I am planning a vacation. This is exciting not because we are going somewhere great – because we’re not. It’s exciting because I finally have something to plan!
Thanks to the pandemic, I’ve learned that I prefer planning trips to actually taking trips. I have more fun choosing where to go than actually going there. I have more fun finding choices of restaurants than actually eating. I have more fun deciding what activities we might do than actually doing any of those activities. And while I do – quite thoroughly – enjoy every vacation, I can hardly wait to get home and plan another one.
Lately I have noticed that this “prefer-to-plan” attitude also spills over into the rest of my life.
For example, I recently stood in line for nearly an hour for some of my favorite ice cream at Bruster’s. I have some issues with food, of course, which means that sometimes I limit myself to dairy-free ice cream, sugar-free ice cream and (always now) gluten-free ice cream. But on this particular night, given that the line of people waiting masked-up in the parking lot was so long, I decided to just get whatever I want.
I immediately nixed all the flavors with gluten because, really, gluten makes me really sick. “Whatever I want” included not wanting to get sick. So I had to eliminate the flavors with cookie dough, vanilla wafers, pretzels, eclairs, shortcake, brownie bites, sugar cookies, pie crust pieces, cheesecake, Twix, “krispies,” Oreos and graham crackers. Caramel, too, has gluten – so that was out, and caramel is in a lot of flavors.
Taking out the glutenous ice cream left me with about a hundred flavor choices.
Fortunately, I had a ton of time to decide, since the line was a mile long. I stared and stared at the list. I thought and thought about what I wanted. I picked something, then changed my mind, then decided to get two different flavors and decided I didn’t want any of the choices I’d already made. Then I decided on two new options, eliminated both of those, decided on one from my original list and one from my new list, and then remembered that my favorite flavor was my favorite for a reason.
When I finally settled on two flavors – which I now don’t recall – I decided that I liked those flavors so much that I didn’t even require hot fudge. But then when everyone else in the family was getting hot fudge, I wanted hot fudge, too. So I got a little cup of hot fudge on the side.
When we finally settled in the car (socially distancing from the other patrons), I picked up my spoon. My ice cream looked delicious, but I didn’t really want it.
I was very happy with the flavors I’d chosen, and I took several bites. It was tasty. But I was actually happier to eat the hot fudge out of the little cup because, well, I like hot fudge more than anything.
There was nothing wrong with the ice cream, but I didn’t finish it. After an hour deciding what I “wanted,” my work was done. Because what I actually wanted was to pick my favorite flavors. I wanted to choose, but I didn’t really want to eat.
I’m not sure this is the best way to be, but knowing that I am this way makes my life a bit easier. Many people find me to be odd. I’m okay with that, and also I understand it. I like my oddities.
Dylan wanted a Lamborghini Aventador at the age of 10. Even then, he knew more about cars than anyone I’d ever met, except possibly his dad. He read car books and researched them on the internet and studied every car he saw on the road. He’s loved cars for half his life.
This year, just before he came home for the summer, Dylan started texting his dad about buying a car. (Dylan did not text me.) Bill and I thought it was a rather silly idea, and hoped he’d forget about it.
After all, he had a car here that’s free for him to drive, and he really doesn’t need a car to get around campus. Dylan had college loans to think about. He didn’t have a job. He surely wouldn’t want to spend his entire life savings in one place. And once he realized how much money it takes to maintain a car, Dylan would stop looking and instead find a car after college.
But that’s not what happened. Dylan continued to scour the internet for cars with cheap prices. Dylan loves to work and he hates to spend, so he had a lot of money saved. He’d worked so much during the pandemic that he could, actually, afford a halfway decent car – which he thought he could get for $3,000.
So we sat down with him and created a realistic budget. We talked about the costs of transferring title and registration, and estimates to get the car to pass inspection, which is essential in Maryland. We discussed the cost of insurance, tires, parking permits, oil changes, maintenance when something breaks, highway toll fees, and the cost if the car crashes and/or needs towing and body work.
