Eh.. At Least It's Not The Gaza Strip

Being sick sucks...

It sucks more when your whole world is reduced to a two foot by 6 foot hospital bed, which is what happened to me about 2 years ago when suddenly I became inexplicably ill. There are quite a few people in our life who have heard this story and others who went through it with us. It was a horrible time for Chris because we had just got married (no, not because of that) and in addition to celebrating our first anniversary in a hospital wing (and letting his brother and my best friend go on our Hawaiian cruise), unbeknownst to me, he was being told that I was dying and they didn't know why.

We lucked out when they sent us (in an ambulance no less) to UCLA in Santa Monica where within days they diagnosed me and started treating me. However, in the meantime, I had lost my ability to walk (which apparently staying as little as 7 days in bed will strip you of this ability, so what the hell's up with "Misery", Stephen King? She breaks his feet, leaves him in a bed for months on end, drugs him, and THEN he's still able to get up and go? [I love Stephen King, honestly. I used to seek out his work after being forced - yes, forced - to read his work in a high school Horror in Fiction class. Yeah, I know...my fault. After being too scared and intrigued to put down "Salem's Lot", I was hooked. I found myself two years later in the horror section in the college library, picking up some guy named Richard Bachman, reading it and wondering, since I had never read any other horror writer's work, if everyone in this genre wrote in this style. {before you SK lovers start writing, yes, I know SK is RB, but I sure as heck didn't know it then. There weren't no Internet back then and my dinosaur was a bit slow on the retrieving my research off the microfiche...children, ask your parents about microfiche...or look it up on it's replacement, Google.}])... I love that I just had to use braces, then brackets, and then a parenthesis to end a thought... ah, the writer in me...


Anyway, these sorts of days can get very depressing and quickly. I think this particular day was one where they had done a lung biopsy AND a bronchoscopy... The lung biopsy is where they give you a sedative just to do the damn thing and then tell you that you're going to taste blood AND that they may not get it since it's only 3mm big and the smallest they've ever managed to capture was 10mm, so be very still or this could be bad... and then bad means that even with the patient nurse (ha, ha) standing in front of you holding you still and the sedatives strong enough to take Floyd Mayweather, Jr. down and let you dress him up like an Oompa-loompa complete with tiny overalls, you don't just taste blood in your mouth, you feel it in your lungs as you - get this - gurgle blood. You've been told not to move or speak, but even under the sedative you're quite convinced that gurgling blood was not an expected outcome of the procedure, otherwise they would have mentioned it. I mean, they bothered to mention that you might poo yourself and that hasn't...wait, spoke too soon.

The bronchoscopy is where they give you a drug where you're awake, but you won't remember anything. They have to do this so that you can tell them when you are feeling pain. I told them beforehand that I was feeling pain constantly so I didn't know if this was such a good idea. And she, the doctor, tells me that this is when I feel new and additional pain, only I don't remember her saying that because I'm already buzzed out.

Chris had to tell me later that's what she said. She also told me, apparently, to do a certain signal when I was feeling "new and additional pain", but it morphed into this strange sort of half Koko the Gorilla move where I beat on my chest with my left fist a couple of times and grunted. My husband thought this was hilarious. I know because, though I could remember nothing else, I could hear him in the room laughing like crazy while I was drugged up and I clung to that memory as they finished up.

The procedure itself is where they put two devices into your mouth and down into your lungs (hence the twilight drugs) - one to numb the way, the other a camera to capture the scenery of your interiors. The beating on my chest, though they tried to correct me because I was causing the camera to jiggle and record as though an earthquake were occurring every 16 seconds, was to signal to the one operator to spray basically a topical that would take the localized pain away while her miniature Range Rover scurried along inside my inner lung caverns. Chris remarked to her that it was like watching video gamers, the way the two of them handled themselves so easily and deftly. She told him it basically was. "Unless you get something unusual - and that's what we're hoping against - it's pretty much all the same. Cute lungs though." - which I guess translates into "pink and no smoking evidence".

So, after these lovely events, I was a bit worn out, mentally, physically, and certainly emotionally. Chris and I were picking at each other most days because I was frustrated and he was frustrated because I was frustrated and there was no one we knew in town. We bickered a little and I cried a lot because I didn't know what would happen and I was frustrated not knowing if this was the way I was going to be forever.

I rolled over and found a small pile of goodies Chris had brought up for me to entertain myself (other than the 4 local stations that were the only forms of TV found in the whole of the hospital. Cable, anyone?). He would get piles of my favorite crack - entertainment and gossip magazines, which of course I never believed a word of but instead treated like my own fairy stories to help me sleep. The top one, though, was the New York Times. On the front page was a woman washing her 6-month old baby in an abandoned bath tub in the middle of the Gaza Strip. I showed him the picture.

