Nobody Knows Anything

Welcome to Diane Patterson's eclectic blog about what strikes her fancy

Seeing the hypnotherapist

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For decades — since I was 10 years old — I either bitten or picked at my nails. I’ve rarely had nails that had any white area to them at all. And when I say rarely I mean probably all told less than a year’s worth of having decent nails. For most of college and some time after I used to bite the cuticles until they bled. (Thank God I managed to kick that habit.) Periodically I would leave my nails and cuticles alone, even to the point of having “nice” nails, but the second anything happened, like a crack or a chip or boredom or a scary movie… Boom! Nail death. 

In January, while we were on a trip, I looked at my nails and discovered they were fairly long. Well, fairly long for me. I thought, Oh hey, they’re looking really good! And you know what happened next, right? Of course you do. Within a day, I had bitten or picked every single one off. And I kept destroying my nails periodically, just like always.

A couple of months ago the frustration built to the point where I’d try anything. I sent out a plaintive plea for friends, neighbors, whoever: had anyone in this area seen a hypnotherapist they could recommend? 

Several friends replied to my query with things like, “Get a manicure!” Trust me, I’ve had hundreds of manicures. I also own 100+ bottles of nail polish, which has led me to keep my nails polished and looking good…and then something happens and I destroy them. 

I’ve also tried that yucky-nail-liquid stuff, but a)you get used the taste (yeah, you do) and b)I pick at my nails even more than I bite them. 

~ § ~

I’ve been interested in hypnosis for a long time: I probably have 5 or 6 books on the subject. There are lots of common misunderstandings about hypnosis. The obvious one is that you can be made to do anything the hypnotist wants (um, no) and that you’re asleep (no) and that it’s all nonsense and nothing really happens.

Something happens. Something definitely happens.

I can’t tell you what, though. I am what hypnotherapists call a somnambulist — apparently I go deep almost every time when I am hypnotized. This is common for writers, who are used to being lost in their imaginations. If I listen to a “relaxation” tape, I hear the beginning of the tape, and then I hear the voice calling numbers bringing me out of the trance. I remember absolutely nothing in between. 

I’ve seen seen hypnotherapists before. I saw one in LA when I was trying to lose weight after Simon was born — I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but he was an older gentleman in Sherman Oaks (he had great-grandchildren) who could put me out just by talking to me. Seriously. There are people out there who can do that. It was fun seeing him, but I don’t think he helped with my weight problem any. I probably saw him twice, and then I got caught up in the move and didn’t follow through.

I met another one here in Los Gatos, and while I found the sessions very relaxing, I don’t think I changed my life as a result. But I don’t think I had a specific enough goal in mind. 

This time I had a very, very, very specific problem. One that I would know right away if the therapy were working or not. And desperate people will do desperate things. 

~ § ~

I looked on Yelp and found lots of NLP people near me. I know, I’m probably unfairly biased, but NLP was a huge thing in this area in the late 80s and the way it sank its tentacles into everyone I knew made me crazy. Probably because every single person I knew who took an NLP class and raved about how it changed their life either was a complete asshole or was the same fuck-up they’d been before taking the NLP class. So no to the NLP practitioners.

I checked for hypnotherapists and found a couple in Saratoga. I think I called a couple and left messages. The first one who called me was Julie Herman, in Saratoga. “Hypnosis can definitely help you with that problem,” she said. Four session minimum. 

Okay, I said. 

The first session we just talked. We talked about when the problem started (when I was 10 years old and had just moved to San Francisco and started in a new school…hey, it’s not like I don’t know where these tics come from). 

In the week between the first and second sessions, Sophia and I went for manicures. Sophia tends to have very long nails — I have to trim them to keep her from scratching herself or other people accidentally. (This has never been a problem for me.)

At the second session, I was still in the “nice” phase of the manicure. At this session, Julie put me into a light hypnotic trance. We went back to when I was 10 and had just moved to San Francisco and she asked me about a few things. It was a very traumatic year for a lot of reasons, and as I talked about it I started crying. Or rather, my eyes started producing tears, but my face didn’t scrunch up, I didn’t sob, I didn’t do anything. I continued to talk, and water started appearing. It’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced.

(Next time you cry, even if it’s just from cutting onions, notice how many muscles on your face have to move to let that happen. Now imagine the muscles of your face are absolutely not helping out in any way whatsoever.)

When I came in for the third session, I showed Julie my nails. The polish had begun to flake and peel, and I’d scratched at one nail a bit. Julie said, “Diane, everyone picks at peeling nail polish! The second that happens, get nail polish remover and get the polish off!” 

I said, “I didn’t take it off specifically to show you that this is all I’ve done to them. Generally the second I start picking at my nails, it’s mere seconds until I’ve peeled off all the nail polish and destroyed my nails to boot. I know this looks terrible, but this is actually progress for me.”

