Check Your Feelings at the Door

Many of us spend more awake time with our co-workers than we do with our families, friends, and significant others. So it's important that you get along with your co-workers. Or is it?

I've always had a strong sense of separation between work and personal life. Occasionally, those lives intertwine. A co-worker has a baby or falls ill. You end up really getting along with with a co-worker and become outside friends. But for the most part, work is work and life is separate. At least in my life, that's how it's been.

I've been accused of being cold or closed-up because I don't share every personal detail about my life with co-workers at the Monday morning staff meeting, or because I like to spend my lunch break going home to walk my dog instead of gossiping with the secretary. I find excuses not to go to things like a co-worker's baby's christening. At my previous job, I spent the months leading up to my co-worker-close-in-age's wedding dreading that I'd be invited.

There are certain exceptions to these rules. At my last job, I felt quite connected with a few of the women, who were old enough to be my moms, and one guy, who was old enough to be my dad. And they were like parents to me. They gave me rides when my car constantly broke down and even drove me to and from the hospital when I was pumped full of anesthesia for an endoscopy. They knew I was in Florida, mostly alone, without my parents and they jumped right in. Because they had kids my age, I think they did what they would want someone else to do for their children. It was nice, and we became very close (by my definition). They supported me in my health struggles and I was privy to the details of theirs and their lives.

It takes me a LONG time to open up to someone. In my previous relationship, we had a running joke. One of us would shout, "Feelings!" when the other was getting emotional or sentimental. My close friends know I hate feelings, in the sense that I think there is a time and a place for them. It's not appropriate to show up to work crying because you and your boyfriend got into a fight (unless he hit you, and even then I'm pretty sure you should call the cops and/or a family member, not a co-worker). It's hard to respect someone as a colleague when they are constantly emotional or sharing little details about their lives. I remember a woman from the Junior League who told me she knew every little detail about her secretary's life - not because she shared it - but because she made all sorts of personal phone calls 3 feet away from her boss. That's another huge pet peeve of mine - personal calls in public places...especially the office. I remember multiple times I heard a co-worker call her therapist for a refill on her anxiety and depression meds - from her cubicle in the middle of our office! It was like she wanted someone to hear and go over to her and say, "Are you OK? I had no idea you were struggling with depression." Sorry, I don't care. Unless it starts negatively affecting your job which then affects my job...then I'll care.

I guess it was easier to hold this ideal of a professional life separate from a personal life when I worked in health care. I went on a blind date once and told the guy how seriously I took my job, and that although I wasn't a doctor (whose bad day can kill someone), I felt responsible for the patients with whom I worked, so bringing my problems into a conversation about their cancer or dying child was absolutely not acceptable. His job was to make sure college students had fun, and he balked at my comments. The date quickly went sour after an otherwise great three hours. I knew it wouldn't work when his perfect job meant farting around for eight hours a day. Don't get me wrong - I love casual Fridays (don't have them now), office potlucks and departmental retreats, but for the most part, work should be taken seriously.

Now that I work in higher education, it's a lot more relaxed. It's better and worse than health care in some ways, but I've noticed that feelings come into play a lot more. Any time we have an event, 18 people think they are entitled to be on the agenda as speakers. I'm assuming this dates back to the days of old - when pomp and circumstance and pageantry were revered, students actually respected their elders and faculty, and everything was an event - even meals at the dining hall. But it's 2012, and if you're going to have three hours of speakers before an actual event, go right ahead, but no one is paying attention. I don't do much public speaking, but I would imagine that if you look into the crowd and see numerous people looking down at their phones and iPads, you've lost them. Time to wrap it up. But if you tell speakers that this is going to happen and that maybe only one or two should speak, and they should keep their speeches to five minutes, they get all bent out of shape.

Obviously I don't want to get into detail about work, and no one cares about anyone else's job, but I'm just speechless sometimes at how personally things get taken. When you spend five minutes in a meeting telling us about what you did over the weekend (unless it's really cool like jumping out of a plane or discovering an alligator in your bathtub) or why you're running late, it's makes everyone else uncomfortable. Now, this isn't true when you work in a tiny little four-person department like I do, because if you're not family, you're not going to work well together, but the other 296 people who work for the same employer do not have to be your friends.

