per aspera ad astra

AKA: The things you find online…
After perusing an old friend’s blog–we used to be fairly close, and we were friends since early childhood–I found this. I don’t know if she wrote it, but probably not…this isn’t anything close to how she writes. Anyway…I chuckled at this, at least.

1. Most importantly, to do so in person. This is the most effective method of delivery.

2. Word choice/Diction. Aim for a happy medium here. Don’t speak like a lightning-blasted stump, but don’t orate as an Oxford Professor would, either. Clarity and conciseness is important; there’s no need to take three years to convey your point.

3. Vocal clarity. Don’t attempt when drunk or in an otherwise state of compromised sobriety. Desirable results will not be reached unless you aimed for a drunken brawl…which is not the aim of this.

4. Overt use of vulgarities do not make you look more intimidating, make your argument more effective, etc. See aforementioned note about being a bitch, but add, “ignorant.” There’s a time and a place, and when they would be appropriate modifiers, use them [wisely]. Incoherently spewing obscenities does not make one appear to be badass, it makes them appear to be trying too hard.

5. Maintain a relatively collected manner, even if deceptive. Allowing any sort of annoyance, rage, etc. to show through could possibly leave a weak spot. Plus, it pisses people off so much more to get punished by someone who appears to be completely calm.

6. If you must attempt through a text-based source [be it letter, email, instant or text message] ensure proper spelling, punctuation, and other respect to grammatical function. Again, makes you look like less of an idiot…and if you’re trying to rip someone a new one, looking like an idiot simply won’t help your case.

7. Do not use YouTube. YouTube arguments are for douchebags.

8. Conversely, you may utilize PornoTube or YouPorn for random banging of girlfriends, drunken blowjobs, etc. However, these carry a risk [read: getting the shit beaten out of you], so use wisely and with moderate caution.

9. No complex plots, no schemes, no plans. Simple, verbal ass-rape. Plus, plans usually involve people, and this needs to be mono y mono…else, bitchdom is acheived.

10. Don’t try to be too clever. It can backfire miserably. That, and it just makes you look like a bitch. This is what you need to ultimately avoid.

Alright, I’m sure most of you have heard of Zazzle, the silly site where you can upload personal designs for shirts, cards, mugs, and all other sorts of media and then either have your designs made available for public sale or you may have them for private printing.

I only have a couple things because I suck at graphic design, and I never actually planned on having anything come from it, but I got an email that someone purchased one of the shirts I ‘designed’ earlier. As the designer, you may set how much of a percentage [royalty-wise] that you want from the sale to a certain degree. That, of course, drives up the cost of the shirt, so if you actually plan on having people buy your products, you can’t jack it up too high.
Even so, unless you become what they call an Associate or do some referral work, you can only make so much from your sales. They put a cap on royalty percentage to protect buyers from exorbitant pricing.

Zazzle offers a variety of styles and colors of shirts–if that’s what you’re going for, and that’s what I’m primarily writing about, here–for men, women, children, and infants from well-known manufacturers such as Bella, American Apparel, Alternative Apparel, and others. They also offer popular “green” options for the environmentalist trend such as organically produced cotton and shirts by edun LIVE. They also offer performance [eg: sportswear] and outerwear options [hoodies, etc].
As a result, the price of an item varies not only on how much the designer wants to make from it but also on the actual shirt itself. Zazzle obtains the shirt, does the printing, pressing, and whatever else goes into the shirt-making process [they actually have a page about that somewhere] and informs you of royalties you receive.

So granted, I’ve only made two bucks from having one of my shirts purchased once…but for the zip work I did? I’m not complaining.
Plus, if I make more, and more people buy…two dollar incrementation can build up after a while. :]

My surgeon instructed me to change my bandages today.

“That shouldn’t be too bad,” I thought.

Ha. Haha. AHAHAHAHA. Right.

So first, I have to soak them off because they’re so damn sticky that they literally would not come off without ripping off a few layers of skin. Sorry, I just had surgery, I’m not trying for a self-performed impromptu skin-graft. No thanks. Even with that, it was still pretty damn painful, so I grabbed a few cotton swabs and soaked the tips in isopropyl alcohol and swabbed the lifted edges of the bandages until their adhesive dissolved and I could remove them with ease.

