Adventures with Self-Important Technology

Over the past few weeks, I've driven a handful of different cars, having had a couple of rental cars for work and a few other shufflings.  The last one was a Hyundai Elantra, but the T had fallen off of the back so it was a Hyundai "Elan Ra," which brought a particular smile to my face.

As I was getting used to this car, I quickly found out that it had Lane Assist, meaning if it felt that I was getting too close to the lines, it would pull the steering wheel over a bit to recenter in my lane or if I crossed the line beep and do some of the same.  I tend the hug the outside line a bit, particularly when I'm passing a semi.  While I was clearly in the lines, the system kept pulling me back in--it was like fighting a windstorm, always correcting against where the wheel was pulling.  If this were my actual car, I would probably turn this feature off--the number of times it annoyed me compared to the number of times it did something helpful didn't much seem worth it.  Additionally, there was a constant warning on the dashboard, a little yield sign--I came to find out that the sign was because I didn't have my phone connected to the app on the car.

Silly self-important technology.  It's like when the microwave keeps beeping to let me know something is still in there even though I want to leave it in there for another moment or two to cool down slightly or because I'm in the middle of another task.  Technology tends have at least some response, as compared to something completely inanimate object, which I think adds to the response.  The feature of the technology is there to help, but when it is filtered through a layer of annoyance, I begin to attribute its urgency to an inflated sense of importance.  Here are some other examples:  

• Our Volt has a lot of judgmental beeps when we're reversing into the garage, that it "thinks" we're far too close when Andy and I are correctly sure that we have enough space.  
• Automatic toilets flush three times, as though wondering what you're still doing there. 
• When a screen tells me that my password is wrong, I tend to grumble "no YOUR password is wrong" under my breath even thought it's nonsensical.  
• Windows updates decide it's a good idea to happen today, whether you want to or not.  
• The internet says it's connected but my broken image says that the settings are made of LIES.  
• "Your call is important to us so we're going to send you through a broken phone tree for half an hour." 
• You must download the latest update of Java before you can continue
• You must download two hours of updates before you can play that new game you just bought. 
• An unknown error has occurred--please contact your administrator.  
• The printer is not connected to the network. 

I get annoyed very quickly when my technology expresses a need, though I understand that I'm far more frustrated if it doesn't tell me what's wrong.  Still, there have been several times our household where I have thrusted my laptop toward Andy, wordlessly asking that he fix something that I have lost patience for.  I've said many times that I have patience for people but I don't have patience for technology.

And yet, my job is to teach other people to use our company's software with calm and patience.  I have told people several times that the software is not passive aggressive, that it identifies what the problem is but we need to take a breath, read, and act on the message.  This has ultimately bled into some of my work behaviors, that when I have a test database up I will get frustrated when it's running slow (I do have three databases on my poor work laptop, after all) but when I run into an error in the program it's better than in other features of the computer.  Specifically, anything with hardware pushes my buttons really quickly, that I just cannot seem to stand why the printer isn't visible to my computer or why it thinks it's out of toner already.

Reflecting on this with the Elan Ra, I thought about a short article I had read recently.  The general point of the article was that anyone that seemed like they were blowing up about something completely inconsequential might just be being stupid, but more likely that individual has had many other small injuries and stressors against their patience and this small thing just happened to be the final straw.  When I could feel the annoyance rise as the car tried to--yet again--pull me over to the right as I was passing on the left, I asked myself where else was I angry? 

And then I see things like this that capture it succinctly

For me, I have a lot of anger about my health situation--I'm not mad at God or myself, specifically, but more at the situation.  Sometimes, it is anger at myself or a doctor, but more so it tends to be the general frustration that I have with my body, that it doesn't perform the way I thought it should or ran out of energy before I wanted to leave or shouldn't be responding the way it was or otherwise trying to process the feeling of betrayal.  My body has proved untrustworthy, in some ways.  I find the people that seem to have the best compassion by identification for this facet are those who are experiencing significant changes with their body in aging, those with sharp minds but slowing bodies.  Not having something tangible to direct my anger to meant that I swallow a lot of it.  With that hidden, unvented anger, a computer tends to be a target that doesn't take a lot of offense--it's not something I have to apologize later to.  Whether this is wholly accurate, I think it at least makes a flavor of sense why technology issues are places where I have a short fuse.

I'm learning to have more compassion toward my body.  Hopefully, this will also lessen the degree of anger that I carry toward it, as well.  In talking to clients, I encourage them to have patience with their technology in ways I'm not great at myself; in talking to friends, I encourage them to have compassion toward their bodies in ways that I am trying to grow, too.  But then, I've known for a while that I'm not great at giving myself the same grace I would give other people.  Awareness helps, but the frameshift is just going to take some time, yet.  

