​Hello, blog readers of the future!
 
Let me explain: this blog post is scheduled to run on December 7, but I’m writing it on November 20. Why? Because I’m going to have (or, when you’re reading this, will just have had) some vertebrae fused together, and I don't want to worry about writing a blog post from my hospital bed. Here’s the cool part: I’m getting some shiny new cadaver bone put in me, too. (I have one friend who keeps referring to the surgery as my cadaver implant procedure.)
 
Now that the operation is over with (as you’re reading this), I guess it’s safe to talk about the things worrying me (as I’m typing this). I don’t sleep well these days anyway because of the pain, which gives me lots of time to drive myself nuts thinking about this stuff:

• Will I have a roommate in the hospital? Will she be incontinent, like the last one? If so, is this a sign? Dear lord, what kind of sign?
• Is the cat missing, or just hiding among the dust balls in the living room? Is there a way to find out without having to vacuum?
• What if I get my period on the operating table?
• Remember when I used to obsess about my house being clean? What happened to that girl?
• Will my old physical therapist find out I have a new physical therapist? What’s the proper etiquette if I run into my old physical therapist in the grocery store? Do we both pretend this new PT isn’t a thing between us?
• What if I forget all my passwords when I wake up from surgery?
• Will my sister come through on her promise of tuna noodle casserole? I could really go for some. What if she forgets? Maybe I should change all my passwords to tuna n00dle, then send them to her for safekeeping.
• I am brilliant!
• I am also on medication that makes me loopy.
• And brilliant!
• What if I die on the operating table and this blog post is a message from beyond the grave? Will that upset my mother? I love you, Mom. Sorry for croaking on the table.

 
Anyway, I’m hoping by the time you (and I) read this, all my fears will be put to rest. Also, cadaver bone. Makes it all worth it.

We’ve all heard that trope time and time again, that laughter is, in fact, the best  medicine. I was inclined to take this at face value, until I started to do a little research. Sure, laughter feels good, but is it really the best medicine? Let’s take a look:

1. Evidence that Laughter’s Healing Powers are Vastly Overrated

I could give you a million examples of how laughter is not better than, say, chemotherapy  (Gilda Radner). But that’s too disheartening, even for me. Instead, let’s look at some other things laughter doesn’t do much for:

• Depression. Laughter is supposed to elevate your mood when you’re down. However, this disease in itself pretty much renders even the funniest jokes ineffective. Take this knock-knock joke:
  

                        Funny Person: Knock knock.
                        Depressed Person: Go away.
                        Funny Person: Seriously, c’mon. Knock knock.
                        Depressed Person: Life is pointless, and we’re all going to die someday.
                        Funny Person: You’re right. I think I’ll go hide under the covers now.
                        Score: Depression 1, Laughter 0.

• Stress. This website lists a whole bunch of things that you can do to start laughing and alleviate stress, like go to a funny movie or a comedy club, host a game night with your friends, or read a funny book. I’m stressed because I have no time to do the things I want to, like read. This stress solution is inherently flawed. 
• Heart Disease. Another health bonus of laughter is that it improves the function of blood vessels and helps protect your heart. This is a total lie, which I think is clearly proven in this next section . . .

2. Laughter Has Dangerous Side Effects

According to this article in the New York Times, laughing has some pretty serious side effects that don’t even flash up as a warning when you’re watching a particularly witty rerun of Roseanne. These side effects include:

• Heart failure (you know, when your heart stops pumping blood)
  
• Boerhaave syndrome (spontaneous rupturing of the esophagus)
  
• Cardiac arrhythmia (which can result in heart attack or stroke)
  
• Pilgaard-Dahl syndrome (laughing so hard your lung collapses)
  
• Syncope (passing out, like onto a train track or into a pool of water/broken glass)

Overall, I’d argue that although these side effects are, in fact, potentially lethal, that’s not such a bad way to go. If I get to pick my exit, “she died laughing” makes a fabulous line in any obituary. However, we Longos have never been known to have that kind of spectacular luck. Out of the numerous side effects listed, this is the one troubles me the most:

•  Giggle incontinence

Look it up—it’s a real thing. Laughing so hard you wet your pants. I have no doubt that this is exactly the side effect I’ll have. The treatment for this is to wear diapers, avoid funny situations, and/or to wear dark clothing. A disturbing dark side to laughter, indeed.

