild symptoms. So it surprised me to end up there again. I was so nervous in the hospital. I was fine and cheerful (post-pain meds. def not pre-pain meds) and I was talking to the doctor as my nurse attempted to put another IV in - never an easy job with me, for some reason. (I am used to the needles and even the dreadful "digging around" trying to find an IV and it doesn't bother me until/unless they're in my arm searching for veins for like 3+ minutes. But I did experience a new and rather discussing thing this time. My nurse got the IV, but as she flushed it with saline, it blew. That's fine, it doesn't hurt. BUT she was flushing it with fluid, so when the vein blew it immediately just sort of welled up. Not painful at all, but SO SO gross to look at - it was like a golf ball under the skin on my hand. It freaked me out. It freaked me out good.) But yes. Talking to the doctor. My nurse left to get another nurse to attempt an IV. My doctor and I were just chatting and then I got a nice chest pain - not unusual for me, but it was a little different from my normal pains. So what do I do? I start crying. Not at all embarrassing. I told her I was feeling much more anxious this time, and she told me to let her know if that continued - she said I didn't need to feel like that. Later that night I came really close to asking for something for my nerves as I could not stop worrying. This time wasn't as problematic as last time, so it doesn't make sense that I was (and am) more nervous, but there we have it. The hospital stay was basically just a long marathon of paranoid thoughts. 

   

The anxiety has died down a little. Not every pain causes me to panic. My doctor also helped by giving me something for nausea which is great since 1. this illness/situation makes me nauseous frequently and 2. I'm supposed to go to the ER if I throw up. So every time I'd get nauseous, I'd start to mega-worry that I was about to end up back in the hospital. At least with the medicine I can sort of control that (to an extent). 

The doctors don't know what's wrong, but they've got some ideas. (And at an appointment the other day, I was told there are "probably several different things wrong" with me. Terrific!) The very specific thing they're hoping to find out about via Charleston is my Sphincter of Oddi. Oh my gosh. "Oddi" is pronounced just like the letters O D. I could not stop laughing in the hospital when they told me the name. It sounds ridiculous, like something straight out of Thor. There's not much I understand about it, but at least I can get a kick out of the name. 

I'm also trying to change my diet even more. I've cut a lot of bad food out of my diet because I want to lose weight - and then I cut even more food out after my last hospital stay. Right now my diet really isn't bad at all, and they told me that there's probably no preventing what's happening to me, and that I'm not causing it with diet, but.. that I should cut out fatty foods anyway (a good rule for anyone, especially someone without a gallbladder and with recurring liver issues, I suppose). So I'm struggling to cut out even more kinds of food. It's been loads of fun. And wildly successful! I didn't just eat a bowl of ice cream.

So right now they're worried about the liver, the duct, and the pancreas. (And the sphincter of Oddi, which I think is just included in those things.) But I also developed some troubling (like really troubling) symptoms the other day, and now I need to be tested to rule out cancer. I don't actually think I have cancer. I don't think the doctors really think I have cancer. But I also don't like hearing the word "cancer" while in a doctor's office. So that's got me kinda scared. I also started having some telltale endometriosis symptoms while in the hospital. Go figure. I was all, "e tu, uterus?" Because for a while, the endo had really died down. There's some concern now that the endo growth on my intestines is causing problems. We shall see. 

Right now this is where I'm at: I've been in near-constant pain since leaving the hospital (it doesn't usually go above a 5 or 6 unless it flares, so I consider that mostly tolerable and manageable). I get tired early in the day because I've been trying to not just lay down all day. (And I still have family members insisting I'm not actually sick and that I "just need to see a nut doctor." Because my mental issues run so deep that I've now got the ability to make bile ducts appear dilated on MRI results.) I get nauseous, but it's under control. I'm more anxious than normal. I'm to look for certain symptoms and to return to the hospital if my pain increases, if I throw up, if I get a fever. I had blood work the other day and there are a few tests on there that could send me to the hospital if they don't check out okay (or near okay, anyway). 

