What Runs 'Round in my Head

Surgery is rescheduled for April 4^th. Did I mention that already?

Naomi and Bethany are downstairs watching “Flipped” while Peter is upstairs practicing the violin and crying because he’s not watching the movie. Am I just mean? I don’t feel sorry for him. Am I supposed to? Instead of doing his school list today, while I was at the doctor he was on the phone-- for almost an hour. Peter is grounded from the phone. And has been for several weeks.

What is happening to my life? I feel like I’m falling into a black hole, things are getting weirder and weirder, the world is turning upside down, and all the while, I’m too dazed to do anything but tumble downward, heels over head, with a vague feeling that I might be about to crash into a nasty ending, or become spaghettified. And then I wander off to look for toenail clippers and wonder if there is anything for dinner, and if we really have to eat, or if we might just all float away.

Will I be stuck here forever?

I used to think there was a happy ending coming up- any moment now. Prince Charming was about to carry me off to his castle in the sky. Or at least in southern France. His staff would clean the bathrooms. My children would attend private schools with programs that would make Bethany smile, Naomi recover from kleptomania, and Peter become the charming young man he was meant to be. Prince Charming’s money would pay for it all. And I would wear cotton dresses and entertain guests in the gazebo out back after a day of horseback riding along the beach with my husband. At night we would lie in bed and hold each other and it would be amazing because we were so in love. On holidays we would take little trips to Turkey and the Maldives.

I’m afraid that’s not happened. Frozen pizzas and moldy caulking have been my lot. And I don’t see an end in sight. I’m beginning to feel as if I’m waking form a dream of published novels and cute little houses (let alone southern France) and seeing that if I don’t get a real job, we are going to starve. I’ve dropped all the kids’ classes. No more music, dance or online history classes. I don’t even usually check their schoolwork. We are dangerously close to unschooling. I find myself thinking that a day on the computer with a guitar playing Taylor Swift songs might pass as a good education. What will become of these kids? I started homeschooling because I thought public school was a joke. My kids needed something more rigorous. Now I’m happy if they put in a good half hour with a workbook.

But what is the alternative? Traditional life? We all leave in the morning and come home exhausted at night to eat our frozen pizza, take a shower with the moldy caulking and drop into bed exhausted, just to get up with a buzzer and do it all again? I believe I would lose the particle of sanity I have managed to hide away under my bed. And covered in dog hair though it is, I don’t want to lose it.

I dream of running away to Europe and living out of a suitcase as we travel from place to place. No mortgage payment. But also no solitude. When would I be alone? How could I ever write anything? Then I imagine a lighthouse on the shore where we pick blueberries and the kids climb about on the beach while I write. Notice the lack of school in these fantasies. Notice the lack of dinner and laundry and reality. I am still a dreamer, wandering down the road, late, but unaware of clocks and mundane things like money. The clouds are lovely. And perhaps those pink blossoms could fall, spinning, like rain or stars, and light my path, carpet my world. I hear water running and remember the kitchen ceiling leaks if water falls on the kids’ bathroom floor. Not only do I not know how to fix it, I do not have time nor money to fix it, and I don’t even want to fix it. There is something romantic about having to put a pot on the kitchen counter every time someone showers. Eventually the ceiling will rot and fall into a pot of tomato soup. But perhaps by then I will have moved out.

Reality. If I pretend it is not real, perhaps it will go away.

And then we’re back to the dreams of Prince Charming, southern France, touring Europe and lighthouses in Maine. And the reality that depending on how the divorce settlement goes, I might be right here—leaky ceiling and all—for the rest of my life.

I’ve got to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to go order church magazines. One tiny step for reading material. One giant leap in the right direction.

(sigh) at least I hope it is.

Surgery. Or not.

Have you ever noticed how sometimes things don't go as planned?

I got to Potomac Hospital at 6 am and changed into a cute little dress with ties at the back, a pair of leg-strangling tights with holes on the soles (for what?) and totally stylish blue paper slippers. A nurse made four (4!) attempts at getting the IV in my arm, and finally got blood to flow freely. Others poked and prodded and took blood and hooked up monitors.

And then the anesthesiologist came in. He's probably a reasonably intelligent guy. After all, he did make it through medical school. But we were having a communication problem. Somehow the message that my doctor had already checked with Potomac's anesthesiology department about my issues with medications, and that there was "No Problem," did not get passed along to this guy. Or maybe he wasn't listening when they told him. I'm betting on the "Not listening" option, since that's what he did with me. I tried explaining my history, and he repeated a garbled version back to me. I tried correcting him and he interrupted. Eventually he summed up his understanding. "You want me not to give you anything, but you still want to be unconscious for the surgery." No! I told him that was not it at all! I just need smaller doses. A lot smaller. And there are a few things I can't have at all. But only a few. Not most.

He left and I hoped he was Googling what to do with me. If he'd brought me a computer, I could have shown him. When he returned he announced he had a solution. He would do an epidural. I blinked and said, "There is something else you should know. I have really bad scoliosis." He told me to bend forward so he could see my back as I explained that I have four curves, that I don't know the degree of any of them anymore, but that they're not single digits. He ran his finger along my spine and exclaimed. Then he left the room again.

He did not come back.

It was my doctor came in and said, "The anesthesiologist is saying we have to cancel your surgery. He won't sedate you. I can't sedate you. I can't make him sedate you. And I can't operate with you awake."

I had seen it coming. I asked if I could talk to my mom for a minute. The doctor said yes, and left my mom and I alone.

Now, let me explain something. Yesterday (was it really only one day ago?) I got a call in the morning from my doctor's nurse asking if I'd heard that my surgery was canceled. I hit the roof of my car and proceeded to tell her that not only did I not know that, but my mom was about to board a plane in Salt Lake to be here for the surgery. She said she'd ask the doctor to call me. I didn't wait for the call. I hit the gas and tried not to run any red lights as I called my mom and told her not to get on the plane while driving to my doctor's office, where I demanded to see the doctor RIGHT NOW!

She came in and explained that she'd misread my ultrasound and could not do the surgery she'd explained to me, and did not want to switch procedures without checking with me, had not pulled my chart to remember who I was or what the situation was, and simply told the nurse to reschedule so we could have a chance to "chat." But, since I had conveniently shown up in her office, (!!!) we could go ahead on Tuesday, as long as I was ok with a different procedure. She was very apologetic, and I agreed that the surgery needed to be done. I called my mom, told her to go ahead and get on the plane, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Big mess fixed. Or so I thought.

Now, I looked at my mom. "What can we do? You came all the way out here." She pointed out that there was nothing we could do about that now. And really, if the guy has no idea what to do with me, it's better for him to admit it now, rather than when I'm dead.

I called my doctor back in and said the only thing I could. "Ok. I'll go home."

She said I should "probably go to a major medical center, where they... um... I don't want to say they know more. But they might... umm... well, be better prepared to handle..."

I just nodded. Right.

So, now I'm home. And my mom is here for two weeks. Tomorrow I'm picking up the records of whatever it was that happened today. It should be interesting to read the official version. "Psycho woman tried to convince me to let her into the OR without any anesthesia." Whatever. I'll take them with me when I go to meet with anesthesiologists at other hospitals in the area, on my quest to find someone who knows how to knock me out so my internal organs can be removed.

Ok. Maybe the psycho part isn't too far off.

But at least I get to have my mom here! And if I'm not on bed rest for the whole time, maybe we can go do something fun together. =)