I never thought I'd have to worry about my waistline, buying new interview pants, hoping that I'd lose weight in the two-week customary grace period before starting a new job that would enable me to wear my existing slacks and jeans.
I grew up with heavyset aunts and female cousins. It was a given in my family that the women had the hips and thighs, while the men were beanpoles. None of the males I knew as a child were as robust as the females. The males in my family were preoccupied with physical activity, not the girls, significantly outnumbered by the boys.
I was able to shop in certain teen clothing departments well into young adulthood. The obvious advantage was saving money that I invested elsewhere. Several years have since passed, and I can no longer get away with Gap Kids for my fall wardrobe.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Emergency Room
When I was young I never thought much about hospitals or doctors, but as an adult living in an urban city far from family, I have to maintain my emotional, mental, and physical health.
I've had a few medical procedures I remember because I wasn't under anesthesia, and others I wish I had been sedated, later awakened after everything was in order, and all necessary parts were still in place.
I've never thought I was invincible, but I don't like sometimes feeling helpless when I'm at the mercy of a trained and licensed medical professional. Perhaps it's a feeling of being lied to, or the doctor doesn't have a clue on the most effective treatment that's best for me, not a majority of people who have or have had similar ailments or conditions.
Recently I stopped seeing a specialist because he was pushy and wanted to perform a radical procedure that would've had me out of commission for several weeks. My medical insurance provider denied his request due to lack of medical necessity. I think he wanted a new sports car or wing in his upstate chalet.
I searched the online New York's Best Doctors Listing from New York Magazine and found a second specialist who put me at ease, and wasn't in any way aggressive, or wanted to use me as a guinea pig.
When I thought the house had fallen on the wicked doctor with the shifty eyes, another letter arrived from my insurance provider approving the procedure. No way was I going through with the procedure. What had he added to my medical charts that wasn't there before to change the opinion of whoever stamped yes or no on surgical requests?
I won't become one of those people who refuse to go to a doctor because of bad experiences in waiting rooms with snarky receptionists who act is if they've better things to do, overzealous doctors, or conflicting opinions.
I began feeling a stiffness in my left shoulder a few days ago, but had attributed it to the shifting temperatures and recent rainstorms. A day or two later, Friday night, I felt queasy during the latter part of my Adult Basic Education Workshop, and thought I'd have to send my students home early and make it home without passing out.
I soaked and fell asleep in a hot Epsom Salt bath with rubbing alcohol, Granny's remedy for body aches and pain. My pain de jour centered around my lower abdomen and bladder, and it was excruciating. It felt like an 800lb grizzly bear was sitting on me.
I woke, showered and crawled into bed before leaving a voicemail on my roommate's cellphone to alert him of my condition, and to be very quiet when arrived home from work. A few chills later, I was off to sleep for what I hoped would be all night. Of course, that didn't happen because my roommate had to call me and every ache that I thought the Epsom Salt had numbed shot through my body like an electrical storm.
It wasn't until after 4 a.m. Saturday morning that the symptoms culminated in my regurgitating the homemade trail mix, water, and grapefruit juice I knew I could keep down until morning without upsetting my stomach. No such luck.
I tried calling my general practitioner and the new specialist I switched, but neither of them had an answering service. I delayed as long as I could before hobbling downstairs and hailing a cab to the emergency room a few blocks away with the help of my roommate. I couldn't walk on my own, and held onto his arm as my granny would my arm as I escorted her out of the church sanctuary one step at a time.
I walked into what I hoped would be an empty emergency room, which it was, save for two or three people slouching or hunched over asleep in various chairs. The security guard ushered me into the reception area, perhaps because I looked like something that cat dragged in and dropped at his feet for approval.
I had a temperature of 107º, not that I didn't know I was feverish from my having had the chills twice before leaving the apartment. The admitting nurse printed out a wristband and gave me several sheets of paper and directed me down a hall to another desk where sleepy-eyed doctors and residents spoke among themselves while other emergency room patients moaned, wailed, or slept in various cubicles.
I hobbled behind him until he found an empty space, and eased onto the raised bed that felt like scaling a wall. I was in agony. I didn't think I would die, but I wanted a shot of something to put me out of my misery.
My roommate was ever attentive as he tried to assure me that God would take care of and heal me. We prayed several times before leaving the apartment, but my wavering faith or impatience with having watched some of The Secret and trying not to think that I'd attracted this pain into my life through negative thinking. I shook my head as I watched the assembled panel of touchy-feely experts and converts tell me that I'm responsible for the state of my life on all fronts if I thought about things the wrong way. Ex: Getting out of bed in the morning and stubbing my toe -- if I walked around all day like a sore-headed bear, that I'd attract all sorts of shenanigans or mischief. It sounded like a crock 'o hooey to me, and probably worked in reverse and exacerbated my condition.