You're allowed to have feelings, but unless you are on that very short list of people I care deeply about (or we're both drunk, because I love everyone when I'm drunk), then don't bring them up in my presence or else I will think less of you. Just being honest...

As My Rage Dissipates...

On my way into work this morning, everyone seemed to be in an even bigger rush than normal during rush hour. I like to drive in the middle lane because, well, that's where you're supposed to drive, but also because there are several on and off ramps on my route, so I like to be out of the right lane to let those cars on and off, and the left lane is just downright scary on I-91 in Springfield. But through the heart of downtown, the road is so bad in the middle and right lanes than I almost always try to get into the left lane for that mile-long stretch so that I don't spill my coffee or even worse, have an accident (and I don't mean a car crash). It is SO bumpy. I know that means I have to speed up in the left lane or else face the wrath of psycho woman-doing-her-makeup-while-yelling-at-her-toddler-and-switching-lanes-to-maintain-her-90mph-speed, but no matter where I drove today, I was being tailgated. Mind you, I was hovering between 65 and 70mph, until the speed limit drops down to 55mph in that god-awful stretch of bumpiness, and then I was still going around 60mph to avoid being trampled.

Normally, my rage would have kicked in and I would have started giving these drivers nasty looks, letting them pass then tailgating to give them a taste of their own medicine, and just getting myself all worked up. Actually, in the past, I would have been driving just as fast as them, so it probably wouldn't have been an issue. But since I recently got into a minor accident at an intersection and my insurance will likely skyrocket because of it, I drive like I have a state trooper in my backseat with a checklist, ready to take away my license. Besides, I'm responsible and leave when I need to in order to get to my destination a few minutes early, so that even if there's traffic, I arrive on time. Genius, eh?

Instead, today I let people drive around my like race cars while I maintained my legal speed as well as a sense of peace. Let them rush. I will get to work safely and on time as long as they don't cause any accidents up ahead. Eventually, I got through the downtown area and mass of exits, and I was "home free." Except I wasn't.

Right where I got into my accident, a car came flying up behind me. I could see the flamboyant dude (is that an oxymoron?) in my mirror - talking on his phone, flapping his other hand around instead of keeping it on the wheel. I think I could read the time on his watch - that's how close he was. Like, if I let my foot of the gas, he would have plowed into me. So I slowly decelerated since we were coming to the awful intersection where I and all of my co-workers have been involved in accidents, and where I see one at least once a week. He never got off my tail. I held my breath as I came to a complete stop to check for oncoming traffic, almost certain I was about to be rear-ended. Thankfully, I was wrong. I watched in my rearview mirror as he cut off two cars to turn instead of giving them their right of way. Awesome. Then, up ahead, a bus was stopped to pick up passengers. I could see him yelling at me in his mirror since we were stopped. He hung up his phone at some point, or put it down, because now he was yelling with both hands in the air. Eventually, we got going again and I was getting annoyed so I decided to go about 15mph. Granted, we are driving up a steep hill, turning a curve, and passing through a school zone that is also currently a construction zone. He starts laying on his horn and screaming more, so I slow down to 10mph.

Let me tell you: this was pure bliss. I was doing nothing wrong and had we both been pulled over, he would've gotten a warning or even a ticket and I would've been praised for slowing down for schoolchildren and construction workers. Instead of taking a hint, he took a sharp right turn onto a side street to apparently get ahead of me. I was about .1 mile from the parking lot at work, so I didn't get to see where he was going in such a freaking hurry, but I gave myself a figurative pat on the back for staying calm and slowing down instead of giving him the finger or slamming on my brakes. I actually felt a little bad because he was apparently late for something, and I had to keep reminding myself that I was being the responsible driver and he was breaking all sorts of driving laws, and I had no reason to feel guilty.

I think yoga is working...

