I hate March 12th

So, I think that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Either that or I'm dealing with some strong countertransference. In the therapy world, countertransference is a term used to describe feelings that are stirred up in the clinician in response to material or presentation of the patient. No, it's not a bad thing and yes, it's unavoidable. My job is to manage it.

Anyway, I'm in a really shitty mood. I have an idea of why, in addition to potential countertransference, but I will do my best to keep that to myself. I'll try to be a "good girl."

First, I realized when my alarm did not wake me up, that I had my actual time on the alarm clock on PM, rather than AM. I'm just so anxious about daylight savings, I guess. I haven't learned somehow, even though I've done this about 300 million times before. Pissed at myself, I rolled out of bed, and debated for about 10 minutes whether or not I should take a shower. Of course I didn't have time for this, and I did it anyway. I must have been thinking REALLLLY hard about the day. So, I started to acclimate to the day and managed to get dressed. Good thing I left the house with clothes on. Luckily, I managed to pick out my outfit for the day, even though I fussed over the accessories for too long as well.

I make it out the door. More disheveled than I would have liked, but I'm on my way to the bus. Oh the freakin' bus. On my sidewalk I noticed a friend Van Oodles, enjoying his iPOD but making his way up the sidewalk, looking down. My original plan was to stand there, in his path, where he would clearly run smack dab into me. Ooo, wait I have my umbrella. I decide to point it at him. I lowered it down and put it up numerous times, thinking 'um, Lindsay this looks like a gun,' finally deciding 'oh it's harmless.' The look on his face, the clearly visceral reaction of fear that I instilled in my friend, the very loud scream followed with an expletive louder than when the fire engine leaves from the station up the street, and the hands he threw up in a kind of surrender was well, priceless. The encounter helped me laugh on my ride the whole way down the hill to the BART. His fear made me feel guilty and ashamed. I mean, he did say he thought it was funny though.

I do manage to get on the bus, holding onto a handrail, and clearly not behind the yellow line. Safety succumbs to the importance of being on time. The little old man near me practically crushed my hand with his arm, just to make sure I knew that he wanted off at the next stop. 'I got it, I got it,' I wanted to yell at the man. I see that you want to get out! Remember 'anterior'? Yeah, I had a brief moment of thinking that if I got into that position on this MUNI bus, I would make it all o.k. You know traffic? Imagine that happening with people and all on the limited area of a bus. I survive. I manage to allow my feet to feel the stairs down to the platform, instead of tumbling down. Good thing. Wearing a dress.

Damn, I'm only a few pages from ending a really good book. Figures. I decide to read slowly. I don't want it to end. Whew, the relaxation of BART. Yes folks, it's come to that. I relax on BART. Someone else is driving and I just hope that they keep it on the tracks.

Ahh, ALMOST my destination...30 minutes early despite my late start. I have retained all hope in public transportation for AC Transit. They drive very fast and the buses are nicer. Anyway, yes! One minute until my bus. Oh, not so fast. Despite the thousand buses that race past me, the wheelchair is waiting for my bus. Bless his heart. I was disabled once and it sucks, but I find it difficult to locate my empathy when I'm in a rush. Easy, Linds...the lift only takes 30 seconds. Yes, I've timed it.

Get there. Nice to arrive at my favorite circular building. Actually, it's a brown hexagon. Getting off course here...For those of you who don't know, I am continuing to see patients using a laptop and an external monitor. Despite the fact that I've had to superglue the tiny little plastic thing that's under the 'N' key onto my keyboard, it's been a clinical fascination. I should write a book. That's what my patients tell me. Well, my foot decided to fall asleep during a session. Great, I almost broke my ankle. Good thing I'm not running down any stairs to a platform.

I found out over lunch that my phone is not working properly. It must've been the water I spilled on it or the time that I dropped it in the street, risking my life to pick it up to catch a cab, and just to have it not work. New every two on March 23. Thanks. Oh, wait. The hotel didn't pay me. They claimed a direct deposit happened, but my account still shows 3 pennies. Believe me HR, I would know if a direct deposit occurred.

