Life is a Banquet

Sleeping Sickness

For a week now, I've been "under the weather." Which translates into basically "blah" or no appetite and sleeping more hours than I'm awake. Current theory: low blood pressure--better than high, but still annoying. This of course makes for scintillating  blogging material: the writing I'm not doing, the grading I'm behind on, the great weather I'm missing, whine, whine, whine, whine.

Today though, I've been sitting outside some, feet up, and grading. Perhaps the whining will end shortly and I'll have a real post for you.

(P.S. All was well at the 21 week Doctor's visit. Great heartbeat yet again. Midwife said (for the third visit in a row) that she really thinks girl. Nevertheless, I continue to have boy dreams.)

Hives, Heartburn, and Heartbeat

Hives:  I woke up yesterday with red bumpy rashes in several spots. Seeing as I am not Hotdog on BSG, and don't have the Syph, nor was I outdoors yesterday, I was a mite concerned. A call to my nurse MIL and some looking around on Dr. Google revealed that the rashes were hives.  Which are fairly common in pregnancy.

And probably not unrelated to the massive amounts of anxiety I've been struggling with.  But still damn annoying, however convinced that I wasn't dying, just itching, I decided to take this in stride.

Then they started spreading. Like little generals hollering, "blank skin over here," they kept spreading and multiplying, conquering new territory.  They spread over the course of the day until by bedtime I was miserable, pink mess resolving to call the on-call doctor in the morning.

Heartburn: In the midst of all this hive-y goodness, I started having massive stomach pain. Like doubled-over, can't sleep pain, can't breathe pain.  My stomach got all hard to touch, and I decided that despite the late, late hour, I couldn't wait to call the on-call doctor. 

On-call OB sent me straight to the ER where my lovely rash and gasping pain got me a room stat, but then we settled in for a long, long wait until finally Dr. Doogie Houser (alas, no House or McDreamy) gave me a Bendadryl IV. And some pain-killers.

Then I was sent for an abdominal ultrasound, focusing on my gallbladder. Doogie (apologies to JJ's Doogie, but I've never had a doctor younger than me before) guessed that I must be having some sort of severe reaction to a food. No clue what. Either that or the pain from the gallbladder just brought the hives along with it for company. No stones, but gallbladder probably behaving very sluggishly and bad. End verdict: Lots of benadryl and a prescription for Pepscid.

Heartbeat: About three or four hours in, Doogie sent in one of the male nurse minions in with a doppler. Male nurse got an awesome look at my worse areas of hives, but couldn't find anything. Freaking out commenced. Enter Miss Confident--nurse who assures me  that Male Nurse just has "no clue where to look."

She was right. 158 beautiful beats per minute. Even Freak, very sleep deprived, was moved.

Still pink and puffy and really itchy, and still having stomach/back pain, but also amazingly relieved.  And happy.

If cloud nine comes with Benadryl and crackers, I'm so there.  12 weeks three days  or so.  And damn grateful for every pink puffy spot and gallbladder pain. 

How to Work the System

Last week, I had a little scare.* That is, if by "little" you mean that I was pretty convinced that Beta was about to reenact his/her own version of  Born Free, the Uterine Version. So, when the nurse-on-duty (otherwise known as my new BFF) said "oh it's probably either your blood sugar or a UTI," I was practically giddy to give blood and pee on my hand in a cup. Thus, when New BFF called back and said "not a UTI," my reply was "Oh." And when she said, "But we think it's a kidney stone," I said " That's WONDERFUL!"

Because, seriously, I've never been so relieved by such an un-fun diagnosis. Of course, I apparently have kidney stone-light--ABV and others have had kidney stone-hard core that usually involves ER visits and major league drugs. I've just got crystals (not the fun kind) and weird back pain. Otherwise known as the hypothetical kidney stone. Dr. Google says crystals don't always = stone, and my physical therapist says adjusting to boot-free walking = weird back pain, so who knows.

Anyway, I went to my hypothetical kidney stone appointment (because midwives, they don't handle anything higher than a g-string) because really, it had been 72 hours since I'd given bodily fluids and I had nothing better to do with my Tuesday than to wait an hour and 15 minutes to talk extensive medical history and really vague symptoms. 