Getting Back to the Old Me

I found out on Monday that I am officially ready for eye surgery. Thyroid eye disease can be a nasty little bugger, and often times, people must wait years until the disease “calms down” enough before they can have surgery. I am fortunate in that regard because I only developed moderate TED in July 2011, so 13 months ago, and it “calmed down” in October. I’m not fortunate to have TED, as many people experience no eye involvement with Graves disease, but my eyes started changing soon after I was diagnosed. I always had deep-set eyes that I was somewhat self-conscious of because, from a profile view, my eyebrows almost “stuck out.” Within a few months of my Graves diagnosed, my eyes began bulging not to the point that it was noticeable to anyone but me, but enough that my eyes now lined up with my eyebrows from a profile view. Unfortunately, a year later, my eyes bulged to the point that I became unrecognizable to people who hadn’t seen me in a few years. This was devastating, and extremely painful—both physically and emotionally. Now that the physical pain is gone and the swelling is under control, my surgeon is ready to operate.

The official name of the procedure I’m having is a bilateral (meaning both) orbital decompression. An ENT surgeon will enter through my nose to remove the medial wall (between my eyes and nose) on both sides, and part of the orbit floor (the bone under my eyes). My oculofacial surgeon will create a small incision on the outside of both eyes to remove the lateral (outer, near my temples) walls. He told me the scars would fade into my wrinkl…oh yeah, I don’t have wrinkles. Anywho, they will be tiny little scars that probably only I will notice, and since this whole TED thing required steroids that caused acne, I rarely leave the house without makeup anyway so I’m sure the scars will be nearly invisible. The point of the surgery is to create more room around my eyes so that they can go back into my head where they belong. Normally, this can be achieved by only removing fat, but since mine is pretty significant, they need to remove bone. You don’t need that bone anyway.

Since two surgeons will be operating on me, so the surgery is almost two months away on Sept. 25. I’m ready today but I still need to meet the ENT, see my primary care doctor just to ensure everything else is working properly and my ticker isn’t going to give out on the operating table.

I have never told my co-workers or boss about Graves or my eyes. But now I have to. So last week, when I officially got the surgery date, it was a convenient coincidence that my boss wanted to know if I was taking any vacation time and if not, why not? It’s summer and pretty quiet here with no students on campus, so better now than during the semester. Too bad I don’t get a real vacation now that I have to use my sick time, personal days, and two weeks of vacation (in that order) for surgery and the lengthy recovery.

Thank goodness, even though I went into my boss’s office shaking, she was more curious than anything else. Concerned, too, and that’s probably because her daughters are only a few years younger than me. It turns out a former colleague had Graves and TED but quit shortly after their diagnoses and onset. Strange, because a former colleague at my previous job had Graves also. That’s three PR people who have it, and I’m sure many more. They say it’s caused by stress, so no surprises there. PR is hardcore.

The recovery is supposed to be pretty intense. Aside from all the risks surgery carries, and the pain and swelling and the fact that I will look like I got into a brawl, there is a 50/50 chance that I will develop double vision (strabismus) regardless of any precautions the surgeons take. It just happens. If I do, and it doesn’t go away after two weeks like many double vision does, then I will need eye muscle surgery after about three months. It’s a fairly simple procedure. If I don’t need that, the next surgery will still be three months later to lower my eyelids. Since my eyes have been bulging for more than year, the eyelids have stretched over them. Once my eyes go back to normal, the lids will still be "stuck" up over where the top of my eyeballs would hav been, and I will still look surprised all the time. If I need the eye muscle surgery, the lid surgery will be three months after that, so we are talking six months worth of surgery and recovery at minimum, or nine months to a year if I need all three. I planned for this, and I’m freaking ready.

I took a full week off, and we are going to play the rest by ear. Maybe I will work the second week doing half-days or working from home or some sort of part-time arrangement, and then I will still come back to work on Day 15 bruised and swollen but probably OK to work and drive, unless I get that double vision. That’s a bridge I don’t plan to worry about until it comes time to cross, but I have to make at least tentative plans in case that happens. If it does, I won’t be able to drive, and will rely on my dad mostly. My boss passes me on her way in, so we could probably work something out for most days, and my dad gets out of work before me but doesn’t work too far from here, so it would just be those days where other people have appointments or meetings and I maybe need to work from home or something. Again, that’s a bridge I’ll cross when I get there.

