The super-expensive, super-annoying, super-boring test that shall (perhaps) determine my fate

After watching me suffer through six months of knee pain, my doc finally decided it was time for me to get an MRI. Apparently, the condition that I have, patellofemoral syndrome, can advance to something called chondromalacia patellae, which means there is actual damage to the cartilage in my knees. An MRI would be able to show whether or not this is the case. There is a type of surgery to address chondromalacia, but unfortunately, it has a pretty low success rate.

Anyway, tonight I lost my MRI virginity at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak. Yawn.

Prior to my appointment, a woman asked me numerous questions over the phone -- Did I have any piercings? Tattoos? Was I claustrophobic? -- and gave me strict instructions: Leave all valuables at home. Be here 30 minutes early. Don’t tell anyone who sent you. (OK, maybe not that last one, but the pre-MRI screening was enough to make one intrigued).

The actual MRI was extremely boring. They had me put on scrubs and a pair of brand-new socks (not sure why my own socks weren’t good enough). A nice girl led me to the room with the MRI machine, which looks very futuristic and clean and not at all menacing or ET-like. I had been preparing to be squeezed into a dark, tiny tube with millimeters of breathing room. This was more like a tunnel (although I suppose for very large patients, it could be considered a tube), and I was only in it up to my shoulders.

The MRI girl told me they were going to do each knee separately, so I would be lying there for at least an hour. They gave me a pillow, hooked me up with some headphones and put on 99.5 WYCD, at my request. In the beginning, it was not bad, maybe even relaxing. It felt like taking an extra long shavasana, in a comfier, roomier version of a tanning bed.

Except for the noise. Let’s see, how can I describe this?

DrrrrrrrrrrrDrrrrr EH EH EH EH EH EH Kukukukuk DEADEADEADEADEAD

The dentist’s drill, your alarm clock, the sensor that goes off if you walk out of the store with unpaid merchandise, someone hammering nails into a wall – all the most annoying sounds you can imagine, amplified, for an hour and a half. Every five minutes or so, there was a brief silence and I could hear my country music.

“Pour me somethin’ tall and strong, make it a hurricane, before I go ... DrrrrDrrr EEHHHHHH”

I’m not sure which sucked more, the cacophony of miserable sounds or having to remain completely still. The worst was when I got an itch, which quickly multiplied into 20 different itches all over my body, including on my knees. Torture. And I used to think it was tough keeping your nails under those heat lamps after a manicure.

In any case, now I have all these pretty pictures of my knees, none of which mean anything to me, but I shall find out more when I see the doctor tomorrow. I’ll keep ya posted.

I <3 Detroit because ...

My last week in Detroit is about to begin and I’m so not ready to say goodbye. When I left my job three weeks ago, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do here before I left. While I enjoyed my private tour of the DIA (thanks, Matt!) and I’m glad I finally ate paczki in Hamtramck, what makes Detroit so hard to leave isn’t the places to go or things to see, but the people I’ll miss.



Last night, I had a going-away party with some friends from work and Downtown Runners. As part of my décor, I hung a big dry erase board and invited guests to say what they love about Detroit. For some reason, it seemed tougher than I’d expected to fill it up. What could I say in a phrase or two? Half-off martini nights at Proof? The fact that we have two country radio stations? Most of the stuff scrawled on the board was silly and fairly insignificant. And aside from eating Coneys and riding the People Mover, most things the Motor City has to offer can be done in Chicago, too.

But “What do you love about Detroit?” is not about stuff to do. It’s a feeling – and one that you have to live here to experience. It’s the deep-seated underdog pride. The DET ovals slapped on the bumpers of our Fords and Chevys. The embracing of blue-collar virtues by white-collar folks. The friendships that take on more meaning because they’re sometimes all you can count on. The banding together to make the most of what we’ve got: No room for whiners because it’s cold and dreary and the Lions lost another (OK, every) game – we’re all just happy to be hanging on.

To all of you who’ve touched me in some way over the past two and a half years, I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. From encouraging me to follow my dreams to listening to me vent about work; from supporting me through my injuries to helping me cover them up with excessive amounts of alcohol; from letting me crash at your apartment after a rough night to giving me a hug when I crashed into your car (you know who you are), I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

It might be time for me to move on, but I have no doubt I’ll be back, often. In the meantime, I’ll be cruising the streets of Chicago in my Mustang, with my new "DET" bumper sticker. Come visit!

Earth to Nicole!!

One thing I've discovered since abandoning my 9 to 5 job is how easy it is to do stupid things when you're not in a routine. I tend to be a bit clumsy and somewhat of a scatterbrain, but now that I have more freedom, these qualities have really shone through.