3. Case Study: The Poisoning of Wallace Shawn

If you have not seen The Princess Bride, please stop reading this blog post immediately and do so. It’s okay. I’ll wait.

Wow, it took you some time to get back here. Watched it twice, did you? I know. It’s the best movie ever. Except for that one scene. You know, the one that completely disproves the “laughter is the best medicine” theory.

In the Battle of Wits, Vizzini (Wallace Shawn) and the Man in Black (Cary Elwes) drink from glasses of wine, one of which (if the Man in Black hadn’t cheated) contains deadly iocaine powder. This is the result:

Now, Wallace Shawn does everything right here. He switches glasses when the other guy isn’t looking, he stalls, and he insults Socrates. All well played. And after drinking the poison, he does one thing that should, in theory, save his life. He laughs. The outcome? “Ahahaha—” thud.

I think this sums up my point perfectly. Laughter’s fine and all, but when it comes down to it, you’re better off trusting western medicine and not drinking poison.

Disclaimer: None of the above, of course, applies to this blog, which has been known to boost immunity, add joy and zest to life, and induce labor.

This week, I have a new role: nurse.

I knew last Saturday that I was getting sick. Perhaps I should have spent the day resting and sipping orange juice, but no, I waited until I had a full-on sinus infection that brought me to my knees, begging for relief from the pain, before I stopped to take care of myself.
Having been told numerous times by doctors that if one's sinus infection is viral, antibiotics won't help, I turned to the internet for some home remedies to ease my suffering. Apple cider vinegar was being touted as a cure for sinusitis. I had distilled white vinegar, which I figured was close enough, so I kept reading. The home remedy expert suggested stirring two tablespoons of vinegar with salt in eight ounces of water and either sipping it or using it as a nasal spray. I contemplated using my turkey baster as a nasal mister, but as that sounded uncomfortable and a little icky, I nixed the thought. But I certainly didn't want to sip my vinegar, either. I mean, gross, right? However, I was well aware of another effective method of consuming unpleasant liquids in order to obtain a desired effect. I went to college, after all. I dug out an old shot glass, dipped the rim in salt, and started doing vinegar shots every two hours.
This did help my sinuses, surprisingly enough. However, the heartburn soon became unbearable. I went back to my online home remedy expert for relief.
Aloe was recommended for this particular ailment. They mentioned a specific kind of aloe juice that you can buy, but I wasn't going to waste my money when I had a perfectly good aloe plant here at home. I broke off a spine and started chewing. Soon, the waves of pain in my stomach and throat started to ease. However, it turns out that aloe is a natural laxative.
Back to the home remedy website, and fast! They recommended yogurt for this particular problem. Fine. I inhaled a pint and waited. My innards slowly seemed to settle down, but now I had another problem.
You know what's really bad for a sinus infection? Yogurt. It's clumpy and thick and makes you feel like you can't breathe. I was back to square one, and really, not feeling well at all. I felt like I'd spent the day eating weird stuff, and I was still tired, feverish, and now I couldn't breathe well.
I looked around the kitchen. The vinegar was still out, sitting next to the shot glass. My aloe plant had been decimated, and the sight of the empty yogurt tub made me want to hurl. On top of the refrigerator, though, was a little orange box, winking at me. There it was, that teasing little devil. A box of DayQuil Sinex, mocking me. I ripped open the child-proof seal with my teeth and started popping capsules.
DayQuil: home remedy of champions.

