1) My foot - the angiogram showed nothing abnormal or unusual, just a moderately slow flow of blood in and out of the foot. The pain went away on its own. The podiatrist decided I have a ganglion instead of a cyst. It's still fat though. That's ongoing.
2) Hewlett Packard - Even though they laid off 2,100 workers in France this month and have had a hiring freeze for one year, Douglas landed a 12 month internship with their office in Grenoble. He's working on updating the company's accounting processes to bring them into line with the post-Enron Sarbanes-Oxley Legislation.
3) Lycee Vaucanson - My Assistant d'Anglais contract began on October 1, but the school isn't ready for me yet. I begin on Monday the 17th instead. Being paid for the whole month, of course.
4) French Classes - I'm enrolling in classes again at the Alliance Francaise. Started this week.
5) NYC - Great town. Although frightening with some of the security and post-New Orleans I'm not convinced they have a good evacuation plan should the city should sink into the East River.
Showing posts with label New Jersey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Jersey. Show all posts
Friday, October 14, 2005
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Mothers
When I came home from work on Tuesday Douglas was at the gym and his mother was in the kitchen. She told me a story about trimming the dog's hair that afternoon. She has a white toy poodle named Fernanda. Fernanda likes to have her belly rubbed. Fernanda's poofy forehead and ears of hair had been trimmed, and her pom-pom ankles were neatly coifed. Fernanda's eyes, is it any wonder, were sad.
A few minutes later my phone rang. It was Douglas on his way home. He was in a happy-go-lucky mood and asked if I'd noticed anything about his mom. He then told me about her visit to the plastic surgeon. I listened, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "She what?" I asked, leaning around the living room doorway to get another look at her. I noticed she looked different, or maybe just a tad stiff, and she wasn't smiling. She couldn't. She'd spent the afternoon having botox and collagen injections. Her deadened face nerves and augmented lips were too sore for expression.
Douglas adores his mother. Everything she does is cute and amusing to him. Whereas, if I'd found my LLBean flannel jeans wearing-ice fishing mother doing anything more body altering than the South Beach Diet I'd worry. At age 50 my mom had her ears pierced for the first time. "Why?" I asked her. How could she think of changing? If everyone else ran out and jumped off a bridge would she too?
With Douglas, his mother could come home from a day of clubbing baby seals and he'd chuckle at her spirit of adventure. "You know the arctic is just overrun with those things," he'd say. "They're like pigeons. And make such great over shoulder bags."
When I first met his mother last summer, I called her Mrs. Temperin. They laughed and rolled eyes at me. I was the boyfriend from Boston who couldn't relax enough to use a first name.
My friend Turtle thinks that body altering surgery and procedures are becoming so common place and affordable that it won't be long before we can't tell who has and who hasn't. The once freakish will become the new normal. It's already happened with teeth whitening. Go back and take a look at the 1998 season of Sex and the City. Specifically watch for Cynthia Nixon's smile. She looks like a member of the British Royal Family. A coffee drinker or a smoker or both, her teeth are not white. I don't remember thinking so when I first watched the program years ago. But a recent rerun had me gawking. Apparently I'd come to accept whitened teeth as the norm.
Which brings me back to the face of the future talking to me in the kitchen. I've stopped sneaking peeks at her former wrinkles when I think she's not looking. Maybe in another week I'll look at some pictures from last summer to see if I'm shocked by what used to be there. And maybe I'll finish up that packet of Crest White Strips before heading back to France.
A few minutes later my phone rang. It was Douglas on his way home. He was in a happy-go-lucky mood and asked if I'd noticed anything about his mom. He then told me about her visit to the plastic surgeon. I listened, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "She what?" I asked, leaning around the living room doorway to get another look at her. I noticed she looked different, or maybe just a tad stiff, and she wasn't smiling. She couldn't. She'd spent the afternoon having botox and collagen injections. Her deadened face nerves and augmented lips were too sore for expression.
Douglas adores his mother. Everything she does is cute and amusing to him. Whereas, if I'd found my LLBean flannel jeans wearing-ice fishing mother doing anything more body altering than the South Beach Diet I'd worry. At age 50 my mom had her ears pierced for the first time. "Why?" I asked her. How could she think of changing? If everyone else ran out and jumped off a bridge would she too?
With Douglas, his mother could come home from a day of clubbing baby seals and he'd chuckle at her spirit of adventure. "You know the arctic is just overrun with those things," he'd say. "They're like pigeons. And make such great over shoulder bags."
