One Day at a Time

A few days ago I asked a co-worker, my friend, to go to lunch. She didn’t reply. Later that morning when she said she was hungry I asked what she was doing for lunch. Again, she didn’t reply.
As 1:00 approached she came to me with her things ready to go to lunch and asked me what I was doing. I didn’t have plans yet so she invited me along and then said, “But I’m going to smoke”. Then she asked if that was ok. Inside my head, thoughts reeling, I questioned, “Why would she do that? Why would she ask me that? Doesn’t she already know it’s not ok? What if I were to tell her no? It’s not ok if you smoke around me. It’s not ok if you smoke.” I knew she had been fighting and possibly had broken up with her boyfriend but still wondered “Why would you want to?” and yet all I said was, “Ok.” I don’t know if I thought it would help her to have someone with her, but I went along. I was miserable. I could tell the conversation was helpful for her in such a stressful situation but I couldn’t help but think how silly it was of her to add insult to injury. We share the same religious beliefs, but religion aside, I also wondered how she rationalized the health risks. I tried not to be rude but inside myself I was squirming in the stuffy afternoon air inside the car. She had the window cracked but all it did was blow the smoke toward me. I leaned back in the seat and held my breath for long periods. Then as if I were swimming I would exhale in very small spurts in order to hold the air in as long as possible. When I would feel the breeze on my face of the fresh air from outside I would quickly release and inhale. Unfortunately it still wasn’t a filter and the sting of the nasty Marlboro cigarettes pinched at my nostrils. I wondered, all those times my co-workers and non-LDS friends had commented that they find me non-judgmental, would they really think so highly of me if they knew what I was thinking and how uncomfortable I was feeling? I was not naïve about smoking but I was a little sad and definitely disappointed but I didn’t say so. I didn’t know how. I thought if I were to say anything to her in such a volatile situation already that it might affect our friendship or at least the amount of trust she puts in me. She already felt that things were against her and I didn’t want to be one of those things.
The next day she wanted to go to lunch again. I had asked her the day before how much she would smoke. As I then examined her pack of cigarettes she told me she would just finish that pack. There were only six left and she had just smoked two in one hour so there wasn’t a thought at that moment that any might remain. She wanted to sit outside at Sonic while we ate, so she could smoke.
Last night she got together with the boyfriend and they talked. They made up and worked through some things. Yet still at lunch today she smoked two more cigarettes in her car.
So now three days have passed. I haven’t said anything but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I read some information on the internet about stress and smoking. I found this summary that fits her. This is the link: http://www.in.gov/itpc/files/research_308.pdf
It is brief but references other studies. It basically states, “Research suggests that smoking does nothing to relieve stress and can only contribute to it.”
It makes sense to me, but I’ve never been a smoker.
I don’t think I need to lecture my friend about any of the risk factors, health factors, or even religious standings about smoking. She knows. I think she just doesn’t know what else to do and this fills a void for her. However, I worry about her. I wish she could find comfort in better things. More uplifting things. I wish I had been a better example to lead her to those good things so she didn't feel a need for this recourse. If I were brave enough, I would print that study and hand it to her but I don't want to hurt her. If I'm not able to be her friend through her rough times then what good am I as a friend? But if I'm not brave enough to stand for what's right then can I call myself a friend at all? I want to say something for my own sake as well. I don’t like being around smoking.
How can I tell her any of this without hurting her feelings?

