Exam week...blogs to follow if I survive.

Piss happens.

Well, it's been quite awhile since I have written about IC, the original topic of this blog, so I suppose I should sneak one in every now and then, right? If you are a reader of this blog for reasons other than IC, you may want to skip this one as it is probably TMI.
It's been two months since I underwent hydrodistension, which is a "surgery" used to diagnose IC. When they fill the bladder with water so that it stretches, a normal bladder wall will remain pink and smooth, however an IC bladder looks like it has the measles. Even coming out of anesthesia, and having no idea what the inside of a bladder should look like, I knew as soon as I saw my pictures that something was amiss at the Circle K. Hydrodistension is also performed as often as every six months as a therapeutic tool (if you have one of those insurance companies that cares about you...wonder what that's like!). For reasons unknown, stretching the bladder like a water balloon gives most people with IC a few months of pain relief. So far, the shooting pains in my urethra, which I mistook for passing kidney stones, have not returned. THANK GOD. Alas, some of the stranger symptoms of IC have returned. Each person with IC experiences their own range of symptoms. Mine include urinating as often as six times an hour (seriously, yesterday I went right before getting in the shower, and had to go as soon as I got out again), and always feeling like my bladder is full, but rarely being able to empty it completely. I will be honest in saying I'm not in pain as much as discomfort. It's like having an itch I can't scratch or a joint I can't pop. Some days I forget I have IC and others I am very aware.
There is something new going on however, that I am apprehensive about sharing, perhaps because I will have to admit it might be a real problem in my future, or maybe just because it is both embarrassing and personal. I haven't told anyone this, not even J (who knows way too much about my bathroom escapades), but as the blog gods are my witnesses, I said that I would be open and honest about my IC, so here it is.
Yesterday I almost peed my damn pants. Not in the "I can't hold it anymore" sense, but the "what the hell? Did a drop just come out!?" sense. I felt as though whatever muscle keeps you from letting go was about to let go on it's own and I tried to hold it until I made it to the bathroom. Unsurprisingly, I wasn't able to go. At least five times a day the full bladder sensation sends me sprinting to the bathroom on a fool's errand. This feeling of almost losing control out of nowhere was new though. It was the first time since being diagnosed and coming to terms with IC that I got angry and scared and bitter and pathetic. It was the first time I really hated my body for betraying me. I'm 25 and I swear to God if I start pissing myself....I mean I was the kid who never wet the bed (right, Mom?). I was the one at parties who could hold it and let the girl who looked close to tears go in front of me. Hell, I once held it for a ten hour bus ride in Ghana because the only place to go was on the side of the road and I thought it would be rude to go on some poor family's coffee plants. I am not the girl who pees herself!
It's low moments like these, and I know there are going to be a lot more, that make me wonder if this is Karma. This has to be punishment for something bad I've done, mean things I've said, committing the seven deadly sins, right? Then it dawns on me, "how self-absorbed is that?" Just the thought that there is a cosmic force out there keeping tabs on all my wrong doings, and paying me back by making me piss my pants, is so hilariously self-centered. I'm sure the Karmic forces have their hands full with Kim Jong-il and Charles Taylor and the Kardashians (just kidding.....kind of). The truth of the matter is that piss happens. My bladder didn't stop doing it's job because I've been bad, and it's not going to get better because I'm good. It is what it is, the future will be what it will be, and even though I may not always see the silver lining, I just have to accept it. For now, I'm going to stick the whole "I almost peed my pants like a 5 year old" thing in the denial file and cross that bridge when I get to it. Hopefully in no less than 60 years.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all

I'm not going to lie, I woke up this morning in the Bitter Barn. As I logged onto facebook I was inundated by hundreds of messages about people traveling home to see their families, craving their mom's cooking, etc. I don't get to spend Thanksgiving with my family because I have an evil teacher who is requiring me to stay in class until 9:30 p.m. tonight, with the threat of failing if we miss. This isn't much of an inconvenience to the 99% of students whose families live in the New Orleans area, but the 1% like me are pretty offended. Someone suggested that I merely "talk to the teacher and explain that my family lives 6 hours away". Nice suggestion, if she were a hooker with a heart of gold, but this is the teacher who gave me a zero for the day while I was in surgery. I've come to the conclusion that the idea that everyone is inherently good and kind is, well, crap. Some people just aren't kind and a semester spent with this woman has made me convinced of this.