When I first met his mother last summer, I called her Mrs. Temperin. They laughed and rolled eyes at me. I was the boyfriend from Boston who couldn't relax enough to use a first name.
My friend Turtle thinks that body altering surgery and procedures are becoming so common place and affordable that it won't be long before we can't tell who has and who hasn't. The once freakish will become the new normal. It's already happened with teeth whitening. Go back and take a look at the 1998 season of Sex and the City. Specifically watch for Cynthia Nixon's smile. She looks like a member of the British Royal Family. A coffee drinker or a smoker or both, her teeth are not white. I don't remember thinking so when I first watched the program years ago. But a recent rerun had me gawking. Apparently I'd come to accept whitened teeth as the norm.
Which brings me back to the face of the future talking to me in the kitchen. I've stopped sneaking peeks at her former wrinkles when I think she's not looking. Maybe in another week I'll look at some pictures from last summer to see if I'm shocked by what used to be there. And maybe I'll finish up that packet of Crest White Strips before heading back to France.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
The Angiogram
Angiogram: Round Two – My Adventure with Mr. Johnson
After the first aborted attempt at an angiogram, I returned to University Hospital two weeks later, better prepared. This time I knew not to eat anything after dinner the night before and that I would be spending the entire morning and afternoon in a hospital bed. Call me naïve, and many have, but when I was first scheduled for an angiogram of my left leg, I assumed it would be as breezy as the ultrasound, x-rays, and MRI that had already been performed.
Let me back up a second. I have a problem with my left ankle. It's swollen. Has been consistently for the past 7 years. There's no pain or loss of flexibility associated with it. It's just a fat swollen ankle. You've seen them before, mostly attached to the feet of older women in muumuus – often diabetics. Every doctor I've visited has been puzzled by why my left ankle is fat, yet functional. No matter what the problem I'm seeking medical treatment, the conversation always shifts to my ankle. Have a chest cold? That's nice, but what is wrong with your ankle?! Got an ear infection? That's easily treated, but how did you hurt your ankle?! Want to be tested for chlamydia? Your confidentiality is assured, but where did you stick your ankle?!
One day this summer, about two weeks after arriving in New Jersey, I woke up with a profound pain in my ankle. It had been slowly building for a few days, but one Wednesday it was so bad I couldn't stand. So, off we went to the emergency room where I was poked and prodded and referred to a podiatrist. Who, over the course of a month, recommended a number of tests, and diagnosed that there was a cyst above my ankle. About the size of two peas.
One test would be taken, and then another would be considered before the doctor could be certain that it was ok to remove the cyst.
Interestingly enough, while I was waiting for a final diagnosis, the pain went away. Completely. Can a cyst pop? If so does the fluid just spill into the rest of my body slowly causing moral decay? Or did my body naturally fight it? Or at least move it into a less painful neighborhood? Are our bodies full of pus filled sacks that we don't even notice?
These and other philosophical/medical queries may never be answered. Or maybe they will. At any rate, I was scheduled for an angiogram. And, as I mentioned above, I had no idea how involved an angiogram is. I thought I'd swing by the hospital in the morning, have the test, and zip on into the city for a day of work. The admitting nurse on that fateful day wasn't in the mood for me and my inexperience. I was sent away and rescheduled for another day. Which is a bureaucratic adventure in itself. Long story short – only a doctor can schedule an angiogram. But I managed to do it myself anyway.
So, round two. I'm in the hospital, trying to figure out which side of the gown is the back. I tried it on both ways. It fastened at the shoulder and the hip, so I couldn't decide which way was preferable. Did I want a plunging neck line or the V in back? Since it'd been a while since my neck and shoulders were shaved, I opted for an open chested gown. If only I'd packed some disco medallions.
The nurse, resembling Margaret Cho's mother, instructed me to remove my underwear. Creepy, cuz I was under the bedsheet at the time. X-ray vision?
Finally an orderly and a gurney came to the room and wheeled me down to the basement where the procedure would be performed. My guess is because it's near the morgue. I was introduced to the student doctor who would be assisting on the test. He ran down the procedure and three main things I should fear.
An angiogram, as I understand it, involves putting a catheter into an artery and then some dye injected into my blood. This will allow my arteries and veins to appear on an x-ray. The minute he said "catheter" I panicked thinking 'that's why I had to take my underwear off!' But, this wasn't one of THOSE catheters.
