Jumping Jack Flash...It's a Gas, Gas, Gas!

I had an emergency appendectomy last week.  I totally thought it was a gas bubble but my mom coerced me into going to the doctor.  Which led to going to the ER, which led to an ambulance rider, which led to surgery.  Mostly the story is too long to blog about because I get so damn wordy, but here's some highlights in timeline form.

Wednesday morning:  Wake up.  Feel shitty.  I feel bloated and like I have menstrual cramps, but the timing is wrong.  Finally call my mom (retired nurse practitioner) who makes me go the hospital.

Wednesday 2pm: Check in to the ER where I am immediately swarmed by a team of people.  One is asking me questions and filling out forms.   One is putting me in a hospital gown.  One is taking my blood pressure and heart rate and the other is setting up an IV drip.  It's total overkill for a goddamn stomach ache.  I mean, this is just a stupid gas bubble and I probably just need to fart...really bad.

 One the good side, when they tell me they need a urine sample I get to watch the surprise (or was it horror) on their faces as I pull out a grocery bag, duct tape sealed mason jar and hand it to them.  This is the benefit (or is it?) of having a retired nurse for a mom.  When I tried to pee before we left, she handed me a jar and said "They'll want a sample." So I now have the added embarrassment of being sure it's a gas bubble AND arriving with my own pee sample.

It's diesel fuel, but it grossed you out didn't it?  Also, I did not have THAT much pee.  This picture reminds me of this one time when I was driving back from Bend, Oregon and got stuck on a back roads highway for over an hour and no restroom in sight and just an empty 16oz Smoothie cup.  I swore to never wear skinny jeans on a roadtrip again after that.

Wednesday 4pm:  Doctor comes in, presses my stomach and orders a CT scan.  This is going to be the most expensive gas bubble I've ever had.  I'm grateful I have medical insurance and wondering if they kick you off when they find out you went to the ER because you had to fart.  So we do the CT scan and wait and wait and wait.

Wednesday 6pm:  Doctor comes back and says "Appendicitis.  We're scheduling surgery and you'll have to go the big hospital."

"Fine."  I say.  "Let me just go home and take a shower 'cause I'm gross and then my Mom will drive me over.  What time do we need to be there?"

The doctor smiles the way you smile at really stupid people when you realize they don't understand anything.

"We'll be transporting you right away.  The transporting is complimentary so don't worry about it."

Complimentary makes me think of a complimentary mint on your pillow.  It's an offering, a suggestion.  It's free.  But if you're not hungry, you don't HAVE to eat the mint.  So I say "Oh, thanks for the offer but I'm not in THAT much pain.  I'll just run home and take a shower and we'll head right there.  It will be a fast shower.  I just live across the street."

He doesn't bother with the pity smile this time, just says "The ambulance is on it's way and we're just waiting for the surgeon.  We'll keep you posted."  Then he lets the nurses take over, hooking me up with antibiotics in the IV and asking if they can get me anything.  Well, anything except a shower.  Or food.  Or water.  But I can have lemon flavored Q-tips.  Who needs steak when there's lemon flavored Q-tips?

Dinner is Served!

Wednesday 6:15 pm:  Ambulance drivers arrive and I have to wave them off of lifting me from one bed to another.   I took a selfie because I'm hoping this was my only opportunity to ever ride in an ambulance.

I actually asked the ambulance technician if he could scoot over so I could take a selfie.  He was very good humored about it.

Wednesday 7pm:  I had to wait a few hours for surgery, so I figured that was a good time to text my husband.  Not only did I text him, but I texted him while he was in China on a business trip.  Luckily, he was already at the airport getting ready to head home.  He immediately did what any freaked out Engineer does.  He googled "appendicitis" and began asking me all sorts of terrible questions.  Like "How many incisions are they going to make?  One or four?"  I asked him to stop texting me please.  Then he got on a plane.  I'm sure that was an enjoyable flight for him.

Wednesday 9pm:  Surgery was anti climactic.  I started to freak out so I asked for anti anxiety medicine.  The surgeon (who totally looked like a very hot lumberjack) said "Oh, sure." and before he could even finish that sentence, the IV meds kicked in and I was all happy.  Then I waited for the part where you count from 100 backwards.  Yeah, they don't need that anymore.  They just say "Ok" and then you're out.  And next thing you know you wake up telling the recovery nurse how much you wished you had taken a shower and not worn Hello Kitty underwear and that you would have put on more grown up underwear had you known everyone was going to see them.  And the recovery nurse somehow finds this amusing, even after the fifth re-telling.

I do not own these underwear....or this butt.

Wednesday 10pm:  This is the awesome picture that I had my Mom take right when I got out.  I thought I was smiling, but clearly my face hadn't started working yet.  Also, the recovery nurse arranged my bangs for me, which was very thoughtful of him.  It's probably because he felt sorry for me and my Hello Kitty underwear.

