A Shag Rug and The Number 2

When I first moved to Savannah, my Dad did me a solid and offered to buy me some furniture so I wouldn’t have to sit indian style on my apartment floor while I ate my shrimp-flavored Ramen noodles. He took me to Rooms to Go and let me pick out a couch, a matching chair, and a set of tables. Because I was such a wonderful kid and made his heart swell with pride for starting pharmacy school, he even let me get a matching shag rug to go with the set. It was the best rug.

That living room set endured a hell of a lot.

One Sunday night, while I was diligently studying for Biochemistry, I left Baron (my miniature American Eskimo) unattended on the floor playing with his toys. He had been to the bathroom and was playing peacefully until bedtime… or so I thought. Suddenly, a horrendous smell crept through my olfactory, past my blood brain barrier. It was so offensive it cauterized my nostril hairs and resulted in a Niagra-esque cascade of tears. In search of the source of the odor, I scanned the room until my eyes fixated on my sweet little puppy. When our gaze met, he immediately interpreted this as an invitation to run batcrap crazy around the room. Before I could form the “N” in “NNNNOOOOOOOO!!!” he blazed past me, running circles, all over the rug, all over the couch, all over me, creating an all-encompassing vortex of sh*t and stink.

What I soon discovered was that Baron had produced the foulest of all poops on the rug (my beautiful rug), then proceeded to run circles through it more efficiently than any NASCAR driver I know… thus distributing it evenly all over the room. My fluffy white dog was now a gradient of doo-doo brown from his tip toes to his ears, and a feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me. I wept.

At this time, I concluded that there were 2 things that had to happen… Clean the dog. Clean the living room. Not in that order. Well, maybe in that order.

I grabbed the dog and threw him in the bathroom and slammed the door (as if he understood). I paced. I grabbed the cleaning supplies and emptied a bottle of Arm and Hammer on the carpet/rug/couch/chair. I called my Mom.

I’m sure she thought I was dying.

Me: *sobbing* “MOM OH MY GOD THERE IS CRAP EVERYWHERE AND BARON IS COVERED IN IT AND I AM COVERED IN IT AND THE RUG…. THE RUUUUGGGGGG. *incoherent babbling* IT’S ALL COVERED IN IT EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE AND I HAVE A TEST TOMORROW AT 8:00AM AND I AM GOING TO FAIL!!!”

Mom: “Okay. Baron. Number 2. Test. Gotcha. I’m on my way.”

And just like that, my Mother came to my rescue… all the way to Savannah. Mom of the freaking year.

I managed to wipe away my tears and wrangle Baron into the bathtub. I am pretty sure it was the worst bath of his life (and certain it was the worst bath of MY life). I uncapped the pet shampoo and covered him with the entire bottle. He was not happy, but neither was I. Unmerciful, yes. Cruel, no.

And I didn’t make an A on that Biochemistry test… or even a B that time… but I learned valuable lesson even more important than purine and pyrimidine synthesis…

Tears won’t wash away crap… but 16 ounces of “Perfect Coat: White Pearl”, 2 bottles of “Arm and Hammer Pet Stain and Odor Removal”, a roll of paper towels, and a phone call to Mama can sanitize even the most unfortunate “shituations”.

FYI… My arms aren’t that hairy… (that’s my Dad giving Baron a bath in the sink).
Baron now lives with my parents… NO, not because he made number 2 on my rug. I still love Baron very much. After my Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2009 and underwent a radical prostatectomy, he was forced into retirement. You could tell it was really weighing on him. When I visited home, he seemed to thoroughly enjoy the company of my dog, Baron. When I moved home for advanced rotations, my Dad became very attached to him, so when I left home again (this time permanently), I let Baron stay. While it was heartbreaking to give away my sweet little bundle of fluff, I knew it was a sacrifice that would be worth it for my Dad. Those two are inseparable and spend every minute together. I’ve never seen either of them happier… and by the way, my Dad has been completely cancer free for over 4 years now. 🙂

Thank You Toe Much!

Today was less than pleasant. I had pretty high hopes that my new podiatrist would give me better news about my “funky toe”, but alas, he did not. The “funky toe” has been a part of my life for several years now, and it has become somewhat of a running joke between me and the BF. After a botched ingrown surgery, it started growing sideways. I have lived with it for several years albeit it’s unpleasant aesthetics. However, lately it has become a woe of a toe. After two courses of medicine, they ruled out an infection, and my poor deformed toe had no hopes of recovery. It was forever destined to be about as straight as Richard Simmons.