The student doctor – side note: when did all the doctors become younger than me? – the student doctor informed me that I had three dangers to consider. First, that the catheter could burst an artery and send my blood spilling everywhere. This could lead to death. My death, specifically. Second, that I could have an allergic reaction to the dye and die. And third, that my kidneys could have an issue with the dye and stop functioning properly. Again, death.
So, I signed my No Law Suit agreement and was wheeled into the lab.
I was heeved onto the "operating table" – such drama queens really, at this point I could have very easily walked in and laid down – and lay there for a while staring at the huge mountain of equipment hanging above me. I was hooked up to a number of pulse and heart monitoring machines and an oxygen tube was run under my nose. The dye would be injected into my left hip artery, so my hip was shaved.
I think it's playwright Maria Irene Fornes who wrote that everyone has genitals, we just spend our lives pretending we don't. Like me, Mr. Johnson is a leftist. With him hanging out near the left hip and razor flashing around nearby, I spent a hard time pretending he wasn't there. The barber did a pretty good job also of pretending Mr. Johnson wasn't there either. He'd nudge him a little with his knuckles, concentrating on the work at hand.
When the shaving was done, the student doctor and the doctor in charge came back. Disinfectant was rubbed all over the shaved area and well into the hairy spots. Again, Mr. Johnson was nudged and bumped. And again, I pretended as hard as I could that he just wasn't there. Finally, blankets and towels and table cloths were spread all over me and Mr. Johnson was finally out of sight. Which made it easier to pretend he wasn't in the room.
After the catheter was inserted I felt a rush of warm fluid poor over me. And the student doctor, a little too nervously for my taste, said "don't look, don't look, don't look" thereby affirming my fear that it was blood, my blood, I felt oozing over my hip and past Mr. Johnson's luggage.
But, everything ran smoothly after that. Dye injected, x-rays taken, catheter removed, pressure applied, bandage in place and I was wheeled back upstairs. Where I had to wait for 4 hours without moving. My blood pressure was measured every 15 minutes and my heart rate checked constantly. Unfortunately, I have a slow heart rate. Any time it dipped below 40 that machine would beep until someone came in and reset it. Seeing as I was just laying there, staring at the TV that only picked up PBS – just how much children's programming is necessary? – my heart rate dipped below 40 quite often. One nurse asked me "Are you an athlete?" "No," I said, "just really bored."
Lunch was a chicken salad sandwich and carrots, I peed twice in a bottle, and then got dressed and was sent home.
It's three days later, and my artery hasn't popped open and my kidneys don't seem to be having any trouble with the dye. I meet with the podiatrist again later to discuss what it all means. And Mr. Johnson is back to being ignored successfully.
© 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Newark
Newark, New Jersey - founded 1666; population 280,000 (2005 estimate); 24.14 square miles (smallest of 100 largest US cities); 5 miles from Manhattan
Newark is the red headed step child of the US East Coast Megalopolis that stretches from Boston to Washington. To the eye, it's a rather depressed city. It's downtown has the necessary infrastructure of a large city: subway and tram system, large corporate buildings, parks, sweeping city hall plaza. But it just doesn't feel right. It's dirty and loud. Some of the buildings have scaffoldings that look like they've been up a long time. As if the intended refurbishing project never happened and the scaffoldings are a part of the building now. Like wearing a brace on your leg after an operation and then deciding the brace is too comforting to be temporary. I saw in Newark some potential. It's a city that can't decide what it wants to be, so stands committed to just being the best run down city it can. Which I'm sure makes Detroit nervous.
I found the city to be depressed not only economically but emotionally also. The people were not friendly. I witnessed a bus driver arguing with two passengers, drivers cutting through pedestrian walkways, and train station staff ignoring passenger questions. It made France look like a customer service paradise.
© 2005
Newark is the red headed step child of the US East Coast Megalopolis that stretches from Boston to Washington. To the eye, it's a rather depressed city. It's downtown has the necessary infrastructure of a large city: subway and tram system, large corporate buildings, parks, sweeping city hall plaza. But it just doesn't feel right. It's dirty and loud. Some of the buildings have scaffoldings that look like they've been up a long time. As if the intended refurbishing project never happened and the scaffoldings are a part of the building now. Like wearing a brace on your leg after an operation and then deciding the brace is too comforting to be temporary. I saw in Newark some potential. It's a city that can't decide what it wants to be, so stands committed to just being the best run down city it can. Which I'm sure makes Detroit nervous.