We knew the truth. Had that been me, had I been in the Gaza Strip, washing away, trying to survive, I would have been dead and nobody would have known why, and likely they wouldn't have had the time to find out or care. We had the heard the stories about how mothers would die even here in the US, and nobody would have a clue as to why until they did an autopy. We heard how only 15 years earlier they would have only have been able to extend my life by 6 months, and now I could live at least 20 more years.

I was lucky. I am lucky. Very, very, very, very lucky. Though the doctors originally had misdiagnosed me multiple times, one doctor had mistakenly given me a drug that extended my life long enough for them to figure out what was wrong and treat me. I ended up in the hospital where the two top people in the rheumatology field practiced and therefore got back on the road to being better within days.

I'm lucky.

I don't fight lions for my dinner and I don't have to travel miles for clean water. And it sure as heck ain't the Gaza Strip outside my door.

So now, when things are getting bad, Chris and I turned to each other and say...

Eh... at least it's not the Gaza Strip...


copyright - All rights to the work posted on this site are retained by Cass Van Gelder. If you'd like to use some of my work, please ask. To do so, the permissions must be spelled out in writing...from me...I meant it. I have mean cats; don't make me use them.

A Kid's Dream... (originally posted 04-17-11)

I had this dream, even since I was little. When I grew up, I wanted to work for Disney. I figured the least it would net me was a yearly pass. And maybe a tour into the secret underground lair (she giggles).

So, about 3 weeks ago, I found about a program that could land me at least on their very tiny radar. I've been wracking my brain for ideas and FINALLY, while watching two free movies (another story altogether), I came up with my ride story. Finally, finally, finally! When everything is submitted, I'll post it to my website (currently under construction). For now, the best I can do is my reaction to my own progress.

And that reaction tonight is super duper bubblicious excited. It's like getting to draw and paint all day and getting paid to do it.

Yeah, uh huh, yeah, uh-huh (that's me doing my happy dance and singing).

More to come.....

A new name... help anyone? (originally posted 04-15-11)

I've been going back and forth on my pen name. I would love other people's input. My husband would love for me to use my married name, Van Gelder, but I worry about kooky people in the world tracking me down and causing crazy problems in my homestead. (And yes, I have actually had problems with this, hence the desire to avoid it - not that I don't like calling the police at 4 am to explain why there is a half-naked dude in my kitchen, professing his neverending love, and offering up a small gerbil to prove this love.)

I have a overabundance of names to use that are actually mine:

1) Holderman (this was actually on my first incorrect birth certificate)
2) Robinson (this was actually on my second incorrect birth certificate and comes from the crazy man who was the second of five to marry my mother)
3) Seeger (this is actually my father's last name, but has yet to appear on a proper birth certificate - don't get me started)
4) Van Gelder (my current last name which I share with my true love)

So... Writing (originally posted 04-15-11)

It's been difficult to write. Ideas are all in my head, but even just opening the computer has become an obstacle. I made it far enough to start reading through my old "The Sun, The Moon, and The Stars" script. I haven't edited anything because I'm trying to ferret out a better, stronger storyline before I start messing around with anything.

Part of what's holding me back is the change in my medications, too. Grrr... My body gets settled into one schedule and then Booomp, we have a problem. For now, I'm getting back up from the latest change and am seeing what I can do.

I'm trying to rest when I absolutely can, but I've also signed up to do "Annie" with Olivia, so 'rest' is now an operative word.

Cross your fingers that I am able to get back up on ye ole writing horse again... but that laundry is looking mighty fine...

A Letter to One of My Favorite Writers (originally posted 03-04-11)

I don't know if you guys have ever heard of him, but you should. Ashleigh Brilliant (And, yes, that is his real name). He writes sometimes in small quips called pot-shots and others called Brilliant Thoughts. In fact, here's a website if you are interested:

www.ashleighbrilliant.com

I don't often write to those whose work I love. This is a big mistake. You should always write and let them know. Always, always. I've only done it on three occasions - once to Dorothy Allison (author of Bastard Out of Carolina), Davy Jones (from The Monkees - I had a crush and thought our shortness made us perfect for each other. Never mind that I was 8 and he was in his 40's), and today to Mr. Brilliant.

