or just brooklyn so-so

I just imported a few posts from my lonely live journal. I wasn’t aware that this was possible. They’re now in the March and June archives. It’s fun to read these posts, made before I felt gross all the time. One’s about the last time I thought I might not make it through poor health and one is about a bloody scene that occurred under my bedroom window. I guess I’ve always been New York fabulous.

biliary colic and fat-free salad dressing and love love love

There are a ton of reasons why I’m really torn up about this gallbladder removal. There isn’t an issue that I have ever seen the conventional medical community and the holistic medical community more comletely in disagreeance about.

CONVENTIONAL (a summation of arguments)

• It’s simple and easy and you are sent home from the hospital the same day. Depending on your doctor, you may have little to no dietary restrictions after the procedure.
• Any complications that arise afterward are usually due to a stone left behind in one of the bile ducts or totally a figment of your imagination. Diarreah can occur due to the constant drip of bile into the small intestines, now that the bile parking lot (your gallbladder) is gone, but this can be easily managed with a low-fat diet and medications if need be.
• The dangers of not removing a problem gallbladder are many – it may rupture and kill you, you may have multiple attacks which make an emergency removal difficult.

HOLISTIC (a summation of arguments)

• Removal of the gallbladder disrupts your digestive system for life.
• You will no longer be able to process any fats, including many vitamins such as A, C, and E.
• You may develop or exacerbate IBS due to the “insult to your gut” that is surgery.
• My naturopath calls me every week and leaves a message that I better not get my gallbladder removed.

But mostly, I am terrified because of things like this.

I mean. WTF? Okay, so there is the woman that eats fried chicken without the skin and wonders what’s wrong with her. But its still pretty scary. Since I saw the surgeon on Tuesday (the post is dated Wednesday for some reason) I have kept a fat-restricted diet and the pain has all but subsided. Amazing. Unfortunately, I’m still huge. I’m so distended that I can’t fit into most of my clothes. The scales say I haven’t gained any weight, but my tummy seems to think differently. I also stopped drinking soda, but so far it has been to no avail. The next day I saw my lady doctor at NYU and expressed my concerns. Although she couldn’t give me a lot of concrete assurance, she’s more than willing to try a few more things before my surgery date. Right now I’m on a 10-day course of antibiotics in case we’re dealing with SIBO. Its nearly a long-shot, but there are few side effects, and I take it for ten days and then I’m either still bloated or not bloated anymore. And she scheduled me for an endoscopy at the end of the month.

I spoke to my supervisor today, who has a background in nutrition. I’ve been wondering if I’m not dealing with two problems simultaneously, like gallstones and a fructose malabsorption. Or an ulcer. She said to me, “Look. If I have an open wound on my arm and I put this on it” she picked up her glasses and placed them on her arm, “it’s going to hurt. Then if I put this on it,” she picked up a sheet of paper and placed it on her arm, “that’s going to hurt. It’s because I have an open wound on my arm. Likewise, if my leg is broken, it’s going to hurt and swell no matter which shoes I wear. Something is wrong with you and its not very easy to see because it’s on the inside, but it’s there and you can wear yourself out eliminating things from your already very restricted diet and never get anywhere.” Just a reminder: I’ve been vegan for 8 years now.

I’m starting to think she’s right. In addition to speaking with her, I also made contact with someone very important today, my mother. I can’t describe for someone who doesn’t know, the frustration accompanying 7 months of doctor’s visits where the answer to any questions about my family history have to be “I don’t know.” But I don’t know, because I’m adopted. The long story of the tender but not very close relationship that I have with my mother will have to be another entry, but we have met in the past, and she is a wonderful woman, very bright and caring and incredibly talented. We just don’t keep in touch very regularly. In fact its been about eight years. This is mostly my fault. I really cringed at the thought of calling her up out of the blue to ask medical questions, especially since she has occasionally written to me at pretty much all of the addresses I’ve kept, and I hadn’t yet kept up my side of the letter-writing bargain. But we did speak today and I’m so glad. She’s doing okay; having some health problems herself, and I really hope she quickly recovers from them. There isn’t a strong history of gallbladder disease/problems in my family, but my cousin did have to have hers removed at a very young age and has had no complications that she knew of since.

