Eighth Avenue Holly

Taking the LSAT

2009-09-28T21:11:00.000-07:00

LSAT = Law School Admission Test.

When I was 14 and in Grade 9, everyone took a test that predicted a job for them. My jobs were: teacher, journalist, editor, hairdresser, firefighter and lawyer. They were pretty clear that you didn’t have to do these jobs, but might want to consider them.

I was kind of disappointed. Most of my friends got a list of 20 jobs and I ended up with six choices! I forgot about it till a while back when I found the piece of paper I had saved. I thought of my career path. From 22 to 25 I taught at the University and for other clients in Germany. Then I went to journalism school and worked at a magazine. I wrote but also edited. Though I had always considered myself a writer, I loved the editing.

Hairdresser and firefighter just aren’t in my skill set. So that left me with lawyer. Everyone rolls their eyes but it is something that has always intrigued me. But right after uni, there was this horrible show with a character that I was told looked and acted like me. I didn’t want to be crazy so I didn’t consider it much until last year.

I do love editing and communications, but maybe I could do more. I took an LSAT prep exam. Unfortunately for me, I took it in the two days before I was admitted to hospital with appendicitis. I was really sick when I took the course. There was an option to re-do it, but I got the gist.

Even sick, I kept answering questions that everyone else was puzzled by. It was too easy sometimes — like “of course that is the answer.” I was kind of busy last year, but this year decided to take the LSAT for real. I reviewed the course materials and studied some of the LSAT books.

Four days before the test I got the most awful cold. The two days before, I spent most of my time in bed dreaming of dinosaurs and the colour blue.

When I woke up, I was a coughing little germ factory with a scorching headache and sore throat. I checked on Friday to see if I could withdraw or reschedule my exam. Of course the deadline had long passed. So, once again, deathly ill I would write the test.

I took lots of cold drugs and dragged myself to UBC on a beautiful Saturday morning. What a waste of a day in the belfry. We were split into rooms when we got there and were checked in by a guy with feet like monkey. Normally, of course, you wouldn’t notice someone’s feet. But he had slipped his shoe off and as he checked my name against the registration list, I couldn’t help but notice his long toes wrapping around the chair.

Possibly not the best start.

We were allowed to have tissue on our desk, a blessing for me and the other five sickies in the room. If you were there, let me apologize, I coughed, I sneezed, I blew my nose. But I did the exam. There were some super easy questions, and some pretty hard ones too.

There were five multiple choice sections. One is a “test” section, for future exams. They are about 25 questions long and you get 35 minutes for each section. The actual exam time is about three hours but can take as long as seven hours with breaks and stuff.

The first section was the hardest and I didn’t finish and just guessed the blanks at the very end because they don’t take marks off for wrong answers. After that I warmed up, and really got into it. It was fun. It’s not supposed to be fun and you could have cut the tension in the room with a knife, but it’s a bit like word Sudoku.

The final section was a written section. I knew about it, but had forgotten. It is sent to law schools when you apply but isn’t graded. This is where I could shine. You had to write an essay about a choice for a community. They wanted to build something and had two choices, you had to recommend one and explain why. One choice seemed clearly superior.
Of course the easiest way would have been to say, “The community should choose choice B because of the following reasons….”

But I decided to “show off” a bit, to write as if people really cared about the issue. I wanted to touch the hearts of the community so I talked about the first choice, praising it, but then asking why we were building this facility. I talked about dreams and inclusion. I talked about economy and tourism. I talked about the future. All the while I outlined how the second choice would be the best. I don’t know if my choice was the best. I was more a speech or an editorial than an academic essay. Chris said, “Well, it was a good indication of how you think and how you work.”

So what comes next for me? I’m waiting to see what my score is. I could be in the bottom 30 per cent for all I know. I could be in the top 10 per cent. I may apply for law school or I may not. It was more, for me, about seeing whether this was a place I wanted to go.

I know how lucky I am. I’ve got a great job and just love it. I know what I’m doing makes a difference, I know I’m doing a good job and at the end of every day I go home feeling good. I’m working from home today — I could call in sick, but I have projects I want to finish. It’s important to me.
Since October 2008, 487,000 Canadians have been out of full time employment. On Feb 28, 2009, I’m going to be one of these. But the lucky part is that I know it, and I chose it. I’ve been open about my looming unemployment and have talked to a few smart people about options — unlike the other 1.6 million Canadians who are unemployed. I have 150 days or so to work out what comes next, and even with OECD predicting unemployment rate will peak in 2010, I’m not scared.

I also know the scary stats, like women are far more likely to go to law school than men, but are less likely to be practising lawyers five years after graduating. I have women-lawyer friends who aren’t lawyers anymore. But it’s a start, it’s a test. And it’s one more way to spend a Saturday morning.

Ringing for a change

2009-09-21T18:00:00.000-07:00

So I've got a new hobby. I like learning new things and learning different things. Things that stretch your mind. I've taken all manner of courses, academic and otherwise. Tai Chi, fencing, marketing, law school prep, ballet, belly dancing, knitting.

It's being able to do something and think in a new way that appeals to me. A reason, I guess that doing the same job again and again would never suit me.

So in June, I took up "Change Ringing" or bell ringing. It seems to only be done in England this way but they don't call it English Bell Ringing.

While this might seem out of the blue, a couple years back I tagged along with a friend to a bell tower in Bristol and watched them ring. The thought of actually ringing the bells myself made it onto my 43things.com list. I was looking to make some room for more things on the list and decided to contact the Vancouver ringers and try it.

My intention was just to ring once or twice -- just to pull the rope and nothing more. But it's fascinating. The patterns they ring in are mathematical, but in a way that I want to sit down and write them down. It's really physical too, pulling the rope.

The people are very educated and intelligent and patient and are really passionate about bells. They travel to England and around North America visiting other bell towers and ringing other bells. Today at the tower, we had a whole whack of people -- from Victoria and Seattle and Norwich. They were going on a trip to Mission to look at the bells there.

The tower is easily the most beautiful room in Vancouver. It's in the Holy Rosary Cathedral near the BC Hydro building downtown. It's stone, painted white with gorgeous stained glass windows. From the ceiling hang eight ropes with about three feet of plush red velvet (for the handstroke).

You ring two strokes, it's hard to explain and I"m just figuring it out. The bells face up, to the sky. One of the strokes brings them back to the other side and the other stroke brings it back to the starting position. They ring when they turn up-side down.

Then, because there are eight bells, each person rings in a particular order. The easiest is from treble up -- called ringing in rounds because you follow the person before you and they follow the person before them. Because you can balance the bells upside down for a long time, you can adjust when you ring and who you follow -- you regularly change the person who rings first. Hence change ringing.

Well, I'm just starting to ring rounds -- only the backstroke while my teacher rings the handstroke. But it's a start, and I love it. If you're ever downtown on Saturday morning and hear the bells ringing like crazy -- that's us!

The Man (not) Breaking into My Car

2009-09-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

So I went to Oakridge today and I drove, which was my first mistake. I came out to my car after I was done and two young (18-ish) guys were standing beside it. One was fiddling with his keys and looking around and the other was just standing there. I watched from across the parking lot.

I walked toward the car and unlocked it so it would make a sound and they'd move but they stayed right there by the driver's door. I wondered if they had hit my door or something. Why were they just standing there? Then the second guy leans over and looks right in my window like he's seeing what type of stereo I have.

I'm thinking to myself, I'm standing right here. And my car is nice, but it's not THAT nice. I finally decide to head for the door and coming around the back corner of my car I see a pretty lab. With one of those harnesses that blind people have on their dog. I realize of course he wasn't checking out my stereo or casing my car, he was trying to find the handle.

And I was really glad I didn't say anything.

