Interruption

This afternoon an attractive 50-something year old man washed my feet and put my socks back on and laced up my shoes. Sadly, this was not a lover or even a pedicurist, but a technician at a podiatrist's office. Since I've been able to put on my socks and tie my shoes myself for at least a few decades, I felt rather foolish having him do the honors. There I was, my legs stretched out in front of me as I sat on the podiatry chair, jacked up to a height of about five feet off the ground. He said it was standard practice and, from what I observed in the waiting room, many patients are probably not capable of tying their shoes.

When I first arrived for my appointment, to check out some persistent pain in my left foot, I was one of the few fully ambulatory people around. Mostly older folk maneuvered in their wheelchairs and walkers, negotiating the path between the door and the reception desk. One man, his thinning hair slicked back with grease and his belly as round as that of the Buddha, was missing a foot. The receptionist handed me a stack of papers to fill out; on the top was written "Diabetic Foot Wound Center" and I asked her if, indeed, I was in the right place.

"Yes," she said. "Don't worry about that language. We take care of everything below the knee."

Below the knee. It was not an expression I'd heard before and, while it's true that my foot is below my knee, it can also affect areas above my knee, such as my hip and spine. But ours is specialized medical world and there was not much I could do about that. As I made my way through the forms, a woman in a motorized wheelchair returned to the waiting area from a consultation room; she wore specially made shoes, her head was held in place by a brace and her arms were covered with black fabric, obscuring her hands or where her hands might have been. Suddenly, my foot problem - and everything else on my mind - seemed quite trivial.

The podiatrist's analysis confirmed my suspicion of a pronated left foot; it has always tended to turn in but now the difference between my left and right feet had become quite stark and the imbalance was painful. My hiking habit will be interrupted for a few weeks while I wait for my orthotics to be made. In a saner system, my health insurance would cover the cost of these inserts, as they'll keep me active and probably prevent me from developing knee trouble later, which would be more costly to fix but would likely be covered. Such is the world we live in.

Influenza

Last week, after nearly a year of living with good health in Denver, I finally scheduled my annual routine medical checkups. Aside from the annoyance at having to fill out three similar sets of paperwork - one set at each facility - the appointments went smoothly and there were no surprises. And to reward myself for having endured the discomfort of a mammogram and pelvic exam, I went for a pedicure, haircut and brow wax at a local beauty academy.

There I was, healthy as can be and looking a bit sharper than usual when, on Labor Day, WHAM! Without much warning I was hit with a fever, chills, cough and muscle aches. A quick Google search confirmed that my symptoms were flu-like; indeed, rapid onset is one of its hallmarks, unlike a cold which sneaks up on you gradually. I haven't had the flu in decades so, unlike my more familiar visits from colds and sinus infections, I was not quite sure what to do when this virus showed up, tornado-like, and destroyed my plans for the day. Lying down seemed like a good place to start, followed by some Ibuprofen for the fever and aches. I took a nap and a few hours later got up to get something to eat.

Just a few days earlier, in a renewed effort to take excellent care of myself by eating a tasty, varied and nutritious diet, I had gone to the grocery store armed, uncharacteristically, with an organized and comprehensive list of ingredients that would allow me to create some vegetarian recipes. I filled my formerly empty fridge with spinach, mushrooms, green onions, zucchini, cheeses, yogurt, fruit and assorted types of tofu. And some dark chocolate covered almonds. The next day I whipped up some spreads and made a so-called Green Velvet Soup, one of the most startlingly green dishes I've ever seen. And on Monday morning, just hours before the flu whacked me over the head and sent me crawling under the sheets, I had gone to pay for and pick up a bicycle that someone in my neighborhood was selling on Craigslist. The bike acquisition was also part of my attempt to improve the quality of my life by diversifying my exercise options.

While heating up some soup and boiling water for tea I recalled something my meditation teacher often says. She likes to remind her students that once a person has made a decision to take better care of themselves, whether this means changing their diets, getting a new job or choosing not to enable a loved one's destructive behavior, life often responds with an, "Oh, yeah?" and presents the person with a situation that challenges their commitment to their new intentions.

