In those moments, I try to remind myself that I made a judgement call and stuck to my conviction, that it’s only been a day and that this was more-than-likely a trigger for a larger issue in his life; anger pouring out at me because he couldn’t pour it elsewhere. What to do with this info is the problem.

Do I let him apologize if he eventually wants to, knowing his tolerance for me is so low?

Do I just grieve the loss now and let the rest fall out as it would?

Where does compassion end and martyrdom begin?

When do I turn my cheek and then walk away?

Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick.

At the beginning of the week, I thought it was allergies. So I loaded up on Astelin and Mucinex D and went about my business. Went to work. Four days later, feeling worse each day, I realize it’s a virus, not allergies as one might suppose with the mold so high in central Texas.

But today, after speaking with a coworker about her brush with snot, she said that my symptoms well matched her symptoms of a week ago. “What?! But the molds are still high,” I said.

“Yes, but my symptoms went away after a week of so of bad congestion and coughing so I know it was a virus, not allergies, regardless of the mold count. Did you see how high the ragweed was? Yuck. I’m doomed.”

This information blew my mind. All my efforts were fruitless because virus must be tolerated not thwarted like allergies; contained in little bubbles of symptom induced reactions, not undermined by modern medicine.

But right now, instead of wondering what virus I have, you’re probably wondering how my coworker and I both know the molds are high and ragweed is on the rise? You don’t live in central Texas, do you? Well, here in good ol’ Cedar Park, suburb of Austin, capital of Cedar Fever, we know what allergens are high because we have to. It’s a survival mechanism. Other people, like in Phoenix or El Paso, might need to know the temperature because at 120, your skin starts to melt, but here, the all important question is what little fleck of plant sperm is floating around and making you feel like shit. This will determine your entire focus for the day. Do you take just the Zyrtec in the morning or do you Zyrtec, Nasonex and saline wash? Do you settle for a half of dose of Mucinex D because the oak pollen is only “medium” or do you hide in your bed with extra Hepa filters in the air conditioning unit because cedar is at all time highs? These are the questions every person in the Austin area must ask themselves to survive… all the normal ones, anyway.

You also might ask yourself, “Why does she sound like she’s on drugs right now?” That’s because I’ve decided  that the only defense is a good offense… Modern medicines can’t conquer viruses so I’m drinking bourbon and cokes instead of taking more medicine… well, in addition really, but you get the point.

Besides, I blame it all on my roommate in college. You see, there was a time when this roommate… you know who you are… developed a bad cough; a really bad cough, actually. So bad, in fact, that it was very worrisome. We didn’t have wonderful drugs like Astelin and Claritin and Zyrtec back then, only “kick your ass into bed” Benedryl and “there’s no need for food” pseudoephdrine. Besides, we had money only for sangria and beer, not medicine, so her mom suggestion a folk remedy guaranteed to solve her coughing problem: honey, lemon and Jack Daniels. Hot damn, we thought, What a brilliant woman.

After the recommendation, we bought the ingredients and I watched my roommate down this concoction like it was friggin’ ambrosia… ’cause it was. She’d take it before bed, before sitting down for homework, before class even, coughing the whole time, but less so we thought. I think at one point she even had a flask of it she took TO class. Anyway, a couple of weeks later, the cough was gone, but the remedy stuck in my head like the burn of a late afternoon sun in your retinas while trying to see a western facing stoplight (yep, I’ve been drinking).

So, I thought, Why the hell not and here  I sit, virus attack my left ear like Ghengis Kahn on Rome and I’m trying the old concoction in a desperate attempt to feel better… and it’s frickin’ working! Kinda, anyway. Of course, I’ve substituted the lemon and honey for Coke Zero and switched Jack Daniels for Maker’s Mark, but the essence is still there. Why dwell in the little stuff?

Sure the pain in my ear is still there and I’m still congested as hell, but I don’t give flip and isn’t that what it’s all about?

Time for another dose!

*******************

I cannot believe it’s been this long since I’ve updated this blog and yet it feels like forever since I’ve been dealing with my ankle. As I’m sure everyone knows by now, because I’ve complained to everyone I’ve run into, the latest insult to injury is that I am supposed to use a cane to help me get around. A cane? Really? Like those crook handled things? Great.

Now the good news to this is that, after 9 weeks of crutching and a total of 20 weeks in a boot (yes, I’ve been in the boot since February), I get to “ween” out of the boot as long as I promise to only wear very unfashionable tennis shoes, in which I can wear my orthotics AND seriously consider the use of a cane. (“A cane? Really?”) Since this discussion with my doctor, I’ve become obsessed about the cane.

“You should just get the cane. No one will notice and it’ll help you walk,” says just about everyone I complain to.

My pride answers, “No way! I have to give up heels, sandals and even fashionable flats because of my race horse ankles, but I’ll be damned if I’ll teeter on a cane.” There’s just only so far I’m willing to be pushed around by a tiny, broken bone.

Monday or Tuesday, I will post here with  where exactly the two of us are starting out. From there I will Tweet our next venue (phaidra – twitter.com) from my lovely and ever useful iPhone. If you can, find us. If you can’t, I’ve known The Mom long enough to explain just about any kind of trouble we get into.