That's Hammy, the stuffed animal Turtle bought for me before I went in to surgery.  The doctors and nurses dressed him up for surgery and when I woke up, he was next to me all outfitted in his cap and mask.  He looks much more alert than I do.

Wednesday 10:15pm:  They gave me Percoset for my recovery.  They should rename that shit Perky-set because it kept me up all night.

Thursday  4am:  Did you know there is not much on television at 4am?  I watched re-runs of America's Funniest Home videos.

Thursday 10am:  I was discharged that morning and got home before Dave even got back from the airport.  I have been home recuperating (angrily, very angrily....I am NOT a good invalid) ever since and am now cleared to get back to regular exercise.  Which means I'm cleared to go back to thinking "Fuck, I should exercise" and having another cookie instead.

And that's the story of the gas bubble that wasn't a gas bubble at all.

Hey Coach!

So, I have some news..

I also have a nice formal letter about the whole deal.  But I feel like I would terrify my blog readers if I suddenly showed up with an education.  I mean, what would happen if I used proper punctuation, grammar AND I stopped cussing?  Right.  Probably nothing.  Except that nobody would read it, they would do what I do with everything.  SKIM!  And I don't want you to miss anything.  So I'm gonna break it down short and sweet, with pictures and swearing.  So you can read EVERY WORD.



Last year, I had a good job.

This is me sitting at home, working on cool pet food projects.  Only my fingernails and toenails didn't look that good.  And I was usually wearing pajamas.

But it didn't really work for me.  I felt lonely and unfulfilled and wanted to do something more.  So I quit.

I didn't have to stand in any line, thanks to my darling husband and his steady employment.  Also, I currently can't eat donuts, coffee or soup so I would have had to go stand in the "No Wheat, No Dairy, No Garlic, No Onion, Here's Some Twigs and Grass" line.

After much thought, teeth gnashing, wine drinking and private coaching sessions, I made the decision to pursue a career in coaching.

Did you even know I played basketball?  Haa!  Not THAT kind of coaching.  Life Coaching!!  Can you believe it?  LIFE COACHING!!!!!

This is what I think about when I think about life coaching.  It's why I haven't said much about it.  I'm coming to terms with my new career.  It is a bit woo-woo, but it's also very grounded and practical.  I refuse to wear patchouli, crystals or caftans so I think I'll be okay.  

When I googled images of "Life Coach" (with license permissions) this was the first one to show up.  I believe I will probably be channeling Samuel Jackson when I coach.  I will say things like "What the FUCK did you expect would FUCKING happen if you kept talking the talk but NOT WALKING THE GODDAMN WALK MOTHERFUCKER?!"  

I was looking for 'right life' pictures and this showed up.  If you're looking for your 'right life' or a cute swimming pool with a lifeguard, a slide and no other people in it (this feels 'right' for me this summer!!!), you should contact me.

I'm currently finishing up my training and getting certified.  I'm working with an incredible team of coaches through Martha Beck Inc.  Martha Beck is the OG of Life Coaches.  Yes, I just called her the Original Gangster of Life Coaches.  This is how you can tell I'm white.  There is a picture of Aaron Eckhart because when you google for images labeled for reuse of Martha Beck life coach, he's who comes up.  I love the internet.

Martha Beck has coached Oprah Winfrey and now is a regular contributor to her magazine.  This makes her totally legit because Oprah knows everything.  Which Oprah would totally deny, but just proves my point.

So, if you're feeling like this about your life, your job, your relationship, whatever it is.....

And you want to feel like this (because who doesn't want to feel like a magical pink unicorn shooting rainbows out of it's head), you should contact me.

For a limited time, I will be offering coaching sessions for only $10 a session.  I need hours for my certification and I want to help ALL THE PEOPLE so get in touch with me right away if you want to get in on this sweet deal.  Sessions are done over the phone or Skype (we can use video or not if you don't want to shower or get dressed...please no naked Skype calls.  I'm just not that liberated yet.) so you don't even need to leave the comfort of your own home!  Awesome, right?

So that's the haps.  My contact info is coaching@monasterling.com or give me a call at 206 841 3469.  Oh fuck, I'm going to have to create an outgoing message aren't I? Sigh.  Anonymous voice mail years are coming to a close.  I'm going to go pour myself a glass of wine and do some recording.

xoxo

mona 

Kids and Balls

Oh so many directions I could go with a title like this.  It could be an inspirational post about how kids, with their lack of social self talk, have bigger balls than most grown men.   Sorry for the disturbing visual.  Don't worry, it will get more disturbing from here.  This is just the warm up and your chance to quit reading.  Seriously, this may get disturbing AND personal.  But it's funny, so I'm gonna share anyway.  This is a NSFW and a not safe for family post.  Mom.  Grandma.  Stop reading.