I'm really freaking sick of all of this. It's been years now of medical crap and surgeries and hospitals and I think that's partially why I'm feeling on edge. But I'm trying to not be too bummed out about it. Or at least to not let being bummed out ruin every moment of every day. I'm trying to think of Charleston as a nice and well-needed vacation. (I don't know how I'm going to swing the trip lol? but I'll worry about that after I hear from them.) And my golf ball hand is mostly back to it's normal size, color, and tenderness, so there's that. :) 

__

Charlotte 

On Being Fat

I was talking to my bud Liz a few days ago about how I find certain things annoying. Specifically, I roll my eyes at some of the fat-positive articles out there that will do anything possible to avoid using the word "fat." I saw one this morning that said something like, "here are pictures of individuals with double chins." 

That is true. I am an individual with a double chin. But wow, what a cumbersome title. I get that some people (and I guess let's specifically talk about women because 1. I can talk about that from experience and 2. most articles I see are aimed at women, since most people don't care if men are fat or not) don't like being called "fat" and/or don't like it used as an adjective. Fine. (Although, that might risk maintaining "fat" as a dirty word.) Then title your article "Pictures of all kinds of people!" or "You can have a double chin and still look hot as hell!" 

Rantity rant rant but this got me thinking... I have no clue how to talk about being fat. I know how I feel about it, but talking about it can be a bit like walking on eggshells. Some skinny people really are not fond of hearing about it. Some of them equate fat positivity with skinny shaming, some think that being fat is an unhealthy and therefore irresponsible way of living. Some fat people don't like talking about it for other reasons; Some of us agree with the healthy lifestyle thing, some of us don't. Some of us are uncomfortable talking about weight, some of us aren't. And so on. So I'm just gonna talk about a few of the complexities and dilemmas that go on in *my* head. Maybe you can relate, maybe not. 

  

I think it takes about two decades, but at some point we mature enough to realize that every person is beautiful. The problem is that an unbelievable amount of people will tell fat people, and fat women especially, that they shouldn't feel good about themselves or confident or beautiful until they're a "healthy" weight. 

Oh man, that pisses me off like nothing else. 

For starters, it's just not true. Every person is born with beauty that can't be measured on a BMI chart. 

On top of that, I've never met a single person who is motivated by self-hate. I got fat when I got depressed. Not necessarily because I was feeling badly about myself - it's just that my depression doesn't kid around with that "loss of interest" thing. I stopped doing anything. I went from playing sports, enjoying hiking and walks, plus being socially active to doing nothing. Looking back, it makes me really sad. I feel like in some ways I missed out on literal years of my life. But yes. I got fat and that's when I started to feel bad about the way I looked. (To clarify, I thought I was fat before this time. I was around 160-180 when active, and I thought I was a whale. Now I look at pictures and I think I was a good size. But before the depression and the 100 extra pounds, thinking I was fat didn't change how I acted. I didn't hesitate to play a game of basketball or to put on nice clothes.) I'm completely certain that when I started to think I was completely hideous, it became almost impossible for me to try to lose weight. 

Feeling like you are beautiful (or at least that there is something attractive about you, more on that in a sec) makes a world of difference. It's easier to motivate yourself when you have a little confidence. In my case, I lost exactly zero pounds when I was at my worst. I used to walk around in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, which is fine if you want to be walking around in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. It's problematic if you let that become your uniform for no reason other than you think it hides your fat. Hell, I used to put basically no effort into getting dressed simply because I thought it was useless, that it was flat out impossible for me to look nice at that weight. I didn't even give thought to my face or hair. I used to just throw that shit up in a bun and go. Skin care? Lotion? Nope. Wasn't worth it, there wasn't a point - I was fat and therefore could not look nice. I wasn't going to waste time trying.

You can see where I'm going with this. People should feel confident regardless of how they look. Heavy people should feel confident whether or not they're trying to lose weight - and it's damn near impossible to start losing weight if you're filled with self-loathing.

People who tell fat women they shouldn't feel beautiful or confident until they're a "healthy" weight are misguided at best and monsters at worst. Don't be one of those people.