And I say, “Not yet.”

And he says, “If you don’t hurry, we’re gonna be late. We have to make it all the way past Ben White.”

And I say, “Whach you talkin’ ’bout Willis? “

And he rolls his eyes and says, “Phaidra, it’s surgery day” and I hear the pop of my denial bubble.

********************************

Ok. That was totally made up. I was WAY too nervous Monday night to be in denial anymore. I was pulling one of those “up-every-couple-of-hours-cause-I’m-afraid-I’ll-oversleep” stints and obsessing over what shoes I should wear and whether or not they’ll notice if I put lotion on my hands. Then at 11:45 pm, I downed as much water as I could in the 15 mins before the  “no eating or drinking after midnight” rule kicked in because otherwise, it would be hard for the nurse to put the IV in (things you learn along the way…) and no one wants that.

Then at the surgery center (we were 10 mins late), we sat around, filled out paperwork, let them stick me with needles and IVs and watched them literally move the furniture around for about an hour (they were short of beds, supposedly) until the nurse says, “Ok. You need to speak with anesthesia.

Twenty minutes later, “Have you spoken with anesthesia?

Twenty minutes later, “Have anesthesia stopped by yet?

Another twenty minutes, “Anesthesia hasn’t stopped by yet?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. I better go chase them down. Don’t let them take you back before I give you the happy pills.”

This threw me, as you might imagine, because I had assumed until then that no one would “take me back” without anesthesia and I really wanted something more than “happy pills.”

Luckily, the anesthesia guy showed up shortly after that to announce, “Your doctor is running late, so we’re gonna wait to give you the shot. But, in about an hour or so, we’ll take you back to get your nerve block going.”

Anyway, after reading about fun stuff that could happen if the nerve block went wrong and being told that before they could numb my leg, they would use electrods to jerk the same limb around similar to “the frog’s leg in high school biology,” I got quiet, contemplative even. I sat in a recliner and watched the staff roll in and out a couple of different stretchers before leaving the third. I Twittered a bit on my iPhone. I got more quiet (thanks for all the Tweets everyone!). Hubby and I watched some TV. I finally got my “happy” pills. Ricky read my chart. We laughed about doctor’s writing… Then the assistant came to tell me he was there to “take me back.” I’m not sure if I even smiled.

In the back room, the assistant asked me to lie prone while they got ready to stab my leg with electrods to make sure they got the right nerve (ok. he didn’t describe it that way, but that’s what they were gonna do), “It takes about five minutes once we start.” No sound from me whatsoever except for, “Can I have a tissue?”

I just couldn’t help myself. I tried wiping the evidence away on the back of my hand, but the dark splotches on the sheet from big, fat crocodile tears were growing larger by the moment. I wasn’t sobbing so when he handed me the box and saw the tears, I guess, his eyes got round and he disappeared. Two tissues later, the anesthesiologist walked in with a syringe, “I think you need a fun shot.”

A few more tears. Ready to go.

Ten minutes later, “Did you not read the book where your nerves are supposed to be?” Gotta love that doctor humor. More tears, another “fun shot.”

Fifteen minutes later, “I’m gonna have to numb the whole leg at the hip.” Weepy eyes, more tissues, another “fun” shot.

Then my orthopedic surgeon comes in and I realize in the next moment that he is a truly nice, nice man. He leaned down, looked me in the eye, said something encouraging and then patted me on the head… sounds weird, but I appreciated it at the time. After the next fun shot, I only remember waking up in recovery, shivering but thankful that I didn’t remember the rest of the block.

I don’t even remember much of the recovery or drive home, either. It’s like giant blur in my head now. I remember:

-the nurse was originally from Ontario so I told her how I  want to move back to Canada

-a blissfully endless supply of warmed blankets

-Ricky running out to buy me crutches at the local pharmacy because they were $50 cheaper there than at the surgery center, and

-the anesthesiologist checking on me and stating, “That was a huge break.”

All I can tell you about the rest of it is that I made it home, it took my husband and my father-in-law’s encouragement to get me in the house and up the stairs and I’ve pretty much been in bed since.

I’m so tired of it.

So, for the rest of this blog, I am determined to talk about other things and completely ignore the fact that  tomorrow I’m going to be “under the knife,” as it were.

