The Bold Soul

What Not to Wear... in Paris. EVER.

An amusing exchange on Facebook this morning, started by one of my fellow American-in-Paris ex-pats, Serena, got me thinking... about how I look on a daily basis, and about how my IDEAS about how I look are shifting since I moved to France.

Serena wrote about how this morning, she took a few steps outside her Paris apartment building to take out the garbage. She was wearing what she describes as "a baggy university t-shirt and yoga pants" while she did this. And that she felt the critical eye of the Parisians having their morning café at the corner café upon her as she did this. She totally felt judged, like they were staring at her with disapproval. Why? Because she'd neglected to, as she wrote, put on her "Chanel suit and pumps" before daring to step outside her door with that smelly trash bag.

Now, the average American reader is no doubt thinking, "Yeah? So? What's the big freaking deal about THAT? She was only taking out the garbage -- do you need to wear pearls and get a manicure before you can do that in France?" American logic would say no... after all, it's taking out the trash, right? Ah... but my dear ami, this is PARIS we're talking about, where so-called "normal" logic does not apply. And Paris is the home of the French Fashion Mafia, after all.

We are literally living in another world, when it comes to what (not) to wear.

As Anglophone women living in Paris for some length of time, Serena and I and our English-speaking sisters have become intimately familiar with the rules of "What Not to Wear, Parisian Style". We are surrounded daily by French women who can, for some unknown reason, make a pair of jeans and a simple white shirt LOOK like a Chanel suit and pumps. Even when "dressed down", these women manage to look fabulous, and it's intimidating! I have seen women pushing baby strollers with babies that are clearly only about 2-3 weeks old, and these women have their hair "up" (but NEVER a "scrunchie" in sight!), their make-up and nails done, whatever they're wearing, it looks fabulous, and they are S-K-I-N-N-Y like they never carried that adorable baby for 9 months. On nearly every block, you see lingerie shops selling the most beautiful, lacy undergarments you've ever seen, and you can always find a Sephora or Marionnaud shop nearby to get your make-up "fix". I still can't get over that women who are 20-30 years OLDER than me are trotting around these Paris cobblestones in high heels without breaking an ankle. And do not even get me started on the scarves... oh, the scarves.

The bottom line is that a French woman, at least those that live in Paris or other metropolitan cities throughout France, seems to have a certain "edge" when it comes to looking good. And she makes it a point to ALWAYS look good, at least when out in public, and certainly any time the man in her life is around.

I've read that French women spend more of their disposable income than women of other countries on self-care; that includes clothing, skin care creams and treatments, manicures, pedicures, make-up and yes, that all-important WAXING (just ask for a "ticket de métro" when you go for that bikini wax). I don't know if that's true or not, but what IS true is that Paris remains the beauty and fashion capital of the world... and most of the Parisian women know how to look and play their part in maintaining that reputation.

As Americans, we're used to putting casual comfort ahead of looking chic. We may watch "Sex and the City", but most of us don't live our lives that way, dressed to the nines while lunching on Park Avenue. Need to go out to the store for a gallon of milk? No biggie, just throw on that old college sweatshirt and your 10-year old track shoes with the hole in the toe, and go. A night out with the girls might involve wearing your "fat jeans" because you feel bloated... and you'd have no problem admitting this to your friends, either. And when we're in a relationship, at least after that early dating stage, we see nothing wrong with changing out of our uncomfortable pantyhose when we get home from work, and putting on our most comfy shorts or sweatpants to relax after a long day... or if we work at home or are home with our kids, maybe we spend the entire day in those shorts or sweats. That's the life we're used to, and it's the sort of "style" so many other women around us are sporting that we see nothing wrong with it.

Until you come to Paris, that is. Being in Paris, around those French women who seem to always look so well put-together and who make it look easy (which doesn't mean that it IS easy, by the way), makes your American casual "style" stand out -- like the proverbial sore thumb. Wear your sneakers/tennis shoes here, and you just look like another tourist. French women DO wear t-shirts and jeans, but they always seems to be neatly pressed and accessorized or worn in a way where they look as nice as a silk blouse. They also wear comfortable shoes -- you can find Nikes, Pumas and Skechers here, too -- but rarely in all-white; instead, they'll be some other color or just plain black (black is sort of like the "uniform" of Parisians... even in summer). Ballet flats and sandals are big here, and are usually worn instead of sneakers.

So here's a little list of do's and don'ts for "fitting in" with the local Parisiennes... or at the very least, for looking like less of a run-of-the-mill tourist:

• Do leave your white Reeboks at home; they just scream "I'm a tourist!" Find other comfortable sandals or flat shoes for walking.
• Don't, under ANY circumstances, wear a fanny pack. That includes YOU, guys.
• Do learn how to wear a scarf. Even in summer; a light-weight one can look very chic.
• ALWAYS: matching bra and panties. Especially if you have a doctor's appointment; they're French, too, you know, even under those white lab coats.
• NEVER: any clothing, bags or umbrellas with the word "PARIS" emblazoned all over it.
• Don't wear sweat pants, sweat shirts or "yoga" pants out in public. Even if you happen to see a Parisian girl wearing a "track suit", she's in the minority and it's not worth the risk. The only exception to this rule is if you are actually out of doors exercising.
• Wear at least a little makeup. If you're on the run, you don't have to go full-out, but a little mascara, eye-liner and lip gloss make you look like you cared enough to glance in the mirror before you left the house.
• Look at how the French women (those you admire) are dressed and pay attention to the details; sometimes it's the little things that set them apart: an interesting belt, an unusual piece of jewelry.
• I have short hair so I don't wear it "up", but if you have longer hair and want to put it up, find some kind of interesting or unusual hair accessory. No Parisian girl would be caught dead with a scrunchie! If you can pull off a real chignon, more power to you; remember, it was Audrey Hepburn's signature "look" and she was just fabulous (even though not actually French).
• Speaking of Audrey, she's a great role model for the classic Parisian "look" -- keep it simple, chic, and elegant, and you can't go wrong.