Then we talked about his other expenses: college textbooks, loan payback, food for his fridge, restaurant visits, studio and recording costs for his band, concert tickets (a luxury item), parking fees and gas prices – both around town, and from Maryland to Tennessee. And we talked about Dylan’s summer job, which he hadn’t started yet.
Finally, we reiterated that he had a car here at home that he could drive, free, whenever he’s home.
Dylan said, “Cars are my passion. I just really want one that’s all my own.” And we all knew that was the end of the conversation.
Two days later, Dylan found a bright yellow Ford Mustang with slightly over 100,000 miles. Unlike some of the other cars he’d seen, this one had a clean record with a history of regular maintenance. Bill – who is a gearhead in his own right – checked it carefully. He taught Dylan how to find out about a car’s track record on the internet, and how to negotiate a fair price, which they did.
Dylan went to the DMV and got his temporary tags, which took all day. He had the car inspected and found that it needed tires, which were expensive. But it needed little else to pass inspection – a couple of cosmetic fixes, like tag lights and a cosmetic fix to the shifter. Dylan had trouble justifying the (sometimes absurd) expense of fixing those little things, but he wanted a car that was legal so, in the end, he decided it was worthwhile.
His “life savings” has dwindled to a couple of thousand dollars, and Dylan’s recently realized that he won’t be working as much this summer as he did last fall. He won’t be re-earning that money anytime soon.
But Dylan considers his Mustang an investment. And he’s probably right about that – in more ways than one. If nothing else, it’s a learning experience.
Sometimes I lie awake in bed writing imaginary letters – although rarely do I share them with their intended recipient. The following is in response to the woman on my softball team who, after I tried to save a cicada and a little boy killed it, “explained” why I shouldn’t feel unhappy about that incident. This is the letter I wrote to her – in my head.
Dear Teammate,
You said, “Not everyone likes bugs, Kirsten.” You said, “I used to crush things all the time when I was little!”
I didn’t crush things when I was little, and I feel sorry for you that you did. I will continue to save cicadas until the day I die, should the cicadas need me.
I don’t try to force anyone else to like bugs. I didn’t ask you to save cicadas, so why did you continually roll your eyes when I set them into flight?
It’s not your job to tell me how to live. And it’s not your job to “help” me if something happens that I don’t like. I don’t actually need your input on everything I do or say.
It isn’t helpful to negate my feelings. It isn’t helpful to negate anyone’s feelings. Whether or not you agree with my feelings is irrelevant.
But when you followed me into the bathroom and asked, “So if you save bugs, are you pro-life?” …
And I said, “No, I’m pro-choice.” …
You went too far. You invaded a space that was both personal and political and then you pushed your agenda hard.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you said. “You kill babies, and that’s worse than killing bugs.”
I wanted to scream at you: Being pro-choice doesn’t mean I kill babies! I value every life: plants and trees and bugs and dogs and humans. I can value human life and still believe in choice. Just because you don’t understand how I think doesn’t mean you have a right to try to change it.
But because I have no right to push my agenda on you – I said nothing. Instead, I said, “I understand your point,” because I do. I am the type of person who strives to understand. Then, because I only want peace, I walked away from you.
At the next game, I sat far away from you. I spoke to you only when you spoke to me, and only about sports. Then you moved your chair next to mine, and I heard you whenever you spoke.
At the end of the games, someone announced a new vaccine clinic for anyone who needs a COVID vaccine. I said to a teammate who is unvaccinated: “Did you hear that, David?”
And you responded, even though I wasn’t talking to you.
You said: “Not everyone wants to get a vaccine.”
You are not my parent, my teacher, my mentor or my friend. You are just a teammate. I don’t require your input. I will be civil to you, but I will not want to see you. I will not want to be near you. I don’t care that our viewpoints are different, but I do care that you shove your viewpoints down my throat.
