.
Right now both my hands are in painful ruins, and the voice software is ever so close - but not usable yet. It makes it hard to communicate. This post took bits and pieces of about 12 hours. Not easy ones, to tell the truth.
But I had a bad night last night. So. Why would that count any differently just now? Because it would have been way worse without the comments and emails I got before I tried to sleep. Add in the sense of reconnection with the readers who haven't checked in yet. Mona. I owe you a glad debt of gratitude.
You folks are a significant part of what's been keeping me going not just since March, but through some pretty rough times the last few years. For whatever reason, however it works, I don't seem to care any more. It does work, and that's enough for me.
Awww, mush! Enough.
heh heh! LL. Half-Korean/all-Southern motorcycle mamas are not the only tough ladies around. Which, ah, needn't necessarily preclude me requesting a bit of advice here and there. In my humble opinion.
My Pops. I've been worrying about you worrying about me since this whole long episode started.
I'm so sick I can't even review much of previous posts or comments. But you figured that out, plus that it really does take physical strength to heal and to write, and helped me out once again. That's just a part of why you're such a great Pops.
As to the potential malpractice (??!)...in this case I, mmm, left out that the goof was ours this time. Mistakes are almost always made, on both sides, right? To me, it's when they happen like what that jerk nurse did at Imperial Point that a line gets crossed.
I miss you too, all of you, heard from already and those to come. I hope to keep up posting, even little bits, but that means I'll have to stop a lot. A new bag of antibiotics has been hung off my IV pole, and I need to baby my IV site so carefully, it's time to quit for the night.
I'll be back.
.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
We're Here. We're Alive.
.
Walter and myself have both been trying to let you know how and why we're here and alive - not just those bare facts.
But - forgive us - some bare-facting will have to do for a start.
I'm still in the hospital, the big one. I've been discharged and readmitted at least three times. After Walter and I recovered from the Chest Cold from Hell, I came here because I was coughing up small amounts of blood again, had bad lung and chest pain, and felt generally terrible.
So. Lung issue. Turned out to be pneumonia. Got isolated and treated and sent home. Survived.
After I'd spent a luscious day or two at home, Walter woke up from a sound sleep one morning just because my lungs were rattling so loudly the noise got him. We returned to the hospital, but this time under the admittance of my primary.
Far more serious this round: double (meaning both lungs) MRSA pneumonia. Fluid in left and right pleural cavities. 500 cc's had already been removed from the right pleural cavity, and it was rebuilding all over the place.
Combined with all that general ill health, another heavy outbreak of maybe-MRSA lymph node infections, and some other stuff, I almost didn't survive that bout. Meaning my parents, Walter, other docs should be notified, legal papers or verbal permissions signed or heard, all 'o that dreary ickiness...
I'm not trying to be a drama queen here. But it was an interesting experience. Certainly, it was unpleasant. Extremely. And frightening - though mildly! - in a way I'd never experienced fear before. Somehow I think we may be better off having a chance to approach death very closely once, just that one time, before it actually happens, before life is irretrievably lost.
Well, it went on and on. Cardiac catheters were prescribed to investigate why severe pulmonary hypertension had been discovered. Aaauuuggghhh!!! Turned out I need a triple bypass! But the Triple Bypass Doc on the cardiac team refused to do the surgery because I wouldn't survive it; I'd get an infection and die. Stents? Yeah, they might keep me going another year or two. He seemed to find them an uninteresting endeavor, though. He was, after all, a Bypass Man.
A nice Miscellaneous Stents in General man came by the next day. He felt HIS Stents could last a good 10 years. Besides, who could ever really predict lifespans anyway? We all looked at each other - me, Walter, Mom - and said, -Yes. A 90%, 70%, and another something-blocked vessel resulted in 2 stents in one vessel, one in another - and Stents Man was all done, and happy with his work.
More? Septicemia. Yup, good old-fashioned blood poisoning. A huge outbreak of what looked like MRSA infection, maybe coupled with other germs, through the entire right arm; another from the left abdomen through the entire left leg all the way to the left foot, with fevers that cooked bedclothes and required Cooling Blankets that were forgotten; urinary tract infection (yeah. Ouch.) and a neglect of testing and misapplication of coumadin, or something, resulting in waking up in huge pools of watery blood - I mean like 2 x 3 feet pools - that had leaked from tiny cuts, as small as little papercuts, in my arms throughout the night.
It's been quite a trip. Please excuse this rat-a-tat writing style, okay? Communicating verbally isn't going well for me lately either, although rumor has it that's temporary and common and goes away pretty quick.
