"But those weren't my plans." (AKA, when your teenager gets his own life)

So, tonight is New Year's Eve. Every year, since the boys were little, we've hosted a small get together with friends. We spend the evening, in our PJs, eating nothing but cheese and playing cards, while our children run wild in the basement. It's been nice.

But now, my oldest is in high school. And apparently wants his own life.

Back story, one of our closest friends has a son our son's age. And, although they moved a while ago, we have (and the boys have) always been close friends, spending NYE and other evenings together. But, this year, the 15-year-old decided he has other plans.

A few days ago, he asked if he could go to a party. At first, I said no. I am not ready to unleash him into the wild of NYE, I didn't want to figure out how to get him there and home, and his friend was going to be at our house. So, I told him no, we already had plans.

His response: "But those weren't my plans."

This got me thinking. Yes, it's true, he's getting older and has started making his own decisions. And I suppose I have to let him, even though I think I do a much better job. I mean, I would've chosen his friend over the party, obviously. But OK. I get that he doesn't see this friend as often as he sees his other friends and I can kinda-sorta see why he'd want to go to this party. But, we had plans. And he broke them. And when I had to tell my friend, she was rightfully annoyed that, two days before the holiday, her son had to make other plans.

In the end, it all worked out. Her son had been invited to several parties, so switching gears was easier than we'd thought. But she had mentioned to me that it's the end of an era. And I guess I'm sad about that.

2020 is just around the corner. This coming year, my son will be 16. He'll be getting his learner's permit and probably getting a job and a girlfriend and we'll see him less and less. And, even though he refuses to boil his own damn water for pasta (he once said "never mind" when he asked for pasta and I asked him to get the water going), he is going to start doing things for himself.

Mark my words.

I don't really do the resolutions thing. Mine have always been too wide-reaching (e.g. "be better") and I never ever stick to them (apparently, "better" is just too hard to achieve). But this year, I resolve to let my son grow up. He's going to be leaving my house in 3 years; it's time he learns some real independence. Not the "I wanna do what I wanna do" kind of independence, but the "I can survive outside of my mother's house" kind of independence. So, he's going to:

• Do his own laundry (actually, he already does that)
• Change his sheets
• Boil his own damn water for pasta if he wants pasta
• Clean. his. own. bathroom!

Now that I think about it, it's going to be a great year for me. Not for him, for sure, but hey, we can't have everything.

Happy New Year to me (and all of you, of course)!

Healthcare Industry: Get Your Shit Together

About 2 years ago, I went to the doctor. I had been having one pesky little issue (that I had been having on and off for a few years by then), and while the doctor told me (again) I was fine, I asked him to make sure... medically. I wanted to make sure he wasn't just treating a symptom of something else. So, he agreed. And said (and I quote): "Just remember you asked for this."

Now I know what he meant.

He ordered a CT scan. This test, of course, found all kinds of things unrelated to my one symptom. There were spots on my kidneys and liver and hip. That meant more tests: an ultrasound for the kidney, an MRI for the liver, a PET scan for the hip. Honestly, I had so much radiation running through me, I glowed in the dark.

The children were highly entertained.

The tests were whatever they were. I saw a urologist for the kidneys (more tests; everything was fine). The MRI found the liver to be fine, too. But then came the PET scan. The thing on the hip was nothing, but they found a spot on my neck. My doctor who ordered these tests is a specialist. Because this was out of his realm, he suggested I see my PCP to then find another specialist.

More appointments, more doctors.

My PCP sent me to an ENT. This guy took a biopsy of my neck (thyroid, really); results were inconclusive. But then he said that thyroid cancer grows slowly and even if it was cancer, it probably could wait another 6 months before we tested it again.

Aaaand here begins my rant.

First off, don't tell someone that you might have cancer, but oh, don't worry, it can sit in your body for a while longer. I decided this man was not going to be my doctor.

I saw an endocrinologist. She told me she could see the lump right away, just by looking at me. We did another biopsy; it, again, was inconclusive. She suggested I see a surgeon anyway because it was a big nodule that shouldn't be there.

