Monthly Archives: November 2011

The cat ate my medical paperwork, honest!


Seriously, is this Milo’s way of saying he doesn’t want me to go to the hospital? Is this his method of coping?

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Crazy ramblings from the day before my surgery (LUNG surgery, for anyone not up to speed)


I woke up this morning and shook off my crappy night of dream-riddled sleep. My husband and I attempted to have a calm, normal morning (which is a bit of a farce the last few days) for the kids. But I think they were fine and managed to get ready for school and out the door on time. I took care of a few things I wanted to get done before tomorrow and got ready for my 10am registration appointment with the hospital. I drove there by myself sort of in a daze and realized I probably shouldn’t have pushed everyone away who offered to come with me this morning. Still on autopilot when I finally arrived, I pulled in the skunky old parking garage and began circling for a spot. If I wasn’t anxious enough about the whole situation, the fact that the ceilings seemed to be only five feet high finished me off. I drive a Honda Pilot, not an overly tall vehicle but not a small one either. And in any garage with low ceilings, I have that cringing feeling whenever I drive under a concrete beam that it’s going to nail the roof of my car. Or least take off the luggage rack. This garage was so old that the beams looked to be covered in stalactites, or at least those free-form Biscuit drop biscuits we all ate as kids. Long story short, it was gross. But I trudged on, nailed nothing with my car, parked it and took the elevator to the first floor.

When I got there, I checked in with the receptionist and she told me to take a separate elevator to the fifth floor. Naturally, I walked into the elevator and pressed the ‘6’ button. I stare at the keypad as it started to ascend and realized my mistake in time to avoid extra elevator travel. When I got out on the fifth floor, I checked in with the receptionist and waited for their insurance person to get me registered. After we were done, there was more waiting. Next, I was called by the staff person who was responsible for explaining all of my surgical instructions as well as the terrifying consent forms. She asked where my husband was as he was required for this part. Crap, I had told him not to come. A quick phone call remedied that problem and he was there about fifteen minutes later. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should’ve had him there from the beginning. There’s just so much to go over and remember.

We signed everything mindlessly until we got to the Thorascopy/Thoracotomy Risk form. I found some of the information listed here to be a little frightening and others interesting. Here I share with you some of line items that jumped off the page at me.

10-15% of thorascopies are unpredictably converted to thoracotomies. Come on, 85-90%!

Nerves are always compressed between the ribs during chest surgery and will cause pain or numbness for four to eight weeks post-operatively. Crap. Four to eight WEEKS?

Chest tubes are necessary to drain the air space left in your chest and must remain until all air leaks have stopped, and only then can you be discharged, normally 6-10 days. My husband and I both did a spit take on this one, which was weird because neither of us was actually drinking anything. NORMALLY 6-10 days? When we asked about it, we were told that this “normal” range typically applies to older patients who are not in the good health that I am in. At this stage of the game, they are hoping and expecting that I will be able to have the chest tube removed earlier than this “normal” prediction. Crossing fingers on this one.

The overall risk of death is 1 to 3% when removing lung wedges, lung lobes and other chest masses. Well, yes, that number is very low but, you know, it would have grabbed your attention, too.

We glossed over everything else about possible hemorrhaging, infection, respiratory and pulmonary failure, nerve damage, chronic pain, fluid leakage, renal failure, myocardial infarction, stroke, paralysis and coma like champs. Once we were done, there was more waiting … this time for the anesthesiologist … or maybe it was the nurse anesthetist. I have no idea. Like everyone before her, she asked a million questions about my medical history in an effort to avoid any problems tomorrow. She explained that I will be given anti-nausea medication as soon as I arrive (at 5am!) and they will begin prepping me for surgery. She said the procedure takes about four and a half hours and that, once it was over, they will bring me to ICU and attempt to wake me, at least a little, as soon as I get there. Things like when I leave ICU for a regular room, have the chest tube removed, get to go home, etc. all depend on what type of surgery is performed (which will be decided on the table) as well as how I’m doing afterwards. All signs now indicate that things will be textbook case and I will be fine. I like those signs. They are my friends.

