Gone

Dig Your Own Whole is gone. It has been deleted. I likely will not write much here either, but you should know where to find me. Unfortunately, I had to take some steps to get parts of my life back...and that meant deleting my blog, which I have worked on for many years. I am saddened by this.

Peace.

Bite Me

This is unhealthy.

You are hurting me.

If you gave a shit, you would stop.

Period.

Just That Simple

My friend Paul wrote me a pretty impassioned and articulate email regarding the word "fucktard".

He wasn't mean. He didn't judge. He simply typed his perspective and demonstrated his ability to see both sides of the coin.

There are many different things that affected me that day.

Perhaps his timing was aligned the way the universe wanted it. I really do not know.

His email hit my Blackberry while I was driving and because I didn't want to dismiss it and possibly forget to read it, I pulled over into the Shell station and read what he had to say. (It helped that the subject line was "Fucktard". Makes it difficult to ignore.)

Paul is not a confrontational person in general, so I knew I wasn't going to have my head ripped off. If I had thought I was going to, I probably would have put it off.

I'm glad I read it.

I didn't get his permission to repost it, so I won't, but I will say that every word penetrated me and brought me back to volunteering at the Seagull School and my years spent with sweet George, the 12 year old son of my then boyfriend.

George was a genius living with Autism and the child was simply amazing. He was brilliant and sweet and people were so mean to him, which did not sit well with me. He could hack into anything, and some of the phone calls we received from his school were pretty amusing.

I remembered a day in which George had come home and he had pulled his eyebrows out as a coping mechanism to inwardly deal with the stress of being picked on. He was also dosed on ADHD meds, so it was tough to pull it out of him. When we got him to stop rocking and got him to look at us, I could see every ounce of comprehension in that child's eyes that what they were doing to him was wrong and that it hurt. That being said, he didn't want us to fight his battle for him and he outwardly expressed this to me.

"Don't do anything, Cory. Let me fix it. I can fix it."

I believed him. His dad was generally less amused than I was when George would hack into the school's main frame or tell his bullies what was what, but we both adored him.

When I was going through chemo and laying on the couch, George hit me on the head with a hammer. He wanted to transfer my pain. (It worked.) I suddenly had a whopping headache and all the energy in the world to chase the little shit around the house until I could catch him and sit on him and tickle him while hovering a loogie over his face in case he thought such therapy would work a second time...

When I read Paul's email, I immediately thought of George.

It didn't take much before I had tears and snot dripping and wanted to talk about George and how much I miss him.

By that time, I could only type the simplest of emails...knowing that text would never convey all that was rolling around in my head.

I don't want to exploit that email or imply false depth. I do want to thank Paul again for taking the time to email me and I am stating here that the word "fucktard" is now officially stricken from my vernacular.

I do not feel bullied.

I do not feel like it is a PR move.

I simply heard the simple and complex (yes, sometimes things can be both) pain of a good person.

I cannot tell anyone else what words to use and I would be a hypocrite to attack anyone who does use the word. However, I will no longer use it myself and will not acknowledge it if used by others.

I will not publish comments using the word. This is my promise to Paul...and to George, who was never a fucktard, a retard, or a dastard...but who more often than not made me happier than custard.

The Reality of the Imagination

This weekend was my daughter's weekend with her dad.

On those weekends, The Sass is with him from Thursday afternoon until Monday morning.

Those weekends destroy me a little bit. Still.

As it happened, this past Friday I had to stop by and drop something off for her before school because it was due that day and she had forgotten it.

As she came around the corner, her face was pure light and magic.

My heart was immediately warmed by her big and dancing green eyes and dangling front tooth.

Since we had both believed we would not see each other until Monday, we were both excited.

I gave her her envelope, kissed her goodbye, and headed to my car.

My throat immediately tightened and my eyes began to burn.

I could not believe the happiness and love I felt from that 60 second exchange.

I wondered if my mother had ever burst into tears at the sight of me or my sister.

...I mean, I am sure she did (especially regarding me), but I am not sure they were happy tears...

I mean, when I was younger, before she left us, I had semi-worshipped her. I think that was because I could never get her to smile or love.

She was angry and tired all the time.

Though she had for quite some time worked in pediatrics, I could find no evidence that the woman actually liked children. Any children.

