DAR #27: Yesterday I had an MRI to take pictures of my brain so that the doctors can tell whether or not the radiation worked and they can tell me and Ann. We’ll learn the results on Tuesday at 5 pm PST. If you’ve never had an MRI, this is how it works:
I go in to the waiting room (the same waiting room as my radiation: the Cheers receptionists looked befuddled.) A nurse from another room comes in to get me and to escort me back to the MRI machine. I lie on a palette much like the one for radiation. I wear several shirts and a sweatshirt, sweatpants, wool socks and my faux-UGGs because I know it will be cold. Nothing with metal, so I leave my suit of armor at home.
The nurse covers me with a warm blanket to make me feel all cozy and then tries to put a line in my vein for the contrast. This is not that big a deal except that my veins are very small (dainty, I like to think) and they don’t like to be poked. Last time I was here it took this same nurse two arms and seven pokes to get the line in. My arm was bruised like a banana for weeks. This time goes much better: only three pokes and one arm and a hand. No bruise.
The nurse puts earplugs in my ears and lowers a cage much like a football mask over my face. She tells tells me not to move. The palette slips into a large white machine that feels much like a wind tunnel. The nurse tells me how long each scan will take (18 seconds…4 minutes and 20 seconds…) and the process begins. It’s something like lying in a small tunnel where drummers, truckers, and jackhammerists have decided to start a percussion band. Some people find this very hard to take. I do not. Once, I fell asleep.
After a half an hour or so, the nurse pushes a button that pulls me on my palette back out. She tells me not to move, and she puts the contrast in my arm. I don’t feel much: just a cold sensation and the slight taste of metal in my mouth. I go back in the tube for another three scans and then I’m done.
The nurse bandages my hand as if I’ve been in an accident involving sharp blades and I return on my own to the waiting room, where Ann smiles and says that she has just finished grading this set of papers. We go home and, yes, I take a nap.
Have a good weekend and pray or cross your fingers or hold your breath or do whatever you do for Tuesday. Doing all three--Mary
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
DAR #26: Pets are People Too
DAR #26: Sister Jenn mentioned that among my traumas were the deaths of Pepper, Sparky and Tripper, our dogs.
Pepper was our first dog, and I thought of him as my dog. He was a Spidoodle, which means that somehow a Spitz and a Poodle cojoined. He was white and mostly black (therefore "Pepper"), about the height of a large poodle but more filled out. Like me, his bangs always hung in his eyes. That may be why he got hit by that car.
Our second dog, Sparky, was a golden cocker spaniel and struggled with many of the issues brought on by too much in-breeding. He was a cheerful dog with a tuft of white-blond hair at the top of his head. If, while he was napping in the sun, I was standing ten yards to his left and called his name, he would bounce eagerly up, run to the right, and stop suddenly as if to say, "Hey, where are you?" Sister Jenn and I loved to watch him howl, so sometimes we would sit in the kitchen and howl. He would wag his tail as if to say, "What's happening here? I want to join the fun," and then he would howl. I loved the way he held back his head and his whole body trembled. It was if he forgot he was a dog in the kitchen who peed on newspaper and returned to his wolf roots. Mom paper-trained the poor dog so throughly that when he was outside he would run to the kitchen door, scratch and whimper. When we opened the door, he would race in to try to hit the paper, often falling over his own feet. He pretty much never made it to the paper and would hang his head in shame.
Our third dog was another cocker spaniel, Tripper, so named because as a puppy he would hump our legs so much that we would trip. He was a smart dog. When we played touch football, he knew the rules, so when he ran out of bounds with the ball, he knew to drop it.. When he was older, I was doing my homework when Sister Jenn and Brother Matt ran into my room in something of a panic. "Tripper and Taffy (our neighbors cocker spaniel) are stuck and we can't get them separated! We've tried cheese (our cocker loved cheese and hotdogs), but they don't move." I went outside, laughed a superior older sister laugh, and told them to leave the dogs alone. That fall, Taffy had five very cute cocker spaniel puppies. More in-breeding.
