Prescription Piece #001

All of my time spent in doctors offices and hospital rooms consolidated over the years would probably get me a quality medical degree, or at least one from WebMD. I should be a doctor, but no one wants a doctor that would rather be reading Vogue than their patient's medical records (and would openly admit it). So I bring to you, what I am licensed to prescribe in all 50 states....PRESCRIPTION PIECES - pieces to stop the pain and start the gain.

 

The perfect winter boots, no? I'm from Chicago so New York winters are like Tropical vacations to me. Growing up, the staple to every winter wardrobe was a sensible pair of winter boots. Now, this year I chose to go the practical route with some duck boots. I call them my lumberjack boots, bought to appease the slumbering lumberjack inside of me. They get the job done, but these beauties are definitely the better choice. If only they came in a tranny size 13. Think about it, a major part of staying healthy in the winter is staying warm, these boots look warm so they probably are and they have spiked soles to stomp those winter blues away. Just because the weather forces you to be practical, doesn't mean you have to give up what's pleasing to the eye. Unfortunately, they do not come in a tranny size 13 and yours truly is once again left envious, drooling over the artistry and craftsmanship that goes into women's shoemaking. They used to be on sale at SSENSE, but I guess too many people were effected by the allure of the Viktor & Rolf Ankle Wedge Bootie and they sold out. I beg of you, someone out there, find these so that I may live vicariously through you.

If you can't get your hands on this exact pair, try the nice spring alternate, Viktor & Rolf Leather Platform Heels (right). Perfect for getting through all that spring rain slip free. Or the other, less-cute-but-still-grasps-the-concept Viktor & Rolf Fur Lined Ankle Wedge (left).

They're doing wonderful things over there at Viktor and Rolf.

www.ssense.com
www.lagarconne.com

Count Backwards from 100

*The following post was written weeks ago in anticipation of this blog's launch. Although dated, I still feel it encapsulates all the anxieties of waiting to be put under for surgery, whether major or minor. 

January 20, 2011

I have surgery later today at 1pm. My nervousness comes in spurts, kind of like the hiccups. I know I am in capable, well-manicured hands with Dr. P, but it’s still surgery. SURGERY. In anticipation of the blessed event, I’ve casually mentioned to a few relatives and close friends that “I’m having surgery on the 20^th” just as if I were saying “No, I don’t really like butter on my toast” or “The weather man said it was going to be 32 degrees today”. They always marvel at my cavalier attitude, but when you’re well-versed in such medical matters nothing, not even a little surgery, can phase you – for the most part. There’s always that fear that the anesthesia will wear off and I’ll wake up during my surgery to find that I can’t move or speak, only feel the pain of the knife carving my flesh like in the episode of every medical television drama ever broadcast. Or that the surgeon’s will operate on the wrong appendage. Maybe I should take a sharpie to my right leg and write “Cut Here”. Every little bit helps.

I haven’t heard many specifics about Dr. P's surgical talents, just that she's supposed to be "really good". That's what everyone says about her, as though "she's really good" became her new last name once she graduated from medical school. "Over there? That's  Dr. P She's Really Good". I am a fan of her bedside manner though, or rather, just the way she handles me. I can tell she can tell I’m a human and not just a slab of meat with a pulse brought to soothe her experimental whims. Her calm demeanor causes me to think she’s a skilled professional. Of course she could be a complete sociopath with the shakes, but it's a little too late for reservations, the surgery is already scheduled. I trust Dr. P, I do. She wears sensible pantsuits with wide leg trousers and has long jet-black hair that she always keeps in a ponytail. She could sell some of it to supplement her income, if times got rough. But hell, she doesn't need to supplement her income. She's a plastic surgeon, times will never be rough. The entertainment industry and teenage girls with low self-esteem will keep her employed for a long long time.

I love to start sentences with “My plastic surgeon says”. It makes me feel like a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills, like I have confrontational dinner parties and carry an impossibly small dog. My plastic surgeon says this is a simple procedure.