Does knowing the rules mean that I always follow them? Ummm... no. I do go out without make-up more and more often as I'm getting older, mostly because I feel a bit lazy about it. And I only own two or three matching sets of lingerie... I'd probably buy more if I didn't have such a problem finding bras in my size (like all the other clothing here in France, I have difficulty shopping here in general).

But I no longer own a sweatshirt or sweatpants. The one pair of "yoga" pants (I put that in quotes because I don't actually DO yoga) I do own, I keep for chilly winter afternoons when I'm hanging around the house, but I'd never wear them out on the street now. I don't own any shoes that make me look like a tourist.

On my most recent trip back to the States, I began to notice that I felt "different" when I went out. I did tend to be more casual in my attire than when I'm here, but I felt guilty about it. And several times, I noticed that I was actually the best dressed woman in line at the supermarket or in that aisle at Target. It wasn't about looking "fancy" or being over-dressed... it was more in the details.

And in the attitude. Which is where I think the French women really have it over the rest of us. It's their ATTITUDE about themselves and how they look that makes the difference, even when they're in jeans and a casual shirt and ballet flats. They carry it off with Hepburn-like elegance, no matter what they're actually wearing.

I think some of THAT is what is creeping into my consciousness. I'll never BE Audrey Hepburn, not by a long shot. Just like even if I some day get myself a French passport, I'll still never really be a French girl.

But I can adopt some of the customs. Some of the elegance. And some of the attitude. All of that will go a long way to helping me fit in and feel more part of everyday life here, as well as making me feel better about myself personally.

As long as I solemnly vow NEVER to wear a fanny pack or a baggy pair of granny panties.

Rentrée rerun

At our "first date" place on rue des Abbesses, this past Sunday night:

   

We were a little travel-weary, having just arrived on the afternoon train from Saint Raphael, but this place (La Mascotte) can't help but bring smiles to our faces. Good food and wonderful memories... what more can you ask for?

All things must come to an end

Today is our last day here in Saint Raphael. For this vacation, at least.

As you've no doubt noticed, I have posted nearly nothing the past two weeks, other than the photos of our day-trip a week ago. I've been more into the micro-blogging with Twitter and Facebook, which is really Georges' fault -- he's the one who bought me that new iPhone 4, so now I can post quickly from anywhere! (And I have to admit, I kind of love this phone so far. Thank you, sweetie.) Of course, I do have the ability to do full blogging on the iPhone but somehow, sitting on beach writing a lengthy post on Typepad seemed like a misuse of my time.

This was not quite the vacation I hoped or expected to have, to be candid. Yes, we had sun every day... big points for no rain. Yes, we had our beach days, our usual trip to the local zoo, and (finally!) lots of ice cream and gelato. We played mini-golf. We ate good food. And perhaps best and most exciting of all, we were able to give my sister-in-law some serious FUN with several great family outings. That, all by itself, made it worth the trip in my opinion. (Plus Georges got to surprise her with a new computer and he re-arranged her Internet connection to improve the signal in general.)

But for me, the post-operative recovery has been much slower than anticipated (my scar STILL hasn't completely closed up in four places, although one is nearly closed now, and I'm still having a nurse visit every day to work on that -- so there IS progress, but it's just very SLOW progress). And that meant NO SWIMMING. WHAT. SO. EVER.

If you want to torture me, just put me on a beach in 90-degree weather and tell me I can't go in the fucking water, at least not above the thighs. I am NOT a hot-weather person. My skin is fair so I have zero interest in baking myself into a bronze, leathery saddlebag. And what else is there to do at the beach except swim? I LOVE to swim, and the not-swimming has been making me miserable.

I also had lower energy than normal, so ended up staying home in the (blessedly air-conditioned) apartment more than I normally would have. My poor traumatized body needed the rest... but the rest of me wanted to get the hell out of the house and GO somewhere.

Suffice to say, my moods have been all over the map. When I've been able to get out in the evenings (when it's cooler), I've been in a great mood. We went to see the Bastille Day fireworks. We had a couple of dinners out. And sometimes, I welcomed the opportunity to just hang around the house and be a bit lazy. But after a while? Enough is enough.

It's no one's fault, it just is what it is. Who knew I'd get so sick (and right after my trip to the States) that I'd need surgery, and that it would end up being major surgery to remove an internal organ that was so badly infected that who knows what might have happened if they hadn't intervened when they did? And who knew that my skin would end up being the type that would be so sensitive it would take WEEKS of extra time to heal? My doctor had originally anticipated I should be able to go in the water this past Monday, but when the nurse here got a look at my scar, she said "Uh-uh, no swimming at all". And clearly she knew what she was talking about because the damn thing has been taking it's sweet time closing up.