"Feeling beautiful" is easier said than done, though. I am not some shiny, shimmering well of confidence and kind of pathetically?, I usually have to fake confidence to have any semblance of real confidence. When I finally realized that confidence was probably necessary for, you know, everything, I started to look for little things about myself that I thought were attractive. I know myself and I know that becoming confident will probably take literal decades, but I also know I can trick myself into anything, include a better state of mind. Finding and focusing on something attractive meant I could slowly lean myself into confidence and then into lifestyle changes.

But I was (and still often am) a cesspool of self-doubt. Originally, I couldn't find anything good to focus on. I know. But luckily I have friends who don't fuck around and they helped in that department. Ha, this cracks me up: one of my friends even sends me this song from time to time, usually with a smiley face.

I guess she wants to remind me that just because *society* doesn't put big asses on a pedestal doesn't mean we shouldn't.

Which is another point: I've had to just change how I look at certain things. I used to want to look sleek and elegant and basically like Kate Middleton. In reality I'm a frizzified ginger with a body that is... not like Kate Middleton's. Instead of holding a lifelong funeral for my dream look, I've had to instead embrace having uncontrollable, huge red hair and an ass that doesn't quit, as it were.

It's been freeing. I let my hair do its thing (usually). I get a lot of compliments on it, which is cool. Remember the part where I said I have trouble with confidence and I have to fake it? Well, it might not be ideal (because it should probably come from within), but some of my confidence comes from other people, from knowing I look alright. And it's a sort of domino effect from there (or snowball effect?! One of those.). Start feeling better about myself, start treating myself better, start wearing clothes that actually fit (bye, sweatshirt!), realize I can look attractive. You get it. And once all that happened, it became easier to lose weight. Not everyone wants to lose weight, but I definitely did/do, so it was a welcome change.

I guess my point is that confidence is important. And luckily, it's possible to learn to be confident even if you've grown up without much sense of self-worth.

But there's another sort of difficult topic that comes up whenever we talk about weight: health.

I'm not going to pretend I don't get especially annoyed when very thin people subtly berate fat people by throwing the word "health" into the mix. "I'm so glad she loves her body as is but doesn't she worry about health?!" I've seen that comment so many times on various social media posts or stories. If you're honestly concerned about a friend's weight affecting her health, that's one thing. You hopefully know how to talk to your friends and know what boundaries may or may not exist. I have two friends who I know have worried about my health in the past, specifically because of my weight. To me at least, that's different from commenting on a stranger's picture. It doesn't offend me, and since it's a conversation with friends, everything is explained.

The problem is when folks (men and other women alike) feel the need to comment on other people, especially people they don't know. "She should worry about her health" is, most often, a thinly veiled fat-shaming comment. The way I know this is that I've never seen anyone post a comment on a picture of a bikini clad and extremely tanned thin women lamenting the apparent excessive exposure to sun. I've read oodles of lighthearted posts that glorify drinking loads of alcohol - I've not seen comments from a concerned citizenry outlining the health risks of alcohol. But as soon as there's a post that features a heavy woman looking damn fine, suddenly everyone is a doctor. It isn't a general concern for others if the only time it appears is in the presence of a fat person. 

And though it's beside the point, being "heavy" doesn't necessarily mean a person is unhealthy. I've been losing weight, but I'm still obese. And just a few weeks ago I was still technically morbidly obese. And guess what?! My cholesterol is just dandy! My joints aren't buckling under my weight! Blood sugar is A-OK. If you read this blog even semi-regularly, you know I have health issues. Not one of them has been caused by weight. Being fat doesn't mean you're ignoring your health, and I really wish people would stop acting like it. 

That said, is there any truth to it? Does being overweight make you unhealthy? I think it's clear that it's risky. I'm not unhealthy right now because of my weight. I have plenty of perfectly healthy overweight friends. But it does increase chances of developing certain diseases. It can also make things like childbearing a little riskier than it would be otherwise. And if you have an existing health issue unrelated to weight, being overweight can make your symptoms worse. To me, that's a sort of grey area; It's not unhealthy, but it's something to consider.

And on that, everyone is going to be different. Some people won't mind increased risks. (You remember the study that just caused a widespread sadness? The one that said bacon is a sort of carcinogen or whatever? Yeah. I don't doubt it, but I don't care, either. To be fully honest, I care about my life and I hope to live long but I also hope to live fully and bacon is terrific. That's a risk or a trade off that I'm fine taking, as are many other people.) Other people will look at the risks caused by obesity and try and maintain a "healthy" weight. Either choice is cool.