Here is the photo my surgeon is going to use as a reference. He said, “You look adorable here.” I took that to mean I don’t look adorable now. Nah, he is the most genuine person I have ever met in the health care field, so what he meant is that although people say, “Your eyes look fine,” or, “But you have such big, pretty eyes,” that the changes since TED are significant and severe, and this surgery is medically necessary (if it wasn’t, insurance wouldn’t cover it). On a somewhat unrelated note, I agree with the surgeon. I like this photo of me. I used to be very comfortable in my own skin. I never thought I was hot (too plain) or gorgeous (too flawed), but I thought I was pretty and like the way I looked. Because this is “the look” we’re going for, I think it would be helpful if I cut my hair to be about the same length, and did my best to lose any excess weight I can before surgery. My thyroid levels are a whole other issue, and I have little control over my weight and metabolism right now while we are still sorting everything out, but I have decided to really cut out junk. I’m still going to eat dairy products and red meat and carbs, but I’m going to try and eat as little processed food as I can, while still allowing myself to eat whatever I want for two meals a week, which is probably going to be my Dunkin Donuts on Friday mornings and a dinner out with friends or family. Otherwise, I’m eating lean protein, fruits, vegetables, healthy starches, dairy (ice cream is my weakness), and lots of water, and less coffee. The reason I’m going to cut my hair is not just because I want to look like this, it’s also because my hair is really long and there won’t be a female presence in the days after surgery (more on that later) to help me with it, so the less I have to deal with, the better.

That was my headshot at my job on Sanibel Island. It was taken in May 2009, about nine months before I was diagnosed with Graves but probably only a few weeks before the Graves started (I began noticing symptoms in July that I attributed to all sorts of other causes until I was diagnosed and realized all the symptoms were Graves symptoms). Here is my headshot for my current job, taken in February 2012. Drastic difference. No, I have not colored my hair. But it was definitely lighter when I worked on an island every day, and the lighting in the recent headshot was really odd. And, I was squinting as hard as I could here. I always do in photos now.

So, for an accurate look at my eyes, I leave you with this - a photo comparison of my eyes in May 2009 versus August 2012, a little more than years apart. I'm not squinting in the first photo or trying to open my eyes wide in the second photo, just smiling.

Spoon Theory

This analogy of what it's like to have an autoimmune disease was recently shared on a website I regularly visit. First of all, I love that the website is called, But You Don't Look Sick. I think I look sick, but most people don't. My family thinks I look sick, because they watched me drop 20 pounds and go through hell without a diagnosis for several months, then they watched me face the decision of surgery or radiation, then they watched my eyes bug out of my head, and then they watched my face and body completely transform (aka gain it all back and then some) when I was on steroids for six months that saved my eyesight but ruined my social life for a while. My good friends know I look sick. Everyone else just thinks I'm overweight and that I always looks surprised. Guess what? I don't care anymore. I'm happy, slowly getting better, and about to embark on the biggest transformation of my life (I promise to blog about that next week). I know I'm sick and the people who matter know I'm sick. End of story. Except it doesn't end. Because people tend not to believe others are sick, and let that affect their opinions all too often. We judge each other way too much. So I've decided to educate people who prefer to judge me and others with Graves and in particular, thyroid eye disease. So please, take 10 minutes and read the Spoon Theory.

