This year, I’ve been sick an unusually high number of times. It started with a spring time flu, just a week after I thought to myself,
“Look at you, making it through winter without the flu. You, my friend, are a rockstar!”
Umm…right.
About a month after recovering from the flu, I woke up in Chicago with a raging sore throat and fever. I had interviewed at a medical school the day before and with 50 new confirmed cases of swine flu in the city that day, I wasn’t about to not come home. I understood the public health ramifications of flying perfectly, but if I was going to be quarantined, I was determined to be quarantined in my own apartment in DC. I am selfish like that.
I felt awful, but refused to even talk to Rich about it on the phone, lest some pesky TSA person hear me and quarantine me in Chicago. When Rich picked me up at the airport later that night, I was shaking from the fever.
The next day, I called out of work and tried to get an appointment with my primary care physician, since there was a possibility I might have swine flu. I couldn’t get in that day, so Rich left work early and took me to an urgent care facility.
I whispered the words, “swine flu,” to the receptionist and I was promptly handed a blue face mask and asked to put it on in the waiting room. Rich stifled a smirk, as I reminded him that since he had also been exposed to swine flu, thanks to me, it was only a matter of time before he got one too. IT WAS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME!
After a lecture on public health scares from a very annoyed nurse, I was told that my flu culture was negative, as was my strep throat culture. Still, the doctor insisted that I had the tell-tale signs of strep and prescribed Ceftin. Five days later, I was still running a fever. I still couldn’t get out of bed, go to work, or even get myself something to eat.
Eventually, I went back to work (at the hospital) and the nurses told me not to worry, that strep is a beast and it takes forever, so just sit tight and stop worrying about dying. I followed instructions, but mentioned the whole week-long fever thing to my boss on my next shift.
“What?,” she said. “There’s no way you should have been running a fever that long after you started antibiotics. They should have put you on something stronger after a few days.”
Hmm…that’s what I was thinking. Which is precisely why I went back to the urgent care facility when I wasn’t getting better. They said that if the antibiotics hadn’t gotten the strep, it would have been clearing up on its own at that point. My strep test was still negative and they didn’t give me a stronger antibiotic.
So, here we go again, internet. It’s been four days of low grade fever, sore throat, and head congestion. Although I didn’t have any drainage, I started taking a decongestant to stave off a possible sinus infection. I drank lots of fluids, took Tylenol prudently and four days later, I actually feel worse.
I finally caved and made an appointment with my primary care physician, since I really don’t know what to do for myself. How do you know when it’s just a virus? Or, when it’s a bacteria that needs antibiotics? I try to use fever as my gauge of when to seek a doctor’s intervention, but if I just have a virus, I’ve wasted a very expensive co-payment for nothing. My (Canadian) brother-in-law would say that this is why the U.S. needs Canadian healthcare. Personally, I prefer to go $300K in debt and become a doctor myself. Too bad it will still be four years before I am able to help myself or others. Ugh.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thankfully, No One's Gonna Get a Beat Down (This Time)
I was still in bed when I thought I heard a faint knock on the front door.
Even though my mother told me that the post office said they would deliver the letter before noon, I know with certainty that the mail does not get delivered to my complex until 1:45 p.m. I decided not to get up until I heard a definite knock again.
When it came a few seconds later, I scrambled into action, grasping for my glasses on the nightstand and flying t-shirt clad toward the front door. I flung it open with enough force that the mailman turned from the staircase he was descending and smiled. He handed me a card to sign and then, the coveted Express Mail package.
At that very moment, the clouds parted and choruses of Glory Hallelujah! started blaring in my ears.
OK fine, not really. But, it was nice that the monkeys in Florida finally decided to finish my letter on Wednesday so that my mother could overnight it to me. How gracious of them, considering I've only had to harass them every day for the past week and PAY THEM IN ADVANCE to do this. Amazingly, the law firm seemed to get the facts straight and almost sounded compassionate in their letter. It's nice that I only had to bold-face and highlight the sixth email to get that result.
I was *this close* to blasting them with an outlandishly disparing review online when they decided to spring into action. (I had serious doubts that they would get the letter right and was bracing myself to make them rewrite it.) Lucky for them, they escaped the wrath of my verbal tirade. THIS TIME.
Even though my mother told me that the post office said they would deliver the letter before noon, I know with certainty that the mail does not get delivered to my complex until 1:45 p.m. I decided not to get up until I heard a definite knock again.
When it came a few seconds later, I scrambled into action, grasping for my glasses on the nightstand and flying t-shirt clad toward the front door. I flung it open with enough force that the mailman turned from the staircase he was descending and smiled. He handed me a card to sign and then, the coveted Express Mail package.
