Fun With ECT Side Effects

As I mentioned the other day, I am starting to worry that my ECT treatments aren't having as much as an effect as they were when I first started them.  Christmas has been a little rocky, and my mood has definitely been "swingier" as of late.

To try to help myself out a little, I decided to turn to that evil apparatus that can be the bane of my existance, the treadmill.  Getting some endorphins going can't hurt my mood, and God knows I could stand to lose a few pounds.  So I hit the treadmill twice this week, and in all honesty I was pretty damn proud of myself.

Well, until Wednesday, that is.  After my ECT treatment on Wednesday this week, I had quite a bit of chest pain, and my blood pressure was also abnormally high for me during my treatment.  When I spoke to the nurse who called to follow up with me the day after my treatment, I told her about the chest pain, and she was alarmed enough to want to speak to the doctor about it before scheduling my next treatment.

So, speak to him she did...and he said he wouldn't give me another treatment until I had an EKG to verify my heart was okay.  And, of course, the next available doctor's appointment I could get with my general practitioner wasn't until next Wednesday, meaning I would also have to change my next ECT appointment.

Aside from having to move my ECT appointment, which was inconvienent, as of today I was still having somewhat (in my opinion) worrisome chest pains.  So I decided to go ahead and trundle on over to one of the lesser-used emergency rooms in he area to get checked out. I figured if nothing else they could do the EKG and I could get that out of the way.

On a side, snide note: the most irritating part of he whole experience was when the doctor came in to talk to me before they ran any tests, and said something to the effect of, "Well, you obviously have all these depression issues, so I'm sure it's not your heart."

I'm sorry, what exactly do those two things have in common?  It was very dismissive--and, frankly, kind of offensive.

Whatever. I guess he was on to something, offensive or not, because he said my tests didn't show anything abnormal.  He said he thought it was a problem in my chest wall -- in other words, I pulled a muscle either during my ECT treatment or, yep, you guessed it, on the treadmill.

Just to stoke my own idignation, I am going to blame the treadmill.  Who said a little hard work never hurt anyone?  All I know is that I've been miserable and in pain for two days, and blaming that damn treadmill sounds like a fine idea. Who said a little bit of hard work never hurt anyone?

ECT Update, and Why I Hate Seroquel

No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.  Like most people, I got distracted by Christmas and haven't updated in a little while.  Here's hoping you and yours had a lovely holiday and are getting some much needed rest and relaxation.

I am now in the "maintenance" phase of my ECT treatments.  I finished up my "acute" phase last week on Friday, with my sixth treatment.  Now I'm on to one treatment a week for a month, which is much less of a hassle, especially considering the treatment facility is 40 minutes away.  The bad news, though, is that while I was pretty sure the treatments were helping the first week or two, now I'm not so sure -- I seem to have slipped back into a funk and am generally intolerable to be around.  I'm trying to tell myself that maybe it's just the stress of the holiday (like I wrote last week, it's hard to determine what ups and downs are due to having bipolar disorder and what are due to general life stress).  I hate the thought that I may have to go back to 3 ECT treatments a week for another few weeks to try to stave off a heavier depression, but if I do, so be it.

I'm also tired -- very, very tired.  And I'm not sure if it's a side effect of the ECT, or the increased dosage of Seroquel I'm on.  When I was hospitalized in early December, the doctor increased my Seroquel and decreased my lithium in anticipation of starting ECT treatments, because lithium and ECT don't play well together.  I went from 50 - 75 mgs of Seroquel daily to 450+ mgs daily.  I think it does what it's supposed to do, which is even out my moods and make me a little less irritable and raw -- but it also makes me really sluggish.  Add the ECT treatments (and anesthesia) I'm undergoing, and I'm pretty worthless. 

It's so irritating to me that I have to make a choice between being an ugly-acting, depressed witch and being an exhausted, useless sloth.  I guess I should just be grateful that there are drugs that do help depression (more or less), and just look at the side effects as a small price to pay for the benefits they provide.  But it's still frustrating.  Ultimately, though, there's not much I can do about it -- just hope for a speedy end to the ECT treatments so I can get back up on a therapeutic level of lithium and leave the Seroquel behind.  Here's to hoping!

Psychiatric Synergy

I've been thinking a lot lately about psychiatric synergy (for lack of a better term).  In other words, when are you merely a collection of symptoms, and when are you something greater (or worse, as the case may be)?