As adults, both Sister Jenn and Brother Matt have adopted dogs. Brother Matt and his at-the-time wife-to-be, Kristin, adopted Stella before wedlock. Matt and Kristin were visiting us before they went to pick up Stella and they had a phenomenally intense discussion about whether one or both of them would pick her up. As the discussion went on, Ann observed, "They're defininitely getting married." Sadly, Stella died just after Christmas this year. Matt cooked her a steak on her last night. She had a good life.
Sister Jenn's dogs are a more comic pair. Their golden retriever, Ranger, is a beautiful dog about the size of a horse who is afraid of their doggie door. Ranger prefers to stand on his hind legs and open the latch like any other self-respecting member of the family. Rosie, their bear-sized Burmese Mountain Dog, is not so sophisticated. She's not opposed to the doggie door and is just glad for the chance to sleep in the warmer mudroom (even if Ranger does get to sleep in the living room.) This Christmas, when Ann and I visited, we felt for Rosie, so we tromped through the snow to a bench in the front yard so that I could sit and talk with her without fear of being knocked over. Ann and I sat on the bench and talked with Rosie at our feet. She got so excited that she jumped up on the bench herself and slid behind Ann, knocking Ann to the ground.
Ann used to have asthsma (have her tell you about how the Buyteko method cured her). Animals, and especially cats and horses, triggered her asthma, sending her to the front of the line in the emergency room, so we've never gotten animals. Neighborhood cats generally adopt us in the summer, so we often still get the fun of pets without litter boxes and vet fees. Our favorite is our neighbor's cat Hector, an orange tabby so named, I assume, because he loves to hunt. As a kitten, he would crouch in his hunting position for hours, watching the birds in the lot across the street. He looked a lot like the lions we watched hunting zebras when we were in the Serengeti years later. The problem was that while there are few muscle cars in the Serengeti, there are lots of teenage boys racing their muscle cars here and Hector would hunt from the middle of the street. While we worked in the yard, Ann spent most of her time retrieving Hector from the road and lecturing him about the dangers of city life. The next summer, Hector took to stalking the birds at our birdfeeder. The feeder hung from an eave, and Hector would sit in the window well beneath them, watching for hours. The birds knew they were safe, and so was Hector. A classic win-win.
Our NIMBYs (Nighbors in my back yard), have two beautiful dogs named Sadie and Violet and had three chickens, All the Single Ladies, until Big Chicken died recently. When the chickens were chicks, they slept nights in the recycling bin while Andrew, an architect, built them a luxury hotel. They spent days pecking about their yard and then in the late afternoon Sayre and their natural herding dog Violet would herd them into their hotel so that the raccoons wouldn't get them at night. Sayre had to fire Violet from this responsibility when Violet started drooling at the sight of the chickens. Lately, sadly, the chickens are not well. All three started molting, Big Chicken died, and the other two are now eating their own eggs. In an attempt at chicken music therapy, I have sent them Louis Jordan's album with "Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens" and "Barnyard Dance" to cheer them up, but it's not looking good for these chickens.
Love to you and your loved ones (your pets). Mary
Pepper was our first dog, and I thought of him as my dog. He was a Spidoodle, which means that somehow a Spitz and a Poodle cojoined. He was white and mostly black (therefore "Pepper"), about the height of a large poodle but more filled out. Like me, his bangs always hung in his eyes. That may be why he got hit by that car.
Our second dog, Sparky, was a golden cocker spaniel and struggled with many of the issues brought on by too much in-breeding. He was a cheerful dog with a tuft of white-blond hair at the top of his head. If, while he was napping in the sun, I was standing ten yards to his left and called his name, he would bounce eagerly up, run to the right, and stop suddenly as if to say, "Hey, where are you?" Sister Jenn and I loved to watch him howl, so sometimes we would sit in the kitchen and howl. He would wag his tail as if to say, "What's happening here? I want to join the fun," and then he would howl. I loved the way he held back his head and his whole body trembled. It was if he forgot he was a dog in the kitchen who peed on newspaper and returned to his wolf roots. Mom paper-trained the poor dog so throughly that when he was outside he would run to the kitchen door, scratch and whimper. When we opened the door, he would race in to try to hit the paper, often falling over his own feet. He pretty much never made it to the paper and would hang his head in shame.