This is me on the left...it makes me laugh.
Watch closely. Hee Hee

Finally the weather is warming up and the trees and flowers are blooming. Spring is here. I awake in the mornings to the sweet sound of birds chirping and singing outside. It’s nice out there. It’s time to make it nice in here too.
When I first moved in and as spring got closer, my landlords asked if I had seen many bugs in the apartment. Each time they asked I replied that I hadn’t. However, the bugs seemed to come as quick as a light. One day I came home and opened the front door and there was a trail of slug slime from the corner of the door, across the front mat a few times like it wasn’t sure where to go and there it was dead in the center of the mat. It was almost three inches long and looked like a mini version of the monsters on the movie Tremors.
In the bathroom as I stood brushing my teeth I noticed an ant (just one) wandering aimlessly on the wall. Sadly, that was where he met his death.
Having shared space with many such bugs before (in Chile), I wasn’t too concerned with these, and other than the deaths I caused them, I approached them more like roommates then pests.
But then, what was that? Something moved on the closet door. I jumped up with a shoe and with one slap it was dead, a small brown spider. “Sorry”, I whispered. A little later another one moved across the floor in front of me until I stomped it.
Where are they coming from? I sweep the stairs religiously to keep them from coming in the front door. I’ve seen them in the leaves and debris as I clean it up. Cleaning there reminds me how Lori, my neighbor growing up, used to spray her driveway with a hose almost every day. It always seemed so anal and neat freak, but now makes sense. So I keep my stairs and entryway clean.
Still there was another, I tried to squish it with a shoe but a small ledge prevented the squishage and the spider leapt from where it was. I screamed and jumped back. “Did that spider just leap?” I thought to myself. It was incredible. It wasn’t just a fall, but a motion that led to a jump with outreached legs as if prepping for a land. But I didn’t see where it landed. My skin was crawling with the thought of how it jumped. I knew it had to be here somewhere, but where? Later, talking on the phone I looked up at the ceiling above the bed and there it was. Or so I told myself, so I could feel better about where the jumper went. Spider, meet shoe.
In the bathroom, I moved a new package of toilet paper that I had sat by the cabinet. Behind it sat a big dark brown spider that perhaps was stunned by my piercing scream because it didn't move but then met the shoe of death. I don’t know why it startled me the way it did, but I had goose bumps and for some reason didn’t pick up the dead spider. The next morning I stumbled into the bathroom with sleepy eyes. As I used the facilities, I looked at that spider carcass there. Without my glasses I couldn’t quite make it out, but it looked alive again. It had been shriveled and dead, but with my squinty vision, its legs looked extended and out like a living spider. I moved slowly around the corner, heart pounding and goose bumps all over. I grabbed my glasses and wiped them frantically. I stuck my head around the corner and gazed down at a bigger spider. It was dark brown like before, but it was not a reincarnated spider. It was a different spider crouched right over the carcass of the last spider. UUuggghHH! What in the world was it doing there? I reached down with a shoe and gave a whack, but the spider scurried back under the cabinet.
So that is it! A thorough Spring Cleaning. In addition to a bug bomb and some spray, everything is getting washed, everything moved, dusted, vacuumed and swept. Tan ones, black ones, brown ones, gray ones, big ones, little ones, fuzzy ones, and jumpers - I HATE SPIDERS.
Bye-bye spiders.