The third session was also a light trance, because I needed to respond to some questions she asked me.

The fourth session we did a heavier trance, so I lay down. I remember almost nothing about that session, other than the fact that the induction involved my watching the numbers on an old-fashioned elevator with one of those arms that would move from number to number.

Since the first time I had seen Julie, I hadn’t bitten or picked at my nails once. I did keep playing with them though — running my thumb over the edges, obsessively checking underneath for cleanliness, etc. I asked Julie about this and she said that was normal: I was in the process of adjusting to my new behavior and was in the “consciously competent” phase. After a while, I would graduate to “unconsciously competent” — I would be able to maintain my nails without thinking about them all the time.

I hoped she was right. Because it was time to go on vacation.

~ § ~

I packed nail polishes and emery boards. I packed cotton swabs. By the way, it turns out the TSA didn’t steal my nail polish remover; I had left it underneath the sink and forgotten to pack it. <cue scary music> But it turns out Canada has nail polish remover (Who knew, am I right? Turns out they have electricity too!), so that was cool. Things actually seemed like they were going to be fine. 

Then my nail cracked. A big crack.

And I thought, “That’s it. I’m going to lose all of my progress now.” 

But I decided to give saving the nail my best shot. First I picked off as much of the cracked nail as I had to (the crack was such that it was in danger of snagging on things), and then I rubbed on the edge to make it blunter and less rough. Hours later (because I’d forgotten my emery boards, natch) I filed the nail down.

Without destroying any of the other nails. 

I considered that this process was actually going to work. 

~ § ~

It’s been two months since I first visited Julie. And as I noted on my Twitter feed earlier tonight, my nails are so long I’m having trouble taking my contacts out. Scrrrraaaaaape on the eyeball. Yeah. I can still use an iPhone (I hear that long nails can be a problem with them). I did have an unfortunate incident the other day of using my nails to dig into skin, but it was my own skin. And wow, does that hurt. Jesus, these things are deadly.

I’ve started making lists for other issues I might be able to use hypnotherapy for, the kinds of things that get tangible real-world results (so I can see whether or not it’s working). 

The first one might have to be a hypnosis session convincing me it’s okay to keep my nails just a wee bit shorter.

My new car

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One day, a few years ago, before we even started the remodel, the four of us were up in San Francisco for the day. After we had a fabulous lunch in the Marina district, we were driving to Fisherman’s Wharf, intent on getting get sundaes at Ghirardelli.

On Van Ness Avenue, I said, “I think I’m having a midlife crisis.”

“You…wait, what?” Darin said.

“I want to buy a convertible.”

“Okay, for one thing, that is a not a midlife crisis, that is just…wanting a change of pace. For another thing, don’t call it a midlife crisis, that had me in another conversation entirely. And for another, convertibles are a pain in the ass. Why would you want a convertible?”

“Dunno,” I said. “I just suddenly do. I was looking at some cars going by recently and I thought, ‘I’d really like to drive around in a convertible.'”

“Well, you’ve had the Odyssey for several years now, maybe it’s time to think about getting a new car.”

“I don’t want a new car. The Odyssey is a great car. It’s just that I want a convertible. Everybody I know has had a convertible.”

“Yes, and then they all got rid of their convertibles and bought good cars.”

“You have a point there.”

“Do you know what kind of convertible you want?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I want an SL 500.”

From the look on Darin’s face, I could tell he was rethinking the whole “midlife crisis” analysis.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I don’t want to get one right now. I’m just thinking about it.”

Which is part of the reason that after this conversation I didn’t push the issue. I often get weird obsessions about things, and over time they would fade. Probably, most likely, almost certainly, this would happen too.

Or, you know… maybe not…

 

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That pain in my chest

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Monday morning I was sitting in bed, reading the news on the iPad, when I felt a pain on my left side. Not a sharp pain. Much more like the pains I used to get when I was younger and my chest would constrict and I would have to take very deep breaths to expand the muscle.

I ran some errands and then I went to the gym to lift weights. My chest felt fine…except when I lay down to do the chest press. Mind you, actually doing the chest press felt fine — in fact, the pain went away when I did lifted the barbell. When I was just laying there, though, the pain intensified.

Weird.

I made dinner (fish fillets, cheesy orzo, and salad). We watched Buffy. I went to bed. The pain was worse, but I figured a good night’s sleep would help.

At 3am, I woke up with some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I’ve had two babies. A couple of times I actually felt my heart beat arrhythmically (not the first time I’ve felt that — my heart can be a little weird), but combined with the pain it was terrifying. Getting out of the bed was excruciatingly painful. I wondered if I should drive myself to the ER. I decided that wondering if I should go to the ER without waking Darin meant I still thought I had a choice in the matter, so I dug through the medicine cabinet, found some five-year-old Vicodin, and went back to bed.