Our third dog was another cocker spaniel, Tripper, so named because as a puppy he would hump our legs so much that we would trip. He was a smart dog. When we played touch football, he knew the rules, so when he ran out of bounds with the ball, he knew to drop it.. When he was older, I was doing my homework when Sister Jenn and Brother Matt ran into my room in something of a panic. "Tripper and Taffy (our neighbors cocker spaniel) are stuck and we can't get them separated! We've tried cheese (our cocker loved cheese and hotdogs), but they don't move." I went outside, laughed a superior older sister laugh, and told them to leave the dogs alone. That fall, Taffy had five very cute cocker spaniel puppies. More in-breeding.
As adults, both Sister Jenn and Brother Matt have adopted dogs. Brother Matt and his at-the-time wife-to-be, Kristin, adopted Stella before wedlock. Matt and Kristin were visiting us before they went to pick up Stella and they had a phenomenally intense discussion about whether one or both of them would pick her up. As the discussion went on, Ann observed, "They're defininitely getting married." Sadly, Stella died just after Christmas this year. Matt cooked her a steak on her last night. She had a good life.
Sister Jenn's dogs are a more comic pair. Their golden retriever, Ranger, is a beautiful dog about the size of a horse who is afraid of their doggie door. Ranger prefers to stand on his hind legs and open the latch like any other self-respecting member of the family. Rosie, their bear-sized Burmese Mountain Dog, is not so sophisticated. She's not opposed to the doggie door and is just glad for the chance to sleep in the warmer mudroom (even if Ranger does get to sleep in the living room.) This Christmas, when Ann and I visited, we felt for Rosie, so we tromped through the snow to a bench in the front yard so that I could sit and talk with her without fear of being knocked over. Ann and I sat on the bench and talked with Rosie at our feet. She got so excited that she jumped up on the bench herself and slid behind Ann, knocking Ann to the ground.
Ann used to have asthsma (have her tell you about how the Buyteko method cured her). Animals, and especially cats and horses, triggered her asthma, sending her to the front of the line in the emergency room, so we've never gotten animals. Neighborhood cats generally adopt us in the summer, so we often still get the fun of pets without litter boxes and vet fees. Our favorite is our neighbor's cat Hector, an orange tabby so named, I assume, because he loves to hunt. As a kitten, he would crouch in his hunting position for hours, watching the birds in the lot across the street. He looked a lot like the lions we watched hunting zebras when we were in the Serengeti years later. The problem was that while there are few muscle cars in the Serengeti, there are lots of teenage boys racing their muscle cars here and Hector would hunt from the middle of the street. While we worked in the yard, Ann spent most of her time retrieving Hector from the road and lecturing him about the dangers of city life. The next summer, Hector took to stalking the birds at our birdfeeder. The feeder hung from an eave, and Hector would sit in the window well beneath them, watching for hours. The birds knew they were safe, and so was Hector. A classic win-win.
Our NIMBYs (Nighbors in my back yard), have two beautiful dogs named Sadie and Violet and had three chickens, All the Single Ladies, until Big Chicken died recently. When the chickens were chicks, they slept nights in the recycling bin while Andrew, an architect, built them a luxury hotel. They spent days pecking about their yard and then in the late afternoon Sayre and their natural herding dog Violet would herd them into their hotel so that the raccoons wouldn't get them at night. Sayre had to fire Violet from this responsibility when Violet started drooling at the sight of the chickens. Lately, sadly, the chickens are not well. All three started molting, Big Chicken died, and the other two are now eating their own eggs. In an attempt at chicken music therapy, I have sent them Louis Jordan's album with "Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens" and "Barnyard Dance" to cheer them up, but it's not looking good for these chickens.
Love to you and your loved ones (your pets). Mary
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
DAR #25 Aarrrrhh
DAR #25: About a decade ago at a teachers’ lunch table, a proper Language Arts teacher for whom I have a lot of respect said, “I believe that the only people who curse are those without the vocabulary to express themselves more eloquently.” I told her that I used to think that, “but now I think that’s bullsh$t.” I actually think we’re often most creative with language when we curse, perhaps especially when we try to keep it G-rated.