Happy Thanksgiving!
I hope everyone's turkey day was better than mine. I've been fighting a cold that my husband gave me, and spent the day in bed napping and watching the first four Puppetmaster movies.
As I lay in bed, rubbing Ben Gay on my chest because I couldn't find the Vapo-Rub, I thought about what my family might be up to at that very moment. Dad, of course, would be eating all of the shrimp cocktail, while Mom ran around trying to get dinner ready for 2 PM. This, of course, would be a ridiculous goal, as she only has two ovens and six burners to get two turkeys and 23 different side dishes prepared and all hot at the same time at 2 PM. My sister would be sipping coffee and consoling my brother-in-law, who would not have seen any deer when hunting at 4 AM with my father. (This is not unusual. Nobody, not even deer, want to be up at 4 AM on Thanksgiving Day, trekking around in the woods in the freezing cold, something the hunters in my family haven't seemed to learn yet.) My Aunt Joanne would be playing with my two nephews until their cousins arrived, allowing her to collapse by the cheese-and-crackers tray and catch her breath until the kids realized they would need an umpire/goalie/floating player for their kickball game. (Why the boys buy my "sorry, I'm just too old" excuse while my aunt trots out there in 40 degree weather, kicking balls and stealing bases, is beyond me.) My sister's in-laws, whom we have all adopted as our extended family and share holidays with, would arrive with corn pudding and two casserole plates full of cheesy potatoes. Will Martha notice that she has more leftovers than usual this year, since I often consume most of one casserole dish of cheesy potatoes all by my self? Will my mother save me some, or is she the other cheesy potato over-indulger in our family? I might have to get out of bed and drag my feverish, coughing body over there right now!
My attempt to crawl out of bed, shower, and head over to my parents' house fails when I cough so hard that one of my lungs actually dislodges from my chest cavity, travels up my throat, and flies across the room, landing with a messy "splat" on Pugsley the cat. Okay, I get it. No cheesy potatoes for me today.
Sadly, my family had a wonderful Thanksgiving without me while I slurped on turkey soup and watched stringless puppets attack and kill bad people. I was hoping for a little wailing and "Why, oh why, can't Stacey be here with us? It's not fair, God!" 
But no. The report from Mom later that night was that everyone had a lovely time. Not one tear shed over my absence. 
The good news is, Mom saved me a plateful of cheesy potatoes. So the holiday wasn't a total bust.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

f you're overdue for your annual physical, my advice to you is to never go back to the doctor again. As long as you feel fine, there's no reason for those pesky blood tests and prostate exams. Because if you do feel fine, and you go because you figure 'what's the worst that can happen?' your doctor will be happy to give you a laundry list. And it will be much, much worse than you imagined.
When I went for my physical back in May, I felt fine. Sure, I was coughing at night, and my knee ached a little, but I figured things would improve once allergy season was over, and we stopped having rain every other day. Not so, my doctor warned. I was probably about to keel over. She sent me to an allergist, an orthopedic specialist, and a pulmonologist. Apparently, I was falling apart and I didn't even know it!
It turns out I'm moderately allergic to dust mites, to the point where I now have dust mite-induced asthma. I packed my informative pamphlet and my brand new inhaler in my purse and moved on. While waiting for the orthopaedist, I read my pamphlet, and found out it's dust mite feces that contains the allergens, which doesn't say much for my housekeeping, since I've been coughing my brains out for months. The orthopaedist called me in, took a look at my knee, and told me I needed kneecap replacement surgery. But not yet, because you can only get three in a lifetime, and they only last for 15 years. So I would have to live with the pain and wait until it got so bad that I couldn't climb up a flight of stairs on my own. My dreams of setting off metal detectors every time I went to the mall vanished. Feeling pretty low, I went on to the pulmonologist, forgetting that I didn't need him anymore since I already knew why I was coughing.
The pulmonologist felt that it would be ridiculous for him to waste a good co-pay, so he sat me down, confirmed that I shouldn't be breathing in microscopic spider poo, and then tested my cholesterol for fun. After eating nothing but oatmeal and produce for three months, I'd managed to raise my cholesterol by 10 points. He called the orthopaedist, who conferenced in the allergist and my primary care physician, and they all agreed on the same diagnosis: I'm fat. THIS is what's causing my knee, lung, and cholesterol issues. 
I felt like whipping out a picture of myself from 2004 and saying "you want to see fat? I've BEEN fat!" but I restrained myself. I smiled, thanked him, and left the office, tossing my dust mite pamphlet in the trash as I left. Two weeks earlier, I had occasionally had an achy knee before it rained, coughing because of ragweed, and most importantly, I was skinny.
It's clear what the source of all of my problems is. I never should have picked up the phone when they called to schedule my annual physical.

Up until my recent injury, I was known in my family as quite the athlete.  My full-on sprint for 1.14 miles (which, coincidentally, is the exact distance from West Side Road to the Block Island Grocery, and occurred on March 6, 1997, the exact date when the BI Grocery placed Double Stuf Oreos on sale for the first time) is legendary.  I have been known to swim a jellyfish obstacle course along 3 miles of beach (to beat the lines to the concession stand the time they first introduced root beer flavored Icees) and to box six rounds before taking Lennox Lewis down (he wouldn’t leggo my Eggo, and hell hath no fury like a woman who wants her breakfast.)

