Earlier this year, I started out 2008 with a bang (or really a slow and potentially deadly leak) and almost inadvertently killed myself after braising an endive. It’s too bad really, because I’m afraid that the whole experience has put me off braised endives forever. I had decided that braising was the culinary skill I wanted to hone this winter during the eerie post-December months when there’s nothing to do but apply yourself to tasks with a vigor meant to desperately lift yourself out of a seasonal mood disorder.
For the past two years I tried to master the art of steamed puddings, simultaneously with hand quilting. Ack. Could I be any more Martha, people? The first winter, I bought a steamed pudding dish (a bowl with a nice little ridge that is super heatproof so you can tie a cover on top and drop the bowl into hot hot water to steam). That’s about as far as I got—I bought the bowl but then promptly misplaced it. After losing it, I became obsessed with the idea that my ex-boyfriend has maliciously lifted my pudding bowl and taken it with him when he packed up his stuff, and himself, and head off. I finally bought another pudding bowl the next winter, but by then, the stewing over the alleged bowl-lifting had ruined my not-yet hatched hobby. Plus, the whole idea of me, single white quarterlife spinster, huddled over the cooker with special cooking string and a hunk of suet, made me feel tired. Braising for one seemed much better—take something tough, and often cheap, and make it tender.
Months before, my father had let me borrow (or lift) a braising book. The recipes were overwhelming requiring a massive kitchen kit. I was ready to put it in a hard to reach place where I could admire its spine, thinking, hey, I may be a quarterlife spinster, but I have a whole book dedicated to braising. Then, yes friends, I realized that I may be a quarterlife spinster because I have a book on braising. So I decided not going to just look at the book, trying to decide what its place in my apartment meant about me as a person, globally speaking. I was going to use it, and I would start with one of the multiple suggestions for braising endives.
After a few tries, the way I have been making my braised endives is a loose loose interpretation of braise. I cut the endive in half lengthwise. I brown it in some fat after I’ve cooked up some bacon, cut in postage stamp sizes, and set the piggy crisps aside. Then I figure out whatever kind of liquid I feel like/have on-hand—chicken broth mostly, sometimes a little sherry, and some water—and cook it slowly over low heat until the leaves are delicious and mushy and not at all bitter and eely like endives are normally. In the meantime, I cook up some white, refined, bad ass/for you rice.
The irony of my endive trouble is that I have spent a few evenings cleaning up the meal, worrying about toxins—those used in the growing of the endive in a Holland greenhouse, not the gas used to heat up my skillet. The Whole Foods (yes, I’m bougie, wanna tussle?) only has a basket of endive, “conventionally” grown flown all the way here from Holland—or, the kind of vegetable that would make Michael Pollan tsk. I felt bad about the fossil fuels involved in my braised endive, but honestly, the pesticides that I imagined had been slowly cooked into the leaves, worried me more. I would soak the rice saucepan, and scrub the braisepan, and feel guilty.
On the night when the endive lost me as a customer, I was cooking up my meal of (singledom) champions and talking on the phone. The whole time I was thinking, this is fabulous—you’re well on your way with your seasonal disorder hobby. And you’re not making yourself cereal for dinner. And protein in your favorite form: bacon. Maybe partly due to my self-congratulatory state, after I had lifted the endive onto my plate, I left the stove on its low-so low to braise—level.
Despite my braising skills, I didn’t enjoy the dinner. I was nauseous—what a bummer! I tried to read but felt distracted. Spaced out, I watched tv instead. I shuffled off to sleep a little early. All the while natural gas was filling my studio apartment, where my bed is closer to the stove than most of your beds are to your toilets—or your freaking nightstands.
Early the next morning I answered the door to see a posse of gas-smelling neighbors from my hall and a security guard. A handful of them came into the apartment to check the stove—saw that it was still braising an imaginary endive into absolute oblivion—and barked orders at me to open the windows, the guard shouted something into the walkie talkie and then everybody left. I’m on the 36th floor, with complex “suicide-proof” windows, so opening the windows in my gas-induced haze was easier said than done.