"The Lord called the donkey a fool." My grandmother M. used to say this in response to something someone said or did that she thought was foolish. We still wonder what it means. I think it was her Southern Baptist lady way of calling someone an ass.
When my friend Declan’s first child was just beginning to babble, Declan was driving him around in the car. Another driver swerved and Declan exclaimed, “Oh, sh$t!” His son echoed, “Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t…” and Declan, not wanting to upset his wife, had to drive to the end of the gas tank to get the child to repeat a different sound. Quality father-son bonding, I’m sure. I hope Declan’s told his wife about that.
One of my favorite expressions from teenagers that means, “Darn!” the last few years has been, “Aw snap” or “Snaps!” When I was working with students who struggled in reading, one in particular would say, “Snaps!” every time he got frustrated. I didn’t want him to get frustrated, but I did love that.
A previous student, more suburban, says, “Gosh!” When she was in college, I asked her what career she was considering, “Gosh, Miss Mary, there are so many things in the world I could work on. I just have to choose one I guess.” I loved her use of “Gosh” and her enthusiasm—especially since she’s gone into teaching secondary Language Arts.
My Uncle Tommy T. says, “Well, golly.” Golly has five syllables. Four are on the “gol” part. That “o” just keeps going. It's an expression of delight. In another version of that, Ann last night said, “Golly Pete.” I can’t remember what it was about. Must have been serious to elicit such a dramatic response, though. Ann's version, in conract to Uncle Tommy T's, is one of frustration.
Growing up, I knew when Mom had really had it: “Fiddlesticks!” she’d gasp. This was Mom's f-bomb. Lately I’ve been wondering, what exactly are fiddlesticks?
Back in the day before brain surgery (BITD BBS), I would say, “Dadgum” or “Blast.” When I started wearing an eye patch and small children mistook me for a pirate, I started saying “Arrhhh.” Very satisfying.
The Lord called the donkey a fool. Mary
"The Lord called the donkey a fool." My grandmother M. used to say this in response to something someone said or did that she thought was foolish. We still wonder what it means. I think it was her Southern Baptist lady way of calling someone an ass.
When my friend Declan’s first child was just beginning to babble, Declan was driving him around in the car. Another driver swerved and Declan exclaimed, “Oh, sh$t!” His son echoed, “Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t…” and Declan, not wanting to upset his wife, had to drive to the end of the gas tank to get the child to repeat a different sound. Quality father-son bonding, I’m sure. I hope Declan’s told his wife about that.
One of my favorite expressions from teenagers that means, “Darn!” the last few years has been, “Aw snap” or “Snaps!” When I was working with students who struggled in reading, one in particular would say, “Snaps!” every time he got frustrated. I didn’t want him to get frustrated, but I did love that.
A previous student, more suburban, says, “Gosh!” When she was in college, I asked her what career she was considering, “Gosh, Miss Mary, there are so many things in the world I could work on. I just have to choose one I guess.” I loved her use of “Gosh” and her enthusiasm—especially since she’s gone into teaching secondary Language Arts.
My Uncle Tommy T. says, “Well, golly.” Golly has five syllables. Four are on the “gol” part. That “o” just keeps going. It's an expression of delight. In another version of that, Ann last night said, “Golly Pete.” I can’t remember what it was about. Must have been serious to elicit such a dramatic response, though. Ann's version, in conract to Uncle Tommy T's, is one of frustration.
Growing up, I knew when Mom had really had it: “Fiddlesticks!” she’d gasp. This was Mom's f-bomb. Lately I’ve been wondering, what exactly are fiddlesticks?
Back in the day before brain surgery (BITD BBS), I would say, “Dadgum” or “Blast.” When I started wearing an eye patch and small children mistook me for a pirate, I started saying “Arrhhh.” Very satisfying.
The Lord called the donkey a fool. Mary
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
DAR #24: Call me...
DAR #24: Call me Mary. Or Miss Mary. Or Ms. E., Sister Mary, Em. Don't call me Merv or Casper (junior high nicknames), Marybell (only my Dad can call me that), Sweet Mary (that's Ann), or Goldie (Alex seems to think that, like Goldilocks, I can be a bit particular about the temperature or music volume.) I am thinking about nicknames, how some are shorter than the given name and some are longer, and why we give them.
