sewing fool

25 October 2005

Photos du mariage

*warning: link may be broken*

The flowergirls. Well, some of them.

22 October 2005

The stitches are out.

My kindhearted former roommate LEW played Florence Nightingale one night early on and swabbed the wound with peroxide & neosporin after removing the first bandage. I have dermatitis (a rash!) from a band-aid. The scar still itches.

I moved in with ERB earlier this week. My movers were amazing. A three man crew arrived at 9:15 a.m. on Monday and helped me finish packing, loading the truck all the while. They were professional, friendly and efficient. Nothing was damaged or mislaid. They even finished a half-hour earlier than estimated. I nearly swooned at the ease of it all. To self-move again: nevermore.

I know where the yarn & supplies box (okay, boxes) are. I can't get to them. I only have the computer set up because ERB applied his workaholic tendencies to the home. We have curtains up, door stops installed, glides on bed legs, working light fixtures (new ones over the kitchen counter!), and nicely arranged furniture. We do have one room with a waist-high double-deep wall of boxes, but the rest of the apartment is gloriously livable. Now we need to decide where the art hangs on the walls. And I have to learn the light switches. The dog is freaked out by the hardwood floors, having lived his indoor life thus far on carpet. I think I know how he feels.

09 October 2005

Six stitches

This is a long one, folks.

Somehow I have managed to live for over three decades without injury requiring surgical sutures.

I've had four wisdom teeth extracted, tonsils removed, cavities filled and displastic cervical cells ablated. I sprained a finger during soccer practice in middle school, twisted an ankle innocently walking on perfectly flat paved surfaces (more than once, without prejudice against either ankle), and pulled muscles at work, at play and in ballet classes.

Now I have six stitches in my back.

My dermatologist, Dr. Z., was born in Greece and looks like a cross between an Einstein muppet and a bespectacled yogi; if there was a film of his life, he would be played by Roberto Benigni (with whom I share a natal day). He is smart, efficient and melodic. I have known him for two weeks. My primary care physician referred me to him so that I could have a few moles examined and some pesky skin tags snipped. Two weeks ago I had a mole biopsied and a skin tag removed. He also gave me a sample of a frighteningly strong acne medication for the menstrually-induced breakout on my chin. (At home, I learned quickly that my best use of it is once every three days, not twice a day, every day.) It was recommended that I return a fortnight later for the biopsy results, another look at the offending chin and more skin tag erasure.

After working in the evening and arriving home at the usual 11:30 pm the night before, yesterday morning I arose at god o'clock, showered, checked the weather and threw my knitting (an adult-sized thank-you bolero for MFB, made from the leftover flowergirl yarn) into my bag for the lo-o-ong trip to Dr. Z's office in Flushing, Queens. Dr. Z does keep office hours a block away from my apartment in Astoria, but only when I'm working. I don't have the kind of job that permits an hour or two off for an errand. It was raining, the trains (some elevated out here in Queens; "subways" to non-NYers) ran agreeably well and I arrived a little early for my 9:15 am appointment. In the waiting room there played a needlessly dramatic local television news story about this weekend's alleged terrorist threat to the subways, the reporting style of which made me very edgy. I was put into an examining room about five rows later (knitting time) aware that I had skipped breakfast.

I put down my knitting and Dr. Z first showed me a DERMATOPATHOLOGY REPORT (caps as per original). Now, I'm a word freak, and I cherish arcana vocabularia. I understood that he sent a bit of mole for a biopsy, and that this was the written result from the lab. But when I read the words "PROLIFERATION OF ENLARGED PIGMENTED SPINDLE-SHAPED MELANOCYTES ARRANGED PREDOMINATELY AS NESTS AT THE DERMO-EPIDERMAL JUNCTION ... SINGLE UNITS ... BASAL LAYER ... NUCLEI ARE VERY UNIFORM. MICROSCOPIC DIAGNOSIS: COMPOUND SPITZ NEVUS, PIGMENTED SPINDLE CELL TYPE" I had no idea what the lab had diagnosed. I imagined spindles, uniforms, nests, all in symmetrical patterns. The room got quieter. Predictably and professionally, Dr. Z explained that I was fortunate to have had my biopsy examined by an expert in Spitz Nevi. Lucky me, I thought; whatever that means, at least I'm in capable hands. Dr. Z went on to note that the common dermatopathologist might have mistakenly diagnosed melanoma, which the Spitz Nevus is not. Somewhat relieved to hear I word I did know, "melanoma," I asked what the next step should be. He pointed to the bottom of the report: "IF ANY RESIDUAL LESION IS APPARENT CLINCALLY, A CONSERVATIVE REMOVAL IS SUGGESTED." Then he suggested that he could surgically remove the Nevus immediately, or maybe next Saturday. Rereading the report's last line, I though it seemed like a reasonable and even desirable conclusion. He sent me back to the waiting room. Nevus? Nevus?

