Flat-Out Friday: 7 Things About This Week

If you haven't seen it, you're lucky. Facebook has a meme going around right now to get people to share little-known facts about themselves. I've gotten tagged to do it, so I am, but with a twist. Since it's been such an amazing week (I wrote 'amazing' as I rolled my eyes heavily), my list is:

7 Things About This Week

1. It has been snowing since last Friday. I don't say this so you can pity Edmonton and its residents, but  rather so that you can understand: the average cummulative snowfall for November (the entire month) is 18 centimetres. This week alone it has snowed over 50 centimetres. That's nearly 2 feet of snow in a week, people. This is a thing.
2. Matt went back to work last Thursday and Friday after being in Wainwright, and since one of the senior captains went on leave and left no instructions or delegations, Matt spent two days sorting out his own stuff as well as this completely different full-time job. Which wasn't a big deal at home except for the Blackberry going off all weekend and through into this week, because even though the other captain is back now no one is getting any direction from him still so they are continually asking Matt. No private time with my husband after he's been gone for months because ARMY? This is a thing.
3. My new car Watson suffered injury when the block heater cord completely fell apart in my hands last week. Luckily, the temperatures this week only went down to -30C at night. I took him for an assessment so they could order a part, and then back again this week so they could fix him. That is an entire day of driving/being driven around the city because the dealership is in St. Albert and I refuse to be pregnant and waiting for hours in the waiting room at the garage. Add on the amazing traffic because of the continuous snow? This is a thing.
4. Yesterday I was so happy for a day that I didn't have to leave the house because I was just done (slept til noon, crying, etc.) that I completely missed my appointment with my psychiatrist. When you're so overtired and depressed that you miss the appointment with the one person who can help you? That is a thing.
5. Every single nice thing I can wear to cover my legs stopped fitting this week. I don't blame Sonic, but I mean really - hurray for yoga pants. Yep, that's a thing.
6. My step-children's new step-father decided to send my husband insulting passive-aggressive text messages about how he was a bad father, and when Matt didn't kowtow and instead stood up for himself, said step-father told him he must be drunk and to go "sleep it off, tiger". On a Wednesday evening at 8pm. This is a rage-making thing.
7. I actually feel good enough to post this list. And that, my friends, is probably the biggest thing of all.

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Flat-Out Friday: My Official Title is "Lady Who Lunches"

Ah, Friday. When I'm all wound up I can always count on you to be so cathartic. And after my "buying a mom-mobile" experience this week, I can use catharsis.

So Matt and I had already planned to get a second vehicle once the time was closer for Sonic to move from being an on-board passenger to a party of one. And I have said since the beginning of our "if we ever have kids" dreamtime that, if it happens, my ultimate Mommy vehicle is a Honda Element. So reliable, so roomy, so durably lined with hard plastic. Even though they don't make them new anymore, I have had my eye on them for ages.

This week, a 2008 in mint condition with every imaginable feature came up for sale at a dealership, so we went to go look. The colour is officially "root beer", and even though I hate root beer, I was hooked as soon as I got in for the test drive. Which leads us back at the dealership, deciding how we want to pay for it. Since it was used, there were a few things I wanted to ensure were included, like a Bluetooth capable hands-free phone device and an extended comprehensive warranty. No problem - the dealership took care of both of those for me. Matt and I discussed a few options for payment, but since my settlement money was covering this, we decided to be prudent and not just buy it outright. The cost of putting that money into a used car instead of making interest in our investments was too much for us to justify. So we decided to put a chunk down and finance the rest. SEE THAT? That's us being responsible with our finances. And because we were...

My car suddenly stopped being MY car.

Because, even though I am perfectly well off by myself, I don't have a job. And banks don't let you finance anything if you don't have a job. So Matt's name had to go on the bill of sale as well. I didn't really mind this, but it was a little irksome, particularly when the financial guy showed us our credit ratings and mine was higher. But whatever. I had a car.

My husband is nice enough to let me drive his Mom-mobile

Matt called his insurance company and had them create a policy for me so I could drive it home as soon as possible, so we arranged to pick it up the next day. While Matt was at work I went down to the Registry to get my plate and register my car, all excited about being a new car owner.