For example, when I was hospitalized last month, I went through the admission assessments, as always, to figure out what to put on the admissions forms for diagnosis/reason for admission.  One symptom I had been displaying at the time that was a little bit odd for me was excessive irritation and anger.  My "breaking point" was very low, and it didn't take much provocation for me to lose it and have a full-on temper tantrum.  At one point I got angry at one of my kids, and I inexplicably took it out on the freezer; before I knew what I had done, I had emptied the freezer in one manic tantrum, its contents strewn all over my living room.  There were peas everywhere, and my husband found a package of butter two weeks later behind a chair.  On a positive note, my five year old painstakingly picked up all the peas without being asked, and it kept her busy for quite a while.

In general, I'm not prone to tantrums, especially since I started taking antidepressant and antipsychotic meds.  So when I was being admitted to the hospital, I felt the need to mention this incident and a few other similar incidents to the admitting nurses.

I'm sure that psychiatric nurses and psychiatrists are trained to be facially neutral when talking to patients, but it seems like there are a few "key words" that make them light up like a Christmas tree when they hear a patient mention them.  "Tantrum," "rage," and "anger" seem to be some of those words.  They hear that I have a problem controlling my anger and it's like a big checkmark on a mental list, and you can almost feel them tuning out anything you have to say after that.

Now, I agree that trashing my kitchen is a little bit of a red flag that something is wrong.  What bothers me, though, is the fact that nobody bothered to ask what else was going on in my life.  I was trying to potty-train a three-year-old; trying to deal with two kids' birthdays in three weeks, still recovering from gall bladder surgery, gearing up for Christmas, etc.  In other words, I had a lot of other stress-inducing incidents going on in my life, so maybe it was premature to chalk everything up to mania/hypomania/mixed-mania-depression.   But the nurses seemed to seize on those incidents like dogs with bones.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened, when I dropped a "keyword."  Just mention either of the words "adopted" or "divorce" to a psychiatrist, and you can see the mental gears clicking into place.  Add in any--even minor --issues with alcohol, and you'll be lucky if you ever get out of that office.

I don't deny that our experiences make us who we are; but why are some of us "mentally ill" and others are just "stressed out parents"?  I know a lot of people who would have temper trantrums after telling a three-year-old to sit on the toilet, then five minutes later having to clean poop out of her underwear for the umpteenth time.  Why do I get stuck in a mental health facility for a week and get my brain zapped with electricity, and other people get taken out for sympathy margaritas?  I admit, I was the one who brought up the incidents, who told the nurses about getting angry.  Perhaps what is most telling was that the incidents bothered me -- I didn't like trashing my kitchen, I don't like yelling at my kids.  But, for better or for worse, I have three little kids, and they can be irritating.  What level of irritation is "normal" and what is cause for concern?  Some days I wonder how any mother of little kids can get through a day without a serious dose of Xanax.

Part of me thinks that the fact that I am concerned about the incidents means that I've got at least a marginal grip on reality.  Isn't that was Lucy says to Charlie Brown in A Charlie Brown Christmas?  Something about "as they say on TV, the fact that you think you need help means that you're not too far gone" (I'm paraphrasing).  But it annoys me when every little personality quirk or flaw takes on heavy meaning, when maybe it is just what it is -- a bad day, a bad minute, an overstressed instant.  It's like I can't lose my temper without it taking on some huge meaning.

In other news, I have my last "acute" ECT treatment tomorrow (which means 3X a week).  After that I'll probably start on "continuation" treatments, which  means once a week for a month, then "maintenance" treatments, which is once a month for a while.  I'm really, really looking forward to being done with these things.  I do think they've helped, but they're a monumental pain in my ass (and head). 

And I finished another Kuku doll, and am currently blocking my headwarmer.  I had been meaning to make myself some fingerless gloves for a while, but I was at the Gap last night and found a cute pair or cable-knit gauntlets for $8 -- I couldn't buy yarn for that amount of money.  So, Merry Christmas to me.

ECT Status Report

Since my life has been absorbed by ECT treatments the last week or so, that's pretty much all I have to write about.  I had my fourth treatment yesterday, which marks the mid-way point of this "batch."  Most people, according to my doctor, need an initial course of 6-12 treatments (at anywhere from $300-$800 per treatment) over two to four weeks. You then can have "maintenance" treatments once a week, once a month, every six weeks, or whatever your mood dictates (the American Psychiatric Association backs up this prescription).