At that very moment, the clouds parted and choruses of Glory Hallelujah! started blaring in my ears.
OK fine, not really. But, it was nice that the monkeys in Florida finally decided to finish my letter on Wednesday so that my mother could overnight it to me. How gracious of them, considering I've only had to harass them every day for the past week and PAY THEM IN ADVANCE to do this. Amazingly, the law firm seemed to get the facts straight and almost sounded compassionate in their letter. It's nice that I only had to bold-face and highlight the sixth email to get that result.
I was *this close* to blasting them with an outlandishly disparing review online when they decided to spring into action. (I had serious doubts that they would get the letter right and was bracing myself to make them rewrite it.) Lucky for them, they escaped the wrath of my verbal tirade. THIS TIME.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Too Angry to Cry
When the legal assistant to my mother’s former divorce attorney failed to return my three calls from yesterday…or email with cover letter last night….I decided to wait on hold today until I could speak to her.
“Did you read my email?,” I asked rather sharply.
“Yes, but I don’t understand why your school needs a letter or why we have to write the letter since all of this information is public record,” she responded.
Not appreciating her attitude or refusal to return my calls, I stood firm on my point.
“I find it annoying as well that I have to provide this information, but the school is not requesting public records. I need a letter from you.”
After being accepted to medical school, it was only a matter of time before I had to figure out how to pay the $70,200 cost of attendance for the upcoming year. I had already filled out my FAFSA and institutional paperwork, but considering my past experiences, I was not surprised when my financial aid decision was processed: The school would be unable to award any institutional funds (scholarships or grants) because I couldn’t provide my father’s contact or financial information.
From the moment I received that letter last month, I knew this was going to be a headache.
My first instinct was that we were having a Harvard moment all over again. In 2000, after being accepted to Harvard, I ultimately could not attend because my idiotic father refused to return the paperwork or phone calls of my financial aid officer. He even refused to simply sign a waiver saying that he would not be paying for my college education. My financial aid officer, having never encountered such an oppositional parent, he told me, had the unfortunate task of informing me that without my father’s cooperation, Harvard could not award me a financial aid package. Without money, of course, I could not attend. (Harvard has since changed their policy on these situations.) I was only 17 and I felt ill-equipped to make a decision about whether to take over $100,000 in loans or sue my father for the college savings that he illegally took when I was 13. On the advice of my mother and guidance counselor, I did neither. I accepted a full scholarship from a very prestigious research institution in Baltimore and spent the next four years nursing regret about Harvard.
Almost ten years after Harvard, when I’ve been financially independent for years, this is happening again for medical school.
I’ve developed my writing skills well enough to usually communicate rather overtly the way that I feel. As I sat down to write a detailed four page letter (part of the appeal process at my medical school), it was obvious that the difficulty this time would lie in concealing what I felt. I was so hurt and angry that it took a few tries to compose an unemotional, factual account about my father’s abandonment, decision to withdraw all money from my sister’s and my college and savings funds, and then, to disappear with that money overseas where it could not be traced.
Knowing how stressful it was for me, Rich even suggested (in jest) that I submit a single sheet of paper with the words, “HE'S DEAD TO ME,” as my appeal.
Having to compose this appeal has been hard on everyone, though. My mother had to dig up court documents in Florida, reliving the pain and lies from her divorce. She also had to write a letter and ask one of her close friends to do the same as well. My sister also had to write a letter explaining her relationship with my father, and her observations about his relationship with me. Then, of course, I spent a few days on my own four page narrative trying to communicate the poignancy of what happened, without being hostile.
The final element of the appeal is a letter that is needed from my mother’s former divorce attorney—a woman who was not only unhelpful, but whose legal staff is rude and dismissive.
They already told my mother two weeks ago that she should just go to public records, so that’s what she did. Unfortunately, the Harvard experience still has emotional repercussions for me and I’m not too keen on people being unhelpful and oppositional. I’ve been calling multiple times a day and not taking “no” for an answer.
Still, it’s incredibly maddening to have to keep harassing a legal firm multiple times a day—checking up on them like you would a child to make sure that he is doing his homework. And, when it’s all said and done, I have to pay these miserable people for writing a letter that I could have drafted faster myself.
I’m so angry that I feel choked up and like my jaw is locked simultaneously. I spent yesterday evening stress eating and watching trash TV because by 6 p.m., I felt like I couldn’t handle this anymore. Then, last night, I was ripped from sleep every 1-2 hours with nightmares about various, unrealistic situations.