Today, I have made several discoveries! Hooray.

One: Total, I have thirteen staples binding me, total. Four in the top incision, five in the middle, and four in the bottom. As far as it appears to me, I could’ve had three in the bottom one [the smallest] and four in the middle.

Two: Such things look really, really gross.

Three: Not really, I’m just intensely squeamish when it comes to my own body being cut open and operated on and closed back up with staples.

Four: And being that I am squeamish over it, I started crying and hyperventilating [read: overreacting] upon having to look at them as I cleaned them and re-bandaged them.

Five: I randomly had to come to terms with something, and I’m not really sure what it was. Aside from things like my ankle and my ribs, I’ve never had any real injuries. Sure, I’m clumsy as hell, and it’s rare to find me NOT sporting a bruise of some sort, but uh…yeah. [Scraped knees, cat scratches, and random kitchen mishaps do not count as actual injury and I think nothing of them.] When I was nearly three, I needed to get seven stitches in my eyebrow; I remember being taken to the ER, being strapped down, cleaned, and getting stitched up. I remember having them removed. I don’t remember, however, ever SEEING them. I don’t recall seeing a mirror in which I could see the gash or its stitches. I mean, obviously I don’t think I’m invulnerable or anything–I mean, obviously I can get hurt and sick and stuff, and I don’t see any more than what I am–, that’s just damn silly…but it was a really weird feeling to see that…and I didn’t like it at all.

Hrm.

So, [of course] Phix came to visit me yesterday. Little later than we both would’ve liked, but he still got here and that is what is the most important. He had a friend with him from FSC, Manny, who he was driving to Boston, and they also picked up my friend Kelsey because she wanted to see me, too.

Late breakfast of delicious donuts [because I will admit...I cannot cook breakfast-y things. I am very much a 'night-owl' and am often, by choice, not up in time for breakfast. When I must be up--for example, for school--I usually skip breakfast because I'm frantically trying to make sure I am prepared for the day in regards of books, etc.] and Bawls [yeayea, energy drink]. :3 But that was quickly followed with awesome spinach-and-mozzarella ravioli thingies I made for lunch.

And haha, Kelsey insists on being a photographer…

Then random [gentle] cuddlings, but they [Jer&Manny] needed to rest, so we [Kels&I] let them rest and we went to go make brownies. Yay. They didn’t get much rest though because people kept calling them and Washu kept being…well, Washu; aw. Kelsey had to go home though, so our friend Rachel dropped by to say hi and take her home [and some of my brownies D=!].

My parents extended the dinner invite, and they ran out to get food while they were resting. Apparently Manny fell asleep with ease, but Jeremy still had trouble…which I felt really bad for, but he insisted that I not worry about it. Grr.
So eventually family got back, and I woke them up and my little sister insisted that we play outside with her [she really likes Jeremy--very cute], and dinner was had and conversation was pleasant and blahblah.

Throughout the day and evening, he was super-concerned and insistent that I be careful. He always helped me up and used extra care when giving me a hug or something. ^_^

Oh, and he scribbled in the corner of my dry-erase board. xD
[Yes, that is a penguin of mine and the head of a preying mantis. Shh.]

But of course, I couldn’t just detain him here; Manny had to get up to Boston and needless to say, Jeremy had to get home himself [although he admits he would've rather returned here]. Naturally I was a little sad, as departures such…but almost amusingly, it was my sister that put on the water-works. She’s never handled goodbyes very well and she just burst into sobs. She’s like, “Noooo! Don’t go.” He gave her a hug while she was all sad and told her that it wasn’t as if he’d be gone forever and that he’d be back. She didn’t sniffle as much, but still. It was cute.

He’s home now, safe, thankfully, and not dead. :]
Hopefully, next time shouldn’t be too far off.

I probably could’ve written more, but it would’ve been more to the tune of, “Oh, he’s so dreeeamy, I adore him!” and uh…I don’t think that’s necessary. xD

I cannot believe I forgot to write about this…gah.

Alright, in general, the way most teens–in this area, at least–conduct themselves in public is appalling…especially when they go out to eat. Most audiences of adolescents in restaurants run their server ragged, are rude, loud, obnoxious, and then proceed to neglect to tip their server. Having my mother be a waitress and having waited tables myself, I’m familiar with the hassle…and I cannot even imagine conducting myself that way in public, let alone an establishment like that.

