Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Vánočka and Dogs

Since several people mentioned the golden retriever in the comments on my last post, I thought I'd show him off:



He's just over a year and a half and still very, very full of beans. He's a family dog and lives at home with my parents, not with me in my little apartment (he'd go crazy - he's very much a country dog). He's also a big (really big) baby, and likes to sit on laps. When I'm home with my family, he wakes me up every morning by bashing his way through my closed bedroom door and coming to sit just at the head of the bed, and laying his nose alongside my pillow.

Also, the Vánočka (pronounced vah-nooch-ka).

WordDoc asked about this. It is a lovely, mildly sweet bread made at Christmas in the Czech Republic. It's usually braided with raisins and sometimes currants baked into it. It's dense and has a slightly yeasty taste. I love it with a bit of butter and a cup of tea.

Here is an authentic recipe. Or, you can often buy vánočka in bakeries and Eastern European markets.

We have yet to try the traditional Czech Christmas carp.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Christmas by the numbers

On Christmas morning:

1 arthritis-friendly corkscrew in my stocking
1 golden retriever, happily chowing down on wrapping paper
A whole lot of bacon, scrambled eggs, tea and vanocka (delicious Czech Christmas bread)

On Christmas Day:

4 billion raindrops
1 warm woodstove
3 cozy comedies on BBC Canada

At Christmas dinner:

4 implanted defibrillators
2 women who've undergone surgery and beaten cancer
2 cases of rheumatoid arthritis

1 merry Christmas.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

A poem for Christmas

Written in 1927, after Eliot's conversion to the Church of England.

The Journey of the Magi

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed,
refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the
terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and
grumbling
And running away, and wanting their
liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the
lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns
unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high
prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all
night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears,
saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a
temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of
vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill
beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped
away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with
vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for
pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so
we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment
too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say)
satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I
remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth,
certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had
seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different;
this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like
Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these
Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their
gods.
I should be glad of another death.

T.S. Eliot

Merry Christmas and happy Hannukah, everyone.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Pacing ourselves. Or not.

I. Am. Exhausted.

It's not even Christmas yet, but I just can't stop yawning. Last night, for the first time ever, a little wobbly heart popped up on my home blood pressure monitor when I tested my BP. I looked it up in the manual, and apparently that's its way of saying, "Hey, Helen - you're in arrhythmia!". Cute. Thanks.

I huffed and puffed all night, with my pulse hovering around 110, even sitting on the couch. Blah.

I am not very good at pacing myself at this time of year. I know this is something many of us with chronic illness struggle with; there's so much shopping, cooking, celebrating, eating and socializing to be done, and we don't want to miss out on any of it. I don't, anyway - I know some of you are smarter than that.

For instance: I know standing around in stores is going to kill my back, but I do it anyway. I know eating a big turkey dinner is going to make my heart rate skyrocket and make me feel like I can't breathe, but I do it anyway. I know all the sleep I'm losing is going to make me feel like garbage, but I just keep ploughing ahead.

We've all got things we do even though we shouldn't. Living with chronic illness means we're constantly weighing things in the balance. Would I rather feel sore from an awful theatre seat, or miss out on beautiful music? Would I rather be exhausted the next day or sad that I missed a great party? Would I rather have to lie down and breathe like a whale for a while, or miss an opportunity to gorge myself on stuffing and gravy? (Okay, maybe that one's just me, but come on. It's stuffing! And gravy! And wine!)

Lest you all think I'm horribly irresponsible, let me clarify that the reason I allow myself these transgressions (with the full knowledge that I will pay for them later) is that they're relatively rare, and for most of the rest of the year, I am careful. I eat tiny portions, keep my drinking to a glass or two per week, get lots of sleep and stay away from activities I know are flare-inducing.

Let's be honest: the fact that we're forced to measure negative against negative, and simply choose the lesser of the two, really sucks. But there's another way of looking at it. Despite illness, we aren't giving up. I like my turkey dinner, and I'm damned well going to eat it like a man. I like a late night out now and then, and I'm not going to give that up either. And if I feel terrible the next day, well, I'm strong enough to handle it. We all are.