Why 'United Breaks Guitars' is a great complaint letter

2009-07-23T17:54:00.000-07:00

I like complaint letters. I believe that if you get crappy service or merchandise, you should tell someone. The same if you get great service.

I worked in retail and customer service for almost 10 years, and even had the stunning title “Customer Service Manager” for The Bay.

My latest complaint letter love is the song United Breaks Guitars by Dave Carroll, the lead singer of the Sons of Maxwell. The band went on tour and in Chicago they heard a passenger point out that the baggage handlers were disrespecting their valuable guitars. The song chronicles not only the breaking of one of their Taylor guitars, but also the frustration of dealing with indifferent customer service people.
It’s the perfect template for how you should write your complaint letter and here’s how.

It tells a story. Let’s face it, whoever listens to your complaint is human. And humans love stories. You can feel the story when you listen to the song. Listen to the language, “We looked at each other, with something like terror...”
It gives specific details. It’s one thing to say, “I took a flight and my guitar got broken.” No customer service rep can follow that up. Instead we know the lead singer told three people when they landed about the possible damage and wasn’t listened to. A service rep can check if he was on the flight, they can call the person behind him, they can check with Ms. Irlweg.
It doesn’t make United a horrid villain. People want to blame companies for everything — this song personalizes United, but they aren’t all bad. My favourite line is “I won’t say that I won’t fly with you again/to save the world I probably would/but that won’t likely happen/and if it didn’t I wouldn’t bring my luggage/cause you’d just go and break it.” People love the threat that they will never come to this business again. At The Bay, people would say it to me and I’d roll my eyes. I’d heard it a thousand times, and each time the person would come back the next week or month and get their bra at 50% off. I also love his follow-up statement where he defends the honour of Ms. Irlweg -- it shows class. This isn't a personal attack.
It tells a truth people can agree with. On the radio, Dave Carroll doesn’t sound like a psycho freak, he sounds like someone with an honest complaint. If you have a complaint, bounce it off a few people and see if you are going overboard. He can show genuine damage to the guitar and people can hear his story and say, “Yeah, that’s not fair.” Sound reasonable when you complain — don’t write angry letters at 3 am.
It’s funny. If you can make someone laugh, you’ve got them on your side. After this went “viral” United wanted to talk about compensation.
So keep these in mind the next time you complain. My only suggestion to Dave would have been to write to Glenn Tildon, the President of United directly. Send him a letter marked “Personal” so it doesn’t get weeded out by zealous executive assistants.

Looking forward to the next two songs Dave!

Eight reasons I have a puppy

2009-06-14T18:07:00.000-07:00

In October, 2008, we adopted Bela, an 11-week old Springer spaniel-border collie cross. The nickname for this cross-breed is "sprollie." She's been a great puppy; I've had a puppy before (that my parents gave away because it was a handful) and know how hard it can be to raise them.

Bela is also a city dog. Raising a dog in town means you have to do a lot more training in manners and obedience. We can’t just open the back door and let her go out and play. We are always walking her and we are always running into people and she has to learn not to jump up, how to walk on a leash, and not to pick up garbage. She’s still learning all of these.

There has been lots of research done on how dogs (and pets in general) are good for your health. While there are some days I'm ready to give her to the highest taker, these are the eight reasons we keep her.

Having a dog gets you outside. A lot. If it's raining, snowing, sleeting or a sunny day, I'm going to spend at least an hour on both ends of the day outside with my dog. I can't tell her to hold her little bladder until the rain stops (which could be days in Vancouver). Being outside and getting a little exposure to sunshine in the winter is supposed to cure the winter "blahs."

More than this, I genuinely like being outside on a regular basis. Before dog, we would go for a walk on a regular basis but having a puppy forces me to get up every morning and head outside. I get to watch the daffodils slowly grow and bloom. I come home twice a day smelling fresh like outside.
Having a puppy doesn’t mean going outside, there’s lots of exercise too. We walk, we run. In fact I spend about an hour or more a day “exercising.” Oh it’s not going to get me set for a marathon, but walking up stairs is a bit easier!
Some people are dog lovers, some hate dogs but most people fall somewhere in between. Particularly with a puppy most people want to stop and say hi. They want to pet her. They ask all sorts of questions about her. She loves the attention and will happily roll on her back for a tummy rub (to just about EVERYONE). I’ve met more of my neighbours and people in my neighbourhood than I ever would just out and about.

I walked outside this morning with puppy and group of locksmiths were standing outside waiting for the shop to open and smoking. They were big, tall and grizzled. They were the people who normally would intimidate me. Bela ran over as the biggest guy got a big smile on his face, “There she is,” he said leaning down to pet her. “There’s my Bela.” It was so cute. Everyone has an excuse to stop and talk to you and smile. I like being smiled at, even if it just for my puppy.
Having a dog is always something to talk about. Need a topic for uncomfortable small talk in the elevator? She’s eight months old, yes she’s very cute, and no she doesn’t do a lot of tricks yet. It’s a great thing to talk about when there is nothing else interesting to say. She’s like my little hobby!
When Bela goes to the beach, she doesn’t ask, “Why aren’t we at the park?” She enjoys being on the beach. She loves everything about that moment. She finds a stick she can drag around or runs with another dog. She doesn’t worry about when we are going home, or if she’s going to get lunch or where the car is parked. As long as we are there, she lives right in the moment and experiences everything. She pays attention to everything. She’s teaching me to do the same.

We were on Long Beach in Tofino yesterday. Bela ran from place to place sniffing and digging things out and picking them up. She didn’t need the 13 kilometres of beach that Chris and I love so much. She could find a million stories just by paying attention to what was right in front of her. It’s a lesson worth remembering. She forces us to live in the moment with her. What is she eating? Where is she? Is she going to jump on that construction worker? I’m sure as she gets to be more dog and less puppy, these worries are going to lessen, but in a way it’s nice to live right here in the moment with her.
Before puppy we had to plan less. But planning, we’ve discovered, has a good side. Going out for dinner used to be our default. Got home late? Go out for dinner. Forgot to get groceries? Go out for dinner. Great day at work? Go out for dinner. Don’t feel like cooking? Go out for dinner. Now we need to have a routine. We can go out for dinner of course, but sometimes it feels like “why bother” when we have to come home anyway and walk the dog.

Our routine involves far less going out for dinner or doing things to fill time. Puppy needs to be walked, she needs to be played with, and she needs our time. Having a puppy means you need to have more of a routine. You can’t spontaneously go out after work and go to a movie and for a drink and walk home at 11 pm. But the anticipation of planning something and then watching it happen is nice too.
A puppy gives you something to take care of, to love. It doesn’t care how you look how or how your day was. When I hear teenage girls on talk shows talk about wanting a baby so they have something to love, I want to get them to an animal shelter to adopt a pet. I think a puppy is like “training wheels” for being a parent. You can’t lock your baby in a crate and go to work and your baby isn’t going to jump on someone on the street. But you get to learn that everything you do, they copy. Every minute you spend with them, they learn something and their behaviour has a lot to do with how you raise (train) them. You pick up poop, you worry about them, you need to plan, you have to get up in the middle of the night to check if they are ok – and sometimes they aren’t and sometimes they are. She accepts you just the way you are.
Joy. Plain old joy. Puppy brings us joy and happiness. She runs around and tries to teach her other toys to squeak. She tries to carry two toys in her mouth at once. She snuggles up to your leg when you open the crate. She licks her lips when you bring out her food – but doesn’t lunge for her food dish. She lies on her back to be petted by anyone. She gives you an enormous “wiggle bum” when she sees you for the first time in a while, wagging her tail so hard you think it’s going to fall off. She sighs in dismay when she’s bored or ready for something new.

