Set Up the Guest Bedroom, Here Comes Cousin John.

So it's been over two years since my last post. After giving the big wet french kiss of life to this dormant blog, my very first topic will be the inevitable physical result of my first pregnancy. Now how's that for a re-birth?!

Here's the story:

This morning I was rummaging around in my underwear drawer for that one piece of clothing I swore I'd never own. That's right: The Granny Panties.

You know you're officially out-of-the-running when you actually prefer Granny Panties to any other kind of undergarment. Those black lacy ones, the tiger-print thong, and yes, even that semi-transparant pair with the lacing up the back all get pushed aside in search of the ultimate undies. To my husband's utter dismay, these days, they've got to be big, they've got to be butt-ugly and they've got to be caucasian-colored. (I won't say 'flesh-colored', since there are about a million different colors of flesh in the world - these ones are made to match the flesh of a pasty-white person with a vitamin D deficiency, IE me.)

So when was the moment that I started to prefer Granny Panties over the more attractive - and most certainly more uncomfortable - kind? I remember it precisely: it was in the exact same week that Cousin John came to stay.

Cousin John and I are not exactly related, but we are stuck together for eternity. You see, Cousin John is my hemorrhoid, the prize souvenir of my first pregnancy. My husband and I decided to personify it by giving it a friendly name, which for some reason made me think the excruciating pain would be easier to bear. Only problem was, Cousin John was not friendly. He was a pain in the ass.

Cousin John always arrived unexpectedly and had the worst possible timing. He never called beforehand, used up all the toilet paper and overstayed his welcome on at least three separate occasions. My husband not only had to compete with him for my attention, but he also managed to remain celibate for the duration of Cousin John's stay, for which I am eternally grateful. I tried to confront Cousin John with the problem, and eventually he did go away, but before long he'd turn up again via the back door, peeking his head round the corner and going 'Heeee-eeeere's Johnny!'

Another reason why we named my hemorrhoid was so that we could discuss it freely around other people without making it painfully known why I had been sitting on a child's inner-tube all evening. It would sound something like this:
Husband: 'How's Cousin John doing?'
Me: 'He wants to dig a new hole in my backyard.'
Husband: 'Hmm. That's not good.'
Me: 'I know, I told him I already had one.'
Husband: 'What's he going to do with all the dirt?'
Me: 'Probably make more piles...'

So only my husband and I could comprehend the encrypted meaning behind these conversations about Cousin John. No one had to know about my embarrassing visitor and when people asked why I moaned so much and scrunched my face up and turned bright red every time I tried to sit down, I just told them I was sure I was about to go into labor. That usually shut them up.

It's been over two years since Cousin John last showed up, but he left his mark on my very existence. Although I'm pretty sure he's gone for good, I have to rule out even the slightest possibility of his unwelcome return. I will eat the fiber, I will drink the water and I will don the Granny Panties once again. Today, and forever more, I'm left with a drawer full of unmentionables that I will never wear and an sudden craving for laxatives.

Patient Knee Patient

I'm a knee patient, I have been one for over six years now, and if I've learned anything in the past six years about being a patient, it's that you have to be patient, even when it's the last thing you want to be.

It strikes me as extremely contradictory that the definition of the word 'patient', besides 'someone who is receiving medical treatment', is: 'able to wait without being anxious or annoyed'.

Actually I find it downright hilarious that the same word is used for someone who is receiving medical treatment, and someone who is able to wait without getting anxious or annoyed! I sure don't know anyone receiving medical treatment who isn't able to get at least a little annoyed at the fact they even need medical treatment.

Recently, I went under the knife, for the fourth time. I actually shouldn't complain, my track record isn't too bad, especially if I compare myself to some of the poor souls on the knee forums on internet. Some of them have undergone countless procedures involving anything from reattaching to cleaning, replacing to shaving, grafting to drilling, all in the hopes of improving their less than perfect, yet so essential, knee joints.