So here's to overindulgence. I hope you've all got a little on your calendars this year.

No one parties like the chronically ill.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Phone call

First of all, thank you so much to all of you who left kind and encouraging messages on my acceptance to law school. I'm a bit deer-in-the-headlights right now, but in a good way.

Now to my post.

**

Is this how Dr. Grumpy feels with his bizarre patient phone calls?

I'm home with my family for Christmas. "Home" is a tiny town in southwestern Ontario, where my uncle is the only practicing GP (as was my grandpa before him). We have a fairly unique last name, so we occasionally receive calls intended for other members of the family.

Early this morning, the phone rang and I picked it up. The conversation was as follows:

Helen: Hello?

Elderly woman: MY FOOT!

Helen: ...Excuse me?

EW: It's horrible! There's so much pus and it's changing colours!

Helen: (Speechless)

EW: You told me to change the dressing today, and I started to unwrap it and it smells horrible! I picked the scab off of it and...

Helen: I think you're looking for my uncle! This is his brother's house.

EW: WHAT? My foot is full of pus!

Helen: You want my uncle! Dr. Helen'sUncle.

EW: WHAT?

Etc.

Why she thought I was my uncle, I have no idea. After much back-and-forth, I directed her to his number (sorry, uncle J! It is in the phone book, after all) and she rang off.

A small-town doctor has nowhere to run.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Woah.

I heard back from a Toronto law school this morning. I'm in!

I am both excited and TERRIFIED.

It's not my first choice school, but now I know I'm in somewhere, and I'm also hoping this bodes well for the other schools I've applied to (especially the one in my city, so I would not have to move for the eighth time in eight years).

Even though I will most likely not accept this school, the whole law thing suddenly feels much more real.

All my life, I've thrown myself into things without really sitting down and making concrete decisions. It's just who I am. I don't like planning, and I don't do it very well. The flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants technique can make things unnecessarily scary, though. (I'm also sad at the thought of leaving the coworkers I like so much.) I do know that, as much as I like them, cool coworkers are not a reason for staying in a career I'm not passionate about - and I can still be friends with them. Something feels right about law - a small, rural family practice just feels like me. Law school still scares the pants off me, though.

Since I'm not telling many people yet, I thought I'd share it with you.

I've got serious butterflies in my stomach.

Back to regularly scheduled patient-blogging soon.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Two things

Thing one:

I'm off to the doctor again next week - just barely squeezing in the appointment before Christmas. I'm having some odd abdominal pain, and I'm suspicious that it may something to do with either my kidney stones (which have been hanging around happily for a few years now without attempting an exit), or an ovarian cyst. I've had cysts before, including the one that ruptured (a highly unpleasant experience, and one which I do not wish to repeat).

I have a feeling this could turn out to be a snowball appointment. It'll start small - just a chat in the exam room - and expand and expand with ultrasounds, follow-ups, and more ultrasounds. I've done it all before, but I'd really rather not.

Thing two:

Last night was my office Christmas party. It was great fun. There are only 12 of us, and we all genuinely like each other. We had rented a small restaurant, and everyone was pleasantly tipsy.

Early in the evening, the bartender approached me discreetly while he was delivering drink orders.

"I noticed your MedicAlert bracelet," he said. "I'm also a paramedic. Is there anything I should know?" I suppose he might have been wondering whether I had any serious allergies.

I was a bit taken aback, but I explained my ICD. I don't always wear my bracelet, but I do put it on when I think I might be drinking - especially with people who don't know or understand everything that's going on with my heart.

The whole exchange was a little surprising. I felt somewhat self-conscious every time I ordered a drink from him after that, wondering if he disapproved. At the same time, though, it was reassuring to know that there was someone in the room who understood what was going on, and would be able to act if anything happpened.

I'm not used to people asking me such direct questions about illness, and when they do, it can feel like a relief.