Ruptured What? Part 2

Warning:

the following story contains “lady issues.”

If you can’t hack it, leave now.

One evening, Shark Girl started getting lady cramps.

            “Hmmm . . . that’s funny. It’s a little early for lady cramps,” Shark Girl said to herself. “Oh, well, maybe I’m wrong. These days I’m too busy to keep good track.”

            As the evening wore on, Shark Girl’s lady cramps got worse. “Better pop a few ibuprofen!” Shark advised herself, and the drugs soothed the pain for a while.

Ibuprofen is my answer to pretty much everything--lady cramps, migraines, boredom . . .

Later that night, Shark Girl besought Husband, “Honey, rub my lower back!” I hadn’t asked him that since I was in labor. Wait. Was I in labor? No, impossible. Shark Girl isn’t Peggy Olson from Mad Men. Shark Girl would know if she were pregnant.

Not Shark Girl.

Shark Girl popped some more ibuprofen and went to sleep. My night was fitful and tormented, filled with strange cramp-induced dreams. I realized I was going to be no use at school that day, and got up early to write plans and call in a sub.

For some reason, LeBron James comes up when you Google Image search "cramp-induced dreams." Huh.

After Shark Girl crafted impeccable, early-morning sub plans, I went back to bed. And slept. When I awoke, the cramps had strangely morphed into constipation cramps. (At this juncture, you may be asking, “Really, Shark Girl? How do you know the difference between lady cramps and constipation cramps? They’re all in the same region.” And now I know you are a man.)
          Maybe I had imagined the lady cramps from the night before and I just needed a little more water. I got a water bottle, put it next to the bed, and drank. Then I drank some more. And some more. Until my bladder was about to explode. At that point, my bladder was starting to press up against my cramp. I know, weird, right? Now I was getting a little nervous.

Also not Shark Girl.

            Then my pain got sharp. Lower, right abdomen sharp. Oh, no! A quick Google search told me I could have anything from appendicitis to viral gastroenteritis, with many other scarier things in between. (I was pretty sure I didn’t have seminal vesiculitis, given that I’m not a dude). It was time for SG to go to the doctor. Although my physician doesn’t work on Fridays, her husband does and he gladly took me as the last appointment of his ending-at-noon day. 

You've read the symptoms; now it's time for you to play doctor!
Take the poll to the right. What do you think Shark Girl ruptured?

The appointment went something like this: 

. . . blah blah blah does this hurt? . . . blah blah blah you’re not in that much pain, so it’s not full-blown appendicitis . . . call the ER if it gets worse . .  . blah blah blah . . . you’ll know.

Off I went home, thinking my appendix could rupture. I made Husband stay home from his business trip. “What if my appendix ruptures at two in the morning? What will I do with two kids and a ruptured appendix at two in the morning?”

          “I could get my mother to stay over?” Husband offered.

          Yes. He actually said that. In fact, he had actually already called her to set it up. At this point I will fast forward to husband making the right decision and staying home. Men, if you are still with me, stay home with your women when they could die. It’s the polite thing to do.

Long story short, my appendix did not rupture, and, by Monday, the pain had nearly subsided. But now I was thinking, Is this a lady issue? Shark Girl decided to call her OB-GYN. Their triage nurse had all the notes from Dr. Spouse (yay, linked medical records!).

            “It sounds like you had a ruptured ovarian cyst.”

Huh. Imagine that. How could anything in my lower abdomen have ruptured? I mean it’s not like huge, muscly dudes are trying to squish my guts all the time . . . or is it?

Postscript

This episode made me rethink rolling with guys who aren’t adept at toning down their squishing. I will never know if this was a BJJ-related rupture, or if it was natural. But a few weeks before, I had a partner squish my innards so badly that it felt like my kidney was outside of my body and between the mat and his knee. The worry I went through was definitely not worth that roll.

I want to implore any big dudes out there, before you go with anyone much smaller than you are, pause and remind yourself that if you have to use that much force on someone half of your size, you could probably stand to work on technique. Save the crushing for your same-sized friends.

And finally, I want to inform. My physician didn’t think of a ruptured ovarian cyst; my Google-searching did, but the descriptions I found were inadequate and only said things like, “can be very serious.” My triage nurse was more chill and told me to come in if it happened again. It hasn't. I am fine, and taking it much easier on the mat.

Ruptured What? Part 1

 Shark Girl has often wondered what could make her quit jiu jitsu:

The threat of ringworm or staph?
Nope.

Sweaty boys dripping their cooties all over me?
I’m not sure how I managed to deal with this one, but I have. It’s only really gross when you’re not sweaty, too.

Fear of flatulence (someone else’s or—worse—mine)?
Yeah, got over it.

Hair getting caught on the mat?
I sheared my hair short.

Smeared toe polish?
Even though a pedicure is the only way to civilize my Shark feet, high-priced polish jobs spent more time on the mat than me. Out with them!

A wart epidemic?
Compound W is now a staple in my medicine cabinet.