New Practice needed the whole darn history, which I, wanting to get an A in "medical chart" provided like a ninny.  "Which relative had cancer?" "Grandfather. Prostate." Which, I had to relate at least six different times. I'm sure it's extremely relevant to the crystals and the pain, but whatever. The real excitement happened when she started talking options.

"So usually, we'd x-ray--"

"No! X-ray BAD!"

"Obviously, we can't" she looked wistfully at my pasty back.

"There's ultrasound--"

"Lovely! I thought I had to wait till 18 weeks! When can I have one?"

"Ultrasound your kidney. Not a pelvic."

"But I have pain! Right here," I pointed hopefully in the general direction of Beta. "And these stones, couldn't they be in my bladder?"

"You can't see bladder stones on ultrasound--"

"I'd be willing to try."

"If I send you for the ultrasound, the nephrologist who follows up may recommend a shunt--"

"That sounds painful."

"It is. You're not in ER level pain right now, so why go the nephrologist route?" She sounds so reasonable as my hopes of a quick peek at Beta are washed away with my latest blood draw.

"Why come in at all then?" Realizing that there were going to be no fringe benefits, I quickly returned hostile since I was due at a meeting that had already started thanks to their wait times. She's bored with me, I'm bored with her. We're so breaking up, only we have to keep talking, which really sucks.

"Waitings a fine option. Just see whether or not the symptoms go away. I've seen women with kind of chronically irritating stones that they finally pass at birth."

"Speaking of, are you sure I can't --"

"There's no need for an ultrasound."

"Hey! Do you have a doppler in here?"

"No. Let's just check your kidney function and go from there."

Finally, we arrive at the purpose of the visit, but sick of me, she handed me off to Newbie Medical Assistant girl who tried four attempts to hit a vein, forcing me to say "That's enough now," rather than kill her, and take my lab order to the lab that handles all my blood sugar draws. One stick, done.

So, I'm now that girl. The one who visits doctors in the hopes of scoring peeks at Beta--and of getting some sort of magic guarantee that everything is going to be okay. Because, seriously, six months ago? I never would have reported the UTI like symptoms, let alone the back pain. But the fear, it drives you to funny places--and strange waiting rooms.

*I'm sure this qualifies as praying for rain. Message from god = received. 

No Hacking Allowed

So this has totally been me for the last . . . oh FIVE days.  That decision I made to skip the flu shot this year? REALLY SMART.  Each of my lovely, talented classes started the term with a unique virus circulating.  Somehow, I managed to get the best of all three with a Flu-sinusitis-bronchitis medley that has had me weeping for some locked-behind-the-pharmacy cold meds. 

Of course, all I get is a pot of boiling water and towel.  OB says "oh, we don't generally worry about the flu till TEN DAYS."  And, "no, you can't cough or sneeze a baby loose! Baby doesn't even know you have the flu."  This is not comforting, especially since my queasiness disappeared along with my sense of smell.  At least though, I got the lung-hacking and reduced-ability-to-suck-oxygen. Freak got the 102 Fever version (seeing as how Beta has no brain cells to spare, I'll take my 99.9 fever gladly), and has missed two days of work as well. We're a lovely pair right now. 

"I want tea."
"Me too."
"You gonna get it?"
"I can't move."
"Me either."
"Why are we watching another episode of OZ?"
"I don't want to walk over to the DVD's."
"Okay, then."

And we lay in slovenly, flu-like companionship.  Being the male, and blessed with the ability to medicate, he's off foraging for more oranges and a better selection of teas.   

My hunter returns.  Off to shield the laptop from his collapse onto to the bed. 

Gift of the Magi

The bad: Santa brought me the flu as an early Christmas present (This is what I get for skipping the shot this year. PSA: The shots really work.) So I've spent four days huddled on couch and bed, watching bad TV and filling two legal pads with scenes for the WIP (to be typed later). 

The really bad: Why, you might ask, was my beloved laptop appendage not in bed with me? It broke. Kaput. Blue screen of death squealing into the night. Kidneys will be sold to get new one.