So... tomorrow we go back to Paris. Great weather and being with family notwithstanding, I have to say that I'm actually glad to be going home because I can get into a normal routine again -- and not be tempted by a beach I can't fully enjoy. I have a book to finish that I am now WAY behind on, and a special project I agreed to do with a friend back home that I'm excited about starting. And we have our next vacation to plan for middle or end of August -- a trip to a Club Med, probably in Italy, with the Little Guy.

And that frigging scar had better be sea (and spa) worthy by that time. Because I have a lot of vacationing to make up for.

Trigance, Part 2

More from our day in Trigance, in Provence.

My good friend Linda and I both seem to have this obsession with photographing interesting old doors and windows in our travels. I think she'll like this one.

Blue seemed a rather popular color to paint one's doors and windows shutters in Trigance. I liked this because it was just adjacent to an archway. On the other side of the arch was a little shop where they make and sell locally "famous" honey and honey-based products like nougat, so we stopped to buy some.

 

It was difficult to tell if both these doors open into the same house, or two different houses. Perhaps the one on the right was for the animals and the one on the left for the family; that wasn't unusual for the same building to house both people and their livestock. I love the old, weathered wood doors and the giant blocks of stone. That's why these houses last hundreds, if not thousands, of years. I'm not sure if the "1688" on the door lintel was the house number or a date, but my guess it that it's a date as I don't remember seeing house numbers on any other houses; the village is so small I think the postman just knows who lives where.

I'll save the rest for one more post, tomorrow.

Trigance, Part 1

Today we took a long drive (and *I* was the driver!) to a little Provençal village I'd never heard of, called Trigance. It's one of those ancient villages made of stone and red clay tiles, and way up above the village was a real, honest-to-goodness medieval castle. (Yes, I'm American, and easily impressed by such things.)

It was roughly a 2-hour ride each way from Saint Raphael, up and down many winding mountain hills. For me, this wasn't much different than the kind of winding roads I learned to drive on as a teenager, only the hills were a bit higher and rockier, and the climate much more dry. We didn't see fields of lavender but we did see wild lavender and stopped to pick some... it smells amazing. I also spotted the last of the roadside red poppies... I really love the poppies.

We went there primarily because my sister-in-law felt up to doing a drive somewhere she hadn't been in a long time, and she's been house-bound for nearly 2 years with various health issues so we were delighted to take her anywhere she wanted to go. It's only in recent weeks she's felt well enough to go out, and since our outing to see the Bastille Day fireworks went well, we decided it was a good time to go and see something different (especially since swimming is verboten for me on this vacation). And of course my own recent health scare means there are limitations on what I can do... but driving to a charming village in the country was a novel experience and just my speed.

There is a bakery in this village that has amazing bread, and the owner remembered my SIL even though it had been a long time between visits. We also bought some clementine confiture and some griotte cherries marinated in some liqueur (I picture enjoying this over some vanilla ice cream at some point).

We had lunch in the tiny square (this is not a village that is overrun with tourists, which I really liked), and then my SIL relaxed at the table while Georges, the Little Guy and I walked around and I took all kinds of photos with my new iPhone and Hipstamatic. So here are a few of my favorite shots, and I'll post more tomorrow as well.

This was an old house with some interesting architectural details, and it was next to the outdoor terrace where we were eating. I liked the niche for flowers high up on the left, and the closed up archway "door" on the lower right.

When my sister-in-law saw this photo, her first comment was that it was "recent", and I thought at first that she meant it was a reproduction. Then she said it was Louis XIVth era (I'm not sure why). I guess in France, that qualifies as "recent"?

Where's my effing gelato already?

Been in Saint Raphael since Sunday (arrived here in time to catch that effing annoying World Cup Final, and can I just say I was ASHAMED of the Dutch team... not because they lost but because they were violent brutes and didn't deserve to win, and my Dutch ancestors would probably back me up on that).

I can't really say this feels like a vacation. I wish I could. I wish I could have a better attitude. It's not ALL bad... Georges and I really did have a lovely "date night" on Monday for our 2nd wedding anniversary, and last night my SIL put together a lovely little family "party" to celebrate again (and she also ordered the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers for us).

But for one thing... I can't go in the water above my hips. And I'm someone that (a) loves to swim and (b) hates the heat, so the ONLY way I can tolerate being at the beach is being able to periodically jump in and cool off with a nice swim. I love the beaches here at the Cote d'Azur -- they're smaller than the New Jersey Shore beaches but they're so picturesque.

However, I've got a scar that just WILL NOT close itself up. I've got to be home every afternoon so a very nice nurse can come and change the bandages, and everything that goes along with it, and it's NOT pleasant. The only good thing about it is that I am not running a fever and there does not seem to be an infection. But I'm completely stressée about it now, and where originally my doctor told me no swimming for 10 days (which would mean until next Monday), now I suspect I will be doing NO swimming at all on this trip. 

And what good is a beach vacation if you can't enjoy the beach?

When we're here, our usual M.O. is that we love to walk around town and go to different restaurants, play a round of mini-golf, or to get a nice gelato when the urge hits us. But I can't walk long distances, especially in this FREAKING HEAT, and so far haven't really had the opportunity to get around town and see or do much of anything. And so far, NO GELATO.

At least our apartment has air conditioning. And we have WiFi. And Georges and I have new iPhone 4's. So there's that. But it's not the same as being able to plunge into the Mediterranean and feel that wonderful water on your skin.

