I made onion pie!

My friend Markette is hosting an Iron Chef party tonight, the theme ingredient is onions. I have always considered onions to be more of a flavoring than a theme, so I pondered long and hard what kind of dish I could make. Then I pondered longer and harder whether I really wanted to attend a party where everything was made of onions, and where therefore there would almost certainly be no dessert. Or makeouts, come to think of it. And if there did happen to be dessert or makeouts, they certainly wouldn't be ones I'd be eager to partake in. I like most of my desserts and makeouts to be onion-free.

I decided to make some kind of onion tart, because I am pretty good at pie crust and therefore I'm halfway there without having to learn anything about onions. Also, I know it's a real thing because I entered "onion pie" into the food network search engine and like 17 onion tart recipes came up. Win! I'm pretty confident in the quality of my pie crust, and regarding the filling, I think anyone who doesn't like onions won't be at this party. Then while chatting with Markette I discovered that our entries will be judged on presentation as well as taste, and that there will be prizes.

I think the appearance of food should not be so gross that you are discouraged from tasting it, but beyond that, I've never put much thought into the presentation of my food. When I make pie, I usually put it in a pie pan and make a fluted crust, like this:

Some of the recipes I found featured a lazier approach, which involved just kinda folding the crust all over itself, tossing it on a cookie sheet (no pie pan necessary) and calling it "rustic". On reflection, I think any food that was most likely invented by people who were very near starvation and were absolutely out of all other edible possibilities - such as anything featuring as the main ingredient onions, potatoes, or grass - is most appropriately presented rustically. As a bonus, this presentation covers up more of the filling of the pie, so the starving people can imagine that maybe, just maybe there is something that once belonged to a mammal under the edges of the crust, and they are not about to dig into a pie full of a vegetable that contains zero vitamins and 12 calories.

Appropriate or not, I'm not sure the rustic tart look is going to win me any Iron Chef creative presentation awards. It might be overall a safer choice than onion gelato, which one of the real Iron Chefs would be bound to try - because they think they can shove anything through their super-fast nitrogen-fueled freezer machine and force it to be ice cream. Blech.

So here's what I came up with:

Which is the rustic look, except with an onion on top.
And some confetti, to class it up.
And a bow, because I still had more dough.


*I do not have a problem with and actually quite enjoy dishes of all kinds involving onions. And potatoes. I think grass smells nice and is pleasant to walk on barefoot, but I have never tried to bake it into a pie so I will reserve judgment. Also Markette is awesome and neither she nor her parties ever really need to be pondered.

Nothing better than a Dr. who GETS it.

I had every intention of writing my next post about something unrelated to my accident, resulting injuries, or medical treatment thereof. I was at first stumped by the fact that nothing else remotely interesting has happened to me since June 15th. Then I suddenly realized "Wait a minute!! I lived a lot of life before June 15th, and some of it was interesting!" So I thought about some fun stories from my pre-accident life that might be worth sharing, and even started writing about how I learned to drive stick. It's a delightful story, set in Sicily; but I haven't finished it yet and today for the first time in 9 weeks I have medical news I'm excited about, so I'm going to share that instead.

Yesterday marked 9 weeks from the day of my accident. My last check-up was at 6 weeks, right before I left Boulder. The PA (physician's assistant - didn't actually see the Dr. the last time) told me it would still be another 6 weeks before I could take off my brace or start PT, and another 6 weeks after that before I could start thinking about climbing, even in the gym. When I returned home, obviously I had to change doctors and I decided to go see a Sports Medicine specialist who I've seen before. Yes, sadly, this is not my first serious injury in the 12 months since I moved here. I decided to go this route instead of looking for another Neurosurgeon for two reasons. First, I figure now that my brain and actual spinal cord have been cleared, and my main concern is regaining function, that this was a better way to go. Second, I started to get the distinct impression from the neurosurgeon that my case bored him. I suppose it's understandable, he's used to dealing with patients who might be paralyzed, or might die, and only he can save them. That does sound a lot more exciting. I think he got tired of telling me I didn't need surgery.