So I am writing this letter to let you know that I don’t appreciate the things you’ve said to me. And I don’t enjoy the fact that you are on my team, because team implies that we are working on something together.
We are just playing ball. You will never be a “team” player, no matter how right you think you are.
Our softball games rarely have an audience, since everyone who plays is middle-aged or older. We’re not as much entertainment as, say, little league or a high school team. We just play for fun.
But on Wednesday, we had a couple of fans, including a little boy. Dominic was maybe six years old, wearing a baseball cap and running after the balls when they landed in foul territory. Dominic had long blond hair, so I immediately thought he was wonderful. He reminded me so much of Dylan with his boundless energy and flowing locks.
I was still rescuing cicadas from the dirt during the game, as I will continue to do until they all disappear. As I carried one on my finger out of the dugout, headed for the trees, I saw Dominic staring at me, wide-eyed. He was holding a candy bar but he had stopped chewing.
“Do you want to hold it?” I asked leaning over gently, the cicada perched on my fingertip.
He shook his head. “Not really,” he said.
“Okay,” I said and started to walk away.
Suddenly he said, “Put it on the ground.”
Right, I thought. I’m a stranger. It’s a pandemic. It would be more comfortable for him to pick up the cicada from the ground.
With the utmost care, I reached down next to the boy but the cicada didn’t want to leave my finger. I worked with it carefully, releasing one leg then the other, gently positioning it off my finger.
Then finally – okay. The cicada was on the ground for Dominic. I stood up.
Dominic didn’t look at me. He looked directly at the cicada. And then he lifted his foot above the cicada and decimated it with his shoe.
“No!” I wailed, but it was too late.
Dominic took another bite of his candy bar. “What?” he said, laughing.
I looked at the people who’d brought him to the game. They had no reaction at all. In their house, in their family, killing a living thing was acceptable. Their motto seemed to be: If you can kill it, you should kill it.
I walked away with a knot in my stomach. That cicada was literally incapable of hurting anyone. I wanted to cry.
A teammate said loudly, as if I needed her opinion, “Not everyone likes bugs, Kirsten!” Her comment didn’t make me feel a bit better about the destruction I’d not only witnessed but facilitated. She continued: “He’s just a little kid. I crushed tons of things when I was a little kid.”
And I thought: I didn’t. I didn’t crush living things for “fun.”
My own children didn’t crush things, either. Our motto: If you can save it, you should save it.
I recall holding a very young Dylan, still small enough that I carried him around. Dylan was on my hip with a peanut in his hand, reaching out toward a tree where a black squirrel waited. The squirrel reached out quickly and grabbed the peanut from Dylan’s little hand, put it in its mouth, and scampered back up the tree with its prize.
Dylan’s face lit up as he looked at me, both of us beaming with pride. Dylan was born with empathy.
Little Dominic may have long hair, but he will never be like Dylan.
With one quick movement, Dominic’s future flashed before my eyes: jock, bully, popular kid, reckless driver, lazy husband, macho father. He’ll teach his children: If you can kill it, you should kill it.
And Dominic will believe that until the day he dies, because that’s what he was taught.
We are inundated with cicadas. Their call is constant, fierce and soothing. Their clunky bodies ram into walls and windows all day, sometimes stunning themselves and other times bouncing off and flying to the trees.
There are dead cicadas all over the yard, the deck, the driveway. I assume they’re piling up on our roof. Seventeen years ago, our house was built in this exact spot. Since we unearthed a slew of land to create the house, we have fewer cicadas than most. Still they gather on parked cars and coat our shrubbery. We often keep our home’s windows closed due to the noise, and our car windows up so they don’t surprise us as we drive.
I am sensitive and careful; I want to save all the cicadas. Obviously they are all going to drop dead in a few weeks, and their eggs will miraculously plant themselves underground for another 17 years, but I still want to help. I don’t see any point in letting them suffer.