After we finished with the anesthesiology consultation, there was more waiting … this time for my lab work. They asked me what I’ve had done lately. I figured my response of “blood work, chest x-ray, EKG, CAT scan and MRI, all in the last two weeks” would have been enough to dismiss me and enable to go home … but no such luck. The blood work and the chest x-ray both need to have been done in the last seven days. So, off we went to see the nurse who couldn’t have been nicer but provided me with the most painful blood extraction of my lifetime. I know I had previously awarded this title to my MRI tech but this one topped it. The problem seemed to be my “tiny, rolling veins.” We tried … and tried …. and tried … and finally got the vein. But then, she needed to call in an extra nurse to push on the vein because it was draining too slowly and she was afraid she wasn’t going to get enough blood. By the time it was done, I was, too. And I told my husband that I would likely be taking a little anti-anxiety medication later today. (I don’t know why I’ve been fighting it really.) After the blood work, I had only to take a few more chest x-rays. Sure, all of these x-rays are slowly killing us but they sure are a walk in the park compared to the needles.

Now wound up like a top, I walked back to my car with my husband, thrilled to be leaving but as anxious as I’ve been since all of this mess started. And very happy that my wonderful friends were literally waiting for me with a cheese tray at a friend’s house to eat and dish and just chill out for the rest of the afternoon. (Thanks, ladies. It was both delightfully relaxing and delicious.)

It’s now the witching hour. The kids are home and toiling through homework. Dinner is looming and I still have to pack my bag. (Does anyone have any suggestions on what I should pack?) And there are several other little details I want to take care of before tomorrow. And, yet, somehow I feel this post still isn’t the last you’ll hear from me today. Writing not only chronicles everything for me but it also provides the greatest relaxation I’ve found so far. I think it forces me to process everything systematically and sensibly. And I need as much sanity as I can get my hands on right now. Though as the clock ticks and the meds permeate, you can likely expect typos, word misuse and other craziness in my ramblings. Enjoy the rawness.

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Does anyone out there still practice the art of dream interpretation?


Last night was one of the most dream-filled nights in my sleeping career. I went to dinner with friends and had only one glass of wine (the last I’m allowing myself before surgery) so that I would be still be able to take my sleep/chill out aid. Then, I forgot to take it.

Consequently, my sleep was sketchy and, by the time I realized my mistake, I was afraid it was too late and would tamper with my morning if I took anything. So, I powered through a truckload of crazy dreams. I actually think they were all strung together and so that’s how I’m reporting them here.

The dream started with me in an airport. Of course, it was not any airport that I’ve ever been in before. Initially, I was alone but, after a bit or wandering aimlessly through this enormous structure, I found myself now traveling on and off with various others. Among them were my husband, my two kids, my parents, and a married couple we’ve been friends with for years. 

I remember I kept thinking about how pretty the airport was. Very open and full of windows. I thought it looked just like the airport from “Up in the Air,” a movie that I have never seen (consciously or unconsciously) so I have no idea why it would have been such a significant point of reference to me in my dream. 

The airport was crowded and there was a sizeable cash transfer taking place between two parties while we were there. I have absolutely no idea how I was privy to this confidential information but at this point all the above characters in my dream assembled together and decided collectively that we were going to heist that money. ???  So, we immediately began hatching our very complex plan to get our hands on these funds. This segment of my dream was modeled closely after “Ocean’s 11,” another movie that I haven’t seen. And, coincidentally, another movie with George Clooney. (Maybe I have a subconscious crush on him. ??? Repeated Johnny Deep references would have made much more sense to me.)