Melvin & Me, Part 19: The Honest one where I Talk about Sex

There are a number of questions regarding life with an ostomy that come to mind for people, some of which people do not end up asking because it seems a little too personal or too "gross" for casual conversation, despite my open invitation and assurances.

For example:  does that mean your butt is sewn shut?

In my case, yes it does.  If there is a possibility of reconnection, the rectum has a small internal pouch--this area still generates the mucus that lines your intestines even when separated from the rest of them, so some material may still exit out. Different ostomy setups can be partially connected where most fecal matter is going into a bag but some is exiting out the anus.  But if there is no plan to reconnect or any need to keep the anus (which does not produce hormones nor is required as support for other systems), then why keep it?  In my case especially, this was the area that was causing me the greatest grief and the most pain--the whole point of moving to colostomy was to remove this part of my body.  

Could you get a rectum transplant?

Nope.  This is a very specialized muscle, and it needs to be able to stretch and then return back to its shape.  Scar tissue around that area is not preferred, since that will certainly inhibit the organ's flexibility.  More importantly, though, Crohn's patients have a high propensity of complications with surgery in the area--in previous discussions about removing old scar tissue, I was told quite firmly that they only touch was it absolutely necessary when it comes to the rectum and anus of Crohn's patients.  It would be a high risk situation, and I have already experienced what the worst case scenario would be from my failed bowel resection.  No one was keen to put me through that again.  An ostomy is a perfectly livable condition, if annoying from time to time; trading that for a "maybe" and a whole lot of uncertainty was not something I could tolerate.

The one that is perhaps even more sensitive:  can you still have sex?

The short answer is yes, vaginally and orally--anal is forever out.  In my particular case, the rectum, the last bit of the large intestine, was EXTREMELY inflamed.  In short, it hasn't every really been an option in my particular case.  All of that diseased and stressed tissue made things interesting for a while, certainly, meaning a lot of pain and therefore a lot of caution, both before and after surgery.  The rectum could not stretch as much, which meant that there was sudden and immediately urgent need to go to the bathroom--effectively, I had a short leash to be close enough to a bathroom; I still instinctively notice where the bathrooms are when going into a new building, when possible.  And then actually expelling fecal matter was a painful process, more often than not, which only seemed to inflame the area more.  Regarding sex, then, the vaginal canal is rather close to that inflamed area anatomically speaking so all vaginal intercourse had to be approached with some delicacy, that disturbing one would disturb the other.  Every time we would try, I was on high alert, trying to make sure that my body was not trying to warn me of something catastrophic or otherwise if pieces were too inflamed to try anything physical today.  And as recovery continues, sex is still a tricky subject although improving.

With my first round of ostomy, back in 2012, there were some initial hurdles.  My body was just a mess with the systemic infection, first of all.  But emotionally it's a big deal to suddenly have your intestines poking out of your abdominal wall and try to look at it as a good thing.  There's a lot of self-consciousness, not only for your safety but also about your appearance.  Was I still wanted?  Would my husband find me disgusting?  I mean, I thought it was disgusting on occasion, and I have a high tolerance for this.

Andy was quick with reassurances, but I can't say that I always believed them.  I felt broken or wrong or undesirable or too difficult or overwhelmed or any number of other things that only came out as grief.  Part of my sense of self had died, and there was some grieving to do there.  Would I feel sexual when I figured out the new me?  Was it worth the hassle of sorting out all of the new and impossible emotional weight to try?  Particularly in 2012, I didn't have many spoons to go around on a good day--I needed to spend these more on day-to-day maintenance over any kind of social or romantic expenditures, particularly regarding sex where I couldn't really gage how much energy that was going to take, either physically or emotionally.

And then there was the physical act itself, the sound of crinkling plastic between our bodies with every movement, a constant reminder that it was there, always between us.  Once, the bag popped about halfway off of the flange.  Thankfully, no major bag contents spilled out on the bed or us, but the anxiety of the near miss definitely ruined the mood; there were a lot of tears involved.  I remember feeling so broken in that moment:  incomplete and inadequate and undesirable and broken.

Mechanically speaking, we could only work as much as my body could handle, within the realm of where my energy was.  Emotionally speaking, there was enough happening that I could only suffer the attempt and failure enough times.  Even on a successful instance of sex, my anxiety was a constant and growing specter--it's tough to enjoy sex when you're on high alert, monitoring every part of ones body as a list of potential threats.