When a cicada is on its back and desperately wiggling its feet because it’s too stupid to figure out how to flip itself upright (Use your wings!), I step in. I offer the cicada a stick or finger or leaf so that it can right itself and/or fly away. Before driving anywhere, I walk the length of our driveway and rescue any cicadas that are still moving so I don’t run them over with my car. When I walk the dog, I reposition cicadas from the center of the walking path to the grass so they aren’t crushed like … well, like bugs.
Playing softball is a special kind of challenge – more so for me than for the cicadas. Even while immersed in a close game, I can’t help but see every, single cicada as it flies by – swirling up toward the trees, nose-diving into the grass, or landing on one of my teammates. And when one is climbing up my leg or exploring my glove, it makes it tough to concentrate on catching the ball.
For whatever reason, when a cicada plummets into the dirt of the infield, it can almost never recover. It’s immediately caked in the red dust that is the stuff of dreams for ball players. Cicadas are oblivious to the giant cleats that can so easily cause their demise, but when one lands in the baseline – even if I’m on base – I have to grab it and send it back into flight. It only takes a second, and it’s the humane thing to do.
During one of these rescues on my way to the outfield, the left fielder snarled at me, “Kill it. There’s enough of them already.”
“They are great for the environment,” I told him. “They have a ton of protein and all kinds of animals eat them, so they’re helping every species!”
He wasn’t swayed. “The only thing that’s good about these cicadas,” he said, “is that I won’t be here the next time they come around!”
I laughed and sent the cicada buzzing off into the air – but I thought about what he said. Would he be around in 17 years? He’s in his 70s so technically, he could still be here. With his luck, he probably will live just long enough.
Then I thought: how old will I be the next time Brood X emerges? There’s a chance I can experience this not once, but even twice more in my lifetime! I would be 73 and 90 if I do.
I just hope I can bend down and save them then, too.
I majored in Communications. Looking back, I probably should have looked for a college with a solid Creative Writing program or a degree in Television or both, since what I really wanted was to write books or work at a TV station.
My college promised that they were working on getting a TV station and that they had a great radio station already. A full 10 years after I graduated, they finally got a semblance of a TV station (half an hour from campus) that only broadcast college sports. We had that in my high school.
Still, I’d gotten a scholarship of $500/semester that was only good if I majored in Communications – and I loved that school. It was tons of fun, plus the school colors had purple in them! I loved purple.
So I got a degree in Communications which, at the time, meant that I could try to find a job as a newspaper reporter. Since I had zero TV experience and never did an internship, I wasn’t quite sure how to get where I wanted to go.
I imagined myself on TV, standing in front of ruins in Kuwait some other war-torn country, reporting on the situation. I thought I would cover the Oscars ceremony and interview famous people on the red carpet. But one night, very late, I was flipping through the channels and I saw a news interview that changed everything.
A couple of teenage girls near Pittsburgh had disappeared. Vanished. No one was sure whether they’d been picked up by a stranger, or run away. But the reporter for the story feared the worst – and wanted us to know that.
REPORTER: Did you know the victims?
AUNT OF VICTIM (obviously distraught): Yes, she was my goddaughter. And her friend. We just really want them to be safe and come home.
REPORTER: Do you have any idea who could have taken them? Did you see any suspicious characters?
AUNT: No, of course not, we just want to find them and get them home safely.
REPORTER: Do you know what they were wearing at the time of their disappearance?
AUNT: Well, they’d just had softball practice. I guess they were probably wearing their softball uniforms.
REPORTER: Can you tell me what their softball uniforms looked like?
This went on and on: the crying godmother, desperately wanting to get the word out to her beloved niece that she was loved, and the young, merciless reporter who was going for the jugular with every question.
I sat up on the couch, my jaw on the floor. Even at 20 years old, I knew this was not the kind of reporting I wanted to do. I wanted to tell stories about the girls coming home, about war heroes, quintuplets being born, and puppies being rescued and given new homes. But wherever I looked on TV, even in the 1980s, the only happy stories on TV were at 11:27 – the last three minutes of the news cast – as if the only feel-good stories they could find were only worthwhile if they made the newscasters laugh before everyone went off to bed for the night.