Anyway, unfortunately, I don’t recall all the intricate details of the sting but, suffice it to say, it worked and we somehow managed to snag the cash. And then we spread out to different areas of the airport to avoid getting caught. My friends spent the next few hours planning how their portion would be used. At this point, my dream started to have a few strands of reality woven into it. Like the fact that it took place during Christmas season. So, my friends’ proposed expenditures included things like iPod touches, iPads and game systems. (How ridiculous is it that we had enough money to buy a Carribbean island and they were worrying about kiddie electronics?)

My son and I were together on another end of the airport. And he kept asking me why we stole the money. And how I could possibly explain that it was the right thing to do. Another strand of reality seeped in again.  He and I recently read ‘The Tell-tale Heart’ together (in my waking state) and all I could think about in the dream was the sound of that deafening heartbeat torturing me and admonishing me to remove myself from this terrible situation.

I was so hysterical about everything that my brother called my cell to calm me down. (How did he even know I was upset? Maybe my virtual mom told him.) He told me to try to relax and said it would help if I listened to his friend sing. So, she got on the phone and began singing ‘My Funny Valentine.’ It did not help and now I was thinking of Elvis Costello’s version of that song which reminded me I hadn’t talked to my husband in all of this insanity.

Which, of course, made him instantly appear. My mom somehow materialized right after he did and and we all began talking about the mess we’d gotten ourselves into and how we could get out of it. Never mind the fact that, apparently without the hundreds of millions we had stolen with others, we had not a dime to our names. We decided it didn’t matter and that we were going to find a way to dump the portion of the money we had back into the right hands (anonymously) and then flee the whole scene.

So, my husband grabbed the small suitcase I’d been carrying around with me but it fell open when he did. And inside were the two library books I am reading (right now … in reality) along with everything I’m bringing to the hospital tomorrow for my surgery (again … in reality).

There was a jolt in my dream that let me know that everything that happened prior to that moment wasn’t real. And that I needed to zip up my suitcase and get to the hospital before I missed my surgery. 

And then I woke up, a little panicked but at least relieved to know I wasn’t headed to jail.

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My brain is swimming today. I expect I’ll be writing more. Thanks for “listening.”

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Three ways to keep up with ODNT … though I might fall off the radar for a few days this week


There are three ways to keep up with all things ODNT and they are all located in the far right column of this page.

(1) Find the box that says ‘OldDogNewTits on Facebook’ and click ‘Like.’  I manually update this page for new posts and there are sometimes comments and other things that get posted here that can’t be found elsewhere.

(2) Right below that is the Twitter box featuring recent tweets.  This forum can get colorful.  If you want in, click ‘Follow.’

(3) Scroll down more to find a box marked ‘Subscribe by Email!’to (duh!) subscribe to the blog via email and get automatic email notifications of all new posts.

And yes, of course, you can do all three. Those people are often served pie.

Also, I just love feedback.  Please feel free to comment, positively or negatively, on anything you read here. I’d love to open the door to a few more guests at the party.  Then, we can finally start using the fancy guest towels and I can bring out the good cheese.

Thanks to everyone for coming out to play.

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I like to surround myself with crazy people. It helps me feel like all the pointing and laughing isn’t being directed solely at me.


My friend, Vanessa, texted me yesterday about the ‘Barbie’ post. She was actually one of the girls at the beach with me the weekend before last. And she knows things like the names ‘Stavros’ and ‘Pavlina’ were lifted from the TLC show ‘Say Yes to the Dress‘ which I watched for the first time on the trip.  Her one text turned into a fun activity for the whole afternoon.  And Vanessa demonstrated that she could go head to head with me or anyone else on a Barbie & Friends Playdate for Grown-ups.

(To understand and appreciate this post, you have to go back and read the ‘Barbie’ post first.  And, if you’re disturbed at the idea of two grown women exchanging tremendously fanciful Barbie texts for a few hours, then you might want to just go back and read about the Naked Mole Rats again.)

Vanessa: I feel bad for Stavros. The foreign exchange program.  No family here.  I feel like I can really relate.

Me: You and Stavros always clicked. Honestly Pavlina was always a little jealous of you two.  Which was kinda weird. … OMG! Don’t tell her I said that!