She wasn't mean (yet) but she was completely indifferent to our existence on the planet.

She didn't become mean until I was 8 and I never knew what made her snap...but she didn't unsnap until I was almost 28.

Had my mom ever felt the amount of happiness that I have felt over the past 17+ years since giving birth to my big brown eyed wonder, Ty?

Had she ever looked into my sister's or my eyes and felt absolute love?

Had she ever watched us sleep (without wanting to put a pillow over our heads or have a "do over" and get an abortion)?

Had there ever been a time when just seeing us happy or hearing us laugh made her smile or feel good?

What gives some women this ability to love while others seem to have an eternal backorder which will never be filled?

While my mom and I have a relationship now, and she openly expresses love and affection toward me, I still often wonder where that came from after almost 28 years of it being either dormant or non-existent...

As Ty and I wrestled and tortured each other before our dates with our significant others last night, I felt myself getting choked up about how grown up he has become, how strong he is, and how soon he will leave for college...

Time was moving too fast for me.

As Jay and I chatted over dinner, I felt the fastness of time closing in on me and tightening like a vice around my chest.

My mom left when I was 10. I was on my own when I was Ty's age, and in a blink I was about to turn 27 and was being diagnosed with cancer...

In another blink, I was 37 and had lost a decade to the fight.

I have few memories of childhood and even fewer memories of being allowed to simply be a kid.

I remember getting my first bike (it was yellow with a super obnoxious flowered banana seat), and being jealous that my best friend got the same bike but in a super cool purple.

Justine always had the better stuff.

She was prettier, with blonde hair and blue eyes and I looked like my dad, which pissed off my mom.

Justine had better toys too. Her mom was pretty liberal, so Justine had the Jaws game and one Christmas she even got the most controversial toy of that time...a baby Joey doll which enraged conservatives because he was anatomically correct.

I loved playing at Justine's house, where we could make all the noise we wanted and her grandma allowed us to make mud pies and also make our own dough in the kitchen, regardless of the mess that created.

Kids were not allowed over my grandparents' house...which is where I spent weekends and my childhood would end every Sunday night when I had to return to the house of hell where my mom and step-dad lived.

My mom was completely against my making friends and although she wanted me out of the house from sun up until the street lights came on, she preferred that I did not play with other children.

(She believed friends were simply future enemies who would fuck you over and hurt you. She had been hurt in her childhood by such a person and they could not be trusted. I think it involved a charm bracelet of some sort, but I can't remember exactly and never wanted to ask her a second time.)

I used to ride my big blue Schwinn (which had been red when I found it in someone's garbage but my step-dad painted it in case they weren't really throwing it away and I had accidentally stolen it) all over our neighborhood and beyond...not realizing that I really shouldn't be riding in some of those places. I was 8.

I lived for the weekends at my grandparents' house and never once recall my mother being sad that I was leaving or being happy upon my return.

She was busy with my sister, who was a year old and quite frankly one of the whiniest creatures ever born. (To my knowledge, this has not changed, but I am fairly certain she is at least potty trained now.)

OK, that last part is a joke. I mean she was a whiney little kid, but they all are. She is actually 30 now and in spite of sharing the same mom, she actually also loves her 2 kids. (She is whiney though.)

As I looked at Ty, I could not imagine not loving him and I can say this even after he went through a pretty remarkable brat phase in middle school.

I felt really lucky.

I also felt sad that I didn't have moments of closeness with my mom and only recall her cracking up 3 times...and those were all in 1995 when I was already a mom and had developed a pretty interesting sense of humor. (This was also right before I moved REALLLLLLY far away from her to Missouri...which for 3 years she mistakenly believed was Mississippi because I refused to correct her and would talk in a Southern drawl during the rare occasions when we were forced to speak to each other.)

This is indeed a fantastic portrait of love and function, yes?

Anyway, as I fast forward to today, when communication (and the fact that the Colts are in the Super Bowl) worked out positively for me, I was over the top excited when my ex delivered the beautiful Sass to my door so that she could attend a commercial watching party with us and play with her friends whilst her dad could actually pay attention to watching his hometown team win the game...

Again, she walked in and immediately brightened the room as she knowingly smiled at her brother and I.

I wondered what type of child I would have been had I had the confidence of my mother's love.