In the morning the doctor’s office told me to come in immediately. The doctor asked if I was having shortness of breath, and I said the problem I was having with breathing was that it hurt to expand my chest, not that my breathing was impeded in any way. Then she asked me if I’d been on a plane recently (“Um…early January?”) or if I’d had a cold recently (“Nope”). The nurse gave me an EKG. The doctor read it and said, “The good news is you haven’t had a heart attack. The bad news is your heart is really angry about something, so I’d like you to get a CT scan.” The nurse scheduled the scan for me at a local MRI/CT place.

On the form the doctor had written “Pulmonary embolism?” The question mark did not reduce the anxiety I was having.

The top of my list of errands was: go to AAA, tell them I’d bought a new car, ask what rates they were going to offer me. But I didn’t feel much in the mood. I sat in the AAA office and did searches on “embolisms.” After a few minutes I decided that my current insurance would cover the new car until I could work out the messy details and headed home, had some lunch, and waited for my appointment.

CT scans are slightly different than MRI machines — you’re not totally encased in a scary coffin (I’m not claustrophobic and the MRI machine scared the crap out of me), but you’re inserted in this giant tube that whirls around you. The technician puts a catheter in your arm to inject you with the fluid that shows up on the scan. You have to hold your breath. It’s a deeply unpleasant experience all around.

When I got on the table I told the tech I needed help lying down. He asked me when the last time I ate was, and I said, “About an hour ago.”

“You have to fast for this. We can reschedule.”

“Can you find out if that’s true?” I asked. “Because I really need this test done today.”

The doctor in charge said I could do the test, but I should have a basin nearby in case I tossed my cookies. Then the tech said I needed to raise my arms above my head. I couldn’t do it. Raising my left arm was incredibly painful; letting it drop by my head felt like someone was knifing me in the side. He tucked a pillow under the arm so it wouldn’t have to drop all the way back. We did the test and at the end the tech had to lift me off of the table. Had I really gone to the gym and done my full workout on Monday? I could barely move.

I called the doctor’s office an hour after the test. Then an hour and a half later. Still no word. The pain in my chest was much, much worse, possibly because of the whole left-arm-over-the-head thing. The nurse finally called me back at 4:30.

“The scan was clear,” she said. “We’ll phone in a prescription for Vicodin.”

“Could you ask the doctor to look at it again? Because I am having the worst pain of my entire life.”

She said she’d call me back.

She did and said the doctor was absolutely certain about the scan. Chances were very high I had a pleurisy (an inflammation of the lungs), the kind of thing you usually get when you have a cold.

This pain was much worse than I could remember having from a chest cold. “Is there anything else could it be?” I asked.

The nurse said if the pain continued I would have to come in again and run some more tests. Awesome.

I went to the pharmacy, where I got my five dollar bottle of Vicodin pills (which might have greater efficacy than the five-year-old kind). The pharmacist had to give me a consult, so she could explain how to use it and what to be cautious of. “Any questions?” she asked.

“Yes. Why is this drug considered ‘fun’? I’ve taken it before, I don’t get get why it’s fun.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “It just puts me to sleep.”

We got Chinese takeout last night and I took my drugs. Generally painkillers don’t work for me (which is why I never think to take them), but I could definitely feel the difference when I took the Vicodin. We watched Buffy and then the series premiere of Angel, and I remembered how much I didn’t like Angel as a character on Buffy, but loved him on his own show.

There’s a scene where Doyle explains why he’s there helping Angel, and his speech includes a recap of everything we know about Angel’s life.

“Why is Doyle telling Angel stuff he clearly already knows?” I asked the kids.

“Because viewers might not know about it,” Sophia said.

“That’s what I was going to say!” Simon said.

My kids are awesome.

After that I went to bed, which was difficult because moving too suddenly brought the pain back. I woke up in the middle of the night and took more Vicodin.

This morning the pain has lessened a great deal. If it had felt like this yesterday, I wouldn’t have called the doctor in such a panic. I’ve taken my Aleve (the Vicodin can wait until I’m sure I don’t need to operate a car). And I am really grateful I have access to such great medical care when I need it.

Not a few times yesterday I wondered what I would have done if I didn’t have insurance. Or if I’d been afraid of being fired because I was going to miss a day of work. Heck, lots of employed people are experiencing the joy of no health insurance. I’m guessing I would have put off a visit to the ER until I’d been sure I was dying. And if it had been a pulmonary embolism (which you need to deal with immediately), I probably wouldn’t have gotten that far.

Our society needs to figure out what our priorities are.