So, I saw a surgeon. He seemed nice enough, agreed I needed the surgery to remove the left lobe of my thyroid. He happened to be the inventor/director of this robotic technology that would make the incision under my arm instead of across my neck. And I was vain enough to agree to that surgery.

That'll teach me.

Surgery was a year ago December (there was a little bit of cancer). Since then, I have had nothing but problems. Arm numbness, neck pain (remember when I threw out my back/neck moving my sister?) and a host of other things. I had a few follow-ups with the surgeon; he, of course, said my symptoms had nothing to do with my surgery. I was all, I'm not going to sue you, dude. I just want to know if this is normal. And forever.

Bloodwork showed I needed thyroid meds, so I went on them. I never got an answer from the surgeon about my arm, so he sent me to a neurologist. I didn't have nerve damage, which was good, but also didn't solve that problem. He suggested physical therapy.

In the meantime, I was having horrible womanly issues. I called my OB/GYN first. She said it wasn't her problem, it sounded like my thyroid. I called the endocrinologist; the nurse told me she had never heard of the thyroid affecting that part of a woman. (FYI, a quick Google search found the correlation in 2 seconds, but whatever). After a lot of back and forth, and a lot of them telling me it was not their problem, I made my endocrinologist up my thyroid med dosage.

After a few months, I started having bad side effects: dizziness, lightheadedness, heart palpitations. I went back to my PCP for a physical. I just wanted to know if this was all normal... rather, if this was my new normal.

My physical was fine. And yet, I still wasn't. I went back to the PCP, who ordered me to wear a 24-hour halter monitor. The monitor found something, so a cardiologist called me to see him. I, of course, had to wait 2 months to get in. Do you know what waiting does to someone who might have a heart problem who also definitely has anxiety?

While waiting, my symptoms were bad enough that I had to do something. I saw the endocrinologist again last week. I just couldn't believe this wasn't all related to my thyroid. Heart palpitations are one of the top symptoms of hyperthyroidism, how could it not by the thyroid? She told me that my levels were normal, so it wasn't my thyroid. And that I must have a heart problem. Basically, she said: it's not my problem, see someone else.

(Sidenote:. In all my life, I (thank God) have been relatively healthy, up until now. Cholesterol has been good, I have low blood pressure, low heart rate. Nothing to suggest a heart problem in all this time. Isn't it a funny coincidence that my "heart problem" started the moment my thyroid stopped working?)

Anyway, against her advice, I stopped taking my thyroid meds. And, (not) surprisingly, the heart palpitations stopped. Lightheadedness was still there, but it was not as bad. Funny how that happened.

So, yesterday, I finally saw the cardiologist. And, guess what? My heart is fine. And guess what else? It's not his problem, see someone else.

And here I am. I still don't know what's wrong with me. I feel better being off the meds, but I still have the lightheadedness, which only amps up my anxiety. And I need the meds to keep my thyroid working, so we still have to solve that problem. But who is going to solve it when no one takes responsibility?

Here lies my problem. Where is my patient advocate? Who is finally going to accept responsibility for my care and get me the help I need? Why aren't any one of my eight (8!) doctors helping?

When I was bleeding so much I thought I might bleed to death, why wasn't anyone helping? Why couldn't I call an advocate-type person, one who knows medical jargon, but isn't affiliated with a doctor's office, get me to the right people? It happens in cancer care, why not elsewhere? And my problem is small, relatively speaking. What happens to people with chronic diseases?

I feel like your PCP is supposed to be that person, to an extent. And I love mine, I really do. But, is he not doing his job? Why didn't he follow up with me after he ordered the halter? Why isn't he following up with me about any of the problems I've seen him about just this year? I get that he has hundreds or thousands of patients and can't possibly have time to do this for each and every patient, but how else is this supposed to work?

I know, I'm supposed to be my own advocate. But, how are you supposed to advocate for yourself when you don't even know what you need?