For the record, I’m not going in to get my face lifted or my jowls sculpted or even that gender reassignment surgery I’ve been contemplating (kidding). When walking first became a problem, I had a muscle biopsy on my right leg done in October and because I take Prednisone and Imuran (two drugs designed to weaken my immune system and therefore quiet my buffet of autoimmune diseases), it hasn’t healed. The results of the biopsy were inconclusive, I might add. My rheumatologists called me to say they had no idea what was going on. The biopsy was for nothing. So I’ve just had this slowly degrading hole in my leg for the past 3 months.

Apparently, plastic surgeons like Dr. P have a better grasp on how and where to cut in order to promote optimum healing. The plan is to have her nip and tuck today so that I can spend the next 4 weeks attached to a wound vac, 24/7. The vac creates a negative pressure atmosphere where blood and other healing nutrients are literally pulled towards the surface. They work miracles. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It’s just different when it’s you.

The somewhat good news about all of this is that I am being admitted to the hospital for observation for a day and in the hospital they give you the good painkillers. The bad part is that I’ll be in worlds of pain and will actually need them.

My surgery is in a couple of hours. I really want to make sure this wound heals cute. I don't need any children pointing or screaming in horror at my leg, the Frankenstein of healed wounds. I already have my speech prepared:

Surgical Staff –

I needn’t remind you that spring and summer are upon us. In case you may have not noticed I have staggeringly long legs and, as such, like to show them off in the warmer months. Therefore, I would most appreciate it if you took careful consideration with your incisions so as to ensure that the wound heal in the most attractive of ways. I’m already eyeing a pair of lime green shorts from ASOS, and would hate to have to forgo their purchase because of a dirty reminder of days past.

Thank you very much.

*The good news is that in the weeks since I've had my surgery my leg has been healing very nicely. In less than a month it should be completely healed and I can get rid of this gurgling wound vac (it makes little fart noises). So I have that to be excited about. 

The Queer Eye

I was getting my haircut a few days ago and I mentioned to my hairdresser that I loved her hair and that part of the reason why I keep coming back is that she seems like she has so much control over it. She blushed, and as her scissors attacked my split ends she told me she loved it when gay men compliment her because “they’re such fashionistas”. She then went on to say, “that’s like the ultimate compliment, when a gay guy compliments you”. I wanted to tell her not to believe the hype, that she couldn’t be further from the truth, and that, put simply, most gay men are a hot ass mess. But I couldn’t. You don’t just tell a three year-old that Santa Claus doesn't exist. And if I ripped the lid off of that one for you I really do apologize.

At one point did society just assume that all gay men are fashionable? Sure, there are some, but not the entire gay population as a whole. Homosexuality does not a stylist make. Most of the gay men I know are horribly garish and though I love a good padded shoulder, sequin, and armful of gold jewelry, that's not what I believe fashion is about. To me, it’s about finding the right piece for the right moment, making a statement, creating a character, not strapping caution tape to your chest and calling yourself "fashion-forward". The myth breeds these ill-equipped gay men thinking “I can be a stylist” or “I can be a designer” and they are released into the world to wreak havoc and to perpetuate stereotypes that paint them as God’s gift to fashion.

I think women and society at large become blinded by the fact that most of these guys can list designer names without end. That doesn’t mean they know a lot about fashion, that just means they like to shop. Ask them about Elsa Schiaperelli, Madeleine Vionnet, Paco Rabanne, or Charles Frederick Worth and I’m sure they will nervously change the subject to how much they love your shade of nail polish.

There are gay men who are more than capable of offering style advice, but like anything else truly genuine and valuable, they are rare; rare, but not entirely impossible to find. They are the editors of publications, the designers with a fresh voice and the seasoned professionals, the gay men with restraint. They don’t even have to be famous. Trust them, not every Justin, Tristan, or Robbie in a tube top with a bow on their head. Otherwise you just end up looking loud. Not cute. Loud.