Did you know that if there are two names on the bill of sale the Registry will not let you register the car in just one? Neither did I until I got there. Defeated, I went home to wait for Matt so we could go together and register my new car. He was allowed to come home a little early to sort this all out before he left for Wainwright the next day, and together we went back to the Registry to register my new car.

Did you also know that if the insurance policy is under one person's name, even though the car is listed as the other spouse being the primary driver, the car can only be registered in the name of the person listed on the policy? NEITHER DID I UNTIL THEN.

I had to sign an affidavit letting Matt register MY car in HIS name so that I could go get MY car off the lot. And thus I was no longer the proud owner of a car; I was just the person allowed to drive my husband's second vehicle.

Here's what really really REALLY gets my goat. If I had had a job, Matt's name wouldn't have been on the bill of sale, which would have let me register the car myself as long as I had my own insurance as well. Which I take from society to mean the following: Get a job, keep a job, don't get married, and don't have kids. Well done. As one of the declining number of couples who decide to have children, I want to thank you for supporting my husband and I. When your failing public works systems are collapsing, remember all those people that wanted to contribute to the economy but couldn't because you were just too judgmental.

Meanwhile, I'm gonna go stick girly decals on my husband's new Element. Excuse me.

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Flat-Out Friday: Blaze of Sorry

  

I'm going down in a blaaaaaaaze of sorry...

Oh Bon Jovi. Thank you for being so incredibly corruptible to meet my needs. Because this is how I feel - like I'm getting shot down in some sick, apologetic hailstorm of crap. I have had a bouquet of GPs since the accident, and aside from the one that had a stroke and can't be blamed, only one of them has had any real idea of how to treat me. The others - well, I've been called a junkie, had a whole team of doctors refuse to assign me one person to oversee my case, and now I have one so fixated on my weight that she disregards my perfectly logical requests.

I went to see my family doctor on Monday morning, armed with the information from the occupational medicine doctor from Calgary. I was anxious to see her as she is going on medical leave for 4 months to have a hip replaced, and I wanted to make sure I had some things sorted out while she was away. The first thing she always does is ask how many times a week I swim, to which I respond "twice" because it is currently the upper echelon of my physical ability. Shaking her head as though I've done something wrong, she then asks me how much I weigh. When I stand on the scale and it hasn't changed since the last time, she tsks me. TSKS ME. As though swimming and gaining muscle is going to somehow make me lighter. She doesn't mention the inches I've lost around my stomach, even though I can now fit into clothes I last wore over a year ago. Still not daunted, I launch into my story about the specialist visit in Calgary.

The first thing I bring up is the issue with pelvic fractures affecting fertility. I ask for a referral to a fertility clinic to explore it further. She shakes her head again, with the response that any referral to a clinic of that kind is such a huge investigation that unless we have been actively trying to 2 years to get pregnant and haven't, she won't even consider referring me. I indicate that it's been two years since the accident (two years exactly on Monday), and that we haven't been using any contraceptives since. She then suggests that maybe the fault is with Matt. Deadpan, I inform her of his four children with his ex-wife. When she sits and stares at me blankly, I counter with asking for imaging of the area - MRI, ultrasound, xrays, all of it - since I'd like to know what it all looks like now, 2 years down the line. Again, a shake of the head and she tells me that there is no imaging that will show the amount of scar tissue build-up (a complete lie) and that it won't prove anything. Her last parting shot on the subject? "You don't even know if you want to have children, so you need to make up your mind first."

Excuse me? 

How is it even possible that the health care system is so broken that, instead of trying to figure out if it is even possible for me to have kids, I have to decide if I want to try and then try and fail before they'll do anything. It seems backwards to me. Don't see if it's even possible - just put yourself through all kinds of mental anguish trying to decide and then not getting pregnant anyway.