Does any of this matter? I guess I have about a month to make my decision. I’m scheduled for surgery on January 12th. My surgeon is hoping I’ll move the date up to the 10th but I need at least the weekend to think about it.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

I saw my surgeon today. I was mortified for him and for me before I even met him. I imagined him telling me all sorts of things, using words like “chance” and “odds” and give it a try.” I imagined feeling insulted and ashamed. I walked, burning through my body in the cold, to the train. Unable to imagine any of the words that had kept me up all night: regression analyses, complications, bile duct injury.

I waited in the office with Ian and a cabled owl and all of the words bubbled forth and then exploded. I felt foolish, I felt hungry. Tired, and hopeful. I kept knitting.

Ian left. Then I went back to the exam room. And now I’m outside. Burning in the cold.

The surgeon pretty much lived up to all of my lowest expectations of him. Like Ian said later, I used to put all of my hope in these doctors and then I would go to see them and they would let me down so much that it would be like being a kid and having the horns cut off all my unicorns all over again. Now I go to their offices with devestatingly low expectations, and they are nearly always met. And I still feel terrible. The surgeon was argumentative, and he was vague. And yet I know this has nothing to do with his abilities as a surgeon. I just don’t know what to do.

He examined me and told me that I wasn’t bloated. This on a day when I am having trouble breathing because I am so large. He hasn’t even cut me open and he already thinks I’m crazy. If I end up with terrible complications from the surgery then I dont know where I’ll be.

figs are sweet, but sugar is sweeter.

Thanksgiving was wonderful. Pumpkin pie plans, with a little sense, and a lot less money, easily became pumpkin pie cookie plans. That was a supergood idea which created supergood cookies.

I seriously had almost all of this stuff at home already. I swear. The batter was a little difficult at first; creaming the organic shortening with no electric mixer proved quite the task. I dont know why we dont have one, but we deal with this nearly everytime we bake, with no lessons learned. What we usually do is just take turns until it gets done.

I love vegweb and most everything I make originates from the site. Although I do change recipies from time to time, one of my greatest pet peeves when it comes to that site are the whiny substituters. Not a single cookie or pie is safe on that site from at least a few of them. Like this, the last comment you’ll see on the recipie page: I tried making these last night and they turned out to be a disaster. I subbed applesauce and more pumpkin for the shortening. The consistency of these cookies was really gross. They were wet and chewy, but not in a good way. My husband and I each ate one and I’m pretty sure he only ate it to be nice. I ended up cramming them down the garbage disposal.

From people who shouldn’t be in the dessert section to begin with to people who obviously don’t know a thing about baking, these subsituters create all sorts of unholy matrimonies in their kitchens, and then make the rest of us listen to them whine about it. Its fine if you want to substitute maple leaves for maple sugar, but you probably shouldn’t blame the recipie when your cookies taste like grass. I think that these people are pretty much one step under the “Why don’t we all just eat an apple?” trolls that come into websites like vegweb, trying to make us all feel bad for wanting to make chocolate cakes and seitan burritos, as if we are all somehow on some higher eschelon of humanity because we don’t eat meat and dairy.

Up in Harlem we had yummy mock duck, and there was turkey for the omnivores. Mashed potatoes, root vegetables, southern style greens, mac n’ cheese for the dairy-eaters, and more great food than I have ever remembered. Its remarkable to me that my gastrointestinal distress allowed me to enjoy the day. Of course I was pretty bloated after the meal, but nothing terrible in the way of pain or anything else.

Which brings me to my doctor visit on Monday. I think for the entire first 2 minutes of our consultation he thought I had already had my gallbladder removed. Kind of like a morbid whos-on-first routine about my organs.

Doctor: Okay, so you saw another doctor, why did you see her?

Me: Because you don’t return my calls and I needed some help before the 6 weeks that I had to wait for my appointment was up.

Doctor: Okay, but why did you need to see her? What is your main complaint?