Quiet desparation

2009-05-16T19:54:00.000-07:00

When my grandmother dies, I won't come back here. It's odd to think that I won't come back here at all.

Prince Albert is filled with a quiet desparation. When I tell my mother that, she grew up here, she doesn't see it. She sees how much it's changed.

But I see it in the faces of the people who all seem trying to be happy. It's strange though how on the flip side, the people here are also very, very REAL.

There's a sense that there is a lot going on just under the surface. But it feels like a swamp: dark and boggy.

I have two reoccuring dreams. In one of them I find myself near a "dead lake" a lake with no incoming or outgoing water. But despite that, perhaps it is spring fed, the lake is clear. I can see down and there are trees, big trees under the water. There are snags, birch snags in the water but standing out of it. Like dead little Christmas trees. The sky is blue and it's very bright around. And I'm all alone.

It feels like somewhere I've been before and I wonder, looking at the birch trees outside my grandma's window, if it isn't something I've seen around here.

My grandma's room is in the wing of a nursing home that looks like every other wing. If you were trying to navigate by looks alone -- you'd never find your way back. Her room faces a little courtyard that has one skinny white birch tree. It's a bit unfair to people with dementia to make every common area look the same.

A few months after she moved into the nursing home, on a blustery fall day, a plastic bag got stuck in that tree.

It's too high to get out without a ladder. It drives me crazy. Who would have thought when they abandoned that bag, that for three years I'd stare at it and hate its very existence?

But last year some birds built a nest in the crook of that tree, right under the plastic bag. So my grandma stares at the nest all day and wonders if the birds will come back.

The bag, in her estimation, is good because when it rattles it tells the birds when someone is coming.

Other fun Prince Albert facts:

They don't call it Prince Albert, people in Saskatchewan call it PA.

One of the main streets is called Marquis Drive. Now being any sort of French speaker, you might be tempted to call it "Mar-key" like the old pervert of Sade. But none of that jiggery-pokery here -- the proper way to pronounce it is "Mark-kwis" -- with the double k.

They use so much sand and salt that all the lines have worn off the roads. It's fine for locals who can tell the four-lane roads from the two-lane roads but for me it's a bit intimidating to turn left. Whose lane am I in anyway.

It is the home of John Diefenbaker -- Dief the Chief. And I have his curtains in my closet at home in Vancouver. They are green and gold.

Can I tell you a story?

2009-05-15T20:38:00.001-07:00

"Can I tell you a story?" Grandma asks. She looks sly and shy at the same time.

"Sure."

"It's a little scary and gross," she says.

"Go ahead."

I'm a little worried. Grandma has the early stages of "Lewy Body Syndrome" a type of dementia and gets things wrong often. Last year she was convinced she went out with her then-boyfriend and they had shot my grandpa and left him in the woods. Of course, he died in a nursing home after three years, where she visited every day.

"It's about snakes, you know how scared I was of snakes.
Anyways, we were watching them on the hill over there and there was a big snake. And they, the two of them were hunting for him."

She checks to make sure my eyes are following her pointed finger pointing at the building across the street.

"And we were watching and we saw these two birds come. And the big one was, like, he was training the little one, to be a bird. And they found the snake before the hunters and they plucked his eye out. They plucked it out and ate it."

She seems to understand that this is a "story" and not reality, but I'm not sure.

"They ate it and they knew he couldn't do anything because he had only one eye. So then they went back and the birds, they plucked the other eye out.

And the hunters, they saw this and we were all scared. And so they packed up because they knew he couldn't do anything. The snake just had to go to his little hole and he couldn't see anything. So he would be hungry but he couldn't get any food.

And the birds ate the other eye. And the snake. He was a big snake, he was like a grandpa snake. But there weren't any smaller baby snakes on the hill. Strange."

I don't know what to say, "Well I guess the grandpa snake needed a grandma snake to have babies."

She chuckled into her handkerchief. OK, its a tissue, but she snuffles into it.

"He can't see the hole now because he doesn't have any eyes. He can't poke the grandma snake."

She smiles as she stares out the window. In this story, did she conquer snakes, her biggest fear after her fear of looking silly or doing something inappropriate?

Feeling all Prince Albert

2009-05-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

Things you might not know about Prince Albert, Saskatchewan:

They don't have a lot of "green" food here. Not organic, but things like broccoli and lettuce. Fresh broccoli and lettuce.

They serve marachino cherries with your meal, but only in the "fancy" restaurants. If you are lucky, the cherries are candy yellow.

They don't recycle much so whenever I get a plastic bottle I carry it around, feeling too guilty to throw it out.

Downtown, near the river, they used to have a stuffed animal nature house. It was full of stuffed, dead creatures. Covered in dust with marbles for eyes. My grandpa used to take me there and we'd reach over the rails and "pet" the animals.

I got married in the nursing home here. I really did like older men. Kidding, I got married to Chris!!

At the B&B I'm staying at, they give you a decanter of sherry so you can have a glass before you go to bed. It kind of sounds like the plot twist in an Agatha Christie novel.

There are three turns of any sort between Saskatoon and here -- other than that the road is a big long straight line.

They got a Starbucks in the Safeway two years ago. But since most of the people working at the Starbucks had never been to a Starbucks, it's like nothing you've ever experienced before.

My grandmother wanted to put one of the roses I brought her "between her teeth" and then she wanted to give it to the man in the room next to hers...

More revalations to come.

Joy and Pain, starting again.

2008-06-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

So this is the end of the story about my hospital stay. It's an end but also a beginning. I can't help notice that after years of back and stomach pain, it is gone. Physically I feel 10 years younger, but also sad that I've lost a month of my life. Then again if the back pain stays gone I'll save thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours on physio, massage therapy, chiropractic, and IMS accupuncture. I look at pictures of myself from my honeymoon and even a few from my wedding and I can see a pained expression on my face. I used to see that in the mirror, but I don't see it anymore today.

I still hurt, but it's getting a bit better day by day. This feels like a chance to start again but before I start again, I'll tell you how everything ended.

The Friday before I left was full of up and downs. Only one doctor came to visit. The hand IV started swelling so that I didn't have knuckles and a breeze hurt so the nurse came to move it.

First he tried shoving a needle in my left arm but the IV didn't work so we left it until the afternoon. It hurt so bad and I was so tired of being poked at I started bawling and he left. My poor mom came an hour later and I hadn't stopped crying and knew it was upsetting her but she could see the big green bruises crawling down my arm.

When he tried again he gave me a cup of apple juice and cookies first. "I don't want you to cry again." He was as upset as me. The IV in my wrist hurt like hell but hadn't inflamed and I was willing to suck it up for a day knowing it wasn't going to be longer than that.

My sweet husband came for our final, going-away solid dinner hospital food. In the cafeteria he made me turn around and spread out a tablecloth and cloth napkins on the table behind me. It was like being real people again and I wanted to cry. He turned on one of those electric candles and we ate dinner by candlelist. I was in my double blue hospital gown get-up, my blue socks and navy blue granny slippers my mom brought for me. Him in his suit and Edward pumping me full of saline.

Saturday morning came and when they woke me at 5:30 am to give me my last Benedryl I couldn't go back to sleep. It was like a kid on Christmas except I was waiting until Edward, my IV drip machine was disconnected and the needle taken out of my wrist. (I still cringe thinking of it).

I went to the TV room, I came back to my room. I didn't even open the tray of the hospital food. No doctors came. The nurses didn't take my "vitals."

Finally one of the nurses came to take out my IV. "Why did they put it in your wrist? This hurts most of all places. Who did this?" When she left I cried again for all the poking and prodding and hurting and why would he put it in my wrist!!!