Let me tell you flat out:  I'm not loving these treatments.  For one thing, the travel time is 45 minutes each way for each session, and tomorrow I have an appointment with my psychiatrist as well, so it's going to be an all-day affair.  But time is really just a minor inconvenience.  The whole process isn't all that fun, either.

Going under general anesthesia 3x a week can't be good for your body, not to mention, the whole fact that while you're out they zap you with enough electricity through the brain to cause a sizable seizure (read about ECT risks from the Mayo Clinic here).  Yesterday when I woke up from the anesthesia, I felt like I couldn't breathe, which was slightly alarming.  I almost always have some sort of headache afterwards, from mild to severe, and I have constant jaw, back, and shoulder pain.  During the first week, my calves were so sore it was difficult to walk immediately after sitting, until they loosened up. I think I mentioned some of these complaints in my last post.

But it is working?  In the greater scheme of things, jaw and calf pain is a small price to pay for a potentially large payoff.  The short answer:  I'm not sure.  I definitely feel like my brain is much quieter, with  less thoughts of self-harm, and suicide.  In my last post I said I felt "blunted," and I stand by that.  I kind of just want to sit in a chair and watch TV and zone out.

I even started a knitting project yesterday so I didn't feel like such a vegetable.  Someone was telling me about this cute knit headwarmer-wrap thing they got and how it would probalby be pretty easy to make, so I found a pattern for one here.  And I swear, it's a really simple pattern, but it took me forever to get the hang of it -- a lot longer than it should have.  I'd catch myself halfway done with a row, having knit every purl stitch and vice-versa.  It's like the instructions got scrambled in the translation from the page to my brain.  It's sort of how I used to feel with calculus.  And, man, I hated calculus.

In addition to having knitting problems, I seem to have problems remembering words, finding the right words, and holding a conversation.  These kinds of problems are the side effects most commonly associated with ECT treatments.  According to the APA, cognitive and memory problems are some of the more serious and worrisome risks associated with ECT, after problems with the actual procedure itself.  I found this cool website called the Experience Project, which collects personal stories on various topics, and one of the topics is ECT.  The biggest complaint that people had were significant memory issues; one person said their ability to do math was permanently impaired.  Another person said his memory was so impaired that he didn't even consider himself the same person that he had been before the treatment.

There are a couple of different places on the web to read personal stories, but if I read too much of them they'll drive me crazy.  It's like with anything else on the web; unusually people only get online and spend time talking about something if they really, really love it or really, really hate it -- whether it's a medical treatment or a refrigerator.  So I'll take all the online stuff with a grain of salt.

I do think my unusually-low irritation level is starting to rise back up, whether a result of medication or ECT, I don't know.  So that's a good thing.  I say this because yesterday, my favorite five-year-old dumped a yogurt smoothie on my computer keyboard, and nobody (and nothing) got hurt.  Two weeks ago, some innocent, inanimate object that was within my realm of reach would have been hurled across the room during a scene like that, but I managed to hold it together.

That's it for now.  This "status report" is sort of a misnomer, in that I really don't know what my status is at the moment.  But we'll just keep plugging away (plugging?  electricity?  get it??) and hoping for the best.

A Brief History of ECT

Yesterday morning, I found myself waiting on my third electroconvulsive therapy treatment.  The procedure center was backed up, so I waited for a while, and the longer I waited, the more I kept wondering, "What the hell am I doing here?"

I looked around at the other people waiting (though most of the people in the waiting room were family members who were there to transport their loved ones to and from their shock treatment), and tried to take comfort in the fact that if all these other people were having ECT, it can't be that crazy.  But then I started thinking about people who have lined up through the years for other treatments that promise to make them thinner, younger, happier, healthier, stronger.  And how most of those treatments didn't have nearly the negative stigma that "shock therapy" has ("shock therapy," as a name, is passe -- ECT is the politically correct name of choice).

It's no wonder that ECT has such a negative connotation and stigma, based on its origins.  According to Andy Behrman, aka "Electroboy," an advocate for people with depression and bipolar disorder, most doctors know that ECT was dreamed up in the early thirties by an Italian physician named Ugo Cerletti while watching pigs being electrocuted into unconsciousness before being led to slaughter to make them easier to work with.  Cerletti figured the same technique could be applied to mental patients to make them more malleable for their doctors (from electroboy.com).