I used to faithfully go to the gym every Thursday night, from 10-11 PM.  See, they have three televisions there, and it was the only way I could watch The Mentalist, The Apprentice, and Private Practice at the same time.  I’d grab my popcorn and my smoothie and park myself on the treadmill that had the best view of all three sets.  It’s a little uncomfortable sitting cross-legged on a treadmill, and the other two people who would be at the gym at that ungodly hour would give me dirty looks, but I figured they couldn’t say much because at least I was eating healthy snacks.  (Okay, I will admit it now, my smoothie recipe calls for strawberry ice cream instead of fresh fruit, but those crazy exercise fanatics at the gym didn’t know that.  Unless the bottle of chocolate syrup gave it away.)

But alas, since chipping off pieces of my kneecap, I have been unable to continue my athletic pursuits.  It’s been a real heartbreaker, as I had to give up one of my Thursday night shows (luckily, The Apprentice stunk like a bag of week-old chicken bones, so the decision was easy). Now I have to tape Private Practice on the DVR while watching Patrick Jayne, all from the trappings of my luxurious bed.  Sure, it’s annoying to have to snap my fingers and ask Jason to bring me another smoothie every 15 minutes, since he doesn’t have the speed and agility I did in my athletic days, and he seems to have a real attitude about it.  I had to send him back to the blender twice last week because he forgot the chocolate syrup.

I suppose my triathlon days are over (you know, jogging for cookies, swimming through jellyfish, and biking – ah, who am I kidding?  I haven’t sat on a bike in years.)  It’s been a rough adjustment, but I’m trying to be brave.

*snap* *snap* Oh, darling! Another smoothie!  Pronto!

When you suddenly lose the use of one of your knees due to your misplaced confidence in your ice skating abilities, you gain a whole new outlook on life.  Personally, I now have a healthy appreciation for the fragility of the human body, and have already vowed to live my life a little more carefully.  Sure, I was never one to run a marathon pre-injury, but in the past, Ihad been known to sprint through the grocery store when Ben & Jerry's pints were announced as the manager's special sale of the day.  In the future, I will be sure to walk, not run, to thefrozen food aisle.  It will not be the end of the world if I get there too late to clean them out of Cherry Garcia.  I will simply buy up all of the Chunky Monkey instead and be happy with that.  And I vow to be nice to all of the rabid ladies who ignored the "slippery when wet" signs who will surely be crying as they writhe on the floor, clutching their twisted knees along with their pints of Chubby Hubby.  Smug self-righteousness is no excuse for losing one's ability to empathize, I always say.
Don't judge me.  Ever since being hobbled, I dream about things like ice cream sales a lot.  I have a great deal of time on my hands, and not much to do with it.  For instance, I took a couple of hours the other day to come up with this list of things I miss doing:
1.  Shaving my legs
2.  Standing upright unassisted
3.  Putting on shoes all by my self
4.  Painting my toenails
5.  Wearing pants that fit and look nice, not all loose and 'leg brace lumpy'
6.  Driving a car
7.  Watching a hockey game without wincing or screaming "Slow down before you hurt yourself, for the love of God!" at the television
8.  Going to the bathroom alone
9.  Cooking a meal (this, of course, requires me to be able to do item #2 on this list)
10. Make it through the day without weeping

So for all of you out there who are feeling superior because you have two good knees that bend at will, take this column as a warning: danger lurks where you least expect it.  That innocent-looking treadmill could be an agent of doom.  Walking down the driveway to get the mail could be dangerous and a horrible risk to your well-being. In fact, any sort of exercise is hazardous to your health.  If you really want to be healthy, my best advice is to stay in bed and enjoy a pint of Ben & Jerry'sin the safety of your own home.  The frozen yogurt variety, of course - we are on a health kick here, after all!

Sunday was a beautiful, albeit bitterly cold day. Jason was excited about his latest reporting assignment, a feature on recreational ice skating. We headed out to the hockey arena, looking forward to an afternoon of skating before going out with my in-laws to dinner and a play that evening.

Apparently, we were too caught up in the excitement of the day to smell the stink of disaster that hung in the air.