So today I went to see my new spine doctor (formerly my foot doctor). He started by thanking me for bringing in 27 pages of notes and 5 CDs of Xrays and CT scans, and told me he would have to keep me waiting for a few minutes because he wanted to review it thoroughly and get all caught up. Gold star! Another thing I love about this guy is that he ends every conversation with "Do you have any other concerns today?" and if you do, after you talk about it, he asks again. He keeps asking, until you don't have anything else to say. This is especially great when you are there about your spine but you also hurt your head, and neck, and rib, and also have questions about lung clots and pain medications and insomnia and some other stuff. Also, everyone else in the office is equally awesome beyond description. I sorta want to drop out of grad school and get my medical transcriptionist degree or something from calling that 800 number just so I can go work there.

First on the agenda was another X-ray. Really, another set of 4 X-rays. If I ever get torso cancer of any sort, I think we'll be able to safely trace it back to this Summer of Radiation, and therefore to Eric falling on my head. I hope we're in the same old folks home so I can complain to him about it. The doctor said that my X-rays look good, that my fractures look "pretty stable", and spent a few minutes saying reassuring things like "You'll heal fine, you'll be able to do everything you could before, you won't have pain forever, and you don't need surgery to achieve any of this." Medical professionals have felt the need to "reassure" me with statements like this at every step along the way, which makes me begin to suspect that I've never been properly worried about all of these things.

He did an exam including asking me, sans brace, to try to touch my toes. This was such a foreign concept to me at this point that I actually had to stop and consider it. I didn't make it, but I got a closer view of my feet than I've had in months, which was pretty novel.

So here's all the good news:
I can start physical therapy!! Physical therapy is one of my favorite things in the world. It is probably my third favorite activity ever. I recognize that this ranking is evidence that I have experienced a sad number of functional injuries. I told the doctor that I was hoping he would say that, because I already made an appointment for Friday. He got a kick out of that.

Time to start weaning off the back brace! Weaning means that today I could take the brace off for one hour, and then I add an hour to that each day, as long as I'm doing ok with it and not hurting. That means that potentially, in 16 days, I could be done with this cursed thing forever! Although that "as long as you're not hurting" thing is tricky - I have always had trouble distinguishing levels of pain for my doctors and physical therapists. I can correctly identify "no pain" and "holycrapIcan'tthinkstraightandIjustvomited" pain, but there is a lot of gray area in between that I can usually only identify as somewhere in between. What is my pain, on a scale of 1-10? Um, somewhere between 2 and 9. That's all I got.

I have always thought that pain scale was pretty stupid, anyway. If 10 is supposed to represent "the worst pain you've ever felt", then what does 10 mean to someone who has never experienced anything worse than a skinned knee, vs. someone who's had, say, their eyes gouged out with red-hot pokers? My back pain, by the way, is currently somewhere between skinned knee and gouged eyes.

My doctor almost told me I could go to the climbing gym now. Almost. He asked how I would feel about that, and I said "GREAT!!!!", perhaps a tad too enthusiastically. He said "I meant, would you feel safe trying it out.... "

"...you'd have to be really careful, and pay really close attention to your pain...."

(warily eyeing the twitching hands and too-eager smile of an addict about to get a fix) 

 "....actually, nevermind. Forget I said that. Do physical therapy, come back in 4 weeks, we'll talk about the climbing gym then. If I set you loose in there now you'll hurt yourself."
Too true, doc. Too true.

I know he's right. I knew it when he said it, and I appreciate having a doctor who knows me and can help figure out what's best for me. But after my first one-hour session without my brace, I now fully realize that if I had stepped into the climbing gym today, I simply would have killed myself.