I found the city to be depressed not only economically but emotionally also. The people were not friendly. I witnessed a bus driver arguing with two passengers, drivers cutting through pedestrian walkways, and train station staff ignoring passenger questions. It made France look like a customer service paradise.
© 2005
I Said I Wanted to See a Real Doctor
I spent the better part of today waiting. I went to bed last night with a pain in my ankle. I woke up this morning with an intense pain in my ankle, foot, and calve. I have a hereditary condition my sister calls "Old Lady Foot". My mom calls it "Fat Foot". My dad simply calls it "the gout". Most of my friends call it "Oh My God What The Hell Is Wrong With Your Foot?"
"It's full of fluid" a doctor told me six years ago. He had just run a series of tests - MRI, ultrasound, x-ray, one involving a feather and a needle - and had come to the conclusion that nothing was wrong with my bones, veins, or lymphatic system. I was just holding fluid in my left foot. Like a camel.
But this past week that same foot was giving me some agony. So, I visited a clinic in Newark, New Jersey. Again we did the litany of medical tests. Feather - tickles. Needle - prick! X-ray - bones accounted. Ultrasound - it's a boy! But this time the technician discovered a lump 0.5cm x 1.3cm right above the inside ankle bone. Even after 9 months in France my metric skills aren't so great (except with temperature - I know now that 30 degrees Celsius is really hot), but I'm thinking 0.5 x 1.3 is probably the size of two peas. Maybe smaller.
However, I can gauge the lump in terms of pain. On a scale of "hitting thumb with hammer" to "child birth", it's about a "dropping anvil on foot with every step".
I waited in the waiting room, I waited behind a screen, I waited in the x-ray lab, I waited on the ultrasound table. And I go back later this week to see a podiatrist. I'll probably have to wait some there too.
As you can imagine, at this moment my brain is overflowing with jokes about podiatrists. And anvils. I'll keep you posted.
© 2005
"It's full of fluid" a doctor told me six years ago. He had just run a series of tests - MRI, ultrasound, x-ray, one involving a feather and a needle - and had come to the conclusion that nothing was wrong with my bones, veins, or lymphatic system. I was just holding fluid in my left foot. Like a camel.
But this past week that same foot was giving me some agony. So, I visited a clinic in Newark, New Jersey. Again we did the litany of medical tests. Feather - tickles. Needle - prick! X-ray - bones accounted. Ultrasound - it's a boy! But this time the technician discovered a lump 0.5cm x 1.3cm right above the inside ankle bone. Even after 9 months in France my metric skills aren't so great (except with temperature - I know now that 30 degrees Celsius is really hot), but I'm thinking 0.5 x 1.3 is probably the size of two peas. Maybe smaller.
However, I can gauge the lump in terms of pain. On a scale of "hitting thumb with hammer" to "child birth", it's about a "dropping anvil on foot with every step".
I waited in the waiting room, I waited behind a screen, I waited in the x-ray lab, I waited on the ultrasound table. And I go back later this week to see a podiatrist. I'll probably have to wait some there too.
As you can imagine, at this moment my brain is overflowing with jokes about podiatrists. And anvils. I'll keep you posted.
© 2005
Monday, July 04, 2005
I Shop, Therefore I Am
It's a holiday weekend and what could be more patriotic than a trip to the mall? It's been very easy to sink back into the swing of things here. Particularly when it involves 25% off at Express Men and a 65% Customer Appreciation Sale at Macy's. We are now set for our day jobs. Four new shirts, a belt, and a pair of pants for me; Douglas bought one shirt, three pairs of pants, and two belts. Plus white handkerchiefs, three neck ties, socks, and flip-flops (in case we make it to the beach).
It's almost sickening how giddy this made me. It's been over a year since I bought a proper dress shirt. There's something about the trust between customer and salesman involved in this process that I find very soothing. Muhammed, the salesman, eyed our necks and judged our shoulders. Pulling the tape measure from his pocket he muttered his guess. "Yes," he said, "you're a 161/2." Then he eyed Douglas, "not you" and wrapping the measure around Douglas's neck he smiled knowingly. "151/2. Try the medium." He measured our arms and then made some recommendations. It was fun. I'm not convinced he approved of our tie selections - maybe we're too hip, or too outdated.