Ok, now I need to make a list of gratitudes before I dive into a full-blown pity party:
1) Although I don't get to spend this day with them, my family is healthy. We received news that an acquaintance of J's, who was in a terrible accident with his wife and two young children a few weeks ago, was taken off life support yesterday, and his wife is still fighting for her life. There are things SO much worse than missing my second Thanksgiving in a row. In fact, I feel a little petty now as I imagine how this family will feel tomorrow.
2) I get to spend the day with the love of my life. Miraculously, the ship scheduled for tomorrow decided not to come to port until Friday, so I get to spend tomorrow with my other family; J and our pets :)
3) I get an extra day to study....and boy do I need it!
4) Thanksgiving is the day that J has deemed officially acceptable to deck the halls, so I finally get to add a little sparkle to our home, which invariably will put me in a good mood while I prepare to survive the last two weeks of school.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I hope you get to spend your day with the ones you love!

Happiness is overrated.

I haven't written in quite some time, partly because life has been busy, but mostly because I haven't felt inspired by anything lately. Nothing too terrible or too wonderful has happened to thrust me into a blogging flurry. In fact, my life has felt consistently in a rut lately. Wanting to avoid writing a bitter diatribe, I just haven't written at all. Today however, in an attempt to procrastinate from studying, I came across an article on the Nobel Prize winning journalistic marvel that is People.com that got me thinking. I know, the articles that get me thinking should probably be from the New York Times or CNN, but let's face it, mindless time-wasting celebrity fodder is just easier to stomach these days than following sex abuse scandals and watching our economy fall apart. The article was written about an interview that Brad Pitt had with Australian TV. Normally I'm not too interested in what's going on with the Jolie-Pitt's and their multi-cultural child army, but like I said, I'm procrastinating. When asked if he was happy in life his response really hit home for me.
"I think happiness is overrated, truthfully. I do," he says. "I think sometimes you're happy, sometimes you're not. There's too much pressure to be happy. I don't know. I don't really give a shit. I know I will be at times and I know I won't be at times. Satisfied, at peace, those would be goals for myself."
Holy crap! Anyone else feel a huge sigh of relief over those words? I know I did. Lately, I haven't been happy. Maybe it's hormones, not enough vitamin D, the fact that my IC symptoms are really obnoxious, or just the fact that I don't like school and I don't like my job. I have spent more than a few nights lying awake trying to put my thumb on my general apathy for life lately. J and I are experiencing a rut. Is it that? Am I unhappy in my relationship? When I think about a life without him in it I get truly sad, so whatever is making me unhappy has to do with nobody else but me. There are a lot of things contributing to it and sometimes when I'm in a valley it feels like I need drastic changes to get me on top of a hill instead. Then that snowballs into over-dramatism about the state of my life, which just isn't a good color on me.
I had never considered that the idea of constant happiness IS overrated. Just because I'm not happy now doesn't mean that I don't have an amazing life full of blessings and a lot of happiness ahead of me. Now that I think about it, who wants to be happy all the time? It would be like living life as a chocolate lab puppy....annoying as shit. As cliche as it sounds, maybe the valleys are necessary to make us fight for the hills, and appreciate the view when we're up there. I just need to stop over-analyzing my life and stop trying to force happiness into every nook and cranny. Hell, I will probably be happy the second I stop trying to be so damn happy.
Philosopher Pitt has it right. The goals of being satisfied and at peace with yourself (and I'm going to add in being aware of your blessings) are enough for the times when perhaps unconfined joy isn't necessarily overwhelming your soul. I'm really grateful that my penchant for vapid celebrity news paid off today because I'm pretty sure that the top of the next hill is right around the corner and I don't want to miss the view by always trying to go higher. I'm fine just getting through this rut, appreciating it for what it is, and looking forward to what's next.