Oh well, inadvertently almost killed myself. I guess I can check that off the bucket list. I don’t have that single-woman-living-alone-in-the-big-city scary thoughts thing about cats, piles of newspapers, and rows of sensible shoes—although I’m living in an apartment recently occupied by just such a lady. In the end, I’m choosing to focus on what my ever-optimistic slash cripplingly worried father said to me after I told him the story: well, at least you got to meet some of your neighbors, right? I’m going to be sure to give Harriet, the toothless lady living in the studio down the hall, my braising recipes—they’ll be perfect for current eating capabilities.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
A New Blog You Should Check Out...
So, even though I said I wouldn't set up a new blog, I just have to. It's non-negotiable. The world needs it. I've set up a blog to chronicle our experiences with the dating affliction I have decided to call "dry dating." Please check it out and post there with your stories. And even though I really want to be rigid and weird about the rules of dry dating and what counts as dry dating and what doesn't, I'm not going to be that way. If you feel like it was dry dating, I'm going to let you post it, and then I'll tear it apart with all the reasons why it's not the affliction I named and have grown to love, pathologies and therapists be damned. The link is also to your right.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year people. After a rocky two months, I’ve decided to return to ranting. I didn’t notice any difference during my break, so I’m back. Unabashedly back. With lots of rant-worthy topics that have been piling up during my hiatus. Sidebar: Yesterday I woke up too early in a haze and stayed in bed to think about silly things while I listened to my fridge rumble—this is one of the new glories of my studio apartment. I obviously don’t have such a handle on my low-grade anxiety problem because I spiraled out of control thinking about how in a couple of years we’re going to have this problem with the 20-teens dates. It’s stressing me out. I already have a bankcard that expires in 2011. Whenever I have to tell people when the expiration date I always falter for a second. You can’t really say “11” yet which, for some unknown reason, bums me out. I know most folks would say, “whatever, just say twenty-eleven.” But that sounds weird when you say it out loud sometimes. So I’ve just taken to saying it: two thousand and eleven. Then I feel like a tool.
You should know that my posts may veer off into the food category every so often. I thought of starting a separate blog for my handful of faithful readers (I read your blogs too!) but decided that was lame since, you know, I have a hard time keeping this one looking so high tech and updated and all. Why food? Well, apart from protecting our rights to decide how we manage our lady-parts, I really like eating, reading, and talking about food. At the end of last year I thought that I could both indulge my interest in food and actually take my therapist’s advice of branching out of my comfort zone. It has been almost six months since I started seeing her, and I just haven’t really even done much of my homework so far. Forty-five minutes feels like nothing each week, but six months of them really adds up. No more excuses. So I signed up for a food writing class. When I told my therapist she didn’t even look that pleased, I think partly because it’s not really social and it’s a class, so that’s not technically out of my comfort zone. She suggested a social dancing class, ok? I thought this was compromise.
I collected story ideas for weeks. And as I tend to do with anticipation nerves, I took it way too seriously and proceeded to completely wring all the fun or joy out of the assignment so that by the time I arrived on the night of the first class, I was pickled in my own de-fun-ification and felt like I’d already taken the eight week course. The class is probably what everybody else in the class wants, and maybe what I should want from the experience. It’s geared toward teaching us how to sell stories and write for publications that might actually ever publish our stories. When I read out my ideas I was told that I was a pontificator, and that no one knew who I was so why would they want to read my rants on food…even if it they were entertaining? Ouch. I’m having to pump myself up to return.
Anyhoo, I’ve decided that I’ll just post the stuff I’d really like to write about here. And figure out how to write for the class later. I have to go off to babysit (also not following therapist’s advice on that one either), but I’m going to list out some of my ideas that were shot down so that you can have some teasers about what may be coming in the next week.
-a description of “zone eaters” and how it’s not actually just an ocd problem.
-how different people cook for one, and what this might say about how they feel about (often) being alone
-a rant on how cookbooks start with what you need to buy instead of anything on taste or…food
-tomato paste. yep tomato paste
Ok, see you soon.
You should know that my posts may veer off into the food category every so often. I thought of starting a separate blog for my handful of faithful readers (I read your blogs too!) but decided that was lame since, you know, I have a hard time keeping this one looking so high tech and updated and all. Why food? Well, apart from protecting our rights to decide how we manage our lady-parts, I really like eating, reading, and talking about food. At the end of last year I thought that I could both indulge my interest in food and actually take my therapist’s advice of branching out of my comfort zone. It has been almost six months since I started seeing her, and I just haven’t really even done much of my homework so far. Forty-five minutes feels like nothing each week, but six months of them really adds up. No more excuses. So I signed up for a food writing class. When I told my therapist she didn’t even look that pleased, I think partly because it’s not really social and it’s a class, so that’s not technically out of my comfort zone. She suggested a social dancing class, ok? I thought this was compromise.