Funnily enough, I write marketing materials for the healthcare industry. I know enough about all kinds of conditions to be dangerous – or *this close* to becoming a doctor myself. I'm constantly talking about a "multidisciplinary approach to medicine" and "patient-centered care". And I'm calling bullshit on my bullshit. There is no multidisciplinary approach. There is no time. Doctors don't even look at their patient files before they see a patient. How do these people, who have the tremendous responsibility of a person's life, get away with this? My company expects the respect of people's time; I could never go into a meeting not even the slightest bit prepared. Isn't this the same thing, more important even?

All of this is to say: healthcare industry, get your shit together.

A Step-by-Step Guide to Helping Your Sister Move

My sister has lived in Dallas for the past 11 years. But, we got lucky this past fall when her husband accepted a new job... it meant they were coming home!

While my BIL began the job in November, she stayed back in Dallas to sell the house, pack up their stuff and move it all here. After the house sold, I offered to fly down there, spend the last week packing up the rest of their stuff and driving it back home.

I know, I'm a great sister, aren't I?

Anyhoo, I flew down there last Sunday. And you all know how much I love to fly – that alone should earn me bonus "great sister" points! Since I never eat before a plane ride and took my happy pills, I was starving and sleepy by the time I got down there. So, even though the Golden Globes were on and I love me some awards shows, Sunday was spent scarfing down food and falling asleep in front of the TV. The real work began on Monday.

Here's my step-by-step guide to helping your sister (brother, friend, etc.) move:

1. Wrap tiny breakables in paper.
(Sidenote: My sister had all the supercool accoutrements for moving: big rolls of bubble wrap (it took everything I had not to pop every damn one of those); packing paper; boxes of all kinds – small, medium, large, extra large, mirror/picture... it was amazeballs.)
2. Fill small box full of tiny breakables in paper.
3. Test weight of said box by bending at waist and lifting (potentially heavy) box.
4. Throw out back.
5. See stars.
6. Lay down on floor.
7. Get better and pack more boxes.
8. Wake up with stiff neck that makes you want to vomit.
9. Make sister go to Wal-Mart at 6am to buy heating pad.
10. Sit with heating pad for rest of day while sister packs alone.

I mean, good grief. She was probably wondering why she bothered with me at all!

Even though I was completely useless to her, I'm glad I went. She didn't have to drive 2 days all on her own and it gave us something to talk about at family dinner last night.

You're welcome, Mar.

The Crud

As you all know, school is back. And with that comes The Crud. You all know The Crud. The runny nose, sneezing, post-nasal drip that makes your throat hurt and you spend 20 minutes hacking/choking as you furiously rummage through your purse for a cough drop... while you're in a room full of people... who are all trying to listen to a speaker.

Oh, is that just me? Yesterday?

Anyway, The Crud first started with the 12-year-old within the first week of school. Typically, it takes about a month or so for The Crud to enter our house, so it was a little surprising to see that little bastard so fast.

I blame middle school.

His runny nose/cough lasted only a few days and then we were in the clear... until last weekend when I got it and the 9-year-old got it. And, somehow, my mother.

That's a wicked Crud.

So, since Saturday, we've been weathering the storm. Most of my colds start and end the same way. I spend the first day sneezing my life away (did you know your heart stops every time you sneeze? I could be dead by now!). I've been "bless you"ed enough times this week that I'm a sure thing for heaven. The rest of the days alternate between runny/stuffy nose and sore throat. It ends within a week or so and then we go about our lives.

Can I admit that, when I was young, I actually enjoyed the occasional cold? I'd gather a box of tissues, a glass of orange juice and a blanket and veg in front of the TV. It was kinda nice to pamper myself while I practically sneezed up a lung.

But, nowadays, ain't nobody got time to be sick. I have to manage the lives of little people. And work. And, you know, life. And, for whatever reason, illnesses take longer now that I'm old. The 9-year-old got through it in 2-3 days while I'm still sneezing. I mean, what the? Sneezing is only supposed to be day 1! I'm supposed be done by now! I shouldn't have gone through an entire box of Kleenex 5 days in!