Several friends, like me, have one letter names: e, g, gangsta j and sistah j, eL, em (that's me), and pea (not pee). This makes sense because in this world of TLAs (Three Letter Acronyms) and FLAs (Four Letter Acronyms) we're always shortening words. When my parents were first dating, Dad (always ahead of the curve) called Mom "SAM" because those were her maiden initials. An older gentleman in the small town where Dad grew up did not approve: "What did your Dad call your Mom? Mike? Bill? Some man's name. That such a shame because she's such a beautiful lady."
Shortening names makes sense in this TLA culture, but then there are the nicknames that are longer than the person's name. Back in the day, my grandmother renamed my Great Aunt Ben, for example, (whose real name was Magnolia though no one called her that), for the cartoon character "Ben Puttin' It Off." Apparently, procrastination has been inthe family for some time, so I don't know why Dad hassles me about that Roth information. Obviously, procrastination's in my genes, and I have no control over it.
My Aunt Cindy for a while was "Flea Bitten Hound Dog." I don't know why. Later she became "Flea" or "Hound Dog." Many of you know that I call Ann "Ann-a-Plan." In the car one day, I was trying to create an expression that read the same forwards and backwards, like "A Man, A Plan, A Canal: Panama." Ann likes to make plans, so I started there: Ann a Plan. But backwards that reads Nalp a Nna, so instead I made her name a poem: "Ann-a-Plan; Eat a Bananna; Drink a Cherry Coke." Every now and then I call her "Eat a Bananna" or "Eating Banannas" and we get funny looks in the grocery store. I've never called her "Drink a Cherry Coke". That would be wrong.
We rename people and we name inanimate objects. Mom called her VW Rabbit, "Thumper." My friend Sean introduces his bike as "Heidi." We named a plant in the front yard "Precioussss" from Gollum in The Hobbit.
So back to the question: Why do we name and rename people and things?
Awaiting your wisdom. Mary
Several friends, like me, have one letter names: e, g, gangsta j and sistah j, eL, em (that's me), and pea (not pee). This makes sense because in this world of TLAs (Three Letter Acronyms) and FLAs (Four Letter Acronyms) we're always shortening words. When my parents were first dating, Dad (always ahead of the curve) called Mom "SAM" because those were her maiden initials. An older gentleman in the small town where Dad grew up did not approve: "What did your Dad call your Mom? Mike? Bill? Some man's name. That such a shame because she's such a beautiful lady."
Shortening names makes sense in this TLA culture, but then there are the nicknames that are longer than the person's name. Back in the day, my grandmother renamed my Great Aunt Ben, for example, (whose real name was Magnolia though no one called her that), for the cartoon character "Ben Puttin' It Off." Apparently, procrastination has been inthe family for some time, so I don't know why Dad hassles me about that Roth information. Obviously, procrastination's in my genes, and I have no control over it.
My Aunt Cindy for a while was "Flea Bitten Hound Dog." I don't know why. Later she became "Flea" or "Hound Dog." Many of you know that I call Ann "Ann-a-Plan." In the car one day, I was trying to create an expression that read the same forwards and backwards, like "A Man, A Plan, A Canal: Panama." Ann likes to make plans, so I started there: Ann a Plan. But backwards that reads Nalp a Nna, so instead I made her name a poem: "Ann-a-Plan; Eat a Bananna; Drink a Cherry Coke." Every now and then I call her "Eat a Bananna" or "Eating Banannas" and we get funny looks in the grocery store. I've never called her "Drink a Cherry Coke". That would be wrong.
We rename people and we name inanimate objects. Mom called her VW Rabbit, "Thumper." My friend Sean introduces his bike as "Heidi." We named a plant in the front yard "Precioussss" from Gollum in The Hobbit.
So back to the question: Why do we name and rename people and things?
Awaiting your wisdom. Mary
Monday, April 5, 2010
DAR #23: This Little Piggy...
DAR #23: Generally in the US, my interactions with pigs have been with a knife and fork. For Easter dinner yesterday, as with many Easters, we had tasty ham. Where do pigs picture in the resurrection story? Not so high, I think.