I wondered what type of person my mom would have been if she had ever realized how amazing it is to actually receive love from her children instead of dismissing it as inferior to the love of a man...which she never received and eventually stopped searching.

I found myself feeling sad for my mom, who now sits alone many nights allowing her mind to go numb in front of the television, which has never broken her fragile heart.

As I look at my two children, who are both easily brought to giggles and playfulness, I cannot help but allow myself to remember my mom's laugh and imagine what it would be like to goof around with her.

As time and reality smack me hard across the face, I realize that my life will never experience that moment...nor will hers...and it saddens me.

Pee on the Seat

(sung to the tune of PANTS ON THE GROUND)

Pee on the seat
Pee on the seat
Pee’n like a tool with your pee on the seat
Got it all over your feet
On the front of your pants
Drippin’ down your leg
You think you’re pretty neat
Pee’n like a fool
Makin’ a hot mess with your pee on the seat
Wipe it up, hey!
Get your pee off the seat!
Pee’n like a fool
Drippin’ & sprayin’ your pee on the seat.
Wipe it up, hey!
Get your pee off the seat
Pee’n like a fool with your pee on the seat

The Sucking Suckiness that is Me

I was feeling pretty happy and in a silly mood when I received the email.

I started off not being angry, but as I thought about what was actually being said to me, I got downright pissed.

It made me think of a few people actually...

Without going into details, let me say this...

If you are an alleged friend of mine, you better think long and hard before sending me an email, text, or whatever about how left out you feel because I haven't been available to you...even when I thought I would be.

I refuse to apologize that on a group ride (which was really a non-race) in below freezing temperatures, that I rode at a pace that kept my body warm a week before major surgery. (Why the fuck would I freeze for you or anyone else? Are you going to pay my medical bills? Are you going to give me a fucking lung when I contract pneumonia?)

Why not? What's the matter? We're not that tight?

hmmmm...

I refuse to apologize.

I am NOT fucking fast.

The times in question where times of extraordinary physical pain for me, so you know what, fuck off if you couldn't keep up with me. I didn't keep up with the other female who I agreed to ride with and I assure you I didn't think twice about it. It never crossed my mind to make her feel like shit for riding faster than me. (Penelope Cruz on the cross...it was a fucking "race" for crying out loud!) I know I said we were going to take it easy, but I signed no agreement to freeze.

The second ride in question had a remarkable average of sub-14 MPH. Dropped you? Where? Where was this alleged dropping? Can you actually drop someone at 14 MPH? (13.8 to be exact.)

Frankly, this isn't about one person. It is about a few. The few who want to put the appearance out there that they are your friend, but then beat you down or abandon you when friends should be readily available.

I know who came to the hospital.

I know who cooked me meals.

I know who called.

I know who sat with me.

I know who gave a shit.

Some of you think I am fucking invincible.

That I can recover and rebound no matter what...

I can...but it takes longer when the people you thought were your friends bitchslap you for not paying them attention while they were not paying you attention.

Wouldn't it be a wash?

Would it not be even if both parties simply ignored or failed the other?

I'm not going to do this.

I am not going to play this stupid vagina, high school game of boo-fucking-hoo.

I didn't grow up here and am not down with the bullshit.

I don't give a shit if you make me the Evil Vagina of St. Louis, but keep that nonsense to yourself or start a Facebook group or something. Just keep that drama away from me.

There are very few females I can hang with, and they are generally pretty confident in who they are and what they are. That is why I typically hang with dudes and always have. (Don't get me wrong, dudes have drama...it's just different drama.)

Don't make your issues my issues. I have my own.

If you are someone whose itty bitty wittle feelings I have somehow trampled on by being completely self-absorbed with my own shit, I am truly sorry.

I will not promise that it will not happen again because frankly my shit is more important than your shit (unless you can provide me some evidence that I should care more about you than myself, my children, my S.O., and my dog.).

You want this to be a contest?

I assure you, I will win. Other than your generally crappy and attacking attitude, your life is pretty simple. Embrace it...and stay away from people like me. We will call you out and make you feel childish.

I am the type of person who generally would do anything for my friends. If you don't feel this is the case, perhaps there is a reason. Perhaps things between you and the general public are not as one-sided as you have convinced yourself.