I'm just moody today, and whining about it. And I admit, I'm kind of worried, is this damned thing EVER going to heal? (When I broke my leg in '96 and had to have 3 surgeries on the same exact spot, after the 3rd time, I had the same problem where the scar did not want to close up, and it took a couple of extra weeks -- so maybe this is just how my skin reacts to such things?) Now I'm wondering if I ought to call my doctor back in Paris to see what HE has to say, and then perhaps see a local doctor here, and if so what's next after that? 

I don't even like to think about it. I'm tired. I'm worn out from all this. I can't seem to stop bursting into tears about it... I just want it to be OVER already.

Believe me, I know I'm lucky to be here at all. I'm very grateful that I wasn't sicker than I was, I know it could have been even worse. I know I'm getting good care from qualified professionals (and it's barely costing us anything, once we get reimbursed for a few things.) Georges is being his usual loving, amazing, wonderful self and I could NOT get through this without him. And his sister is bending over backwards to make sure I don't lift so much as a dinner plate.

But still... this does not feel like a REAL vacation. Not yet. I can only hope for better things in the next few days.

It's not easy being "grene"

So, you go to your surgeon's office on a Friday afternoon for your follow-up exam just prior to going to the beach for two weeks. You expect to have a conversation about how much swimming you can (or cannot) do, and whether the scar is healing as it should. You expect him to tell you whether or not you still need a nurse to come daily to change your bandages or can you just slap a few bandaids over the worst parts, and call it a day.

What you do not, even in your wildest, worst-case imaginings, do you think that your doctor will drop a bomb in your lap so huge that it rocks the foundation of your very existence. Because he tells you that the lab report came back on the now-removed gall bladder, and the results were... horrifying.

GANGRENE.

GANGRENE????? What the holy fuck is up with THAT? As one of my friends said, isn't that something that soldiers got during, like, the Civil War, like in Gone With the Wind?

In other words, had this gall bladder not been removed toute de suite, and removed successfully... I might have D-I-E-D.

When the doctor told me a week ago, in all seriousness, that the infection he found in there was very, very bad, I believed him. I could see it on his face. But he never said "gangrene", either because even he didn't know it was that bad, or because he DID know, just by looking at it, but needed to wait for the official results before saying anything. The thing is, I had no idea I was THAT sick. I had NO fever to speak of. My first round of bloodwork showed NO infection, although the pre-op bloodwork did show something. Yes, I had tremendous pain, but nothing inconsistent with a "normal" gall-stone attack.

Who knew that the freaking bird's-egg-sized gallstone was completely cutting off circulation to the gall bladder, causing it to nearly DOUBLE in size, and slowly die, without me even knowing it.

I'm sorry if this is too graphic for some of you but you have no idea how traumatized I have been, especially since hearing this, and writing about it sort of helps me get my mind around it all. Georges, in his own way, has been just as upset... he doesn't want to let me out of his sight. He went out and bought us both iPhone 4's yesterday so we'd have something fun to focus on during then next few days while we get ready to go on our two week holiday to his sister's place. (She's been great, arranging for the daily nurse to come change my bandages, because the scar is slow-healing which means NO swimming at all for me for at least 10 days -- major bummer, but how can I complain when I'm A-L-I-V-E?)

I can walk around and do things more -- in fact, yesterday, because I could NOT find a taxi and the buses were taking too long, I walked to the clinic in a heat wave, and then walked to our old house to visit with my friend and wait for Georges to come home from work, and THEN we got a taxi home -- but I tire out very easily and still need naps every day. So I know I'm healing, despite the scar not cooperating (at least it's not infected). It's just really unnerving to find out, after all is said and done, that I was WAY sicker than I ever thought possible.

And frankly, I am absolutely 100% NOT ready to leave this world yet. I have too many things I haven't accomplished -- like writing many books and seeing at least one of them made into a movie. And I haven't had my 30+ years with Georges yet... we're only celebrating our 2nd anniversary on Monday.

That's not nearly long enough to be with the man I waited 46 years to meet in the first place.

Le rétablissement

So the healing process continues here, chez nous. The weather has gone back to sunny, cloudless and quite warm, but up here on the butte, at least the air moves. In the morning, I stick to the Sacre Coeur side of the apartment which is out of the full sun, and in the afternoon I move to the other side with the wide view, once the sun has moved westward. It helps me keep reasonably cool and comfortable without air conditioning, and it's nice enough that with a fan or two, I don't really miss the super-cold air.

I'm finding it easier to move around, although I am still VERY cautious about bending over or lifting anything, even something small on the floor, to avoid any rupture of the internal stitches. That painful spot under my ribs is STILL there and just as bad when I cough or take a deep breath, and although I know there is nothing seriously wrong in there, I can't help but wonder when the fuck the pain will start to go away because it's damned annoying. However, I only take pain meds when I'm going to sleep; otherwise I'm not even taking any Tylenol as it's not that bad.

Last night, I was even able to partake of a little bit of champagne, as we had a lot to celebrate: Georges' daughter passed her bac with a mention bien (which is very good) and will be going to school in Lille to do a 5-year program in International Law; his older son did very well in his architecture studies this semester, and one of his projects was even featured during a final presentation, which is quite an honor -- we're proud of them both -- and I've made it through my surgery and am on the mend. Lots to be happy and thankful for around here, and well worth cracking open the very LAST bottle of our bathtub wedding champagne!