This week, a report was released about COVID and how the U.S. news coverage was far more negative than the coverage in other countries. I thought: how could it take 30 years for them to realize what I knew after watching one story of two missing teens? We report bad news because it gets good ratings.
I have no idea if those girls ever made it home. I stopped watching the news for decades after that. Now I remember why.
I stood in the “yard” – a patch of mud, really – staring at the unpaved driveway, the non-existent sidewalk, and the patches of grass that would someday become a place to play badminton.
I held my newborn in my arms. Shane and the house had been due on the same day: January 15. Shane was eight days late; the house was three months late. But now, finally, we were a family living in our forever home.
Dylan skittered about on the gravel, running for a minute, then stopping to pick up a rock and examine it more closely. Then he’d drop the rock and run some more. Dylan was three and had the energy of a scared rabbit.
In the background, there was a hum – a distant sound that was both soothing and deafening. Every few minutes, the hum would get louder and louder until it became a roar… and at those points, Dylan would stop moving, throw his hands over his ears and beam at me.
Isn’t this CRAZY? he seemed to say. I smiled back at him. Yes, Son. It really is!
As I stood there listening, watching Dylan spin, holding tiny Shane, I thought to myself: This sound isn’t going to happen for another 17 years. That number of years seemed infinite.
Where would I be in 17 years? Would we still live in this house? Would Bill still have the same job? Would I have a job? And what about the children?
I looked at my smiling toddler. I thought: If he lives that long – because, as a new mom, it was always a question of “if” – Dylan will be 20 years old! How could that even be possible?
I looked at the baby in my arms. Shane will be 17! I nearly gasped. How could this baby be a teenager? Shane would be able to drive! Dylan would be able to vote! That little three-year-old spinning kid with a smile as bright as the sun – voting? And this little ball of joy in my arms – driving?
It just couldn’t be.
And yet, it is. This year, the roar is happening outside my window as I write. The cicadas are back.
Seventeen years have passed.
The driveway’s been paved, a sidewalk created, and the muddy yard is now covered in grass. Where I once stood holding a baby is a Sycamore we planted, now taller than our two-story house. We’ve had four basement floods, replaced the washer, dryer, refrigerator and dishwasher. Our dog – who didn’t exist 17 years ago – came into our lives, brightened it immensely for more than a decade, and then died. A new dog is now part of the family. Kitty – with me since college – also died. We’ve had five fish, a guinea pig, half a dozen hermit crabs and three petsitting businesses.
Bill has the same job, still. I’ve gone back to work several times. Even “little” Dylan has now had numerous jobs. He survived Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, was diagnosed with ADHD, somehow survived school, and got into the college of his dreams where he’s getting great grades, making wonderful friends and planning a career. Last week, he bought his first car. Shane survived dental surgery, successfully treated a vision processing disorder, wore and outgrew glasses, tackled OCD, learned to play ukulele, drums and guitar, and is a TikTok video star. He takes his driving test this summer and he graduates from high school next year.
Meanwhile, the cicadas huddled underground until, finally, it was time for them to emerge and remind us how very, very fast time flies.
I didn’t always feel like I couldn’t trust doctors. In fact, there was a definite turning point in my attitude.
Sometime after the kids were born, the gynecologist said to me: “Your left ovary is just dust. You should have it removed.” This was before the gallbladder incident (when I didn’t actually need surgery) so I got the (outpatient/laser) surgery. It was over quickly, and I slept through the whole thing.
When I woke up afterward, a nurse was standing by my cot saying, “She’s already had six bags of fluid. What should I do?”
“She’s young and healthy,” said a voice. “She can handle it. Just keep giving them to her.” Someone added another bag of fluid to the pole by my bed, attached to the IV in my arm.