We rented our skates, joked about needing padding for our behinds, and headed out onto the ice.  Twenty minutes later, I was surrounded by concerned staff (one who was looking a little sick), wondering how my kneecap had managed to make its way to the back of my knee.

The helpful doctors at the hospital ER confirmed something I had already started to suspect:  ice skating is nothing like riding a bicycle.  You do forget, it will not come back to you right away, and anyone over the age of 21 should not attempt it at home.

That’s right.  For my 38th birthday, I found myself on crutches, with my knee so swollen that the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man’s legs look like a Rockette’s compared to mine.

I’ve had better birthdays.

Nothing is broken (except my ego), but I won’t know if I’ve torn my meniscus until the swelling goes down, which has yet to happen. I’ve quickly realized how fortunate I was in the past to be able to do things like carry a cup of coffee on my own or go to the bathroom without asking my coworkers to help me with the doors (those locks on the stalls can be tricky with crutches!)  It’s very humbling to have to ask my friends to help me up the stairs or to microwave my lunch for me.  Poor Jason has had to help me dress myself, tie my shoes, and maneuver up and down the stairs.  My birthday was particularly tough, and when I hobbled home that night, I had a mild case of crybabyitis, followed by a bout of feeling sorry for myself. 

Things perked up quickly, though.  Jason had stopped by his parents’ house that day, and his mother sent him home with dinner for the two of us, which officially qualifies her as a saint in my book.  My mother called me and let me wallow in self pity for a little while, which was really all I needed – someone to confirm for me that the whole situation did indeed suck, but that this too shall pass.  And then Jason surprised me with my birthday gift – two volumes of Bloom County and a pound of Munson’s chocolates, which worked wonders to improve my mood.  I was going to be all right after all.

So the lesson for today, boys and girls, is that if you are even thinking that although you haven’t been ice skating in 25 years, it might be fun to try again, DON’T do it.  It won’t be fun and you will wind up with legs like the ones pictured below.  Sure, it will be amusing when your nephews want to bring in photos of your injury for show-and-tell at school, but other than that, it really isn’t worth it.

The other lesson is that good chocolates, funny comic strips, and great family and friends can cure any ailment.

Now where is Jason with my @!$!! coffee?

I’ve been experiencing back pain for almost two weeks now. At first, I thought I’d tweaked my back doing housework, but ice, heat, and Tylenol did nothing to help the pain, which was getting worse. Finally, on Tuesday, after stepping outside to scream for a full three minutes in the hopes that that would help with the pain, I finally went to the doctor. Diagnosis: kidney stones.

I’ve heard that the pain of kidney stones is similar to that of giving birth. I really wouldn’t know, now that I am on the BEST PAINKILLERS EVER.

When I took one Tuesday afternoon all I wanted was to ease the agony in my side. I was thrilled when the pain actually went away. I was absolutely giddy with happiness. This giddiness may have been a side effect of the medication. I pretty much giggled at everything that day. Oh, and I also forgot where I lived.

The next day, Jason and I had planned on a trip to Boston. I decided I was still up for it, now that I was feeling no pain. Our first stop was the John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, which was awesome. I think. I’d like to say it was my emotional attachment to all things Kennedy that caused me to weep all the way through the museum, and not just the drugs. I broke down sobbing when I saw Bobby Kennedy’s ashtray. I’m sure that would have brought me to tears even if I wasn’t on painkillers.

We made it through the rest of the day without any other side effects, except that I confused spanikopita with baklava at the Greek deli in Quincy Market. Imagine my surprise when I bit in to the phyllo dough expecting walnuts and honey and got a mouthful of spinach and feta. I have to imagine it myself, because I honestly didn’t notice the difference until Jason told me I had spinach in my teeth.  

Thursday brought about the Hebron Fair. I hadn't taken any painkillers before this event in an effort to see if I had passed the stone yet, but my howling with every footstep was distracting the other patrons, so I took another pill. We proceeded to watch the best demolition derby ever, which was strange, because usually those things bore me to death. One car was painted to look like a Holstein! I chuckled for hours thinking of that guy. Moooo!

At one point, Jason clocked me in the head by accident with the folding chairs he was carrying. I didn’t feel a thing.

The doctor says I should pass the stone within a week. Jason says it can’t happen soon enough. What ever. Wait.  Where am I?