You better ask yourself some important questions about yourself before you start flinging poo this way, because if you force me to open your eyes, you will not find the experience pleasant.

The ball is now in your court.

Self awareness or head back in the sand? You decide.

*Please do not send me emails asking if this blog is about you. Only you can answer that question. Please do not ask other people if this blog is about you. Only you can answer that question. If you find yourself asking yourself if this blog is about you, it likely is. Deal with it...if you have that skill. I'm all tapped out, so I have none to lend out.

Peace, love and bikes to all...especially to all the really left out people in the world whom I have neglected.

PS: Thank you for ruining my martini buzz with your selfish stupidity which you have apparently harbored for quite some time. Two giant thumbs up on your communication skills. I meant to ask you how that was working out for you...?

Kissing Girls

This morning as The Sass and I were conducting our super secret dance off/work out, the song "Take me on the Floor" by The Veronicas came on.

There is a part in the song where they sing, "...I wanna kiss a boy...I wanna kiss a girl..."

The Sass looks at me very seriously and says, "I've kissed a girl."

I look at her in amusement (and shock because she seems pretty "in love" with her "boyfriend" Logan).

Also, The Sass is 7 and I really don't want her kissing anyone, no matter the gender.

"Really?" I ask her.

"Yeah. I kiss YOU all the time and YOU are a girl," she giggles at me with sparkle-dusted magic as if I am the densest human on the planet.

I have to laugh.

I want to live in her sweet and magical world forever and poop butterflies and glitter speckled cupcakes.

I want to protect her from a world which will attack her perception of her world at this very moment and attempt to make her beautiful images ugly.

I want to take my world (and so many others') and see it through the eyes of this loving, tree-hugging, animal-worshiping, magic dispensing child goddess...

I want to stay in bed and hold her tight and let her goodness soak through my bones and make me whole.

Instead, I kiss my girl and we continue dancing and jumping around like fools, both secretly hoping the song will never end.

Tom Needs Therapy

OK...I have to do it. There are simply just too many bikes in my garage at this point. (OK, that is not true, because there is no such thing, but this is a bike that I rarely use and do not see that changing in the near future.)

I typically back off from selling Tom because he is so pretty... That being said, he is so pretty because he never gets ridden and I have learned to simply embrace the cx bike when I ride C'wood. I have come to terms with the fact that I enjoy the love triangle between me, my road bike and my cross bike, and when you add Jay, the kids, and a puppy, there just is not time for more love...unless that love is in the form of more road bikes or more cx bikes.

Tom was purchased in July of 2008 after Carrie Cash dazzled me with a GF 29'er at the dirt crits. I admittedly fell instantly in love with Tom when I saw him. I rode the hell out of him until October 2, 2008 when I purchased my very first cx bike. That was it. (Poor Tom.) I rode him twice in 2009 and put him on my roof this past Saturday with all the intent to ride him in the snow at C'wood because the cx bike is not completely built at current, and as fate would have it, I forgot my helmet and had to trail run instead. I could feel him look at me in disgust and hurt.

I looked at the beautiful Tom and knew that since I cannot afford therapy for him to get over his loathing of Mike Weiss (for selling me those awesome cx bikes) and me (for replacing him and making him feel unloved), the best I could do would be to find him a home in which he would be loved.

Here is a link to his specs:

Tom's Specs

... Tom actually sports a Bontrager race saddle and better tires now. (I'll have to look when I get home.) Also, pedals are not included, as I have loaned or given away all of my spd pedals to friends wishing to try cx racing. Tom came with platforms, but I don't recall taking them when I took delivery of the awesome Tom because I don't like to store junk. I'm sure I can work out finding you some free platforms, though at that point I might actually reconsider selling you the bike at all. (Get real pedals!)

If you require platforms, please come prepared with a good story about how the bike is for your kid, or S.O. who is new to riding, or have a Dr's note handy. (Otherwise I will assume that you have no mtb skills and I simply cannot submit Tom to constant wrecking or someone who isn't actually into riding a bike. That seems unkind.)

Tom is 17.5" (How many men can claim that?) and is a glorious glossy charcoal gray. (Another reason I hesitate to sell him. GF doesn't use this color anymore and I LOVE it.)