Fast forward: Two doctors examined me, before dispatching me to the facilities for a liquid sample in a plastic container, which later revealed I had an infection (reason for the fever and tenderness near my bladder). All dressed, and I'm still not trying to walk, so the orderly asked if I wanted a wheelchair. What the heck! My roommate's sleepy and not strong enough to give me a piggyback ride down the long block to the pharmacy, which wasn't 24-hours. We made our way to the bus stop, and a slowpoke of a driver (he must have been at the end of his shift), and had my three prescriptions filled at a 24-hour pharmacy further downtown on Broadway: Ibuprofen, Vicodin, and Cipro.
I'll either get better or become addicted to painkillers like a suburban soccer mom. I prefer the former, not the latter.
I've had a few medical procedures I remember because I wasn't under anesthesia, and others I wish I had been sedated, later awakened after everything was in order, and all necessary parts were still in place.
I've never thought I was invincible, but I don't like sometimes feeling helpless when I'm at the mercy of a trained and licensed medical professional. Perhaps it's a feeling of being lied to, or the doctor doesn't have a clue on the most effective treatment that's best for me, not a majority of people who have or have had similar ailments or conditions.
Recently I stopped seeing a specialist because he was pushy and wanted to perform a radical procedure that would've had me out of commission for several weeks. My medical insurance provider denied his request due to lack of medical necessity. I think he wanted a new sports car or wing in his upstate chalet.
I searched the online New York's Best Doctors Listing from New York Magazine and found a second specialist who put me at ease, and wasn't in any way aggressive, or wanted to use me as a guinea pig.
When I thought the house had fallen on the wicked doctor with the shifty eyes, another letter arrived from my insurance provider approving the procedure. No way was I going through with the procedure. What had he added to my medical charts that wasn't there before to change the opinion of whoever stamped yes or no on surgical requests?
I won't become one of those people who refuse to go to a doctor because of bad experiences in waiting rooms with snarky receptionists who act is if they've better things to do, overzealous doctors, or conflicting opinions.
I began feeling a stiffness in my left shoulder a few days ago, but had attributed it to the shifting temperatures and recent rainstorms. A day or two later, Friday night, I felt queasy during the latter part of my Adult Basic Education Workshop, and thought I'd have to send my students home early and make it home without passing out.
I soaked and fell asleep in a hot Epsom Salt bath with rubbing alcohol, Granny's remedy for body aches and pain. My pain de jour centered around my lower abdomen and bladder, and it was excruciating. It felt like an 800lb grizzly bear was sitting on me.
I woke, showered and crawled into bed before leaving a voicemail on my roommate's cellphone to alert him of my condition, and to be very quiet when arrived home from work. A few chills later, I was off to sleep for what I hoped would be all night. Of course, that didn't happen because my roommate had to call me and every ache that I thought the Epsom Salt had numbed shot through my body like an electrical storm.
It wasn't until after 4 a.m. Saturday morning that the symptoms culminated in my regurgitating the homemade trail mix, water, and grapefruit juice I knew I could keep down until morning without upsetting my stomach. No such luck.
I tried calling my general practitioner and the new specialist I switched, but neither of them had an answering service. I delayed as long as I could before hobbling downstairs and hailing a cab to the emergency room a few blocks away with the help of my roommate. I couldn't walk on my own, and held onto his arm as my granny would my arm as I escorted her out of the church sanctuary one step at a time.
I walked into what I hoped would be an empty emergency room, which it was, save for two or three people slouching or hunched over asleep in various chairs. The security guard ushered me into the reception area, perhaps because I looked like something that cat dragged in and dropped at his feet for approval.
I had a temperature of 107º, not that I didn't know I was feverish from my having had the chills twice before leaving the apartment. The admitting nurse printed out a wristband and gave me several sheets of paper and directed me down a hall to another desk where sleepy-eyed doctors and residents spoke among themselves while other emergency room patients moaned, wailed, or slept in various cubicles.
I hobbled behind him until he found an empty space, and eased onto the raised bed that felt like scaling a wall. I was in agony. I didn't think I would die, but I wanted a shot of something to put me out of my misery.
My roommate was ever attentive as he tried to assure me that God would take care of and heal me. We prayed several times before leaving the apartment, but my wavering faith or impatience with having watched some of The Secret and trying not to think that I'd attracted this pain into my life through negative thinking. I shook my head as I watched the assembled panel of touchy-feely experts and converts tell me that I'm responsible for the state of my life on all fronts if I thought about things the wrong way. Ex: Getting out of bed in the morning and stubbing my toe -- if I walked around all day like a sore-headed bear, that I'd attract all sorts of shenanigans or mischief. It sounded like a crock 'o hooey to me, and probably worked in reverse and exacerbated my condition.