Physically, the brace doesn't really bother me that much. I don't love it, but I'm completely used to it. I look forward to being healed, and being out of the brace would mean a step toward that, but otherwise I don't particularly long to get out of it, specifically. So I was really caught off guard by my reaction to my hour of freedom.

I went fucking giddy.
There are no other words for it.

I felt I had to make the most of the hour. I couldn't be too active, the doctor said not to choose, say, my daily walk for the hour of no brace. What to do? I decided to bake muffins.

Nothing stopped me from baking muffins in a back brace. But somehow, this was crazy exciting.

I ran out onto my balcony, and stood there just feeling the breeze through my...torso. It was awesome. Just feeling my torso unencumbered was awesome. Look, I know, you're all thinking "sensory deprivation of the torso? psssshhhht. " I understand. I've apparently experienced it for 9 weeks, and I didn't know it existed either.

With ten minutes to go, I started to get stressed. I suddenly desperately wanted a hug. I haven't had a proper hug in over two months, and again while aware of this fact didn't think I was too bothered by it - but suddenly I felt like I had frittered away my precious hour of torso freedom and chastised myself for not planning ahead to have a hug-buddy available.
As my hour ended, I knew I should put my brace back on. Aside from the clock, my back hurt, and I knew there was a reason I was supposed to do this in baby steps. I had a brief mental struggle when I sorta considered running out to the car and driving away somewhere leaving the brace far behind... and then I sighed and put it back on.

My point is, if baking muffins and standing on my porch nearly tempted me over to the dark side, what would've happened at the climbing wall?

That's right. I would've climbed myself into giddy oblivion and died.

Old Lady Update

AKA how's my health?

I know that I haven't updated this in a while, or been responding to many emails. I had some new and scary health concerns which some of you heard just enough about to be really concerned when you didn't hear anything more, for weeks. I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to worry anyone unnecessarily. I just kinda mentally switched strategies from reaching out, to shutting down. I started to just get through the days by thinking as little as possible, because there's not much for me to think about that isn't painful right now.

So here's the highlights of the last few weeks:

I woke up on Friday of 4th of July weekend and suddenly was having trouble breathing. I was able to fill my lungs completely without pain (no more than usual) or difficulty, but it just wasn't giving me enough air. I felt like I was sprinting all out when I was just standing in my kitchen. This probably would have been a good time to go to the hospital or call for help, but I was alone in the house and all I could think about was laying on the floor as still as possible so I could breathe. I could get enough air as long as I didn't move, or talk much. It was pretty scary because I realized that if it got any worse, I couldn't exactly lower my activity level any further. After laying still most of the day, my friend Coby called and asked how I was doing, so I filled her in on the breathing troubles. Coby is an RN (and soon to be a Nurse Practitioner) so when she said "uh, you should be in the hospital" I listened. Just walking from the car to the ER waiting room had me gasping for breath again, which was kinda good cause I tend to always assume I'm fine and that seeking medical attention is generally an overreaction (only when pertaining to me, of course), so it was like extra affirmation that the ER was the place for me. The ER doctors and nurses thought so too, and ran a bunch of tests for some life-threatening conditions. They all came back negative. This is good news in that all the obvious life-threatening things were ruled out, probably, but the downside is that they sent me home with a big shrug.

"Uh, we don't know why you can't breathe. If it gets better, yay! If it gets worse, then we'll have more clues! (House, anyone?) If it stays the same, uh, go see another doctor."