Andy and I talked through different components and thought to at least minimize the anxiety of the bag as much as possible.  I have had a couple of different options that I wear for ostomy support.  One was the basic support strap that came with all the rest of my first ostomy supplies.  This attached to left and right sides of the bag, close to where it clips into the flange and holding it more securely in place, a thin, tan elastic belt that keeps it clipped to the flange and distributes the weight a bit when it gets full.  When I had the ilieostomy, I wore this more often, but with either colostomy I have preferred wearing my Stealth Belt which is a fabric piece that secures around my middle, a zipper pocket for the bag itself for easy emptying.  It keeps the bag wrapped to my side, even muffling the crinkling sound.  These also have the benefit of some fun colors and patterns to make it a bit more fun at the very least.  They even have lace options, if one wanted to try to match lingerie.  There are caps you can buy, too, that just clip on in place of the bag like a Tupperware aluminum can cover--I haven't tried these yet because the idea wigs me out a bit.

And otherwise, I do have to remember that there is a hole in my abdomen, meaning that my core muscles are disrupted.  I'm trying to strengthen these where I can, but there will always be some extra caution in how I move and attend to those areas.  This means that even when particularly excited or involved, I still have to keep at least some of my attention on what my body is telling me, watching for any potential problem.

...which cycles us back to that anxiety.  Now that my body is in undeniably better condition and that inflammation is greatly mediated, everything should be fine, right?  Well.  I still retain parts of that survival mode.  I keep that hyper-alert approach not because I want to but because that was something that I was conditioned to do--that's something that helped me survive, that helped me to protect myself.  Awareness of one's body is a good thing; hyper-awareness is problematic.  It's so ingrained at this point.  It's how I manage part of my condition.  I don't trust my body, with good reason.  I have gotten to a point, at least, where arousal I instigate (i.e. masturbation) is not interpreted as a threat, but when I am not in tight control of all the factors (i.e. a partner is doing the stimulating), arousal is very frequently interpreted as a threat.  I freeze; I panic; I flee; I shut it down; and poor Andy is wondering what the hell just happened and feeling unwanted.  Andy has always been responsive in the sense of watching my face and body for cues, immediately stopping when I ask, but I can't pretend that the situation doesn't frustrate him, too, which leads to more guilt and more anxiety and a rather vicious shame cycle.

In short, my ostomy does not inhibit my ability to have sex at all (and never did--only my Crohn's symptoms did).  My stupid brain does, though.  And there are reasons for it, so many logical reasons for that conditioning and that training and everything that I had to do to survive.  The trick is meeting that shame and anxiety with self-compassion.  Most significantly, I need to disconnect this particular situation as a personal failure.  It's just going to take time.  Andy and I have graduated from "none" to "some" after my surgery, which is a huge accomplishment.  We've set quantifiable and qualitative goals to our intimacy, and we're continuing to talk about it.  It's just going to take time.

Peterson Family Update, #687-C

Hey, all!  It's been a busy kind of time, which means another listicle.

• Paperwork is rolling forward still with the house (see final picture of this blog post!).  Andy is a beast in the best ways getting all of these details squared away.  Barring unforeseen disasters, we should be closing at the end of April.
• A few people have reacted to our happy news of our first house purchase with a wink, suggesting that we needed the extra room for a family.  Please stop this and/or resist the urge.  It's not okay.  See this older blog post for details.
• This is the first time in my life I've had complete control over what the walls look like and the freedom to make any changes we want--I'm honestly paralyzed by the number of options, which is honestly better for our wallets at this point.
• I'm so excited for Andy to have a dedicated music space.  It does my heart a happy (and his, for that matter).
• Work has me slated for several onsites coming up already, including a couple of sites in Texas, San Antonio and Austin areas, specifically.  As per usual, there'll be a couple in Chicagoland at some point, too.  These are before the summer busy season even kicks off.  I have a feeling summer is going to FLY.
• The Roys went on an adventure in Florida last weekend, going to Universal Studios.  It's been a long while since we've had a family vacation.  
  
  
  

  

  Epic Superhero-Landing is Epic

  
  
• Physically, the trip was definitely a triumph--I could not have been able to keep up with anyone just a year or two ago.  That's some lovely validation.
• We had some good laughs, formed some fun memories, and were plenty sore by the time we made it back home.  There were moments of hangry and tired, but definitely glad we could spend some time together.  
• Andy managed to acquire two more unicorns, winning them in a crane game at Universal, no less.  Our "collection" is getting out of hand in some adorable ways. 
  