One of the reasons I wrote today is because 5 weeks ago, a car hit Mr. Brilliant. He's now in the hospital and going through a hard time, as many of us who have had hospital stays have been through. I wrote a letter of my story and some encouragement. And then I thought I might share it with all of you. Some of you might need encouragement. Maybe not today, but maybe someday, and maybe someday soon. Save it and see if it becomes useful for you.

I also thought we all need a reminder to write to those of whom we admire, before they are gone and we miss the chance. Sure, there's a chance that on the Big Screen of Life they might see that you loved them, but why wait? Why indeed?

Enough, enough.... here's what I sent. Good luck to all of you, too.

Cass

Dear Mr. Brilliant,

I don't know if this will ever reach you. I've been a fan of your work for years by accident. I dated a boy who gave me one of your books, and because I was careless of him, I was equally careless of his gifts. Years later while packing to move to New York, I found your book and read it, and even still have it, though probably in yet another moving box.

I'm sorry for your accident. I really am. The event itself, of course, is horrible, but the after effects are sometimes even worse.

Just a few months after getting married and moving into our newly built home, I awoke one morning to what we around here now refer to as The Case of the Meat Paws. (We’ve even thought of creating our own comic book based on it. I just can’t figure out the right super powers one would get with enormously large hands. Opening jam jars?) I tried to think of what would have caused my hands to swell excessively and inexplicably. I went from doctor to doctor to find out what was going on, only to be told one thing or another, even scolded for not just believing them without questioning their findings. The swelling went away with some good steroids (we later found out this small act saved my life), but then pain started in my belly. I ended up sampling hospital food from Las Vegas to a little town near Bryce Canyon in Utah. Still nothing. Just pills.

One day when it was particularly bad, my own male form of Dorothy (this is a reference to Mr. Brilliant's wife, Dorothy), otherwise known as my husband, met me at the hospital and told the people there we weren't leaving until they figured this all out. I guess they believed him because four weeks later, as I laid out as The Case of the Curious Illness, they cut me open hoping to find a solution. Instead, they found two holes in my intestines (which they were kind enough to clean up while they were mucking about) and they removed my gall bladder because I guess they thought it was getting in the way of their Spring cleaning.

Of course, this made things worse.

My belly did not like the way they had feng shuied my insides and rejected everything. It protested in the form of a lovely and large infection - so large, in fact, it burst through my stapled little belly. The hospital staff responded by hooking me up to what they call a wound vac, which cleaned out my insides constantly and made me wish for one for my house - for the carpet, that is.

The problem, of course, was that I was limited in what I could do at this point. Not only this, no one there knew what to do next. They had prettied my insides, but they had not stopped the war inside. Though the majority of nurses were nice, there were a few who were frustrated by my situation. They wanted me to fit into a neat little package they understood. One nurse, so frustrated that I could not do what she asked, resorted to throwing a walker at/near me. My husband, in his oh-so-delicate way, explained where her services could be better used. Guam, I think he mentioned.

There were lovely, lovely nurses though. One particularly frustrating day, I was in complete tears, literally covered in blood from head to toe from all the IVs gone wrong, the injuries and cuts. This woman came in, wrapped me in a blanket, took me into the shower, got in with me - in her full uniform - and helped me to get cleaned off. She rescued my mind that day.

Anyway, after 6 weeks in one hospital, they decided they didn't have the right people to decide what was really wrong with me (I'm sure my mother would have agreed were she still alive, though I’m sure she would have had her own laundry list.) They transferred me 400 miles away to Santa Monica, CA, where I was poked and prodded every single day. MRIs, CT Scans (so many they were afraid they would cause cancer in me), a bronchoscopy (which, if it's not being done to you is actually terribly interesting), a liver biopsy (where they punch a hole in my liver to test it), a lung biopsy (where they punch a hole in my lung to get more material to test - and scare me half to death when I realized I was breathing blood into my lungs), and on and on.

One miracle day, they finally came in with an answer. They said it was Wegener's Vasculitus - a name I still struggle with spelling all this time later. It's an autoimmune disease that usually attacks your nose, mouth, and lungs. While it had a field day in my little pink lungs, it tried to confuse everyone by taking on a different playground.

It still took another 2 1/2 weeks before I could leave - mainly because I had to relearn how to walk (no one ever tells you that something as short as 7 days in bed will cause your legs to give up the memory of walking altogether.)

The return home was frightening, afraid of doing something wrong without having so many people around to watch after me. I spent months at home, weak and not being used to it; loopy from the drugs and being even less used to it.

I hated the struggle back - still do - but the other option, laying back and simply slipping away, well, I'm not really dressed for that occasion.

I'm back and work, these days. And I still struggle. Some days, even this last Monday, are worse than other days, but it's like they say - every day above ground is still pretty friggin' good.