The day was happily topped off with a cinnabon. I bought the last one as they were kicking us out of the mall.
© 2005
It's almost sickening how giddy this made me. It's been over a year since I bought a proper dress shirt. There's something about the trust between customer and salesman involved in this process that I find very soothing. Muhammed, the salesman, eyed our necks and judged our shoulders. Pulling the tape measure from his pocket he muttered his guess. "Yes," he said, "you're a 161/2." Then he eyed Douglas, "not you" and wrapping the measure around Douglas's neck he smiled knowingly. "151/2. Try the medium." He measured our arms and then made some recommendations. It was fun. I'm not convinced he approved of our tie selections - maybe we're too hip, or too outdated.
The day was happily topped off with a cinnabon. I bought the last one as they were kicking us out of the mall.
© 2005
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Back in the US
Presently, Douglas and I are staying with his family in West Caldwell, New Jersey. It's been a hectic two weeks, but we're happy to have a comfortable base. It provides some sanity to the pace of heading into the City (New York City) every day for interviews, and finally, for work.
Douglas has been working on a capital campaign for the NY chapter of the National Mulitple Sclerosis Society. I found a position with a city club, the India House Club, in lower Manhattan. Yes, for the next couple of months I am their Director of Membership. I've had one day of training and jump in feet first on July 5. The woman I'm replacing trained me in a day last week. She had some colorful things to say about the club, it's employees, and, of course, it's members. I can hardly wait.
This past week, I put in some time for my friend Mark's consulting firm, integrating the file system for a natural bio-identical hormone replacement doctor. Quirky and interesting. Check her out at www.drerika.com. And, if you're going through menopause and want to try something other than the mare's urine derived hormone replacement therapy your doctor probably has you on, give her a shout.
We are (almost) back in the swing of being in the States. I've become reacquainted with diner food (pancakes, eggs, toast, potatoes AND bacon!!), re-joined a gym (to work off the bacon), and gotten lost on the NYC subway system (but getting better at it).
Spending nine months out of the country I was in for a few shocks - ie.: Britney Spears is pregnant?! Nicole Richie lost weight?! Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring?! I'm looking forward to becoming reacquainted with US Popular Culture.
Douglas's mom and step-dad have been very kind to us. Their home is big enough that we haven't had any bathroom hogging fights yet. If we're here for the whole summer, I believe I can say, it won't be too big of a problem. Of course, it would also be nice to be closer to the city. But I'm enjoying my life with the Tunnel and Bridge Crowd. For now, anyway.
That's about all the news for this week. More to come. As always.
© 2005
Douglas has been working on a capital campaign for the NY chapter of the National Mulitple Sclerosis Society. I found a position with a city club, the India House Club, in lower Manhattan. Yes, for the next couple of months I am their Director of Membership. I've had one day of training and jump in feet first on July 5. The woman I'm replacing trained me in a day last week. She had some colorful things to say about the club, it's employees, and, of course, it's members. I can hardly wait.
This past week, I put in some time for my friend Mark's consulting firm, integrating the file system for a natural bio-identical hormone replacement doctor. Quirky and interesting. Check her out at www.drerika.com. And, if you're going through menopause and want to try something other than the mare's urine derived hormone replacement therapy your doctor probably has you on, give her a shout.
We are (almost) back in the swing of being in the States. I've become reacquainted with diner food (pancakes, eggs, toast, potatoes AND bacon!!), re-joined a gym (to work off the bacon), and gotten lost on the NYC subway system (but getting better at it).
Spending nine months out of the country I was in for a few shocks - ie.: Britney Spears is pregnant?! Nicole Richie lost weight?! Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring?! I'm looking forward to becoming reacquainted with US Popular Culture.
Douglas's mom and step-dad have been very kind to us. Their home is big enough that we haven't had any bathroom hogging fights yet. If we're here for the whole summer, I believe I can say, it won't be too big of a problem. Of course, it would also be nice to be closer to the city. But I'm enjoying my life with the Tunnel and Bridge Crowd. For now, anyway.
That's about all the news for this week. More to come. As always.
© 2005
Caldwell
Caldwell, New Jersey is the birthplace of Grover Cleveland - the 22nd and 24th president of the United States. I have no idea what else he did. But Caldwell is a great town, with tree lined streets and beautiful homes.
© 2005
© 2005
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