• Andy's job still suits him very well, naturally with its own joys and frustrations.  But coming up on a year in this position, he knows what he's about and can have some better perspective on the impact he's having.
• With the house hunting and a few other mitigating factors, I've been emotionally eating like woah recently.  On some elements, it's been very freeing to look at a menu and consider what I feel like eating today rather than what I'll have to fudge to fit my macros.  I can still make some choices within those confines that are better but without piling the guilt terribly high.  That freedom and grace toward myself has been a welcome break.  And that's the way I'm framing it mentally, per my brother's wording:  "you haven't fallen off the wagon; you're just taking a break."  Well, with vacation time over, it's time to get back to work.  
• I'm taking a Medical Terminology course currently.  This class has the science aspect AND the wordy-nerdy aspect.  I'm enjoying it immensely and affirm again how nice it is to have a structured academic activity as part of my routine again.  Eyeing taking a nutrition class in the fall and seeing my habits through a new lens.  
• Found out what happens if I don't cycle out my ostomy supplies in the car often enough--one of my bags basically melted together.  On the one hand, better to find out through the way I did, which was trying to cycle it out at home.  On the other, I'm a bit anxious to think back on how unprepared I was if there had been a real emergency.  Official emergency supply refresh schedule will now be implemented in earnest.
• Andy and I are taking the opportunity of buying our house to more closely scrutinize our budget--if we want to pay off my student loans faster, what can we decrease or eliminate?  Our mortgage will be less than our rent, once all the moving in parts are complete (and any post-move in "first house purchases" are resolved).  We want to leave room, too, for saving for those inevitable expenses that come up.  It's nice to discuss these components--while I appreciate that Andy trusts me with most of these decisions, this renewed interest and teamwork in that process certainly feels good.  
• Andy and I both got our hair colored to something a bit more red.  I have some purple streaks as well, just as something fun to peak out every now and again.  I'm thinking next time I might go all purple with some red streaks, but we'll see.  With my onsites, my company is okay with me having colored hair and it is more widely accepted as a whole, but I don't want it to be a distraction when I'm trying to come into a site as an authority.  
• Went back in for a check-up on my eyes, post-Lasik.  Seems that we'll need to go in for another swing.  Naturally, I'm part of a very small percentage that needs this, because I can't help but be special, it seems.  I'm not upset by this at all--I would have been furious if they insisted that what I'm at now is "meh, good enough."  Significant improvement, for sure, but there's just a bit more to do yet.  Looking forward to that in another couple months.  A stroke of luck, though, is that my brother's old glasses were in the right ballpark (startlingly so, according to my optometrist), and he has graciously lent them to me for a month or two.

And the world keeps rolling on, folks.

Melvin & Me, Part 18: Melvin Takes to the Skies!

In the year that I have had my ostomy, it is only in the last week that I have flown anywhere.  And then between work and a family vacation I will have gone through airport security four times and been on a total of eight planes, with each connecting flight meeting in Atlanta, Georgia.  Knowing that my surgery was coming up, the last time that I went through airport security, I caught the attention of a TSA agent and asked for any specifics.  It went something like this: 

Q:  Would the collected matter in my bag pouch count as more than the allowed number of ounces aboard? 

A:  No, of course not. 

Q:  Would they demand a doctor’s note or any such thing? 

A:  No (I suspect some of this is because of HIPPA, since they are not medical professionals and I did not consent to sharing my medical information with them). 

Q:  Would I have to show them the appliance? 

A:  Probably not, but in the case that I did, I could be given a courtesy privacy screen and be patted down by someone of the same gender. 

Q:  Was there anything else recommended that I do? 

A:  Let the person know about my situation either before my scan or immediately after the scan; if they need to pat me down, they will ask if there are places they need to be careful around and respond accordingly. 

Of course, even armed with that information, I was still a little anxious getting through security that first time.  I made sure to pad in some extra time in the day, to make sure that if my worst case scenarios played out, I’d have time.  My brain was roiling through ideas where a careless someone managed to hit Melvin in such a way that the bag came unattached or I had to redo the whole apparatus.  Leaks happen.  And while this event was extremely unlikely, I still had that anxiety in my ear going “Well, but what if it did?”  I prepare by overpreparing.  I know pretty well how I would respond—I would be pretty upset and emotionally devastated to start my trip that way, but I would also (respectfully) demand a place other than the public bathroom to put myself back together.  From there, it would be a simple process of tidying up as best I could, changing the bag and clothes as necessary, and getting to my flight. 