The sweet: This was a very broke Christmas at Chez Wavybrains. It was very UnChristmas thanks to the flu as well--no soup, no brunch, no cookies.  But, Freak saved Christmas. He saw me admire a bag that my friend had made for a craft show. Unbeknown to me, he traded her one of his beloved Roombas (from the refurbished programming fleet) for the bag. I could not be more touched if he really DID sell a kidney for me. Oh and the bag is kickass too.

The also sweet: Amidst all my crying about missing my family on Christmas, my brothers and my mother took pictures of their Christmas eve, and sent them to me so that I'd feel like I was there. I, of course, cried harder with the sweetness of it. 

The funny: My brothers have blog aversion so I can't show you the pictures of this one. But, trust me, it's even funnier than it sounds. What do you get a broke college student for Christmas? Money is the logical choice.  But, older brother Monkey thought that was too BORING to give younger brother Mattydog.  Instead, he emerged Christmas morning, in full mafia gear: Trench coat, suit/tie, sunglasses, toy guns, and a briefcase.  Mattydog opened the briefcase at "gunpoint." The contents: overflowing monopoly money disguising $50 in singles that Mattydog had to dig for.  If you know these two, the mafia reference is also an in-joke to their favorite pastime: Turning their SIMS neighborhood into a festering comic Sopranos episode. 

Hope your Christmas was better, but just as sweet and funny!

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Yesterday was a rough day. Four rejections in a single day. The prospect of sending out five new queries for each Rejection started to seem rather silly (I settled for 9 total), and the weight of all that rejection combined with a week of being off schedule, led to a really rough day. Eli had a similarly crappy day. We must have all drank the anxious eggnog.

The truth is that the process sucks. I made myself sticky notes with the number of rejections that famous authors endured. I read articles about perseverance. Perseverance sucks. It's why diets fail. It's why exercise programs hit the dust. You can understand the value of perseverance, but it doesn't get any easier. Perhaps that's why it's so hard.

21 days to make a habit? False. Myth. At least in my life. You have to remake that habit everyday. I've had my daily goal of 2,000 words for over a month now--but it doesn't get easier, it just gets more ingrained. It's a lot like exercise--you can do it every day for six months. Take a week off and you may never go back--it's all about the strength of the commitment and keeping it even when you're NOT doing the thing.

So, today, I'm trying to get my  2,000 words on the current WIP. I'm telling myself it takes courage to get five rejections in a week. I'm telling myself that I'll never know if the 52nd submission would have worked if I can't get to 51.  And I'm reading stuff like this awesome article (RWA login required). Focusing on how much perseverance bites isn't going to get me anywhere except back into a nice gooey pit of depression.

I forget yesterday and do today to get tomorrow. tomorrow, I'm an eternal optimist. If I just keep plugging along, something will happen. I know it. In my core, I really believe that I can be one of the 8% (percent of writers who actually make above poverty level wages). Focusing on the reality, how awful rejection is, how unlikely success is, etc etc tends to distract me from that optimism. Still though, I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot of mantras to get through to that tomorrow.

Current Contenders:
Just keep swimming
Someone has to be the 8%
It just takes one
You never know unless you try
No one else can do this for you
One step at a time
There is no try, there is only do or do not. Do.

Others? What little mantras help you make it through? What helps you from becoming a bitter old crone about perseverance? 

Let Me Tell You About My Book

I can only talk about three topics lately: My foot, my money, and my book.

The foot news is d-e-p-r-e-s-s-i-n-g: I went to the Dr IN MY STREET SHOE, ready to be discharged, only to find out that the x-rays were WORSE than three-weeks ago. I'm in a NEW cast (Darth Vader Light) and a new torture device for sleeping (think Sports Medicine meets S&M). And I have FOUR more weeks of this. AND NO DRIVING.

The money situation is worse. Still waiting for payment on some articles. Sending out resumes looking for contract work and teaching jobs. No bites.  Which is fine, really, because even if I had money, I can't drive anywhere to spend it.

Which brings me to my book--the one topic I really want to talk about.  So indulge me, while I tell you about my third baby.