Growing up in NC, I loved NC barbeque: pulled pork in a vinegar sauce. Whenever I visited my grandmother in a small town in Eastern Carolina, she took me to "The Grill" for a barbeque sandwich, hold the cold slaw, and a chocolate milk shake. This was what my grandmother would call "a good eat."
A couple of times I remember getting closer to the piglike qualities of pork with a pig roast: once at the medieval fair in the 8th grade and again at a fraternity pig roast (no. I was not in a fraternity. I just liked pig.) The whole apple in the pig's mouth seemed a bit grotesque to me.
In Latin America I had more interaction with the squealing kind of pig. When I first arrived in the jungled foothills of the Michoacan mountains in the small town of Camelote, (Mexico) for one summer, my three comrades and I were given directions to the sewing school where we would stay: "Take the main road to the corner where there's a pig and turn left, then right. The sewing school will be on your right." These are common directions in this small town, and I was afraid we might miss the pig, but there was no chance. This pig was as big as two kegs. Big Pig. We had pigs in the yard behind the school, but I never went there. I think Juan was the only one to go there, to bury Alex's soiled silken briefs--an unpleasant story.
One morning I was walking back from Seniora Alisa Lopez's home (she was teaching me to cook: my tortillas were thick and not round, but I understood the bean recipes--one slab of lard for whole beans, two for refried beans); as I was walking down the dirt road, I heard a racket ahead of me. That two-keg sized pig was flying across the road, chased by a dog. The pig hurdled the fence, and the do-- which could not--stood outside barking. That pig could fly. A few weeks later, I awoke to an awful squealing that went on all morning. Everyone in that little town had pork for a month.
When Ann and I visited our sister church in Guarjila, El Salvador at the century's turn, we heard a similar squealing one morning. When we had arrived, a young pig--perhaps even a piglet--was tied to a stake in the yard like one might tie up a dog. As the pig squealed for an hour or so, we worried that this family might be slaughtering its pig for us, but when we emerged the piglet was in the backyard, unfettered. When we asked why (remember that our Spanish is not too good, so this was a challenge), they laughed. The pig was new to them, and young pigs will return to their mothers, but if you run them around the house three times, they get confused and will stay at their new home. That must be where my parents got that idea and ran me around this Seattle home.
mary
Growing up in NC, I loved NC barbeque: pulled pork in a vinegar sauce. Whenever I visited my grandmother in a small town in Eastern Carolina, she took me to "The Grill" for a barbeque sandwich, hold the cold slaw, and a chocolate milk shake. This was what my grandmother would call "a good eat."
A couple of times I remember getting closer to the piglike qualities of pork with a pig roast: once at the medieval fair in the 8th grade and again at a fraternity pig roast (no. I was not in a fraternity. I just liked pig.) The whole apple in the pig's mouth seemed a bit grotesque to me.
In Latin America I had more interaction with the squealing kind of pig. When I first arrived in the jungled foothills of the Michoacan mountains in the small town of Camelote, (Mexico) for one summer, my three comrades and I were given directions to the sewing school where we would stay: "Take the main road to the corner where there's a pig and turn left, then right. The sewing school will be on your right." These are common directions in this small town, and I was afraid we might miss the pig, but there was no chance. This pig was as big as two kegs. Big Pig. We had pigs in the yard behind the school, but I never went there. I think Juan was the only one to go there, to bury Alex's soiled silken briefs--an unpleasant story.
One morning I was walking back from Seniora Alisa Lopez's home (she was teaching me to cook: my tortillas were thick and not round, but I understood the bean recipes--one slab of lard for whole beans, two for refried beans); as I was walking down the dirt road, I heard a racket ahead of me. That two-keg sized pig was flying across the road, chased by a dog. The pig hurdled the fence, and the do-- which could not--stood outside barking. That pig could fly. A few weeks later, I awoke to an awful squealing that went on all morning. Everyone in that little town had pork for a month.