Chris came a bit early (thank goodness) and I changed into "real people" clothes. Not the clothes I came in, because they had been stolen. Did I mention that?

I felt my humanity returning a bit. You feel very nude and vulnerable wearing the "sick uniform". As I walked past the foot of my bed I scraped my leg on the metal clip from my chart. I scraped it hard and started crying. And though I knew it wasn't my crying that got me in the hospital I fell into Chris's arms "Don't make me stay, I'll stop crying, it just hurts but it will be ok." We laughed and I kept crying and he promised he'd take me home no matter what.

So with that we left. There's no ceremonial "leaving" that you have to do. I felt like I could have walked out as soon as they took the IV out. They don't even give you anything to take home.

It's weird of all the things that happened, the IVs were what caused me the most problems. They pulled and swelled and I hated having to walk around with the post. I hated the sound Edward made as he pumped liquid into me.

My hand still hurts. But I've come home with a new appreciation of pain. One of my roommates was asked what her pain was on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the worst you could imagine. She said in her sprightly English accent, "Oh well, I'd have to say it's probably, you know, a 10."

See and on the other side of the curtain I rolled my eyes. A 10 is really unimaginable, it's roll your eyes in the back of your head, unspeakable, horrific horror. It's not able to make a complete sentence pain. I didn't get there. But without hitting an eight or nine I never would have been able to comprehend what "pain" can really mean. I think of people who are tortured or the bodies at Pompeii with new appreciation.

Remember that song about "Joy and Pain" it was popular when I was in Grade 7.

Joy felt like my shower. It felt like drinking water from a real glass. It felt like lying on my own bed. I felt like people looking at me like I was a person, not a patient of interest.

I think that if people are in the hospital for more than four or so days they should really have a counsellor come and talk to them. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't going crazy -- but I felt it was my fault that I was there. I felt like I had been bad. I felt like the doctors and nurses were enjoying my pain. I felt like an experiment. I felt like I would never get out of the hospital. When I thought, I thought of all the germs on everything including me. For example they'd use the same finger clip that measured your pulse and blood oxygen on everyone without cleaning it once. I tried not to think and just live from vital check, to meal, to visitor and back to sleep.

Mrs. Poopy-pants didn't understand what the nurses wanted her to do or how to get better. I could tell that even though they were trying to get her to roll on her side so she didn't get bedsores, she didn't understand. She thought they were trying to hurt her. I felt the same way sometimes -- even though I knew everyone wanted to help, it felt like they were trying to hurt.

And when you leave everything stops and no one tells you what to do. Do you stay on bland icky foods, can you eat tacos? When can I go to the gym? When can I eat spicy indian food? How much sleep do I need? How do I "rehab" myself so I keep getting stronger -- while still getting the rest I need?

As I get stronger I realize the thing that made it all worthwhile were my friends and family. Waking up and finding someone coming into my little curtained stall just made my heart soar. I always knew how important they were, but they are the rocks our lives are built on.

Side effects and a timeline

2008-06-18T08:36:00.000-07:00

So there are two weird side effects from my time in the hospital. One is the track marks and bruises up and down my arms from the IVs. My right hand still doesn't work right and has a big red lump on top that hurts like a burn. The other side effect is my tongue. It's yellow and blotchy and feels like I have hair on it. No matter how much I brush, use rinse or eat, it just feels icky.

So here's what happened after I was admitted.

Sunday

Morphine, antibiotics, a horrid incident where they poked around in my wrist to get some arterial blood nearly killing me with pain. I'm on clear fluids.

Monday

Nurse Ratchett is a student and decides today is the day she is going to kill me. She makes me get up (I don't want to get up) to get bathed. She unhooks my IV and blood and saline starts splurting all over the bed. It was horrid and she should never have touched my IV. I pinch the top of my nose with my fingers and she says "Are you crying? Don't cry."

"I'm not crying, I just want you to stop the blood from coming out my IV." It was all I could do not to start screaming. Seriously it looked like an axe murder had attacked my bed.

She 'bathed' me by taking a cold facecloth and rubbing my back. Then she took the water away so I couldn't possibly finish what she had started. I didn't want her near me.

She kept coming back and poking me with things. She accidentally pulls my hair. She pushes too hard on my stomach. She scratches my mouth with the thermometer. She tried to re-wire the existing IV by twisting it while it was still in my veins. This should not happen.

Everything hurts. I started getting agresssive. "No, let's wait until someone who knows what they are doing comes back." She's scared I'll tell on her about the IV so she goes away after taping the IV to my arm so I can't move the arm without screeching pain from the tape.

One of the other ladies in my room keeps calling out "Oh, I'm so constipated." I'm afraid this won't end well.

I'm on clear fluids and the doctors won't give me any timeline for going home. "We'll just see how you feel," they keep saying. I feel better. I feel like the nurses are trying to kill me. Let me go home.

They bring me onion soup for dinner. My family has gone home but everyone else's in my room has arrived. I open the bowl and smell the onions and can't stop crying again. I'm trying so hard to be quiet but everyone can hear me.

The intern-doctor comes in the room. She's shocked and doesn't know what to do. "Is this a bad time, should I come back?" she asks.

"They gave me onion soup," I bawl. "I HATE onions. I know it's stupid but it's just....onions."

We laugh together and she gets me to lie down and she pushes my stomach in. It feels better but it's still swollen. She won't give me a timeline for going home. She tells me to ask them for non-onion soup. I sleep most of the day

Tuesday

Nurse Ratchett is back. I hide out for much of her shift in the TV room and downstairs. When she does have to poke me she tries again to undo my IVs -- I shriek. Her trainer comes in and says "You can't work those, only the RNs can work with those ones." I give her the dirtiest look I can muster. It's not mature but it comes straight from that place of "You hurt me. You hurt me a lot and you should know better. You are a bad, bad person."

It doesn't matter, by mid-afternoon there is already a swollen hard lump where the IV is, a bad sign of infection. They will have to move the IV. I don't IV easily and every time they move it it takes two attempts to get it right.

She convinces me to take a shower. Since they don't have shampoo or a hair dryer and since I want to go home soon, I don't wash my hair. They have a little shower room that runs hot and cold water but never both at once. She promises to come back in five minutes. I wait ten and toddle back to my bed still dripping wet and looking for a clean gown. I watch and it takes four days before someone in cleaning picks up the facecloth I left hanging on the handrail.

I call Monika and cry. I call Chris and cry. I call my mom and cry. I call my boss and try my hardest not to cry. I have no news. I sleep a lot.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday:

The days merge. Chris visits, Dave visits, Tamara visits, Mark visits, my parents visit. They bring me more onion soup and I throw up. Nurse Ratchett doesn't come back.

They have to reinsert a new IV, I flinch and the vein pops and they have to do it again in my hand. It hurts so much. I'm trying to "relax" and the infectious disease doctor comes by and wants to talk about my condition. I'm trying to relax and not talk and she's poking an IV in my arm and he wants to poke my formerly sore stomach.

I watch a lot of daytime TV. The nice thing about having the IV is that you need to sit by a power outlet and I'd sit in front of the TV and ask if anyone was watching the TV and all the families would let me change the channel. Not that there was anything worth watching.

They think I'll get out after five days, that means Friday. No, I have to stay until Saturday. I have a deadline of getting out. I feel better.

They wash the floors every second day and the bathrooms weekly. Can you imagine how DIRTY bathrooms get when washed weekly? Particularly at the hospital. I notice the grunge on my hospital bed. They stop changing my sheets.

The constipated lady in my room starts to go and it gets stuck and they "remove" it. I thought I was going to die from the smell and she was dying from embarassment. She becomes incontinent and two or three times a day she "messes" herself and it takes a long time to clean and it smells horrific.