In fact, there was a letter to the Editor of my local newspaper echoing his discontent and disgust with the groups of teenagers who have gone out on Prom night to eat after having witnessed one such fiasco himself. He began with the lack of manners of the young men: they didn’t pull their chairs for their dates, offer arms upon standing, etc, and generally weren’t gentlemen. He said that they would shout and holler across the restaurant, at one point even whistling, and otherwise use inappropriately loud tones and language for such an environment and evening. He then moved onto the young ladies who would apply makeup at the table, reach across others’ plates for condiments, and would neglect to thank their wait person [as did the guys] and dates for paying. Their language was equally foul and their volume just as great.
I read this article in sad agreement with the reprimands of my generation most their parents for not instilling manners and passable etiquette in their children.

I don’t act that way in restaurants, and if I am with a group who is, I do my best to get them straight. They would cry the blues if someone else was acting like a buffoon and interrupting their time, but are just as inconsiderate as anything. They also don’t understand the cardinal rule of restauranteering: Don’t fuck with people who handle your food.

Anyway, last Monday, after school, Kelsey and I took Kate–well, Kate drove, but we paid for gas and for the food–downtown to a nice icecream parlor and to get pizza from a small family-owned Italian joint that we adore, Castiglia’s. [Kate's boyfriend had dumped her twenty minutes before midnight prior...midnight marking their second anniversary. So we tried to cheer her up and such.] We were sat at a little table right outside since the weather was nice, right in view of the door, and already knew what we wanted–a large cheese pizza [Kelsey is a Vegetarian and Kate&I don't dig veggies on the pizza] and three Dr Peppers.

Eventually our pizza is brought out, we’re just quietly discussing random things, not making a ruckus or an issue or anyone. Aside from that, our waiter never checked on us, never sought if we might like refills for our long-empty drinks. We had almost finished our pizza by the time I went in and asked someone else if we might be able to obtain refills, and she rapidly obliged, and I thanked her. It took another ten minutes of wondering where the hell our waiter was–turns out he was sitting in a booth in the back of indoor part of the restaurant…text messaging–before I again went inside to the register [a whole...five steps?] to request my check.

“Oh…” I hear my waiter say as he gets up, slouching forth. I returned to my table and he eventually followed with the check, and placed it face down. At this point, I was very annoyed with him, and although his ’service’ hardly warranted a tip, I was going to be compassionate and leave a tip–not a great one, but still. I picked up my check [shoulda been around $17.40 including tax], however, at the end was added a Gratuity of 20%! This brought my bill past the twenty-dollar mark.

The only time that is done in the US is if it is a large party or if it is a very upscale restaurant. I have been patronizing this restaurant for years and have never been tacked with such a charge. Standard tip etiquette for decent service here is 15% of the bill…that worthless son of a bitch most certainly did NOT deserve twenty. Gratuity additions are not a compulsory part of the bill and you are not obligated to pay them if you don’t see fit. While mulling this over with my friends, a table neighboring us overheard and shared that they had the same waiter, got the same pathetic ’service,’ but was not outfitted with gratuity.

I approached the register where what seemed to be a manager stood and inquired then the policy of gratuity additions began. Upon overhearing my, my waiter was quick to the register, telling his boss he’d handle it.
“Will you? I was wondering what the meaning of this is…when it started…all that.”
“Well, see, we’ve been having problems with people walking off without paying or tipping.”
“Sorry if this sounds cold, but that isn’t my problem. You can’t make up for lost food cost by tacking on TIPS to other folks’ bills. You can raise menu prices, but that’s it.”
“I don’t see why it is such a problem anyway.”
“Well, for one, it is rude and poor business practice. Increasing bill figures won’t influence someone to stay and pay it. Furthermore, you do not make the final decision on how much is left, that is up to me. There’s no need for your worry…if you had afforded my small party of three remotely decent service, then it wouldn’t be.”
“Oh, so you think 20% is too much? You evidently don’t know how ha–”
“Yes, I believe it is very exorbitant. My mom’s a waitress. I’ve waited tables. I know very well how much of a hassle it is, and I know how people are. As a result of this, I know how to behave and how to tip accordingly.”
“But you’re young…”
“Oh, I see, so now you’re discriminating against customers by age…you assume that because I am a teen that I will screw you over and so you automatically gave me inadequate service. I’ll have you know that I was going to tip you, regardless, simply on good faith. But you’ve now assured not only that you get nothing out of this but that I won’t be returning, nor will my friends, nor their families. Make certain that your boss thanks you, and here’s what I owe the restaurant, in exact.”