But what about health concerns? Long-term readers may recall the kidneyberg and my constant worries that some big dude will crush my ribcage. But there’s a new one. It’s time for Shark Girl to tell you a story . . . but she’s too tired right now. You’ll have to wait for Part 2.

Have Fun With It!

Recently Shark Girl attended a seminar led by a prominent black belt. Black Belt taught some cool techniques that I have been trying to repeat with miserable results. But he said something that I have found much easier to implement, and something that rings true to me and my sense of jiu jitsu and the world.*

Black Belt said that in order to improve one’s jiu jitsu, the most important thing was to have fun with it. He described gyms where the “guys” were so competitive that every roll was a death match. Black Belt would return the next year to find the guys were still at the same level. Black Belt continued that, in order to improve, one has to “play” with jiu jitsu. Have fun with it, even if you risk being tapped.

Those guys in that fictional gym had not improved because they never gave themselves room. Improvement comes from creative experimentation, and creative experimentation leaves room for failure. If we are always rolling to submit, we can miss the opportunities for growth. It’s like Musclehead who chooses to smother me with side position because he knows he can’t afford to get in my guard. Sure, he’ll win. But he’ll never learn to pass my guard. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t need to learn to pass my guard; let’s face it, he can crush me. But he will never improve that aspect of his game. Ha-ha!

"I vill crush you like a little girl . . . oh, vait, you are a little girl! No matter. . . . "

 I’ve been taking Black Belt’s advice to heart. I’ve been rolling for fun, especially with players that are less experienced than me. I move for the submission, back off, let them roll me, reguard. I pick something to work depending on the skills of my partner and I don’t worry about all the other stuff. It’s a lot more fun for both of us. No one** wants to be sat on for four minutes writhing for breath. No one** wants to be submitted five times in a row. I say this from personal experience.

           

A little after this seminar, a colleague sent me “TheCreative Monopoly” by David Brooks. In it, he discusses the obsession we have with competition and winning and describes the connection between losing and creativity, and also how competition itself can hinder creativity. Check it out here.

Shark Girl urges you to go forth and have fun on the mats!

 

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* Shark Girl apologizes to Black Belt for not giving him credit by name. It would compromise my anonymity. Shark Girl consoles herself with the certainty that many people have used Black Belt’s words and techniques before and passed them off as their own. (Every gym has at least one prominent Jiu Jitsu Plagiarer—the dude who studies YouTube and then says he “came up with” a technique.) At least Shark Girl acknowledges that she was not the author of this brilliant nugget.

** Well, I’m sure there are some people who do. But those folks should probably troll Cragislist and backpage for like minded adults and steer away from the jiu jitsu mat. It just makes it creepy for all involved. (I’ve provided handy links for those of you right here. You’re welcome.)

It's Official

I am going to Portugal this summer. If anyone knows of a school that wants a visit from SG, let me know. I can always bring my gi! It's getting away from the family that will be the hard part. . . .

Hmmm . . . Would I put my kid in the Douro River for jiu jitsu? Only time will tell.

Stick with What You Know

 Last year, Shark Girl marveled at how BJJ kept off her “winter coating.” This coating is more accurately called blubber, and it surrounds Shark Girl’s abdomen after the feeding frenzy of winter’s doldrums. This year, Shark Girl’s body has adjusted to jiu jitsu, and the blubber has returned. There it is right now, hanging over my pants.

Last week Shark Girl wondered to herself, “Is that a soft ripple in my shirt, or is it the overflow of my gut?” Then, very scientifically, Shark Girl pressed her finger to her shirt. It was gut.         

It is in this atmosphere, Gentle Reader, that I bring you the following story. I warn you that it is a rather sad testimony to the depths of my terrible eating habits and I hope that you will not think less of Shark Girl for it. Here goes:

           

In my disguise as Shark Teacher, I was conferencing with a student. It was during lunch so Shark Teacher apologized that I had to eat while working with her.

            “I hope you don’t mind . . . I’m eating salad. I’m trying to be good,” Shark Teacher confessed. (Student’s class is after lunch so she gets to hear all about my dietary transgressions.) Then we continued discussing really intellectual things.

            Suddenly, uh-oh! Some balsamic vinegar escaped down the wrong part of my throat and made a break for my lungs! Shark Teacher started coughing violently.

            “Ack! Ack!” I sputtered, interrupting Student in mid-discussion. “Please continue,” I croaked out.

            Student went on, but in all the excitement, a tiny piece of lettuce had made its way down my trach. In a fit of hacking, I excused myself for a drink of water and apologized to Student.

            “That’s what I get for trying to be healthy,” I opined.

            “Stick with what you know,” Student said. “Brownies and cake.”

I have heard some say that a white belt is about surviving and a blue belt is about figuring out your “game,” what works for you. As a newly-minted blue belt, then, my job is to find out what works for me and stick with it, improving and sharpening those skills that that suit me best. That student basically articulated my Big Blue Belt Goal. Nutritionally, however, I think I have to broaden my horizons. Especially if I want to melt off this undulating blubber. Can I start after I finish eating my sons’ birthday cake?