But, I suppose I can look on the bright side. To quote the great "Sixteen Candles":

"They'll feel some massive guilt. It could be highly profitable."

It's not working yet, but I'll hold my breath... it might stop the sneezing.

Ugh. Middle School.

Today's the first day of school in our district. Normally, I'm ready for the boys to go back to school, if only to get them out of the house for the day so I can watch bad TV for 8 hours straight (Grey's Anatomy binge-fest? Why, don't mind if I do!).

But, this year, I'm just not feelin' it. It could be because we didn't do much this summer. We renovated our kitchen and played on 3 baseball teams that, while fun, pretty much sucked the life out of us for 2 whole months. The 12-year-old got to go to camp, the husband and I took a trip to Napa and the 9-year-old spent a week with grandma, which, let's face it, is better than any stinkin' vacation.

So, they should be ready to go back. However, I don't know if time speeds up because I'm old, or if, in some alternate universe, a month or so was taken away from us without our knowledge because? It just seemed to have gone by way too fast.

Or my reluctance to accept the beginning of the school year could be that the 12-year-old started middle school.

Do you guys remember middle school? Do you look back and wonder how we survived? Because, dang. Those were some awful years.

For me, those were the years I got braces and glasses, and, if that weren't tragic enough, a series of terrible haircuts. The boys started noticing the girls (not me, of course, because of the aforementioned braces-glasses-haircut combo), the girls started kissing the boys (again, see above)...

I'm sure it wasn't awful for everyone. My girlfriends certainly had a fine time kissing all those boys. But, for an introverted, slightly awkward, slightly emotional girl like myself, it was pretty bad. And I just don't want my son to go through it.

I'm hoping because he's a boy, he won't have to deal with the stupidity I did.

Story time... when I was in 7th grade, pegged jeans, matching socks and loafers were all the rage. My mom wasn't a big fan of, you know, "style" or "being cool" or "just trying to survive middle school", so buying me clothes from the Gap wasn't at the top of her list. But, every once in a while (read: a birthday or holiday), I would get something cool to wear to school.

I had these gray pin-striped pants, paired with a peach (oh yes, peach) top and peach socks (of course). I wore this outfit pretty regularly, which meant the outfit was washed.  A lot.

My mother, bless her, was (and still is) a big fan of bleach. She bleached everything, from bathrooms to kitchens to, you guessed it, our clothes. And because I am was the awkward person I am was, I wore whatever was mine without protest, including my now-yellow peach socks.

(In an alternate life, I would've just asked for new socks or begged my mother to not bleach the socks I had, but, of course, hindsight and all that.)

One day, I was in choir, wearing my peach outfit and the mean girl who lived across the street from me said, "Lea, why are you wearing yellow socks?"

Me: Well, this is my peach outfit and these socks were once peach, so...
Her: Well, they're not now.

It's funny the things you remember, isn't it?

She also asked the choir teacher if she was pregnant (she wasn't), so she was just being a bitch to be a bitch, but still. My middle school existence can be summed up in that conversation.

You're not cool. You won't be cool. Wear white socks.

High school brought contact lenses, a perm (which was cool back then) and no braces, so life significantly improved.

Good luck in middle school, kid. I promise I won't bleach your socks.

Life is better with a cat?

You guys all know I have a cat. I’ve talked about her here and here. And, despite all those stories, I love her. Like lurrrrve her love her. Like hate her lurrrve her love her.

But, she’s not without her issues. We “joke” all the time that we’re going to get rid of her whenever she pulls her shenanigans (aka peeing on the floor, peeing on the carpet, peeing on the wall, pooping on the carpet [right next to the litter box, btw], vomiting on the floor, vomiting on the carpet, hissing or swatting at every single person who walks in our door). In a nutshell, being a cat.

But, as I said, we love her. She’s been with us for 14 years now and we’re beginning to wonder how much longer she’ll be with us. We recently renovated our kitchen, so you can imagine how that might have gone over with our anxiety-ridden kitty.

Read: not well.

She’s been acting kind of funny lately. Cries a lot, not really eating much and basically being a real pain in the ass with the pooping and peeing.