• There was the day I locked my keys in my car and had to pay $120 for a locksmith.
• The day I walked to the libary, realized I didn't have my wallet, thought it fell out of my backpack, and ran home to find it sitting on my couch where I left it
• The day I forgot to put a cup under my coffee maker and made coffee all over the counter
• The day I called a source from an article (twice) while at the bar, thinking it was my friend's number on my cell phone
• The day I walked out of my chiropractor appointment and drove a mile before realizing I'd forgotten to pay
• The day (today) I walked into a door frame while leaving the library. An amused bystander cracked up and said, "Boy, I wish I had that on camera!"

Wikipedia says it could be the early stages of Alzheimer's, but I think my brain is just in some kind of fast-forward mode, and I mentally move on to the next thing before I'm done with my current task. I've considered trying to slow down and stick to one thing at a time, but honestly, I don't think that's realistic -- nor is it productive.

And if I can make someone's day simply by walking into a wall, then why change?

Peas, pantyhose and PVC pipes

It started with a bag of frozen peas.

Thanks to a nasty knee injury from running, I had gone through 12 ice cube trays in one week. After a Ziploc bag burst under my pants – giving new meaning to the expression “my water broke” – I finally made up my mind to invest in an ice pack.

Meijer had quite the selection of medical supplies, with hot and cold packs nestled between compression stockings and Depends. They were $8.99 for the large, $5.99 if I wished to ice my pinkie.

Now $9 isn’t a hell of a lot, but for something that has essentially the same function as water, it seemed a bit on the steep side. I recalled, as a kid, once using a bag of frozen peas when I slammed my fingers in the car door, and decided that might be my best bet. I hobbled to the frozen food aisle: Only a buck-fifty for the store brand, and every bit as effective as the cold compress. They could take on the shape of my knees, be refrozen, and if I ever wanted to make split pea soup, well, I’d be halfway there. Pleased with my peas, I cashed out and headed home to put them to use.

Two months later, my knees were no better. My physical therapist recommended I get patella straps to alleviate some of the pain, and handed me a catalog showing a variety of models, running for about $15 to $20 each. From the looks of these things, all they did was put pressure under your kneecap. I wondered why I couldn’t just make my own patella straps.

That’s where the pantyhose come in. I tied them snuggly around my knees, and miraculously, the swelling seemed to subside. They even fit under my jeans (and there was no risk of leakage this time).

But despite my icing, compressing and obsessive stretching, my knees were still in no shape to run. Since physical therapy was offering little benefit, I had moved on to a chiropractor who practiced deep tissue massage. He suspected my IT band was so tight that stretching wasn’t enough and suggested I get a foam roller.

Now a foam roller is simply a cylindrical piece of foam that you roll on to massage out tight spots in the tissue. The most basic models retail for about $20. I had already rolled through one of these and knew that I needed something more intense -- something more expensive.

“Can’t I just find something hard and round and roll on it?” I asked.

“Like what?"

The guy at Home Depot seemed a little surprised when I asked him where I could find the PVC pipes, but he was eager to help. I imagine Eric was already fantasizing about this tall blonde in nothing but a hard hat when he showed me to the back of the store. And then he said,

“Can I ask what you’re using this for?”

“To roll on.”

Life Update

I'm free! If you didn't already know, last Friday was my last day of work. The past few weeks have been crazy, so I've been totally MIA on this blog, but for good reason.

Since early December, I had been contemplating leaving my job. Our publication lineup had changed considerably (from several lifestyle magazines to one advertising-driven fashion mag), I had few opportunties to write and edit legitimate articles, and things only looked to be getting worse. I felt like the longer I stayed, the harder it would be to get back into real journalism. And there were so many more puposeful things I wanted to do with my life than find events for e-newsletters or write advertorials on shopping malls.

I gave myself a deadline of March, deciding to wait a few months and see if anything changed. Then I came back from my weeklong Christmas vacation and was greeted with this:

"As has been announced previously, we will be reducing payroll expenses as we implement our new business plan. ... Non-bargaining employees whose jobs are eliminated will receive severance of 2 weeks’ pay for each completed year of service, up to a maximum of 26 weeks. If any full-time, non-bargaining employee of the Detroit Media Partnership would like to be voluntarily considered for the same severance, you may submit your name ..."

The situation couldn't have been more perfect. I submitted my name but had to keep quiet until I was approved, which wasn't until Jan. 23. I finished up last week, so my severance will continue through the month of February.

Here's my grand master plan. I'll be staying in beloved Detroit through the end of the month. In March I'll move back to Chicago, where my mom, sister and painfully small bedroom will be waiting for me. I hope to start freelancing as soon as possible, and in April, I'll start a 6-month personal trainer school. I've always dreamed of being a freelance writer and personal trainer, and the way I see it, I have nothing to lose.

So there you have it -- all caught up. And now that I've gotten that out of the way, I promise my next blogs will be much more fun to read.