Unfortunately, there are women out there who require the assistance of a stylist. They just can’t dress themselves, there’s no getting around it. If you do need a gay man to dress you, find one in a controlled setting – the fashion section of a library or bookstore, an upscale department store – don’t go patrolling around just any gay club, waiting for last call so the drunken messes can be thrown into the street and later picked up by you.

You should want to look nice. You should attract compliments. And when dressing, a compliment is always better than a reaction.

New Year , New Blog

It is, in fact, a new year. And in the midst of all these revisions, revitalizations, and renewals, I find myself battling another re word – reevaluation, that is. In the New Year, I have been reevaluating my health situation – where I’ve been, where I am now, and what it will take to get me better – and I finally had to come to terms with the fact that my current methods just aren’t working. I have overlap syndrome, a series of autoimmune diseases that sort of build on each other. Most people have an immune system that works for them, mine works against me. And when even your own body is working against you, it is tough to put up a good fight. Rheumatoid arthritis, dermatomyositis, vasculitis, osteoporosis, pulmonary fibrosis and more recently, osteonecrosis, reads the laundry list of illnesses I have to spew whenever a medical professional asks me about my “medical conditions”.

For the past seven years I’ve avoided any discussion of my health as if complete denial was a cure. If I ignore it, it will go away. All these years of ignoring have taught me that the disease just gets louder. It screams, knocks down doors, and bursts windows until you eventually acknowledge it. Positively or negatively, it doesn’t matter, just as long as it knows that you know it’s there. And so, the New Year came and I decided no more hiding. No more going around corners, taking shortcuts, diverting the conversation. The only way to tackle this thing is head on.

Part of my problem is that I just don’t talk about my illness for fear of making people uncomfortable. I don’t want to be that person, the sick person that makes everyone miserable with talk of treatments and procedures and side effects. I want to be like everyone else, or at least masquerade as a face in the crowd. It has taken me this long to realize that this journey, my healing, is just that – my healing. It has nothing to do with anyone else or their interpretation of the situation. This is my reality. It is not my life, but it is my reality. In order to truly heal, I need to talk about it. I need to be able to say, “Today, everything is sore and I feel like shit.” I need to say, “I’m exhausted from the fighting”. I need to be able to cry, if anything just to let it out. When people ask me how I’m feeling or what I’ve been up to lately, I need to feel that I can be honest and not have anyone flee in horror.

I thought and thought and finally settled on a blog as my outlet. But I didn’t want it to just be about my illness because that’s not all that I am. I wanted it to incorporate my passions and how I use them to help me heal, because there truly is medicine in doing what you love.

What I love is fashion and though I fancy myself a pretty talented writer, even I cannot articulate how I feel about the craft. The romance, the beauty, the emotion it stirs within me is unmatched. I love the culture and history of fashion and yes, even the characters it creates. I love that I can become anyone I want to be, go anywhere I need to go, all with the help of some fabric and a few embellishments here and there.

I can’t really walk right now, but I have hobbled my way to the magazine section of Barnes & Noble to buy British Vogue, Vogue Italia, V Man, and GQ Style on more than one occasion. I could barely stand in line to purchase them, literally suffering for fashion, leaning on nearby displays to support myself. It was as if the pain and the light-headedness didn’t matter; nothing did because in a few short minutes I would be leaving with fashion in my hands and would be one step closer to being transported to an alternate universe where my life is about observing and interacting with beauty and I’m not sick. The truth is that I am sick, but that doesn’t mean I should stop loving fashion and give up participating in this world. Even though it may be a while before the only bag I carry isn’t filled with IV fluid, I can still incorporate fashion into my life and let it help me to help myself heal.

So that brings me here, to this blog, where I plan to document this journey that I have been chosen to go on. It is daunting and no doubt exhausting, but through it I have humor, fashion, wisdom, and a love of the arts as my weapons. It is my sincere hope that someone out there battling disease will find my little piece of cyberspace, read my stories, connect, and ultimately leave with a little more hope. Even if you are one of the lucky ones blessed with a clean bill of health, I certainly hope that I can offer you something as well – a good laugh at the very least.