I'm having an interesting mental twister. To update my darling readers on my life, I have been doing well at le' Shack, and enjoying every minute of working there. Apparently I am good at this, because I was actually graced with the promotion of MIT (Manager in Training). Now, in the world of the Shack, this is the first step above just a carefree Sales Associate. MIT means that I am willing to put forth the effort into training and fully intend to become a manager and take on the responsibility and woes of running my own store. After I go through a bit of a crash course in standard operations, I get to be bumped up to the next rung of the ladder known as an Assistant Manager. This basically means a lacky to a manager, and being in charge when the manager needs some desperate downtime. After following in a manager's footsteps for a year, learning all one can, then one sort of enters this little holding pattern of waiting for a store to open up and be handed to them. Even taking the first step up the ladder means a lot, because it brings this up from being just a "job" to an actual occupation, or dare I say, actual career.
So, here's the twister that I am facing, and the reason for titling this post so cryptically...as I am in the middle of facing an actual "career", I am now thinking a lot about how this will affect my son. I already know that this means of course, spending less time with him. But that's what going full time meant. But with the added responsibilities also comes less control over my own schedule, because now it's not about what's more convenient for me, but what's necessary for my store. It also means that I could eventually be putting myself in a position where I may be forced to make the painful decision of work vs. family. In fact, I feel like I am already straddling that line, being that I've put Anthony in childcare so that I may work a more fulltime schedule. Taking a fulltime job, with the added responsibilities of undermanagement, means that I am now obligated to more than just my son. It means pissing people off should I have to stay home with a sick child. It means having to schedule time off for birthdays and the eventual "events" that surround a child's life, and knowing there's always a possibility I may have to miss something (or risk losing said employment, or responsibilities).
There's this internal battle, plus the inner questioning of why men don't seem to have to worry about these issues. You see, my husband is currently looking for new employment, as he pretty much despises the company he currently works for. But his deciding factors of a new work are only based on his job preferrence and income needs. He doesn't have to worry about scheduling conflicts with a babysitter, or time off availability. There is no "work vs. family" choice for him, or it seems for most men (I have a dear friend who is a VERY rare exception to this, so Darth, I am not talking about you when I refer to "most men", nor do I refer to the single fathers out there who are making it work all around).
A perfect example of this odd imbalance would be yesterday...I had to attend my first management training meeting, which was further away than my own conveniently located store. The meeting was to be from 9AM to 6pm, then I had to rush over to my store and close. I also had to close the store the previous night, which meant not getting home until 10. I had asked Rick to drive us yesterday, so that we could get Anthony to his sitter, and me to my meeting in a timely fashion. I understood that this meant Rick going in an hour later than usual. But considering how convuluted the bus system is, it was better than waking Anthony up at about 5AM to drag him through the cold to navigate the bus routes. I figured it was a decent compromise leaving at 7:30, as Rick wouldn't be overly late, but I would get us taken care of, and would only be stuck at a starbucks near the meeting space for about an hour. Well, of course Rick forgot all about it (despite our discussions every night prior), so when it came time the night before that I was dragging myself into the house at 10, I discovered that Rick had neglected to inform his work, and refused to go in late for us the next day. So now I am left with having to call a cab, which costs frankly more than we can spare at the moment. He shambled off to bed, while I called the cab to set a pickup time, and then scrambled around the house packing up Anthony's necessities for the next day. I dragged myself out of bed at 6, made coffee, packed up the playpen, and hustled us off in the cab when it came time. I went to my meeting, stressed my way through it, scurried back to my own store, closed, and shlomped through the rain at 10pm that night. When I came in, both were asleep, so I snuck into Anthony's room to stare at my sleeping wee one, realizing that I had only seen him for the ten minute ride in the cab that morning. I suddenly start having the feeling I am really a terrible mother.
Every day that I drop him at a babysitter, I feel this. Every time I consider moving up at my workplace, I think of how he is affected first and foremost. It seems to me that most men never have to have these feelings. Perhaps it's because as the "main provider" there is no choice that comes into it, it's work to survive, and that's it. But as a working mother, I often have feelings of resentment that it seems I am the only one that IS considering our son. I am the sole carrier of the burdens of childraising decisions, he just gets to go to work and come home, and complain about the house being unkept. If something slips under his radar about Anthony, it's my fault for not reminding him.