I was a little relieved that my first experience with this was through the Bloomington airport, which was small enough that I could easily take my time going through security and have emergency assistance a phone call away, if the need arose.  Well, I started out my trip by taking a work call that turned into the “well, while I have you on the phone…” kind of rabbit hole, where the last call that I took before leaving was actually five different calls, some of which she hadn’t gotten around to putting in.  I’m guilty of the “well, while I have you, can I ask X?” situation myself; she didn’t know that I was on a time crunch.  Then, I did a stupid:  I was a bit frazzled getting the work car together and managed to lock the keys and my luggage in the trunk.  AND the spare keys are kept at corporate for some reason, meaning that they gave us a door key code to plug into the panel that didn’t work, and we ended up calling a locksmith. 

There went all of my carefully laid padding.  Turns out the flight was delayed anyway, but, still, I was a bit shaken to have started out so unfortuitously.  I got my boarding pass and went to security.  The disinterested TSA agent couldn’t scan my boarding pass and sent me to walk back, juggling my work bag, suitcase, and bagged liquids I had already pulled out to make sure I didn’t slow anyone down behind me.  I went back through and deposited all the necessary pieces on the belt.  I told the staff before walking into the machine that I had the ostomy and sure enough they paused me on the other side, a big swatch of yellow on the read-out screen where Melvin is.  She pulled me over to the side slightly, told me what she was going to do and how she was going to do it with her hands to check everything.  Then, she swabbed my hands for GSR (“gun shot residue,” she told me when I asked for clarification).  After she took the sample, naturally, the machine didn’t work, so I stood there watching my bins block the trickle of traffic, more out of my own self-consciousness than anything.  It was about five minutes, all told, and I had an opportunity to ask more clarifying questions, like whether I should tell the initial security person about my ostomy to give them adequate time to prepare or wait until I got to the scanner (turns out the scanner personnel were best to tell directly; they would see anything else set up as necessary). 

As I made my way toward the gate, I was both annoyed and reassured.  On the one hand, that wasn’t so bad.  All of the ridiculous fears were, of course, ridiculous, but it was still nice to see the hypotheticals shot down in action rather than trying to convince myself.  A brief, expected pause at the end of every scan isn’t too bad.  And then the annoyed part set in—for reasons outside of my control, getting through airport security was ALWAYS going to be that one extra step.  I’m not so upset about the process itself, but I’m frustrated that it is just one extra thing to think about for reasons outside of my control.  Who wants one more thing to keep track of when going through the airport? 

Making my way back home, I was a little more relaxed, having again supplied sufficient time to get through security and things to go wrong, in case being at a larger airport (San Antonio, in this case) had some other rules and ways of handling this.  In fact, it was much smoother than Bloomington.  I told the agent waving me into the scanner that I had the ostomy, went through the scanner as usual, and again was pulled to the side.  She asked me to pat down my own bag, had my place one hand over it while she gently felt around it, rolled a roller-ball at the end of a wand over my hand, fed it directly into a machine, and sent me on my way.  All told, barely a half a minute delay getting back to the rest of my belongings. 

The next day, I met up with my brothers and parents, as we headed off on a family vacation to Orlando.  St. Louis was another new airport, but I had done this twice already.  Andy and I were sharing our carryon, which was infinitely nice to ask him to handle that part instead, since I could then go through the line with one less worry.  I would place St. Louis somewhere in the middle, as far as security experience—their technique upon hearing my information and reviewing my scan was to have me identify where my bag began and end and then feel around my sides before sending me shortly on my way. 

I was free, then, to worry about normal airport things again and normal Melvin things again.  This meant checking to make sure that the ostomy bag was empty prior to boarding, my luggage back was with me at all times, finding my gate, joining the boarding blob, and fretting about my connecting flight.  I’ll have one more security checkpoint to go through on Wednesday, seeing how Orlando deals with other ostomates at least in my own microcosm. 

How many other scenarios do people have to worry about through airport security?  I’m fortunate that I’ve never had to check medication that needed to be refrigerated or deal with a prosthetic limb, but now I cannot help what kinds of worries persons who have this as part of their reality think about.  Add a quirky family member, a scatterbrained friend, and/or a young child and, well, your airport experience just got even more complicated.  Will I remember that in the moment when someone stops directly in the middle right in front of me?  No, I will sigh angrily (but quietly) and go around them.  I will think disparaging thoughts at someone who has a carryon that is CLEARLY outside of the expected parameters as I bump past it, searching for numbers and letters.  But, when I am comfortably seated at my gate waiting to board, I can consider all the different people around me trying to get to their next destination and all the figurative and literal baggage they carry. 

And remember, my friends, all roads lead to Rome.