So I don't know how much of what's happened I could actually get across to you. But I do hope this much did:
I survived it. All of it. And with all due respect to the Powers that Be...I intend to keep on doing so.
.
Walter and myself have both been trying to let you know how and why we're here and alive - not just those bare facts.
But - forgive us - some bare-facting will have to do for a start.
I'm still in the hospital, the big one. I've been discharged and readmitted at least three times. After Walter and I recovered from the Chest Cold from Hell, I came here because I was coughing up small amounts of blood again, had bad lung and chest pain, and felt generally terrible.
So. Lung issue. Turned out to be pneumonia. Got isolated and treated and sent home. Survived.
After I'd spent a luscious day or two at home, Walter woke up from a sound sleep one morning just because my lungs were rattling so loudly the noise got him. We returned to the hospital, but this time under the admittance of my primary.
Far more serious this round: double (meaning both lungs) MRSA pneumonia. Fluid in left and right pleural cavities. 500 cc's had already been removed from the right pleural cavity, and it was rebuilding all over the place.
Combined with all that general ill health, another heavy outbreak of maybe-MRSA lymph node infections, and some other stuff, I almost didn't survive that bout. Meaning my parents, Walter, other docs should be notified, legal papers or verbal permissions signed or heard, all 'o that dreary ickiness...
I'm not trying to be a drama queen here. But it was an interesting experience. Certainly, it was unpleasant. Extremely. And frightening - though mildly! - in a way I'd never experienced fear before. Somehow I think we may be better off having a chance to approach death very closely once, just that one time, before it actually happens, before life is irretrievably lost.
Well, it went on and on. Cardiac catheters were prescribed to investigate why severe pulmonary hypertension had been discovered. Aaauuuggghhh!!! Turned out I need a triple bypass! But the Triple Bypass Doc on the cardiac team refused to do the surgery because I wouldn't survive it; I'd get an infection and die. Stents? Yeah, they might keep me going another year or two. He seemed to find them an uninteresting endeavor, though. He was, after all, a Bypass Man.
A nice Miscellaneous Stents in General man came by the next day. He felt HIS Stents could last a good 10 years. Besides, who could ever really predict lifespans anyway? We all looked at each other - me, Walter, Mom - and said, -Yes. A 90%, 70%, and another something-blocked vessel resulted in 2 stents in one vessel, one in another - and Stents Man was all done, and happy with his work.
More? Septicemia. Yup, good old-fashioned blood poisoning. A huge outbreak of what looked like MRSA infection, maybe coupled with other germs, through the entire right arm; another from the left abdomen through the entire left leg all the way to the left foot, with fevers that cooked bedclothes and required Cooling Blankets that were forgotten; urinary tract infection (yeah. Ouch.) and a neglect of testing and misapplication of coumadin, or something, resulting in waking up in huge pools of watery blood - I mean like 2 x 3 feet pools - that had leaked from tiny cuts, as small as little papercuts, in my arms throughout the night.
It's been quite a trip. Please excuse this rat-a-tat writing style, okay? Communicating verbally isn't going well for me lately either, although rumor has it that's temporary and common and goes away pretty quick.
So I don't know how much of what's happened I could actually get across to you. But I do hope this much did:
I survived it. All of it. And with all due respect to the Powers that Be...I intend to keep on doing so.
.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
I am still alive. ***Warning! Medical Alert!*** Some of this post may gross you out if you're sensitive. Careful!
.
I am still alive.
And I intend to stay that way.
I'm also vitally ill. Very weak. Except for two days, I've been in the hospital since Walter''s post. Turned out I didn't need a pitt stop. Or even a tune-up. Nope. Did need a complete overhaul from head to toe, though.
I was admitted exactly a month ago with pneumonia and fluid in the right lung, coughing small bits of blood again; a minor fungal infection and thrush in the throat; and a heart rate around 150. The pneumonia later turned out to be from my colonized CA MRSA, which - yes - is a very serious thing indeed.
It moved to the other lung: double MRSA pneumonia. The docs drew 500 CC's of fluid out of my right lung cavity.
Oh my! Have you ever heard of The Worst Procedures You Never Want to Have Done To You? like a bone marrow biopsy, or a chest tube, like you see on Trauma Center?