I collected story ideas for weeks. And as I tend to do with anticipation nerves, I took it way too seriously and proceeded to completely wring all the fun or joy out of the assignment so that by the time I arrived on the night of the first class, I was pickled in my own de-fun-ification and felt like I’d already taken the eight week course. The class is probably what everybody else in the class wants, and maybe what I should want from the experience. It’s geared toward teaching us how to sell stories and write for publications that might actually ever publish our stories. When I read out my ideas I was told that I was a pontificator, and that no one knew who I was so why would they want to read my rants on food…even if it they were entertaining? Ouch. I’m having to pump myself up to return.
Anyhoo, I’ve decided that I’ll just post the stuff I’d really like to write about here. And figure out how to write for the class later. I have to go off to babysit (also not following therapist’s advice on that one either), but I’m going to list out some of my ideas that were shot down so that you can have some teasers about what may be coming in the next week.
-a description of “zone eaters” and how it’s not actually just an ocd problem.
-how different people cook for one, and what this might say about how they feel about (often) being alone
-a rant on how cookbooks start with what you need to buy instead of anything on taste or…food
-tomato paste. yep tomato paste
Ok, see you soon.
Monday, December 3, 2007
How Bios Are Terrorizing Me
Unfortunately the following is probably true: I am most likely headlong into a quarter-life career/how I spend the daytime hours/what am I really good at/too much focus on myself crisis. I’m going to borrow my least favorite science-perverting tactic of the religious right and argue that the former is true because I can’t totally disprove it. I’m hoping this will feel empowering to use their tools for my own ends. So far just re-reading the last few sentences makes me more angry. But this general malaise is part of why I started what I have dreaded for months, maybe even a year—years would be pushing it. I have resumed the task of writing my resume.
I think it’s probably all part of the quarter-life crisis thing, but on some days it’s because my job makes me insane. My rage toward piss-poor health policies, the ridonkulous lobs from the opposition on a huge range of what could be seemingly simple problems, and my intermittent inability to laugh at the bitter irony of this cockamamie reproductive rights “movement”—I could go on. So sometimes the only thing that will drive me back to my desk chair to reswivel my computer monitor and re-jigger my keyboard drawer is to try to write my resume.
I had a resume once. It’s in the same folder as my bio. They both live in the "embarrassment" folder in my file crate (I’m not really sophisticated or organized enough for a file cabinet yet). No, to be perfectly honest, I don’t have a bio, so please stop emailing me asking, “ok, we're all set! oh, and whenever you get a chance, could you just send over your bio? thx!” Every time I have to produce one for a foundation report or a speaking engagement, I quickly write something without taking any breaths and then go for a walk to walk off the shame.
For instance, last week I spoke on a panel with a doctor and a lawyer. Just us three professionals doing what we do. The doctor’s bio literally took 7 minutes, and included positions at no less than three major hospitals, positions on advisory boards, published journal articles, medical directorships at clinics across the city, and then I stopped listening because I can only really listen to four acronyms per bio. Tops. Note to biowriters, please go easy on the acronyms. Then came the lawyer, who, before going to a tip-top ship-shape law school, had done extensive advocacy work to develop groundbreaking models in harm reduction and substance abuse counseling. The worst part was that I let a colleague write my bio for that night, and unfortunately, the moderator read all our bios consecutively to “get it out of the way so that we can really dive into the presentations and have time for provocative discussion!” But this format only made me sound more lame.
Here’s a good overview version of my bio with my inserted neurotic comments which help explain why this task is more difficult for me than anyone else I've spoken to thus far on Planet Earth: I went to college (although sometimes I take that out because it is assumed I went to college (!) and saying so only highlights the fact that I haven’t gone to graduate school—eek); then I got a job where I have tried my best to excel (but instead languished?) for over three years (where there have been highs and lows and whenever I am asked to write one of these effing descriptions, I second guess all of my life’s choices…all of them).