Me: The bloating! And the pain! You know?

Doctor: Because of your gall bladder? Why do you still have it?

Me: Because I need a referral from you!

Seems he thought that the esteemed gentleman doctor who cut into my bile ducts back in September was going to refer me to a surgeon. I had thought the same, myself, but it didn’t go that way. He thought I should wait it out. So my doctor referred me to a surgeon and I have a consultation on Tuesday. I’m terrified and elated at the same time. I find myself giving some thought to the ridiculous gallbladder flushes and liver cleanses after all. I mean, if it’s going to come out anyway, I may as well try, right? Well, not exactly. The simple fact that there is a woman named Ingrid with a site called “Kitchen doctor” who claims that (paraphrasing) no matter what anyone thinks they know about stones, one cannot get stuck in the bile duct, is enough to turn me off nearly completely.

Got sick today; couldn’t keep my food down until around 6pm. Missed more work and more school. Oh and knitting hasn’t been getting done any quicker than my schoolwork, what with all this sleeping. I guess I got some sort of lucious NYC subway bug this week. Its totally rad when you cant tell if youre puking because of your gallbladder or because of the woman that coughed in your face on the L last week.

The holiday rushes

This year we’re having Thanksgiving in Harlem with some of my friends from school. I’m thinking of making the “Impossible Fat-Free Gluten-Free Vegan Cushaw Pie,” probably sans the cutshaw. This is not because of a fear of the squash family. I am well known for making a mean delicata that according to my friend Wes, tastes like cake. Rather, it is poorness and laziness that will probably send me straight to the canned pumpkin. I already have some organic canned pumpkin, and as noted in Susan’s blog, since it’s canned, it might even be cutshaw anyway. Hooray for pumpkin pie! The spread uptown will run the full gamut from actual turkey to vegan fare, so that will be interesting. My friend Christina, who is hosting, is an amazing cook, and also one of the more studious among us, so its always a total shock that she manages to throw together some of the delicous dishes that she does.

I had a good full weekend of houseguest hosting/friend seeing, and managed to fit some knitting and economics reading in as well. I have to find a way to come off of the pain pills completely, as I feel my slightly altered state, although perhaps now amenable for academic pursuits due to tolerance, has made me a lazy and bad hostess. I’m really looking forward to getting through the rest of the half week. I have my make up exam tomorrow, and a half day of work on Tuesday as well as class. Wednesday will be a half day at the office for me, and a full day for Ian – his last day at his advertising job before he begins at the new place. I’m really looking forward to diving into the lit review for my PDR a little more; hopefully finishing it even by the week’s end. Okay, I’m even more looking forward to baking, sleeping in and doing some laundry.

because an owl has never ruined christmas

Surely Christmas can’t be ruined by an owl.

My second time in the ER, for the kick-in-the-back pain, I had my first encounter with IV painkillers. That’s when the owls started to bite. Small, baby owls, politely biting me under the covers. Ian thought that was funny, but I thought it was hilarious. I still wake up some nights here at home from unexplained prickly pains (very mild) in my legs and I think of the baby owls.

I am so thrilled that Janelle Schlossman has allowed me to express my whole gall bladder experience thusfar through knitting. Until I learn to knit melancholy pears, anyway, I have this owl dishcloth. Not everyone knows about my slight hallucinations, however, everyone will be receiving an owl this year in addition to whatever magical item also fits at that intersection of my skill level and budget and their taste. Since everyone’s getting one, I figured a few pictures couldn’t hurt. The new laptop leaves me without the ability to edit my photos to my taste, but gives the added efficiency of lighteningly speedy uploads. So quantity, not quality is what we’re about.

Red may seem an odd choice for kitcheny things, but our living room/kitchen is red and blue and orange and I have four skeins of Lion Cotton in cherry. Enough for several of these, and hopefully, a bucket hat, to tide me over until Smiley’s next sale, when I can diversify my cotton stash.

doubling something akin to light pleasure

This is my first Christmas as a real knitter. Suffice to say, its a pretty classic story of how everyone I know is getting knitwear this year.