Sorry to vent the frustrations, folks. I hate getting my whine on in these blogs. If you are a working parent, I hope maybe you can relate to the special hell that is this very situation.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Friday, January 06, 2006
Womanly Woes
I friggin' hate being a woman. And quite frankly, the anatomy that comes with this side of the chromosomes doesn't seem to care for me either. Earlier this week I started noticing the telltale pains in my lower abdomen that a cyst was once again upon me, and went ahead and made the doctor appointment to get it checked. The pain had started to get rather irritating by the time I got to see said doc on Wednesday, so I was pretty relieved to have gotten in there in such a timely fashion. Although I've heard nothing but poor reviews of Stevens Hospital, I didn't think there would be anything too bad with a doc in one of their side branches. And the guy seemed ok, honestly. His nurses were nice and pleasant, noted all of my concerns, and seemed genuinely interested in helping my situation. He came in and discussed with me the different cystic problems I've had, as well as expressed the concern with my previous bout of Dysplasia. He was about as informative as the other multitude of doctors I've seen on the subject (in other words, he knew squat). Although he did explain to me that staying on the Loestrin is specifically to keep me from having these damn things. Must get better about taking pills! It all comes down to me being a little too full of estrogen, thus ovulating more than an average gal (insert I'm too much girl! joke here).
The thing that always irritates me is the exam, though. I'm spread eagle on a damn table, cold, with a fucking giant metal Jaws of Life looking thing shoved inside me, and his hand pressing on an extremely tender swollen ovary, and he's asking if I have any discomfort. Well, let's see Einstein, how would you feel in a reversal of roles here? Shall I strap your balls in a vice grip, shove three fingers in your ass, and ask you the same question? He said he felt a mass on the left (duh, genius, that's where the pain is), the right seemed fine, and there was a bit of fluid in my uterus. BTW, for those not in the know, blood is actually not supposed to just be floating around your body. When it touches an organ, it causes pain. This is why we gals seem pretty fierce when one of these erupts, because it means there's loose blood on our uterus, and it's not supposed to be there.
So, he gave me the usual "we'll watch and wait" shpiel I've heard a dozen times, which makes me uneasy. This means that I will have to possibly endure a rupture. A blinding pain, laying on the floor, cursing my existence rupture. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.
Well, I was feeling OKAY on Thursday and Friday morning. Rick went off to a doctor appointment for himself, and I put the wee one down for a nap. I sat down with my cup of coffee at the comp and chatted with my pal Tony, who had just gotten back from an extended holiday. Folks, never ever EVER let me use the phrase "So happy I could burst" again. About ten minutes into the convo the pain started up, so I excused myself from Gaim. Right as I logged off it hit. I fell to teh floor, gasping, and pretty much thinking "Oh, FUCK". Folks, I'd love to be a better descriptive writer, and actually give an accurate portrayal of what I go through with these things, but there's really no words. Basically, it feels like you've been stabbed. With a rusty spork. Repeatedly. but in just one spot.
A few minutes into it, as I was trying to concentrate on getting out of the fetal position, it intensified, and I realized Mama was now beat, and I had to call 911. Those of you who know me know I don't like calling in help. But this one was BAD, and I was freaked because the pain seemed to be eminating from the right, where supposedly there wasn't a cyst. I was in too much pain to do the proper check for an appendix rupture (which, by the way, here's a tip, if there's pain down there, press on it. If it hurts worse when you let up, you may be looking at said issue), but it wasn't far from my mind. So, I called 911, and now we enter the hell that is the emergency care that my lovely neck of the woods provides...
First off, the 911 operator apparently had a bad day. See, she was very irritated that I was crying while trying to explain why I needed an ambulance. Heaven forbid I be in pain while trying to express this need. I mean, if I was in a calm enough state to explain in an adult voice why I needed help, do you think I'd really need said help? She finally said help was on it's way and then hung up on me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't they supposed to stay on the line with you?!