OK, now I know at this point it seems like I am going to be a pain in the arse about selling Tom, but I assure you that if you have the coin and convince me that you will actually ride the bike, he is yours.

$500.00 USD.

Here's the catch...(which benefits you and many others)...

I want you send your money here:

"Pay" for Tom here

...and send me a copy of the receipt.

When was the last time you got a bike and a tax write off all at once?

*Please note that I will not ship him, so be prepared to drive/fly/swim or be local.

**There is only ONE bike, so the first receipt from Komen gets it. (This is where common sense would apply and making an agreement with me will work best for you...however, Komen would love to have any extra donations...even if you don't get a bike.)

Kisses, peace, love, and bikes to all...

Back in the Saddle...Sort Of

Dan has done it.

He has lit my fire.

There is nothing like getting the "green light" from your coach to actually train to put a little extra spring in your step and smile on your face.

(Thank you Sweet and magical Universe for making my body finally stop bleeding!)

While I am sure it gave him little pleasure to know that I had been training a bit and doing intervals (and running a race), I feel confident that he may have had the tiniest of smiles accompanied with an amused shake of his head.

I had known that he would not be on board if I was going to do damage to my body, so this was a good day!

We discussed my 2010 plan and we are both on the same page in understanding that my head goes psychocross come July 1st and everything until psychocross season is the "off season".

(It is spectacularly comforting when you have a coach who gets it!)

We discussed my silly little non-hobby of running and how that shit is just nonsense, and like junk food, it should be done infrequently, if ever.

(It's still better than Cheetos, but I know what he means.)

Since I like my feet and my knees, I will likely follow his advice on this, though a certain teammate is attempting to tempt me into one more running race for good measure...

*wink*

Dan and I discussed that I will only be racing two road races (Froze Toes and The Tour of Hermann RR) because I still need to rehab my body in 2010 and it cannot take the beating of road races yet.

(Dr. Tim is working frantically to get my pulse and body stronger, but the man is only human, no matter how brilliant.)

Because Dan never blows sunshine up my arse, he let me know how Froze Toes was going to work out for me...and we had a pretty good laugh about that.

After a full week of being back on the training horse, I am feeling pretty darn good...but frustrated about being so far behind the training ball.

I am still draining fluid from the site (but not blood) and this means that I still cannot sit in a hot tub or bath after a workout, so I am now an Icy Hot and compression socks/tights junkie.

I smell like my great-grandma and am grateful that the compression socks are not flesh-toned or I would look like her too.

Jay is diggin' it (at least in my mind) and really, the boy can't say shit.  He has not shaved his legs since December, sooooo there's that.

Kisses, peace, love, and bikes to all...

"Best" Quote of the Day...

"...If you would just fuck me, all of your anger toward me and all of our sexual frustration would go away...!"

Response:

"My, you DO think highly of yourself, don't you?"

The inner me silently rages and gathers and dreams of the day when all of this is a horrible nightmare from which I will awake.

It is a sad day when you arrive at the knowledge that you prefer cancer to a particular person's presence...

Please, please, please Universe, afford me the days to outlive the current economy and disease so that I may have a few to myself, my family, my bicycle, and peace.

W-w-w-w-w-welcome...errrr...Again!

Whatever you think that you thought that you knew...especially about me...was a bit off.
The gloves are off.