More details later, after Christmas, I suppose. Fantine came along like a horserace, and then I had to learn how to pick up stitches for the sleeves. This lesson has not gone nearly as well as the crossed stitches lesson, and she currently drapes Seth’s old favorite rocking chair. I’m not giving up; its just that the Christmas gifts are taking up all my alloted knitting time for now. The good news is that French Girl came through yet again with Violette, teaching me cables without telling me it was teaching me cables.

School is looking up. I’m not so far behind in my PDR; had a great meeting with my professor, and she loved my client memo. I’m beginning to have regular meetings with my client and I’m at a good point in my lit review. This is not to say that things are well. After 6 months of vague gall bladder symptoms (you know, the ones listed at the bottom of the webpage as “other symptoms can include”) I had my first attack two nights ago. It was scary.

I know I left off at this blog with the HIDA scan back in late September or early October. A quick recap, since I’m doing a much better job of documenting this stuff over at myspace than I am here:

Had the HIDA, with no ejection fraction (an injection that can cause a lot of pain.) The radioactive tracer moved from the liver to the gallbladder quite normally; transit from the gallbladder to the small intestines was a different story. When my doctor saw the results, he scheduled me for endoscopic surgery, an ERCP. On the day of consultation with my surgeon, I woke with a pain in my back on the right side as if someone had kicked me as hard as they could. I went to the ER, met my surgeon’s colleague, and found that he had the same name as my recently departed cat, Seth. He became my new surgeon. A week later I had the ERCP. I got to stay in the hospital for a night. Ewww. The pain went away; it was replaced by surgery pain for about five days. The bloating and stomach aches went away too, for about a week, and then we were back to our regular routine. Since the ERCP, I’ve visited the ER one more time, for an echo of the pre-ERCP pain, managing to miss an Econ exam, and then there was the attack just the other night. But I’m marching on.

Urban danger will soon have two bloggers. We’re working out the details now. Instead of one advanced-beginner going on and on about her knitting, we will soon offer you two. For reals.

Hard times are hard to forget

It’s been a bad month. Ian and I lost Seth. I wrote about his passing in a place where my friends visit regularly. Also this month, I went under the knife, and no sooner than I recovered from the surgery pain, everything returned to the way it was before, with bloating and tummy aches. School has taken a backseat to a strained relationship and anger. This means more knitting and more crying and less of pretty much everything else.

More crossed stitches – Fantine

After several attempts that ended in disappointment, the first five rows of Fantine are done.

Please excuse the gross surface. It’s acutally my coffee table, which Ian and I are sure to clean several times a day. My ten-year old cat Seth has this thing lately where he likes to lay in the bathtub after someone showers. This, we believe, might, in his mind, take the place of cleaning himself, as he is going through one of those anti-hygiene phases. Anyway, after crawling out of the tub, he likes to ump up on the coffee table and lay down, usually rolling on his side to lean up against Ian’s beverage of choice at the moment, and taunt us with the prospect of his big belly or one of his equally large haunches knocking it off the table. The table ends up gross with cat-tub water.

I don’t do markers since I have so much waste yarn just lying around. There’s lots of counting with this pattern, but I prefer it to knitting to inches at least. It’s still difficult to tell with the crossed stitches. The execution is no harder than a standard K2tog, for example, but the twisting of the yarn gets confusing when trying to judge my adeptness. Very pretty though. More fun than sewing the pocket on the back of Zeeby’s bag, which is where I stopped with that one. Pictures coming when I finally get it finished. Any advice on whether to line or not to line would be more than welcome. Although I took a costume class during my first try at undergraduate theatre school, my skills with the needle and thread (in that fashion) are all but abominable.

In the morning I go in for my HIDA scan. Radioactivity and fasting are involved. You’re so jealous of my life.

This is not a knitting blog exactly.