The entire process of dealing with an injury is pretty bizarre, when you think about it. First of all, it took me years before I was really aware of any serious signs of wear and tear. It's a bitch when your mind and body work together to cope with and cover up pain, and when you finally realize they've been pulling the wool over your eyes, you discover you've been living with it daily for years! How did that happen? And when I finally did collapse in physical agony, everyone around me said in surprise: 'Well, with the way you were limping around like a pirate with a peg-leg, we thought you'd cave in a lot sooner!' I found out the hard way, no one was going to tell me I was in pain and should slow down - that was something I had to tell myself... I just couldn't manage to get myself alone for a few minutes to talk about it!

So, when I finally decided to take action, I thought: 'I'm in pain, I know there are people qualified to take away pain, so what am I going to do about it?' That's when the endless examinations and scans began. First, several doctors, doctor's assistants, physical therapists and nurses yanked on, extended, flexed and wiggled around my injured leg to assess what needed to be done, according to them. I got all sorts of expert opinions and advice, and went home with a severe case of knowing too much. I needed time to digest all this information, so I waited, desparately trying to wait without getting anxious or annoyed.

When I was ready for the next step, (pun very much intended) I had to get pictures done. Which meant being exposed to all sorts of hazardous beams coming from X-ray machines and MRI cabins. I would lie there, wondering if my knee was at all photogenic, on a table about as comfortable as a diving plank. Halfway through the scan, I would always regret the position I was lying in or get an imaginary itch somewhere and feel the overwhelming sensation to move, and I'd have to remind myself what the nurse had said: 'Now lie still! If you move even one fraction of an inch, we'll have to start the scan all over again'. So I would have to be patient again and wait, tolerating, accepting, and especially not annoyed, until the last radioactive beam left my body.

And after the pictures were taken, I'd have to wait, patiently. And finally, when the results would come back, I'd meet with the doctor, the one I finally decided worthy of cutting into me, and discuss the possibilities. There were always many, which meant I'd have to go home and chew it over, think about it. And wait.

And wait. And wait some more. I had a couple kids in the meantime, while I was waiting. And all the time, I'd keep in mind: 'I'll just have to be patient, and not get annoyed at the fact that it hurts just to bend down and pick up the pencil I just dropped on the floor'. Because, after all, that's what being (a) patient is.

Then came the point where I just couldn't wait anymore. I made the arrangements to go through with the procedure of my choice with the surgeon I liked best, and then...well, then I wait for that day to arrive.

Being a hospital patient is the epitome of being patient. You arrive early and hungry, and the nurse on duty will probably give you the better part of two hours to get yourself out of your regular clothes and into one of those charming hospital gowns. A support stocking and glass of water to accompany the heavy pain medication will most likely already be set up on the bedside table, waiting patiently for your return from the OR. If you're lucky enough to have a private room, you get to wait patiently in solitude, but I prefer a full room, where you can sneak a peek at the other patients and maybe pick up some tips on how they're managing to be patient without getting anxious or annoyed. Everyone knows, everyone is anxious and annoyed, but no one's showing it.

But a surprising thing happened to me during my most recent patient experience. When I was finally wheeled into the OR, after waiting as patiently as a patient can wait for the anaesthesia to kick in (which, incidentally, is by the far the most pleasant moment of the entire procedure), I was accompanied by a sort of OR guide, who looked friendly, despite the fact that his entire head was covered with a surgical mask and showercap. Good thing he could smile with his eyes.

As he called up my file on the OR computer, probably to ensure they had injected the drugs into the correct limb, he saw my name wasn't Dutch, and asked where I came from. I've noticed on many uncomfortable occassions that being foreign is the best and easiest ice-breaker. When I said I was American, we launched into a discussion about the presidential elections, which are coming up in less than a month. Just before he left the room, the friendly man jokingly said I was prettier than VP candidate Sarah Palin. I couldn't help visualizing myself in my unflattering hospital gown and showercap, with my limp and lifeless leg looking about as attractive as an oversized breadstick, gone sort of yellow-ish. In spite of myself, I laughed outloud at his bizarre compliment. That's when I realized the doctor had already made his first incision! To my surprise, I'd actually been waiting patiently all that time, without getting anxious or annoyed! The definitions matched!

Now, how did that happen??

I know from first-hand experience how resilient the human body is, and that it really does take time to heal all wounds, but that certainly doesn't mean I'll always be able to sit back and wait without getting anxious or annoyed about it. I'm a patient, but I can get so sick of being patient.