Thursday Thoughts From The Throne #3

Black and white Gerber daisies

The nice thing about your loved one continuing to ignore your advice about going to the ER for their severe right lower quadrant abdominal pain until their appendix eventually ruptures is that in a few weeks when it is clear they will live and the post op pain subsides (you have to be nice to them until then) you will have ammunition to use for the rest of their life… if you are the kind of person who does that sort of thing.

*wink*

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Cirrhosis 

Laundry room, Ellis Island hospital

He sat silently weeping in the corner. His hand shook terribly as he reached up to wipe his eyes. Misery was etched across his face.

“You didn’t stay at the treatment center.” He had not even lasted a day. “What happened?”

“My wife cried so hard when she left me there. I couldn’t stand it.”

“What about an outpatient center? A day program?”

“Maybe,” he said, noncommittal.

Each visit, fewer family members came until finally it was just him. 

Alone.

And each visit there was less of him. His body was swollen and bloated, faded. A once strong man, now made a shadow. It was hard to stand by and watch. Not as hard as living it, though, I was sure. How he could continue to do this to himself was a testament to the power of addiction.

“You’re going to die.”

“I know.” Then he smiled. “This is the one way I can kill myself and the family still gets the life insurance payout…”

Helping Yourself

Angel at the Met in NYC

“We are going to bring meals for the next week or two if that is OK. People really want to help out in some way.”

I sat staring at the email and struggled with an answer. 

Asking for help is hard. 

Receiving unsolicited help gracefully is even harder. 

Why?

I don’t need help. I don’t want help. No, that’s not true. I don’t want to need help. I feel guilty needing help. I feel guilty receiving help. 

What will other people think? I’m a doctor. I could just order stuff, right? I have a money cushion that a lot of others don’t have. Will I be judged for accepting help? Moooching. Weak. Will I then owe people favors that they will call in later? I don’t want to OWE anyone anything.

To accept a meal, you have to be decently dressed and willing to socialize for a few minutes. Are we going to look sick enough? Needy enough?

The first meal was a chicken pot pie, caesar salad, and lemonade pie. It was amazing. It was helpful. I needed it. I was grateful. We subsisted on left overs for a few days.

“We will be dropping off some restaurant gift cards…”

You know what else I needed help with? Buying groceries. It wasn’t about the money. It was about the TIME. How to get time to shop for the family while running back and forth between the hospital, home, school, job. Someone even volunteered to help with that.

Laundry. OMG, the laundry.

The house was a mess. 

Please don’t ask to come in. I don’t want anyone to see us living like this.

Sometimes others NEED to help. Not for me. For them. That was how I justified it to myself, but standing now on the other side I can finally admit that I needed it. I needed the help to keep my kids fed. To survive.

It took a lot of pride swallowing. Humility. Grace. Pushy people. Help. 

But we survived.

Could I have done it by myself? Maybe. But it was a helluva lot easier this way.

I think about those who don’t have that kind of support. Someone who is alone and ends up in the hospital and they don’t even know who will feed their dog or water their plants. I ache for those people now, in a way I have not before because now I understand. 

Not everyone has someone. 

Truthfully, I have always been someone who would say, “Let me know if you need anything,” and just left it at that. It’s what you are supposed to say, isn’t it? Secretly I would hope they didn’t need anything. 

Where would I find the time to help? Surely there are others who will step up. It doesn’t need to be me, does it?

From now on I will be one of the pushy people. I will offer to grocery shop or do laundry or provide a meal… something specific. 

And I will be one of the pushy ones.

Thursday Thoughts from the Throne #2

Shadows of children on the pavement

I am sure everyone at one time or another while in the throws of a deeply passionate kiss has found themselves gasping for air… not because of how passionate that kiss is, but rather to keep from suffocating on the great globs of thick, nasty, post nasal drip that keep gathering at the back of your throat, reaccumulating as soon as you swallow it down. 

And you pray they cannot taste it, too….

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

What the hell is Thursday Thoughts From the Throne? Glad you asked! Check out the explanation here and feel free to join in with your own.