I start staying up past 8 pm and watch the nurses play facebook and hotmail. I want to play facebook.

I refuse to take a shower. Whenever anything on the IV changes it hurts and needs to be moved. I wash in a basin in my bedstall. My hair is horribly greasy. I don't care, I just want to go home.

The IV ends up in my wrist. For fun put your thumb on your wrist and wiggle your fingers. It doesn't matter how flexible the needle is, I can still feel it everytime I even think of my hand. The top of my right hand is still swollen.

I get on a solid food diet. The bowls smell of onion soup so I stop eating anything from a bowl. I got to the cafeteria and eat muffins. Someone steals my clothes between checking into emergency and now. Everything just gone. There is no lost and found.

Everyone in the room is sent home after a night or two. Everyone except me and Ms. Poopy. I talk to her husband -- she's been healthy her whole life. She hates being here. So do I. But she's sick and by Friday, I'm not.

Not out of the woods

2008-06-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

See and until now it sounds like a normal, routine appendix-removal. It sounds fine and really if just getting my appendix out and being send home was all it was, I wouldn't be writing this at all.

Everyone keeps telling me I need to take it easy. I need to go slow. I need to give myself time to heal. My doctor said I needed two weeks after getting out of the hospital before I go back to work.

I'm not used to sitting around all day and barely being able to walk to the park. I'm not used to taking it easy. My right hand is still sore but I called the BC Nurse line and they said it can take up to a week for an IV vein to feel right again.

I went home from the hospital for the first time on Friday, June 6. Saturday I sat around and watched TV and drank water and tea. My temperature hovered around 38.3 and 38.5 -- but didn't hit the magic 38.5.

Saturday night we went to bed and the mice came out. I swear there were mice in the kitchen. I could hear them scratching through the cupboards. Chris told me I was imagining things and told me to go to sleep.

I couldn't sleep. My t-shirt was soaked. I got up and went to kitchen at 2 a.m. to get a glass of water. I knocked over a glass and it broke. I leaned down to get it up and started bawling my eyes out. Poor Chris.

I refused to go back to bed and instead lay on the couch. I woke up at 8 and again began sobbing. It felt like the world was falling down around me. My temperature was only 38 degrees. My stomach was distended but no more than when I left the hospital. What scared me the most was my face. I hardly recognized it -- I was the colour of linen or an old white sheet.

We called the BC Nurse line (a great free service that's part of the BC Health Guide. The line lets you talk to registered nurse and find out what you need to do for a bunch of different medical conditions. They kind of answer the question "Should I go to a doctor for this?" Phone 604-215-4700).

The lady talked to me and then said, "There's a lot going on. I could tell you how to fix one of your symptoms but I think you need to go back to emergency."

Still crying (remember, I don't cry much) I insisted on taking a shower before we left. We showed up at Richmond Hospital again. Again I refused to sit down and after showing them the stitches on my belly they gave me a bed as Chris checked me in.

It got scarier. The doctor came in and talked to me for two minutes and then ordered an immediate CAT scan (it took a few hours to get one last time). I hear him say, "This girl is really sick, she's not going anywhere."

I had my IV hooked up again and again they pumped me full of saline and morphine. They poked and all the doctors from the first time came back and looked at me worried.

It was my mom's birthday. Chris called and left a message.

They started me on a kind of "super" antibiotic. I'm allergic to penicillian and this is a relation, but they hoped I wouldn't react. I was going to be on it for a couple days, staying in the hospital.

The surgeon explained that they were worried I was developing an abscess -- a walled off bit of infection, possibly more likely because of the salmonella I still had in my system. He said if it got worse they would treat it with a long needle inserted in my stomach or ultrasound. "We shouldn't have to cut you open again," he said.

I got moved up to the sixth floor, in a shared room this time. I was the youngest person by far in the room and everyone else seemed far sicker. My parents came, Chris sat with me, everyone looked worried, but less worried than on Wednesday.

They kept on with the morphine until Monday.

By Monday morphine made me feel like my head was collapsing in. I was reading a book called Einstein: His life and universe. It was like feeling the atoms of my body collapsing in. Everything kept going dark. I don't know how you could get addicted to that feeling. It felt like I no longer existed. I wanted to be better.

Appendix-less

2008-06-16T17:01:00.001-07:00

So here's the silly story of why I've missed yet another month of work, am hanging around in pyjamas and can't stay awake for more than 4 hours or walk for more than 15 minutes.

My hand, still sore and swollen from the IV, isn't as red and I can type two-handed easier.

I woke up from surgery and was in this wood-panelled, halogen lit recovery room. It's the funkiest room in the Richmond General Hospital I assume.

The first thing I said was "You fixed my back." It rather surprised the nurses who were under the impression my appendix had been taken out. Even in my sleepy, drugged up state I wiggled under the blankets and my back felt better than it had in years. Yes, the stabbing horrid pain in my stomach was gone, but that had only happened for a day. It was the back that amazed me.

They asked if I remembered the surgery (NO, thank god). Chris met me as I came out of the room and told me that my appendix wasn't inflamed or ruptured, it was just dead. Dead. Not really a common thing to happen, usually they get inflamed and swollen before they get taken out. He said I was lucky they took it out that day or the outcome would be totally different.

I don't remember Thursday much. Everything hurt, particularly the front of my shoulder and my belly button. The incisions really look like paper cuts in my stomach. It hurt to get up, I couldn't roll over. The nurses were great and every hour came to check my temperature, blood pressure, oxygen levels. I was on clear liquids all day. Clear liquids means soup and green jello.

When they let me go on Friday I started to cry, "I don't feel better." They checked everything and said I'd be fine. My doctor came and said it should take about two weeks to recover and get back to work.

My instructions were to return if I had a lot of pain or if my temperature was above 38.5 for four hours or more. And with that Chris took me home.

Tremor -- Wednesday June 4

2008-06-15T09:05:00.000-07:00

My first sign this was not going to be a normal day was a tremble. As I reached out to slap the snooze button my hand trembled and I noticed it.

My back had been sore for two weeks, and I had tried everything -- hot baths, ice packs, physiotherapy, chiropractor, a new mattress. Every morning I woke up five hours after I had gone to bed with my hips feeling like the bones had been scrubbed with steel wool.

On Wednesday, it wasn't so bad but I felt so tired. I missed my bus and stooped for a black coffee before I got on the seabus. I had caught salmonella in Hong Kong six weeks earlier and had finished my antibiotics the week before. I still felt week and tired but my salmonella symptoms seemed to be gone.

The seabus closed in around me. Everything felt so old and tired. 'I'm still in my early 30s,' I told myself, 'This shouldn't hurt so much.'

Getting off the seabus I was overwhelmed with nausea. I stood on the gangway as we disembarked and stared into the water. The guards started walking towards me and mumbling. I walked over to the nearest garbage can and threw up. Then I did it again.

I have the feeling that my new co-workers are expecting me to get pregnant any day and looked around to make sure no one saw. I walked up to my desk and logged on almost robotically.

My co-worker leaned back and asked if I could help her on a project.

"I don't think I should be here, I just threw up on the seabus," I answered. I knew I was sick but didn't know if the answer was going home or going down to the medical room. My inner voice, the one who stays silent in all but the most extreme circumstances, told me to GO HOME.

And again I thought of staying at work for a bit and got anotherr GO HOME.

So I stood up, told my coworkers and my boss and left. I missed the seabus home and ahd to sit in the waiting room for 12 minutes. It was hot and cold and I hurt all over. I sat there wishing it would come and when I did the wastebasket called. I ran back to the bathroom and again with the throwing up.