Sitting in the Podiatrist’s office is always awkward. It is for certain that I will be the youngest person there, and without contest, smell the best. It’s one of those places where you cringe before you sit, and hang your head in shame because you, too, are amongst the great unwashed. You are all there together… with your funky feet.

Of course, there are always those who want to swap those knee-slapping fun foot stories. An elderly woman made small talk with me about her compression stockings. Unfortunately for her, she searched for sympathy in an unlikely place. I pretty much told her to suck it up, because I wore them every day when I worked retail pharmacy for 12 hour shifts. Yes, putting them on is like trying to stuff a sausage down a drinking straw. Yes, they feel like demons are swallowing your legs whole. Yes, their ugliness makes one heck of a good birth control. But it’s either that or cankles. Choose your battles.

I sat down in the chair. Shamefully, I stared at “funky toe”. The Pod came in and presented me with two displeasing options: (1) We remove the nail and see if grows back correctly or (2) We remove the nail and it never grows back. I don’t think he understood the gravity of this decision… I am 27 years old. I love shoes. He doesn’t realize how important that toenail is to me. My shoes require it to be there… to be pink, blue, red, gold, or grey… with polka-dots or chevron… I told him I’d think about it and left.

After walking to the parking lot, I saw that it was pouring rain. Sigh. I thought about it. Might as well go back inside and get my toenail yanked off, right?

I sat back down in the chair. He proceeded to enter the office with a syringe of lidocaine. The needle was only about as long as my middle finger, and that was pretty much all I wanted to give him back after he stabbed my toe three times with it. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and said, “You just wait right here.” Like I was going to limp off somewhere, with my neuropathic great toe. As I watched my  toe swell up to the size of a potato, I silently wept inside.

He came back in and grabbed some sort of metal contraption and I looked away. I felt a pressure, heard a pop, and he said “there we go!” Oh, TOE! It was gone and it looked wretched. He started explaining the regrowth expectancy (a year) and the wound care component of the process and I zoned out… all I could think about was no more open-toed shoes for the next… Wait… What?! The NEXT YEAR!?!

After writing a check for $250 for this highly educated man to literally rip my toenail off with a pair of pliers, I collected my Rx for some Tylenol #3’s and Keflex. I sulked out of the office and limped to my car, staring at my foot the entire way, looking at the hideous thing wrapped up in Coban tighter than a rubberband around a walrus.

Then I had lunch… with a piece of Key Lime cake… and mourned my loss. As of yet, the toe is regaining it’s feeling and I’m about ready to make myself a codeine milkshake and toast to the life of my toenail. Here’s toe you, may shoe rest in piece.

Propofol, Profanity, and Plasticity: Why Anesthesia is Awesome

Luckily, I have been fortunate enough in my 27 years of existence to have avoided the need for any surgical procedures; however, I’ve experienced being put to sleep twice. If you’ve never had anesthesia before, I will be the first to tell you that entering a state of sleep that borders death isn’t half bad. Honestly.

I will begin by describing my most recent procedure: an upper GI endoscopy. I’ve heard horror stories about the chemically induced confusion for colonoscopies and endoscopies by using the drug Versed (midazolam). I know that with the use of this particularly potent benzodiazepine, it (1) Makes you not give a crap and (2) It has an amnesiac effect, so you forget everything that happened to you while it’s in your system. Now, here is my beef with this practice: You still get a tube shoved down your throat (or if you are over the age of 50 and every 10 years thereafter, via rectumus inserticus) WHILE YOU ARE AWAKE… yet only SOMEWHAT conscious. However, you DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING. Voodoo, I say.

My gastroenterologist, a very tall, young and handsome Brazillian man whose name I can’t spell or pronounce, informs me after a recent stint of chronic stomach pain, they want to examine my innards. I immediately informed him that I was onto his mind games, and I shall not be duped by their Versed trickery. This is when he informed me, in his gorgeous accent, “No, Mees But-lerr, ac-tulee, we arre go-ing to uce the pro-puh-full.” Swoon.

That day, D&D/DDs (Denise & Dane/Designated Drivers) drove me to the appointment. They took me in the back room to get me ready for the procedure. It was decided that it should be Denise, not Dane, who accompanied me… just in case I decided to strip down naked and jump up and down on the bed post-anesthesia. We were pretty sure Dane wouldn’t know how to handle it.