When (non-divorced) people have the audacity to make accusations about children whose parents have divorced like, “those children are going to have father issues,” I want to say, “Umm…you think?” It’s been thirteen years and I am still rifling through the debris of a relationship that I wasn’t even part of. Even for a writer whose words can elicit tears or rage, I’m having trouble putting down on paper how frustrating this situation has been. Even after getting through a college experience I hated, supporting myself financially, doing a post-baccalaureate program, and then getting into medical school, my father’s ghostly actions from my teens are still haunting me. I've spent years in therapy, in church, and in tears trying to heal from this situation. What happens when tears no longer suffice?
Two days ago, when I was told my pastor the story about getting into medical school--how I got into my first choice on the last day I had to choose between two others, how we wouldn't have to move cross country anymore, and Rich could keep his job--he said, "If you ever had any doubts before, you should know that God is in control of your life." I know that God is in control of this situation and I have wondered if this deja vu experience is something that I need for my own faith experience to know that I can trust Him completely.
"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed....Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." -2 Corinthians 4:8-9, 16-18
“Did you read my email?,” I asked rather sharply.
“Yes, but I don’t understand why your school needs a letter or why we have to write the letter since all of this information is public record,” she responded.
Not appreciating her attitude or refusal to return my calls, I stood firm on my point.
“I find it annoying as well that I have to provide this information, but the school is not requesting public records. I need a letter from you.”
After being accepted to medical school, it was only a matter of time before I had to figure out how to pay the $70,200 cost of attendance for the upcoming year. I had already filled out my FAFSA and institutional paperwork, but considering my past experiences, I was not surprised when my financial aid decision was processed: The school would be unable to award any institutional funds (scholarships or grants) because I couldn’t provide my father’s contact or financial information.
From the moment I received that letter last month, I knew this was going to be a headache.
My first instinct was that we were having a Harvard moment all over again. In 2000, after being accepted to Harvard, I ultimately could not attend because my idiotic father refused to return the paperwork or phone calls of my financial aid officer. He even refused to simply sign a waiver saying that he would not be paying for my college education. My financial aid officer, having never encountered such an oppositional parent, he told me, had the unfortunate task of informing me that without my father’s cooperation, Harvard could not award me a financial aid package. Without money, of course, I could not attend. (Harvard has since changed their policy on these situations.) I was only 17 and I felt ill-equipped to make a decision about whether to take over $100,000 in loans or sue my father for the college savings that he illegally took when I was 13. On the advice of my mother and guidance counselor, I did neither. I accepted a full scholarship from a very prestigious research institution in Baltimore and spent the next four years nursing regret about Harvard.
Almost ten years after Harvard, when I’ve been financially independent for years, this is happening again for medical school.
I’ve developed my writing skills well enough to usually communicate rather overtly the way that I feel. As I sat down to write a detailed four page letter (part of the appeal process at my medical school), it was obvious that the difficulty this time would lie in concealing what I felt. I was so hurt and angry that it took a few tries to compose an unemotional, factual account about my father’s abandonment, decision to withdraw all money from my sister’s and my college and savings funds, and then, to disappear with that money overseas where it could not be traced.
Knowing how stressful it was for me, Rich even suggested (in jest) that I submit a single sheet of paper with the words, “HE'S DEAD TO ME,” as my appeal.
Having to compose this appeal has been hard on everyone, though. My mother had to dig up court documents in Florida, reliving the pain and lies from her divorce. She also had to write a letter and ask one of her close friends to do the same as well. My sister also had to write a letter explaining her relationship with my father, and her observations about his relationship with me. Then, of course, I spent a few days on my own four page narrative trying to communicate the poignancy of what happened, without being hostile.
The final element of the appeal is a letter that is needed from my mother’s former divorce attorney—a woman who was not only unhelpful, but whose legal staff is rude and dismissive.
They already told my mother two weeks ago that she should just go to public records, so that’s what she did. Unfortunately, the Harvard experience still has emotional repercussions for me and I’m not too keen on people being unhelpful and oppositional. I’ve been calling multiple times a day and not taking “no” for an answer.
Still, it’s incredibly maddening to have to keep harassing a legal firm multiple times a day—checking up on them like you would a child to make sure that he is doing his homework. And, when it’s all said and done, I have to pay these miserable people for writing a letter that I could have drafted faster myself.
I’m so angry that I feel choked up and like my jaw is locked simultaneously. I spent yesterday evening stress eating and watching trash TV because by 6 p.m., I felt like I couldn’t handle this anymore. Then, last night, I was ripped from sleep every 1-2 hours with nightmares about various, unrealistic situations.