The Tasty Trinity

Some years ago I stumbled across Teagan’s blog while she was in the midst of a serial story. I was drawn to her characters and the images she included as part of the story. Each episode involved soliciting three things from a reader, then she would skillfully weave each item into the tale. Now she has knit these tales together into another book. You have GOT to check it out and if you have not been following her blog, you’ve been missing out.

See below:

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

Announcing the Launch of
Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I

Introducing the second “three things” serial, in novel form Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I.

Bijou front only 2

Yes, that’s the cover. (I love making covers!) I kept it similar to the one for the first serial, The Three Things Serial Story, but with different 1920s photos.

For those of you who are not familiar with my blog serials…

Ages ago I developed a writing exercise. I asked friends to give me three completely random things. Then I would write until I had mentioned all the things. I brought that exercise to my blog (Teagan’s Books), but I had the readers send me their things. I let the random things drive every detail of a serial story, setting, plot, and characters. That resulted in The Three Things Serial Story, which gave birth to this culinary mystery. However, this time the “things” are food related — or ingredients.

About the Book

As with the first serial, Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is a spontaneously written, pantser story. I wrote by the seat of my pants and let the “ingredients” readers sent each week drive a new serial story. This is the “bookized” version of that serial.

This time the Jazz Age setting is Savannah, Georgia where our flapper, Pip, is “sentenced” to live with her grandmother and learn to cook. Pip gets caught up in a layered mystery that includes bootleggers, G-men, and the varied challenges of being a young woman in changing times. She meets new friends, including some animal characters.

If you have not read The Three Things Serial Story, be warned. This adventure contains a bit of a spoiler, but does not go into detail about it.

Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is available through and Amazon and Create Space. If you don’t have a Kindle, Amazon also offers a free app that will let you read Kindle books on your computer or other device. The purchase links are below. But first, here’s a snippet.

Blue Lucille Ball Stage Door Trailer

In my imagination, a young Lucille Ball would play Pip.

Excerpt

Rutabaga Limbo

Either I woke up feeling horribly nauseated, or the queasiness woke me. I’m not sure which. I opened my eyes to complete darkness. There was no light, no sound. The way my stomach tossed reminded me of a small boat on the ocean. It was as if I sailed in a lightless limbo.

Oh… that was a bad train of thought to have with an unsettled belly.

Think of something else! Anything else, I told myself.

I stood unsteadily. The sound of a cricket came to me. Good. The utter silence had been very disturbing. I became aware of the cool moist earth beneath my palms.

Where the Sam Hill was I?

I sat back on my heels, focusing all my senses. My eyes might as well have been closed — it was that dark. Bare ground was beneath me. The air had a musty odor. A sickly sweet scent clung to my bobbed hair.

The cricket’s chirping was the only sound. Still sitting, I turned. My eyes widened and strained, trying to see in that heavy darkness. When I looked up I was rewarded with the sight of a thin line of pink light.

The faint glow allowed me to see vague outlines a few feet away. I stumbled over something and stooped down to let my hands figure out what it was. I felt a burlap bag and round lumps. Rutabagas? I felt around and found another bag. That one felt like potatoes. I moved closer to the wall and a tall shape. Yes, a ladder, my questing hands confirmed for my still foggy brain.

Gazing up at the line of pinkish light I realized I was in a root cellar.

But how did I get there?

***

Purchase Links

Amazon USA

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/dp/1974544273/ref=la_B00HHDXHVM_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806322&sr=1-4

Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=la_B00HHDXHVM_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806322&sr=1-3

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806519&sr=1-1&keywords=murder+at+the+bijou

And https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/dp/1974544273/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806519&sr=1-2&keywords=murder+at+the+bijou

Amazon Japan: https://www.amazon.co.jp/Murder-Bijou-Three-Ingredients-English-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1502806623&sr=8-1&keywords=teagan+geneviene

Author Bio

Visual for Teagan_2017 Chris

Image by Chris Graham

Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene, a southerner by birth, was “enchanted” by the desert southwest of the USA when she moved there. Now a resident of a major east coast city, she longs to return to those enchanting lands.

Teagan had always devoured fantasy novels of every type. Then one day there was no new book readily at hand for reading — so she decided to write one. And she hasn’t stopped writing since.