Vanessa: She wants to hate me but she’s having trouble because I’m a genuinely nice person.  This really bothers her …

Me: I keep telling you to take her out for a corn dog.  Seriously, that bitch can eat.

Vanessa: I saw a bottle of Adderall in her purse.  She claims to have ‘Adult ADHD.’  I also happen to know it keeps you in a double zero no matter how much food you consume.  Have you ever noticed her twitch? Side effect from the meds.

Me: Crap. Are you serious? Should we tell Stavros??

Vanessa: I’ve actually seen her slip him a few.  He wears women’s super skinny GAP jeans.  Hello?

Me: I can’t believe they left me in the dark here.  You know, Bianca tried to tell me last week but I just threw my Orange Julius in her face and ran off crying.

Vanessa: They both wear Spanx under their jeans.  Nobody is that flawless without some sort of assistance! And wait … an Orange Julius?  Oh, no you didn’t!

Me: Damn it! I just figured it was their European upbringing.

Vanessa: My grandmother was European and she was short and stout with huge double D boobs. This is just very suspicious …  Oh, and I am really sick of them listening to Gino Vannelli all the time.

Me: Well, Stavros thinks he’s related to Gino … his uncle or something … so that explains his obsession.  But Pavlina? What the hell?

Vanessa: She just copies whatever Stavros does.  … Okay, I feel kind of two-faced. She’s supposed to be our friend.

Me: OMG! Me, too. Let’s go take her to Corn Dog 7 to pig out.  I am so getting the jalapeño poppers this time.  Last time, I couldn’t because Tiffany and I were sharing and she said they were way too spicy for her.  Whatev!

Vanessa: Yeah.  Whatev is right.  Call her up and see what she says.  Tell her it’s our treat.  Don’t tell anyone about the Adderall.  It anyone finds out, our friendship is so over.

Me: I’m on it.  And your secret is safe with me, girlfriend.

Vanessa: Thanks, sistah!

Me: TTYL!

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Is it possible that I have some far-fetched concerns about my surgery on Thursday? Well …


I got my hair done yesterday. For whatever reason, it was one of the painfully non-essential things I decided was very essential that I must take care of before Thursday. Really, how embarrassing would it be for me to be lying there on the table with an inch of roots not to mention split ends and major unevenness in my layering because I impulsively took a stab at trimming it myself last week? (Please. I am nothing if not civilized.) So … I called my favorite husband and wife hair rescue team (Hi, B & N, if you’re reading!) and they were able to work me into their always busy schedules.

I should point out that, while I truly have no issues with grey (yet!), I do color my hair … prolifically. Yesterday, we took out numerous pink streaks and went for more of an all-over red. Well, two all-over reds, really. A brighter, Sangria-ish one on top and a plummy Burgundy one underneath. My hair is my palette and, unlike a tattoo, no craziness I do to it will ever be permanent. Anyway, just as I was wrapping up with B, he mentioned that I should avoid all white towels around my hair for a while. Having colored my hair on and off since I was a teenager, I am no stranger to the staining effects that hair color, especially RED, can have on light-colored towels, sheets, necklines of clothing, etc.

But I bet not everyone at the hospital knows about this mysterious phenomenon.

What if my freshly-colored tresses leach out onto my hospital pillowcase? And what if it doesn’t happen until the surgery is underway and I can’t speak for myself? And then one of the nurses spots the red discoloration on the pillow … and mistakes it for blood … and thinks that my brain is hemorrhaging. And then the doctor yells out “Code Blue! Get me a neurologist. Stat!” … who of course will not be able to explain the ‘bleeding’ … and will announce that he needs to “take over this OR” for his surgical team. And then the two doctors will start arguing over “whose damned OR it is.” And, by then, my anesthesia will likely have worn off … just as one or both of them start coming at me with a scalpel. And I’ll be all “Wait, dudes! It’s not blood. It’s plummy Sangria hair dye!” And they’d be like “You don’t know what you’re talking about, crazy woman! Your brain is bleeding.” At which point, I’ll have to try to make a run for it to flee the lunacy of the OR and a very unwanted brain surgery. But, knowing me, I’ll trip over my loose gown ties that I cavalierly left undone earlier that morning thinking “What am I afraid of … that I might try to jump up from the table and run out of the OR? Sheesh!” Which, ironically, is exactly the story I’ll have to tell the next doctor I now need to see to tend to the injuries I sustained from the whole flight-from-the-OR-over-a-blood/hair-dye-mix-up.

