The Alien in My Intestines

After a delay due to family obligations, here's the first installment of our Ireland story. It starts on the Thursday night before we left.

I was feeling a bit out of sorts around dinner time, and unwisely consumed a buffalo burger, thinking it would help clean me out. Unfortunately, if anything, it made the situation worse. I began to feel a sharp ache in my lower right abdomen. The rest of my evening was spent more in the bathroom than out of it.

As the night wore on, I found myself heading to the bathroom again and again with nothing to show for it. The pain in my abdomen became excruciating. I began to wonder if I had appendicitis. The next day I had planned to work from home, and by the morning, the abdominal pain wouldn't even allow me to stand up straight. I started visualizing the scene from Alien in which the alien bursts from the guy's stomach.
My mom always told us the story of her cousin who died of appendicitis as a teenager. She wasn't feeling well on the day of her prom, but said nothing because she didn't want to miss the dance. The cousin died of a burst appendix that afternoon.

And here I was debating whether I should go to the hospital. If I went to the hospital, I might not be able to board the plane at 7pm. If I waited out the illness and skipped the medical care ... what if my appendix burst somewhere over Iceland?

I spoke with Steve about my plight. He noted that he'd suffered through a very similar problem about two weeks earlier. Thinking back, I remembered Steve walking hunched over with his hand on his stomach. At the time, I thought he was being melodramatic. (Example #457 of karma kicking me in the ass.)

Ultimately, I popped four Advil and we headed to the airport. That night on Aer Lingus was a long, painful one, and once we landed in Dublin on Saturday morning, I found I could barely stand up. It took me a moment to straighten out. I barely remember going through Customs. We picked up our luggage, some weird bagels to go for breakfast, and went to the rental car lot. After a few shaky trips around the parking lot, Steve seemed to have the right side stick shift fairly under control.

A couple of hours later, we arrived at our Belfast hotel and attempted to check in. It was 11 a.m. local time; check-in was 2 p.m., and the Radisson SAS Belfast refused to allow us to check in three hours early. (This is the first time a hotel has denied such a request in all my recent trans-Atlantic travels.) We left our car in the hotel lot, grabbed a tourist map and trudged wearily into the center of town, unfortunately forgetting our camera. Four more Advil later, I found that, if I didn't twist any muscles in my torso, the pain would stay bearable. If I tried to twist my body at all, it felt like that alien was trying to punch its way out of the right side of my large intestine.

Near City Hall, we hit the excellent Tourist Information Centre and bought a couple of driving maps that would serve us well throughout the trip. Then, we boarded a double-decker tourist bus for a tour of the city. Normally, we would prefer to check out a town on foot, but I was in no shape to hoof it all over Belfast. Not to mention it was about 45 degrees F and it had started to rain.

I'd like to say the tour was exciting and really made the stop in Belfast worthwhile. But truly, although we enjoyed seeing the murals and peace walls on Shankill Road and Falls Road, the epicenters of the Troubles, the best thing that happened on the tour bus was that we got some much-needed sleep. I wasn't even that embarrassed about it. When the tour ended, it was 1:45, and we hailed a taxi for the mile-or-so trip back to the hotel. The cab driver was shocked that we'd need a taxi for such a short trip, but again, I was in no shape to walk, and I was not even a little embarrassed.

Blissfully, we checked in back at the hotel. I collapsed into the bed in a fetal position and slept for a couple of hours. Around 5 p.m. we ordered some room service. I ate a very small portion and fell asleep again until the next morning.

I improved slowly over the next few days, eating bland foods and having the occasional half-pint of Guinness or Smithwick's, which Steve suggested had medicinal properties.

By Wednesday I felt like I had finally been cured. The alien had been beaten into submission.

Stupid Unicorns

Wow, it's been a long time since I've updated. I still haven't gotten to our Ireland recap, but it's on my to-do list. Hopefully things have calmed down enough at this point that I'll have time to post regularly again.

The big news today is that Steve and I have been undergoing some fertility testing, and today we had our "what now" meeting with the doctor. At the appointment today, he confirmed that I have what's known as a unicornuate uterus (UU), which is basically half a uterus and only one fallopian tube. I have two ovaries, but my right one is just floating around in there without a tube attached. Unicornuate uterus is often associated with recurrent loss, second-trimester loss, incompetent cervix, lots of bedrest, an inability to carry twins, and a 40% live-birth rate. How does this happen? About 3 in 10,000 women have this condition (2-4 % of women have any uterine anomaly, and only 1% of those anomalies are UUs), and it's something that happens when we're fetuses ourselves and one half of the uterus just fails to form. So, those of you who know me in person: You always knew I was unusual ... now you know exactly *how* unusual.

The doctor recommended a medicated cycle, which we'll look at starting after the first of the year, when our new insurance starts. It's good to have a plan. Even though my condition has a really stupid name.

One positive piece of information I received today was that even though a lot of women with a UU have just one kidney, I have two. So that's something.