So less than a week later I had a follow-up appt. with my neurosurgeon about my spine, so I figured if I was still having trouble breathing by then I could mention it to him. I mean, you have to learn all the regular dr. stuff before you move onto neurosurgery, right? I filled him in on the breathing troubles and the ER visit. First he chastised me for not walking more. I said "Well, I was just starting to, and then I couldn't breathe enough to stand up or carry on a conversation, so I figured hiking was out.". He told me that if it didn't improve I needed to find myself a primary care doctor. This is neurosurgeon for "Lady, I'm a neurosurgeon. I do brains and spines, because I am the best of all the surgeons. Don't waste my time with your so-called 'lungs'". Then he told me I might have a broken rib. This has nothing to do with the breathing, apparently. A lot of times when you crack a rib, or get a hairline fracture in any bone, it doesn't show up on the first X-ray, but they can see evidence of it on subsequent X-rays as the bone starts to heal. I was also having sharp pains off to the side in my back in addition to the spine, which I hadn't felt during my drugged-out phase but did clearly remember telling the EMTs about when the accident first happened. So now the Dr. is telling me I might have a broken rib, but he couldn't be sure without an MRI. I'm like "uh, would the treatment be any different from what I'm already doing?" He says "No, that's why I don't really care too much." I just find it kind of hilarious that I might have a broken rib, and it doesn't matter. At all. Basically, my body is so messed up already, what's one more broken bone? I hope someone out there is laughing with me on this one.

I asked the all-important question: "How much longer in the back brace?"
Dr.: (condescending stare) "Do you remember what I told you last time?"
Me: "Yes, you said three months, but I was hoping you changed your mind."
Dr.: "You can go climb today, you're a grown-up. If you want my opinion, you need to be in the brace three months or you're going to make your spine much worse. But hey, I'm just the neurosurgeon, you can do what you want."
Me: ".....Touche."

The following week was tough and scary, but having been assured that my breathing problem was (probably) not going to kill me, I forced myself to do painful deep-breathing exercises, go outside and walk every day, and started getting more strict with myself on eating and sleeping healthy amounts. By the end of the week I was completely off pain meds and walking about an hour a day. My breathing had improved enough that I was finally convinced that it was not going to kill me, though it was still not what it had been before that horrible morning. I even started to drive. It is extremely uncomfortable, tough to shift, and impossible to look over my left shoulder which is occasionally a problem in city traffic. Also I once forgot to put my seatbelt on for like ten minutes cause the back brace gives the illusion of being very strapped in. Still the increased freedom made it all worthwhile.

Physically things finally seemed to be leveling out. Mentally, I was absolutely bouncing off the walls of my metaphorical padded cell, and ready to jump at any chance to get out of the house. (By the way, I'm no longer taking movie suggestions. After 700+ hours of horizontal passive entertainment, there is literally no movie exciting enough to be even remotely appealing.) I saw that Neptune Mountaineering was hosting a slide show presentation of some Patagonian climbing adventures. This event was A. free, B. sedentary, C. climbing-related, and D. not in my living room. Win! I recruited Eric and suffered through an hour and a half of a folding chair to look at the pretty climbing pictures.

Stuff like this is kinda a mixed bag for me right now. On the one hand, I'm so jealous of people who can climb right now it actually causes me physical pain. On the inside. On the other hand, avoiding talking about climbing or hearing about friends' climbs or looking at pictures of climbing or whatever else just makes me feel more isolated and distant from the world I love. I know that friends sometimes avoid over-sharing about their latest climbing exploits, and I know that comes from a place of good intentions. They aren't entirely wrong - see above re: soul-eroding jealousy. The flip side is that it makes me feel a lot like a 5 year old, with adults spelling words around me to discuss things I shouldn't hear about. Like "dessert". Which incidentally, is the first word I ever learned how to spell. It's also a really good analogy - you don't want to talk about fabulously awesome things around people who can't have them.

I've also become somewhat irrationally angry at healthy people who choose to lead not-so-active lifestyles. I just want to yell at them:

 "Are you kidding me? Your body WORKS!! Do you know how amazing that is??
Could you go outside and play?
It'd be awesome if you could trade bodies with me, since all you want to do is sit around and watch  movies anyway. But since you can't, please go appreciate your functioning spine and all your functioning limbs before I kick you in the teeth.
Ok, I'm bluffing. But when I'm healed, I'm coming back to kick you in the teeth.
I'm going climbing, and running, and skiing, all in the same day, and THEN I'll come back here and kick you in the teeth."