So, rather than kvetch about my sweat-producing fever and sporadic coughing, I will interpret this flu as an indication that I'm on the right track.

Inner Thighs, Indiscriminate

Until yesterday, I was a woman who rarely had issues with my body or self-image. Unlike many of my friends, as a teenager and 20-something I did not spend much time fretting over the size or shape of my behind, legs, breasts, arms and belly. For decades, I've accepted and even liked my body, pleased with its proportions and grateful that all of it worked pretty well nearly all of the time. My metabolism had been able to keep up with my intake of chocolate and no one was the wiser after my occasional binges of Toblerone bars or Ben & Jerry's pints.

For a brief moment, all that seemed to have changed.

Yesterday I was at REI, the outdoor clothing store I've patronized for years. I had ordered a dress online and went to the store to pick it up and try it on. Removing my pants and top in the fitting room, I was confronted with an unfamiliar and unwelcome sight: a roll of flesh around my belly and lumpy thighs that, in the mirror, looked a lot larger than I recalled. I don't have a full length mirror in my apartment and although I've felt that my body has been gradually changing - even though my weight has remained constant - I wasn't quite sure what I looked like.

It probably hadn't helped that, the night before, I had broken down and indulged in a longstanding craving for Popeye's Fried Chicken and biscuits (and cajun fries), washing it all down with a beer. It was as if this soul food had bypassed my digestive tract and plastered itself directly onto my thighs and derriere, as if to mock me for consuming it.

I quickly slipped the dress over my head. It fit beautifully and concealed the bumps and lumps - definitely a keeper! Briefly, I considered getting another one in a different color, imagining that I'd have to cover myself from waist to mid-calf for as long as I walked about the earth. No more shorts, and forget about bathing suits. And then I began to think about how I'd have to subsist on a diet of kale and tofu to recover my former figure. At that point, I began to sink into a funk, a perfect example of how attachment - to a thinner body - leads to suffering.

Were my days of indiscriminate eating really over? Would I have to finally face some fundamental facts about aging and further limit my intake of cheeses, cookies and chocolates? Would I need to intensify my exercise if I were to continue to entertain my tastebuds and fill my belly in the manner to which they had grown accustomed? As I pondered these questions, I realized that bumming out over the diameter of my butt was unnecessary, that my happiness was not contingent upon the circumference of my thighs. I know many large women and men who are much more content and successful than I am. And while I'm not going to allow my size to expand exponentially, I'm also not going to fixate on, or try to eradicate, every surplus centimeter of flesh. That would be ridiculous as well as an affront to the person I've always been - someone who refuses to confuse her self-esteem with her body.

Improbable, Impatience

On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.

Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).

It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.

Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.

"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."

Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.

"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."

By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.

"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.

We were headed home and that was all that mattered.

Insurance, Industrial Classifications, IRS

Earlier this week I spent the better part of two days jumping through various hoops in order to be considered for a more comprehensive health insurance policy that is offered to business groups, as opposed to individuals. In other words, I had to demonstrate that I have a business in Colorado. But since I lack a business history here, I also had to demonstrate that my application was legitimate.

It didn't help matters that last spring I filed for an extension for my 2007 taxes, giving myself until October 15 to send in the paperwork. The underwriter needed to see my return, which doesn't exist....yet. However, my insurance broker got them to agree that it would be sufficient for them to see evidence that I filed for an extension. Until a few years ago, the IRS would routinely send confirmation of extension requests to the taxpayer. But they ended this practice, probably to save money, and so I had no proof that I had requested extra time. I had no choice but to call the IRS and see if they would send me something that indicated that, yes, I had filed for an extension. It took three phonecalls and nearly three hours of waiting on hold (at least they play classical music) before I succeeded in having them fax me the document I needed. The process might have been shorter had I known in advance that I'd need to be in front of the fax machine when it arrived, as they won't fax personal tax information somewhere else. Since I didn't have a fax number, I got one from Efax, and then - while the IRS employee waited patiently on the line - downloaded the software so I could open it. It worked. I felt a tiny sense of triumph over the vast tax bureaucracy.