Fast forward: Two doctors examined me, before dispatching me to the facilities for a liquid sample in a plastic container, which later revealed I had an infection (reason for the fever and tenderness near my bladder). All dressed, and I'm still not trying to walk, so the orderly asked if I wanted a wheelchair. What the heck! My roommate's sleepy and not strong enough to give me a piggyback ride down the long block to the pharmacy, which wasn't 24-hours. We made our way to the bus stop, and a slowpoke of a driver (he must have been at the end of his shift), and had my three prescriptions filled at a 24-hour pharmacy further downtown on Broadway: Ibuprofen, Vicodin, and Cipro.
I'll either get better or become addicted to painkillers like a suburban soccer mom. I prefer the former, not the latter.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Writing Group Rejections
One of the drawbacks to recruiting new writers for a critique group is having to deal with personality conflicts of people who don't fit into the group, and refuse to adhere to the policies and procedures.
When I decided to take myself seriously as a writer and put stock into creating a writing community, I knew there would be people that I'd clash with because of temperament or writing ability.
I refuse to go to therapy because of what I've endured or will endure as the moderator and participant in a writing workshop. I post here to work annoyances out of my system, although edited.
I try to keep my ego in check and not flaunt that I'm the founder, but when there have been issues, I had to play my trump card. I won't allow anyone to destroy years of work because they woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or are jealous of the community I've created.
I devote many agonizing, unpaid hours to keep the writers groups afloat, and while I'm not offended that someone wouldn't notice (because their head's buried in a dark crevice), it chaps me that a potential or current writing group member would selfishly cause grief.
These are the same types who post antagonistic or inflammatory messages online to spread the word about how unfair, egotistical, or unprofessional the writing group members is. There's a celebrity who says, "I'll worry when they (reporters, etc.) stop talking about me." I agree.
As long as I'm doing an exemplary job of moderating and participating in the writers group, I will keep my head held high. The moment I begin to doubt myself and intentions, I'll shutter the group and write and submit in solitude.
When I decided to take myself seriously as a writer and put stock into creating a writing community, I knew there would be people that I'd clash with because of temperament or writing ability.
I refuse to go to therapy because of what I've endured or will endure as the moderator and participant in a writing workshop. I post here to work annoyances out of my system, although edited.
I try to keep my ego in check and not flaunt that I'm the founder, but when there have been issues, I had to play my trump card. I won't allow anyone to destroy years of work because they woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or are jealous of the community I've created.
I devote many agonizing, unpaid hours to keep the writers groups afloat, and while I'm not offended that someone wouldn't notice (because their head's buried in a dark crevice), it chaps me that a potential or current writing group member would selfishly cause grief.
These are the same types who post antagonistic or inflammatory messages online to spread the word about how unfair, egotistical, or unprofessional the writing group members is. There's a celebrity who says, "I'll worry when they (reporters, etc.) stop talking about me." I agree.
As long as I'm doing an exemplary job of moderating and participating in the writers group, I will keep my head held high. The moment I begin to doubt myself and intentions, I'll shutter the group and write and submit in solitude.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Writing Group Moderator Blues - Part Two
I had this idea today to create a Coffee Cup Rating System when reading applications for Morningside Writers Group. It'd be for my own sanity, but if an applicant inquired as to why a two-way personal interview wasn't granted, I'd surely oblige with the following.
Zero = reads well, no hiccups. However, there's something off-putting in your biography that the current group members couldn't resolve. We're at an impasse.
One = minor hiccups, had to re-read certain sections that were troubling on a first read. The current group members, while not elitist, want to read effortless fiction and screenplays. Please re-apply when you've achieved this feat.
Two cups = moderate hiccups, had to pour second cup, walk around and return to submission. Did you re-read your biography and submission before attaching and sending? We'll pass.
Three cups = major hiccups; wanted to find writer and smack across the head. How about applying for a job in civil service? Did you think that would pass for creativity?
Four cups = Needs severe revisions. Had to return to store for new canister of coffee, walk around the park, and return home and plant my ass in the seat. Please line your cat's litter box with all subsequent writing attempts.
I'd send the inquisitive writer a form letter with little coffee cup icons below the signature. The one side effect would be jittery nerves from too much Café Bustelo.
Zero = reads well, no hiccups. However, there's something off-putting in your biography that the current group members couldn't resolve. We're at an impasse.
One = minor hiccups, had to re-read certain sections that were troubling on a first read. The current group members, while not elitist, want to read effortless fiction and screenplays. Please re-apply when you've achieved this feat.
Two cups = moderate hiccups, had to pour second cup, walk around and return to submission. Did you re-read your biography and submission before attaching and sending? We'll pass.
Three cups = major hiccups; wanted to find writer and smack across the head. How about applying for a job in civil service? Did you think that would pass for creativity?
Four cups = Needs severe revisions. Had to return to store for new canister of coffee, walk around the park, and return home and plant my ass in the seat. Please line your cat's litter box with all subsequent writing attempts.
I'd send the inquisitive writer a form letter with little coffee cup icons below the signature. The one side effect would be jittery nerves from too much Café Bustelo.
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