Today, after I took my morning shower before the home nurse arrived, I decided to be brave and remove all the wet bandages, and for the first time I got a good look at what's really going on there. It wasn't quite as bad as I thought, although there are a few spots that still don't look very attractive or well-healed, in my opinion, even if the medical experts say they're "fine". I put some large American band-aids over those until the nurse could come but left the rest open to the air, including the one in my nombril, because none of those seemed to be "leaking" at all. I figured I'd let the nurse decide what still needed to be covered up, or not. When she arrived, she seemed pleased that things were healing well. She left the belly-button open to the air and just put a full bandage on the big scar until tomorrow. She won't come tomorrow because I go to see the surgeon and he will change any bandages that still need changing, and if he says I need her on Saturday then we'll call to arrange that. Otherwise, we leave on Sunday for our vacation and I anticipate that by that time, if anything is needed at all, it will be a simple bandaid I can apply myself with a little Betadine.

And I can then go for a cooling dip in the sea. Wah-hoo! I even bought water-resistant bandaids just for the occasion, as a little added protection.

Yesterday, Kyliemac came over for a visit and to see our new place for the first time, and we even ventured out for my first outdoor walk, just a loop around Sacre Coeur and a trip to the nearest gelato place (OK, so it was really the gelato I wanted, we just used the walk as an excuse). It was hot and I had to move slowly, with the support belt around my middle (which is kind of uncomfortable to wear for long periods if I'm sitting, but when I'm walking really seems to help), but otherwise it wasn't too bad and it felt nice to be out in the world doing something semi-normal (the annoying hordes of summer tourists notwithstanding). Makes me eager for some summer picnics on the Pont des Arts later this summer!

Last night, Georges' best friend from college, who lives with his family in Caen, phoned because he'd read my blog and wanted to find out how I was doing. I thought that was so incredibly sweet and thoughtful (Merci, Gilbert, if you're reading this!) of him to be concerned for his friend's wife. Plus, he invited us to come visit some weekend in August when they've taken a house along the north sea coast -- sounds like a lovely idea to me! We could rent a car and maybe go to places like Honfleur or maybe even Mont Saint Michel which has been one of my dreams.

So, I am healing. It's slow, and that is to be expected. But I'm sleeping much better and more normally, not waking up 3-4 times a night in pain like I was doing for the past 3 weeks, and that in itself is a HUGE improvement.

I think the worst is finally behind me. And for this, I am abundantly grateful.

A long distance flag-waving moment

Just my way of saying Happy Birthday, America... from across the pond.

 

"A Slice of Americana", as seen from Liberty State Park, New Jersey. Copyright 1990 Lisa Taylor Huff, All rights reserved.

Gotta love the Boston Pops on the 4th. Rock on and sing along! You get extra points if you know all the worlds to all the songs (I did!) Enjoy your barbecues and parties, and stay safe, friends!

Aftermath

First let me start by saying THANK YOU to all of you for your prayers, thoughts and good wishes for my surgery and recovery, whether you expressed them in the comments box or not. It's sure nice to know so many people care about my well-being, and your messages of concern did made me feel a little bit better during a very difficult few weeks.

And difficult, this week has certainly been. [WARNING: THIS POST GETS A BIT GRAPHIC IN PLACES.] As I've mentioned before, I am a BFB (Big Fucking Baby) when it comes to facing any medical procedures more painful than getting a shot in the arm, a mammogram, or an annual OB/GYN exam; and here I had to deal with an actual SURGERY. But I knew I had no choice so I just made up my mind to suck it up and deal with it. I was prepared for the idea of the laproscopy and that there would be some pain and discomfort, but I wasn't too worried (other than the meltdown I had the night before I had to go to the hospital, but everyone's entitled to a little freak-out in circumstances like these).

I was fine when I checked into the clinique. I was fine when the first thing they did was draw blood for pre-op labwork (and getting bloodwork is usually my biggest phobia). I slept reasonably well that night in the hospital, considering there was NO FUCKING AIR CONDITIONING (yeah, I'm still pissed about THAT, and it will be duly noted on the patient satisfaction survey they asked me to complete). I did OK with the waiting around the next morning because they couldn't give me an exact time of surgery. I was fine when the gurney arrived and they wheeled me down to the O.R. I didn't freak out at all when the anesthesiologist showed up and hooked up the I.V. port, something that also usually makes me go into massive anxiety attacks. And I remember feeling the drugs kicking in and thinking, "Good, it will be over soon and everything will be better".

And then I woke up. Feeling HORRIBLE. In PAIN. Oh, so NAUSEOUS. Moaning and crying and begging for relief and something to vomit in, in case I needed it (sorry if this is too graphic but let's tell it like it is.) Getting angry when I felt they weren't responding quickly enough. My eyes couldn't focus properly and I could barely even keep them open, but I managed to hone in on a wall clock and realized it was 4pm.

They had taken me down for surgery at 10am. For what was supposed to be a 75-90 minute procedure.

I knew without anyone telling me that something had "gone wrong" and they had to do the more extensive type of surgery to get my gall bladder out. Ugh.

I found out later that my gall bladder had been INCREDIBLY infected, and even the surgeon seemed surprised by how bad it was. The concern was evident on his face as he explained that he'd had to do what was needed (he had pre-warned me about this possibility). Getting that damn gall bladder out of there without all the infected fluids leaking into my abdomen was apparently quite a challenge.

It took me a day or two to realize how serious this actually was. That had things gone really wrong, I could have been an extremely sick woman. And maybe could have died.

Wow. That is not a small thing to be aware of. Especially when the rest of my life is great and I have EVERY reason to want to live a long, healthy and happy life with my Georges.