Her work is colored by her experiences in both the southern states and the southwest. Teagan most often writes in the fantasy genre, but she also writes 1920s stories and Steampunk. Her blog “Teagan’s Books” contains serial stories written according to “things” from viewers.

You can also visit me at:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/e/B00HHDXHVM
Twitter: https://twitter.com/teagangeneviene
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TeagansBooks
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/teagangeneviene/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoM-z7_iH5t2_7aNpy3vG-Q
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/teagangeneviene

Stretched

Dinosaurs in the American Museum of Natural History

“I want to change doctors.”

Reviewing her chart before entering the room I could see that she had been asking for this for months. The medical assistant had warned me that she was going to bring it up again.

“Why?”

“Well, I never get to see her when I need to. She’s always out or I have to see the nurse practitioner because she’s too busy. Besides, you were the one recommended to me by several coworkers but you weren’t taking new patients.” She stared at me, accusation in her voice. 

“Well, the reason I stopped taking new patients is because the ones that I did have could not get in to see me when they needed it.”

Some days I have open slots that don’t fill. It makes me antsy but I try to remind myself that not overloading the schedule ensures that people can get in if they need to. I want to be able to see them, have a relationship with them, even if it hurts my bottom line. THAT gives me joy.

“….But you should also know that I have kids. Sometimes they get sick. Or I get sick. Or some other emergency pops up…”

“Well, she doesn’t have kids. At least not that I know of.”

In truth she is undergoing a fertility work up, hoping to have kids but it was not my place to tell a patient this without her permission. A woman should have the right to have a child if she wants one, shouldn’t she, even if it inconveniences others.

I agree to take her on as a patient. The very next day:

“Uh, mom?”

“Yes?”

“I just puked.”

The smell of vomit began to waft through the car. I cracked a window.

“Block my open slots until I can get to the clinic and see what is going on.”

“You don’t HAVE any open slots.”

As my daughter retches again into the plastic sack I know I don’t have a choice. They will all have to be rescheduled. There is no one else that can watch her.

“He’s going to have surgery. I’ll need to be out for at least a week….” 

It makes me nauseated to think about it, rescheduling that many people, but it just cannot be helped. 

He needs me.

No doubt someone, somewhere is asking to change doctors. Knowing that bothers me on some level but being a mom also brings me joy. My kids deserve a mom who can be present for them. It strikes me that this sort of issue is unique to female physicians. It is partly why we make less money. It is partly why we don’t hold as many leadership positions as our male counterparts. 

I choose my kids. 

I choose my family.

Meanwhile, I am sitting in a hospital room with my laptop, trying to do as much as I possibly can from here.

That doesn’t make me better. Or worse. Just different. 

Or maybe the just same. 

Thursday Thoughts From the Throne #1

Thomas Fuller quote over NYC bridge

If you will recall my corny post from last month, Twindaddy of Mental Defecation correctly deduced that I had written that post while sitting on the toilet. Truth be told, I do a lot of blogging from the potty. Clearing the bowels tends to clear the mind. In the comments Twindaddy graciously offered to allow me to use “Thoughts from the Throne” which was a recurring feature on a previous blog. I love alliteration. Alliteration is sexy. 

So I am going to try to make this a recurring feature. It may not be every week, but from time to time you may see this title and I wanted you all to know where it came from. 

Also, you should know the above image was created using Pixlr. Desley Jane at Musings of a Frequent Flying Scientist did a post on this recently. I have found that it is addictive…. 

Blow

Sailboat in the Hudson Bay

“How much time are you spending on social media?” 

“Well, I stopped completely until about a week ago. I’m easing back into it.”

“Really? You stopped it all? Completely?” I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

“Yeah. For about six months.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like how it made me feel.” There was real, actual eye contact, no phone in sight. 

“Now that you are back at it, what do you think? Does it make you feel good?”

“No.”

“So what do you think you are going to do?”

“We’ll see.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll pull the plug again.”