When I got serious about losing weight and I started to actually follow through, I laid out some rules for myself. I'd never use food as a punishment. I wouldn't ever entirely swear off a delicious type of food just because of the calorie count. If I want to, I will eat a sweet snack or dessert. I won't put food or food choices above experiences or people. I will enjoy eating and I will enjoy food.

When I think back to some of my favorite moments over the last few years, many of them involve food. Sunday nights watching Once Upon a Time over a delicious home cooked meal. Pizza and wings for football games. Going to Barnes and Noble with Liz after pigging out on mall food. I value those things more than I value being a size 10. It's hard for me to respect people who insist that other people make diet changes that don't fall into their value system.

My own rules are to not over indulge (if I'm full, I won't keep eating just because I love the taste), to not drink soda for every meal, to try very hard not to eat when I'm bored, to be physically active, and to eat a variety of foods. Ultimately my hope was that these rules would lead to a well rounded and healthy life, and I feel like I'm absolutely getting there.

For a little while, I'd feel bad for wanting to lose weight, or at least for talking about it publicly. I almost felt as though I was insulting people who are perfectly content being overweight. (I think this is part of why I have trouble talking about weight.) Then one day it hit me that, you know, not everything is about me. Just because I want something doesn't mean other people want the same thing, and more importantly (because I think it's what was driving the guilt), it doesn't mean anyone is wrong for not wanting to lose weight.

That said, it's a sensitive topic to talk about. There are a million reasons to want to lose weight. There are a million reasons to not worry about losing weight.

My own experience is the former. Now, if I had to change one thing about myself, or magically bestow one quality, it would have nothing to do with weight. Being thin is not my number one goal in life. But I like how I look much better when I'm not as overweight as I am now. My face is totally different than it used to be, and I'm not wildly fond of it. I also don't like certain physical aspects (like, I can feel my double chin and it just feels in the way. no thanks!). And those health risks? I don't want to take them. I figure I've spent more time in doctors offices and being poked by needles than I could ever have wanted, and I'd like to NOT have as many health issues when I'm older. Maybe I'll still have some of the medical problems I have now, maybe I won't. But I don't want to risk adding to that list. I've also started to value my body more, and I want to take care of it - that doesn't mean maintaining a certain weight, but it did mean I had to stop eating fast food every single day, which has helped take a few of the pounds off.

This has turned into an epic rambling. I don't even remember my original point. But I do know that we should probably get rid of shame when we talk about weight.
__
Charlotte 

Health Update

Isn't this so pretty? Unless you fall?

Ugh, I know I have been totally lagging on the blog. I'm working on it. I'm just busy and not feeling too hot. I figured I'd stop in for a quick health update, though. (Here's the backstory.)

I had an appointment last week and got a call right after to tell me I needed to come in for a liver function test. Just blood work, so that's cool. I got the results back today. They came back elevated, but not dangerously so. That was a huge relief. I did not want to be back in the hospital.

Speaking of which, my asshole insurance company sent me a letter telling me they aren't covering the hospital stay. They deemed it "unnecessary" based on their standards; it boiled down to "well, you didn't die." I'm going to appeal because it's absolutely ridiculous and, you know, the whole not dying thing was partially a result of being in the hospital. But hey. I believe the doctor will also send the insurance company something, which is good. I can't wait to be back in New York. My insurance company there was much, much better. Here's hoping I'll be able to get it again. 

They've also scheduled a procedure (I can't remember the name of it, but it's the one where they put a tube down your throat and they'll try to get some pictures of my bile duct, and remove anything if necessary. Hopefully nothing will indicate a need for surgery) for early November. I laughed because I wasn't nervous at all until Liz was like, "That's so soon! Are you nervous?" NOW I AM. Haha, but no, mostly I was fine. 

Until. 