Good luck with all this. It gets better. It might get worse for awhile, but it does get better. And I know I would hate the world without a you in it.

Your admirer,

Cass Van Gelder

Vomit Day - A New National Holiday (originally posted 02-03-11)

You know, I'm a good sport, generally, but man...

My life is not normal anymore, I get that. Off and on, I get pains that run up and down my spine like I'm being shocked with electricity (or maybe that's from being forced to listen to Justin Bieber's latest single over and over. Yeah, okay, so I'm not going to make the mistake of picking up my 10-year-old's iPod again). And because of my many, many medicines, pizza now tastes like wet paper towels and the Kmart women's bathroom floor (which, considering what some of the casinos' pizza places offer up, it could actually be wet paper towels). No, no, it couldn't end there. No, I got a cherry on the cake of my day when for seemingly no reason I started villainously spewing sickness everywhere, and I do mean everywhere.

Here's the kicker, it had absolutely nothing to do with my illness, my many medicines, or anything related to it.

No, no... the reprobate in this case? A smug vending machine at my office.

I've never been a big fan of vending machines, mind you, but dude, when I'm working late, I'm not bundling myself up in scarves, coats, gloves, and a jaunty little hat just to go grab some heat-'em-up burrito from the nearest AM/PM - which "nearest" in my case is still an unpleasant hike - and especially not in this uncharacteristic Las Vegas weather. (We get all the bad indicators of impending snow, but none of the delightful actual product. I get to spend 15 minutes in the morning shaving ice off my car windows with an over-the-limit credit card [do you think they'll give me a percentage off my monthly bill because their flaky card wouldn't hold up?] only to get a fever from exposure and a clear blue sky.)

Back to the vending machine.

I'm no fan of this particular vending machine because the dudes filling it are trying to get it taken away - I really believe this. Not only do they stock it with crap food, but it's crap food that's near its expiration date. Proof in point, I go down one morning to buy milk for my coffee, which I shouldn't be doing anyway because with all these new meds, I've gone from simply getting "the vapors" from drinking a glass of milk to being able to rehearse full orchestral pieces from my arse just from a nip of a Cheez-it. Be that as it may, I went down to grab me a carton and I find all but one container of the white stuff marked with expiration dates that are just two days down the road - both days of which are on the weekend.

Now let's all do that math in our heads quickly, shall we?

Two days....carry the one...take an undisturbed Friday... that's right, every single carton was due to expire while we were away for the weekend.

Nice...

Anyway, the whole office has been getting emails recently, telling us of the great demise of this vending machine. The chick sending the emails is channelling Sally Struthers with a small African boy on her lap staring greedily at the mayonnaise left over on her upper lip.

Well, today, I come in and realize my hoarded stock that I keep in my overhead cabinet is sorely depleted, so, what little is in my empty tummy starts scratching messages on my stomach lining for me to send down neighbors. Hungry and with guilt ringing in my ears (I'm nothing if not a properly raised Southern girl with a dash of Southern Baptist), I be-bop it down to said vending machine.

Okay, so this is the part in the movie where the girl talking on the telephone starts saying, "What do you mean 'the call is coming from inside the house'?' as she starts walking up the stairs, into the killer's lair, and the entire audience starts screaming for her to turn back.

Yep....

I didn't turn back.

Instead, I heated then ingested some depressing Dale Earnhardt, Jr. chicken sandwich which was like a sad little backwoods knockoff of a Chick-fil-a sandwich, complete with equally sad little pickle.

(Just repeating this description makes me want to repeat what occurred just an hour later)

That's right, before an hour had even passed, I was trotting back to the women's bathroom because "I wasn't feeling right". And while I was trying to release some chocolate hostages, as my ever-eloquent husband is wont to say, I inexplicably began projectile vomiting.

Seriously.

In the middle of everything and with no warning. It was like they had put up a bull's eye on the back of my stall door and I was practicing for our new Olympic team.

So, of course, after the activities finally came to a halt, I packed everything up and started for home. This was due less to the fact of the vomiting than it was to the fact that my pants' legs were now delicately decorated in the loveliness that was now a wafting, yet haunting smell of my later afternoon activities.

Yeah, I reeked.

So, I left to come home and change and try to finish some work here.

Driving home, though, I got more and more pissed the more I careened down the streets. Why, pray tell? Why? Why get mad?

Because, as aforementioned...ain't I got enough? This disease... these medicines... these side effects.. what, that's not enough?

....apparently not.