I made it on the seabus and staked out the garbage can as if my life depended on it. My focus narrowed to just getting home. I would have taken a cab but the bus came first. The slow ride up Cambie, the urge to vomit again, getting off the bus and walking past the city workers vomitting at every lamppost.

Does it sound as bad as it felt?

Lying on the floor feeling the cool tile on my cheek I knew I had to get help. I called the doctor, got an appointment in an hour and tried to find a ride. I knew Chris couldn't make it up the hill in time and knew I couldn't drive. I called my mom, found some cooler clothes, grabbed the bathrrom garbage can and hoped.

My doctor asked about my immunizations I got in preparation for China and as I turned green and continued to use my blue garbage can. She said if the pain was very bad I should go to emergency. I nodded. She said she'd call ahead and gave me a shot of Gravol to go.

My mom and I walked to her car. We had parked semi-legally and as we came out a woman backed right into the side of my mom's car. The drama queen offender came over and started yelling at us for parking wrong. My mom told her we were going to the hospital and got her insurance info.

I remember walking in the hospital. I remember giving the lady my salmonella forms. I remember trying to lie down on the floor and the nurse wouldn't let me.

I got to a bed. I don't remember much. Chris came. My dad came. People kept coming in and talking to me. I kept asking for the "happy shot." Someone came and took three tabasco vials of blood and three big tubes. I was in isolation, everyone had to wear a yellow gown and use disinfectant.

They finally gave me morphine. It didn't touch the pain but my eyes started focusing ahead and not rolling to the back of my head. A CAT scan can be obtained very fast if you turn white enough.

You know it's bad when the three people you love the most sit, staring at you, ashen-faced and worried. You know its bad when the emergency staff won't quit poking you. Two hours after the CAT scan and no news. My dad said, "I've never seen you look so bad kid."

Seven hours in my back started to seize. I told my parents I'd be fine and they should go home.

Another doctor came in. They were trying to decide if they should operate now. The one question I answered right, "Did this just start today?"

"No," as if this morning I had been this bad. "I didn't feel good last night either."

Chris understood. "She hasn't felt well for weeks."

Another wave of pain hit me. A knife in the stomach. The doctor came back. He was the surgeon, but he looked far too young for a surgeon. "Well, the radiologist says he thinks he sees a stone and some fluid in your appendix, but I think it's the salmonella. What can happen is that the bacteria gets to your colon and you develop colitis.Your colon looks very thick. So if it's your appendix I'll have to buy him a coffee. We're going to do a laparoscopy and see. If it's your appendix, we'll take it out, if not we'll figure it out tomorrow."

Do I remember this? Like it was happening today.

He left the room and Chris told me he hoped it was my appendix.

They took me to the OR. Chris knew some of the staff and introduced me. How odd to try to play nice when you hurt so much. They gave me long green socks. I told them my back hurt.

They put the mask on and everything went dark.

Home

2008-06-15T08:13:00.000-07:00

I am home after 10 days in hospital induced delirium.

I am typing with one hand because the other is sore from the iv.

I am bored so while I'm home recovering I will tell you my story and maybe I'll figure it out too.

Three thing you should know before Istart:

1) My great-grandfather died of appendicitis on a buckbaord on the bumpy road to the docotr. I've always worried I'd die like this too.

2) A grandfather went to the hospital to have a splinter removed and they gave him an injection of adrenalin instead of penicillian -- he died leaving my grandma a widow with four small children. Eventually in a important case my grandma sued and won a good settlement. I don't like hospitals much.

3) I hate onions and don't cry easily.

Back to life

2008-05-25T18:35:00.001-07:00

I feel strange. Today, for the first time it felt like life starting moving at a normal pace. Until now I've felt like the world was spinning too fast and I was just hanging on.

The pace of change? Since last September I've visited Nashville, Montreal, Saskatchewan (twice), Beijing, Sanya, Hong Kong and Macau. That doesn't include a million nights in my dear Kamloops Four Points.

In September, I was working at BCLC and excited about volunteering for the Special Olympics and Editors Association. I didn't like the Editors Association experience much so I quit.

Now I'm working at ICBC and still volunteer for Special Olympics (an amazing experience though I feel like a boob for not having done enough).

I got engaged and then got married, and then got married again. It's starting to be a routine, put on the dress, put on the veil, put on the lipstick, smile for the camera. Now I've got to plan another reception in Penticton this summer.

The only thing that has stayed the same is my apartment. But no, that's not the same, my husband lives here now and my couch is missing.

I kept hoping that when I came back not only would life return to the city (leaf-less trees really get me down) but that I would have more time and energy.

But on coming home I find that my new job, while slightly better paying and in a nicer location, isn't what I had expected. I find myself missing my friends at BCLC. I find myself feeling very much like a co-op student ( I don't know if you are supposed to tell your boss you aren't doing anything and feel like a student, but I did!)

I also have been sick. I got sick in China and just didn't fight it off. Now everyone automatically assumes that when you come home from your honeymoon and are nauseous you have "Egyptian flu" but I assure you, I'm not going to be a mummy!

I finally went to the doctor and found out that I have salmonella, something you usually fight off after a week. I've had it for five weeks. Saturday I woke up with an aching lower back and this morning I couldn't get out of bed. Ah, that's what husbands are for "Chris, lift me up. I'm stuck."

I felt like a 90-year-old grandma. In fact I feel like my grandma who now needs three nurses to lift her 98-pounds into a wheelchair.

So putting everything together, today with the sunshine and fresh air was just what I needed. Lying down KILLS, sitting down hurts, but walking isn't so bad. So we walked and walked and eventually I started to feel a bit better.

It feels like life is starting to move slower. I know I have a ton to do, but I'm getting there. I'm coming back to life. I'm feeling a bit better and a bit stronger every day.

Observation

2008-04-18T05:41:00.000-07:00

As the internet becomes more a part of everyone's daily experience, internet cafe/usage prices in public places are going up.

Case in point the "business" centre where we are paying about $15 an hour. So I'll be breif and save the long version for my notes to be copied when I get home.

We're in Beijing and tired from all the walking and beautiful sights we've seen. We've stooped and gone to KFC and McDonald's but in our defense our stomaches are trying to cope with "travellers tummy."

I'll write more when I have time or money, or both.

Holly

Hong Kong!!!

2008-04-08T20:20:00.000-07:00

So it's the first morning in Hong Kong. I love cities in the morning and it seems so entirely odd to be here, in a new country and married!

It was hot and humid and we had things to do and see. The stores hadn't opened and we didn't know where to begin looking for breakfast. We had a few things on our list. Sights that Chris wanted to see, visas to get and a bit of shopping for me.

Our first stop was the local Marks and Spencer -- makers of the world's finest underwear. We were there too early and the doors were still locked. We wandered through this giant shopping mall on the water similar to all of the malls in Vancouver end to end. High end stores were everywhere and since half the people reading this have far more experience in Hong Kong than I do, I won't go into detail about how much Prada and Dolce Gabanna and Louis Vitton there is.

On the streets we were constantly approached by Indian touts -- the same ones that had taxi rides and fine marble for me in India. "Excuse me sir, a suit, fine tailoring, very nice." For me "Miss, we have fine imitation handbags."

Why would I want an imitation handbag? Why not make nice handbags that aren't imitating anything but nice handbags? Does anyone really beleive that it's a real Coach handbag anyways?

Regardless, by noon I was ready to turn and start selling the salesman trips to Canada, property in Northern Saskatchewan....

Marks opened and we stocked up not just on the bare essentials (really really good underwear, I swear by it) but also on cookies and sweets and socks. The counter girl told us a good restaurant to go to for breakfast.

Breakfast stopped the tired grumpies and we continued exploring. We dropped off our passports to get our Chinese visas but were unable to get any information about booking the next leg of our trip which will take us to Beijing and Tokyo in some order (we're not picky about which order exactly).