The practice was introduced into the US the next year (1935) and was used to treat a whole host of mental "illnesses" -- from schizophrenia to homosexuality, from mania to truancy (truancy is a mental illness?  Sometimes I thank God I live in the era I do).  So, obviously, as most new, fabulous medical treatments are, it was grossly overused -- and grossly under-regulated.

According to the doctor administration my treatments, ECT began to be refined and specialized in the 1950s and 1960s, not incidentally along with the growth of the specialty field of anesthesiology (from SUNY Downstate Medical Center).  Concurrently with the improvement of ECT treatments, though, public opinion of the treatment began to plummet.  With the book One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey (released in 1962) depicting the treatment as barbaric and punishing, and the movie (released 1975) further solidifying that image, ECT all but faded into the background as a treatment of last resort for catatonic or extremely suicidal patients.  Sylvia Plath, the poet, didn't help much, either, with her poem "The Hanging Man":

By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.   

I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard’s eyelid:   

A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.

A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.   

If he were I, he would do what I did.

Written shortly before her death by suicide, Plath described what her ECT treatmenents were like to her.  And it didn't sound like anything anyone else really wanted to repeat.

With all the bad press and negative images in the media of ECT, it's not surprising that most people just assume that ECT is no longer practiced on a larger scale.  But since conditions in which the treatment is administered are more humane and streamlined now than it was 40 years ago, it is again becoming a legitiamite treatment.  According to the University Hospital in University, New Jersey, upwards of 100,000 adults receive ECT a year in the US alone.  

Even though the popularity of the treatment is increasing, there is still a fair amount of argument about whether ECT is more helpful than harmful.  I plan to look in to personal and doctors' accounts of the treatment and write more about that later.  The fact that doctors still don't really understand how it work -- though they can cite different brain imaging technicques to show that it does work -- is also a cause for concern.

But for now, I'm three treatments down and three to go.  Usually, the doctor prescribes 6-12 treatments upfront over a 2-4 week period.  I have to say, they're not really fun.  If nothing else, they're nerve-wracking and wearing on my psyche.  Buy physically, they take their toll as well -- muscle aches (especially the backs of my legs and my back and shoulders), jaw and facial pain, brutal headaches, and a general feeling of being "blunted."  Though maybe the "blunting" is the treatment working, I don't know.

Part of me wants to fight that "blunting."  Is it worth feeling dumber, duller, at the price of feeling less sucicidal and self-injuring?  I have to remind myself that it's not exactly like I'm Van Gogh, or Mozart, or even Plath - the world isn't losing anything if my intellect falls off a few notches.  But if I can spare my kids a mom who is in an out of the hospital, who cries less and plays more, who takes more of an interest in their doings, I guess it's worth it.

It's Shocking, but there's Even Something I'm Reluctant to Talk About: ECT

When I was in the hospital last week, I went in with three goals.  The first was to stay safe; the second was to get my meds regulated; the third was to have a consultation about Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT).  The last time I was in an outpatient appointment with my psychiatrist, we talked about the possibility of ECT, and she scheduled a consultation with the doctor at the Lindner Center (where I was hospitalized) who does the ECT therapy.  She couldn't get me in to see him until the 27th of December, but if I was an inpatient, I knew I could see him much quicker.

In case you're wondering, yes, ECT is that treatment -- formerly known as Electroshock Therapy.   When people think of ECT, the first thing that usually comes to mind is that famous (and disturbing) scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest where Jack Nicholson's character undergoes ECT as a form of punishment (link goes to YouTube clip).  In fact, that although ECT's popularity as a form of therapy was already on the wane by the time the movie was released in 1975, public opinion plummeted so because of the depiction that ECT became a therapy of last resort, indicated only for chronic, treatment-resistant depression and catatonic depression (from electroboy.com).

In the last 30+ years, however, ECT has gained more popularity as a safe, effective treatment for severe depression, bipolar depression and mania, and other forms of mental illness.  So here we are, and here I am.

Today I had my second ECT treatment; the first was on Monday.  Over the next week and a half, I'll have four more.  They're not particularly fun, and I'm left sore, a little groggy, and with a major headache, but the doctor says those side effects should get better the more I'll do. 

In the next week or two, I'm going to write more about the history of ECT, how it works, and personal testimonies.  Today, though, I just wanted to "break the ice," so to speak, and come out and say that I'm actually now undergoing ECT treatments.