Until they told me they were going to do conscious sedation. I understand it's normal procedure in many places. But they initially told me I'd be under general anesthesia, and while that's riskier, it's less nerve racking. (Yeah, I know that's a sort of paradox.) When I'm in the hospital, I'm fairly laid back. I understate pain and I don't complain about getting blood drawn or about any needles. The one thing that bothers me is air bubbles in the IV. I'm fully aware that they'd have to put an entire bag of air into my body for it to be harmful (because I've asked, well, every time), but it freaks me out anyway, and it makes me very nervous. It's the one thing I'm annoying or panicky about. So I can't imagine being half awake with a tube down my throat as they're looking for something wrong. I can't imagine hearing a beep from one of the monitors and not freaking out. I'd get over it and I'll do it if I have to, but it's causing some anxiety. 

Another potential problem (and I'm going to call them tomorrow to ask about it) is that I am awful when waking up from anesthesia after surgery. I don't want to get into it, but they've concluded that I have PTSD, and waking up is a bitch. I scream and flail and it's not fun. I have no recollection of it, but I know I can't control it and I know it happens when they wake me up - when I'm half awake and half asleep. Conscious sedation keeps you in a similar state. So I don't know if that'll be possible. I guess I'll know more tomorrow.

As for how I am on a daily basis - I'm alright. I'm really tired. Like, very tired. I don't know if that's a physical thing, if it's some sort of effect of the stuff that's going on, or if I'm just mentally exhausted. I just know I'm tired all the time. I have little spurts of energy, but they don't last long. The pain is okay. It's usually tolerable. Most days I can get away without taking any pain meds, over-the-counter or otherwise. I get nauseous frequently, but... I'm usually always hungry. (Though I'm not eating as much during each sitting, so maybe that's why. I can't tolerate all food - it's hit or miss.) Every now and then the pain will last for 20-40 minutes. Those bouts are tough, but it's nothing like the stuff that made me go to the hospital in the first place. Maybe the worst part is sleeping. It's painful to sleep on my stomach or my sides, which is how I usually prefer to sleep. Even sleeping on my back can get uncomfortable. I manage to get enough hours in most nights, but it's frustratingly hard to fall asleep. The doctor mentioned that I might have an intercostal injury or sprain, and I don't know how that would have happened, but I suppose it makes sense with how the pain feels at times. Nothing too bad though. It's tolerable. 

And mentally... I have my moments. I like to think I'm fairly chill about it all. I don't think it's the end of the world. (Liz might be rolling her eyes, rightfully so, because she takes the brunt of my "IT'S NOT FAIR, I CAN'T HANDLE THIS" moments via text or Facebook. She deserves a cake or something.) But generally, I'm good. I try pretty hard to not get all upset or to throw too much of a pity party. Don't get me wrong - it happens, usually several times a day, especially if I have a reminder of what my life was like two years ago. But they're usually fleeting moments, and I get out of it quick enough. I'd be lying if I said part of me wasn't super angry though. I'm just over it. I've gotten blood drawn like 40 times in the last year and a half. I'm sick of sitting there while they try to get veins. I'm sick of going to the doctor and finding out about five new problems I have. I understand it's because I went without medical care for so long, and that things would have been stopped or even prevented, but I'm still annoyed at the situation. It's upsetting that even when I get the liver stuff taken care of, I still have to deal with the endometriosis. It's fucking infuriating that it's hard to get proper surgery for it. I wish I could be healthier, that I could wake up and last an entire day without feeling like I can't keep my eyes open. I miss having a job and wish I didn't have such unpredictable symptoms. 

Hey, I just had myself one of those fleeting pity parties I spoke of. Whatever, it's my party and I'll cry if I want to. Perks of having a blog. 

Overall, I'm okay. It's hard to be optimistic all the time, but I've been worse. I'm alright. 

Will be even better if I don't have to undergo any procedures while awake. ;)

__

Charlotte  

Oy With the Poodles Already - A Post About the Recent Health Stuff

I have no idea why, but that Gilmore Girls phrase popped into my head when I was trying to come up with an appropriate title for this blog post. So there we have it. 

I know I said I probably wouldn't post this week, but I've been getting questions about the health issues and while I'm grateful for the concern, I just figure it's easier to post up here. Plus, whenever I'm dealing with something, I go to my main b for advice: Google. And often, I'll stumble upon a blogger's story about her issues and I'll feel a little solidarity and comfort and just... I don't know, it's nice to read from others going through similar things. I'm not sure where to start exactly. So let's wing it. (If you're not into reading all the mundane stuff and just want to know what the hell was wrong with me, skip to the part that says in big letters, "What the hell was wrong with me?") 