The spoon theory is applicable to most autoimmune diseases. And although Graves usually isn't as debilitating as lupus, it can be just as serious and you can die from it. And when Graves goes undiagnosed like mine did, or remains severe even after starting medication like mine did, it can really wreak havoc on a lot of things. For me, my social life took the biggest hit. Forget the appearance aspect...when going to work and making dinner take all your energy and you have to cancel your Friday night plans, no one asks if you need anything. Instead, they take it personally, get pissed off, and assume you are making excuses. Well, you know how the saying goes: when you assume, you make and ass out of u and me. I make decisions about how I spend my free time by first determining if I want to do X. I spent too much time in my past doing things to make others happy even if I was miserable. And guess what? I stayed miserable, so now I don't do things that don't make me happy. I'm not talking about taking out the trash or doing dishes - although you could argue those things make me happy because the end result is a clean home - but things like spending my Saturday out when I would rather be home reading or taking Rags to the dog park. So anyway, if I decide I do want to do X, then I need to figure out if I can physically handle it. If it's 95 degrees and X is taking place outside, then I know the answer is no. If X requires me being in a brightly lit room where sunglasses would not be acceptable, then the answer is no. If X involves any sort of physical exertion, unless I can take a shower immediately afterward, then the answer is no. This is all because of Graves, not because I don't like the heat or bright lights or exercise.

So when I cancel on you or say no to an invitation, try to remember that A. I don't owe you an explanation but B. it's not personal. You have no idea what is going on in someone else's life.

Saturday Morning Project

We had our first official heat wave of the year last week. We're on day two of consecutive 90 degrees or hotter days, so we could be in the middle of our second official heat wave. So of course, I find an outdoor project. My thyroid issues make me so much more heat intolerant than others, but I also lived in Florida for 4.5 years, including 2.5 in southwest Florida, so as much as I hate the heat and sweat like a man, I can probably handle it better than most who have never lived in the South.

Anyway, back to my project. Growing up, we had a dirt driveway. As the little tomboy I was, I thought it was the greatest thing ever. Whenever it rained, I had at least half a dozen puddles at my disposal in which to stomp, play, roll and even from which I probably drank, at least once. When I was in high school, we finally joined the late 20th century and had it paved. By then, I was relieved. I was always getting my white cheerleading shoes muddy, and my brother and I couldn't play basketball on dirt very well.

Before

Unfortunately, I still ruin shoes to this day. Our sidewalk from the back porch goes straight to the garage and doesn't connect with the driveway. This sounds like a minor problem, but when you're rushing out the door in high heels or trying to get to your car on a rainy day in flats, there is no way across the grass/dirt (it's actually weeds, not grass, and the weeds are sparse) unless you take a 40-foot running start and leap. And in heels or sandals, that could end badly, especially if you've got my clutz gene.

My brother is a Woot! fanatic (I'm sure the proper term is something like wooter or wootite), and I finally took his advice and started checking out the daily deals. Low and behold, one of last week's woots was a five-pack of step stones for only $12. They arrived this week and I just installed them this morning.

After

I like that you hardly notice them since they are made from recycled materials and look very natural, yet they're sturdy and I installed them so they don't shift as you walk over them. Now I can walk across the small section between the sidewalk and driveway without sinking my heels 4 inches into the ground or ruining white shoes in the mud. Yay!

Burn Baby, Burn

I used to think the worst part of a sunburn was the peeling that randomly happened a week or two after the initial burn. You’re no longer red or in pain, and you’ve probably even forgotten you were ever burned. Then one day, you’re drying off after a shower and you notice dead skin on your towel. Sure enough, you look to where you were burned and there it is – a little patch of peeling skin. But as soon as you try to slough off the small patch, it gets bigger and bigger and half your shoulder or forehead is now missing.

At least that’s been my experience.

After this past weekend, I’ve changed my tune. I now think that the worst part of a sunburn, is the sunburn.

Let me remind you that I am whiter than white. Despite living in Florida for nearly five years, I moved back here in February as pale as I have even been in my entire life. When you have thyroid disease and are a native New Englander in the blistering heat and humidity of southwest Florida, you never want to be outside. Ever. I dreaded lunch breaks when I would go home to take Rags for a walk. I dreaded every walk, actually. I’d come inside from walking him at 10 p.m. at night, soaked through my clothes. It was disgusting and one of the reasons I moved back to Massachusetts. So needless to say, I spent very little time by the pool. And when I did, I always lathered up because I knew the Florida sun was stronger than the Massachusetts sun. At least that’s what I was told.

