Expanding my resume...Part 2

In yesterday's post I promised stories of fame and fishermen.

I delivered on the fishermen, but not the fame.

As many of you know, every three weeks I drive up to Philadelphia for speech and vocal therapy, as well as for various appointments that typically involve needles in my neck, tubes down my nose and various instruments of the recording nature shoved down my throat to capture my bobo larynx in all of its glory.

In short, it's a party. Ole.

Now despite the fact that I could recite every rest stop and construction zone between Washington DC and Philadelphia, and despite the fact that gas is not exactly cheap these days...these trips aren't all that bad.

You see, I grew up in Philadelphia. It was my first home and my first city love. So despite my rapidly increasing BFF status with I-95, I get to spend time with my parents and two of my best friends, at least once a month. Not too shabby.

It also helps that I have a new love.

[Don't worry, Mr. RestartingMyHardDrive is well aware. He even approves!]

The name is Sweet Freedom Bakery.

Or just Sweet Freedom, ya know, if you are real close.

And friends, let me just tell you. This love is real. I am smitten.

Everything (yes, everything) in the bakery is delicious...oh, and also kosher, vegan, and gluten, wheat, soy, dairy, corn, peanut, egg, casein, and refined sugar free.

Ladies and gentlemen, I can walk into this bakery and choose a treat from 95% of the options.

NINETY-FIVE PERCENT!

Just in case you are a newcomer to this blog (in which case, welcome!) it has been YEARS since I have been able to go anywhere and choose from 95% of the options. At a typical restaurant I am usually looking at 0-3% of the options being Lydia-friendly.

Frankly, I'm not even sure 95% of my own kitchen is Lydia-friendly? Hmm.

Sweet Freedom was started by a woman who graduated from the same school where I am currently a student (Institute for Integrative Nutrition) and is conveniently (dangerously??) only a few blocks from the hospital. After I finish my appointments for the day, I meet my friends at SFB and we enjoy a treat...or two...or ten?

(Ok fine, maybe not ten. My stomach is paralyzed after all.)

In short, I get to enjoy time with my friends, while eating a tasty treat and forgetting about whatever nonsense occurred at the hospital that day.

See why I'm in love?

During one of my trips a month or so ago, I noticed a stack of papers with a blank cupcake and a pile of markers. Now, let me be clear. It is basically a law of physics that I cannot sit next to a pile of markers and not use them. I mean, I'm fairly certain it would be a crime against humanity. Or something.

The papers were there for Sweet Freedom's "Create Your Own Cupcake" contest. The idea was to design a new cupcake that they would feature at the bakery if you won. So of course I entered. Again, I really had no choice.

Obviously I went with s'mores. Come on people, I've been a camp girl since 1994.

After I finished my cupcake design (with much discussion and reflection from my cookie-eating partners in crime), my entry was added to the wall with the others. There was some serious competition - black raspberry chip...mint chocolate chip...black forest!? The wall was rich with delicious possibility. My friends and I went along our merry way and I resisted the urge to take out an ad in the Inquirer asking people to go vote for my cupcake before I headed back to Virginia.

Ok fine. I "strongly encouraged" my parents to go vote. But I mean, they're my parents! They are contractually obligated to covet my magic marker creations...right??

Weeks went by.

I didn't sleep.

I didn't eat. 

I no longer had hair or fingernails.

I had just about given up hope when my phone rang.

(I know, I know! You can't handle the suspense! Move over R.L. Stine, this is better than Goosebumps!)

Drumroll please...

My cupcake had received the most votes and would be created into an actual cupcake!

There it is! The real thing

It was a big day. I added a colorful scarf to my yoga pants
and T-shirt uniform. Ya know, just in case the paparazzi
showed up.

So moral of the story is that I'm pretty much a celebrity now. I mean, I'm surprised you haven't seen me on the cover of Time magazine yet, I'm sure it's just a matter of time. At this rate, I'll be a shoe-in for next year's "100 Most Influential People." I'm already a celebrity in Minnesota, why not Pennsylvania too? 

Besides, nothing says influential like a s'mores cupcake...am I right?

*If you haven't already headed straight to my buddy Google, let me introduce you to my new love: www.sweetfreedombakery.com

Expanding my resume

Friends! I have captivating tales of fame and fortune and fishermen!

Wait. Scratch that.

No fortune, just fame and fishermen.

Fishermen??

A few weeks ago, I received a summons to return to my pride land of Minnesota. I mean, my gut says they just missed me...but maybe the fact that my troublemaker mast cells have been even more out of control lately had something to do with it as well. Details.

In an effort to not spend the entire month of May in Minnesota, my allergist kindly offered to send me some lab work to do at home and ship back, so the results were all ready to go when I arrived. How thoughtful! Sounds easy enough, right?

False. Wrong. Negative. Ixnay.

When setting up the lab testing, I mentioned to the technician that I was going to be heading up to Philadelphia for appointments later in the week and wanted to make sure it was ok to complete the testing when I got home to Virginia again. I was assured this would not be a problem and we went along our merry way of discussing the glorious details of blood work and a 24 hour urine collection (he was impressed with my knowledge. Puhlease. Like this is the first time?). Everything was set up and the box would be shipped with everything I needed to complete the testing and send it back.

Fast forward a few days when I arrive home from the barn to find a giant brown box from the Mayo Clinic.

*Sidenote: You know that moment when you turn the corner towards home and you see a giant package waiting on your doorstep? Your heart rate increases, you start smiling and you can hardly wait to see the surprise that has landed on your door? Ya know, you leap out of the car, rush to the door in anticipation....aaaaaand then discover it is a giant box of test tubes and a pee jug and NOT a prize box informing you that you have won a pony? Yea. Been there.

Upon opening the box, I discover a note that says, "Start testing immediately after receiving this package, do not wait until next week."

Stupendous.

I'd like to tell you that this was the first time that I have driven up I-95 with a giant jug of my urine.

It's not.

I'd also like to tell you that this was the first time I've brought said jug into the Delaware rest stop with me, rinsed the attached cup at the rest stop sink and then carried my satchel o'urine with me to the Starbucks to get a soy steamer.

It's not.

So because I had previously added my urine collecting skills to my resume, I wasn't that phased by lugging it around and I knew the exact protocol for shipping it back to my fan club in Minnesota.

I had not, however, ever had to ship them my blood.

In the aforementioned giant brown box, there was a smaller brown box, that contained a smaller styrofoam box that contained a still smaller styrofoam box full of test tubes and vials. Inside this Rubix cube of boxes were instructions for the phlebotomist (person poking my arm with needles) that explained how to collect the blood, where to put it and how to ship it.

If you haven't picked up on the pattern yet, I'll help you out: if something seems really simple, that is actually hospital code for extraordinarily complicated.

You see, you can't just call up any lab in the Philadelphia area and make an appointment. Nor can you assume that they will have the necessary materials to complete the task. The lab has to a) work with your insurance, b) be willing to work with the Mayo Clinic and c) have dry ice to ship the materials.

Allow me to share a conversation with the Mayo Clinic Specimen Office:

L- "Hi, I'm having a rather difficult time finding a lab to complete this testing and in addition, none of them seem to have access to dry ice. Do you have any ideas?"

MC - "Oh dear, let's help you out with that! If you go to a hospital, you will have more luck. Outside labs will generally turn you away, but a hospital has to accept you."

L - "Well I tried the hospital where I will be tomorrow, but they don't have dry ice, where can I find that?"

MC- "Well, where are you located?"

L - "Philadelphia."

MC - "Perfect! Isn't that on the water? Just go down to the waterfront and find a fisherman. They always have lots of dry ice for the lobster."

[awkward silence]

L - "Um...Philadelphia is on a river...we don't have too many lobsters?"

MC- "Oh they might for the fish though!"

[awkward silence]

L - "Okay...let's just assume for a second that I am unable to stand on the wharf with my styrofoam box of blood and locate a fisherman with dry ice...what is my back-up plan?"

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce www.dryicedirectory.com

Didn't know it existed? Neither did I, but that little gift of a website tells you all of the locations in your area for dry ice...er...more accurately, THE location. In the city of Philadelphia, there is one.

After realizing that I have to be at the lab at 7, the dry ice place opens at 9 and my next appointment at the hospital is at 9:30, it is determined that my poor father will be roped into coming with me on this grand excursion, so he can run and fill the box with dry ice as soon as they open.

Again, seems easy...or at least, do-able, enough. Wrong.

We arrived at the lab around 7, I was rejected by the first phlebotomist around 7:45, spoke with the supervisor around 8:15, who called the grand guru of the lab to look into centrifuge and freezing protocol before calling me back at 8:45 and instructing phlebotomist #2 to take my blood at 9:20, who felt it necessary to comment on the diminutive size of my veins before sending me on my merry, sprinting way, to get to my appointment at 9:30. Meanwhile, Papa Haas has gone on a trip to South Philly with an empty box in tow, hoping to get it back to the lab before said centrifuging vials of blood are returned to the lab and I can pick it all up after my appointments.

Ok, hands in on Operation Dry Ice and we made it. Go team.

But, I still had to send it.

Now my buddies in the Specimen Office had sent me a pre-filled out form for Fed Ex and instructed me to drop the box off at a Fed Ex store or schedule a pick-up. Conveniently, there is a Fed Ex directly across from the hospital, hooray!

Hospital code again? Right.