The Pain Last Week 

The other day, around 4pm, I started having some abdominal pain. It was a notch up from what I normally experience, but I didn't think too much of it. I kind of assumed it was just another thing related to endometriosis. I took some ibuprofen, it didn't do anything. So then I though it might be gas (yeah, I tend to be a little more glamorous on the blog than talking about gas, but I'm trying to keep it real) - not regular gas, but the kind similar to when you have surgery, that's sharp and rises to your chest and shoulders. Dinner time came and I barely ate because I was in such pain. So I took some stuff for gas. It didn't help but I went to bed. Fast forward to the next day and I was no better. Still assuming it was gas and that I was being a wimp, I tried walking around and exercising. NOT A GOOD PLAN, CHARLOTTE. By afternoon the pain was at a steady 8 or 9 on that lovely scale, and I could hardly move. I tried laying down and sleeping to no avail. Then I started vomiting and I decided... watching the live action Cinderella would help. 

It didn't. I mean, it's a great movie but the pain was bad and I couldn't eat and I was throwing up. I still insisted it was gas pain (the growth from endometriosis is on some of my non-reproductive organs, so general abdominal/digestive issues are frequent) but I decided I would need to get over my fear of the doctors and nurses thinking I was a wimp for going to the ER over gas pains. Off to the hospital I went. 

At first it wasn't too bad. They took me in relatively quickly. They did wait a little long to get those pain meds in, though. (The first nurse couldn't get an IV in, so they brought me to get an ultrasound before administering any medication. I wasn't mad, and I'm super used to multiple tries to get my veins, but the pain was serious so I was a little miffed.) Anyway. They changed shifts while I was getting that ultrasound, and my new nurse came in and got a vein on the first try. Finally! Pain meds! I hate how they feel at first. Not a fan of dizziness and, well, feeling high. But! It brought the pain down to around a 5, so that was a relief. But it still hurt pretty badly when I breathed in. 

Also, the girl in the room next to me was an insufferable brat. But hey. 

They ran some tests and came to tell me they were concerned that I had a blood clot in my lung. I think I looked something like this:

I'm confused and so terrified I could pee my pants, but I don't want my face to show any trace of fear.

If you know me, you might be aware that blood clots are something I'm terribly afraid of. One of the reasons I hate being on birth control so much is that it increases chances of blood clots. Just remembering the moment the doctor told me they thought I might have a clot is making my palms sweat. No good, no good, no good.

I think the doctor was picking up on the fact that I was nervous fucking terrified, so she tried to downplay the whole thing. She reassured me that I was a low risk patient for blood clots, and that it was unlikely. She said they could do a CAT scan to find out if there was a clot, but that she'd prefer not to right away because of the radiation. I agreed. She explained that there was a blood test they could run. It tests for a few things, but if it came back positive, it could mean there's a clot. (It could also mean something else - so a positive result wasn't necessarily indicative of a clot.) They already had my blood and I while I knew I wouldn't be comfortable unless we knew FOR SURE there wasn't a clot, I was fine with just running the test instead of doing a CAT scan. They seemed to think it'd come back negative and that the pain was just gastritis or something. 

Hollah, the test came back positive. 

On the outside, I think my eyes just got big and my face turned a deep shade of red. On the inside I was like 

  

Guys, I am so scared of blood clots. This felt like I was living an actual nightmare. I didn't visibly freak out, but my calm act was a little thrown by my shaky voice. So, CAT scan. They wheeled me out and on the way to imaging, when no one could see my face, I definitely did a little silent cry. So dramatic. I am not completely afraid of death, but I'm not eager for it just yet and I don't want it to involve blood clots and chest pains and gasping for air. Yes, I know I was in a hospital and they would have handled it, but this is my nightmare, so back off.

I texted some of my closest friends to tell them, and their responses ranged from calm concern and encouragement to straight fear (sorry for freaking you out, guys!).