And I feel weird, and a little embarrassed, saying it.

I guess because most people still think of ECT as a barbaric, radical treatment, something that only really "far-gone" people do, something that most people would never even consider, I feel like it's something I should hide -- or at least keep to myself as much as possible.  That I should only tell a certain few people who know me, whose opinions wouldn't be affected by my decision.

But what's the point of keeping a blog, of putting everything else out there, if I'm not going to talk about this, too?  I've spoken about being hospitalized, and I know people have certain stigmas about that.  I know that people I've known for a long time look at me a little differently since the first time I was hospitalized, so I may as well add one more log to the fire.

I decided to go ahead and go with ECT therapy because I'm so tired of feeling like crap, and of taking medication after medication and having none of them work, while their side effects diminish my quality of life even further.  I want my old self back, and from talking to the doctors and from my own research, I think ECT is at least worth a try. 

And, as always, I'll be keeping you in the loop.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

That's right, I'm out of the clink -- er, hospital -- and back home.  I just took a really long, hot shower and thoroughly enjoyed not having to hit the little button every two minutes for the water to stay on.

I have not forgotten my give-away; there's just a little snafu.  Nobody wrote in the comments when you liked BPK on Facebook!  My Facebook "Likes" went up, but since I'm technologically stupid at the moment, I can't figure out who actually hit "Like" in the last week or so.  So I'll figure something else out...maybe give it based on who has commented in the last week?  That may work.

In addition to leaving the hospital today, I actually had my first of six scheduled ECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy) treatments this morning.  Let me tell you, it was trippy.  I will write more about that soon, but I have to be truthful -- even I feel like ECT is a sort of taboo topic.  In the meantime, I'll figure out this giveaway issue.  If you really think you'd like to read the book (again, it's Start Something that Matters by Blake Mycoskie, the TOMS guy -- it is pretty inspiring), send me an email or leave a comment and maybe I'll just send it to the first person who asks!

Oh, and p.s. -- my dad is out of the hospital and is doing well.  Obviously, I decided not to go if, instead, I went to the hospital myself for the week, but he's out of the woods and is going to be fine.  I hope to plan a trip to Florida in the not-to-distant future.

Great Expectations, Deflated

Here I am, still in Shawshank. No, no, I kid.

Mostly.

Today I'm mostly upset with the fact that I was supposed to go home, as per my doctor. But the weekend psychiatrist on duty never got around to seeing me and finalizing my paperwork today, even though I have been bugging the nursing staff about it since 9 this morning.

I thought I'd think positively and have my husband and daughters come down around 3, and maybe by the time they got here I'd be ready to go. No such dice. Looks like I'll probably be here till Monday, with my contraband iPod to keep me company.

The most frustrating part is that I actually feel pretty okay; I don't feel the need to be put away for safety reasons. And the staff here does next to nothing on weekends, as far as group therapy and entertainment go, so it's not like I'm getting lots of benefit there.

So, in a nutshell, I feel safe enough to leave, am bored out of my mind, and had to peel a shrieking five-year-old off my leg when she left.

Oh, holy hell...someone just started playing "Kumbaya" on an acoustic guitar and singing. I think I should have kept my mouth about the entertainment. Is 6:30 too early to go to bed?

No Place Like (Not) Home for the Holidays...

No, I didn't really fall off the face of the earth after my last post. Unfortunately, I fell back into to Lindner Center instead.

After some thought, I finally came back down here to Mason and checked back in to the mental health facility. I guess it was the right decision; the jury's still out. At this point, I think I have more complaints than kudos for the joint, but that must just be my frame of mind.

Complaints:
--They took my bras, and I have to fight to get one at a time to wear. I've been here three times and never has that been a problem. And not wearing a bra is not an option.

-- When I came in late Monday night, I had to answer a long batch of questions for the intake nurse. This isn't odd. What is odd is that I did have to answer all these questions again for the admitting nurse. When I asked why I had to answer the same questions all over again, she said it was because she "was too lazy to read the answers off the chart to input them," and it was just "easier" to ask me again. This is after 2-plus hours in admissions and at about 11:30 at night. I was not pleased.

-- Nobody seems to be able to coordinate my meds. It seems like I take something different every day, and nobody can explain why or if that's the new norm. Plus, I brought in some of my own meds from home, prescribed by a different doc, and they seemed to have disappeared, even after repeated inquiries.