This news scares the crap out of me re: a potential future pregnancy, but all we can do is press on. And I figure, I've already lost two pregnancies, so with a 40% success rate, the odds have moved into my favor, right? (I'll just keep telling myself that.)

When I learned a month ago that I might have this condition, I started looking for info online. There's not a lot of stuff out there -- there's not even a wikipedia page -- but I did find some good resources. You can also find good information by searching for "Mullerian anomalies," of which UU is one type. In case anyone stumbles upon this page while seeking info after a diagnosis, here's a list of some useful resources.

Good Information

• http://www.emedicine.com/radio/topic738.htm
• http://home.earthlink.net/~hrair/introuni.html
• http://radiology.rsnajnls.org/cgi/content/full/233/1/19
  
• Image of a UU: http://www.uhrad.com/mamarc/mam001.htm
  

Positive Stories

• http://talk.sheknows.com/showthread.php?t=166081

Yahoo Groups (membership required to read and participate in message boards)

• http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/MullerianAnomalies/
• http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/ttcmulleriananomalygroup/
• http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/uusisterhood/

Blogs

• http://citygirltales.blogspot.com/
• http://unicornuateuterus.blogspot.com/

Grandma Sara's Last Gift

On Monday after the funeral, Steve and his parents and I went to his mom's family cemetery in the middle of nowhere to pick out a plot for Grandma Sara. Several of Grandma Sara's siblings, her parents, and various ancestors are buried there. She will be cremated, so there was no rush -- the burial of her ashes will happen at a later date.

We pulled up to the cemetery, which was surrounded by farmland, woods, and a boarded-up church. I mention its relative isolation to explain our surprise when, as soon as we opened our car doors, a tiny black and white puppy was immediately underfoot. He seemed very happy to see us, greeting us like we were his long-lost family. I picked him up and he urgently licked my face and hands, shaking a little but seeming mostly happy. His fur was fairly clean, but his little ribs were definitely sticking out. In his excitement, he peed a little bit on my shirt, and the color was very dark, almost green. This puppy hadn't had anything to drink in quite some time. I put him down, and he began following us.

We walked around the cemetery looking for a good spot for Grandma Sara. The little puppy wouldn't let us out of his sight, and we kept looking around to figure out where he'd come from. We started to wonder if he'd been abandoned by the roadside. Steve's mom picked him up and asked him if he wanted to come to Mississippi. At first, she didn't seem serious, but I put on the full-court press. "We can't leave him here by himself. There are no houses anywhere around -- he's all alone. We have to at least bring him to the pound. He's so cute he'll get adopted right away. But he seems like such a sweet doggie..."

Finally, we found the perfect location for Grandma Sara's final resting place. As we stood admiring it, Steve's mom began debating bringing the little dog home with her. I said maybe her mom wanted her to have the puppy. Suddenly, the little guy trotted purposefully toward the gravestone of Grandma Sara's father. He hopped up on the ledge of the stone, sat down, and stared at us.

The decision was made.

Meet Barkley.

Goodbye Grandma Sara

Hamilton, Alabama, is a town of less than 7,000, straight out of Friday Night Lights. Most businesses had "Go Aggies!" on their marquees -- the Hamilton High School Aggies, of course. As far as national chains go, there's a McDonald's, a Wal-Mart, a Sonic, and that's about it. It's a dry county; we were advised to drive 83 miles to Tuscaloosa for wine or beer. (We went without.)

There were a lot of nice people in Hamilton; there were also many interesting characters. One in particular lived across the street. He was older, at least 65 but possibly as old as 80, few teeth, and spent lots of time sitting on his porch watching us. He had a uniform of flannel shirt, overalls, straw cowboy hat, curved pipe. When it got hot out, it was the same uniform, but no shirt. He also enjoyed riding his adult tricycle back and forth on the sidewalk in front of his house, honking the clown horn on the handlebars. (See photo below. Apologies for poor picture quality -- these were taken with a cell phone camera.)

Saturday afternoon, Steve's brother-in-law Skip started talking to Tricycle Guy. On a lark, Skip asked Tricycle Guy if he'd like to buy Grandma Sara's 1995 Ford Taurus (145,000 miles, needs a jump to start). Tricycle Guy offered $995 for the car, and Skip accepted, still unsure whether the guy could pay. To everyone's amazement, Tricycle Guy reached into his front overall pocket and pulled out a wad of $100 bills -- Skip estimated there were about 50. Tricycle Guy pulled off 10 $100s and handed them to Skip. Steve's mom signed over the title. Skip jump-started the car and drove it across the street, where it sat for at least the next four days (when we left). A few times a day, Tricycle Guy would ride his trike around the car admiring it. At no time did we see him start it up.

On Tuesday, as Steve and his parents finished up a few last things before heading home, I walked the two blocks to Sonic to buy lunch for the family. If you're familiar with Sonic, you know that it's geared toward the automobile, with menu/ordering speakers at each parking space. You place your order and a girl brings out your food a bit later. It comes on a tray that can sit on your window if you choose to sit in your car and eat. I wasn't sure what the protocol was for walk-up traffic, and I walked into the building. I was greeted with shocked stares from the low-wage workers within -- apparently customers NEVER go inside Sonic. I asked them how one orders without a car (no doubt they are still talking about the dumb Yankee without a car who didn't know how to order) and they directed me to a picnic table outside with its own menu/speaker. I walked outside to the table, pressed the "ORDER" button, and then gave my order to the same girls I'd just spoken with inside.

On the way back from Sonic, I passed one of the neighbors from across the street. She'd borrowed a $100 bill from Tricycle Guy so she could buy a bureau Steve had set outside (with a penned sign that said "$40. Pay inside."), but Steve's mom didn't have $60 change. The neighbor returned a few moments later -- with a Sonic bag and the change she got after paying for her lunch with a $100 bill -- to find another guy admiring the bureau. She came running up to the door with cash and Sonic bag in hand, saying something about finders keepers. We helped her move the bureau onto her porch and she took it from there. (She's the figure standing behind Tricycle Guy in the photo above.)

We made three trips to the Guin (pronunciation unknown), Alabama, Salvation Army, our rented pickup truck piled high with boxes of clothes, small furniture, and assorted tchotchkes. The last trip was mostly small furniture. Another donator had left an old recliner to the right of the door (a few feet away from most of our boxes), so we decided to place an end table appropriately next to the recliner. Steve then put a lamp on the end table. I took a broken lampshade across the street to a dumpster as Steve continued to add items. While walking back, I saw Steve place a throw rug at the recliner's feet, and then a console table a few feet in front of it. I was wondering what he was doing with that table when I saw him go back to the truck and retrieve a 13-inch TV. (See photo of living room scene below.)


We wished we could have seen the reactions of the Salvation Army volunteers the next morning. (Hopefully it was amusement rather than dismay at the volume of donations left outside.)

We made the best of things, but in the end, we were there for a funeral. Even I was sad to lose Grandma Sara, and I'd only known her a few years. I met her right after my own Grandma died, and I remember thinking that it was almost as if I still had one grandparent left. Grandma Sara played piano and autoharp (among other instruments), just like my own Grandma did. (My other Grandma died when I was 4, and I do remember her, but for most of my life there was just one Grandma.) After Steve left for Iraq, Grandma Sara called me at home to ask if it was true, if Steve really had gone away. I had to tell her that he had. She asked me if I had a job to keep me busy. I said I did, and we chatted for a bit. She told me to call her from time to time, but I am sorry to say I never did get around to that. I did, however, send her a postcard from a business trip, so she knew I was thinking of her. When I talked to her on the phone that time, I mentioned that we hoped to see one of her choir performances, and she invited me to perform with her group anytime. I demurred, saying I wouldn't know the music, but she kept the invitation open nevertheless.

One of the things we found in Grandma Sara's personal effects was a class picture of Steve from around 2nd grade. On the back she had written: "Steve: A Wonderful Grandson." It was a sweet gift from beyond the grave. But Grandma Sara wasn't done yet.

Next up: Grandma Sara's Last Gift.

An Unexpected Trip South

Last week, we suddenly found ourselves en route to Alabama, due to the death of Steve's Grandma Sara. She passed away the day after her 85th birthday. A faithful member (and former choir director) of the First Baptist Church in Hamilton, Alabama, she'd been active almost up to the very end. The day she fell and broke her hip a few weeks back, she'd been at the local public access TV station, taping her weekly Christian muppet show (she had big round-headed muppets, like Ernie on Sesame Street). She'd developed the shows as a missionary in Malawi and Australia.

Grandma Sara never really recovered from the fall that broke her hip, and she had a massive stroke while Steve and I were in Ireland. We returned home to the news that Grandma Sara didn't have much time left. We flew down into Birmingham last Saturday, rented a pickup truck and drove the 100 miles to Hamilton.

Stories to come, tomorrow and Wednesday. I apologize in advance for the photo quality; I didn't bring the camera for fear it would be seen as morbid, so the photos were all taken with my cell phone.

Comcast Triple Play Attempt Ends in Grand Slam

Comcast messed with the wrong lady.

Manassas, Va., resident Mona Shaw was trapped in a spiral of incompetence while trying to switch her phone service from Verizon to Comcast. At times, the 75-year-old was left with no telephone service at all. After attempting repeatedly to have the situation fixed, Shaw lost it, heading to her local Comcast office with a hammer in her purse. After smashing a keyboard, computer monitor, and, appropriately, a telephone, she was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct.

She told the Potomac News, "I figured, 'Hey my telephone is screwed up, so is yours.' "

She's a woman after my own heart.

Just Back From the Old Country

Yesterday we returned from a 10-day trip around Ireland. Coming soon:

• An alien in my intestines
• Adventures in left-side stick-shift driving
• What not to do with a tea caddy
• Opportunistic tourism and Irish globalization
  
• Touching a mummy