in the next few months, i am going to have a crash course in the work done by reproductive endocrinologists.

funny, i never thought that this would be my life. but miscarriage #3 seems to be concluded, so we’ll see what happens. i may or may not blog about this, or anything else much. the urge to stick my virtual head in the virtual sand is strong.

(and it just struck me that when i created the category “women’s reproductive health” i never thought i’d be talking about me…)

1535: henry viii declares himself head of the english church.
1780: continental congress establishes court of appeals.
1879: harper’s weekly runs first cartoon portraying donkey as the symbol of the democratic party.
1934: babe ruth signs contract for $35k.

and most important of all:

1944: my dad was born.

happy birthday, dad!

i need to eat dinner. and some dessert. and maybe then a bit more food. but before midnight – because tomorrow morning’s my surgery.

bah.

g accompanied me to the pre-op appointments on tuesday, wherein i had my vitals taken, my pregnancy status ascertained, the informed consent forms presented and signed (it’s surgery; it’s on an extremity; YOU COULD STILL DIE. yes, thank you.), the anaesthesia type determined (sedation with a block; general if that doesn’t take – i have a history of waking up during procedures), and the post-surgery boot and crutches acquired and fitted.

a few words on those last two. i get most of my health care at walter reed, so i’m used to seeing the casualties of the war on terror. amputees walking (or rolling) the halls, burned soldiers awaiting new skin grafts, and so on. but the rigid boot is provided by the prosthetics department, and the crutches by physical therapy. so at the end of my multitude of appointments yesterday, i felt like i was invading their territory: there i was, a (mostly) healthy woman, standing in a line of wheelchairs in prosthetics. then, a physical therapist ran me through the basics of walking with crutches, and getting myself up and down stairs. around me, soldiers were trying to learn how to walk again, or stretch, or just balance themselves.

i know i should have this surgery – with each passing day, my foot hurts more, the bones continue to erode. but it seems almost frivolous to have the procedure done when i’m surrounded by men and women with real injury.

i had signed up for NaBloPoMo with the best of intentions. a post a day for a month? i could handle that. even with some light holiday travel, i could post from my phone. i’m not working right now, so what better way to exercise my photography and writing muscles?

who was i kidding. this is 2009. if there’s been a consistent theme this year, it’s been this: make a plan, have it fucked with. it’s amazing we even got to mexico (the asshattery of acapulco notwithstanding), all things considered.

so what happened to my plans this month? well, i learned two new medical terms, of course. (i hate learning new medical terms. “fetal bradycardia” was the first one of the year, and it’s been a constant suck since then.) these are the new two:

giant cell tumor of the tendon sheath; and
pigmented villonodular synovitis

there’s a school of thought that they’re really the same thing, just in different sites. from a treatment point of view, it doesn’t matter which one it is. neither is malignant; they’re both benign aggressive soft tissue tumors.

and i have one or the other in my right foot. it’s about the size of a golf ball. it wasn’t always so big, and only recently has it begun to cause any pain. by now, though, it has enveloped the two peroneus tendons and eaten up part of the cuboid bone (the x-ray and MRI look amazingly like a mouse has been at it). because of this, it needs to be removed before it causes major permanent structural damage. it needs to be removed NOW, because i’m still trying to get knocked up, and i’m not about to undergo general anaesthesia while newly preggers – again (we saw how well that worked out back in april). or, for that matter, hugely preggers (i know i’m getting ahead of myself, but i’m still hopeful). and since it’s an aggressive tumor, if it’s not removed, it’s going to keep growing, getting more painful, and doing more damage to my dainty (okay, size 9 – but it’s long and elegant at the moment) foot. even with the tumor removed, there’s a 45% chance it will grow back. grmpf. the upshot is that the week after thanksgiving (and two days before my birthday, no less – those plans certainly got screwed too), i’m going back under the knife.

that’s right. i’m headed for four surgeries in oh-nine. one for each quarter. yay me.

so i’ve been too grumpy to blog daily, and for the last week i’ve been gimpy due to pain and swelling following an exuberant core biopsy that angrified the tumor and the foot, which cut in on photography, and my plans to start working out again, and my plans to look for a job.

and there you go. the universe is mocking me. doing a damn good job of it, too.

photos from the dawn monument stroll. fake polaroid dry transfer technique on scanned paper bag. mixed results. ww2 monument is my least-disliked one.

and textures, and states of decay.
oh, and snuffy.

i was browsing through the google analytics, curious about what search parameters bring people to this blog, and i came across this question buried in the list. it struck me that i’ve never really thought about it.

first, there are the definitional questions. what did the searcher mean by “worth it”? and – don’t laugh – what did he or she mean by “be”? is this a cost-benefit analysis? a worldview question? is my existence defined by my advanced academic degrees? (the short answer to that one is a resounding “no,” by the way.)

i grew up in a public health household, and the most fulfilling work i’ve ever done has been in that field. i decided to earn an mph for entirely economic reasons, though – the added income from the degree. there was very little offered in the coursework that i either hadn’t already studied, or hadn’t learned at the dinner table or in the field. (obviously this wouldn’t be the case for most people, but i remember looking at maps of central american countries with my father when i was in 7th grade, as he determined the catchment areas of rural health posts. the broad street pump was practically a bedtime story. in fifth grade, i made a presentation to my class on contraceptive methods, much to my language arts teacher’s dismay. imagine explaining vaginal suppositories to your teacher when you’re ten years old…)

the mph was “worth it” in the sense that i completed my coursework while working full time, and saw a satisfying bump in my income. but it didn’t do much to change the way i looked at the world, or analyzed problems. it was really just academic and professional recognition of something i already knew.

the jd on the other hand – now that is a completely different story.