--I've heard Karen Carpenter's "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" at least three times. Today. Wanna make a depressed person more depressed at Christmas? Play this song.

Kudos:
--I spoke at length to the doctor in charge of the Electroconvulsive Therapy program, and am very excited about it. I've been doing research with the resources I have and have uncovered a lot of interesting things about the treatment.

--The contraband security is relatively lax, as evidenced by the fact I am updating this blog from an "unapproved electronic device." I feel so Andy Dufresne.

--The Oreo pie is excellent, there is no lack of group meetings you can attend, and if you want to be left alone, they pretty much leave you be.

All in all, I think I am accomplishing the tasks that brought me back down here. I don't know when I'll get to go home, but at least I now have my contraband iPod.

And don't forget to "Like" Bipolar Knitter on Facebook for a chance to win Blake Mycoskie's book! Assuming I still have my iPod or I'm home by then, I plan to announce the winner Monday.

My apologies for any odd formatting things going on here. I'm still trying to work out this Blogger app.

December Giveaway #1

In the spirit of giving, I am going to try to give away several different fun things during the month of December.  For the first giveaway, you can win your very own hard-copy version of Blake Mycoskie's Start Something that Matters.

Mycoskie is the brainchild behind the TOMS shoe company, whose "One for One" philosophy has made them not only popular, but a company "that matters."  In his book, he talks about staring TOMS, following his passion, and turning that passion into something tangibly, authentically good.  I really respect the spirit of TOMS and what the book represents, and I think it dovetails nicely with this blog, in that I'm trying to do something that matters (even if just a little bit).

I'll post a full review of the book this coming weekend, but this whole week, you can enter to win a copy.  Here's what you need to do to enter:

• "Like" Bipolar Knitter on Facebook -- either by clicking the button at the right or on my Facebook page.  Then leave me a comment with your name, and telling me that you "Liked" Bipolar Knitter
  
• OR, if you've already "Liked" me on FB (thanks!), get someone else to "Like," too.  Then leave a comment with your name and the name of the person you referred, and you're both entered to win the book -- the person you referred gets one entry, and you get two, just cuz I'm generous like that.  If you refer more than one person, you get as many entries as referrals
  
• OR, bribe me with cookies, jewelry, or Philosophy gift certificates. Okay, just kidding, don't really do that. I'm pretty sure it's in the exact opposite of the spirit of the book

A few things about this little contest:

• Entries go till Friday night; I'll draw a winner this weekend
• Not a lot of people read this blog.  Usually, I'd say that in a whiny, woe-is-me voice, but in this case, it's good for you!  There's more likelihood you'll win
• This is a great opportunity to build a supportive, informative community by and for people with mental health disorders.  Just by entering the contest, you can do your part in making the community a little larger 
• The books is really good.  Seriously.  You'll like it. And if you don't, hey, free Christmas gift for someone else!
• I'll pay all shipping & handling costs for you.  Just call me Santa

Okay, Now it's Time for Christmas Music

In direct opposition to what I posted last week about constantly blaring Christmas music at the hospital I was in, I am now ready to try to use the Power of Christmas Music for good, not evil.  Maybe, at some point, I could even call it a coping mechanism.

I don't hate Christmas music.  I just hate Christmas music before Thanksgiving (and I always hate Mariah Carey and George Michael Christmas music, that's a constant).  Plus, my all-time favorite Christmas song is "Please Daddy, Don't Get Drunk this Christmas," by John Denver (from the album Aspenglow). Who in their right mind could hate that song?

Anyway, I dug out all my old Christmas CDs and am ripping them into iTunes and uploading/downloading/sideloading/whateverloading so I can listen to them on my iPod or my phone.  As a side note, if you haven't checked out this whole Amazon cloud thingie, it's kind of cool.  Essentially, you can mirror your iTunes and Amazon Cloud libraries to each other, so you can play any of your digital music library on just about any portable device, Mac or other (like Android). 