I spent the long weekend with my dad and the dogs at our cottage in upstate New York. We’re literally in the middle of nowhere, but civilization is only about 30 miles in any direction. So on Saturday, we decided to take a 14-mile bicycle ride on this recently created bike path in Malta, NY. It was a nice day, and I wore a tank top, so I got a bit of color on my shoulders and back. By the next morning, it was already tan and no longer painful, but I knew we’d be out on the water for several hours on Sunday, so I put a ton of sunscreen on my shoulders, back and neck. I lathered up before we left the house and again right before we got into our kayaks. But since it was hot, sunny, and my legs look like they belong on someone else’s body, I didn’t put any sunscreen on my legs. I even took it a step further and put my legs up on top of the kayak while paddling downstream to get sun on my entire legs, instead of just the top halves. Bad idea. After 3.3 miles and about 75 minutes, we reached our destination. We paddled up to the shore and took a bathroom break in the woods. The mosquitoes were bad, so I was eager to get back into the water and head back to the kayak rental place. On the trip back, I realized one little square on my right leg was turning red, so I covered it with a tissue and a Ziploc bag (that’s all I had in my kayak). About seven miles and two-and-a-half miles later, we turned in our kayaks and headed home. When we stopped for some lunch, I realized my legs were burned, but that’s how my shoulders were the day before, so I figured my legs would be fine and tan by the following day. Wrong.

By the time we got home, my legs were on fire. I was exhausted, probably from kayaking seven miles (using muscles I don’t think I use too often) and a touch of sun poisoning, so I took a cool shower and laid down. I never fell asleep. I rarely nap, but when I do, I’m usually out for several hours as soon as my head hits the pillow. I can sleep on command, which is why I don’t like to nap—because I’ll waste an entire day without even meaning or needing to. My legs were generating so much heat that I just could not get comfortable.

Just a taste of what my sunburn
looked like on Sunday night.

I got up and got ready since this was the only night we were going out to dinner. My dad knew my legs were really bothering me, and suggested he go get food and bring it back to the cottage, but I thought some time in the AC would be nice (our cottage does not have AC…never has, never will). So I put on a dress and a lot of aloe, and we headed off. I started to get dizzy and nauseous, so of course I ordered a glass of wine and inhaled the bread they gave us. My dinner was amazing, but I was so “off” that I barely remember dinner. By the time we got home, my legs were really hurting. I was sweating and it wasn’t even that hot. I cooled down with another shower, a lot more aloe, and some over-the-counter pain relievers and more wine. I laid in bed for probably ten hours that night, and never slept a wink.

That was Monday, Memorial Day, so left the cottage to head home around 10:30 a.m. The drive was brutal. I put my yoga towel over my legs because the sun shining through the window was causing even more pain, even though I’m pretty sure you can’t tan/burn though a car window. The heat was just so intense. After sitting for almost three hours (thank you, traffic), getting out of the car was interesting. It took me three minutes before I could stand on my own and then waddle into the house. I immediately filled up a spray bottle with vinegar and doused my legs half a dozen times in the next two hours. I laid in my room with the AC on full blast and Mad Men on my laptop, and finally fell asleep but only for about 90 minutes. I woke up hungry and in a lot of pain. By now, my legs were so red and swollen that I could barely bend my knees so going up and down the stairs was the worst. But I made myself keep doing it so I wouldn’t get too tight. I read for several hours before attempting to go to sleep, but sleep never came. I was in so much pain that I could barely keep from crying. I rinsed off my legs with cold water then sprayed more vinegar (it did help, but only for a few minutes) and finally gave in and applied some after-sun lotion because my skin was just so damn dry and tight, I figured it was what was causing so much joint pain.

When my alarm went off yesterday morning, it was almost a relief. I was exhausted but never fell asleep all night. I ended up putting together a pretty ridiculous outfit to wear to work, but it looks surprisingly normal when I put it on. I knew pants were out of the question, and I can’t wear shorts or short skirts (not that I wanted to show off my horrible burn lines), so I layered a long, white tube top swim coverup and a white sleeveless top under a pink, sheer, long-sleeved top and white sandals. It looked a little hippie-ish, but that works around here. The dress is so light that even though it touched the burn, I hardly felt it. While I was sitting at my desk, I had it hiked up around my waist (classy, I know) so that I could give my burn as much breathing room as possible, and because I kept dousing myself in vinegar and lotion, much to my co-worker’s nose’s dismay.