Luckily, I live about a nanosecond from a hospital, and the ambulance pulled up shortly after I confusedly hit end on my phone. So, they knock on the door...meanwhile, I'm laying in the kitchen, trying to call to them to please just enter. As I weakly crawl to the door, someone finally gets the bright idea to actually OPEN the door, and they go "Oh, there she is."
The first thing I tell them is that my son is home with me, and is in the other room. I ask them to give him to my neighbor. See, yeah, the neighbor's are weird and all, but they do have three happy, healthy children who all adore Anthony. So while they are definitely socially retarded, they are still decent folks who I knew I could trust with him for a few hours (or whenever the hell Rick got home, which I was hoping would be any minute). They asked me the obligatory Name, Age, what the hell is wrong with you questions, and I managed to grit through my teeth all the necessary info, in as few words as possible. They picked me up in my little ball form and placed me on the stretcher (man, that must've really looked awkward). As they loaded me up, I heard one driver say to another "She's 26 and wearing Hello Kitty Pajamas?"
So, one bumpy ride later and I am wheeled into what shall now be known as Hell Hospital. Sure it's named, Stevens, but I think mine's a more accurate moniker. Or maybe...Where Common Courtsey Goes to Die. I was popped into a room, and well....left there. No "A nurse will be right with you", just plop!
I try to observe my surroundings through my tears, and finally someone enters and starts poking a needle into my arm. I quickly stammer my allergies, and she tells me to relax, she's just taking a blood sample. Um, gee thanks for telling me! So then this other bitch comes in (and I do mean BITCH) and immediately starts trying to get my insurance information. Now, I'm sorry, but do you carry your insurance card in your PJs? Well, she was quite irate that I didn't, and even more irate that I was having trouble spelling my name, address, blah blah through my BLINDING PAIN. For my insolence, I got an IV shoved into the other arm. BADLY. damn, I hate needles. And I hate the people who weild them even more.
Finally, the most civilized person who works there (at least that I encountered) came in the form of a squat looking nurse with a rainbow tattoo. This woman, btw, has furthered my belief that gay people are better than straight people. She calmly explained that she was sorry I was in pain, and she would get me some pain meds right away. Someone was supposed to do a pelvic on me afterwards, and then up to ultrasound to find out what was going on in detail. The usual shpeil, I've done this a dozen times. I thank her for her civility and beg her to hurry with whatever would put me out of my misery. Demoral or a baseball bat, at that point I didn't care which. Knowing that hospital, I'm surprised I didn't get the latter. So, she scampers off to go get some happy juice for my veins, and some little asian man walks in, saying he's the doctor. I told him I hadn't gotten my pain meds, but he says he needs to do the pelvic. Fine, poke me and get it over with. So, he puts on a glove, pokes my tummy once...and...leaves the room. Doesn't tell me he's leaving, just pulls a Houdini! I now despise all who work here. Some tiny little asian girl comes in and says she is taking me to ultrasound...so I croak "Not without pain medication first". I am NOT about to have the wand o' doom pressed deep into my abdomen without being high as a friggin kite.
Finally, my lesbian angel of compassion comes back with the magic needle of pain-go-bye-bye. Apparently, folks, Dilodin is a lovely synthetic drug that is stronger than Morphine, and faster working. Just say no to drugs kids. Unless your doctor is giving them to you, then specifically request this shit. In a milasecond I was calm, cool, and collected. I wasn't feeling fantastic, but I was able to shuffle into the wheel chair to get to ultrasound and end the volley of curses coming out of my mouth.
The ultrasound people proceed to treat me like I am not actually in the room with them as they are prodding me. I HATE that. But I was now drugged to the gills, so gave up asking what was going on on the second attempt. When I got back to my room, the mysterious asian ninja doc returned and completed the aforementioned pelvic. The Dilodin had started to wear off a bit, so it hurt like hell. By this time, Rick has arrived, as had my father.
I was finally released with a note saying that I had ruptured somewhere, but there was still a large on on the right. There was a copius amount of blood in my uterus, so something went boom, but the one on the right seemed to be in tact. I am going to have some serious words with the asswipe doctor that said I was fine. I have to see him next week and figure out what we're going to DO about said cyst that still exists. I mean, I am NOT about to attempt to go through another rupture in a week's time.