A little syrah has since calmed me down. But the KRON Channel 4 News is making me ill. Then again, this could all have to do with the fact that in a few short months I'll be ending one of the best experiences of my life...my training at TPI. I'll keep you posted.

Also, in regard to my health, my doctor told me this week that things are healing nicely. She encouraged me to be using my voice at a very low decibel. If I get hoarse at any point throughout the day, I can't speak at all. She wants my right vocal chord (the one that they operated on) to become accustomed again to vibrating. My second surgery is scheduled for April 6.

E.B.

A note on mothers and daughters with a pinch of Julia Child

I suppose, since my mama left on Saturday, I haven't much felt like writing. My mom seemed to bring with her a kind of mojo, an urge for creativity in writing that seems to somehow have left me, I think temporarily. I realized that even though I traveled 3,000 miles away in search of a different life outside of my family, that this inevitably meant a disconnect from almost all that I've known my entire life. Prior to my mom's arrival, my dear grandmother, Dot, passed away. A woman who's life undoubtedly shaped my being. Idiosyncratically, my grandmother taught me the advantages of pushing the envelope. Ironically, my grandmother was at first sight a conservative, Christian woman. However, I remember so much more; trips to the local nursing homes (her notorious Willy Nelson puppet in hand) bringing cheer to the men and women who could not seek out their own happiness anymore, that her favorite day was April Fool's Day with Halloween coming in a close second, her jello, buying my dad the same purple shirt two years in a row, her fascination with anatomically correct human toys, and how dolls made her melt. I recall that was one of very few things that calmed her in the nursing home...her baby doll. I do not question my love of babies. It came from my grandmother.

When I learned of her passing, in the early morning hours of February 13, I was devastated. I felt as though a part of my childhood was gone. However, my mom reminded me that the loss was bigger, larger than that. She had lost her mother. My mom sounded hopeless and crushed. It was heartbreaking. It then struck me that if there is one way to provide my mother with the hope of regeneration, it was to invite her more vigorously on her journey to assist me in my own recovery. She arrived in SF, tired and worn. She just lost her sister and I, my aunt, about two months previously. I was so nervous that my embrace would not be enough to give her breath, help her walk, help her live. That very afternoon, my mom closed that casket on the woman who gave her life.

I sat in the car anxiously watching and listening to my Mom's every move, word. She seemed to breathe. That gave me hope.

My mom was overjoyed with my new space in the city, which she had never seen. It cited the room that I needed to make my own life better and lively. It had space.

While in my room, she presented me the sea glass from my grandmother's funeral. With the crash of each wave and the friction with sand, each piece of rock becomes a sparkling, wonderful gem. They passed these around at her funeral.

She then presented me with the beautiful ring that my grandmother left me. It seemed to fit perfectly. I don't plan to take it off. I was often intrigued by my grandmother's hands. I began to stare at them when she was alive, thinking about everything that they've done. My mother paid homage to her hands in her eulogy. She read to me what she said and stated how proud she was of her mother,looking so beautiful finally resting, surrendering. What my mother did not know was my pride in her.

The day that my mom left, we (well I decided) that we should go jean shopping. Yuck. Before we left the house, I became engrossed in the Julia Child special on some public access channel. It seems like they all are public access when you have basic cable. Whatever. This woman (Julia) is unreal.

But then again, so is my mom. And my Grandmother. And my Aunt...

Much love and butter,

E.B.

Doctors, Stomach Bugs, Ribbon Eels, & Taxidermy

Well today was eventful and frankly, I'm tired. My body keeps reminding me that even though it seems like I feel OK, it's still in the process of catching up. My friend Aden once told me, "Your body is your BEST teacher." I've come to understand how little I have embraced this idea through my life. I worked my body tirelessly, expecting always to give me one more go, another burst of energy to do just ONE MORE THING. Unfortunately, my frame, my skin, my container carried so much that I was continuously ignoring. So, I guess it's time to reconcile, reconsider, reconnect, rebuild, recover.