i went to law school – several years after earning my mph – simply because i could. i scored well on the LSATs; international trade law and health law issues were directly pertinent to my work, and unlike public health, it was not something i could learn from my parents or on the job. i never had any interest in practicing law in the courtroom or for a firm. i just wanted the additional analytical tools. and from that perspective, earning the jd was definitely “worth it.” i loved law school. i didn’t have much exposure to the socratic method, but it was thrilling in the classes where the professor used it. hypos were essentially big puzzles to which case law, statutes, and regulations could be applied – fitting the pieces together to determine possible answers. i learned more about the u.s. government than i had before (growing up overseas and having a narrow academic interest in college can stunt one’s civics education), and my appreciation and respect for the rights and responsibilities of individuals grew enormously, challenging my generally-unquestioned collectivist public health mindset. my public health positions have been somewhat altered by my legal education, both reinforcing some beliefs and leading me to question and reject others. i think these are all good things.

i “am” an mph jd in the sense that those letters come after my name on my business cards. i currently work for an organization whose primary focus is the law, and in an issue area that happens to be health (but not public health as its usually construed). when i read the newspaper, i naturally gravitate toward health and law reporting in areas that interest me, and i think i’m more likely to question assumptions i come across than i was before my degrees. but the mph/jd doesn’t define all of me. a quick search through this blog gives a much better picture of who i “am” than five letters on cardstock, or the diplomas gathering dust at the back of my closet.

i’ve found many benefits to having an mph/jd, and given the opportunity, i would likely do it again. one drawback, though, is that i’ve educated myself out of the type of jobs (and beyond the expected income level) that i like – at least for the moment. i’m an analyst at heart. show me a forest, and i’ll start cataloguing the trees and wildlife, and developing theories about pretty much anything i’m asked about. the big picture – the policy decisions, the strategic planning, the long-term outlook – these are things in which i have no particular interest. if i agree with them, i’ll happily work to support them, but i’d rather leave the development to someone else.

so there you go. a more introspective post than i’ve written in some time. and it probably won’t help the person who originally posed the question one bit. because what “worth it” and “be” mean to me may be entirely different than what they mean to him or her.

as of this morning, me neither. and lemme tell ya – acute appendicitis blows.

i’ve been sitting on this post for more than a month now, partly because the issue i’m about to discuss isn’t something that arises every day, and partly because i haven’t yet figured out how to write about it without sounding like a whiny little crybaby.

the issue: bus etiquette.

i take the bus to work. as most people who ride the bus regularly are aware, there’s an unspoken, but generally understood process for boarding: those who have been waiting longest board first. there are some exceptions to this, such as allowing older people and people with small children to board first (bus drivers have a habit of accelerating before everyone is seated, and i’ve seen some nasty near-spills as passengers make their way down the aisle). but by and large, if you’re a johnny-come-lately to the bus stop, you board last.

this can get confusing if there are many people waiting, but it’s pretty simple if there are only two or three riders at the stop. the guy who boarded the 3Y with me this morning around 6:45 (see photos) is either unaware of this basic tenet of bus etiquette, or just a total asshole. given that he nearly clocked me with his briefcase, i’m going with the latter.

at that hour of the morning, there are few people waiting for the bus. today, in fact, i was waiting alone, after the 3B picked up the only other person sharing the chilly bus shelter. then this guy marches up, skinny, about 6′2″, dark trench flapping, black leather gloves wearing, black shined shoes tapping. without sparing a glance around, he positions himself on the sidewalk (ignoring the bus stop rule that whenever possible, leave the sidewalk unobstructed for pedestrian traffic), at the precise position he expects the bus to stop. and spends the next few minutes rocking back and forth on his feet, impatiently.

(i am compelled to note that at this time, the bus is running about 5 minutes late. had it been on time, he would’ve missed it.)

the bus finally makes an appearance, and i move from the shelter to the sidewalk, a few feet to this guy’s right. the bus slows, passes him, and stops in front of me. and the guy takes two steps to the right, nearly shoving me out of his way. i stymie his efforts by turning my shoulders slightly and presenting him with my back (ah, queuing skills learned in asia).

i board, and take a back corner seat. mr. rude and self-important gets on after me, races to the back, swings his bags around, thumps them down nearly in my lap, and glares at me. “oh. sorry.” i say nothing, and turn my attention to my knitting.

now, maybe he was really anxious about getting to work this morning. maybe his significant other wouldn’t put out last night. there could have been a ton of things on his mind that contributed to his general assholery. but if you ask me, he’s just a prick.

i upgraded wordpress to 2.7.1 yesterday and now the highslide plugin doesn’t work. i had a dentist appointment at 7 this morning and now i have gummy cherry flavored fluoride paste stuck to my teeth. and i had to pay $11 for parking today because home – dentist – work is a hellish no-public-transportation triangle of DOOM. which means i have to drive home during rush hour.

woe is me.

###

so it should come as no surprise that i think kate coats of brooklyn, new york, is a whiny hipster douche. at the end of last year, she and her spouse moved into an expensive new condo built next door to a slaughterhouse that’s been in operation for almost a century.

new condo.
long-established abattoir.

whiny hipster douches think the slaughterhouse should close. “it’s not hygenic,” coats complains. get over it, coats. nobody forced you to move in next to a slaughterhouse. just be happy you haven’t woken up with chicken heads in your bed yet.¹

have i mentioned i’m grumpy this morning?
___________________
¹ i won’t even go into how we need more urban animal husbandry, rather than less. do you have any idea how much money this country spends on schlepping dead chickens into the cities? or how much NYC saves by having slaughterhouses within its borders? neither do i. but i bet it’s way more than whiny douche coats and her husband contribute to the economy.