When Ann and I visited our sister church in Guarjila, El Salvador at the century's turn, we heard a similar squealing one morning. When we had arrived, a young pig--perhaps even a piglet--was tied to a stake in the yard like one might tie up a dog. As the pig squealed for an hour or so, we worried that this family might be slaughtering its pig for us, but when we emerged the piglet was in the backyard, unfettered. When we asked why (remember that our Spanish is not too good, so this was a challenge), they laughed. The pig was new to them, and young pigs will return to their mothers, but if you run them around the house three times, they get confused and will stay at their new home. That must be where my parents got that idea and ran me around this Seattle home.
mary
Friday, April 2, 2010
DAR #22: On my nerves
DAR #22: Today: a lesson on the brain. You may remember that just after surgery the right side of my face was paralyzed. It's about 75% back now. The reason it was paralyzed and then came back was that my 7th nerve was damaged during surgery, but because it was not destroyed at the root, it was able to heal over time. What a piece of work is man...and woman, too.
If you wnat to see a two-minute video of the kind of surgery I had, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU9pXJohg8E (Yes, utube.) The surgery is actually quite a few hours, but this is condensed. It is a real surgery, so if that sort of thing grosses you out or makes you faint, skip it.
As I remember, there are 12 cranial nerves (nerves that control the muscles above my neck, so that I could do things like move my eyes and wiggle my ears and flare my nose, breathe, swallow, roll my tongue like a hot dog roll, etc.) Four of my nerves were damaged during surgery. The right side of my face was paralyzed; my eyes would not move side to side or (less drastically) up and down or diagonally; I could not move my lips on the right side. I still cannot whistle or roll my tongue like a hot dog roll or drink through a straw (I prefer my milkshakes too thick for straws anyway and who drinks a beer through a straw?)
Right after surgery, I had a lot of trouble eating and drinking like a grown up. Ann and I went to an outdoor concert (Indigo Girls: just to be clear that we do fit the stereotype in so many ways) with our friends Pam and Kari. There was a light shower, so I wore my raincoat. I had a sip of water and the water dribbled out the side of my mouth onto my jacket. Pea said, "Drinking problem?" and Ann said, "At least you dressed for the occasion." I still have a little trouble but not as much. Just so you know, if we eat together I'm likely to drop a little food from my mouth. Pretend you don't see it or say something funny.
As the nerves begin to regenerate, muscles twitch. This is a weird sensation. As my 7th nerve began to heal, my face would just start moving up and down. It didn't care where I was or with whom I might be speaking. This still happens when I get tired, but so far no student has made a crack about it. At least not that I could hear. Sometimes the saliva gland on the right side went bonkers, and it felt like a hydrant in my mouth had opened. I thought I might drown. My ears would knock from time to time. This was because my uvula (at the back of my throat) would start to twitch and the uvula's connected to the hammer in the eardrum, so my uvula would pull my hammer and start up a beat from the 70s. Irritating. My right eye still doesn't water too much, so when I cry (see entry from last week) only one side of my face gets wet.
Right after surgery the ring finger on my left hand would twitch. I asked the rehab doctor why. "It has something to do with your brain," she explained.
Got it. Everything does. mary
If you wnat to see a two-minute video of the kind of surgery I had, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU9pXJohg8E (Yes, utube.) The surgery is actually quite a few hours, but this is condensed. It is a real surgery, so if that sort of thing grosses you out or makes you faint, skip it.
As I remember, there are 12 cranial nerves (nerves that control the muscles above my neck, so that I could do things like move my eyes and wiggle my ears and flare my nose, breathe, swallow, roll my tongue like a hot dog roll, etc.) Four of my nerves were damaged during surgery. The right side of my face was paralyzed; my eyes would not move side to side or (less drastically) up and down or diagonally; I could not move my lips on the right side. I still cannot whistle or roll my tongue like a hot dog roll or drink through a straw (I prefer my milkshakes too thick for straws anyway and who drinks a beer through a straw?)
Right after surgery, I had a lot of trouble eating and drinking like a grown up. Ann and I went to an outdoor concert (Indigo Girls: just to be clear that we do fit the stereotype in so many ways) with our friends Pam and Kari. There was a light shower, so I wore my raincoat. I had a sip of water and the water dribbled out the side of my mouth onto my jacket. Pea said, "Drinking problem?" and Ann said, "At least you dressed for the occasion." I still have a little trouble but not as much. Just so you know, if we eat together I'm likely to drop a little food from my mouth. Pretend you don't see it or say something funny.