I suck at resume-writing for the same reasons that I suck at writing my bio: I can’t stand to talk about myself with action-verbs without sarcasm or self-deprecation. Sometimes I really want to write my resume the way I truly envision it—but that would only communicate to a potential employer that I’m insane or way too big for my britches. Or it would get me a job working some place that would ultimately make me sad--sad about the world and sad about me. More sad about me. Which is generally why I decide that whatever job frustration I’m experiencing is nothing compared to the trouble of resuming my resume-writing. I think that’s the primary reason why I’m still in the same job 3 ½ years post-graduation. A general aversion to having to face my resume.
I think it’s probably all part of the quarter-life crisis thing, but on some days it’s because my job makes me insane. My rage toward piss-poor health policies, the ridonkulous lobs from the opposition on a huge range of what could be seemingly simple problems, and my intermittent inability to laugh at the bitter irony of this cockamamie reproductive rights “movement”—I could go on. So sometimes the only thing that will drive me back to my desk chair to reswivel my computer monitor and re-jigger my keyboard drawer is to try to write my resume.
I had a resume once. It’s in the same folder as my bio. They both live in the "embarrassment" folder in my file crate (I’m not really sophisticated or organized enough for a file cabinet yet). No, to be perfectly honest, I don’t have a bio, so please stop emailing me asking, “ok, we're all set! oh, and whenever you get a chance, could you just send over your bio? thx!” Every time I have to produce one for a foundation report or a speaking engagement, I quickly write something without taking any breaths and then go for a walk to walk off the shame.
For instance, last week I spoke on a panel with a doctor and a lawyer. Just us three professionals doing what we do. The doctor’s bio literally took 7 minutes, and included positions at no less than three major hospitals, positions on advisory boards, published journal articles, medical directorships at clinics across the city, and then I stopped listening because I can only really listen to four acronyms per bio. Tops. Note to biowriters, please go easy on the acronyms. Then came the lawyer, who, before going to a tip-top ship-shape law school, had done extensive advocacy work to develop groundbreaking models in harm reduction and substance abuse counseling. The worst part was that I let a colleague write my bio for that night, and unfortunately, the moderator read all our bios consecutively to “get it out of the way so that we can really dive into the presentations and have time for provocative discussion!” But this format only made me sound more lame.
Here’s a good overview version of my bio with my inserted neurotic comments which help explain why this task is more difficult for me than anyone else I've spoken to thus far on Planet Earth: I went to college (although sometimes I take that out because it is assumed I went to college (!) and saying so only highlights the fact that I haven’t gone to graduate school—eek); then I got a job where I have tried my best to excel (but instead languished?) for over three years (where there have been highs and lows and whenever I am asked to write one of these effing descriptions, I second guess all of my life’s choices…all of them).
I suck at resume-writing for the same reasons that I suck at writing my bio: I can’t stand to talk about myself with action-verbs without sarcasm or self-deprecation. Sometimes I really want to write my resume the way I truly envision it—but that would only communicate to a potential employer that I’m insane or way too big for my britches. Or it would get me a job working some place that would ultimately make me sad--sad about the world and sad about me. More sad about me. Which is generally why I decide that whatever job frustration I’m experiencing is nothing compared to the trouble of resuming my resume-writing. I think that’s the primary reason why I’m still in the same job 3 ½ years post-graduation. A general aversion to having to face my resume.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Flying the Friendly Skies
Lately I’ve been spending some time on planes. Here’s a recap: delays, weather, then a not-to-be-described incident on the runway that has led me to always choose tea instead of coffee before getting to the gate. Whenever I start to get nervous or frustrated about my journeys, I always tell myself, “at least I’m getting some miles on this journey.” I recently joined a miles program and have taken to it with the zeal that I wish I could apply to an exercise regimen or housekeeping plan. I don’t even travel that much, but every time I hear that I will need to fly somewhere for work or for fun, I immediately try to calculate the miles. I check on my miles, I’m truly embarrassed to say, every week. So far I’ve taken 9 trips and I have no idea what that translates to.