But that's the way it is with us normal people, right? Every time you think this is all you can handle, another truck pulls up and dumps cement on your brand new car.

Not that I'm signing up for that....



So, for tonight, maybe I am just a little normal. A little. Or at least I get to pretend.

So, see, there is an upside. At least, that's my story... for now.

The "Technical" Writer - originally posted 01-30-11

Blogs...

bluh....

I've never been a big fan.

Seriously.

But, I got frustrated one night. For years, I've been calling myself a writer - and technically, I am. I am a technical writer. And I'm good at it. I've won awards. I've been hired at phenomenal rates. I've been courted by some of the most amazing places while I'm still working at an amazing place. There's art and creativity to what I do and generally, I'm given a lot of leeway.

But, the kind of writing that calls to me, is not this kind of writing. Instead, it's the same kind of writing that, even though I adore it, I generally run from it.

It's true. Stupid, but true. I have no idea why. I can sit down to 4 hours of nothing but lovely silence, a house, dripping in solitude. Construction stopped for miles around, children in school or in some playground where the Quiet Game is all the rage, and the animals even in our house are sleeping like they've pulling all-nighters at the Quad with their fraternity brothers and are sleeping one off.

Bliss.

This is what it looks like.

But no.

Suddenly, a yellow light seeps from under a door to my right. It twinkles and beacons. It wiggles its hips and gyrates like I've got a hundred bucks worth of ones in my pocket and it's gotta make rent by morning. That's right. It's my laundry.

Within second, my laundry becomes the most magical and delightful thing in the world and I must go to it instantly.

And don't kind yourselves into thinking, well, ya wench, why don't you just do the friggin' laundry and get on with your work. It doesn't work that way. No, everything - ANYTHING - is a distraction. I get this idea in my head that absolutely everything in the house must be perfect before I can sit down and allow myself to write. Clothes must be cleaned (as previously mentioned), rooms must be neat, beds must be made, walls must be painted, photos must be hung, drawers must be neatly arranged, the pantry must be labelled (and yes, I did stop typing mid-title to go tackle that very project, which ended up not only usurping my 4 hour window, but the following 3 days).

I've asked around to my other writer friends and apparently, I'm no different. We all do this on one level or another.

So, since this is not a mental disease or device that I can just wash away with two tablets of the latest drug and some water - at least that I'm aware of - I decided to start searching for ways to solve this problem. If nothing else, the search in and of itself would be yet another distraction.

One of the first things I did was to hop on the National Novel Writing Month project. I think it goes by a different name, but I'm way too lazy to look it up. (Okay, I looked it up anyway. That took at least 3 minutes, at least, the way I went about it. http://www.nanowrimo.org/. Suffice it to say, I was so competitive, I did my required 50,000 words way before the deadline, and rather than use the rest of the time to write more or to edit what I did, I just sat back and made plans about shellacking the kitchen cabinets. I didn't actually do the shellacking, I just made the plans.

Anyway, since I did actually get product from the process, I thought, you know there's something twisted about this but it might just work if I started framing my writing around self-imposed deadlines. Now, I don't know if competing against myself is going to work, but we'll find out.

Still, I'm not convinced. I mean, it did take me another 2 months to finally do this (though I had been planning with my friend, Val, to create a professional website for my writing career for the past year - yes, year - and still hadn't gotten further than 1 meeting into the project. [completely not his fault]).

So... now I start this.

Here are the parameters:

I've given myself until the end of 2011 to take my original 50,000+ words and all the scribblings I've done and put them all together and create a viable, solid first draft to send to my agent - the lovely and patient, Amy Rennert; who may actually not even remember my name by this point, considering the roller coaster I've taken her on.

If you want to know why I've given myself so long, I'll start all this by being completely honest.

I have two rare diseases (likely I will talk about them at various points, and by talk, I mean I will whine about them. I'll try not to, but it's hard sometimes. I'll try to edit my whining to a bare minimum, unless it adds to the story.).

I have Wegener's Vasculitus and some rheumatoid arthritis variation that interferes with, you guessed it, my writing.

I have to be realistic. There are going to be days when I won't be physically able to write. But I want to succeed and not make me want to crack my own head open with a iron pan, so I have to be reasonable.

So... journey along with me if you like.

I'm happy to read comments, especially those that are encouraging and even more so, those with questions. If you think I'm lame, please, don't write that. I'm already well aware of that and listen to that internal radio station every day of my life. I think Anne Lamott calls it KFKD, I don't need it in stereo, If it's constructive, I take that back. Ah, crap, I take that back, too. Write what you like. Maybe it'll get you started.

So... here we go. Wanna?