I prepped for the procedure, putting on the usual unflattering garb. They refused to let me keep my pants on, which I protested and caused me to question their motives. “That tube is only destined for my mouth, right?”

They introduced me to the nurse anesthetist and Dr. Brazil came in and spoke to me in his soothing voice as they wheeled me away… Mom gave me the “Denise smile”, the one where she looks at me adoringly, but uncomfortable. She knew what was coming next…

Last thing I remember was seeing the milky juice being injected into my veins… and counting down from 10… 9… 8… Just 8.

After the procedure, I woke up in recovery. I had on clothes. I felt like a zombie. Denise was still smiling, and Dane was sitting on go. He shuttled me out of the building as soon as possible. I slept. They’d tell me how I’d embarrassed them later via telephone.

Mom: “You were quite the comedian today, young lady.”

Me: “Oh yeah? Did Daddy turn red?”

Mom: “Yes, but he missed most of it. Luckily he wasn’t there when you told the anesthetist he was hot.”

Me: “But he wasn’t.”

Mom: “You didn’t care…”

Me: “Oh.”

Mom: “There’s more… you asked the doctor if your esophagus was ‘beautiful’.”

Me: “Oh, bless his heart.”

Mom: “He didn’t really know what to say, he just said everything looked fine. You corrected him: ‘beautiful.’ I think they were even more uncomfortable when you told the entire recovery room about your LAST experience of being put to sleep.”

Me: “Uh oh…”

 

 

There is a good reason why the propofol structure looks like a little man going “YAY!”

 

(FLASH BACK TO 2009…)

My wisdom teeth were coming in more crooked than young Forrest Gump’s back so during my month off after my first year of Pharmacy school, I decided to be proactive and get them taken out. What a stupid idea. The highlight of this experience, by far, was my reception of controlled substances.

Versed pre-induction. A short-acting barbiturate. Sleep. Pure bliss.

I “woke up” 8 hours later, but OFFICIALLY I had awaken in recovery. I woke up from my mild coma and screamed. My Dad thought they had killed me. Luckily, it was just “Versed Tears” (Google it.) 

On the way out, I told the anesthesiologist he was “the man” (it’s apparent that I appreciate their art) and cursed through the waiting room, at the reception desk, and the entire way to the car. They tried to help me into the front seat of my parents’ Avalon and I swore some more. I told them their car was ugly. My Dad reprimanded me, in true Dane-like fashion. I was oblivious. We headed home.

The true pearl is coming… the whole reason for me telling this tale of drugs and defiance… 

For those of you who don’t know my Dad, he is a 65-year-old former school principal. He’s a good man, worked hard his entire life, and has very little patience for my silliness. Stern, serious, all-business. He’s a forced to be reckoned with, and possesses a limited sense of humor. He is Dane.

According to Denise’s recall of events, I was very talkative on the ride home. Mom said it was difficult to understand some of it, as I had about 5 wads of gauze shoved in both sides of my mouth, but continued to talk without cessation. I was bleeding. I was drugged. I was awake. But I was still sleeping. And TALKING.

We weren’t far from home, and I paused… interrupting my own sentence. I turned my head to my father, who was cruising at 55mph, at 10 and 2, concentrating on getting his extremely chemically altered daughter back home safely. I am sure he was growing more and more uncomfortable by the mile. Mother said I turned and looked at him with glazed over eyes, gauze in mouth, and raised both hands to my chest. I cupped my hands and pressed them against myself, then proceeded to ask, “Daddy? Do my boobs look bigger?”

Mama said at that point she saw a look come across his face that she speculates has happened only once in their 30+ years of marriage, complete with raised eyebrows and widened eyes, a look of confusion, horror and genuine hilarity. 

She laughed hysterically, “WRONG SURGERY, BROOKE!”

I became solemn at this point, stared at my lap, and entered complete silence. I’m sure my parents were relieved, but I almost feel sorry for myself in that moment… I can’t imagine the disappointment I must have felt… because I sure as heck don’t remember it. 

The Jogger

A couple came in together, both of them only a few months away from turning 80. My patient was accompanied by his wife and caregiver who displayed her devotion by holding his hand in hers throughout the entire visit. She was telling me how she had starting jogging when she was 74-years-old and now jogs 3 miles every morning, which has resulted in over 100 pounds of weight loss. She explained, “I just finally decided to do something about my OWN health.” With a sweet smile, she patted their clasped hands with her other and continued, “I just have to make sure I live ONE DAY longer than THIS butthole!” Now if that ain’t true love, I don’t know what is!