Compared to that, registering my business in Colorado was a breeze. I registered my trade name - Mixed Media Mosaics - at the Secretary of State's Office online, then took proof of my registration to the Colorado tax department to get my license to do business. Before hand I had looked at this form online to see what information I'd need to provide. They ask applicants for their industrial classification - it turns out it is 711510, Independent Artists, Writers, Performers, which lumps a lot of people under a single category including but not limited to: storytellers, poets, orchestra conductors, taxidermists, ethnic dancers, motivational speakers, art restorers and celebrity spokepersons. In previous years, according to the website I consulted, many of these job titles were separately classified.

Then it was off to the City and County of Denver Treasury Division to get a license to collect their sales tax, separate from the state tax. Whoever called my home state "Taxachusetts" had not been to Colorado, where certain cities, counties and districts collect all kinds of taxes. When I sell my art here, I will charge a tax rate of 7.72% that includes the state sales tax, the Denver sales tax, the Regional Transportation District tax, the Football Stadium District tax and the Scientific and Cultural Facilities District tax. And then I get to pay a monthly Occupational Privilege Tax (OPT) for the privilege of being in business. This would all be quite entertaining if I could file my sales tax returns online, as I did in Massachusetts, simply entering in my revenues and having the website calculate what I owe. Unfortunately, Colorado is about four years away from having such a system in place. So, I will receive personalized tax booklets on which to write in ink who is getting how much tax. Perhaps when I fill out my first one I will blog about it under the title "Insane-making". Meanwhile, Colorado is kind enough to offer free tax classes to help newbies decipher it all.

But all of my phoning, faxing and filling out forms paid off. My application for the health coverage I wanted was approved.

Invasive

I sailed through the first three plus decades of my life without accumulating a single cavity, a record that fueled delusions of dental grandeur. When my dentist told me a few years ago that the surface of one of my teeth was sticky - a nice way to say decaying - and required a filling, the news crushed my sense of toothy superiority. Part of me had really believed that I'd live cavity-free until 120, despite my propensity for eating sweets.

A few weeks ago this same dentist discovered another sticky spot on a rear, upper left molar. Today I went to get it filled. The room was cold and I was told to keep my coat on. Lying back in the chair, swaddled in my green down jacket, I stared at the dentist and his technician, who looked like a pair of nerdy riot police behind their blue plastic face shields. I tried not to gag as they inserted multiple objects into my mouth. First came a numbing swab of novocaine, followed by three injections of the stuff, not to mention their latex covered fingers. The technician sprayed the inside of my mouth to rinse out the excess from the swabbing.

I was handed a New Yorker magazine to entertain me while the drugs took effect. It was a brief respite before the next oral invasion, during which the dentist inserted the filling and the technician placed a suction tube in my mouth. I must have look stricken or distressed because they kept asking me, "Are you OK?"

"Un huh," I grunted affirmatively, trying to suppress my gag reflex. I wasn't really OK, but I wanted to get the procedure over with as soon as possible, rather than interrupting and prolonging it. Putting my yoga practice to work, I focused my attention on my breath, feeling it rise and fall in my belly. This exercise took my mind off the buzz of activity in my mouth, which normally prefers its privacy and to remain mostly closed.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably just five minutes, the dentist asked me to bite down and see if it felt right. It didn't - there was too much filling. I braced myself for the next invasion, a whirring tool to remove the excess material.

"Could you lick the tooth and make sure it's not rough?" the dentist asked, wanting me to test his handiwork.

I licked. It was smooth.

"You're all set. We'll see you in six months for your cleaning," he said, leaving the room and leaving me with my second filling and an uncomfortably numb mouth.

"How long will it take for the novocaine to wear off?" I asked the technician. My left cheek and lips felt enormous, as if someone had injected too much collagen.

"Um, just a few hours," she said, with just the slightest hesitation.

"Is that two hours?" I tried to clarify.

"Well, it's a few hours ... but once it starts to wear off it will go quickly," she replied.

It took nearly five hours for the novocaine to dissipate enough that I could eat something. Twelve 12 hours later there is still a slight ache in my gum, a reminder of my dental discombobulation.