That, folks, is a kid who is going to be all right…

Infertility 

Ellis Island hospital

Graciously bestowing 
You spilled your precious seed
Upon my barren ground
Ignorant and unknowing
An unfulfilled wanton need
Your attempt at marking 
A territory unfound
Traversing the open sea

The ownership unclaimed
My body left untamed
Believing you were deceived
I’m naked beneath the gown
Empty loss echoes down 
Long abandoned corridors
Infertility finally decreed
By the sterile orators 

Devoid of progeny 
The solemn sodomy
Repeats itself again
Another painful bleed
An unwelcome visitor
Testifing silently
Before the Inquisitor
Sounding the final amen

A viscous self loathing
Clogs the rusted plumbing
Magnified through your eyes
Value is forever drowned
Held down by a flood of lies
I’m merely something to breed
A conduit for birthing
Your immortality 

Proximity

Pizza shop in New York City

“I need to do a six month physician supervised weight loss program before I can get the gastric sleeve covered by my insurance.” She wasn’t even that heavy to start off with, her BMI was 32. She wasn’t diabetic and did not have high blood pressure. 

“You are going to be married to a fistful of vitamin supplements for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t care. I am tired of being fat, of having people judge me.” I understood. People can be so cruel. “My friends have all had it done and they look great,” she said hopefully. “But I can’t loose too much weight right now or I won’t qualify anymore…”

We both knew she had no intention of really trying. 

Sure enough she demonstrated a nice weight gain at each visit and steadfastly refused to count her calories or exercise or do anything except to say, “I’m cutting back, Doc. Really I am. I don’t know why I keep gaining this weight!” 

I don’t know why that sort of thing qualifies someone for surgery. A barbaric surgery with lifelong consequences. Sometimes I wonder about the ethics of the surgeons doing these things and why there isn’t better after care for people undergoing the knife. Cut them up and then cut them off seems to be the plan across the board. 

She had her surgery. 

Three years later her weight was back where it started from and then some and she wanted a referral for a surgery revision. 

I wanted to say, “I told you so.” And then I wanted to call her surgeon up and give him a piece of my mind.

But I didn’t….

A few weeks ago I was at one of those giant outdoor malls. There were easily 20-30 restaurants clustered around. Right there in the midst of it all there was a weight loss clinic. 

Having just eaten at the Melting Pot myself I was so stuffed it was hard to breathe. Way too much food to be healthy but then why didn’t I just stop eating? I was too focused on not wasting anything. Getting my money’s worth. I blame my upbringing. I blame past poverty. I blame portion sizes. 

I blame myself.

Where does that come from, anyway?

At first I was offended that this clinic placed itself where it did. Then I realized it was a brilliant marketing strategy. This is what we have become, isn’t it?

Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge.

Binge.

“How’s your daughter?”

He smiled and pulled out his smart phone, flipping through pictures of a grinning, curly haired toddler. They’d had so much trouble having a baby. 

“Oh, she’s beautiful!” 

He nodded, beaming.

“How is your wife?”

His face changed in a instant. He looked stricken. “You knew she had the gastric sleeve done?”

“Yes, I had heard.”

“Well, she developed Korsakoff Syndrome.” Oh. Wow. “She got confused, couldn’t remember things. Couldn’t walk straight.”

Thiamine deficiency.

“When she said she wanted to get the surgery, I didn’t say anything. I just wanted her to be happy. She suffered so much emotional turmoil over her weight. We had no idea something like this could happen, though. If I could go back in time I would tell her she didn’t need to do it. That I loved her just the way she was. Now she is not the same person. She has to carry a book with her to write everything down since she has so much trouble remembering things and she uses a cane to get around.” 

“Mommy, I’m thirsty!”

It was swelteringly hot. I stood in line to get our fifth soda refill of the day in the $15 red amusement park drinking bottle I had purchased earlier that morning.

*Free* refills on Coca-Cola products all day!

I don’t need Coke products. My kids don’t need Coke products. Water would do just fine to keep us hydrated. But STILL…. I paid $15 for that stupid cup since I could not bring anything into the amusement park. I want to get my money’s worth, dang it. A small bottle of water costs $4.50 a pop multiplied by at least five times per person per day… but soda pop in the big red drinking bottle? Yeah. What is anyone going to pick?

So here we are.

Making money by making people fat. Making money to make people skinny again. Making money getting them fat again. Making money to get them skinny again.

And so on.

It does not ever stop.

How do we make it stop?