I first visited the doctor for my post-op appointment. According to the dept. of pathology (I imagine they're in a cold, airy, dank office in the basement), my growths do NOT appear to be papillomas (or warts) but rather nodules or nodes. Somehow, I actually misused my voice. It's so hard to believe. Everyone who just said 'yeah right' or is laughing is certainly entitled here. I OVER"DO" just about everything and this is a blog about how that's changing. Anyhoo--BETTER NEWS THAN EXPECTED. It does not appear at this point, that I will need recurrent surgeries because they will not grow back (as long as I use my voice correctly). I will still have to have my second surgery. Now, the terrible

part of doctor's visit is the devilish wand she uses to 'scope' my throat. The device itself is almost as long as my arm. So, I had the opportunity to work REPEATEDLY on my gag reflex. (Note: this is not fun in case you haven't already deduced that) AND for those of you who do not know, this girl's got a vomiting phobia. So, that was interesting. Now, what is requested of you as the patient is certainly worthy of American Idol--Rejected Idols Episode. With this freakin' tube in your mouth, your doc holds your tongue and asks you to say and hold 'E.' If you think that this is at all do-able, go 'head, try it. See? It's hard enough to say 'E' with your mouth open, let alone someone holding your tongue for those of you who didn't actually try it just now and still do not believe me. Oh, wait there's more. She asks me to change my pitch. I can't do it. I keep on gagging, AND she keeps on asking me. Wow. Not only could I not do it, I didn't feel like it. She finally gave up and told me that she thought she had enough footage to see my chords. THANK YOU.

I considered the completion of my doctor's visit quite the achievement. If it were the Throat Olympics, I would have won a medal...no, I would have been disqualified, but at least I made the Olympics. I decided to celebrate with my mom at my favorite SF pizzeria. The Clement spot is kitschy and fun. Damn, their staff is always in a great mood and it NEVER annoys me! Anyway, the lunch special with their house salad and slice of mushroom hit the spot and we're off. My mom and I head down Clement, and hit none other than Green Apple Books. You already know my infatuation with bookstores and well, my mom's relationship with them is more developed, longer standing, and well, a full-fledged romance. We proceed to peruse with great delight, practically salivating amongst the rows of bindings and pages for A LONG TIME. It didn't really matter though. We were completely content. War did not exist.

Upon inquiring at the counter about some titles, we discover that there is another building housing fiction and music. Another building, people! This is bad. Not to mention that we already were planning to go to the Academy of the Sciences, I've had intestinal "trouble"/stoppage due to pain medication, and it's already 2pm. The Academy closes at 5pm. Meanwhile fruit, senna, fiber, and my mom's second hand cigarette smoke gave way to a fury in my tummy that had to be tended to... immediately. Ugh, public restrooms. A crucial stop at a coffee shop found me eating tiramisu, sipping on a green/white tea, and my poor mom in the restroom with an attack of a stomach bug. Were my mom and I going to make it to the Academy today? Oh, stay tuned folks. We make it there. We stumbled through the grass like we had been wandering through a desert for 3 days without water. We were probably both just as dehydrated at least. Between the two of us, we made quite the pair. Not to mention my mom picked out her Sunday Best for our day...her beautiful, bright purple "I'm addicted to Luigetta's salad dressing t-shirt."

We arrive at the gates, my mom as white as snow, me with an over-sized bag from the Salvation Army full of three $1.50 pillows that I just had to have TODAY. I didn't care. I was going to make it to the Academy TODAY. The place is amazing. Of course, it's like an elementary school playground during the day but I was determined to get through it. This day was becoming more like an obstacle course than a day of leisure. After boycotting the planetarium for the day as an homage to my sickly, nauseous mother we head to the aquarium. She had to make a b-line for the bathroom in the middle of the dive show, but I make a few three year old friends. I love kids. At one point, I thought to myself, I'm actually paying to watch the people. Oh well. Besides, you couldn't really understand the supposedly interactive, microphoned diver, and the girl outside the tank from the Academy kept on saying "uh." Ahhh, Mr. Miller from my 10th grade Public Speaking class would have docked her a few points.