Draining the fluid in my lungs, a simple procedure that usually takes less than five minutes, took 20. The doc and 2 nurses were great. It wasn't their fault. It's just that despite the cutest little ultrasound machine you ever saw, they couldn't find the path into the pocket of fluid that would let it drain. So the long huge needle poked into my back was gently but purposefully moved about, searching, searching, while this here so-called Experienced Pain Patient lost all dignity, squeezing a nurse's two fingers with all my strength and still sometimes having to scream out loud...
They finally pierced the pocket of fluid. The excellent doc had said it might be jello and hard to tap; or liquid, easy. The bottle waiting under my back to receive the fluid was 1500 CC's. I filled it just over half way; they called it 500 CC's. Mom and Walter say that's about a pint, one and a third cans of Coke.
I didn't have my camera. Frustration! But I held this bottle, a heavy utilitarian laboratory thing, in my hand. The fluid was warm and a little foamy. Odd to think it had just come from my body...The doc had a place on a report form where he was supposed to name the color of the fluid. One of the nurses rolled her eyes at me and grinned, whispered --This is his way of having fun at work.-- He thought and thought and then his face cleared and he said: --Apple cider! That's exactly the color of apple cider-- and looked quite satisfied with his report.
That was a little partial vignette from my month of life in this hospital. I'll have to see how much more I can tell, because I'm very weak. Probably a long overview will have to do for now: bear with me.
I've been admitted to Broward General three times, sent home once and nearly died, sent to an SNF (nursing home) without IV antibiotics and again almost died. There have been other close calls. But I am determined to stay alive, and if all powers that be agree, so I will.
The timing of various infections and other incidents is a bit cluttered in my mind. Sorry. Sometimes I swim in and out of consciousness. Walter says I spent about ten days either intermittently babbling, or perfectly coherent until I digressed onto something else coherent but senseless, like what my dead pet cats are fond of eating these days.
Double MRSA pneumonia. Fluid in the right plural cavity. Tachycardia. The first admitting doc was some idiot I didn't know. My ID doc and my primary were both on vacation. Under protest from me and Walter, I was released and sent home. We both felt I wasn't well enough, but the fever and tachycardia were under control, my lungs were getting better; they basically had no reason to keep me that the insurance company would pay for.
Have any of us not realized that insurance companies have seized almost total control of the most important decisions of our lives?
We were ordered home, so home we went. Encamped in the hospital bed where I'd lived for the past few months, I slept. When morning came, Walter woke up from the noise my lungs made as they rattled when I tried to breathe. Sick, sick bad.
Okay. Back to the hospital. But this time, strategize.
Water called my primary - the young and exceedingly competent Dr. D. - and my pulmonary (lung) doctor, the great Dr. S. We 'd have much more trust, much better understanding and communication, if my own docs who knew me were on the case. My primary was just back from vacation and booked to the hilt for appointments - could we see if Dr. S could squeeze me in?
Yes. But not till 3:00.
Both docs were near or on the premises of Broward General, where I'd been and needed to return.
Only a primary could be an admitting doc. Dr. S is a specialist. But they know each other and know my history.
I waited through that day of terrible sickness, trying to balance competing needs, trying to hide from Walter how my life-force was draining away. Oh, sick, sick. Scared and sad about maybe seeing the end? Despairing? Sure. All that. I didn't feel ready, didn't feel it was time. Not time. That's sad, to die before your time is due.
Time finally came to go to the doctor. During the last ten minutes or so of the drive, my face changed and Walter fully realized that I knew too, no hiding it any more...Later he told me my face went dead white, and my chipmunk cheeks looked gray and sunken somehow; and he hid from me what he saw and understood.
How silly we can be sometimes. Here we were, both knowing the real danger of death was close by. We weren't hiding that. We were hiding from each other that we knew it.
The doctor visit was funny and poignant and scary. I'll try to tell you why later. Dr S had a resident with him who I'd met before, and liked and respected. He walked us - Walter pushing me in a companion chair - through the ER, past Triage, past Admitting; past sick people waiting for help stacked in gurneys and wheelchairs along the hallway on what may have been the busiest day in that hospital's ER in its history.
Was it wrong? No. Triage had already been performed. Inability to breathe takes precedence over a broken arm. It's why I instantly, gladly, yield my place when the shoe's on the other foot.
Now? Such a lot of work; it's just exhausting. All my days are filled with xrays and ultrasounds; breathing treatments; blood glucose tests and three types of insulin shots; blood draws, from this most difficult *stick.*
Such new developments, such new discoveries of pre-existing *Issues!* Fluid was rebuilding in both lungs, no, eeewwwww!!! A huge and serious MRSA infection ate my entire right arm. Then another one encased my left leg and side from the foot to the middle of the abdomen. A lung doc found I had pulmonary hypertension. ME? High blood pressure in my lungs when my body's blood pressure was so nicely low?!! grump! A *double* cardiac catheterization, to check out the pressures between the heart and lungs, was scheduled.