So, we took her to the vet yesterday. Because she’s anxious, it never goes well. So, they thought they’d sedate her to examine her.

The vet: How far are you willing to take this?

Me [to myself]: Is she really asking me if I want to treat the cat? Isn’t that why I came?

Me [out loud]: Well, I want to know what’s wrong with her.

Vet: OK, great. We’ll get started then.

That made me wonder. Do most owners come in and say, “I only want to treat if it’s the $20 special”?

I get it. Treatment can be expensive. Especially for a furry friend who may or may not have spent years trying to kill you by sleeping around your neck.

But, I like to pretend think that she does it because she loves me, so we went ahead with the sedation.

After her exam, the vet told me she looks good, but that she is constipated.

Constipated, really?

We know constipation in our house. My son has spent years suffering from it; I, myself, have had these issues. It now makes me wonder if she’s trying too hard to be a part of this family or if maybe we need to check our water.

Anyway, the treatment for constipation in cats is… Miralax. Just like with humans. She gave us some Miralax to take home (which, no need, I get the industrial-sized bottles, but hey, free Miralax!). She sent us on our way, with the warning that Zoe would be a little woozy for a while, so don’t let her play on the steps.

Noted.

For the rest of the day/evening, I watched her like a hawk. She definitely was out of it, almost comically so. Her eyes were glazed, she couldn’t close her mouth, and when she wasn’t walking sideways, she was staring at the walls for hours on end. Funny not funny.

This morning, her meows are back. She’s no longer walking sideways, but she’s certainly not very forgiving. She would walk towards me, but then remember she was comatose yesterday because of me and give me the cold shoulder.

I suppose the cold shoulder is better than the furry neck. At least I’m alive.

Work/Life Balance Does Not Exist

I have always marveled at how lucky I've been to work part-time.  I get time at home with my boys and I get time outside the home with adults.  The perfect combination.  No one suffers because I give equal attention to both.

What a bunch of horseshit.

My boss once told me there is no such thing as work/life balance.  Something always suffers.  At the time, I was all, oh, sure, maybe for others.  But, it turns out he's right.  Something always suffers.

It sucks.

A couple weeks ago, we had our work holiday party.  Because I'm part-time (and old...with children), I don't get to hang out much socially with my co-workers.  But, they spend a lot of time together outside the office and know each other pretty well.  Even their significant others know each other.  So, there we were, my husband and I, kinda watching everyone else know each other.

Okay, so it made me sad for my youth.  My first job out of college was at an ad agency.  We wore jeans, drank beer at lunch (only once), happy houred every Friday... it was the best time of my life (well, a different "best time of my life" anyway).  My current co-workers, while a bit older than I was then, do this a lot.  At that moment, I wished I worked full-time with them and was able to hang out with them socially whenever the mood struck.  But, as it is, I have to plan weeks in advance for the stars to align in order for me to work a full day, go to happy hour, and still make it home in time to put the boys to bed.

Alternately, because my job is demanding, I don't get to enjoy my home life much.  I love what I do and don't really want to not work, but sometimes, I just want to say, "Fuck this shit."  How many times have you ever pictured yourself throwing important papers in the air and saying, "Fuck this shit, I'm out!"?

I have friends who don't work.  If I didn't work, I'd be able to see them more often.  We could lunch.  I could spend my summers at the neighborhood pool with the boys.  We could take excursions.  But, because my work schedule changes all the time, I constantly make-and-break plans with pretty much everyone I know.  And, don't get me started on volunteering at the kids' school.  I don't even offer anymore because I know you can't count on me.

The other irritating part is you can't complain about this situation.  I have the best of both worlds.  I can't whine to my working mom friends because they never get to spend time with their children.  And I can't bitch to my stay-at-home mom friends because they're so bored to tears and up to their armpits in dirty diapers, they dream about throwing those diapers in the air saying, "Fuck this shit, I'm getting a job."

So, where is the balance?  Does it ever get easier?  I guess I'll just have to drink a little more wine every night and hope that losing my balance will help me find it again.