Luckily, I don't know too many non-active people so I don't have to listen to this slightly insane internal diatribe too often.

Since getting landed on by a 200 lb. drunk guy last weekend, sharp pain has returned to my spine which I had been free of for almost 2 weeks. Driving and walking is uncomfortable enough to almost entirely discourage me from doing it, yet I refuse to take the vicodin again, because that would be like admitting I've gone backwards. I'm certain that at the very least, that incident caused a setback in my healing time, but thinking about that makes me intensely angry so I try to ignore it. I'm terrified that it actually caused more damage. As I understand it, either my spine is still in good alignment and all I can do is continue in my back brace, for however long. Or it's not, and I will need surgery to fix it, which would be painful and dangerous and drastically increase my healing time. Or it's not, and it's inoperable, which could mean lifelong problems. The only way to find out is with more X-rays, which I was unwilling to take another trip to the ER to get. I have a follow-up appt. with my neurosurgeon next Tuesday, and I did try to get it moved up to this week after the incident, but they were fully booked.

I admit I didn't try very hard. I think the prospect of dealing with this secondary injury or even admitting that it actually happened and could be an issue was just one thing too many, and I really shut down. I spent most of the week doing whatever required the least possible movement and thinking, and bursting into tears a lot. I get Climbing magazine in the mail, frustrated tears. I get a card in the mail, "aw that's so sweet" tears. I get care packages in the mail, bigger tears. I get medical bills saying "your insurance company isn't paying and we want 8 million dollars", fetal position. And tears. It's been a very emotional mail week. I think about climbing, I think about the pain, the fear that I won't get better, the fear that I'll lose my mind before I do. I think about the friends and family and people I love that I miss terribly, I think about my life and myself that I miss terribly. Tears, tears, tears. I hate driving, which I have always adored. I put off showering, walking, going to the store, because it all seems unreasonably hard. I collapse in pain in Target because I tried to carry a half gallon of juice to the counter.

I have to go get a giant shopping cart to put my sad little carton of juice in.

I feel like this represents my utter and complete failure at life.

Tears.

I am not usually much of a crier, but I have cried more this summer than probably the last ten years of my life combined. It's like the floodgates opened - I reached a critical threshold and some wire was tripped in my brain that says "Sobbing is an acceptable response to... everything." Ask me how I am, there is an 80% chance I won't be able to utter a 2-word response without my voice breaking. Don't take it personally. This is an awkward question to answer, by the way, because the ingrained socially acceptable response is "I'm fine, how are you?" I have always hated answering this question dishonestly though, and I assume if you ask, it's because you want to know. If you don't want to know, and you asked anyway, well then you're stuck listening to the answer. Still I like to keep it brief, and let people ask for ellaboration if they so choose, so I say something like "Terrible, how are you?" I find it is impossible to say this without sounding bitter. Don't let that discourage you from asking though, I always appreciate the thought.

It's been a rough week. Every week for the last 6 weeks has been rough, but this week I just completely emotionally retreated. I know there are people who get injured far worse than I have been, and in permanent ways, and they are gracious and strong and rise above it all and inspire those around them. I am fully aware that I am not one of those people, and I have always known that I wouldn't be. I realize that the way I have been dealing lately has been the emotional equivalent of curling into a ball and covering my ears and singing "LALALALAICAN'THEARYOU!!!!" I feel like a big failure at life. I am sorry to everyone whose emails and phone calls I kinda just stopped responding to - I always intended to get back to you later when I was feeling a little better - and it just hasn't happened yet. So under strong encouragement to write an update and let people know the latest, I wrote this post. Took about 5 days to write it in bits and pieces, I was getting easily overwhelmed and had to take lots of breaks. I'm glad I wrote it though, and I hope you are too. I'll try to do better.

By the way, sorry for another downer. Read about my adventure at the movies, that should be more entertaining!