I ended up parking my mama in a cold, dark area of the aquarium where I believe she took a nap. I allowed myself to get lost in the wonder that I remember from field trips, afternoons with family, and anyone who was kind enough to take me on an adventure. There were big people, little people, dads cradling babies, and couples sharing in learning. The exhibits were well, exhibits. Nonetheless, a few really intrigued me. The flashlight fish, the stonefish, the contents of a tiger shark's stomach (spam can, 2 barbie dolls, a shoe, a tortoise shell, various bottles, a license plate), waxy monkey frogs, and weedy/leafy seadragons. Did you know that the ribbon eel begins as a male indicated by their blue color, then eventually becomes female and bright yellow?

My mom moved upstairs to a bench beside the first aid station when I proceeded on my tour. Conveniently, she never utilized their services. Like mother, like daughter. I went through the rain forest and winced when I hesitantly peered into the snake exhibits. I went to the living roof, walked through the ages, and Africa. I was so glad when I went to fetch my mom a drink that they only had tap water instead of a cooler of bottled crap. On the way out, I reminded my mom of the penguins. We went and made friends with one.

We staggered to the street and hailed a cab. My mom waited for me to give directions to the cabbie, and then I looked at her with raised eyebrows. We're still working on the not-talking-so-people-have-to-talk-for-me-and-know-what-I-would-say-thing. The reggae lulled us to sleep as we headed home. I enter my apartment to find yet another beautiful bouquet of flowers and several cards. People can be so wonderful, and it feels even better to have to the time and energy to really appreciate it and take it in. Then I think to myself, I wouldn't want to be in any other place, in any other city, with any other people, experiencing this recovery. Oh, and I kinda want to be a taxidermist.

Love, E.B.

My introduction to recovery

So, I'm imagining that this (see photo to lower right) is what my doc meant by 'anterior.' My back, from the base of my head down to my butt feels horrible. Arnica...thank you TPI friends...is amazing but only takes the edge off for a minute. Per my doc, I did also speak at a very low decibel yesterday for about 40 seconds. My throat hurts today though, so I'm going to abstain from speaking. I am allowed to speak at 5 minute intervals per hour at a very low decibel.

I've been thinking a lot about books and bookstores. I wish I could live in them. I am having some difficulty with just resting. As most of you know if you know me at all, I work ALL THE TIME. I keep on reminding myself the importance of recovery and rest. Unfortunately, they don't come easy for me. A beautiful surprise this morning was the sound of rain on my window panes. If there is anything that really makes me smile, giggle, and enjoy my time underneath my covers, it's that pitter-patter. All-you-can-eat-sushi tonight just a block away from my house. I'm going to try to get my mom on the sushi train. Of course, that could be more difficult than my recovery.--E.B.

Un-doing the voice

I'm heading into a second day with the inability to utilize my voice due to vocal chord surgery (i.e. laryngeal lesion removal--yuck). In a day and a half, it's already been quite a ride. However according to friends and family, I still have my personality. White boards and gesticulation come in handy when expressing yourself. They bruised my tongue and inner mouth because my doctor explained that I was "anterior." What the hell does that mean? Anyway, the bump/bruise on my tongue was the size of a walnut yesterday, and made it difficult to eat. My throat and neck are very sore. They did the right vocal chord, so it's primarily painful on that side.

Courtesy, Deborah Leavitt, Megaphone

Upon arrival at the hospital, they gave me an Advanced Directive (kind of like a living will). I was already extremely nervous and just wanted to start the procedure. She explained that the paperwork to process the AD would be 6 weeks. I questioned why I did not get this sooner. She was not sure, then questioned if I had one at home. I'm thinking to myself, "Perhaps. Underneath my bed, mixed in with everything else that I don't know what to do with." I then said, "Well, I guess this won't really help if something happens today?!" She responded, "Yes ma'am. That's correct." Oh the dehumanizing major hospital experience...

I hope that you'll join me on this journey and witness the unraveling of all this means to me, my life, and my career. Given my schedule and interesting DAILY journeys (particularly on public transportation), recent events, and the wormholes of my mind, I should be able to keep you, or at least myself, entertained along the way.--E.B.