When (non-divorced) people have the audacity to make accusations about children whose parents have divorced like, “those children are going to have father issues,” I want to say, “Umm…you think?” It’s been thirteen years and I am still rifling through the debris of a relationship that I wasn’t even part of. Even for a writer whose words can elicit tears or rage, I’m having trouble putting down on paper how frustrating this situation has been. Even after getting through a college experience I hated, supporting myself financially, doing a post-baccalaureate program, and then getting into medical school, my father’s ghostly actions from my teens are still haunting me. I've spent years in therapy, in church, and in tears trying to heal from this situation. What happens when tears no longer suffice?
Two days ago, when I was told my pastor the story about getting into medical school--how I got into my first choice on the last day I had to choose between two others, how we wouldn't have to move cross country anymore, and Rich could keep his job--he said, "If you ever had any doubts before, you should know that God is in control of your life." I know that God is in control of this situation and I have wondered if this deja vu experience is something that I need for my own faith experience to know that I can trust Him completely.
"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed....Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." -2 Corinthians 4:8-9, 16-18
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Life List #19: Learn to Scuba Dive
I know he was trying to be informative, but Rich’s stories from his fourteen years of diving had left me terrified. The night before my first dive, I lied wide awake, looking up at the mosquito net enveloping my bed in the bedroom where my mother grew up.
“Please, please let everyone come back from this dive safely,” I prayed.
The next morning, I was slightly relieved to find out that I’d be the only beginner on the dive. Rich, his sister, his cousin, and the Dive St. Vincent instructor—all certified divers—would be my only companions.
“There is so much less risk of death," I told myself, "when there are four certified divers to one beginner.”
I'm optimistic like that.
All week long, I had been asking Rich, “So if I follow instructions, I’ll be fine, right?”
I’d wait in anticipation for him to parrot the words back at me, “Yes, you’ll be fine. Just remember to breathe. And equalize. And don’t ascend too rapidly.”
I had heard one too many stories about someone getting the bends (the reason my uncle, a director of tourism in St. Vincent, refused to learn how to dive), or having collapsed lungs (one time when Rich witnessed someone foolishly hold their breath while ascending), or being unable to equalize (which resulted in Rich sitting out more than one dive in his life).
There were also so many rules to remember:
Exhale through your nose to prevent mask squeeze.
If you lose your regulator, do a sweep with your right hand or hold your tank with your left hand and reach over your right shoulder to retrieve it.
If you get water in your regulator, exhale into it before breathing or use the purge valve.
If you get water in your mask, exhale through your nose while holding your mask in place at the top.(I had to do this over and over again in training because I kept failing!)
Equalize pressure in your ears by pinching through your nose and blowing or swallow hard.
Don’t resurface faster than your smallest set of bubbles.
Keep breathing, no matter how panicked you get.
When explaining that one, my resort course instructor had actually said, “If you see a huge shark coming toward you, I’d rather have my leg eaten than get the bends, so stay where you are and keep breathing.” The nearest recompression chamber is a plane ride away in Barbados, so if you do get the bends in St. Vincent, you’re in big trouble. Comforting.
Don’t get me wrong. I was psyched and happily anxious to go on my first dive, especially in the pristine waters of St. Vincent, but I was also scared forgetting something important and ending up immobilized with the bends or bursting blood vessels in my eyes from mask squeeze or somehow being unable to breathe under water. I made Rich promise me that if I panicked, he would hold me underwater so I wouldn’t ascend too rapidly and hurt myself.
Oh, what useless fears.
Scuba diving was like jumping into a scene from the Little Mermaid or Finding Nemo. The water was as still as glass on the day of our dive which made visibility underwater amazing. The instructor who went out on our dive was also Rich’s long time friend, DJ, not my resort course instructor. DJ was more patient than my resort course instructor and I felt more at ease. Rich also held my hand the entire time underwater as DJ scrawled the names of fish, worms, corals, and crustaceans on a tablet for me to see. I could hear “underwater (gurgling) sounds” reminiscent of what you hear on relaxation CDs and much to my surprise, I was so calm that more than once, both Rich and DJ demanded, via the tablet, that I, “Exhale!,” thinking that I wasn’t breathing.
In reality, my breathing was so relaxed (and I’m relatively small) that my exhalations were barely perceptible. After a 45 minute dive at 50 feet, I only used 700 psi of air (excellent for underwater breathing)! I also had no problems equalizing (I wisely took a Claritin-D the morning of my dive, per the advice of Rich) and had no issues with mask squeeze or anything else.
Of course, because I’m a dork, my first words upon resurfacing were, “That was so cool! We need to make an underwater sign for ‘supercool!,’ because everything was so cool!" Rich, secretly loving my nerdy tendencies, obliged.