Then there was the hospital stay. All things considered, other than the lack of A/C and a few other amenities, most of the staff was really super, a few of the nurses even spoke English, and I had the room to myself all the way up until the last night, and even then the woman they put in the other bed was very nice and not difficult to be around at all (plus, she had my same surgeon and she'd worked with him once before, so that was nice to hear). The food was above average for what you might expect in a hospital but then again, it's France, where food is like a religion. Even when I was limited to soft foods like soup, applesauce and yogurt, it was decent-tasting for the most part. The last day and a half, when I could eat "real" food, I had a baguette for breakfast that was SO good I wished I knew where that bakery was located.

Every day, they pumped me full of antibiotics and anti-coagulants. In the beginning I got the "good drugs" for pain management but quickly they switched me over to a Tylenol type of drug after I spent a night throwing up because I guess the codeine didn't agree with me (my mother is allergic to it so I guess I may have a similar sensitivity). I got sleeping pills every night, which sort of helped but I still kept waking up ever 2-3 hours because I'm not comfortable sleeping on my back, for one thing, and because I have had a painful spot under my lower right rib that has been KILLING me all week, causing more pain than the actual incisions. (More on that in a minute.)

My abdomen looks like I was the victim of a slasher in a lousy horror film. There are 3 little laproscopic scars (one near my left ovary, which has a cyst he wanted to take a look at and possibly remove, but when he saw the state of the gall bladder he decided the cyst was not so big or so serious, and it could wait... so some day I'll have to deal with THAT again; one on the upper left abdomen, and one in my nombril (belly-button) which is a super-sensitive zone for me, and not in good way. In fact, Georges and I have a running joke that it's the one place he CAN'T touch me. And here I was with stitches in there! Quel cauchemar! 

Then there's the big incision, and I kid you not -- it's about 7" long, on the diagonal, from right below and between my breasts (making it impossible to wear a bra for the moment, and when you're a double-D that's kind of a problem when you have to go out in public) down the right side. Just below THAT, I had a drain put in, which they took out yesterday but didn't stitch up; I guess it's supposed to just close up naturally on it's own or something. They took out most of the stitches before I left, except the belly-button and a few on the big scar, and the doctor is taking those out this week when I go back for follow-up.

It was so good to come home yesterday, and Georges has been amazing at taking care of me. Cooking meals, giving me back rubs to ease that painful spot on my right back rib area, keeping me company... no woman could ask for a more loving and attentive husband. He's thrilled I'm home and happy to have practical things he can to do help me now, and I'm lucky to have him.

But still... homecoming has not been without it's problems, most of which are that the full impact and trauma of what I've been through has caught up with me at last. I've been weeping off and on for the past 2 days. I had a horrible time sleeping last night, even being in my own bed with my husband beside me (and he's a peaceful sleeper so he wasn't disturbing me). This pain in my side has really had me worried; I thought it would start to ease up once they took that frigging drain out, but if anything it feels worse. I cannot yawn, cough, laugh, cry or even draw a full deep breath without feeling that stabbing pain back there. By this morning, I had myself really worked up, convinced something is really wrong there, and concerned that the doctor was maybe passing it off as "normal post-op" effects when maybe... it's not. (After all, I had 3 different doctors tell me, in the weeks leading up to the surgery, that according to my test results, it was not "so urgent" and there was really no infection, and look how wrong they all were! It WAS serious, it WAS urgent, and it SHOULD have been taken care of immediately... and I was just lucky it didn't end up any worse than it already was.)

So we decided to take the surgeon up on the offer he made to me yesterday, which is that I could come down to the clinique today (on a Sunday) to get my bandages changed there (since the home nurse can't come until Monday -- yes, in France, insurance covers a nurse to come to your house for post-op care!) and then that way I could also ask him about my fears and concerns about the pain. Because seriously? The big incision is what OUGHT to hurt the most, and for the most part it hasn't been so bad, certainly nothing I can't tolerate.

While he was changing my bandages this morning, he explained that when he did the surgery, he'd had to displace my lower left rib to make room for what he was doing, and that was most likely the source of the pain, and that the rib would eventually move back where it belongs. But he was going to order an x-ray tomorrow for me, and then he'll see me afterward to look at it and make sure all is well. He also ordered an anti-inflammatory drug and something to ease my anxiety and help me sleep the next few nights; clearly, he appreciates that this has been really traumatic for me, and it's nice that he's taking my concerns seriously and not just brushing me off like some doctors tend to do. Otherwise he thought the incisions looked good, took the bandages off 2 of the small ones altogether, and said he felt good about how it all seemed to be going and confident there was no more sign of infection. I felt a lot better after that and will follow up with the x-ray tomorrow and hopefully it's going to be what he said, a rib out of place that will work itself out soon. Then, I will REALLY be able to start feeling better.

Otherwise, my only job now is to rest and heal. I'm going to get this elastic support belt for around my abdomen tomorrow morning, and that should help with my comfort when I'm moving. I have to get up and walk around as much as I can, to avoid blood clots in the legs, but otherwise I can shower, go out for a walk if I'm up to it, and even swim in the ocean next week on our vacation in Saint Raphael at my sister-in-law's place (complete with the Little Guy), although I'm sure I will still be taking it easy at least the first week, and maybe we'll be driving more places than usual instead of walking, if I'm still not up to long walks by then. Life will go on -- thank you, God. Things will get easier. I will get healthier.