Here we go. Things that are happening that are NOT surgery related:

• My son turned six this past week so we decided that it would be a good idea to have his party at Chuck E Cheese aka “The Evil Place.” Somehow in this convoluted thinking, we thought it would be easier to host 25 kids at this fun-filled place than at our house. And, in a way, it was except that we never expected parents to drop off their kids with us rather than stay and participate in the “fun” that is Chuck E Cheese. My brother pronounced at the end of the event that this birthday party most certainly belongs in Dante’s Inferno as its own level of Hell. I, on the other hand, thought it could be made a whole like better by installing a tequila bar and electronic ankle bands for parents who leave. Ricky’s just glad we didn’t have to clean anything.
• Mexican Martinis rock!
• My daughter is surpassing me in my reading goal. A couple of years ago, I thought I’d start reading adolescent fiction in an effort to have something to talk about as my kids got older. I’ve picked up a stack of books that I thought were high enough above the immediate reading abilities of my daughter that it would take her years to catch up. Well, I was right in the statement “it tooks years” only it was two years, not the 4 or so I imagined. So, Moira is now reading books like Rick Riordan’s The Lightening Thief and Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in addition to more standard 2nd grade books like the Disney Fairies series, Benton’s Franny K Stein. I’ve actually purchased books for her teacher based on what I thought Moira would need rather than what they tell me 2nd graders are reading because I feel guilty that the teacher might have to go get books for her classroom library that don’t get her the most bang for her buck. I’m so proud of Moira, but envision a fortune in book store purchases in our immediate future.
• My son will be adding to the book debt soon, but I think he’ll be more of a Captain Underpants reader than a Disney Fairies reader.
• My husband ran his first ever Marathon this past February. He rocks.

• My son is determined to be a photographer. I just hope his sister’s godmother is wrong when she states that we’ll be lucky he doesn’t choose to be a war correspondent.

I think that’s it for now, except to reiterate that Mexican Martinis rock. I’ll be back after surgery with more whining, I’m sure.

Really. I’m having surgery.

I’m serious. It’s surgery.

Oh! Hi there. I was just trying to convince my brain that early in April, I’m gonna have my leg opened up and tibia sawed in two in order to repair my broken ankle. Don’t mind me. One of these days I’m really gonna believe it even.

Until then, however, I get to plan a birthday party for my son and a first communion for my daughter, the latter of which I’ll be on crutches for (I’m having surgery. I’m having surgery.). Maybe I’ll use the two weeks of required bed time to catch up on all the planning and my class schedule. I’ve always wanted downtime, haven’t I?

Be careful what you ask for…

Trouble is that the cost of a correct diagnosis is that I can no longer pretend that it’s all in my head and that physical therapy actually might fix things. Fact of the matter is I  have a 90% chance of having to have surgery that will include sawing my tibia, digging into my knee for cartilage to plug into my ankle and then screwing my ankle back together with nuts and bolts. Thus ends Phaidra’s illustrious try at triathlons. WAH! I am so sad about his fact I can’t even convey it properly.

But just in case I’m in the 10% bracket, I get to now where the full, up to the knee boot for 3-4 more weeks. If I do end up having to have surgery, it will be 3-4 weeks of rehab on crutches and then several more weeks in the boot. No running for exercise ever again… or any other high impact sport for that matter (’cause everyone knows how much I like sports. Ha!). I will be restricted to swimming, biking and, I kid you not, according to my doctor “water jogging.” Why would anyone jog in the water when they could swim? Oh well. Probably just a personal preference thing.

And in case you need a few more reasons for me to ask for valium:

- I signed up for an online Creative Writing class

- I signed up for a tech writing class

- I signed up for a grant writing class

- I added another dept on to my admin support duties and they’re needy

- I still have two young kids and a marriage to somehow maintain

-  AND Ricky is still traveling 25% of the time

I’m telling you, I dream of a Valium prescription. Unfortunately, I will have to continue dreaming ’cause the only recommendation I got so far is to drink some wine in order to relax…

Too bad I can’t drink because of my kidney stone treatment.

ARGH!!!!!

Please put the following in the correct order:

Ok. I lied. They’re pretty much in order with tomorrow being the MRI. Of course there are lots of details that no pictures can explain so feel free to make up whatever story you feel best exemplifies my visual expression. I’m sure it’s more interesting than the real story…

There was this writer, walking down a road, looking at all the foliage and dreaming about life. All of the sudden there’s a huge brick wall blocking the road; can’t go under it, can’t go through it, better go around it. So he takes out his handle dandy writer’s survival backpack (think literary Dora) and using all the tricks of the trade (writing exercises, visualization, just writing gibberish, letting things perculate…), he manages cut through the underbrush, sludge through knee deep mud, even chop down a few trees, in order to make it back on the road to the next, great American novel. Sometimes, when faced with another brick wall in the road, a forest fairy with nothing better to do that day comes by and blasts the bricks with her magic bazooka, but that’s kinda rare.

Here’s what “writer’s impaction” feels like:

There was this stupid, useless, lazy, bad mother who thought she could string two words together well and therefore called herself a writer. Instead, while stuck in traffic, with two screaming kids and the ice cream her husband asked for melting in the trunk, it dawned on her that any previous creative writing done was only due to some stupid magic fairy dust she found by sheer dumb luck. Unfortunately, it was probably meant for someone else and the punishment for using someone else’s magic dust is large verbal boils, impacting all thoughts in the brain and allowing none to get past the tiny, ineffective (and infected) filter installed in whatever part of said brain that controls language. The only relief offered by a doctor is to lance the boil with scalpel made from memories so far beyond her emotional capacity to cope with that a cure doesn’t seem feasible and permanent brain damage is already under way. Also, she hasn’t slept in 7 years.

And that’s why I haven’t updated my blog.