Ack! Out of time! More to come....

The light in the closet

2008-04-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

At the Hotel Miramar, I unpacked my suitcase, wondering what I had brought with me. I didn't sleep well the night after the wedding, a fact I blame on the overzealous boning on my dress.

It fits wonderfully until you take a drink, particularly something carbonated. Then, stomach swelling, it starts to get tighter and tighter until the inevitable happens and releif reappears. Now, much like smokers who know cigarettes will kill them or diabetics who know candy will spike their insulin to all sorts of bad results, a thirsty Holly will continue to drink, no matter how tight the dress got.

So loosened and with thoughts of the wedding spinning in my head, I slept fitfully the night after the wedding as my stomach began to digest and my lungs sucked in sweet, fresh, married air.

Packing was an adventure. Logically I should have packed before but the two days before the wedding were stuffed with "things" to do. So we packed after unpacking from the wedding night stay. I brought lots of pyjamas, a few pairs of underwear and other stuff. None of it really made sense in the clear light of Hong Kong, or rather the dingy polluted light.

We went out for dinner. I was hungry but not hungry and upside down and tired and backwards and everything was out of sorts. We stopped at a place with BBQ meat hanging in the window and passing on the beef tripe, pig trotters and other various specialties, I went for the duck.

The sweetest juiciest fat skin melted in my mouth and made me remember why Trainer Susan is such a necessary addition to my life. However after the first pangs on hunger subsided I noticed the glean on the meat.

This wasn't a nice shiny greasy glean, rather it was the glean of meat left in the refrigerator too long. As long as it was hot I reassured myself pushing my finger into the mildly warm meat.

And with sorrow and sadness that this meat may not live up to the Holly Health code, I picked at my cold rice and we left.

Back at the hotel, we washed up and began trying to fit two people who had been cooped up in a tiny plane (albeit with TONS of legroom) into the tiniest double bed ever. Now the bathroom light goes out, now the main light, now the TV, and then the lamps by the bed. What about the light in the closet? The light that was now streaming out of the closet.

We find the master control for the room in the nighttable beside the bed. This controls everything from the airconditioning to the television. A strange piece of furniture, but even after controlling all the controls there is still much to be desired.

I call the front desk to ask. They don't know what I'm talking about so send up housekeeping. Housekeeping comes in and we try to explain about the light in the closet and I JUST want to go to bed. She goes into the closet very carefully and pulls the light out of the socket.

Of course! There had to be some answer!!!

Married and out of town

2008-04-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

It is a good idea to leave directly after your wedding I think. You get so caught up in wedding planning and after the wedding there is still so much to do, that it is good I think to escape and worry about everything when you get back.

Questions that need to be answered anyways, like "Where is the marriage licence?" "Did we get all the pictures we wanted?" "Did I say thank you enough to all our guests?" "Did people enjoy themselves?"

So instead we flew off. At Milestones we told the waitress we got married the day before and got complimentary drinks for breakfast, my last true ceasar before I get back.

On the plane we got sort of upgraded, we got an emergency exit row where we could stretch out. The flight was nearly empty and we were happy to have booke d on Air Canada now that Oasis has apparently declared bankruptcy.

We told the stewardess it was our honeymoon and she gave us a bottle of Chilean red wine to celebrate.

Arriving in Hong Kong was painfree and easy as was getting to the hotel. One begins to understand the potential of the Canada line in the face of this. We were dropped off by the hotel parking garage and my India-stincts kicked in when a young man with a black shirt and the nametag Simon came out and grabbed our bags.

We both looked at each other and wondered if we would ever see our luggage again. Apparently suspicious white people were nothing new and he put a tag on them and gave us the claim slip.

My thought was that the suitcases were too heavy for him to get far with them. And the only thing of real value in them was a bottle of Chilean red wine.

We still weren't convinced and went into the hotel asking "Are there pe0ple checking bags?" There were apparently and I think we amused more than one Hong Kong hotelier that afternoon.

The Hotel Miramar was/is undergoing renovations, and contrary to Expedia's guarentee, we were not informed. It was not bad, but the swim in the pool we had longed for was to be missed.

Why Holly slapped 15 people

2007-09-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

What's even worse after I did that I started crawling on the floor on all fours. It was a strange flight to Toronto, the city I've never been too...

Chris and I went for some sketchy souvlaki before I got on the flight and I felt a bit funny but attributed it to it being my second flight of the day, and my seventh this month.

I had an empty seat next to me and slumped over with my head on the chair and my feet still on the floor. All of sudden pain. Then I was searching for that handy bag in the seat in front, then...you know what. let's just get to the bathroom. I'm suddenly desparate to get out of my seat and off the plane. I'm trying to run.

I didn't realize how dizzy and tipsy I was till I got up and started walking sideways. And I'm trying to hold onto the seat backs but keep hitting the poor sleeping people and then I miss them and land on the floor.

At this point a sensible awake and not terribly desperate person may just stay on the floor. But I was determined. So I started crawling. Then I worked up to slapping the last four people before I hit the washroom.

They say one problem with first aid is that people get determined to get away from their situation and are embarassed so will walk on with very serious injuries. I wasn't thinking. I haven't felt pain like that for a long time.

Then the turbulence starts. Luckily we aren't sent back to our seats because I wasn't going anywhere. Then the banging starts as people try to get into the washroom. Really if the sign says occupied, it's probably full. And if it's been full for 10 minutes, just walk away.
So I tell the stewardess that I have food poisoning and ask if i can stay in the bathroom. She tells me not to lock the door. So I'm boiling hot and freezing cold and trying to splash cold water on my face and thinking of the sight someone will get if they come in.

After about 15 minutes of trying to stand up in the little room I open the door and ask for a cup of water.

Now I've got their attention. They are worried and have the water ready. I get the strength to get up and the pain subsides. It's not that something really icky is happening toilet-wise, just insane abdominal pain and dizziness and nausea. I can't think, my mind is just one giant scream.

I've never seen my face look like that. It was absolute white with giant black circles under my eyes.

But by the time i fall out of the room and into the stewardesses seats I'm feeling a bit better. They give me a bottle of water and then start getting my medical forms. They want to know if we should land and take me to hospital. Now if I was on land, I would have been at the hospital right away, but I didn't want to land and get carted out of there.

My tongue is like carpet and i can hardly spell my name. I can't think. Thoughts finally drift back and we decide to wait for a bit and see what happens. The stewards are scared. They wrap me up in 20 blankets. No one is coming to the back of the plane.

I feel better and better as the flight goes on. By the time I land, you'd never really guess what happened. But to be honest, by the time I left I had my wits to thank them for their professionalism and compassion.

Weird heh??

How good to be back!

2007-05-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

I love travel, but as much as I enjoy it, I like the coming home part too.

I like being able to leave my bed unmade, and to drink water from a glass, my glass anytime I want. I like walking around barefoot and the smell of MY towels. I like have a more bountiful supply of clean clothes and having my iPod with MY music on it.

I like having full control over the remote control for the TV.

I like knowing that my apartment is, or ought to be, mouse free. I like not worrying about my passport, money, debit cards. I like not wearing a money belt.

I forget that I have friends at home when I am away. It's nice to come home and laugh with friends. It's nice to have people around who talk to me and have my accent.

I like looking at my pictures and thinking "Did I do that? Really??" I like putting on my new clothes, I like buying new clothes when I'm away. I have a shelf of famous building statues, a little Eiffel Tower and Koln Dom and now an Empire State Building.

I never feel like travel is exotic when I'm doing it, I get buried in the details of finding food, sleeping enough, getting enough water and seeing as many things as possible. But when I get home I see how different that life is from this life.