The CAT scan showed no clots, and I had a little party. Not really, but I was so relieved. The unfortunate part was that my pain wasn't completely under control, especially when I breathed in. After they tested for the clot, they basically told me I probably had gastritis and to follow up with a pcp. 

lolol ok

(In truth, I get it. Abdominal pain, from what I understand, is a headache in the ER. There are so many causes - I mean, I was convinced I just had gas... - and it's an ER, not a specialist. They try to rule out the life threatening stuff and then send you home if they don't find anything. I get it.)

Back Home

Okay, so we left. They gave me four pain pills to hold me over until I could get a prescription filled the next day (we left the hospital around 10:45pm). I was still a little doped up (a lot doped up, really) and so I felt great. Breathing in was uncomfortable, but otherwise, I was okay. I hadn't eaten at all that day, so I was excited to get something. I immediately thought of wonton soup, but the place closed ten minutes early. So instead, I had a piece of white bread and went to bed, probably some time around midnight. 

I woke up at 1:45 in pain. It wasn't horrific, but it was unpleasant. I was able to fall asleep though. I woke up in severe pain less than an hour after that. It was completely, totally awful. I took one of the pain pills and tried to lay down. I couldn't find a position that even remotely eased the pain, which made me think, for the first time, that it wasn't gas (I hadn't been sold on the gastritis thing). I didn't want to wake my grandparents up, though, so I kind of just laid down in pain for a little while. 3:30 rolled around, then 4, and still, the pain pill didn't kick in. It didn't even take the edge off the pain. I put Cinderella back on, but could hardly follow along with it. At 5:27 I gave in and woke my grandparents up (my grandpa yelled at me for not waking him up to take me back three hours earlier) and told them I needed to go back to the hospital. He brought me and at first the lady at the desk looked at me like I was crazy when I told her I had just been here. But they took me straight in (miracle, thank you God) and put me in a bed. I definitely felt like an idiot and a weakling since I had just been there, but I truly couldn't handle the pain.

Just Kidding, Back in the ER

A nurse and a doctor came in and asked me some questions. I don't think either of them doubted my sincerity, but they were about to change shifts, so talking to them was kind of a waste. 

Another nice nurse came in and asked me about my pain levels. I believe I told her it was "at least a 10!!!" I texted some of my friends asking if I'd sound like a psychopath if I asked them to put me to sleep. 

      

At this point I was half crying (like, I wasn't even making noise or aware that I started crying. Tears were just falling out, man.) and my body was weirdly curled because I was trying desperately to just. ease. the. pain. already. 

I'm pretty sure I ended up telling the nurse I'd very much be okay with them sedating me. 

They did not, however, sedate me. 

She pumped some sweet, sweet drugs into my body and the pain dulled down to a 5 or 6; completely, totally tolerable. If I started having level 5 or 6 pain right now, randomly, I'd think it was horrible and I'd curl into a ball. But after over three hours of severe, level 10 pain, a 5 or 6 was nothing. But the nurse didn't like that I was still in pain at all and neither did the doctor. 

The rest is fuzzy, but basically they ran a shit ton of tests. Then they decided to do an MRI. I kid you not, they put me in a wheelchair and brought me outside. I was amused at first, thinking it was funny that we had to go outside to get to the MRI room, but that maybe the dude was just taking a short cut. That is, until he started going 'round corners and then we crossed the street, all the while it was RAINING. I started thinking horrible thoughts. 

"Oh my God, he's not even a real employee! OH MY GOD HE IS STEALING ME. He's going to put me in a van or kill me!!!!!" 

But one of my few good traits is that I'm resilient, and so I talked myself down. "Even in a bit of pain, I could take this guy if it came down to it. I'm not that drugged up."

The world will never know if I'd have been able to take him, because it turns out he was in fact an employee and the MRI place was just across the street. (Don't get me started. wtf, south? Wouldn't you want to be able to get patients to the MRI machine quickly? What if it's someone who had been in an accident?!) 

By the way, I fucking hate MRIs. Loathe, hate, detest, abhor them. 

But yes. So the tests came back and the doctor woke me up mid-percocet-induced-light-sleep-daydream to tell me they were going to admit me. 