Let's set the scene first.  Dave and I are in the front seat of the car. I need you to remember that Dave is 50 years old.  This is important for the whole  gross joke.  I won't point it out again, so if you miss it, it's your own damn fault.

Turtle is in the back seat.  She's telling us all about this game at school called Wall Ball.  First she tells us about all the different Wall Ball throws.  There's things called Roofies and Cherry Bombs. My mind immediately goes somewhere else (Duh.  I was an 80's teenager.) but Turtle explains about Roofies being when the ball hits the roof and so on.

We  are headed back from Target, where Turtle picked out a new Wall Ball ball because she got such a good report card (yeah Turtle!).

Turtle is  sitting with her ball on her lap.  At the stoplight I look back at her to give her one of those "I'm so proud of you and aren't I a good mom for buying you a present?" smiles.  She is licking her ball.

"What are you doing?"

"Licking my ball.  It's my way of marking it."

"Eww."

"Moooomm, all the kids lick their balls."

Dave snickers and I bite the inside of my lip.  He decides to venture in to the conversation.

"So, all the kids lick all the balls?"

Turtle huffs.  "Of course not.  We only lick our own balls."

More snickering and biting of inside cheeks ensues.  We both have a few un-shed tears that we are attempting to hold back.  Then Turtle goes on.

"We lick our balls to mark them as ours.  Nobody licks the school balls.  That's disgusting."

"Why is that disgusting?"  I ask.  Okay, I more breathe the question because I'm trying not to laugh.  Dave is pinching the bridge of his nose to keep the tears of laughter in check.

"Because,"  drawls Turtle.  "Those balls are like 50 years old and nobody wants to lick 50 year old balls.  That's just gross."

I turn to Dave and smirk.  If I could raise one eyebrow, I totally would have.

"Did you hear that Dave?  Nobody wants to lick 50 year old balls."

And then we exploded into laughter while Turtle yelled "What's so funny?  What?  What!?"

Forced Do Over

I made some sort of technical error a while ago and lost ALL the pictures for my blog.  Lame.  I left the posts up, but now they don't make any sense.  Especially since the captions are all still up, so you're looking at blank space that says "My favorite picture of all time!".  And having the memory of a mosquito, I have no idea what my favorite picture of all time was.  So, here's what we're gonna do.

We're gonna start over, you and I.  I know, I know.  We will all miss going back and reading some of my scarier posts.  Plus, there's no more jumping tutorial post and that was a damn fine post.  But without pictures, it's a post that makes zero sense.

Rather than crying over what's already happened, we're gonna put it behind us.  I'm wiping the slate clean.  I will leave up the last two posts because they deal mostly with poop and stomachs and you know how I love that.  Plus, they kept their pictures.  Probably because they weren't even pictures of me.  I'm not so open as to post pictures of myself on the internet when it involves poop.  Boundaries, go figure.

I haven't been taking many photos recently, but here's one of Turtle and I after a particularly rough afternoon.  I gave in and called Uncle after I lost a tooth.

Here's to new beginnings, clean sheets of paper (or even just clean sheets.  GOD I LOVE CLEAN SHEETS!) and blogs with proper pictures.  May 2015 be my best year and your best year and a great year for taking goddamn pictures.

My New Diet

This past year has been a rough one for my digestive system.  It got so bad this summer that I could hardly go anywhere before noon because I had to stay close to the bathroom.  I was trying to not aggravate my stomach and was having peppermint tea and honey for breakfast, an apple and some almond butter at lunch and then usually a salad and maybe some chicken for dinner.  Like clockwork, I would wake up every morning sick.  I felt nauseous all the time.  And I mean ALL the time.  It sucked ass.  I was crabby because I felt crappy every day for almost a year.

I finally went and saw a gastroenterologist who ran a bunch of blood tests and stool samples.  I know this is TMI, so if you want to skip to the bottom to get the results I totally understand.  There's only so much poop talk you can take.  Well, not if you're me.  I was raised by a Naturopathic doctor so we're all about the poop.  Anyway, I had to poop in this weird plastic thing and then put it into little vials.  That part's okay, but then you have to carry it to the lab in your plastic grocery bag.

I got to the lab and tried to hand the bag to the woman.  She recoiled like I was trying to hand her a bag of shit.  Oh wait, I was.  Apparently, it's bad manners to hand over your bag of poo.  They put on their safety gloves and then they hold it at arms length and THEN they check to make sure you've labeled your poo correctly.

Dog poo bags are much fancier than human poo bags.  

So, after my barrage of tests they found...nothing.  So my fancy pants doctor basically said that after all these tests, if they don't find anything they call it IBS.  Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  Which is sort of a catch all for any stomach disease that isn't already classified.  And according to Dr. Stomach (not his real name, duh) most stomach diseases aren't classified and the digestive system is kind of an unknown.