At the beginning of this year, 2008, I realized my foot was not going to get any better. I was constantly in pain. Even when I wasn't wearing a shoe, my foot would throb and ache with a burning pain. Over the last year the joint of my first toe had enlarged significantly. Yes, that's right, it was a chronic bunion. It sounds so old-lady-ish. I had endured it as long as I could and made the choice to have it removed.
A friend of mine had two bunionectomies and demonstrated it would be an easy process and recovery. I decided to participate in a medical research study of medications after a bunionectomy.
When I went for a screening visit to the Board Certified Podiatrist that would perform the surgery he used the words, "severe bunion growth". Although I knew it was there- how could I ignore it when it hurt like it did- it really made me think back. All those years of running, dancing, high heel shoes, pointy toes, on my feet at jobs, poor shoes on my mission; and the list went on and on in my mind. I couldn't pin the result of a "severe bunion growth" to just one of these, but I did recall three or four specific moments in the last years when different friends in different situations had asked what happened to my feet, why they looked like that, if it was from dancing, if it was from running, and other such questions. At the times they asked I always responded as if they were crazy because my feet were normal to me. The growth had been so gradual I didn't even realize it was there until the pain would not end.
The day of surgery, March 3, I went to the clinic. I wasn’t allowed to have visitors so I hadn’t told many people other than at my jobs that I was even doing it. The staff at the clinic went over everything again with me. The study would last 48 hours after the surgery. I could leave at any time I chose but would not be compensated unless I completed the study. Nor would I have follow-up care if I ended it before the 48 hours. I would be administered a combination of morphine and oxycodone for the pain. The dosage amount assigned to each patient was a random pick. In addition to the study meds there was also a “rescue” med, which was Ibuprofen. If the pain did not subside enough with the study meds, or if I asked for more before enough time had passed for another dosage I would receive the rescue meds.
Entering surgery I felt very comfortable with the doctor and his staff there. The anesthesiologist had met me in my room and talked with me, so I was also comfortable with him there. I felt confident in the team that would perform my surgery. Getting situated on the table we joked about the doctor’s music—which was some electro elevator music—and then they asked, “Are you ready to go to sleep?” I said “Yes”, and closed my eyes and went to sleep. When I woke up they were moving me into my room. My foot was in the boot and I was still floating.
As the numbness wore off my foot, I could tell that my stubborn personality and lack of ability to ask for help with anything might make this a very difficult experience. I suppose I had waited too long. By the time I asked for and was administered my first dosage of meds I was in so much pain that I couldn’t sit still and finally broke out in tears. “What was I thinking?”
Soon after my first dosage I also received ibuprofen. Neither seemed to reach the pain and slowly I felt other discomforts coming on. I couldn’t focus on anything. My head hurt. My skin was itching- I wanted to rip it off. I kept scratching. The light hurt my eyes. Noise hurt my head. My stomach hurt. I was so restless. And then of course there was still the pain from the surgery. The nurse came in to perform some regular checks, blood pressure and an EKG. As she attended to these things I told her I was sick. Being pregnant she waddled as quickly as possible into the hall to get a bucket for me. I held on until she got back, but then threw up violently until there was nothing left inside me and I continued to heave. My body ached from vomiting. I was exhausted. I just wanted sleep. Each time I started to relax the monitor next to me kept alarming. It was my oxygen saturation. If it dropped below 90 it would alarm. They told me to breathe deep or sit up when it happened. So I did my best. They left me in the dark room for long periods. The alarming would not stop. I propped my bed up at its highest position and breathed slow deep breaths. Still it rang. Finally the nurse came in and I was hooked to an oxygen tank to help me with my breathing.
The first day dragged on slowly like this. It was a continuous struggle. Each dosage of study meds threw me into a violent fit of vomiting and sweating. Each moment of silence in my room I wondered and asked myself, “Should I leave now?” I laid there in the dark thinking of my family and wishing they knew where I was. I could call them but knew they would rush right down to be with me and it’s a long drive to be told visitors weren’t allowed.
I rested off and on through the night. My blood pressure was low and I was so weak. On day two I asked immediately for food and meds. I couldn’t have study meds if my BP was lower than 90/50. I only qualified for study meds once during the day so I was mostly administered ibuprofen. Each time I asked for meds I prayed that my BP would be too low. I didn’t want the reactions from the study meds. They kept telling me it was a reaction to the anesthetic but like clockwork I would go into a fit after each dosage. I would hear them whispering in the hall. I don’t think they had ever experienced anyone reacting like this to any meds. Mid-morning they had to start me on fluids intravenously because I couldn’t keep anything down. The second day started out better than the first ended but then compared quite equally.
I am thankful that I have such a high tolerance for pain. I don’t know where I get it but if I were emotional on top of all that I cannot imagine how horrible it would have been. With all the time I had I contemplated many things. There in the loneliness of the dark, in pain, uncomfortable, afraid, and feeling so alone all I could do was reach through prayer for one to be there and comfort me. He was the only one I could turn to in those moments. And He was there.
At the end of it all I was sent home wearing a boot. I wore it for 3 weeks and then went to athletic shoes as the doctor instructed me to do. I followed his instructions closely, and after another 4 weeks he told me it is healing nicely and I was dismissed from his care.
Currently I still don’t have full movement in my toe but am able to walk as normal and do some light jogging. I still choose to wear more supportive shoes, but am confident that by summer I will be back to anything I want.
A patient at work brought me a bag of marbles to use as exercise and therapy. I faithfully pile them on the floor each day and one by one try to pick them up and move them to a second pile using my big toe. My scar is still quite purple and scary looking. It swells when I shower but seems to be smoothing out ok. I asked about the lump on my toe and the doctor said it is a deep knot and to just keep working with it. So I will. I hope to never have to do the same to my right foot. If I do, I will trust Dr. Lowe to do the work again. He and his staff were wonderful. However, I won’t go back to do it through the research center.
With springtime knocking at my door I am thankful for the life I live and the experience of this surgery. Although unpleasant, I was able to stretch myself to ask for help, admit when it hurts and learn to appreciate my good health and ability to stand and walk and jump and run.
Here are some pics along the way-- In the boot just after surgery, Just after stitches, And today...

X-ray- I had to stand and hold my foot in the air to take
this at work, an orthodontic office. It’s not a good x-ray,
but you can see the pins in my toe bones, and how straight my foot is now. Three cuts were made: one at each pin and then also on the side where the bunion was cut off. Isn’t it cool!!