I thought I'd share some of my favorite Christmas songs:

• John Denver, "A Baby Just Like You" and "Aspenglow" -- both wonderful in a melancholy-John-Denver kind of way
• John Denver, "Please Daddy, Don't Get Drunk This Christmas" -- as mentioned
• Weezer, "Hark the Harald Angels Sing" -- a house in our neighborhood does this amazing light display set to music, and this is one of the songs they use
• Sarah McLachlan's version of "Happy Christmas" -- I bought this album the year it came out and thought I was so cool, but it turns out everyone has it now
• Harry Connick, Jr., "The Blessed Dawn of Christmas Day" -- another album that everyone has (or at least has heard some of the songs from) of, but this is a nice, peaceful song and very Harry Connick-y.  I also like "I Pray on Christmas," it has a funky gospel sound
• The Muppets' "Twelve Days of Christmas" -- I think I like this one because at my husband's yearly extended Christmas party, we'd sing the song and you had to sing the verse that corresponded to your birth month (first day = January, etc), and my mother-in-law was May (fifth month), and she ALWAYS sang it just like Miss Piggy

And I'd recommended the following albums, in their entirety:

• "Peace," by Jim Brickman
• "A New Age Christmas," Various.   I think I bought this randomly somewhere in a check-out line, but it's really good
• "Christmas Guitar," Boccherini Guitar Quartet
• "Celtic Christmas Harp I," Various. Again, bought this one somewhere but I can't remember where
• "A Windam Hill Christmas, I'll Be Home for Christmas," Windam Hill.  I'm currently pissed because I know I bought this at some point but I can't find it right now

I know I've missed some good ones, but that's enough for a low-impact Sunday post.  Happy caroling!

Coping Mechanisms: Avoiding Guilt

I talk a lot about coping mechanisms on this blog, usually knitting or other crafty-type activities (or humor, which is a really good one).  I'm currently facing a question on whether to engage in another kind of coping mechanism:  guilt avoidance.

That's a lousy name for the coping mechanism, but I'm at a loss for anything else.  At least it's descriptive:  "I am going to cope with crap by avoiding guilt."  Sounds simple enough.

So what I'm trying to do is avoid future guilt -- like, long-run guilt -- through my current actions.  Here's the story:  my dad was involved in a serious motorcycle accident a few days ago (okay, technically, it was a scooter accident, but "scooter accident" sounds so totally lame, I'm reinventing it to a "motorcycle accident").  It was in the local news and everything.  He moved to Florida about six or seven years ago, so it's not like I can just hop in the car and head over to the hospital and see him.

My brother found out about the accident Tuesday, when my dad's wife called my brother.  My brother called my husband that night and told him.  I had a breakdown Tuesday night, though, so my husband decided it may be better not to tell me about it until I felt better.  I knew my brother had called, but I assumed it was about Christmas gifts for the all the kids. So I finally found out about the accident yesterday morning, when, after sending my sister-in-law a long rambling email about what my kids would like for Christmas (since I assumed that's what my brother called about), my husband told me what the real story was.  And, side note:  gee, didn't  I feel like an ass, talking about Christmas gifts when my dad had been airlifted to intensive care.

Anyway, here's where the coping mechanism comes in.  It finally occurred to me last night that maybe I should consider going to Florida to see him (again, I was feeling like an ass, since this was a full 12 hours after I'd found out about it).  Nobody said so, but I think there was some time in there when the doctors/etc. weren't sure he was going to make it.  If he would have died that day, I would have felt horrible, but there's no way I could have gotten there in time. 

If now something happens now, however, and I don't go, will I ever be able to forgive myself?  I have a long and difficult history with my dad, but in recent years our relationship has been pretty stable.  I think we've both mellowed to a degree as we've gotten older, and things are pretty okay between us.  I think my brother would characterize his relationship with my dad the same way, though I don't want to put words in his mouth. 

Of course I don't want my dad to die; I want him to get better and live a much longer life (he's 64).  But if he did die, would I be able to forgive myself for not getting down there and visiting?  And, on a much less selfish note (yeah, yeah, I know how that last thought sounded), I'm sure he'd like to see us -- will I be okay with not going, even if something doesn't happen, knowing that I'm sure he'd like to have his family around him while he's sick?  Plus, I like his wife (they've been married about five years), and I'd like to support her.

I've been pricing airfare and kicking around the idea of going.  But I haven't been so well myself, lately, and I'm not sure I'm up to a trip to Florida from Ohio.  Plus, we've been calling in all our favors to get help for our kids while I've been ill the last few weeks, and I'm not sure my support system would be too thrilled with helping out on that kind of scale  for that reason. 

So do I put forth the effort, and avoid the guilt later?  Or do I put forth the effort, and just do the right damn thing and go see my dad?  Questions, questions.  I'm kind of stuck.  We'll see how it turns out.