Hahahahahaha!

This morning I stepped on our notoriously inaccurate scale, just to see ballpark where I am weight-wise. I ran 2 miles yesterday then walked another 3 with J and Roux, so obviously I must have lost like 15 lbs right?! Oh, it's so sad how my hopeful thinking works sometimes. Well, I stepped on and ping! the scale flew past my usual weight, saying that in the last two weeks I have gained over 60 lbs. Hahahahahahahahaha. Seriously, scale? You think I'm going to buy into your evil trickery? Our scale is like a live-in used car salesman. I did the math on how many calories I would have to have consumed over the last two weeks to validate this super-reliable scale's assertions. 3,500 calories consumed or shed is equivalent to a pound gained or lost, so I would have to have eaten an extra 210,000 calories in the last two weeks to gain 60 pounds. That's a lot of halloween candy.
Sometimes I think life throws me a bone and gives me a little chuckle every now and then to keep things light and to remind me not to take myself too seriously. I have a long day of mind-numbing schoolwork ahead of me, and I've been sleeping like a mother with a newborn lately because my bladder wakes me up every couple of hours, but I started this morning off with a laugh. If you ask me, that is the best way to start a day.

Failure Dwelling

On Saturday, J and I hosted a Halloween party at our house. I spent way too much time and money creating a Hedwig costume, and to my amazement J went along with the plan by dressing up as Harry Potter without complaint. I absolutely love Halloween, probably because it elicits some of my favorite childhood memories. I have no unhappy memories of Halloween as a child (which I can't say about other holidays), so it probably became one of my favorite days for that reason.
However this year, unfortunately, I created a bad memory all by myself, without anyone's help. A friend from high school whom I haven't seen in about 7 years happened to be in town and stopped by the party right around the time it was winding down. We started catching up about people we know in common and I ended up making a snarky comment that, although it was true, would have been better left in my own head. The friend, as it ended up, was still rather close to the person I made the comment about and although I am sure they have not thought of it since, my actions haunted me for the rest of the weekend.
What upsets me most is that I gave the wrong impression of who I really am now. I am not actively a hurtful or shallow person, but that is what I sounded like. I have come too far from the horrible days of high school, always being talked about by the girls in my class, to have acted like them the first chance I got. I am not that person and I realized in that moment that the things we say and the way we portray ourselves cannot be taken back. More than anything I wish I could remove the foot from my mouth.
I spent the next day tortured by my comment, feeling disgusted with myself. After talking to the true compass that is my mother, I realized that I can't and won't always say and do the right things, and to wallow in self-loathing won't make me any better a person. Later that day, while watching my totally un-guilty pleasure The Biggest Loser, I heard one of the trainers pep-talking a contestant that had an incessant need to please and act perfectly, which inevitably lead to a snowball effect of feeling like a failure. "People are terrified to mess up or fail because they think they have to be perfect to be loved. Failure is what teaches us to be better people. Failure makes us more lovable, not less." (I'm paraphrasing my homegirl Jillian Michaels. Off topic, Biggest Loser just isn't the same this season without her.) That comment really had an impact on me. For so much of my life my self-worth has been measured by how much or how little I mess up, stick my foot in my mouth, or fail at being the person I really want to be. Hurting someone's feelings or realizing I've embarrassed myself by saying something I shouldn't have stays with me. I can easily recall plenty of times that I've said something inappropriate or hurtful, and my heart will race and my cheeks will flush, even if it was years ago. Even worse, in true Southern form, I constantly have to fight the urge to apologize for every word I've said and opinions I've voiced. My college roommate and best friend Rachel once told me if I didn't stop apologizing for everything she was going to give me the silent treatment. If my family had a "cuss jar" for every gratuitous "I'm sorry" we would have enough savings to vaccinate a small island or invest in one of those drive-though zoos.
These times that we say or do the wrong thing are inevitable, but I think how we choose to rebound from them is the real measure of failure or success. If I continue to dwell on how I missed the mark on representing myself, I will really fail, because I will be wasting the best of me, stagnating in the past. The best course of action in this scenario is to be mindful of how my open-mouth-insert-foot moment made me feel, and I can try not to replicate it. I also can't let all the fun memories I made that night be overshadowed by the one low point. I had so much fun with our friends and the night was a success and the true pity would be if I didn't let that be the thing I remember.