And so we left.
And that’s depressing…I liked that place.

As I’ve said, I’ve never had surgery before. The only time I’ve had my abilities compromised was when I had ankle injuries which were mostly remedied with a neoprene wrap which enabled me to walk.

However, the location of my staples being where they are, it is often a chore to get up from a standing or laying position, and I have to call for help in the morning when I wake up. I feel ridiculous for it. Walking around, you see, is perfectly fine, and I would rather be walking than sitting, but pfft.

I’m not supposed to lift anything that is over ten pounds [isn't that the weight limit for pregnancy, too?], make any sudden movements, and I’m really not even supposed to laugh hard.

I’ve been trying to tidy up my room, but I realized that I can’t vacuum unless I have my mother or father carry it down for me because I can’t.

I feel helpless and I really, really do not like it. I know there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help, as everyone does at some point, but when some doors in my own home are causing issues for me, it’s ridiculous.

One of the pluses of taking the tech class I’m taking is if you score higher than an 86, the state pays for you to take the certification exam. I’ve maintained, through the year, a 97. Needless to say, I kinda expected it, but uh..

Earlier this evening, I received an email from my IT teacher stating that it was confirmed that the state would be awarding me what they called a scholarship to pay for me to take my CompTIA A+ certification test within the next calendar year.

That’s pretty exciting; it saves me from putting out a few hundred bucks! I know I will pass it and be able to get, at the least, some lame entry tech job somewhere. Pays better than minimum wage, at least, and I can work on improving in that time.

Also Known As: Abdominal Pain, pt. 5. This one is going to be long.

I woke up about 30min after the operation–shockingly early for everyone..my mom and sister stay under for hours–because some mask on my face was bugging me. I tried to move it, and heard a, “No, leave it there…” and fell back under. But I woke again and managed to slide it away from my mouth to ask if I might have it removed. The second time, I was thankfully obliged. I was still very out of it and drugged from my anesthesia. I had yet another kind nurse who remained with me and sought how I felt so that she might appropriately deal with the pain. I was in and out of pseudo-consciousness for the next hour or so–I wasn’t asleep, but I wasn’t all the way there. My nurse told me that my mom had to leave to go take care of my little sister because my dad needed a nap and that she was sorry. But it’s okay, I understand.
After a while, I heard a man talking to my nurse. Lazily, I turned my head just as she was saying, “…Dr Wood.”
“Hey!” half-managed to exclaim. “You’re Ali’s dad, right? Alison Wood’s? I’m really sorry, I’m not um…about myself right now.” He laughed.
“Yeah, Jenn, it’s me. I remember you. Are you feeling alright?”
“Umm…I think so. Carolyn, here, is a wonderful post-op nurse, you see.”
“Yeah, she does a good job. What are you here for?”
“Appendec–no, laparoscopy. Stelmack took my appendix out, that’s what it was for.”
“Michaels did your anesthesia?”
“Um..yes, I’m pretty sure that was his name.”
“You’re awake far too early.”
“No, it’s okay. He did his job, I didn’t wake up mid-op, so it’s okay. I’m content.”
“I would’ve let you sleep longer. Is it alright if I tell Ali you’re here?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m not embarrassed of having a bad appendix.”
“Well, I’ll leave you alone now. Rest up, Jenn.”
“Thanks Mr–uhh..Dr Wood.”
“It’s okay, we know each other outside the hospital, you don’t have to call me doc.”
It’s nice to see someone you already know, there. It’s oddly and substantially comforting, especially to have it be a friend’s parent who works there.