I’m trying this blogging thing out again. I wanted to document my knitting, since its been so unorganized as of late. I have literally 7 different projects on sticks (real and imagined) at the moment, which is way too many. I’m super close to finishing Zeeby’s bag, but Ysolda’s opera gloves have been frogged about 3 times now. I just got Fantine in the mail and started on her, but the pattern is a bit beyond me. Ian’s scarf is a bit of a mess, but can be easily enough sorted out. A certain scarf doesn’t know if it wants to be from a Godard film or from a Rowan pattern book. The Vogue Cape got screwed up in Richmond when I tried knitting in the dark. Its a simple matter of un-purling a row, but the row is over 100 stitches and I’m annoyed at the idea of fixing it. And about a million washcloths are on and off needles all the time at this house, since I came, in a variety of ways, in possession of about 8 or 9 skeins of cotton of varying socioeconomic stature. That’s one half of it.

The other half of it is that I miss writing and blogging. I miss getting into something that isn’t knitting or schoolwork. I also feel the need to document this strange and fucked up time of my life where I vascilate between being merely annoyed at my inability to eat like a normal person and being terrified that I, like my mom, am being handed off from doctor to doctor who can’t figure out what’s wrong with me, while something horrible is just getting worse. I am afraid sometimes that I am dying. It sounds really silly. It scares my boyfriend. It makes me feel small and fragile and dramatic. And when the fear passes, I am simply angry again. Or if things are going well, just annoyed.

I’m up at 5AM and part of the reason is that I hate the choices I have to make when I wake up. There is a chance I’m going to wake up and not have a choice; it will be made for me. A bulbous tummy that will call all the shots. If I’m lucky, and I will probably be lucky, because I’ve had 3 months to learn how I can be lucky through my food choices, I won’t be in any pain. But it won’t matter, because nothing will fit the way its supposed to. I’m not going out today; I’m going to stay in and work. And knit. Or I will wake up and look almost like myself again. A curvy girl, yes, but a girl with an hour-glass figure, whose clothes feel familiar and snug against my round hips and flat tummy. So I’ll have to choose between hanging on to that for as long as I can throughout the rest of the day, or eating. Sometimes I choose hanging on to it, but a cup of coffee changes everything and out my tummy goes! Sometimes I choose hanging on to it and out I go! into the great city. I do my job, or go to my class, or to the doctor’s office, and when I get a chance, I catch my reflection, and I feel like myself, only better. I do whatever needs to be done and I try and tell myself that its stress, and look what happens when I don’t get stressed. Things are great! When I come home in the evening I notice that at some point during the day, after I saw my reflection for the last time, my figure changed, even though I didn’t eat, and my shirt is tighter; its riding up on my hips, my waist has expanded. I look unkempt. I look about 10 pounds heavier if I’m lucky and no one notices but me and Ian. If I’m not lucky, I look about 25 pounds heavier. I kind of feel duped. But at least I believed I had a good day.

I have gall stones. That’s the latest and first bit of news since this all began in June. I’m writing my Professional Decision Report this semester. It’s the equivalent of a thesis for my graduate program in Policy Analysis; slightly less academic and more client-based. I haven’t found a client yet. I was supposed to do that over the summer, while I was working at my internship, feeling too bad to come in more than 3 days a week, missing some days for doctor’s appointments, and coming straight home from the office and going to sleep. I’m working a little but not enough. I’m 30 years old. Vegan for six years, I drink tons of coffee. I smoke. I quit for three months and then began to understand the relationship between eating and feeling bad, so I started up again. I have always been heavy. In the spring I realized that I had gained 15 pounds and I coordinated qutting smoking with starting a diet and excercise program. I lost the 15 pounds. I worked out until my stomach started hurting all the time. These things were supposed to protect me. I like to knit. I live in New York City. My boyfriend worries about me. We are getting married after school is done. I want an autumn wedding. I am tired of going to doctors. I tried two different naturopaths and although they have good advice, and are willing to see you much faster than normal doctors, they A) want you to come in all the time, B) cost too much, C) yell at you for doing things your normal doctors tell you to do, D) make you feel like everything is your fault. They also E) sometimes give you hugs, which is nice but strange.

This is not a knitting blog. There will still be plenty of knitting.