I was forced to move my blog because certain people suck.
I can deal.
I can tear down, move and rebuild quicker than anyone on the effing planet.
Believe.
For you bitches who don't like that people know me even though I am rarely on the podium, suck it.
Learn to be nicer.
Work harder.
Recover better...and with more flare.
Develop a smile.
Get great legs.
Always have a kind and encouraging word handy.
(Psssst...maybe that's how I "caught on", because we all know my supermodel days are behind me.)
*snicker*
For the assclown who thought it would be "funny" to email my blog to my boss either in the hopes that I would get in trouble or that he would go ape shit over the photos of Jay and I...Nice work.
Ummmm...my blog didn't violate company policy, but now the man is obsessing over the details and stressing me out.
You're a dick. (Even if you are a female.)
When that man wanted to reduce everyone's salary, it was me who fought for your asses.
Good luck with that in the future. Next time, this ol' liberal is going to look out for herself. How about that?
Weak. You people are fucking weak.
You may not want to hear that shit, but someone has to say it.
Ask yourself when I have ever patted myself on the back for anything more than surviving another day on this planet...
I haven't.
I don't measure myself by my paycheck or times on the podium.
I measure myself by how many times I can smile while I suffer and push through.
I may never win a bike race...
...but I assure you that for quite a few of you, including some podium regulars, I kicked your ass in spirit and humanity alone plenty of days...and I am not done yet.
I don't give a shit if you like me or loathe me, but you better be fucking nice to me, because I am to you and you know it.
If you loathe me, you better ask yourself if it's because of something I did to you...or something that I did that you can't or something I am that you are not...
(I think the word you are searching for is "real"...)
For those who have stayed loyal and followed the blog here to its new home, thank you.
I have received tremendous support in the community and I feel very grateful for that.
I am sending out my love to all those who have cheered me as I have suffered and sucked and pushed through.
You have no idea how much strength your shouts gave me.
I am sending more love out to those who have given me tissues for my vomit, held my hair back, or carried me off a race course.
I have finally stopped bleeding from this last surgery and am back on the training horse. (More deets on that in future blogs.)
I am very lucky to be able to race another season in St. Louis and proud to once again be part of Fulcrum Coaching.
At this time, I wish to thank my coach, Dan, my teammate and partner Jay for their continued belief in the fact that I will get stronger. I will beat it all.
I also wish to thank my super fantabulous friends for all that they do. You know who you are. You are always there to ask, cook, listen, accept...
Love and peace to all.
Love, peace, and balance to the haters.


(PS: I am sure when I have more time, I will get the formatting the way I like it.  My apologies for now.)

Getting MLK, Jr...

"Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies - or else? The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or else we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation."

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Ovary Toss - Part 2

I am at a loss.

I came home from the hospital on New Year's Eve and within 2 hours of leaving, things started going in the wrong direction.

I started having complications related to my bleeding and my intestines.

While a quick call to my doctor (and Cristel and Ruben) proved to provide a resolution in a few days of the intestinal issue, the bleeding issue was still there causing an unbelievable amount of pain.

Initially, I tried not to freak out about the ever growing ball of fun that had become my surgical site, but when my legs started turning yellow, I called my doctor.

Unfortunately, I found that he was on vacation.

Dammit.

(Not that he shouldn't take a vacation, but I was admittedly disappointed to have to deal with someone unfamiliar with my case.)

When she (We will call her Dr. Incompétent) called me, she actually seemed very proactive about a resolution and ordered me to the ER immediately.

She was afraid that they would need to cut me to get the blood out and wanted it done ASAP (and before the approaching snow storm).

Her urgency both freaked me out and comforted me all at once.

I arrived and went through the drill at the ER.

They checked my ginormous lump, doped me up on morphine, and sent me for a CAT scan.

Yvette came to sit with me while Jay rode his bike over so that we only had one car in the lot.

The CAT scan showed that I indeed had a ginormous lump. (So weird, because you could actually see it, sooooo...)

Anyhoo, the CAT scan told them little else other than I had fluid there.

(Derrrr.)

Jay left to pick up The Sass while I awaited the doctor to come and "visit" with me.

A very nice doctor came to discuss the situation and told me how he would like to proceed.

He wanted to cut me open and get that mess out. They just had to figure out whether or not to admit me.

He had me wrap my head around the fact that whether in-patient or out-patient, they were cutting into me to resolve the issue.

I got busy wrapping my head and did a fine job as he left to confer with Dr. Incompétent (Isn't it cute how that word is pretty much the same in many languages?).

I coordinated the plan with Jay, who gathered my things in my backpack in case they decided that admitting me was the best plan. He and The Sass grabbed some sushi-to-go and edamame at Whole Paycheck and headed back to the hospital.

Something happened between the time that Dr. Nice spoke to me and returned after speaking to Dr. Incompétent.

I think she "pulled rank" or some such crap, because when he came back, the plan was drastically different and opposite of what his plan had been.

Now they were not going to cut or even aspirate the area. They were going to draw a specimen and send it to the lab and send me on my way to follow up with Dr. Incompétent.

WTF?

Soooo...I just sat here for 5 hours (having been sent there by Dr. Incompétent to be cut) and now that everyone agreed that I needed to be cut, they were not going to cut...but she *might* do it when I follow up with her in 48 hours when the results come back.