What do the miles mean? I know what they do not mean. A few months ago I tried to call the airline to see if I could use my status as a miles collector, someone committed to flying their god-awful airline whenever possible, to change my scheduled flight out of a delightful Midwestern city. Apparently, as a miles collector, I could change my itinerary by a total of 8 hours for a total of $748. Shunned despite my devoted mile-collecting which so far has had no tangible perks. In aforementioned Midwestern city when I checked in for my flight at the kiosk--using my miles number of course because record locators are for losers--an upgrade option flashed on the screen! Was I getting special treatment because of my slow but promising miles accrual? I touch-screened the option to get more details. Upgrade to first class for a mere $90. Frustrated with the tease, I chose to proceed without the upgrade.
What’s the point of miles? I don’t have a miles credit card because I don’t need any other tools to dig myself into a hole. Like the rest of my fellow generation-mates who went to boutique colleges and are trying to make it in the workplace without selling out, I’m already terrified by mounting credit card debt, the inability to get ahead, the impossibility of ever owning a residence in a place I would like to reside, the impending crisis of Social Security and the current breakdown of our health care system. I don’t even travel that much for work. I will never be a miles maven. But I love checking on the miles and trying to think up inflated estimates of the benefits of my having joined a miles program. It’s even better than my 401k plan because that’s actual money, and the options of my plan overwhelm me and make me feel stupid. This is why I try to ignore the emails I get from my miles dealer about buying more miles. The concept of buying miles ruins the joy I get in just checking on my miles. They’re something I completely don’t understand—tokens with hazy conversion rates that, in the best scenario, might help me go somewhere I probably would have gone anyway. Maybe I should start fantasy football.
What do the miles mean? I know what they do not mean. A few months ago I tried to call the airline to see if I could use my status as a miles collector, someone committed to flying their god-awful airline whenever possible, to change my scheduled flight out of a delightful Midwestern city. Apparently, as a miles collector, I could change my itinerary by a total of 8 hours for a total of $748. Shunned despite my devoted mile-collecting which so far has had no tangible perks. In aforementioned Midwestern city when I checked in for my flight at the kiosk--using my miles number of course because record locators are for losers--an upgrade option flashed on the screen! Was I getting special treatment because of my slow but promising miles accrual? I touch-screened the option to get more details. Upgrade to first class for a mere $90. Frustrated with the tease, I chose to proceed without the upgrade.
What’s the point of miles? I don’t have a miles credit card because I don’t need any other tools to dig myself into a hole. Like the rest of my fellow generation-mates who went to boutique colleges and are trying to make it in the workplace without selling out, I’m already terrified by mounting credit card debt, the inability to get ahead, the impossibility of ever owning a residence in a place I would like to reside, the impending crisis of Social Security and the current breakdown of our health care system. I don’t even travel that much for work. I will never be a miles maven. But I love checking on the miles and trying to think up inflated estimates of the benefits of my having joined a miles program. It’s even better than my 401k plan because that’s actual money, and the options of my plan overwhelm me and make me feel stupid. This is why I try to ignore the emails I get from my miles dealer about buying more miles. The concept of buying miles ruins the joy I get in just checking on my miles. They’re something I completely don’t understand—tokens with hazy conversion rates that, in the best scenario, might help me go somewhere I probably would have gone anyway. Maybe I should start fantasy football.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Look Left, Look Right
I spazzed out a little bit this year and decided to wholly forgo Turkey-day. It wasn’t a political decision, although there were at least 3 people who assumed as much, and I didn’t do anything to tell them otherwise. I went to two hippie schools where a required activity was engaging in liberal guilt with a lot of other white-ish people, and I can’t deal with more progressively-minded martyrdom. Not this year. This year I didn’t take a summer vacation, which was a mistake because come October 1st I was fantasizing about running away with the circus or inflicting serious bodily harm on almost all of my colleagues. I kept shouting during meetings because my fantasies would dull my ability to control the volume of my voice. I had fallen into a cycle of work, sleep, tears, followed by work and lots of celebrity tabloid gazing with mouth agape and brain a-fried. So I chucked the whole idea of Thanksgiving and jumped, literally skipped, onto a plane headed for London. England.