What the Hell Was Wrong With Me?

Some of my levels came back really abnormal and the MRI showed that there was "sludge" in the common bile duct. It turns out there was a stone in there. Apparently, those can still form even if you don't have a gallbladder, but it's also possible that it's been there for a long time, even before I had my gallbladder removed. So yeah, my liver stopped working properly. It became really inflamed and all of the levels were off and the bilirubin was really high. The admitted me with a plan of managing pain and observing and, if necessary, doing a procedure to go into the duct and remove it. At first it seemed like they were going to do the procedure right away, which made me super nervous. But my pain became more manageable and was much less severe, so they decided to watch me until the morning, when they'd do another blood test. 

The doctor explained that when the liver becomes that stressed, the body might try and push the stone out naturally, and that, if my pain was decreasing and my blood tests were coming back less horrifying, it was probably because my body had gotten the stone out on its own. In the morning they ran more tests and my levels had gone down, but only a bit. They were still too high and I had to stay in the hospital. 

(The hospital stay was....... alright. They had some overflow, so they put me in maternity. I thought it was weird at first but it turned out to be pretty awesome. It was quiet (the section with women in labor was separated by some distance and strong doors), there are babies(!), the nurses were great, and the bathroom was fantastic. It was huge. And the bed was much better than the ER bed. That all said, it still sucked. I wasn't wildly fond of being stuck inside and in one room and with no people. It was incredibly boring, though I did enjoy a marathon of What Not to Wear on TLC. When I was on the pain meds I got really sad, something I'm prone to do when I'm alone, and I couldn't stop thinking about just the saddest things going on in my life. I mean, that didn't last the entire time, but when it was happening, it sucked. I decided against the strong pain meds unless they were very necessary. I also didn't get a ton of sleep, especially since they woke me up very often for blood tests or vitals. Worst of all - worst of all - I was on a clear liquid diet. After 36 hours of no food, I was brought sodium free chicken broth. Kill me dead. Yeah, I don't know how I survived on jello and broth for three days, but I did. Many headaches. I was moved to the proper floor on the day I ended up being discharged (and I missed the nurses + bathroom) and my doc finally let me eat food, precious food. I look forward to never needing to stay in the hospital again, save childbirth, please God. Also - this may come off as complaining, and I suppose it is, but trust me, my appreciation for the care is much greater than any of my complaints.)

Am I complaining too much? Is this too long? Are you like, "please shut up this post is so long?"

So yes. They believe it was a stone - there was definitely something blocking the duct - and they believe it passed. I have to follow up with le specialist, just in case it isn't that, or in case there's a stone that moved, but didn't actually pass. 

It was only after the whole ordeal that I found out this thing was life threatening. Maybe that's obvious, but it wasn't to me. I thought I was being admitted for pain management and just for convenience if I needed the surgery. I thought it was similar to when I had my gallbladder out - surgery was best, but it wouldn't have killed me right that second if I didn't have it removed straight away. I was wrong. I was super wrong. The condition was actually life threatening, which freaks me out just a tad now. I mean, I thought it was gas! I put off going to the hospital for as long as I could! Part of me is worried - I have a tendency to put off going to the ER despite pain (when I had those terrible, severe cramps, two different people told me to go to the ER. I didn't because I didn't want to be a wimp and I thought the doctors would think I was ridiculous to complain about "period pain" and then a month later, when I finally went, there was a freaking mass on my ovary). So I'm a little scared that I won't recognize a serious issue when it's happening - I literally always attribute any problem to endometriosis, since that's so often the case. Over the last few days, every time I've had a hit of pain, I get really scared that the stone is back. 

I need to get over it, or I need to just pretend to be over it until I go see the doctor next week - something that will hopefully yield some answers. 

I've been trying to improve some of my habits for a while, and the doctors said it was obvious. They also told me that regardless of some of my habits (like eating habits), this could have happened. But I'm going to continue trying to improve anyway, of course. 

I'll give an update after the doctor, and maybe eventually I'll write about the endometriosis, since it plays a big part in everything, and since so many women have it. More info/accounts on the interwebs can't hurt. 

Now I'm off to root for the Cubs. ;)

__

Charlotte