He recommended I try the FODMAPS diet.  Now you guys know I am an experienced dieter from my elimination/allergy diet days.  I smirked at him like, 'Sure.  Give me the handout.  This'll be a piece of cake.'  I'm sure Dr. Stomach had the last laugh that day.

I got home and read the print out.  Then I read the internet.  Then I downloaded an App for my phone so I could figure out what to eat.

Basically, you avoid stuff with the initials of FODMAPS.  Fructose, Oligo saccharides or something like that and I think the P is for Polyols.  Crap, if you want science go google it yourself.  I'm not here to talk science, I'm here to talk poop.

This is an incomplete list and though it says you can have bananas, it doesn't mention that you can't have ripe bananas.  Or that you can only have two pieces of celery before your stomach bloats up like the Goodyear Blimp.

I can't give you a list of what I can't eat because it's too damn complicated, but it's the hardest diet I've ever been on, especially for eating out.  I can't have dairy.  Unless it's lactose free.  I can't have wheat.  So far, so good, right?  I haven't been eating wheat or dairy since May of this year (totally fixed my migraines btw).  So...what's the problem?  Oh oh oh..what's the problem you say?  I can't have garlic.  I can't have onions.  I can't have honey.  I can't have almonds, unless it's less than 12.  I can have sweet potato, but only half a cup.  Brussel Sprouts?  Sure, if you only have 3.  Avocado?  No can do.  Mushrooms?  Nope.

So eating out is hard BUT there is a bright and very shiny spot in all of this.  I can have steak and red wine and baked potatoes and butter.  And that's pretty much my IDEAL meal right there.  Also, I can have bacon.  So maybe this diet isn't that hard after all.

Steeeeeaaaak.  Oh how I love you.  

After two days on the FODMAP diet, my stomach problems cleared up and have only come back when I have tried to re-introduce some of the other foods.  I have been told that in time, I should be able to eat more variety and I'm almost done with a month long course of probiotics from my dad that were expensive enough that I'm sure I'll have Super Stomach when I'm done.

My Husband Is An Animal

Stop with your dirty thoughts!  That's totally not what I meant!  Though, of course, he totally is there too.....

Dave came home from a recent trip with chills and an upset stomach.  He looked pale and unhappy and said that he had been super cold and had been pretty nauseous for the last 24 hours.  It's funny because he's so matter of fact about the whole thing.  He said "Yeah, having an upset stomach makes it kinda difficult when you're skiing."  Kinda difficult.   When you're skiing.

See, if it had been me and my upset stomach, I would have been hovering near the bathroom anxiously.  I would have been convinced that this was the flu to end all flus and that I was on going to be throwing up any second now.  Skiing?  No.  Getting on an airplane?  Hell no!  I would have holed up in a hotel room with cable television and pajamas and whined my way through the next 24 hours.

Me when I feel a tiny bit of an upset stomach.

Dave with horrible diarrhea, nausea and chills.

Then there would be another 24 hours where I would be afraid to eat.  JUST IN CASE IT CAME BACK.  And I would probably have to cancel everything for that day too.  JUST IN CASE IT CAME BACK.  And for the next two weeks, every time my stomach so much as burbled, I would be SURE that it meant I was headed back to Flu-ville.

But not Dave.  Dave simply took breaks when he needed them and continued on his merry way.  And though this didn't happen to Dave, I know quite a few guys who if they couldn't make it to the bathroom...well, they couldn't make it and there would be laundry later.  Oh well.

Dave just doesn't hold on to things or create some sort of terrible story about things.  He's like the dog who just vomits and then feels better.  Thankfully, Dave doesn't then try to eat his vomit.  He has limits, ya know.

Dave took a short nap and then thought "I just need a salad."  This goes against everything I've ever learned.  Haven't you heard of the BRAT diet, Dave?  You can't have a salad!  For God's Sake all that fiber will make it worse!  Don't you know that you're sick?  I didn't say that.  Probably because I wasn't home at the time.

So Dave eats a salad and feels better.  He figures it was probably too much pizza and beer the week before.  And he probably only figured that because I badgered him into coming up with a hypothesis.  What kind of human doesn't come up with some sort of hypothesis about HOW they got sick and what they had?  Oh, yeah.  A male one.  Who sometimes (and I'm totally jealous about this) is just more of animal than I am and doesn't need a crazy story to go along with feeling shitty.  Of course, if I didn't have crazy stories to go along with everything, then what the hell would I blog about?

So, I'd like to give thanks that Dave doesn't tell stories and that I do.  Now I better go check out that mole and figure out why I'm still coughing and if that pimple is just a pimple or the Pimple of Impending Doom.