Eventually, I was taken up to the Pediatric ward–ugh, because I’m a minor–to a nice, spacious room with a sleeper couch for a guest and its own bathroom and such. [I personally think it is silly to be old enough to get tested for pregnancy--and they surely did, and I am evidently not--and to get pelvic exams but to be placed in pediatric care.] I was assigned two nurses, Marisela and Christine. The former had that annoying obviously fake demeanor and [thankfully] rarely saw her. The few things she said she’d do for me…she didn’t. Ugh. [The ward was nowhere near busy, either. Meh.] That, and she treated me like a little kid. Howeverrr…Christine was an absolute sweetheart. She was very young, not long out of uni, and was pretty damn easy to talk to, didn’t treat me like a child or anything. She was super-prompt and did everything she said she was going to do, made triply sure that I was comfortable, had everything I needed, and wasn’t lonely. [She sat with me for a while until my mom got back.] I was trying to figure out how to do long distance from the in-room phone, and found I couldn’t…and she’s so damn nice, she gave me her cell to try to get a hold of him. If she came in to check my vitals and interrupted me from trying to doze off, she apologized profusely..although there was no need; I know she’s just doing her job and making sure I’m okay.

My surgeon came to talk to me when I was coherent enough to talk to, and he was asking me how I felt, explained that I had surgical staples–not stitches–and that I would need them removed in 7-10 days. He also explained that there was excess fluid in my pelvis which he removed…and which was likely from a ruptured cyst. [Which pretty much confirmed my suspicion of an ovarian cyst.] I was not to take a full shower until Sunday, but if I used extreme caution and got help, I could sponge-bath and probably wash my hair and face over a sink. I was told that getting up and walking around would actually be good for me, just that I might want to hug a small pillow–which he supplied–to my abdomen. He commented that I was handling things remarkably well [despite the previous tears and such] and that I should be all healed fairly quickly and that I may return to school on Wednesday. He ordered a dose of morphine for my pain–and so that I might get some more rest with it–and left.

Christine came in with a syringe of it which she added to my IV. She also checked my bandages…and remarked that it was amusing that I was orange. I hadn’t looked at myself, but the betadine they used to clean me up before they cut me made my skin look as if I had been getting cheap spray tans. But it’s okay. Needless to say, the morphine made me very loopy, but boy did it lull away the pain and make me comfortable. I’m very glad it did a good job on me, but it is certainly not something I wanted to STAY on because I’m pretty scared of hardcore painkillers. I did manage to get a little rest–not sleep, but rest–while peacefully zoning out…so the doctor’s goal was met.

My parents came to visit me, brought me some clothes for when I could change, and brought me a soda–since I was allowed to eat and drink now. In fact, all I could have was liquid. It wasn’t filling and I didn’t have much of an appetite–despite the last time I had eaten being over 12hrs prior. Dad went back home to sleep while their friend Niki watched Jerrica, and mom stayed at the hospital with me and slept on the couch.

Later, Stelmack came to check on me and said that my uterus and ovaries looked a little irritated when he operated on me, so he discussed the matter with a gynecologist who would visit me in an hour or two who would decide if I ought to have antibiotics just in case, and once that was decided and a painkiller was found, I would be able to be discharged. Christine returned with a pill that was tylenol [acetaminophen] and codeine to see how that would work on my pain. The gyno came in to discuss that he felt that it was fine and was probably just due to the appendix being ridiculous and the matter of the cyst. He also said that he wanted to see me in a week to do a pap smear and to discuss birth control stuff. Joy.

We ended up playing musical painkillers for a bit, finally settling on Lortab. I’m not really familiar with it, but it doesn’t make me loopy and does a passable job. Just after taking the Lortab though, Christine came back in followed by my friend Kate and Kelsey. Now, supposedly, the Pediatric ward does not allow non-familial visitors. I was like, “How–?” Christine goes, “I told the people at the desk that they were cousins of yours.”
Yeah, it’s settled. That nurse was *awesome.*
So they sat with me for a while, made sure I was okay. They brought me chocolate to go with my Trefoils [short-bread cookies for those who aren't familiar with American Girl Scout cookies] given to me by the nurse manager. They were all, “Aw, you look like hell! But we heart yooou.” They helped me get dressed in normal clothing again and pulled my damn hair out of my face [I can't do it one-handed, and I couldn't bend my arm that still had the IV]. And needless to say, I was really glad to see them. Christine came to check on us all to see if anyone needed anything…because she’s awesome like that. Kelsey said that Jeremy wanted to come see me on his way home from Miami on Monday or Tuesday. I almost started crying again. xD While they were there, I got a delivery of flowers from a local florist. They were, as I suspected, from my Grandmother in South Carolina–because she always pulls stunts like that–and they’re nice and pretty. She called my room when she heard from my dad that we’d be discharged soon to make sure that I’d get them–which was good, because I couldn’t call out to thank her. :D