So, on our next dive in December, that strange tick-like motion we’re doing with our right arms under the crystal clear water isn't related to oxygen deprivation or some other trouble. It’s just me needing to verbalize my excitement underwater.
June 28, 2009- The other beginners and I during our resort course training in the Dive St. Vincent shop.
June 28, 2009- All suited up to learn scuba basics at Young Island, St. Vincent. (Notice how neither my arms nor legs are protected...in JELLY FISH INFESTED waters. Awesome. Also, my tank was too heavy to life and Rich had to carry it for me. WEAK.)
“Please, please let everyone come back from this dive safely,” I prayed.
The next morning, I was slightly relieved to find out that I’d be the only beginner on the dive. Rich, his sister, his cousin, and the Dive St. Vincent instructor—all certified divers—would be my only companions.
“There is so much less risk of death," I told myself, "when there are four certified divers to one beginner.”
I'm optimistic like that.
All week long, I had been asking Rich, “So if I follow instructions, I’ll be fine, right?”
I’d wait in anticipation for him to parrot the words back at me, “Yes, you’ll be fine. Just remember to breathe. And equalize. And don’t ascend too rapidly.”
I had heard one too many stories about someone getting the bends (the reason my uncle, a director of tourism in St. Vincent, refused to learn how to dive), or having collapsed lungs (one time when Rich witnessed someone foolishly hold their breath while ascending), or being unable to equalize (which resulted in Rich sitting out more than one dive in his life).
There were also so many rules to remember:
Exhale through your nose to prevent mask squeeze.
If you lose your regulator, do a sweep with your right hand or hold your tank with your left hand and reach over your right shoulder to retrieve it.
If you get water in your regulator, exhale into it before breathing or use the purge valve.
If you get water in your mask, exhale through your nose while holding your mask in place at the top.(I had to do this over and over again in training because I kept failing!)
Equalize pressure in your ears by pinching through your nose and blowing or swallow hard.
Don’t resurface faster than your smallest set of bubbles.
Keep breathing, no matter how panicked you get.
When explaining that one, my resort course instructor had actually said, “If you see a huge shark coming toward you, I’d rather have my leg eaten than get the bends, so stay where you are and keep breathing.” The nearest recompression chamber is a plane ride away in Barbados, so if you do get the bends in St. Vincent, you’re in big trouble. Comforting.
Don’t get me wrong. I was psyched and happily anxious to go on my first dive, especially in the pristine waters of St. Vincent, but I was also scared forgetting something important and ending up immobilized with the bends or bursting blood vessels in my eyes from mask squeeze or somehow being unable to breathe under water. I made Rich promise me that if I panicked, he would hold me underwater so I wouldn’t ascend too rapidly and hurt myself.
Oh, what useless fears.
Scuba diving was like jumping into a scene from the Little Mermaid or Finding Nemo. The water was as still as glass on the day of our dive which made visibility underwater amazing. The instructor who went out on our dive was also Rich’s long time friend, DJ, not my resort course instructor. DJ was more patient than my resort course instructor and I felt more at ease. Rich also held my hand the entire time underwater as DJ scrawled the names of fish, worms, corals, and crustaceans on a tablet for me to see. I could hear “underwater (gurgling) sounds” reminiscent of what you hear on relaxation CDs and much to my surprise, I was so calm that more than once, both Rich and DJ demanded, via the tablet, that I, “Exhale!,” thinking that I wasn’t breathing.
In reality, my breathing was so relaxed (and I’m relatively small) that my exhalations were barely perceptible. After a 45 minute dive at 50 feet, I only used 700 psi of air (excellent for underwater breathing)! I also had no problems equalizing (I wisely took a Claritin-D the morning of my dive, per the advice of Rich) and had no issues with mask squeeze or anything else.
Of course, because I’m a dork, my first words upon resurfacing were, “That was so cool! We need to make an underwater sign for ‘supercool!,’ because everything was so cool!" Rich, secretly loving my nerdy tendencies, obliged.
So, on our next dive in December, that strange tick-like motion we’re doing with our right arms under the crystal clear water isn't related to oxygen deprivation or some other trouble. It’s just me needing to verbalize my excitement underwater.
June 28, 2009- The other beginners and I during our resort course training in the Dive St. Vincent shop.
June 28, 2009- All suited up to learn scuba basics at Young Island, St. Vincent. (Notice how neither my arms nor legs are protected...in JELLY FISH INFESTED waters. Awesome. Also, my tank was too heavy to life and Rich had to carry it for me. WEAK.)
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