As the nerves begin to regenerate, muscles twitch. This is a weird sensation. As my 7th nerve began to heal, my face would just start moving up and down. It didn't care where I was or with whom I might be speaking. This still happens when I get tired, but so far no student has made a crack about it. At least not that I could hear. Sometimes the saliva gland on the right side went bonkers, and it felt like a hydrant in my mouth had opened. I thought I might drown. My ears would knock from time to time. This was because my uvula (at the back of my throat) would start to twitch and the uvula's connected to the hammer in the eardrum, so my uvula would pull my hammer and start up a beat from the 70s. Irritating. My right eye still doesn't water too much, so when I cry (see entry from last week) only one side of my face gets wet.
Right after surgery the ring finger on my left hand would twitch. I asked the rehab doctor why. "It has something to do with your brain," she explained.
Got it. Everything does. mary
Thursday, April 1, 2010
DAR #21: There's something on your shirt.
DAR #21: Happy April Fools' Day! I was in a high school social studies class today when a counselor got on the intercom to explain the testing schedule for state testing: if you're testing, be here at 7:30 a.m. If you're not testing, school will start for you at 11 a.m. An incredulous student, proud of his cleverness, said, "It's April Fools' Day. The late start isn't for real. The testing is."
Mostly, April Fools jokes aren't that funny. At one high school where I taught, years ago, students released crickets into the building as a joke. Those crickets' descendents chirp in the roof all year long. At the school where I worked in Dallas, students turned the high school into a petting zoo with goats and sheep and chickens (do you pet chickens?) and such. It might have been funny the first year, but I found repeats unimaginative and a mess. The year the school burned down, seniors who had complained about inadequate student parking parked their cars on the new foundation. That made a point and was somewhat amusing. They still didn't get any more parking.
The most amusing and work intensive high school prank that I've heard of was at a school that had a pond. Students had disassembled a friend's plane (with his permission--must have been a private school), and reassembled it in the lake to look like someone had crashed there. They fooled not only the school administration but also the local news media.
My best was not so good, but it was my best. My father had sent me money to invest in a Roth. I sent him a thank you note, saying that I had decided to use the money to pay off our new deck instead. He didn't scroll down far enough to see the "p.s. just kidding."
My friend Allison told us about her husband changing her cell phone ring to something obnoxious (maybe it was "Liet's just get drunk and screw" ) without telling her. He called when she was in an attorneys' meeting. She rolled her eyes when she heard someone's obnoxious ring and finally bashfully opened her purse to turn off the offensive noise when she realized that obnoxious sound was coming from her purse.
Oh, wait, there's something on your shirt...Mary
Mostly, April Fools jokes aren't that funny. At one high school where I taught, years ago, students released crickets into the building as a joke. Those crickets' descendents chirp in the roof all year long. At the school where I worked in Dallas, students turned the high school into a petting zoo with goats and sheep and chickens (do you pet chickens?) and such. It might have been funny the first year, but I found repeats unimaginative and a mess. The year the school burned down, seniors who had complained about inadequate student parking parked their cars on the new foundation. That made a point and was somewhat amusing. They still didn't get any more parking.
The most amusing and work intensive high school prank that I've heard of was at a school that had a pond. Students had disassembled a friend's plane (with his permission--must have been a private school), and reassembled it in the lake to look like someone had crashed there. They fooled not only the school administration but also the local news media.
My best was not so good, but it was my best. My father had sent me money to invest in a Roth. I sent him a thank you note, saying that I had decided to use the money to pay off our new deck instead. He didn't scroll down far enough to see the "p.s. just kidding."
My friend Allison told us about her husband changing her cell phone ring to something obnoxious (maybe it was "Liet's just get drunk and screw" ) without telling her. He called when she was in an attorneys' meeting. She rolled her eyes when she heard someone's obnoxious ring and finally bashfully opened her purse to turn off the offensive noise when she realized that obnoxious sound was coming from her purse.
Oh, wait, there's something on your shirt...Mary
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