My trip was great. Here are the highlights: lots of cheese and coffee; a pork belly that was in my top five pig meals of all time which is a big deal because I’ve eaten lots of pig; many laughs with both adults and children; and an almost five mile stroll through town and across the river Thames. Lowlights, of which there is only one: 11 days ago I got hit by a car when it accelerated from a standstill into my body while turning out onto a street. It was certainly uncomfortable—most notably the mirror took out my hip and took no prisoners from my whole side flank. The car came out of an ally, smacked into me and then drove away. Hit and run is really too dramatic a term, but it was unsettling that my body wasn’t even able to stop the car long enough for a chat.
Everyone who hears I got hit by a car in London asks if I looked the wrong way. Strangely enough, I was with a pack of locals and looked the right way. I’ve always had an irrational fear of walking into London traffic. The people in charge of London must know that many foreigners feel this way because they’ve painted helpful little reminders to signal which way oncoming traffic will be coming from. I conquered the pain with massive amounts of arnica cream and hot baths. Only five days after the smack I went to the woods and used a saw to cut wayward branches off fallen trees for firewood.
Once I got on the plane home, the pain came right back. I don’t know whether it was the realization that my getaway was coming to an end or because sitting in a chair packed with other people for 7 hours undid all the tip-top work of the arnica and baths. Either way, I’ve been looking all ways now. I perform a jerky four-pointed check at most streets—left and right for oncoming traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, and up and down for a general poop check from bird or dog.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Health Care is Heinous, Part Deux...or why I had a hard time with my eye and somehow connected it to the larger problems with the health care system
We last saw my eyelid bump causing a minor nuisance to my face and a large nuisance in my pocket. Those who have used steroidal eye drops know what I’m talking about when I say that the steroids part is no joke. Not like my eyes popped out of my head or I had a bulging problem for seven days. But I definitely felt like my eyes were shaking a little bit and my eyelashes got clumped up and seemed to be working overtime. And the bump stayed large and in charge.
The first time I went to the doctor’s office, there was this terribly sad, but in a strange way adorable, elderly couple with pink eye. They kept clucking to each other in that elderly couple-speak that is either entirely too low or way too loud...probably because they can't hear that well. I was touched by their constant clucking about what to do about their shared pink eye, until I became highly irritated and remembered how contagious they were. During my second trip there was no pink eye in the waiting room. This gave me time to think about what was going to happen during my appointment. I am a control freak, so I like to spend lots of time pointlessly mapping out what I expect to happen in any and every situation I’m about to face. In this instance I was expecting another prescription for real Tour de France steroidal eye drops—the kind that would get me kicked out of competitive eye sports.
When the doctor took a look with her tiny eyelid spatulas that don’t seem tiny because of their task—spreading your eyelids far apart from each other—she was disappointed. I always feel bad when doctors are disappointed in my body’s performance, and this was no exception. She sighed and said that unfortunately the bump, instead of completely healing, had left a sizable amount of scar tissue behind. In my eyelid, mind you. I could try an injection of the steroids straight into the bump. I guess when I had wished for Tour de France steroids, I hadn’t thought an injection would the way that eye steroids are taken to the next level. This is part of why my constant mapping out/control issues are a waste of time. Who can prepare for eyelid injections? My second option would be a referral to a plastic surgeon. I laughed and said that I couldn’t go to a plastic surgeon. I mean, the bump wasn’t that bad, right? I could live with the bump. The doctor got a little tetchy and said, “well, of course you don’t have to do anything—I assumed since you came here today you were frustrated with its persistence.” I agree, the bumps “persistence” was bothersome, but after all, today was my follow-up appointment. I always keep those. If I didn't, I would lose my “responsible” patient status.
I knew I was already dropping thirty bones on the visit, so I opted for the injection of Tour de France steroids in the eyelid. Possible side effects: eye turns black and blue (great, it was the day before Halloween!), almost definite possibility that a small area around the injection site will turn extremely pale (could I be any more pale than I already am? I dare you, steroids, to try to get my eyelid lighter than it already is). I always look away from needles. Not an option during eye injections. But I didn’t move at all, mainly because I managed to stop breathing. The doctor thought I did great—so still! She obviously doesn’t do much yoga.