Needless to say, I was displeased by the sudden change of plans and lack of resolution or pain relief.

So they gave me antibiotics for the infection that they told me they may have caused by injecting the needle into the site and gave me some meds to assist with the nausea, patted me on the head after mumbling something about "the system" and sent me on my way.

Dr. Nice did not appear happy.

(I will later find out that because he did not agree with Dr. Incompétent, he chose not to tell me what she wanted me to do...so of course I didn't do it.)

Good thing, because on Friday, when I followed up about my test results and a time for her to cut me, I found out what Dr. Incompétent (aka Dr. Crazy/Lazy) wanted me to do.

SHE apparently wanted me to get "aggressive" with a Q-Tip and hydrogen peroxide (her own words) and force the stitches to tear so that the blood would drain.

(Ummmm...raise your hand if that sounds like fun or even remotely sane to you...)

Being unaware that I was not given those orders, she was frustrated that I expected her to actually do something to remedy the situation. However, she hesitantly allowed the receptionist to schedule me in and I was specifically told that she will cut me and drain the blood.

I was ordered to take a Percacet before coming in.

(Jeeze, I hope they are going to rely on something stronger than that before slicing in...)

As Jay and I found out a few hours later when she had me lie down on the table-of-hell, she had NO (read "ZERO") intention of numbing the site.

Wow!

Really?

Yes, really.

Also, once there, she informed us that she had no intention on following the plan to cut me and she was also not going to aspirate.

She did not look at my file to see whether the results from the culture were back and decided that she was just going to rip off some steri-strips from the stitches and go nuts with a Q-Tip and hydrogen peroxide.

Let me state for the record that Jay and I have never communicated so efficiently as we did in that one silent moment in which without my saying a word or inciting violence, he understood my fear, pain, frustration, and anger and immediately was at my side.

The tears slowly ran down my face as he gently played with my hair to relax me as this nutcase (who may have had one too many Prozac martinis prior to seeing me) got aggressive with the Q-Tip and attempted to dig through my healing skin to rupture it.

*Cory mentally flips through imaginary Rolodex of attorney's and known assassins*

Dr. Crazy/Lazy is actually surprised that the Q-Tip is not a very effective weapon and seems to look to us for guidance.

I swear to you that at that exact moment I:

A. was super happy that Jay was there as a witness to this crazy mess, and

B. started mentally drafting this blog because it was so fucking entertaining...if it wasn't happening to me, and

C. started to sweat because it was a very "National Lampoon's" experience...

At this point I just want to get out of there alive, and not in hand cuffs or a straight jacket. So, I calmly explain to her the aspiration process, in the hope that she might adopt a more "normal" approach to this "medical practicing" she was doing on my person...

She is unsure that they have the correct syringe at the office, but she goes to check and Jay is frustrated that I gave her the aspiration option because he wanted her to do the right thing...

I explained to him that she clearly wasn't going to and that at this point I didn't actually want the wacko slicing into me like a lime on a bar top.

Once he noodled on that for a second, he had to agree.

Dr. Crazy/Lazy came back with a syringe that she "hoped" would work, but she still was not going to aspirate.

*Jay and I looked at each other in confusion*

Nope. She was going to ignore the aspiration process and use the needle to pierce a hole in the site.

(GOOD TIMES!)

I felt like a guinea pig on a 7th grade biology table.

FUUUUUUUCK!

She clearly was unprepared (or experienced) for what would happen when she popped a hole in my bloody parts.

(Did this woman never have balloons as a child? Was she once some crazy kid who received a doctor's kit one Christmas and locked onto it like a fat kid locks onto chocolate cake and simply decided it was a good career path for her?)

The look on her face was one of pure demented fascination as the geyser of blood erupted out of my site.

She seemed to have stopped blinking and it was as if she was awaiting a show to begin...

She snapped out of it and grabbed some gauze and tried to mop up the mess.

She soon ran out of gauze and thinking economically (because it sure as shit wasn't sanitary) she grabbed paper towels out of the dispenser and dragged that nonsense across my raw and now open incision.

I'm fairly certain sand paper would have felt equally as good...

Seriously?

Paperfuckingtowels, Lady?!?!?