This is by far my favorite WIP to date. I LOVE these characters, this story, the depth and potential here. In the week since it's birth (Chapter One, Line One), here are some of its accomplishments:

POV: 3rd person, deep. Three POV characters. There may be more on the 2nd draft.
Words: 20,000 to date. It's growing at a healthy clip. It should be 1/2 a NaNo by the end of Nov.
Theme song: (Thanks Eli and Lisa for this idea) "You can't always get what you want."
Genre: Undetermined. And this rather exciting for me. I wrote my first WIP knowing it was category. I wrote my YA knowing it was a YA. This WIP is more undefined--and I find that weirdly exciting.
Persons who have read chapter one: Three. This is a major breakthrough for me. I almost never show anything that is not a complete first draft.

So distract me from topics one and two, tell me what you're working on right now: A book, a project, work, christmas prep? Does your work have a theme song? 

Editing and Other Pains

Eli has a fabulous post up about the stages of book writing. I'm here to tell you that editing goes through similar stages.
Stage One: I love what I've written. A little tighter and it will jump out of slush piles everywhere.
Stage Two: Okay. This is more work than I anticipated, but I love the results
Stage Three: I should just burn this.  Plot sucks. Characters are one-dimensional. Detail is too much AND too little at the same time. Dialogue is pedantic.  Burning would be too good for this manuscript. Maybe it can aspire to be TP instead. 

Any guesses as to what stage I'm in? After reading Piper's great post about hooks, I started to think that the entire first four chapters needed to be deleted. Then Clanna kept suggesting new directions for detail layering. Then I started seeing major holes. Then I needed to walk away from the computer and find my happy place because I was also contemplating deleting my article which is due on Friday.

Oh, and the rain has returned to the Northwest. I'm trying to work my plan for depression-busting, but it is tough to remind myself that not every winter has to be as bad as the last three were mood wise. Not every bad day is an omen of serious slippage. But, wanting to pitch my manuscript into the trashcan can't be a good sign either. I think I need to apply my knitting zen to writing---I always keep moving foward, even when it is hard, even when I am convinced it sucks, I reserve ripping for only exterme errors and just finish and move on. 

Okay, now tell me about projects you have been tempted to trash in the final stages? Anyone actually go through with the urge???

9 books, 6 days

Do I seem absent from the blogging sphere? My good friend from RWA lent me her ENTIRE collection of Suzanne Brockmann's troubleshooter's series.  These books are more addictive than chocolate and have been the perfect medicine for my still-broken-now-with-added fun of more-bed-rest-less-walking foot.  More addictive than Battlestar AND House.  Combined. 

The fact that these books have completely captivated me also marks a huge turning point. I believe I can now say without a doubt that my new medication is working.  W-O-R-K-I-N-G.  For the first time in years, I am able to focus on one thing at a time and to fully enjoy that one thing without a thousand other racing thoughts competing for my attention. This is nothing short of remarkable.  I have always been a reader, but now I feel returned to the reader I used to be.

I am gradually returning to my own writing too.  Brockmann's books have taught me more about POV and character development than any writing workshop and I find myself actually eager for the start of NaNoWriMo which I am gearing up to do again this year.  I am on the verge of sending out my first ever query letter for my completed manuscript which is a huge step forward for me.

My previous post on blog reading really reflects a long standing battle between what I want to do, my depression, and a fierce Internet addiction. Thank you to everyone who shared their tips and methods. I brought many of your suggestions with me to therapy today (commenters on the loose! beware!) as we worked out a plan to limit my computer activities. This means less blog reading/commenting (but still writing my own blog!) as I work to have a healthy relationship with my laptop again. (Laptops are for writing, not for vegging out, silly wavbrains :)) I continue to welcome your comments, emails, and readership. I hope to be able to return the favor later on as I continue to road to recovery from the depression monster. 

Small Pleasures

One of things that depression robs from my normally optimistic self is the ability to see and appreciate the little joys in life.  I'm thinking I may market broken bones as a depression cure soon.  I will come, bash in a minor bone, or toss you off a garage step--and Walah! Cure.  Oh. Well. Yes, perhaps, just PERHAPS, the medication I started two weeks ago is having a slight effect.  Still, the broken foot is a powerful force in enabling me to appreciate some small pleasures in life: