more hurricane stories about my family

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Here’s one of those stories that should be on the news, but probably won’t be. Ok, first we have my cousin, who I’ll call “Mr. Used to be an arrogant jerk in dire need of an ass-kicking, but I hear that becoming a father this year has magically transformed him into a compassionate human being with an actual soul, but I haven’t seen him in 2 years so I’m withholding judgment for now.” Actually, that’s a pretty long nickname, so I think I’ll just call him my cousin. I’m sure that the few family members who read this have NO idea who I’m talking about. (And if certain other relatives read this, I might get in trouble, but you know, calling him an arrogant jerk in dire need of an ass-kicking is nothing that I wouldn’t have called him to his face. So really, no big deal.) Anyway, he’s a doctor now, doing his residency (I think?) in North Carolina. He’s from St. Bernard Parish, one of the outlying areas of New Orleans that has been severely flooded because of the hurricane. He also married a girl from that area, whose father is (go figure) a doctor. (Yes, it’s a theme. Go with it.) So I guess that makes him my cousin-in-law’s father? Anyway, Dr. CILF, as we’ll call him, being a responsible citizen, evacuated his family from the area. A couple of them went to NC to stay with my cousin and his wife, but Dr. CILF had to stay behind because he’s a family doctor in addition to being the St. Bernard Parish coroner. And sadly, in situations like this, there’s usually a high demand for coroners.

So, Dr. CILF was able to talk to his family as the hurricane was passing through – I believe it was on Monday morning – and he told them that the water was coming into the hospital, all the way up to the second floor. Problem: it’s only a two-story hospital. Then they didn’t hear from him for a few days, because communication to and from that area was essentially wiped out. Naturally, his wife (my cousin-in-law’s mother, or Mrs. CILM) was on the verge of a nervous breakdown because she had no idea where her husband was or if he was ok, etc. My cousin and cousin-in-law were both upset and worried as well. Finally, on Friday morning, he was able to get through to them. Apparently, he evacuated the hospital and set up a temporary shop at the parish jail (of all places), and since they had no food or water, the nurses and docs were giving each other IV’s so they wouldn’t dehydrate and pass out. He’s usually a very stoic kind of guy, but apparently he was quite emotional when he finally managed to talk to his family. My cousin, the doctor, asked if he needed some help – probably expecting him to say “oh no, everything’s under control, you just stay put” – and instead, Dr. CILF told him that would be good.

So my cousin, along with one of his fellow doctors from the hospital in North Carolina, loaded up with supplies and prepared to set off to Louisiana, only there’s no easy way to get in or out of the area. So he found a friend who had a small plane, and he flew them from North Carolina to Lafayette, Louisiana. They were told that they couldn’t take a boat into the area, because odds were high that they’d get shot at. My mom used the term pirates, but I think I’d call them boat-jackers. As opposed to car-jackers. I mean, if you don’t have a boat, but you need a boat, and you have a gun and you see someone who has a boat, why not work that to your advantage? Not that I’m advocating that sort of behavior at all, just that I think I understand where the desparation comes from. I’m certainly not saying that the people who do this kind of thing aren’t assholes, because they are. Anyway, they’re stuck with the dilemma of how to get the two traveling doctors out of Lafayette and into the area. So my uncle, who works for an oil company (and let’s face it, their Louisiana branch isn’t doing much of anything these days since all of the offshore oil rigs are shut down) called in a favor and managed to get them a helicopter ride straight into St. Bernard Parish. They arrived safe & sound at the makeshift hospital/former jail yesterday afternoon. No idea of how long they’ll be there, but I imagine that if you’re from that area, and you have the ability to help people, it would make you feel much better to be there and do what you can.

So ok, maybe he’s not such an arrogant jerk in dire need of an ass-kicking. Although I certainly don’t envy his wife, alone in North Carolina with a 6 month-old baby, I still think it’s pretty damn heroic that he’s doing this.

And while I’m bragging on my family: my little brother, who lives in Houston, is planning to volunteer at the Astrodome this week. He doesn’t really have any specialized skills or training for these types of events (much like the rest of us), and he’s broke, so he can’t donate much, but he’s willing to give his time. So he can hand out food and water and whatever else they need down there, and I’m damn proud of him for that, too.

my solicitation plea & other stuff

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The update on my family: my great aunt and her daughter are still at my parents’ house, and it looks like it may be up to 3 months or longer before they’re able to return home. My parents still don’t have electricity, but they borrowed a generator from their neighbors (who already have their power back), so they have fans, which helps. And this morning, they saw three utility company trucks working on a downed tree in their neighborhood, so they’re optimistic that they’ll have power back soon.

I made a donation to the Red Cross today. Not out of concern or need for anyone in my immediate family, but I was born and raised in Mississippi, and I consider New Orleans to be a second childhood home because that’s where my grandparents and so many other relatives lived. I know that I’m blessed because the worst my family may have to deal with is property damage – which is horrible, but the people themselves are still around, and that’s all that really matters. But even though none of my family are currently missing, hurt or dead (thank god), come on. For better or worse, those are my peeps. And I’m so far away, I don’t know what else to do except give money to the Red Cross. So that’s what I’ve done.

I also gave money to a really great organization called Noah’s Wish, which rescues animals that are stranded during disasters. I know that our main priority should be the humans who need help, but whenever I think of all of the poor cats and dogs who are too domesticated to know how to provide for themselves in this type of devastation, my heart shatters into a billion tiny pieces. And once again – I’m not there to help or to go pluck the kitties and puppies off of the rooftops myself, so I do what I can.

Meanwhile, if you want to read something that will make you hate the world, make you feel the rage rise up in your throat, and make you want to strangle someone in frustration, this ought to do the trick. The guy basically says that the hurricane was brought to smite New Orleans for being a city of sin and homosexuality. Gaaaah. Funny how he has no explanation for the God-fearing, Bible-thumping citizens of Mississippi, but whatever. He’s an ass. I thought about leaving him a message telling him so (complete with quotes about how Jesus himself said that we should all love each other and not be judgmental and all of that good stuff), but I decided it was probably pointless.

hurricane update

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So in the wake of all of this hurricane mess, I’m assuming that the folks over at Catoptric are safe and sound, albeit without electricity. That seems to be the case with my parents, anyway. Jackson is about 200 miles or so inland, so they weren’t affected by the mass devastation the way that towns like New Orleans, Biloxi & Gulfport were. But 75 mph winds in a town full of trees makes for lots of downed power lines, so that’s what they’re dealing with. Plus my great aunt, her daughter (my mom’s cousin), the daughter’s friend/boyfriend/not-really-sure-of-his-status, and their dog all evacuated New Orleans and are staying at my parents’ house. They did this last year during Hurricane Ivan as well. Oh, and my great aunt? Is 90 years old, almost completely deaf, and paranoidly senile. She’s in the phase of dementia where she repeats everything she says approximately every 30 seconds, plus she gets easily agitated and becomes verbally abusive (mostly toward her daughter, but god help you if you accidentally say the wrong thing), so you know they’ve gotta be having a big ol’ laugh riot over at my folks’ house. Plus it’s 90 degrees and they have no air-conditioning because the power is out. I am SO glad I’m not there.

And then we have my poor dad, who is what one might call a routine-based person. You throw in the extra visitors in the house, which stresses him out under normal circumstances, then take away his regular golf game (because the streets are covered with debris so no one can drive anywhere), plus no TV or Internet access, and he is just on the verge of losing his mind. Poor guy. And there’s no telling when my aunt and her family can go back home to New Orleans, but it looks like it’ll be at least a week, if not longer. It’s entirely possible that her house is safe, because she lived in a different parish than the ones that have been severely impacted, but there’s no way of finding out for sure, since news from that area is spotty at best. My uncle’s house may not have been so lucky – they were all in Houston at the time the hurricane hit, so they’re safe, but they have a house in St. Bernard parish, which was pretty badly flooded. Again, no way of knowing for sure, but my cousin found this picture, which is an aerial view of the area – if this is any indication, it looks like their house could be under several feet of water. This is all very, very bad.

As for life here in the Northwest, I have a few potential job leads at the moment, but I won’t know anything for a while, and I don’t want to jinx anything by talking about it too soon. We’ll just have to wait & see.

last day of gainful employment

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Thanks, everyone, for all of the kind comments and concerns. I really am ok. I already have a few options that could turn out to be promising, so we’ll have to wait and see where those go. And I’m really not sad at all about leaving this job, because I haven’t been enjoying it for a while now. As far as things like health insurance, I never signed up for benefits of any kind with this employer, so I haven’t lost anything. Um, except that paycheck thingy… boy, I sure will miss that. But I’ve been covered on Dave’s insurance since we got married, so that’s all fine. In fact, when I told my father about this yesterday and told him that I don’t want him to worry about me, he said, “I’m not worried, you’re Dave’s problem now.” Nice.

Today feels sort of strange, it’s almost like the last day of school before summer vacation. I don’t really have anything to do, and it’s not like I’m going to start on anything new on my last day. So I’m reading blogs, checking out all the online job boards, all of that fun stuff. What are they going to do, fire me? HA! I think my lackadaisical (ooh, big word!) attitude can best be summed up by my hair: I stuck it in a clippie, which is in & of itself pretty darn lazy, but I’m not even sure that I brushed it beforehand. (In my defense, it was early, I can’t really remember most of my morning routine. Maybe I brushed it. But probably not.) Making an effort? Today? I think not.

I’m actually sort of excited that it looks like I’m going to have at least a week off. And it’s fortuitous (ooh, another big word!) timing, because Dave was already planning on taking off next week, so we’ll both be at home, which means we’ll have time to do all of the dozen or so little home improvement projects that we’ve started and haven’t finished yet. I’m kind of excited about that. And tonight, we’re going to see Rufus Wainwright and Ben Folds in concert, which I think is just about the perfect way to kick off my unemployment.

oh sh*t

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So you know how I have that rule about not talking about work on my blog? Well, I’ve kind of decided that rule can go to hell for now, because my job? Doesn’t so much exist anymore. Or at least it won’t in two days. I was informed this morning that it’s nothing personal, they don’t think I’ve done a bad job, blah blah blah, but they’ve decided that the work I was hired to do is going to be outsourced to someone who has like 12 years of experience writing the types of documents that I was supposed to write. “So thanks for everything, but your last day is Friday. Buh-bye!”* The thing is, when I was hired, I was told that I was going to be working for the marketing team, so the documents that I was going to write needed to be “dumbed down” so that any random non-techie person could read and understand them. So that’s what I was doing. Then my boss (the guy who hired me) left to start his own company, I got a new boss, and apparently my job description totally changed, but I was never informed of that change. Oops. So I’m a little annoyed, a little relieved (because I wasn’t really enjoying the work I was doing), and a whoooole lotta stressed.

I talked to my rep at the agency who got me the position in the first place, and they’re looking to find something new for me as soon as possible. My officemate works for a different agency, so she forwarded my resume to her rep on my behalf (hey, can’t hurt to get the word out, right?), and I talked to my old boss, who said that he will look for a position for me with his group as well.** So I have a few possibilities, which is good, and that’s honestly what is keeping me from completely all-out panicking right now. Meanwhile, if everyone can send “find Cindy a new job immediately… and a 20% pay raise while you’re at it” vibes, I’d much appreciate it.

* Not an actual quote.
** He also said that they were idiots for cutting me, which was nice to hear.

home appliances, mice, etc.

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Ok, so I will follow my big heavy post (ha! no pun intended) with something completely light and boring. Like a weekend recap. On Friday, Dave and I bought a freezer for our garage. Do you know how cheap freezers are when compared to their refrigerator-freezer-combo brethren? As it turns out, SO cheap! So we bought it, it was delivered on Saturday, and it is awesome. After it was set up, we went to Costco to stock the new freezer with huge bulk items at incredibly low prices. A six-pound bag of meatballs? Why yes, thank you! Ten pounds of chicken breasts? Load it on the cart! Whee! Of course, the main idea with the freezer is that I can cook things in large quantities, then freeze part of it for later. So on the days I come home from work and don’t feel like cooking? Grab something out of the freezer, pop it in the oven for half an hour, and voila! It’s kind of embarassing to admit just how excited I got about this freezer. But hey, I’m a dork, and I will admit that I was really, REALLY excited. Excited to the point of jumping up and down while clapping maniacally. That excited.

Oh hey, remember Mr. Ralph Mouse from last weekend? Saturday night, Dave was half-asleep upstairs, I went down to the kitchen, turned the light on, and there he was scurrying across the kitchen floor. Well, perhaps not so much scurrying as he was limping, since it appeared that one of his hind legs was injured, so he was mostly just dragging himself by his front feet, which is kind of hard to do on hardwood floors. Still, he caught me by surprise, and I shrieked the loudest horror movie scream I think I have ever screamed, and then I called for Dave at least 4 or 5 times. He didn’t come, so I ran upstairs, threw open the bedroom door, and yelled something like “Mouse! Help!” Perhaps not the most polite on my part, but I was in panic mode, and my brain couldn’t quite process the idea of nice-ifying the message into something like, “Excuse me, sweetie, I know you’re trying to sleep, but there’s a small rodent leaving germs and god-knows-what-else all over the lovely downstairs part of our home, would you be so kind as to come down to remove it from the premises?” A good minute or so later, Dave finally came downstairs. Meanwhile, the mouse had squeezed himself under the door and into our front hall closet, and I was trying to figure out a way that I was going to scoop him up into a tupperware thing (which I probably could’ve done, since he was injured and moving so slowly). Instead, Dave went into the closet, picked the mouse up by his tail (!!) and deposited him outside. He was quite pissy about it, and I got mad because the whole “eek, a mouse!” thing is part of my female genetic imperative, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that except shriek like a helpless whiny little victim. But he totally redeemed himself by getting flowers for me on Sunday morning before I woke up. So all is well in our household, have no fear.

Sunday ended up being yet another home improvement day, because Dave decided that he wants to turn his little den/music room into his office, which means that I’m going to take over his office, since my current office is basically a guest room with a desk in it. We decided to paint his office (my future office) because it’s a small room, and the walls are dark blue, which makes it feel really closed in and claustrophobic. We got two coats of primer on the walls and the blue is still showing through. So that looks like it’ll end up being quite a fun little project. (Ha.)

Then last night was the finale of Six Feet Under. There were a few scenes that made me sort of misty, but overall I was ok until the last 5 minutes. Then I lost it, and I cried and cried. And cried. For long after the show was finished. Such a great show, so sad that it’s over.

the weight story

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There is this major story that I’ve never written about here, and I’m not sure why. I guess because the people who are close to me in real life already know about it, and I figure that it isn’t anyone else’s business. (Which really just furthers my theory that on blogs, you only get to know a fraction of a person, the small part that they choose to share with the world.) But by not talking about it, it sounds like I’m ashamed of it, and I’m not. So here’s the story: a little over 3 years ago, I had gastric bypass surgery.

I was always a “fat girl.” When I was little, one of my aunts nicknamed me the Michelin Tire Baby because I had rolls of fat down my arms and legs. I didn’t outgrow it, either. I went on my first diet and exercise plan when I was 9 years old, and I was on and off of them all through junior high, high school and college. I hit 200 pounds for the first time when I was in 9th grade, at 14 years old. (I’m only 5’5″. Big-boned or not, 200 is pretty heavy for someone my height.) High school wasn’t exactly fun for me, for obvious reasons. College was better, but still, you name the diet, I have probably tried it. But no matter what extreme diet or exercise program I tried, I could never lose more than 15 pounds at the most. I should add that I am a very conscientious dieter; when I do it, I do it all out, I never cheat or slack off. And considering that I needed to lose well over 50 pounds throughout most of my adolescence and adult life, 15 pounds wasn’t enough to be encouraging.

So, on May 14, 2002, I had gastric bypass surgery. It was quite possibly the most difficult, painful thing I have ever endured. There were complications with my surgery, so I ended up in the hospital for 6 days instead of the typical 3. Basically, the place where my esophagus connected to my (new, tiny) stomach got completely covered in ulcers, and it swelled shut, so I threw up everything I swallowed. Including my own saliva. About every 5 minutes or so. Plus one of my lungs collapsed. I have quite honestly blocked out a lot of that time because it was so horrible (and hello, demerol IV! If anything can help you forget unpleasantness, that’ll do it), so I only remember a little bit of it here and there. I remember that late at night, after my mom went back to my apartment to sleep, I would walk down to the nurse’s station because I was convinced that I was going to die, and I didn’t want to be alone when it happened. I remember being awake, fully conscious and crying during one of those tests where they put the scope down your throat to take a look at what’s going on in your stomach. And I remember the pain. My god, do I remember that.

The ulcers caused me to throw up pretty much non-stop for the next 6 weeks. Luckily, about a week before my surgery, I had gotten laid off from a job that I hated (yay, unemployment!) so I could relax in the comfort of my own home and puke, I didn’t have to do it in an office environment. And then, finally, the ulcers healed, I stopped barfing, and I lost weight like crazy. (Oh yeah, and found a new job.) I weighed 265 pounds at the time of my surgery; here’s a picture of me a few days before the operation. This one is from a few months before, that’s me and my brother on New Year’s Eve 2001. By the summer of 2003, a year after the surgery, I had lost a little over 100 pounds. I’ve regained about 10 to 15 pounds since then (thank you, birth control!), but I’ve stayed more or less the same weight for the past 3 years. I’m still not a skinny girl by any stretch of the imagination, but if you compare those pre-op pictures to something like this or this (which were taken 2 and 3 years post-op, respectively), there’s a pretty huge difference.

As for how it affects me now, it’s hard to put that into words. Most of time, I still think of myself as the fat girl that I was before surgery, even though I know that’s not how the world sees me. If you met me on the street, you probably wouldn’t know that I used to be morbidly obese. My brain hasn’t quite reconciled that, even after all this time. I’m not sure it ever will; more importantly, I’m not sure that I want it to, because I don’t want to lose my ability to empathize with people who have serious weight problems. And I still have plenty of hang-ups about food – the surgery fixed my stomach, not my brain. As for my health, I have to drink protein shakes and take all kinds of vitamins because my body doesn’t absorb nutrients from food like normal people. But when you think about what would’ve happened to my health if I hadn’t had the surgery – high blood pressure, diabetes, joint problems, etc. – taking a few minutes out of my day to swallow some pills and drink a shake seems like a pretty ok trade-off. For the first year or two, I only ate tiny amounts of food, but I eat pretty normal-size portions now. There are foods I have to limit my intake of, though; mostly carbs (potatoes, pasta, etc.) and sugar, because too much can cause some major abdominal discomfort. And I’m now lactose intolerant, so I have to buy lactose-free milk, and ice cream is off-limits altogether, which is fine because I am all about the fruit sorbets anyway.

I guess the main reason why I generally think of my gastric bypass surgery as something that I keep private is because I don’t want people to judge me for it. No one has ever had the nerve to say to my face that I was just fat and lazy, or that I took the easy way out by having surgery, although I know that’s what people think a lot of the time. And if you read above what I went through, you might understand why if anyone ever does say that to me, they are probably going to get punched in the neck. Actually, credit where it’s due, the only reason I finally decided to write about it is because I read Amanda’s story on her blog, and I really admire her honesty and openness in the way that she talked about it. I’m not sure I agree with her that surgical weight loss procedures are the only way to cure our nation’s obesity epidemic, but I do believe that there’s a rather large (no pun intended) subset of the overweight population who would greatly benefit from this surgery, particularly for those who may not be able to lose weight any other way. Unfortunately, it seems that fewer and fewer insurance companies are covering the surgery, which means that a lot of people who need it, and who can’t come up with the tens of thousands of dollars that it costs, won’t have access to this life-saving procedure. I was extremely blessed in that my insurance covered me 100% when I had mine. My heart goes out to those who don’t have that luxury.

Oddly, I got married the day after my 3-year gastric bypass anniversary. I remember thinking of it when we set the date for our wedding, but when it was all happening, I don’t think the surgery even crossed my mind because I was too busy thinking, “holy sh*t, I’m getting married tomorrow!” Oh yeah, plus I was apparently preoccupied with taking pictures of my ass. Whatever.