Maybe I should just wash my hair a few times before Thursday to cut down on the possibility of the above catastrophe becoming a reality.

What?!!? It could happen.

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Grown-ups can still totally play with Barbies, right?


Last weekend, I spent my days hanging with my girls at a beachfront property eating, drinking, talking and, of course, shopping. And I don’t even have the shopping gene. (Yes, I know. I’m a disgrace to my gender.) Still, I did pretty well in that I at least got ideas for everybody … especially my daughter, who is the easiest one to shop for in the family. She’s happy with anything we give her. Right now, I have her wanting a naked mole rat. (Yes. I am serious.)  We went in and out of dozens of stores at the nearby outlet mall. Among them was Toys ‘R’ Us which, like the majority of the retailers there, was holding all kinds of major sales. I was strolling through the aisles when I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks – Black Label Barbies. I was a big Barbie girl in my day and these dolls would have hooked me then just as they do now. They were spectacular and, in keeping with tradition, completely inappropriate as role models for young girls.  I think the Black Label Collection is huge but the store where I was shopping had only four models so they’re the ones I’ll be introducing here.
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The Brunette

Being one myself, I immediately identified with her and named her Pavlina. She’s actually from Eastern Europe but we totally conquered the language barrier and just clicked like schoolgirls. She loves American food (especially corn dogs) and eats like a pig, which you’d never guess from looking at her. She’s my most honest friend and would never let me buy a pair of jeans that make my butt look too big or too flat. We’re planning a trip to Atlanta together in the Spring to visit the Coke Museum and learn all about cokes from around the world.
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The Dude

I named him Stavros. He’s actually Pavlina’s BFF … aside from me, of course. He’s originally from Greece and came over to America with Pavlina as part of her foreign exchange program. He doesn’t really have any family so the two of them became very close when they first came to the country. They are not intimately involved and hate it when people ask them if they are. Stavros actually never seems to have any girlfriends around, which Pavlina can’t understand since he’s such a super awesome guy as well as an amazing dance partner.
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The Blonde

I named her Tiffany. Pavlina and I can’t stand her. She’s always getting into everyone’s business and copying our style. If we have to hear her say ‘Been There, Done That’ one more time, I swear we’re just going to scream. She is a Lady Gaga freak (which probably explains her hair) and her Halloween costume was so completely inappropriate. Oh, my God and “No, Tiffany, for the tenth time today, we do not want to check out a Zumba class with you, watch Bridesmaids with you (again!) or go to Applebee’s with you. Not now. Not ever!”
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The Redhead

I named her Bianca. Pavlina and I actually thought she had potential … until we realized what a condescending bitch she could be. She’s got, like, a 250 IQ and thinks she knows everything. She’s always talking down to us and trying to quote famous authors and important people from TV like Jimmy Fallon and Oprah. Once, for our Cinco de Mayo work party, she brought this disgusting dessert goo to share with everyone. She said it was like custard and called it “flan.” We said it should just be called “gross food that is nothing like custard.” And we thought it was very rude for her to bring something that nobody liked.

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My husband laughed a lot but was also a little concerned when he finished reading this post tonight. Sure, my grown-up imagination can still totally hang with its childhood counterpart. Or maybe it’s the large Cajun Eggnog daiquiri talking. Either way, it was fun while it lasted. Oh, and if anyone asks … yes, I’d love one of these guys for Christmas.

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