Mental Picture

Occasionally I have a moment of extreme right-brainedness. I'll see something completely mundane and giggle hysterically over a ridiculous association. I'm sure all of you have had something similar happen.

I had one of those right-brain moments today, when I was copied on an email about an editing issue at work. Lisa sent an email that started, "I like capping Be Verbs," (obviously referring to an issue of capitalization). Naturally, this is what popped into my head:


As I suspected, it looked even better in Paint.

Technology

Tim and I got this sweet new shredder. It automatically detects useless paper and shreds it into tiny, identity-theft-proof pieces.



It's also very cuddly.

Endocrinologist

I'd really wanted to wait to call another doctor. I hesitated to build up the hope it would take to devote time and effort into a new doctor. These appointments take a bit of preparation: recording my symptoms, writing down everything I want to say or ask about, trusting the new doctor to actually give a crap.

After the last couple of days' splitting headache, intense nausea, and other aches and pains, I'm ready to make that appointment now. Here's hoping the endocrinologist Tim's calling will be the answer to my prayers.

Playing Dress-Up

It's been a few years since I had a real Halloween costume, and I'm desperate to dress up this year. Unfortunately, the only things I can think of to dress up as are

1. A vampire (which couldn't be more overdone)
2. Little Red Riding Hood (I look good in red . . . kinda)
3. Snow White (everyone likes comparing me to Snow White as a way to point out how pasty pale I am and mask it as a compliment)
4. Drucilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yes, also a vampire, and yes, a very old reference, but at least she made pale and sickly sexy)

I am super desperate for a great costume this year that I can wear to work. Preferably, it's something so great that I throw a Halloween mixer—minus the booze—just to show it off.

I thought it would be great if Tim and I could do some kind of couples' costume, but most couples' costumes are either (a) classless metaphors for sex or (b) terrible, terrible puns. If I were Snow White, he could be the prince; if I were Red, he could be the Big Bad Wolf; if I were Drucilla, he could be Spike. I'm just not in love with any of those ideas. There just isn't that much to choose from for a blond guy and his brunette wife. Halloween costumes in general are boring, repetitive, cliché, or disgusting—or they're costume lingerie gone public in a nasty way.

For the Halloweens of my youth, I tended to wear things like Dad's old fatigues or my gymnastics leotard. My dad and I both used to be skinnier. Now, I find myself living in a potential-costume-free zone. In a crisis like this, I find that the only solution is to call my mother.

* * *

Okay, so my mom suggested the following options:

1. From Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Sarah Connor or Cameron
2. Sarah Palin
3. From X-Men, Rogue

Votes (or better ideas for your pasty friend) in the comments, please!

Editing

There are several reasons I dropped my editing minor in my last year and chose to pursue a career in "something else." That something else turned out to be writing. I like writing. Unfortunately, every writer is also an editor in some sense. Today, my editing task has violently reminded me of all of the reasons I abandoned editing as a possible life path.

I'm generally patient with errors in grammar and punctuation. Everyone makes them, and that's why the world needs editors. Royal Skousen—genius, BYU professor, and all-around curmudgeon—taught me the concept of leakage. Essentially, leakage is the errors that a person makes even though they are fully aware of—and prepared to use—the principles that govern a grammatical decision. Leakage is inevitable and must be forgiven.

I believe, however, that there is a difference between leakage and total abandonment of thought during the writing process. A missing comma or dangling modifier here and there can count as leakage, but random capitalization, inconsistent use of single and double quotation marks, inappropriate italics, and what can only be called abuse of the thesaurus—these things witness a disturbing disrespect for the English language.

When a piece of writing displays such patent hatred for the reading public (and for the poor soul underpaid to edit it), I find it difficult to apply forgiveness the same way. For this reason, editing bad writing is a frustrating project for me. I am continually amazed by the inability of people who speak excellent English to produce a coherent sentence on paper. Somewhere is a tall wall between spoken English and written English. Some step over it without difficulty, while others spend lifetimes failing to scale it.

I'll accept that spoken and written English are vastly different. I'll even accept that many of the principles of the language that, when broken, drive me crazy are arbitrary historical and societal assignments that have little impact on meaning. However, when as an editor I'm asked to fix these things, I can't help but resent the fact that a little effort on the part of the document's author would save me significant time.

These unthinking authors simply vomit their thoughts onto paper and imagine that a wave of my magical editing wand will turn it into cake. Next time someone says their document needs my "magic touch," I'm just going to walk away.

Update: Time for a New Doctor

Before I say anything, I just want to thank all of you who have sent me notes, made comments, or kept me in your thoughts and prayers. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you're sharing my frustrations. Though I'm still not sure how to move forward—or even where to go for medical help at this point—I've felt so much peace for the past few days. Thanks for that.

I'd also like to warn anyone squeamish about "woman troubles" to just stop reading now.

My test results showed normal insulin, glucose, and testosterone levels with no sign of hyperinsulinemia—I'm not insulin resistant. The nurse told me over the phone that my options for managing my symptoms were to either take birth control or have a baby. I explained to her (as I've explained to about 500 nurses, technicians, receptionists, and doctors over the past two years) that birth control makes me really sick and crazy. She said that the best time to conceive was right after getting off of birth control.

Wait, what?

I've heard a lot of things about fertility, birth control, and conception, and that's not one of them. Well, anyway, Tim refuses to let me get back on birth control at all, because it turns me into a frighteningly ill person. Also, I'd like to continue having both a job and friends. So I start talking to her about option two:

"What would you prescribe if I wanted to have a baby now?"

"Nothing, you just wouldn't take birth control."

Hold the phone. That's exactly what I've been doing! And if anything is clear about my condition, it's that I'm not ovulating! So she just says if I don't get pregnant after a while they'll give me fertility pills.

Oh, thanks. Great. Yeah, I'll just keep having two- and three-week-long periods and random bleeding. I'll just keep passing out in the middle of these ridiculous bleeding stints. I'll just keep feeling like I have the flu for weeks or months on end until you people feel like I've suffered enough!

I've seen around seven different doctors over the past two years. Not one has cared enough to figure out what's wrong with me. All they do is say, "Yeah, something's definitely wrong with you," do a few tests, and then give up when they can't figure things out. I don't even know where to go now. How do I find a doctor who will actually commit to fixing what's wrong with me? How bad do I have to let it get before they'll diagnose me with something—ANYTHING—that they can treat somehow?

I hate being so far beyond frustrated, and I hate putting the people I love through worrying about my malfunctioning body when it seems like nobody on earth can do anything about it.

So while I halfheartedly search for an endocrinologist (my last hope in legitimate medicine), I'll be looking Heavenward for help and answers.

(This is the part where I wax spiritual.)

I've always felt like God answers our prayers and blesses us using a lot of everyday things, like doctors or medicine, or like sending a neighbor or visiting teacher rather than an angel. But now I really need a miracle. Doctors have been careless, rude, and unhelpful. Medicine has made me even sicker. I feel like I've exhausted the powers of man, and now all I can depend on is the powers of God that He's given to man. I know God can heal all wounds, and I believe that Jesus walked the Earth and healed the blind, the crippled, the ill, and the dead. The power of God, or the priesthood, can tear things apart or make them whole. I know that God can heal me.

I also know that he will only heal me if that's what's best for me. I trust him to leave my body broken if that is what will make me more ready to come home to him someday. As I seek this miracle, please keep me in your prayers. I know that no matter what happens, your prayers will always have the power to lift my spirits and support me each day.

Hooray, Pizza Day!

That writer who couldn't be quiet,
She recently went on a diet.
But what can she say?
Today's Pizza Day!
She must, at the very least, try it.