I didn’t care; I went back to sleep. Awhile later I woke up and went home.
That night, I woke up gasping for air.
I alerted Bill. “Can’t….” I gasped. “Can’t… Breathe.”
Bill stood up, wide-eyed, and realized quickly that we needed to go to the Emergency Room.
I was in the hospital for three days.
Immediately they discovered fluid in and around my lungs. They gave me pills to remove the fluid. Then they kept me overnight for observation. When I could breathe normally, they wanted to locate the source of the problem.
I repeated the nurses’ conversation about “she can handle it” but no one believed me.
“No one gets seven bags of fluid,” they said. I told them I was sure about what I’d heard, and I had no idea how many bags a person was supposed to get.
Plus – maybe they’d noticed – I had fluid in my lungs immediately afterward.
“Let’s just make sure it’s not something else,” they said. They kept me for another day. After two days, I volunteered to go home.
“You still need to get a scan to rule out congestive heart failure,” they said.
“I don’t have congestive heart failure!” I said. “The nurses gave me too much fluid, so it’s your fault that I’m here in the first place! I just want to go home!”
“You can go home after your scan,” they said.
But no one gave me a scan. I asked every nurse, every hour, why I wasn’t getting a scan but no one could tell me.
“I don’t even need a scan!” I said. I really do know my own body.
Late in the afternoon on Day 3, I got the scan. Finally.
“Sorry,” they said afterward. “All the doctors who can read the scan have gone home for the day. They’ll read it first thing tomorrow morning.”
At that point, I blew a gasket.
After lunch on Day 4 of my hospital stay – after an outpatient surgery that should have lasted three hours – they read my scan, determined that I didn’t have congestive heart failure, and sent me home.
I nearly died, spent four days in the hospital, had all kinds of unnecessary tests, wasn’t allowed to go home when I was feeling fine, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the surgery I’d had – that I didn’t even need – and the mistakes made in my aftercare were the cause of all of it.
I wrote a letter to the administration, not just to complain but to make sure someone trained the nurses not to randomly give seven or eight bags of fluid to anyone else, no matter how “young and healthy.”
The hospital never billed us for any of it.
And that is when I stopped trusting doctors.
Shane and I have come to an agreement: we will meet weekly about colleges.
I have been looking at colleges for either Dylan or Shane for five years. I was already making lists for Shane back when Dylan still hadn’t decided where to go, and both boys spent their spring break in 9th grade on college road trips. I tried to make the road trips fun, of course, but still: college romps were included as part of the package.
I say “romps” because “tours” didn’t start until junior year. We would go to a campus and run free, testing the vibes and getting a feel for what was – and wasn’t – enticing and attractive. Campuses that “fit” were often just grassy and open areas surrounded by regal buildings – and honestly, there are hundreds of those since I knew where to look.
Dylan looked at 87 colleges, all told, but he pretty much knew he wanted to go to Belmont University from the moment he stepped onto campus early in 10th grade. But it was fun to keep looking.
Not including the campuses Shane toured with Dylan, Shane has already seen 81 colleges in person – about half during the pandemic. In addition, he’s toured dozens more via YouTube, and done admissions sessions with a few dozen that he hasn’t toured – including Juilliard and Edinburgh, just because he could. Shane has been Zooming with colleges of interest since last summer, and done several sessions with each of the colleges he really likes.
Shane has “gone to” at least three college fairs, and met with admissions officers at at least twenty schools. He’s serious about this search. Since some colleges re-opened for tours, he’s done six official, in-person tours as well.
Shane has done enough. He has a good, solid list of colleges he likes, and he plans to visit his top ten schools in the fall and/or spring next year. He’s even already asked his teachers for letters of recommendation.
But I am out of control.