Thankfully, so far, Tuesday was the worst—it was the hottest day of the week, maintenance hasn’t put the AC in my office yet, and sunburns are usually worst in the first 48 hours. I’ve passed that point, so I’m hopeful it’s all uphill from here but we’ll see. I’m just praying I don’t end up with blisters.

'nuff said.

This is by far, the worst sunburn I’ve ever had. When I went to the Million Mom March in Washington, D.C., during my sophomore year of high school, it was May and not very hot but very sunny. I rolled up the sleeves of my t-shirt to make a tank top and ended up with second degree burns on my shoulder and permanent freckles that I still have to this day that weren’t there prior to May 2000. I remember shortly after the trip to DC, we had to take the MCAS test. You aren’t allowed to leave the room during the test (it’s like the Florida FCAT). I wore a spaghetti strap tank top that day because my shoulders had actually developed huge blisters. I must have moved weird, because all of a sudden during the test I felt this intense pain and heard this dripping sound. I looked, and the strap had ripped open one of the blister and pus was just pouring out onto the floor. I’m pretty sure I made some of my classmates sick, but I wasn’t allowed to leave, so I just put a bunch of paper towels on it until I could go down to the nurse’s office and have my parents come get me. It was awful. If I develop huge blisters on my legs, just find me a cliff or a shotgun, please and thank you.

I ended up going to the walk-in clinic Tuesday when I left work. Fortunately, it’s a real doctor’s office in East Longmeadow that offers urgent care without an appointment so it’s not like the clinics in the ghetto. The doctor didn’t laugh at me like I expected. She noted that the burns were severe, and not quite second degree, but certainly worse than first degree. I no longer have ankles or knees – the swelling is that bad. I could barely get my sandal on this morning. She prescribed Percocet, 500mg of naproxen (Aleve), lots of water, rest, and a cool environment. So that meant no hanging around my house except in the bedroom. Which I did. I ate a delicious fast food dinner so that I wouldn’t puke up the meds, and took them right away. Wow. Percocet is no joke. I see why people get addicted. The pain didn’t go subside immediately, but eventually I got very tired, slightly confused, and really happy. It was nice. I took another one four hours later as instructed and by that time I was a bumbling idiot. Fortunately, it was well past my bedtime and I hadn’t slept in three days, so I slept like a baby. I can only take it at night but I still feel the effects in the morning for an hour or two until I drink enough coffee and water.

Note to self: never leave home without sunscreen. Especially while kayaking on a lake on a cloudless day.

Dreams Realized

For those of you who are extremely close to me, you know that nursing school has been a dream of mine for the last five years or so. Every now and then, something happens that makes me want to go just a little bit more. First, I started working in health care back in 2008...and by working I mean slaving away at a desk doing PR for free and loving every second of it because I felt, in some small way, I was helping the patients. I got to share their stories with the world. I got to take their pictures. I got to sit and talk with them, mostly about the topic for the article, but I always found a way to get to know them a little better. I apparently have one of those faces - EVERYONE thinks they have met me or my older sister (I don't have a sister) or that I look exactly like someone. And I also have a tendency to have something in common with almost everyone I meet. Something that comes up in an initial conversation, like a mutual friend or a hometown or a favorite restaurant in Colorado. I know, it's weird. But these things happen to me every single day. I think it made my job as a health care writer easier because patients could relate to me without feeling intimidated.