The second issue I bring up - the nerve damage and possible effected reflexes - is met with complete ignorance. She has no response for me, even when I ask for a neurologist's opinion, as if we've reached the point of no return and she can't be bothered with me any more. Indicating that she'll wait until the specialist's report is in her hand, she berates me for my weight again, a parting shot before she opens the door signalling the end of the appointment, and tells me to make an appointment for December when she's back from her surgery.

So what now? What am I supposed to do for 4 months without a GP and no direction? Apparently losing weight should be on the top of my agenda, but the way I feel about my doctor right now, she can go rub salt. I'll weigh what I want, I'll swim as much as I want, and I'll feel good about doing it. If my weight goes down, then fine, but if not, then fine. 

I don't care.

I'm waiting for the specialist's report, just to see what my lawyer has to say, and my psychiatrist, and my physiotherapist: professionals that actually give a crap and care about my care. I'll go from there. And if my doctor doesn't happen to be involved for the next four months, whatever.

It'll all be in the reports anyway.

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Week in Review: Holi-daze

Ah, the August long weekend. A time of complete and utter indulgence. Aside from Christmas, I can't think of another holiday that lends itself to the kinds of selfish behaviours that Civic Holiday does. I was going to describe all the wonderfully self-indulgent things we did this weekend, but my blog post has now been eaten twice, and after a ridiculous appointment with my doctor this morning, I'm getting frustrated.

In my medieval best. Ish.

Dread Pirate Matty

So, in short:

We went to a viewing of The Princess Bride in Churchill Square downtown on Friday evening. The square was packed (about twice as many people showed up as they expected), and there was dancing, comedy improv, a Knights of the Northern Realm demonstration with actual swords and a mace, and a costume contest. Matt and I did dress up and were invited to take part in the contest, but since it was purely based on crowd approval and I don't enjoy being publicly judged, we declined (but still got a sticker - yay!).

Look! I'm a matryoshka!

Ivan, the Terribly Constipated

On Saturday we took in the Servus Heritage Festival at Hawrelak Park. It's a huge festival with tents representing countries from all over the world. There must have been sixty countries represented, maybe more, and each tent was offering a sampling of food as well as artifacts for viewing or merchandise for sale. We circled the entire park, taking in everything, and sampled foods from Peru, Ghana, and Pakistan. It took about 4 hours for the full circut, and I was properly exhausted afterward. We had a fantastic time, though.

Sunday was paintball for Matty yet again, and it was early to rise so we could drop him off. Once I got home I had a great nap (very fulfilling) and made an apple pie. We went to friends' for a BBQ supper (hence the pie) and stayed up late, talking about everything under the sun. It is so nice to visit with them - they are great, down-to-earth people. Plus they sound cool when they say stuff, since they are a Kiwi and an Aussie couple.

The actual holiday Monday was a day of rest for me. I slept quite a bit, and spent the waking hours watching cartoons and knitting. It was a pleasant day of recuperation and I took full advantage of it.

The most electrifying pie in dessert entertainment!

We also went to see The Wolverine last week sometime (maybe Thursday?). It was pretty darn good. I really liked how the movie took place mostly in Japan, and when it didn't, it was clearly in Canada. Hugh Jackman never ceases to surprise me as Logan. He's perfect for the role, bringing the right intensity to the former X-Men while still making him appear human. I also happen to like Asian-inspired esthetic, so that was convenient.
In closing, I'll save my scathing review of the Alberta health care system for another time, since I've vented to my mum and feel somewhat better about everything. But yeah. Scathing.

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Flat-Out Friday: Roadside Attractions

So amongst other things that occurred this week, one of the biggest events was a trip to Calgary to see another specialist. Matt has had this past week off for summer leave so he was able to drive me, which was good because I was nervous. How nervous was I? Every time I saw some poor animal dead on the side of the road I started panicking because its family would never see it again, and how would they know it wasn't coming back, and how would they grieve if they never knew, and...

Yeah. You get the idea: I was a real wreck. Luckily, I have drugs for just such an occasion.

This specialist visit was important, both for my health in the near and distant future, and for my pending legal action. The doctor I saw was very nice, very straight-forward, and gave me some of the most honest opinions I have encountered in the Alberta Health system since I was flattened by a bank truck. I could almost go through the clinical details of the event without tears, which arrived when he asked me how I was now. They always seem to show up when someone asks me how I'm doing currently which is both annoying and frustrating.