As I am squeamish on an empty stomach, I had visions of collapsing in a faint if I should see a bloody scalpel. I told the receptionist I was going out for a "cup of coffee" and trotted up the block to a bagel shop. I remember thinking that it was nice that even the cranky Korean lady behind the counter liked bagels, that bagels are one of the common denominators that hold this mad city together ... I ordered a tea (light, one sugar) and some food (not a bagel, ironically, after my silly musing), electing to stay and eat it there so I wouldn't have to see more televised patronizing hysteria. When I returned to the waiting room the friendly receptionist told me they would fit me in as soon as possible. I knitted about 20 rows and inquired when I might expect a fitting. Four rows later, they called me and stuck me in The Surgical Room.

Here I want to break the tension (my tension - writing this is making me as tense as I felt for most of the day) and mention that I do not have melanoma. I went through a fairly routine "conservative Nevus excision," which I was later able to translate thusly: I had a benign mole removed in a chunk big enough to necessitate receiving six stitches. It was removed because the Spitz Nevus (nevus = mole, plural Nevi; Spitz = posthumously named for a female pathologist who published research on the type in 1948 and died young, at 46, in 1956, of causes I am unable to discover) is still incompletely understood but known to be both unpredictable and, although noncancerous, a close imitator of the dreaded melanoma (skin cancer). Dermatologists generally choose the conservative route. With malpractice insurance premiums sky-high, HMO pirates running the country's medical systems and the possibility of lives at stake, I think I too would err on the side of caution.

Back to the minor surgery. Dr. Z complimented my knitting speed and then I lay face-down on an old-fashioned exam table (many ladies will know the type, which can tilt its upper or lower halves up or down, like a dentists' chair, really, but with an extendable table at the foot for the long-limbed and retractable stirrups for the GYN exam) and pulled my T-shirt up to my shoulders. After he prepped me with a disposable blue nonwoven windowed drape, some sterilization and lidocaine, I nervously chatted through the entire procedure. I commented on the snipping noises he made, recognizing them as a seamstress. We discussed the use of curved needles in both upholstery (my experience) and suturing (his arena), as well as the efficiency of scalpels as buttonhole cutters and seam rippers in addition to the usual surgical slashing. I subconsciously convinced him I was calm, curious and collected enough to be shown the excised lump of my own flesh (upon reflection, a ghoulish sight about as big as the entire last joint of my pinkie, but pale). The me-piece will be biopsied now, and the results revealed upon the next appointment. Another acne remedy was prescribed, this one allegedly milder, as well as an antibiotic (and a yeast-infection treatment, just in case). The skin tags' removal was delayed.

I called in to say I would be late for work, and as I waited for the bus back to the subway I began to panic. I phoned my friend KAS, who had a serious melanoma last year. Hers was removed along with an armpit lymph node. At the time I felt sympathetic but nervous; she would keep tearing up and talking about feeling betrayed by her own body. Suddenly I understood, and she made a dinner date with me. On the train I listened to Tom Waits' "Cold Cold Ground" and thought about how I would say goodbye to the people that I love, were it to become necessary. I felt startlingly fragile, young and mortal, and it was painful. Not yet, I thought. I'm not ready. Then: I live in here but all I can do is move it around and feed it. It was very uncomfortable to realize the insignificance of motor control and thought process on my flesh.

At work I arrived a half hour late. WG ironed all of "my" costume pieces for me; he was nearly finished when I came in. Our boss, TG, asked me if I was okay; when I told him I would tell him later and then went about the rush of the pre-show preset routine, he was delicately supportive. About halfway through act 1, I blurted out the story ("dermatologist ... biopsy results ... surprised ... mole removed ... six stitches ... scared and anxious") and nearly all of my co-workers had similar tales to swap, personally or tangentially. After dining with KAS before the evening show (comfort food: tuna melt, tomato juice, rice pudding) I felt better still; when she opined that Dr. Z's failure to order a full-body scan or an appointment with an oncologist was a good sign, I was able to see her point. The second show went smoothly and I was glad to get home and do a lot of medical-term-Googling before I went to bed, educated and relieved.

On one hand I wish that I'd had wits about me enough to ask Dr. Z about getting a second opinion, but I am also glad it's over. Now my stitches itch, but I feel okay. The thing that nags at me is my blinding incomprehension of the results of the pathology report. I freaked out all day over, well, nothing.

05 October 2005

Finissima!

The first sweater, the one with the skimpy sleeves, got blocked sternly to the approprite size. I had no idea that cotton was so compliant. What was I thinking, threatening new sleeves? Sheesh. There is taffeta everywhere, though. I donated the scraps of organza to work, where they will become press cloths and be incorporated into repairs for aging costume pieces. The flowergirls have been collected and I will deposit the check today.

In under two weeks I'll be living with ERB. The move is daunting, physically. I hate to move. Since beginning college I've done it so much (the first several times badly) that I should have learned by now how to streamline & embrace the zen of packing. Truthfully, though, that revelation is recent.

To breakfast, the newspaper (the food section!), the shower and to work.