While still in grad school, I was hired to intern for my third health care organization, this time for a hospice. I was sad before I even started, but I thought it would be good practice for my dream job: doing public relations for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. It's been my dream job since I was in the third grade or so (well the St. Jude part, not the PR part yet). As a Catholic school, we did the St. Jude Math-a-Thon every year. It's like any fundraiser where people sponsor you for participating, except instead of walking or running, you did math problems. I hated math - always have, always will - but I loved doing the Math-a-Thon once I understood how it helped sick kids. We watched films in class explaining the program and featuring different patients. I fell in love with the place before I even really understood cancer and medical research and chemotherapy. As I got older and settled on communications as a major, I found out I could marry my two favorite things. I applied for an internship with St. Jude every semester and even after graduation. I've even applied for a job even though I didn't have the seven years of experience they required. As it turns out, the president of the Junior League in Fort Myers knows several people who work there or sit on the board, and offered to get me an interview. I have since decided that Memphis isn't where I want to be right now (hello, I just moved home to be close to my family and friends again), but I will forever keep her offer in mind.

But anyway, back to hospice. All new employees, regarding of job title or responsibilities, were required to go visit homebound patients with a social worker and then with a nurse so we would understand the mission of the organization. The "ride-along" with the social worker was OK, but watching the nurse interact with not only the dying man (who was a brilliant college professor for 50 years but was about to die from Lou Gehrig's), but also his wife, totally changed my perspective on health care. I don't remember what happened, but I started looking into going to nursing school. Silly me, I assumed I needed a bachelor's. I was less than three months away from getting my master's in PR and told myself to forget it. I couldn't spend another three or four years getting a second bachelor's. How would I support myself? I later learned you only need a two-year associate degree to get your RN, but by that time, I was finally working a real, full-time, benefitted job and pushed my silly dreams to the back of my mind.

But it wouldn't go away. I quit my agency job to get back into health care where I felt less like a corporate schmuck and a more like a contributing member of society. I took every opportunity I could to work with the nurses. I got to know the health system's chief nursing officer/VP of nursing on a first-name basis. When I left, she told me to let her know if I ever needed a recommendation for any job or for nursing school. The nurses who I worked with on the nursing newsletter all encouraged me to apply for school and begged me to keep them up-to-date on my second career plans.

The college I work at isn't a hospital. But they do have one of the best bachelor's in nursing programs in the area. Aaaaand I get free tuition after six months of employment. One of my best friends is a nurse. Every time we talk, I ask her about nursing and she keeps asking when I'm going to apply. I was at a party this weekend, and met three nurses. After a few skinnygirl margaritas, I decided I knew them well enough to tell them about my then-somewhat-secret dreams to go to nursing school and they all told me to go for it. I tell people all the time, "Really think hard before you go into the PR field." It's intense. It's not always rewarding, and it's never fairly compensated. You can never shut your phone off and call it a week. You have to lie, spin, twist, cover up and "no comment" the media...hopefully not too often, but at least once in your career you'll have to do all of those things. Other PR professionals will agree that you have to be cut out for it. Nurses have to be cut out for it, too. But I've never once in my life met a nurse who said, "Don't do it." I don't know if it's me, and they think I'd be good at it and so they encourage me, or if it's just that every nurse loves his or her job.

So, something snapped this week. I'm not "planning on going to nursing school someday" anymore. I'm going to do it. It'll be hard to balance a career, volunteering and taking classes, but I can do it. I've only taken about half of the prerequisites to get into nursing school, so I'll have to start by finishing those up. But it'll put me one step closer. I'll be the oldest person in Anatomy & Physiology I, but it's offered 8:00-9:15 a.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays with lab 3:30-5:20 on Thursdays. That mean's I'll miss 45 minutes of work on Tuesdays and an hour and 45 minutes on Thursdays...since technically my hours are 8:30-4:30 even though I've only left at 4:30 once. I can easily make up those hours by staying late or coming in early. As long as my boss is cool with it, I see no reason not to take advantage of this opportunity to take a class tuition-free. And if she's not, I can look into classes at a community college.

I realize this post makes me sound all, "I'll be a great nurse." No, not at all. I don't even know if I'll become a nurse. All I know is that I HAVE to go to nursing school. I have to take my prereqs, get into a nursing program (RN or BSN), and pass the NCLEX. Then, in 15 years when I'm finally done, I can decide if I've had enough of the PR profession or not.

By the way, Happy Nurses Week to my favorite people! The timing of this post is purely a coincidence...I realized it after writing the entire post while looking for a good picture.