He did a physical exam, looked at all the sites of soft tissue damage, made me walk and bend for him, and then he whacked my knees with a little hammer. Then he did it again. And again. He spent five whole minutes whacking me on the knees to activate my reflexes. But here's the thing: my right leg barely moved the whole time. Somehow, through two years of therapy and treatment, people have neglected to note that my right leg is pretty much riding on the short bus. Holy cow, people. All it took was a little hammer and a whack for this guy to figure out something NO ONE ELSE had.

But it gets better! Act now and you can have two life-changing discoveries for the price of one!

As I'm describing my injuries and re-telling my tale, he pauses in taking notes and looks at me. "Did anyone ever tell you," he says as if he's not about to change my life, "that severe pelvic injuries like yours are very likely to make you infertile?"

Luckily I was sitting down at the time.

"Okay, so I'm telling you now: women who have pelvic trauma are very likely to be infertile afterwards."

Thank you, nice doctor, for one again imparting information that would have been useful TWO YEARS AGO. I made sure he was going to put that in his report, along with the fact that no one had bothered to tell me this. I just don't get it. I've been seeing so many doctors and specialists for the last two years and not a single one of them had even brought up the idea that this might be the case. Every medical professional was all, "oh, you will just have to have some extra care during pregnancy" and "well, one miscarriage doesn't mean anything - the rate is at about 50% of all pregnancies self-terminating". Yeah. Thanks for nothing.

I have an appointment with my GP on Tuesday. I will be asking to be referred to both a neurologist and an obstetrician. Because shit just got real, and I'm tired of not having all the information. I know that your family doctor is supposed to be the seer of the "big picture" in terms of a person's health, but I just can't carry on that way any more. If I'm not seeing the big picture, then no one is. I'm not taking this lying down. I will be my own advocate if I have to be.

It's not fair or right, but it's the only way anything ever seems to get ahead in my very complicated case.

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Week in Review: Sacrifices

Today is the day I've been dreading. It's the last day Matt is home before he's once more sent to Wainwright for a month. I'm lucky in the sense that its just me I have to take care of and that I've gotten the last two weeks with him at home, but seriously, could we stop with the exercises already?


But today's post isn't about me or my specific situation. Instead, it's about all of us - military and civilian, kids, no kids, here, there, wherever. It's about the strength inside ourselves and the choices we make every day that determine what kind of person we are and will end up being.

This past week I've met with my doctor, my lawyer, and my psychologist. I've driven hundreds of kilometres across Alberta and back. I've been somewhere beautiful, somewhere moving, and somewhere I'd rather not be again. And in all of these places, in all of these meetings, I've had to make choices. Choices for my future, and choices that will continue to define the kind of woman I want to be. Let me tell you, it's been challenging. It's been emotional. It's been good feelings and bad feelings and hope and despair, frustration after frustration and quiet simmering anger.

And then I saw something that made me pause. While we were visiting The Military Museums in Calgary, we stopped in the Lord Strathcona's Horse (Royal Canadians) wing and stood for a moment in reverence. Housed in their own display were the two rocks from Masum Ghar, Afghanistan that honoured the soldiers who had fallen while attached to the LdSH(RC) during their tour. Their names were Nate and Mike. They were my husband's friends. They were both killed while Matt was on tour. Because fallen soldiers are returned to their home to be with their families, there is nothing left in the war zone to memorialize them. Soldiers instead painted rocks to stand as monuments, to symbolize that yes, they had been there, and yes, they have made the ultimate sacrifice to be true to the person they were inside. It allowed others to grieve properly. It allowed them to be reminded of the real dangers of being where they were. They gave the other soliders strength.

Tpr Mike Hayakaze and Cpl Nathan Hornburg's memorial stones display

And they gave me strength. I stood there, holding my husband's hand in silence, and watched him as he looked over the display. For a moment or two, my mind was blank. I couldn't even begin to think of something to say. Then it hit me, and I realized: I don't have to say anything. Being who I am, having gone through what I have, all I had to do was honour their loss and commend my husband's strength, and that didn't need words at all. So I squeezed his hand a little tighter and when he was ready, we moved on.