While Shane has done all of these sessions, and tours, and fairs, and road trips – and been an absolute stalwart through the whole thing, I haven’t quite slowed down yet. He’s getting mail that intrigues me, so I research the colleges that I don’t recognize. I create stat sheets for colleges that may or may not be anywhere in the realm of possibility for Shane. I present the stat sheets to Shane as if they are golden, and he decides if they’re worth a virtual visit.
Then I spend time organizing and reorganizing information as if it will make any difference at all.
Shane isn’t quite done with his junior year. He’s preparing for AP exams and considering topics for his college application essay. He would much rather play guitar and make videos for TikTok. But he’s primed for completing his applications early and getting a couple of responses before Christmas.
Meanwhile, I’ve had to limit my college-related interactions with him, so it’s not all I talk about. We meet on Mondays at 8:00 instead.
Shane’s done great at getting ready to apply to colleges. I’m excited to take him back in the fall to (hopefully fully open) campuses to tour, meet students and interview with admissions officers. Everything is so exciting!
But then … he’ll be gone. They’ll both be gone. And I will have nothing left to research, tour or organize. Instead, I will be utterly and completely alone.
No wonder I am keeping myself thoroughly distracted.
My last post got one comment: Please go see a real doctor.
Oh, how I understand this sentiment! Real doctors are the ones who know, who have studied, who understand things our mere mortal minds can’t comprehend. They are the saviors, the confidants, the gods in human clothing who know the answers to our ailments, who fix what is wrong….
But that’s not what I’ve experienced.
For example, I had a sporadic pain in my right side for years. It started during my first pregnancy, when I assumed my son’s foot was lodged in my rib cage. After he was born and I still felt a foot in my rib cage, I learned that this pain was probably from my gallbladder.
So after years, I finally went to a doctor – a GI specialist recommended to me by several people. The local “expert” asked me some questions, took my vitals, poked and prodded, and gave me his ruling.
“Your gallbladder has to come out,” he said.
“WHAT?!?” I shrieked. “You want to take it out?!? Isn’t there anything else I can do? Don’t I need it to live?”
“You don’t need it to live,” he said. “Lots of people live long, healthy lives without a gallbladder, and they also live without this kind of pain.”
“But isn’t there anything else I can try first? Couldn’t I try a special diet or something?”
“No,” he said. “Get an ultrasound. I will call you when I have the results and we can talk about next steps.”
I left his office shaking. Surgery? I couldn’t believe it. I was terrified.
So I hopped on the internet and found a list of what foods are good – and bad – for the gallbladder. I ate the right foods and avoided fatty foods like ice cream, which (coincidentally) I hadn’t eaten for seven years before my first pregnancy. I took a plant-based supplement: milk thistle. The pain disappeared immediately.
After two months of eating right, I got the recommended ultrasound.
“I got your results,” the doctor said a week later. “Everything looks good.”
“I don’t need surgery?” I asked, incredulous.
“No,” he said. “You have a normal, healthy gallbladder. Can you remind me why you came to see me?”
I almost laughed.
My diet has caused me numerous problems. After years of researching and trying very specific diets, I’ve tackled all of these issues without a “real” doctor.
But I needed a primary care physician to prescribe my natural thyroid medication. Finding her took six years. At my first physical in more than a decade, I had a bandaid on my palm. I’d opened a container of lettuce too quickly and gotten the equivalent of a paper cut.
“You’ll probably need a tetanus shot,” my new doctor said, gesturing to the bandaid.
She wasn’t kidding. Maybe she’d also offer to cut off my hand.
“I don’t need a tetanus shot,” I told her.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s your choice.” That’s how I knew this was the doctor for me.
This week, with agonizing arm pain, I asked my husband for help. I pointed to where my neck hurt and he pushed on those places. It was horrifically painful and caused my head to spin. I actually believed I might die.
But the next morning, my arm worked for the first time in weeks. Astoundingly too, my right leg – which I’d assumed would never lift properly again – felt like it did when I was 14. My body is in perfect working order for the first time in years.
I’m not sure any real doctor could have done that for me.