But oh, what a rocky road it's been. I guess I am glad this didn't all explode (literally) during my 2-week trip back to the U.S. (for one thing, a hospital stay there could have drained our savings completely since I have no health coverage) but I wish I'd been paying better attention sooner, when these occasional "attacks" of pain would happen over the past couple of years; I was just passing them off as gas or constipation, even when something whispered "gall bladder?" in the back of my mind. I just didn't bother to see a doctor because the attacks were infrequent and lasted only a night each time. This time -- it was different. Maybe the moral of the story is: never ignore your inklings, especially when it comes to your health. Even if the doctors are insisting it's pas si grave, if you feel it IS serious, keep after them. And don't ignore what your body is trying to tell you.

By the way, they gave me a lovely parting gift to take home from the hospital (cover your eyes if you're squeamish):

 

Yes... that HUGE 1" egg-shaped stone is what caused all the trouble. Something like that doesn't develop overnight, and most people have a bunch of smaller stones, and often have them without ever having pain or difficulty of any kind. But this sucker, right here? It meant business. It had a message to give me: stop treating your body like an amusement park already! So... I'm listening, message received. I sure don't want to go through anything like this (or worse) ever again.

OK, enough with the graphic medical stuff. Now, I want to have my lunch and then a long nap... my new drugs are finally kicking in.

Going Home

Mini-blog today: GOING HOME! Rough week; instead of 4 little holes I have 3 little ones, one HUGE 7" scar, and a hole where the drain is (they take that out later today). Turns out I had one hell of a nasty infection going on in there and he had no choice but to do the more radical procedure to avoid the infection spreading everywhere, and possibly killing me. I think I had a close call. Anyway, I'm very sore and tired, and happy that today's the day I can get "sprung". Will write more in a few days when I can literally catch my breath (the drain in my side makes it hurt to cough, laugh, move, breathe...)

Sous le couteau

I don't know if "sous le couteau" is the right expression to use in French, but under the knife I shall be, nonetheless. Tomorrow morning. Ugh.

I haven't been posting much lately, not because I've been feeling too sick to blog (actually, the drugs they gave me to tide me over until surgery have been working fairly well), but because I didn't want to keep talking about my stupid gall bladder. I mean, this is not what the focus of my blog is supposed to be: constant whining about personal health issues. B-O-R-I-N-G. Plus, I didn't want to focus too much on the actual surgery. Especially since I really have no other alternative; when the gall bladder is nearly completely blocked up by a big gall stone, this is the ONLY option, and if I try to "let it go a while longer" I will only end up with an infection or even worse. PLUS plus, why suffer when I don't need to, and luckily the gall bladder is an "expendable" organ. So I accept what is, and that this is just what needs to happen.

But here I am, the day before (I go into the clinique this afternoon at 5pm), and now I can admit it: I'm freaking out a bit. There are two reasons for my freak-out. (1) I am a big fucking baby when it comes to anything concerning doctors and hospitals and having needles stuck into my body. I can handle it when I have to get a vaccine or if I go in for a routine checkup, or any procedure (like x-rays or ultrasound) that is non-invasive and non-painful, but otherwise I tend to go into massive anxiety attacks when faced with anything more serious than that. So, even if I were back in the States and having this done, I'd be freaking out. Jeez, you'd never know I'm a nurse's daughter, would you?

Which brings me to (2), that I'm having this done in France. I am perfectly confident in and satisfied with my surgeon's demeanor and apparent expertise. The clinique is small and only for surgeries, both in- and out-patient (Georges' oldest had a toe surgery done here last year as an out-patient), so it's not like I'll be in some plague-ridden big-city hospital. And this is France we're talking about, not some third-world hole-in-the-wall. Plus, I know this is a low-risk procedure and that I'm in very good hands, and I'll feel a ton better when it's all over.

But... but... it's FRANCE. Where they speak FRENCH. All the time. And where I do NOT speak French all the time. And this is not exactly the kind of situation you want to be in, facing surgery and not being sure you can communicate with the care providers. Other than my surgeon, I have no idea if any of the hospital staff will speak sufficient English to speak with me about my own health needs and status (although the receptionist spoke English like an American and I am fully prepared to demand that they call her if I need a translator.) I'm used to being very proactive and in-charge when it comes to my own health. But now... I have to do all this IN FRENCH, for heaven's sake, and frankly I'm not sure I'm up to that kind of stress. Yet have no choice, I just have to do it. Georges can't be there with me 24 hours a day.

I'll be checking myself in alone today, because wouldn't you know it, the Little Guy is in a spectacle de cirque at his school this afternoon at the EXACT same time I am supposed to report for admission, and it's a really big deal for him (he is so excited that he asked to go to bed a full hour EARLY last night so he could be well-rested for today!), so Georges has to be there rather than with me (I insisted). He'll join me at the hospital as soon as he can, but meanwhile there are admissions forms for me to fill out and questions to answer, and my nerves are already on edge.

I think I'll feel better once I am through with all of that and installed in my room and can just hang out with my computer (no WiFi though, so no Internet until I come home -- now THAT is painful!) and some DVDs to distract me for the evening. 

Because after that, there is nothing more I can do except ride the wave.

Anyway, see you all on the flip side. With one less internal organ on my part.