The meeting with the doctor was positive. The meeting with the lawyer was, in its own way, positive. But the news we wanted to hear didn't come, and we were left feeling frustrated, scared, and resentful. We have no idea what is going to happen once August rolls around. But after being to the Museum and seeing the display, you know what I do know?

I know I'm strong enough to take whatever comes our way. I know that I have a huge support base that will do everything in its power to help us. I know that I could not have stood and looked at that display if it hadn't been for the choices I made every single moment after the accident, or the choices I make every single moment of my newly reborn life. I am strong because I choose to be. So is my husband. So were Mike and Nate. So every single one of us can be, if we choose. We all have steel inside us, we just have to choose to bury it deep and lean on it when we need to. We have to choose to make the sacrifices, and because we have, our steel is stronger for it.

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Flat-Out Friday: No Money, Mo' Problems

We met with my lawyer yesterday.

I won't go into detail, but I will say that this whole process is apparently going to take a lot longer than I thought. Yes, I knew from the beginning that it would be a two-year waiting period to see how I was healing, etc., but my recovery has been sporadic: I make some progress, plateau or reverse for a while, and then make some more. It's been a slow and steady race, like the tortoise. The only thing that has changed dramatically is my weight. I can ambulate much better and for much longer. I can now drive again and feel confident doing so. A year ago, I barely made it through a week without Matt being home, and now I can (with whining) make it through months. Slow and steady is certainly the way to do things and I'm thankful for the time I have had to get this far.

The funny thing is, I have had the same physical complaints for about a year now. My break sites ache. My feet and ankles feel punished by just standing on them for long periods. My right leg and foot still swell and turn purple. My lower back is numb, swollen and achy. As you know, the list goes on. The actual physical healing hasn't changed at all. My body has done what it can, and now I just have to find ways to make it easier to cope with day to day. My mental complaints aren't any less diminished either. I can't stand loud, sudden noises. The unpredictability of life outside my apartment sometimes makes me cringe. I have to find a happy place whenever I'm faced with crossing a road or riding a crowded bus. Like my doctor and physiotherapist, I see a psychiatrist and a psychologist to help me work through the healing process, and like my physical condition, slow and steady has been the way to approach it. It just seems like, again, the issues I have been facing are still the same ones I was confronting a year ago.

In short, the length of time the legal process will take is directly related to the length of time I will need to reach my "maximum medical improvement" (sound familiar?). According to all my medical professionals, I ain't there yet. Which means, according to my lawyer, it ain't time to be startin' somethin' either.

In the meantime, between coping physically and coping mentally, Matt and I now have to find a way to cope financially. Tax season being officially over, we now know how much more we will be sending to Matt's ex for child support. We know how much less we will have once all the various fees and charges come out of Matt's take-home pay. And we know the clock is ticking away on my disability payments. We have put money aside as we always do, prudently saving for the future, but there seem to be a neverending parade of things demanding immediate financial attention.

So it seems like we are back to where we were when I first moved in with my love. Me, looking for a way to bring in money to help with bills, and Matt, looking for a way to make everything I wish for come true. It worked out last time and I know it will work out this time. In the fuzzy in-between-while, I'll have to reevaluate our bills, clip all those coupons, and keep my wishes small and inexpensive, because if we don't start nothin', there won't be nothin'.

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Flat-Out Friday: Hurry Up and Wait

Sometimes I feel like time slows down, speeds up, and stagnates all at the same time. I can't believe it's already May, for example. And yet, if it was closer to August, I might be able to plan for my future better. However, I'm worried about what might happen with my settlement (it can't be helped) so I almost wish we could just go back to January. Since the accident, time has played many not-so-funny tricks on me, and the agonizingly slow process of getting my future sorted out is a slap in the face every time we try to plan something more than a month ahead.