I'm in a lot of pain still, and quite frankly, worried about what needs to happen. The only way to get rid of a cyst is an operation called a laparoscopy. They cut a small incision in your belly button, and one in your lower pelvis to basically snip teh little fucker out of there and drain the fluid.
Right now, I am a little ball of hate. See, it's Monday evening now and I've been trying to get ahold of the doctor all day. I was told at 10am I'd get an immediate callback. After calling them several times today, and being PROMISED a phone call, it is now 5 and I highly doubt the doctor has even been notified of what happened. I swear to GOD I HATE DOCTORS.
The thing that always irritates me is the exam, though. I'm spread eagle on a damn table, cold, with a fucking giant metal Jaws of Life looking thing shoved inside me, and his hand pressing on an extremely tender swollen ovary, and he's asking if I have any discomfort. Well, let's see Einstein, how would you feel in a reversal of roles here? Shall I strap your balls in a vice grip, shove three fingers in your ass, and ask you the same question? He said he felt a mass on the left (duh, genius, that's where the pain is), the right seemed fine, and there was a bit of fluid in my uterus. BTW, for those not in the know, blood is actually not supposed to just be floating around your body. When it touches an organ, it causes pain. This is why we gals seem pretty fierce when one of these erupts, because it means there's loose blood on our uterus, and it's not supposed to be there.
So, he gave me the usual "we'll watch and wait" shpiel I've heard a dozen times, which makes me uneasy. This means that I will have to possibly endure a rupture. A blinding pain, laying on the floor, cursing my existence rupture. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.
Well, I was feeling OKAY on Thursday and Friday morning. Rick went off to a doctor appointment for himself, and I put the wee one down for a nap. I sat down with my cup of coffee at the comp and chatted with my pal Tony, who had just gotten back from an extended holiday. Folks, never ever EVER let me use the phrase "So happy I could burst" again. About ten minutes into the convo the pain started up, so I excused myself from Gaim. Right as I logged off it hit. I fell to teh floor, gasping, and pretty much thinking "Oh, FUCK". Folks, I'd love to be a better descriptive writer, and actually give an accurate portrayal of what I go through with these things, but there's really no words. Basically, it feels like you've been stabbed. With a rusty spork. Repeatedly. but in just one spot.
A few minutes into it, as I was trying to concentrate on getting out of the fetal position, it intensified, and I realized Mama was now beat, and I had to call 911. Those of you who know me know I don't like calling in help. But this one was BAD, and I was freaked because the pain seemed to be eminating from the right, where supposedly there wasn't a cyst. I was in too much pain to do the proper check for an appendix rupture (which, by the way, here's a tip, if there's pain down there, press on it. If it hurts worse when you let up, you may be looking at said issue), but it wasn't far from my mind. So, I called 911, and now we enter the hell that is the emergency care that my lovely neck of the woods provides...
First off, the 911 operator apparently had a bad day. See, she was very irritated that I was crying while trying to explain why I needed an ambulance. Heaven forbid I be in pain while trying to express this need. I mean, if I was in a calm enough state to explain in an adult voice why I needed help, do you think I'd really need said help? She finally said help was on it's way and then hung up on me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't they supposed to stay on the line with you?!
Luckily, I live about a nanosecond from a hospital, and the ambulance pulled up shortly after I confusedly hit end on my phone. So, they knock on the door...meanwhile, I'm laying in the kitchen, trying to call to them to please just enter. As I weakly crawl to the door, someone finally gets the bright idea to actually OPEN the door, and they go "Oh, there she is."
The first thing I tell them is that my son is home with me, and is in the other room. I ask them to give him to my neighbor. See, yeah, the neighbor's are weird and all, but they do have three happy, healthy children who all adore Anthony. So while they are definitely socially retarded, they are still decent folks who I knew I could trust with him for a few hours (or whenever the hell Rick got home, which I was hoping would be any minute). They asked me the obligatory Name, Age, what the hell is wrong with you questions, and I managed to grit through my teeth all the necessary info, in as few words as possible. They picked me up in my little ball form and placed me on the stretcher (man, that must've really looked awkward). As they loaded me up, I heard one driver say to another "She's 26 and wearing Hello Kitty Pajamas?"