I should have stopped going to the doctor for this non-issue of an eyelid bump. By the way, there’s a follow-up to the follow-up scheduled for next week. And this story obviously seems totally lame in comparison to the stories you hear all the time that really highlight why the system is truly so heinous. Folks with pre-existing conditions who can’t get health care, or my friends who are self-employed and can’t afford health insurance, or the stories that make the paper where lack of health care has resulted in serious bodily harm or even death. Or the stories I hear from doctors and other providers who are face down in the heinous system with their hands tied behind their backs. But I can be shallow here if I want to be. I’m not going to the plastic surgeon—shouldn’t I get points for that? I spend so much time worrying about how to make the system better that I always hope that when I have to use the system for such a tiny problem, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Instead I always write to my friend C, who is just about as full of rage about health care as I am (note comment to previous post). Or I get all meta with my friend E, and we talk about wellness and disease models or the ways we're taught to relate to our bodies.
I'm thinking that I'm going to just let the eyelid scar tissue be. The Tour de France steroids did nothing--they didn't even make my eyelid a whiter shade of pale. So I'll end this episode of health care system ranting until the next time I have a pointless problem, like a corn or a common cold.
The first time I went to the doctor’s office, there was this terribly sad, but in a strange way adorable, elderly couple with pink eye. They kept clucking to each other in that elderly couple-speak that is either entirely too low or way too loud...probably because they can't hear that well. I was touched by their constant clucking about what to do about their shared pink eye, until I became highly irritated and remembered how contagious they were. During my second trip there was no pink eye in the waiting room. This gave me time to think about what was going to happen during my appointment. I am a control freak, so I like to spend lots of time pointlessly mapping out what I expect to happen in any and every situation I’m about to face. In this instance I was expecting another prescription for real Tour de France steroidal eye drops—the kind that would get me kicked out of competitive eye sports.
When the doctor took a look with her tiny eyelid spatulas that don’t seem tiny because of their task—spreading your eyelids far apart from each other—she was disappointed. I always feel bad when doctors are disappointed in my body’s performance, and this was no exception. She sighed and said that unfortunately the bump, instead of completely healing, had left a sizable amount of scar tissue behind. In my eyelid, mind you. I could try an injection of the steroids straight into the bump. I guess when I had wished for Tour de France steroids, I hadn’t thought an injection would the way that eye steroids are taken to the next level. This is part of why my constant mapping out/control issues are a waste of time. Who can prepare for eyelid injections? My second option would be a referral to a plastic surgeon. I laughed and said that I couldn’t go to a plastic surgeon. I mean, the bump wasn’t that bad, right? I could live with the bump. The doctor got a little tetchy and said, “well, of course you don’t have to do anything—I assumed since you came here today you were frustrated with its persistence.” I agree, the bumps “persistence” was bothersome, but after all, today was my follow-up appointment. I always keep those. If I didn't, I would lose my “responsible” patient status.
I knew I was already dropping thirty bones on the visit, so I opted for the injection of Tour de France steroids in the eyelid. Possible side effects: eye turns black and blue (great, it was the day before Halloween!), almost definite possibility that a small area around the injection site will turn extremely pale (could I be any more pale than I already am? I dare you, steroids, to try to get my eyelid lighter than it already is). I always look away from needles. Not an option during eye injections. But I didn’t move at all, mainly because I managed to stop breathing. The doctor thought I did great—so still! She obviously doesn’t do much yoga.
I should have stopped going to the doctor for this non-issue of an eyelid bump. By the way, there’s a follow-up to the follow-up scheduled for next week. And this story obviously seems totally lame in comparison to the stories you hear all the time that really highlight why the system is truly so heinous. Folks with pre-existing conditions who can’t get health care, or my friends who are self-employed and can’t afford health insurance, or the stories that make the paper where lack of health care has resulted in serious bodily harm or even death. Or the stories I hear from doctors and other providers who are face down in the heinous system with their hands tied behind their backs. But I can be shallow here if I want to be. I’m not going to the plastic surgeon—shouldn’t I get points for that? I spend so much time worrying about how to make the system better that I always hope that when I have to use the system for such a tiny problem, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Instead I always write to my friend C, who is just about as full of rage about health care as I am (note comment to previous post). Or I get all meta with my friend E, and we talk about wellness and disease models or the ways we're taught to relate to our bodies.
I'm thinking that I'm going to just let the eyelid scar tissue be. The Tour de France steroids did nothing--they didn't even make my eyelid a whiter shade of pale. So I'll end this episode of health care system ranting until the next time I have a pointless problem, like a corn or a common cold.
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