Bad. Cheap. Hard. Rough. Made-in-China-stored-in-boxes-with-roach-terds-rat-hairs-and-other-little-buggie-things.

Ewww.

Soooo, it's a good thing that the ER had already hooked me up with antibiotics for the infection they may have caused, because they sure as shit didn't see this screwball coming...

I felt I had to make a joke, so I asked her if she thought that printer paper might work better.

She told me that I could hit her after she was done.

Jay advised her not to say such things and I secretly wished that I had recorded her saying it so that I could just smack her a good one.

She slapped a maxipad on the situation and because I was bleeding so much, she also took an examination gown (the really cool and rough paper kind) and rolled that up and shoved it down my pants *in case* I bled through.

Hmmm...

I don't know about you, but I know that during this experience I developed a new fun game for people to play...

It's called "Third World Country/American Healthcare System/or Hell"...

Just like that, she was done with me.

She told me to double up on my pain meds and to sit up rather than lay flat so that the blood did not accumulate at the site.

She let me know that she would be on call all weekend so that if I needed anything, I was not to hesitate to call her.

(Yeah. Sure sister. You're the first person I would call right after heading to the neighborhood Wal-Mart to purchase an adorable shotgun to blow your effing head right off. Psycho.)

She gave me a virtual slap on the arse and sent us on our way.

Between the office and the door to the parking lot (which was one elevator floor down), I bled through.

Jay and I were super excited by this.

I leaned against the wall while he ran for the car and damn near carried me to it.

I wanted to scream but no longer had the energy.

We headed home and decided that a nice hot caramel apple cider would be lovely, so we detoured to the local Sbux for a little cup of relaxation.

As we headed home from Sbux, a sharp and curious pain shredded me and splattered my guts all over the windshield and I died.

(OK, that last part did not actually happen...derrrr... but it felt remarkably close to that and Jay had to pull over and help me with the site.)

WTF did this woman do to me?!?!?

I felt like I had just had a back alley abortion and part of the wire hanger was left behind as a cute little souvenir...

Home we went, as neither of us trusted her and neither of us trusted me to be in the same room with her again.

I will summarize the rest to say that her stupid plan failed. FAILED!

The blood continued to collect at the site and cause more pain.

The next day (by classified means) I had the site punctured and drained again and then I had to do it again myself (with Ty and Jay as my assistants) on Sunday night.

Each day was getting 40-50 cc of blood.

On Monday, I was back in the office to see my REAL doctor (Dr. J.), who without even asking, knew something had gone wrong (more than the chart documented) and he was not pleased.

I gave him a brief summary without throwing his attending assclown under the proverbial bus too much and he was not remotely surprised that I opted to drain it myself rather than call Dr. Incompétent.

Interestingly enough, his plan of action was the same plan originally agreed upon in the ER.

Hmmmm...

Sooooo...he cut me open and in went the wick (5 days after the ER visit).

Wow! That feels good! (NOT!)

He looked so damn apologetic about what had happened that I couldn't help but smile at him and let him know that I was OK.

I am now going back every other day to be drained and have the wick changed.

On Wednesday, we realized that the wick was not working, so I was cut again and different wick method was used.

It's a lot of fun.

I really like the new and fantastic hole that I have in that area.

I have of course started draining some on my own because the pain is pretty effing ridiculous and on the shallow side, I am also pretty much over looking like I have a goddamned F.U.P.A., dammit.

I'm like my very own blood fountain. It's pretty adorable.

Last night I crawled into Dr. Tim's so that he could work his pain management magic on my sorry ass.

Dr. Tim is the shit.

He treated me and put me to sleep (something that happens when he releases my pain) and I was a whole other person when I walked my sassy ass out of there.

Last night, Jay and I drained a helluva lot of blood out and I tried to hold it together emotionally about how fucked up this all is and how much I hate that he has to see this mess.

Today I awoke and was able to stand up immediately without Jay's assistance and the color has returned to my face.

For the first time since the morning after the surgery, I feel like myself.

Hopefully I can dazzle Jay with some of my re-found spunky "ME-ness" and make him forget that his girlfriend is a bloody fucking candle...

I mean, I don't mind if he lights my fire and all that, but seriously, I don't think the wick is really going to help with that.

*giggle*