Did you know that satellite Fed Ex offices will not accept live specimens? Especially if said live specimens contain dry ice, which involves several biohazard stickers and weight notation. True story. Nope, those extra special packages have to be sent from the Fed Ex warehouse. Ya know, the warehouse which is all the way across town, next to the recycling plant, in an area of town that a skinny white girl in a Honda, lugging around a box of pee and blood probably shouldn't frequent solo. See where this is going? Yep, at the ripe old age of 30, I needed my father to drive me, and my live specimens, to the warehouse where they could finally be shipped overnight to Minnesota.

A ridiculously large box for a 1/3 cup container of urine and 2 vials of blood.

So, let's review the expansion of my resume:

1. Need dry ice? I can find it. Or I'll find you a fisherman. I just ask that you get my mom a piece of salmon while you are at it.

2. Need to do a urine test while traveling? No problem, I can talk you through it, let you know which rest stops on I-95 have large stalls and I even have a perfectly sized tote bag you can borrow.

3. Need to send a live specimen? I can provide directions and even recommend an excellent bodyguard.

4. I am also now officially bilingual. I speak English and Hospital Code.

Oh and as for the fame? 

We'll save that for tomorrow.

The Season of 30

I don't believe in the concept of a clean slate.

I don't believe that we ever really start from scratch.

I believe that no matter where we go, we carry our past with us. Our life experiences shape how we face each new day and the obstacles that lie ahead.

A few weeks ago, I reached a new personal milestone. I turned 30.

Thirty years old - an age many of my friends are approaching with much trepidation.

Me?

I couldn't be more thrilled.

A new decade!
An even number!
A number that involves no rounding to the nearest ten!

[Elementary school teacher simple pleasures?]

Most importantly, a new season.

When I first started teaching, I was thrilled to learn how much of the elementary school curriculum is about seasons. Nerd that I am, I took bizarre delight in any and all opportunities to draw a detailed rendition of the life cycle of a butterfly or act out the four weather seasons with a squadron of 5 year olds. My go-to classroom music was Vivaldi's infamous "Four Seasons" and despite a still-standing pact with grad school friends to never fall victim to "the seasonal sweater," I take great delight in the decorations that don't actually touch my body.

To me, there is something so refreshing and inspirational about a new season. In spite of whatever has taken place in the prior season, the cycle continues. It's unstoppable. A really harsh winter may result in fewer flowers in spring...but eventually, spring always gets here and is followed by summer, then autumn and then back to winter again.

[Puxatony Phil, that was my not-so-subtle hint to FINALLY deliver the Spring that you promised. Seriously groundhog, get on with it.]

So here I am. The season of 30.

In college, my housemates and I were mildly obsessed with "13 going on 30." I mean, hello - Jennifer Garner, Matt Ruffalo and a steady stream of Razzles? What's not to like?? For Valentine's Day, I made all of the girls little heart-shaped jars of red and silver glitter with a tag that said "Thirty, Flirty and Thriving," just like the magic glitter in the movie. That day seemed so far away at the time.

If you had asked me five years ago what 30 would look like, I'm not going to lie and tell you that my life now is what I pictured. It's not even close. But I still don't think I missed the magic glitter.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with my gastroenterologist. It goes without saying, that I typically dread these appointments. I am obviously well past the awkwardness of the first couple of moments in the GI wing, but I still don't generally list sitting down for a chat about nausea, my time in the bathroom or inappropriate placement of air as a social activity.  For GI-newbies, let me just set you straight: these people talk about poop and gas all day. ALL. DAY. So just buck up and let it out.

[horrible pun maybe a little bit intended...]

In terms of symptoms, I should really stick with my typical appointment dread. The past few months have been among my worst in pain and severity of symptoms. But still, no dread. In this new season of my life, I know what my body is capable of and I know how to handle it. I'm not going into this appointment fearing some new, crazy procedure or crossing my fingers to join a clinical trial of a drug that will grow me a third arm. I'm going to this appointment to check in and reassure my doctor that I'm still in one piece. Despite my recent track record, my husband and I just returned from our first non-medical trip since our honeymoon...and I did just fine. Yes, I came home a bit nutrient deficient and yes I lost 5 pounds in 6 days... and yes, I got away for a week with my husband and loved it.

[However, Puxatony Phil, we could have done without the 40 degree temperatures in Florida. Get cracking groundhog.]

Tomorrow I will go to my appointment. I will share my symptoms and stats when asked. I will get various body parts poked and prodded and we will likely spend an unusually long amount of time examining the gaping hole in my stomach.

But then I'll share that I'm halfway through school to become a holistic health coach and help patients just like me. I'll share that I'm learning to sing again. I'll share that I just went on vacation with my husband, and didn't step foot in a hospital.

In this new season, I will share that I am thirty. And flirty. And thriving.