There's the "maximum medical improvement" diagnosis I've been waiting for a doctor to sign off on. Many of the physical disabilities from the accident need at least an 18-month window of healing to better tell what the long term effects will be. Since we've finally passed that, I can now get a medical professional to make that diagnosis. And once it has been made, we can proceed further with legal action. Getting to this point was no picnic, and I'm saddened by the fact that there are some things that will never heal. But this milestone now opens a gateway to more milestones, each with their own interminable waiting period attached.

Here is a chart of my injuries, showing the permanent effects of the accident.

There's also the mental improvement barrier I'm coming up against. I've been seeing my psychiatrist and we have a strong bond, but he's only just been able to get me into a therapy program. I had my first session with my psychologist on Monday, and I feel it will be very beneficial. But, like all things, when the diagnosis of PTSD was first made, there was a 1-year period of drug therapy that I was required to do. 20 months in, the drug therapy shows no signs of slowing and I've begun to make plans for the future based on needing these medications and therapy sessions for a significant portion of it.

On top of all this, there is the fuzzy unknown of what will happen. Will I get so riddled with arthritis that I'll be crippled at 50? Will we ever be in a place where, if we want to have a family, we will have the support network available to do so? And what about our finances? Will the settlement be enough so that I don't have to work again?

I know it doesn't do to worry about the future since I can't change it. Nor is there much sense in worrying about the past since it is over and done with. Thanks to family and friends I have been able to take advantage of this "present" as a point where I am getting myself physically and emotionally in to shape, and it has helped with the waiting period jitters. But honestly, this fuzzy limbo period we are in now kinda sucks.

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Flat-Out Friday: Q&A, Take 1

I'm going to keep it as vague as possible for privacy and legal reasons, but today I'll answer the non-health-related questions everyone asks after I tell them about the accident.

Yes, there is legal action pending.

I originally engaged a lawyer in Medicine Hat, but quickly realized that he was not interested in helping me get better, only in getting paid. I sat through an entire half-hour meeting in his office telling him that I was currently not seeing a doctor and needed help getting one only to have him say several times, "Well, you should just be doing whatever your doctor recommends". Listen, much? My second attempt was met with much better results. I went to Calgary and engaged a large firm, and I now have every confidence in my representation.

Yes, I am currently receiving disability payments.

But these won't last forever. In fact, the policy runs out after 104 weeks, so come August, I won't be receiving anything else, including payments for weekly physiotherapy and monthly loss-of-income payments. That means whatever comes from the aforementioned legal action, it has to be enough to live on for the rest of ever, pay for my continued physiotherapy, pay for things like a pool membership to keep muscle tone and avoid causing more injury to my bones, and generally make up for the fact that I was run over by an armoured truck.

But, when you say armoured truck, what you really mean is...

No, when I say armoured truck, I mean that I can sit and watch documentaries on machines used by the Canadian Forces and compare tonnage to them. I mean that the truck weighed 10 tons. That's 10,000 pounds. One of the fuzzy memories I have of the immediate aftermath is the police officer calling dispatch and having to repeat the weight of the truck three times to the person on the other end because they just didn't believe it.

Yes, the police were actively involved. But no, the driver was not criminally charged.

There is a on-the-scene report (which I have read), an official report (which I have not), a CSI report which documented all my injuries in full glorious technicolour photography, and many witness reports. I had a police escort to the hospital, police officers present while I was being assessed in the ER, and the police were the ones to contact Matt and let him know what happened before he was allowed to see me.

The driver was given a "failing to yield to a pedestrian" ticket and fined. I imagine that his career as a driver was over and I heard through the grapevine that he was dismissed from the company. But there is no criminal charge for almost killing someone; it's only if you actually do.

Wow, it seems pretty cut and dried, then.

It does, doesn't it? But the legal system works in mysterious ways and between inconsistent medical attention and moving and all the rest of that stuff, it really has needed to take this long to get things sorted out. However, I will also say that if the company decides to contest it, they will have a long and expensive battle on their hands.

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Any other questions? Send them along via email or Facebook PM. I'm sure I'll have another Q&A in a few weeks, as I have some sensitive topics planned for upcoming posts. If I were you, I'd get the Kleenex handy.

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