Morning sounds

What you might hear, if you were hanging around our house on a typical Friday morning:

• alarm clock (always annoying)
• yawning x 2 adults, annoyed by alarm clock as they snooze for a precious few extra minutes
• groaning x 2 adults when said annoying alarm clock goes off again 9 minutes later
• coffee pot gurgling and dripping
• shower running
• English muffin popping up in the toaster
• happy sigh from Georges as he dips his muffin in his coffee
• loud protests from the Little Guy when his father wakes him up
• chatter and laughter after the Little Guy is fully awake and eating his breakfast
• door closing as Georges and Little Guy go off for the day
• windows opening to let in the fresh morning air
• me knocking on the salon door to wake up the Oldest because the cleaning lady is coming (he'd sleep there all day if I let him)
• sound of Little Guy's bedroom door slamming as the Oldest migrates there to finish sleeping all day (whatever)
• me grumbling under my breath at the state of the salon, which I feel obligated to straighten up a little so the cleaning lady can actually get in there and clean
• sounds of birds and city noises wafting in through the big open windows of the loggia, as I finally get a few moments of quiet, alone in my own living room, with a book and a blog.

No more "gallic" jokes, please

So, my gall bladder surgery is now scheduled for a week from today, Tuesday June 29th. That was the earliest date I could get, but I'll take it because that still gives me more than a week to recover before we start doing our vacation thing in mid-July (and our 2nd wedding anniversary is July 12th!)

The surgery will be done in a "clinique" as opposed to a big city hospital. This is not the same as a medical clinic in the U.S. although they probably do outpatient stuff there as well, but cliniques are common here and they usually are specialized; for example, there are cliniques where you'd go to have a baby. I'll stay there for 2-3 days, assuming they can do the procedure laparoscopically... which they should be able to. However, they always have to prepare you that if there is a complication then they may have to do the more invasive style of surgery which means a longer recovery time. 

The consultation with the surgeon was fine; he speaks very decent English and seems pleasant enough. I'm taking Georges back with me on Saturday to meet the doctor and so we can do a Q&A about everything. Tomorrow, I have to go and do a consult with the anesthesiologist who apparently does NOT speak much English, so Georges will come with me for that as well; that's not an area where I want to risk a misunderstanding since I'll be under general anesthesia.

One odd thing: I may have to bring my own bandage supplies to the clinique for when they have to change the bandages after surgery! Apparently this is common practice in a lot of hospitals or cliniques here in France. It's also common for them to ask you to go to the pharmacy and get your own vaccines and other medications before going to the doctor's office or to a lab for certain tests; the doctor's offices and labs don't stock those things, so it's up to the patient to do the leg work and collect everything that is needed. 

I feel OK about doing this, even though I hate hate HATE medical procedures of any kind and hospitals in particular, and I'm usually a big baby about needles and such, but what I hate even MORE is how horrible I've been feeling for the better part of two weeks already. So, relief is in sight and I'm focusing on THAT. Meantime I have painkillers and antibiotics and a lot of DVDs to keep me company. 

Now I just have to get through the next week, and we have to get ourselves organized for the week after, when I'm laid up in bed both in the clinique and at home, and not able to do food shopping (which I can't do right now anyway) or after-school child care (which we will have to figure out, but it shouldn't be too difficult). 

Talk about a crash course in medical French, though, I'm sure getting one... and by the way, "gall bladder" is une vésicule in French. In case you were wondering.

In which I get more intimate with French health care than I would like

So... it is now 8 days since I first started feeling so lousy, and it has been a roller-coaster. While one problem has, shall we say, unblocked itself, there's another one where I'm going to require the professionals to come in and remove the clog from the plumbing.

I'm going to have to have my gall bladder out.

After, in the course of this week, seeing 2 house-call doctors in the middle of the night and 2 in-office doctors (all different people), getting blood work (also at home, just last night), doing 3 pee-tests, having two different types of sonogram/scans done on my abdomen, and getting ever-increasing levels of pain and anti-spasmodic medication (and two shots in the ass for pain by the house-call dudes), it turns out that I have a whopping big gall stone of 24mm (just shy of 1 inch), and that's not going to just go away all by itself. 

The current course of action is to try and get my gall bladder to calm down and relax. So... lots of rest and drugs for me for the next week. When my body is calmer, I'll get a referral to a specialist to discuss having the surgery. The good news, this morning, was that I do not seem to have any kind of infection in my digestive or urinary tract (although I have also contracted a sinusitis or bronchitis and all kind of nasty stuff is also coming out of my head, just to add to the fun and games) so I am in no imminent danger of my gall bladder rupturing or something like that. That's why we're trying the "calm down" approach before surgery, since it's always better to avoid surgery if you've got any kind of infection.

I have lost, so far, at least 9 pounds, because I've barely been able to eat anything. The doctor gave me some thing for nausea and hopefully that will help (the pain makes me nauseous) with being interested in food. Which cracks me up even as I write it: ME? NOT INTERESTED IN FOOD???? In what parallel Universe am I now living? Still, this wasn't quite what I had in mind for a weight-loss solution.

Now, we just need to figure out whether we need to rearrange summer vacation plans in July because of the prospect of surgery. I'd rather not put it off, even once I am feeling better, because this has happened before (but for only a few hours at a time or for one night) and it will only happen again, and clearly it's getting worse. And I don't want to GO on vacation, not having taken care of this, in case I get sick while I'm away in the south of France, or even in a foreign country.

Because I already have enough to cope with, just trying to deal with the French health care system and the difficulty in being able to communicate fully and on my own with these medical people. THAT is the most difficult thing about living here so far, I think.

So... that's the scoop. That's what's been keeping me quiet for so long. This has been a very long week.