So, one bumpy ride later and I am wheeled into what shall now be known as Hell Hospital. Sure it's named, Stevens, but I think mine's a more accurate moniker. Or maybe...Where Common Courtsey Goes to Die. I was popped into a room, and well....left there. No "A nurse will be right with you", just plop!
I try to observe my surroundings through my tears, and finally someone enters and starts poking a needle into my arm. I quickly stammer my allergies, and she tells me to relax, she's just taking a blood sample. Um, gee thanks for telling me! So then this other bitch comes in (and I do mean BITCH) and immediately starts trying to get my insurance information. Now, I'm sorry, but do you carry your insurance card in your PJs? Well, she was quite irate that I didn't, and even more irate that I was having trouble spelling my name, address, blah blah through my BLINDING PAIN. For my insolence, I got an IV shoved into the other arm. BADLY. damn, I hate needles. And I hate the people who weild them even more.
Finally, the most civilized person who works there (at least that I encountered) came in the form of a squat looking nurse with a rainbow tattoo. This woman, btw, has furthered my belief that gay people are better than straight people. She calmly explained that she was sorry I was in pain, and she would get me some pain meds right away. Someone was supposed to do a pelvic on me afterwards, and then up to ultrasound to find out what was going on in detail. The usual shpeil, I've done this a dozen times. I thank her for her civility and beg her to hurry with whatever would put me out of my misery. Demoral or a baseball bat, at that point I didn't care which. Knowing that hospital, I'm surprised I didn't get the latter. So, she scampers off to go get some happy juice for my veins, and some little asian man walks in, saying he's the doctor. I told him I hadn't gotten my pain meds, but he says he needs to do the pelvic. Fine, poke me and get it over with. So, he puts on a glove, pokes my tummy once...and...leaves the room. Doesn't tell me he's leaving, just pulls a Houdini! I now despise all who work here. Some tiny little asian girl comes in and says she is taking me to ultrasound...so I croak "Not without pain medication first". I am NOT about to have the wand o' doom pressed deep into my abdomen without being high as a friggin kite.
Finally, my lesbian angel of compassion comes back with the magic needle of pain-go-bye-bye. Apparently, folks, Dilodin is a lovely synthetic drug that is stronger than Morphine, and faster working. Just say no to drugs kids. Unless your doctor is giving them to you, then specifically request this shit. In a milasecond I was calm, cool, and collected. I wasn't feeling fantastic, but I was able to shuffle into the wheel chair to get to ultrasound and end the volley of curses coming out of my mouth.
The ultrasound people proceed to treat me like I am not actually in the room with them as they are prodding me. I HATE that. But I was now drugged to the gills, so gave up asking what was going on on the second attempt. When I got back to my room, the mysterious asian ninja doc returned and completed the aforementioned pelvic. The Dilodin had started to wear off a bit, so it hurt like hell. By this time, Rick has arrived, as had my father.
I was finally released with a note saying that I had ruptured somewhere, but there was still a large on on the right. There was a copius amount of blood in my uterus, so something went boom, but the one on the right seemed to be in tact. I am going to have some serious words with the asswipe doctor that said I was fine. I have to see him next week and figure out what we're going to DO about said cyst that still exists. I mean, I am NOT about to attempt to go through another rupture in a week's time.
I'm in a lot of pain still, and quite frankly, worried about what needs to happen. The only way to get rid of a cyst is an operation called a laparoscopy. They cut a small incision in your belly button, and one in your lower pelvis to basically snip teh little fucker out of there and drain the fluid.
Right now, I am a little ball of hate. See, it's Monday evening now and I've been trying to get ahold of the doctor all day. I was told at 10am I'd get an immediate callback. After calling them several times today, and being PROMISED a phone call, it is now 5 and I highly doubt the doctor has even been notified of what happened. I swear to GOD I HATE DOCTORS.
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