And so the wheel turns and I rest for a while in the arms of my own world while the outside world, while the travel world keeps moving on.

Someday, in a week or a month, I will walk outside and wonder what it is like in that far-off somewhere and my compass will turn again and I'll start making plans. But until then, I'll enjoy thinking of my stories and photos. You can check them out online at http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyiswhere/.

Have you found Jesus?

2007-05-27T22:06:00.000-07:00

The basis of my friendship with Debbie P. has to do with saying the most outrageous things with a perfectly straight face.

We used to sit around in gym class and talk about adult diapers, condoms and feminine hygiene products and use the straightest face possible as we faked little radio clips. I was 13, give me a break.

I haven't used this skill much since then.

So on the train home from Brooklyn after two well-deserved glasses of wine, it was just my luck that someone asked me the famous question, "Have you found Jesus?"

I don't drink a lot and two glasses after a long day is just enough to loosen my tongue just a bit. I wasn't drunk mind you, just happy.

The questioner was a man about my age who sat beside me, turned suddenly and looked deep into my eyes. His greasy little ponytail flipped over his shoulder.

He said, "Can I ask you something?" And without waiting for me answer he said, "Have you found Jesus?"

Now what's a girl to do? Leave the train? Say "No" and invite a conversation about the power of Jesus's love? Look puzzled and answer him in German (actually that would have been a good option). I said, "Yes." He looked at me, slightly shocked. "Did you keep him close to your heart?"

Now Mark and I often joke about this question, because it sounds like Jesus went missing (and is the basis of one of my favourite Pearls cartoons). So with the talks with Mark and the practise with Debbie and the two well-deserved glasses of wine, I answered, "No, I let him go."

The man looked at me even more intently. "He was in the cupboard between the chick peas and the sliced tomatoes," now I was picking up steam. "I don't know how he got there."

"I knew something was wrong, I'd never buy that much tinned tuna and my bottled water tasted a bit like a Reisling." He looked at me, he didn't say anything.

"I brought him to New York and let him go. Last I saw he was walking down Seventh towards Central Park." He looked at me. The next stop came and it was super busy so I got off.

He sat on the bench and looked at me out the windows as the 2 train rolled away. I feel kind of bad, but it was fun in the end. I didn't start the conversation, I didn't ask him to tell me about Jesus. I just ended the conversation.

Ten reasons the Empire State Building sucks

2007-05-25T16:30:00.000-07:00

1) The long line up to get your bags checked by security

2) The long line up for tickets

3) The extraordinarily long line up for the elevator and the fact that by paying an extra $30 you can bypass this line so these happy fricking people are walking by and shuddering at the line drinking a cold pop and you want to steal their special express pass.

4) The fact that you have to get off at the 80th floor and get in a long line up to get your picture taken in front of a green screen.

5) The line up to get the audio guide (which was included in my ticket price)

6) The line up to get on the elevator for the trip to the last six floors and the bonus fact that they split the line in two, moved people from the back to the front and told us to merge. I don't want to merge!

7) The line up to get through the gift shop (and the entire 86th floor is a gift shop) and outside to see the city.

8) The line up for the bathrooms (only two and they smell! I mean they really smell)

9) The line up to get down the elevator back to the 80th floor where you have to line up to buy the photo of you they took and superimposed the city so it LOOKS like you were there at sunset. (Never fear I saved the $20 for the snapshot)

10) The fricking line up to get in the fricking elevator to get out of this fricking building where I've been fricking pushed by so many fricking people I want to jump off the building.

11) (Bonus answer) The line up to get through the turnstile to get out of the main floor.

Best things about the Empire State building.

1) It' s quiet up there
2) There's a pretty good view

Yep, that's it.

Alice Walker and Gloria Steinam

2007-05-25T09:57:00.000-07:00

So on Tuesday I went to see Alice Walker and Gloria Steinam at the 92 St Y. It was really interesting talk. I was worried that it would be a super feminist "rise up against the oppressors" type speech.

I had enough of that when I took my one women's studies course at SFU. That was where I learned that I could never be a true feminist since I was not of colour (I'm actually pretty colourful but that's not what they meant of course). I could not be a feminist because I had never battled poverty, addiction, abuse or disability.

I learned that white women make the worst feminists of all because they are so eager to oppress all other women. So the label of "feminism" makes me shudder a bit.

But the talk was fantastic. Alice Walker talked about the power of the pause. She talked about not reacting or speaking when you found yourself upset. I liked that idea. I mean I try to take a little break when I get upset to gather my thoughts, but it was a nice reminder.

They talked about accepting the bad things that happen in life and letting yourself feel them. "If you let a callous grow over your heart so you don't feel the bad things," Gloria said, "Then you don't get to feel the wonderful magical things either."

Alice talked about mediation being like "mental floss" getting rid of things you go back and relive even though you don't want to. It reminded me why I love yoga so much and how when I leave a class I feel like my mind is absolutely empty.

They talked about taking joy in the absolute miracle of being alive and of enjoying the cool breeze on your face or a place of green beans that tastes amazing.

They weren't big, crazy life-changing things. They weren't things I had never heard or contemplated before, but they were nice to be reminded of.

And watching these three women (the moderator was there too) all over 65 talking about the future, I was struck that they weren't talking about the future of women's rights, but the future of people. They were also talking about how the fights they fought are becoming more irrelevant as people move ahead. The issue of women not having the vote doesn't even come up anymore.

I walked out onto the fancy streets of Madison Avenue feeling happier.

Brooklyn Bridge

2007-05-25T00:37:00.000-07:00

I've often heard people ask each other, when they thought they were being particularly naive, "I have a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge for sale."

What I thought was that the Brooklyn Bridge didn't exist. So it was odd to keep seeing somewhere off in the distance. I had wanted to walk across it, it supposedly offers great views of the city.

But on going to Brooklyn on Thursday I took the subway. I had looked at a map of where I was supposed to go and had a vague sense of location. Coming out of the subway I had one of those experiences where you know you don't fit in.

The streets were all dark and the windows covered in those metal roll down blinds. Two police cars sat side by side, lights flashing in the middle of the street. It all felt more than a little threatening and it was very clear I didn't belong.

You know how you see those poor tourists in Vancouver at the corner of Hastings and Carrall? That's who I was but I had no idea where to turn. I was meeting my friend Kevin who had driven up for Memorial Day to meet his poet friend.

I had an address and hoped that the street was really close to where I was -- my little travel voice was saying "Ummm.... I don't like it here, do we have to stay."

I had a phone number too and tried that out, but in New York, even for local calls you need to put "1" before the area code so the annoying lady kept repeating, "We're sorry, we can't complete your call as dialed."

A girl, about 14, stood at the phone next to mine. She was all dressed up in spangly shoes and lots of make up. I didn't know if she was waiting or working but considering the circumstances decided to ask where the street was. I did my best, confident, of-course-I-know-where-I'm-going walk. Turning up and down the same street two times didn't actually go towards proving it.

Eventually I found the building and rang all the apartments to find my friends and went in for a well-deserved glass of wine. The apartment was beautiful with brick walls, original hardwood floors like mine, and a great layout. And it was scheduled to be torn down for new condos in six months.

I asked about New York, I asked what made it special and the answer was, "all the crazy people." Now I've seen some pretty crazy things in my life, but not a lot here. The general feeling was that Mr.'s Guilianni and Bloomberg really started cracking down on things like crime and homelessness and crazies and prostitution and that's gentrified the city. "Times Square used to be full of homeless people," the Poet told me.

"But where did they go?"

"No one knows," he said, almost ominously. It makes me wonder about Vancouver's problems and if cracking down would solve them. By midnight, I got an escort back to the subway station.