Eventually, Kelsey and Kate had to leave. The Lortab worked, so Stelmack called in my prescription to the pharmacy we use. My nurse took out my IV, checked my bandages and vitals one more time. Mom called Niki to come get us–the ride in the van would be very uncomfortable for me–and all that jazz…I was discharged at around 6:45, putting me at the hospital, having got a surgery and all, for almost 24 hours. I got to go in a wheelchair down to the car, which was amusing.

We picked up my prescriptions, came home…I ate a little and passed out after getting to talk to Jeremy for a while. I slept for nearly twelve hours and goddamn I am glad that’s done. I want to bring Christine flowers or something, though, she was seriously great. We need more people like her in the world, especially as nurses..

Lame mirror shot, but it shows my three incisions.
The lumps under which are my staples.

Best shot I can get of the staples. Pretty grotesque.

Also Known As: Abdominal Pain, pt. 4.

Dr. Victor Stelmack’s accent easily gave him away as a New Yorker, which made me mentally chuckle–something which, at this point, I direly needed. He asked me a few more specific questions regarding my pain and such and explained to me at greater length about the condition of my appendix and its [wrongful] location in me. Apparently my intestines are really long, and so things are sorta displaced. Weird and slightly gross. I was already aware that if I had appendicitis that it would need to come out–that I would prefer it to come out then–and he said that it wasn’t NECESSARILY appendicitis, but it also couldn’t be ruled out…and that it would just be better, even if it wasn’t, to get it out of the way as a manner of future ruling-out. He was explaining things as if he expected my mother and I to contest him–not arrogantly, just..I don’t know, perhaps you’d have to have heard–which definitely wasn’t happening. Oddly, though, he handed me the release form to sign…and after that, he’d asked me what I did for a living. “Oh, I’m a student.” “Where?” “James Monroe, actually, right across the street.” I noticed a quickly concealed odd look, but didn’t comment.

Turns out someone told him that I was ninteen, not nearly seventeen. He returns apologizing and being like, “Er, yeah, I needed Mama there to sign this.”
“I was wondering why you handed it to me.”
“Nurses feeding me the wrong info. Oh well.”
“I bet it makes better sense that I’m still in high school, eh? Not for long, though.”
“Oh, yeah, school is almost out, huh? And now you get to miss a few days!”
“Well, yes. But I meant done-done. I’m graduating over the summer.”
“Oh, fantastic. You should become a surgeon.”

Apparently the surgery was due to happen pretty damn soon, which I didn’t realize. When I *did* realize that, I had another crying fit, because I still hadn’t directly gotten a hold of Jeremy and my dad wouldn’t three-way his phone from the house [I couldn't call long-distance from my room]. I got a hold of Kelsey, though–bless her for dealing with my calls through the night, waking her up despite school in the morning for her–and she managed to relay the message to him. I also asked her to tell Mrs Jones, from me, “That she may merrily shove her moronic referral..what with my getting vestigial organs removed and all.” [Kelsey has her for her first class of the day.]
I was in a hospital gown, but still had unmentionables on because I was told I might for at least a shred of modesty. Yet ANOTHER nurse came down and told me that I had to get rid of those so I could undergo surgery. That, and the navel ring, obviously. So I got the rest off and all, put it in my bag with the rest of my things. I told mom that if she wanted to go get some rest that she ought to, but she refused. They took me up in a huge elevator a couple floors and put me in a little alcove with yet another nurse to confirmed my info, allergies, etc. whom also asked me if I understood the procedure I was about to undergo. I told her yes and she asked me to explain what I could of it, if I remembered [at this point, it was around 5:45am and I had been up for nearly 24 hours and had not eaten in over twelve].
“I’m not getting a typical appendectomy due to the location of my appendix, er…I’m getting a laparoscopy–that’s what I think he said, anyway [she nods]–which is three incisions approximately [pointing] here, here–where my appendix will actually be removed–, and here to allow for different angles of sight using a camera regarding the actual surgery. Dr Stelmack said it is a brief operation, no more than a half hour, max, and record timing–for him–in twelve.” She nodded, apparently content with my answer.