Bravery

One year ago yesterday I received a call that changed my life. My mother called me in the middle of the afternoon to say that she couldn't talk but that she wanted me to know she was driving my father to rehab. I didn't get any other details; all I knew was the thing that I had prayed for every day since I was old enough to understand what rehab is, was actually happening. Yet all I could feel when I heard those words was horrible sadness. I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that my Dad was about to be dropped off at a rehab center, stripped of all his belongings and humiliated. I knew enough to know that this center was no Malibu Promises, where he would receive spa treatments as an incentive not to drink. This place was a different kind of "come to Jesus". All I could imagine was that it must feel like being booked into jail, for an unknown sentence. I felt overwhelmed with guilt for praying for this and an urge to protect him from pain (all those good emotions that are products of an alcoholic childhood) and I couldn't handle it. Mixed in with my pity for what he was about to endure was skepticism and the fear of becoming hopeful that this would work. What a roller coaster of emotions are attached to loving a substance-dependent person.
One year, one day, and a lot of pain and growth for everyone later, my dad is a year sober and we have never been so close. If you would have told me a year ago that I would have a family that I could trust, a family with a sober father, I would have been really hurt and offended by your optimism. To be honest, the fear that one sip of vodka could take all this away in an instant is constant, but I can't waste the happiness that he has given us by constantly wondering if this is the calm before the storm, or just a cruel taste of what life can be like when my dad is sober.
Although my fears are valid, and are unlikely to cease, I can't determine the future, and more importantly, I can't prevent him from drinking. To dwell on the fear of loss would also be a discredit to the amazing amount of work he has done and he is continuing to do. Instead, I would rather try to emulate his bravery. He woke up every day for three months, away from his family, work, all comforts and had to spend it facing the reality and magnitude of his disease. He admitted it to work, to friends, to the entire family, to anyone and everyone, without shame. To me, there is nothing more honorable than admitting you need help and actually finding and utilizing it. I have spent the better part of my life trying to make my father proud and now I am full of pride in him.
When I think about my family, bravery is what comes to mind. My sister is never afraid to stand up for what she thinks it right, keeps going for what she wants, and she has no qualms about herself. No matter how much I beg her to grow out her hair or joke about her refusal to learn how to apply eyeliner, she is steadfast in who she is, and I respect that about her. Knowing who you are and being proud of it is a special kind of bravery that few people have, and I am lucky to have an example of how to really be your own person.
It would take a whole day to write all the ways my mother is brave. If I think about it for too long I'll get misty eyed and it would be pretty embarrassing to start crying in physics class (that's right, I'm not paying attention...again). She has stood with my dad for over thirty years and has never stopped fighting for our family to survive. After raising two kids and giving all her energy and time to others, she was brave enough to find her passion in art, and started giving back to herself the attention she has given others for so long. She and I share the same fear of failing at our passions, having put ourselves out there and invested out hearts, but she never lets her fear conquer her. My mom is the person who taught me that the only way we can ever fail is by never trying.
Bravery has many forms, but when I reflect on what it means for my family, I think that it isn't about being fearless, but rather doing what is hard despite fear. I hope that I can live up to the example set by my family. Tonight, looking back on the year we've had and the blessings that have resulted from bravery, my cup runneth over, and I couldn't be more grateful.