A laparoscopy, however, is a procedure usually used in surgeries checking for ovarian/uterine health and is often used to check for the state of a woman’s fertility.

My anesthesiologist came in, also a nice guy, and explained the whole anesthetizing process to me and asked more medical history questions and if I’d ever had surgery or been under general anesthesia. Sooner than I thought did they hook me up to the bag with…hell, I don’t even remember what my anesthesia was. It was cold, though, in my veins…in contrast with the iodine, for example, which was very very warm, and all the other things were pretty neutral and not different, temp. wise.

I didn’t, however, go under as soon as I thought [but they didn't make me count backwards from a hundred. I was a little disappointed, I was going to fight it and make an effort to get past 90..] as I do remember being wheeled into the operation room, remember having my IV switched, having my arms moved away from my sides, and having these weird velcro things placed on each of my legs. I also remember wanting to, and trying to, ask what the leg things were for. I bet it sounded nothing like a query though, and a nurse smiled at me, stroked my hair, and I must have been out, because that’s the last I remember.

Also Known As: Abdominal Pain, pt. 3. This whole thing is just too damn long for one post.

A little after one in the morning–so a bit more than five hours after arriving at the hospital, and about two-and-a-half after last being seen [for blood drawing, etc.]–I was given a room in the ER ward of the hospital so I finally got to see an actual doctor. Two nurses came in to outfit me with an IV [never had a real IV either. needle was big and i could feel it way more than i wanted to] should I need medication or fluids. They then told me that I was STILL not able to eat or drink anything except what I was given–which I had been obeying. At that point, I had not eaten or had anything to drink since before five o’clock Thursday evening. They gave me 24oz of this juice that was really contrast dye for my upcoming CT scan that I was supposed to consume within 15min of getting…but it tasted like bad cough syrup and I just couldn’t down it that fast. The physician assigned to me came in and asked me more specific questions about my pain, and wonderful things like, “Are you sexually active?” “…yes.” “Are you/could you be pregnant?” “No.” He poked my abdomen and such and said that appendicitis and pelvic inflammatory disease needed to be ruled out before any further action was taken…the CT would take care of the first, but he ordered a pelvic exam for the second.

I managed to get the awful juice down and then my doc came back with a female nurse for the pelvic exam. Hadn’t had one of those either! So super-yay, first gynecological bullshit. Oddly enough, I wasn’t as disturbed as I always thought I’d be by it [I've heard some pretty sketchy stories from friends and family members about gyno exams and their doctor acting less than professionally] but the doc was really efficient, appropriate, and not shady. It was pretty quick and painless, which was a relief compared to what I thought would go on.

So far, everyone I had dealt with was really kind, attentive, and efficient [even despite the fact that the ER was, as an ER, kinda busy]. The male nurse I had was a riot and made me laugh a lot [made mom laugh too, which was good for her], which definitely helped because I was pretty exhausted and intermittently crying [because I couldn't get a hold of Phix]. >_>  My doctor was pretty amusing too, when it was appropriate to be. I was really happy about that, because this hospital is unfortunately notorious for having apathetic, even rude, staff who are less than competent.

Another nurse came along to cart me off for my CT scan. She was pretty cold, and even kinda rude. When she’d come along, I was drying my eyes from another spell of crying, and she was like, “WHY are you crying?” Like…wtf, you shouldn’t just ask like that, that’s mean. The CT scan was short and such…had to get the weird iodine in my IV that makes you uncomfortably warm for a few minutes. The whole thing was over in 10-15, and I was told that results would take about a half hour.

In due time, my doctor came along to explain that my appendix was inflamed, a major sign of appendicitis. He also told me that it wasn’t located properly–roughly, it is supposed to be in your lower right side, a little above the hips. Mine, however, was behind my uterus and ovaries, a little left of the center of my abdomen. He told me that the head surgeon on the clock was going to come talk to me about it at length after he was notified.

Needless to say, I was visibly shaken. I turned off the light in my room to try to rest–not sleep, necessarily. The fluorescent bulbs right overhead my face weren’t making me feel too great.