Then...a positive blood culture came back from the lab. CA MRSA, and another antibiotic-resistant bacteria, had both infected my bloodstream. Usually that signals the beginning of septicemia. Blood poisoning. Death.
Whereupon they finally gave me one of those super-secret super-powerful antibiotics they hold in reserve for people like me - and all the infections began to turn around.
Yesterday I finally had the cardiac catheter. Hmmm...just realized I've no idea what they discovered about the pulmonary hypertension. Because one of the cardiac docs came to my room, once I was conscious, to say that he'd have done a triple bypass on me right then and there, except I would not have survived it. I wouldn't if he did it later either. He would not crack my chest like Walter's, not now, not ever, although I really needed it, because I would not survive the surgery. Did I understand?
Uh, okay. So where does that leave us? Stents and such? Yes, he thought they might keep me going for a while longer anyway.
My mother's here now, and Walter, and we've all learned that to talk to any of the huge multitude of docs now enveloping me, we must sit patiently in this hospital room and they will come to us. Sometimes we have no idea who they are. Even after they leave.
Today, Thursday, a much less upset cardiologist came by. We all immediately respected, liked, and trusted him. He firmly believes he can go right back in through the femoral artery, just like yesterday's cardiac cath, and find and use the right type of stent or angioplasty to get me better, not just as a stop-gap, but to hold open the three badly blocked vessels for years to come.
Yes. From all of us.
They scheduled the surgery immediately - for today - but just as my preliminary preps were done, they found my potassium was low. So tomorrow's the big day. And this time we'll try hard to post the results right away.
Ach. For such a long post, such a small sample of this odd month's life. So much else has been happening. Please understand how sorry I am for not posting better updates. I know you already forgive me, but I also feel your concern and worry. Perhaps I'll never stop being surprised at how strongly I feel it, and how much it means to me. How strong it keeps me, to know that you care.
Know this: I made it through some terrible situations this month. Your hopes and best wishes and prayers, and my family's, and my other friends', all gave me more strength to endure than I would have, could have, summoned up on my own.
I am still alive.
And I intend to stay that way.
.
I am still alive.
And I intend to stay that way.
I'm also vitally ill. Very weak. Except for two days, I've been in the hospital since Walter''s post. Turned out I didn't need a pitt stop. Or even a tune-up. Nope. Did need a complete overhaul from head to toe, though.
I was admitted exactly a month ago with pneumonia and fluid in the right lung, coughing small bits of blood again; a minor fungal infection and thrush in the throat; and a heart rate around 150. The pneumonia later turned out to be from my colonized CA MRSA, which - yes - is a very serious thing indeed.
It moved to the other lung: double MRSA pneumonia. The docs drew 500 CC's of fluid out of my right lung cavity.
Oh my! Have you ever heard of The Worst Procedures You Never Want to Have Done To You? like a bone marrow biopsy, or a chest tube, like you see on Trauma Center?
Draining the fluid in my lungs, a simple procedure that usually takes less than five minutes, took 20. The doc and 2 nurses were great. It wasn't their fault. It's just that despite the cutest little ultrasound machine you ever saw, they couldn't find the path into the pocket of fluid that would let it drain. So the long huge needle poked into my back was gently but purposefully moved about, searching, searching, while this here so-called Experienced Pain Patient lost all dignity, squeezing a nurse's two fingers with all my strength and still sometimes having to scream out loud...
They finally pierced the pocket of fluid. The excellent doc had said it might be jello and hard to tap; or liquid, easy. The bottle waiting under my back to receive the fluid was 1500 CC's. I filled it just over half way; they called it 500 CC's. Mom and Walter say that's about a pint, one and a third cans of Coke.
I didn't have my camera. Frustration! But I held this bottle, a heavy utilitarian laboratory thing, in my hand. The fluid was warm and a little foamy. Odd to think it had just come from my body...The doc had a place on a report form where he was supposed to name the color of the fluid. One of the nurses rolled her eyes at me and grinned, whispered --This is his way of having fun at work.-- He thought and thought and then his face cleared and he said: --Apple cider! That's exactly the color of apple cider-- and looked quite satisfied with his report.
That was a little partial vignette from my month of life in this hospital. I'll have to see how much more I can tell, because I'm very weak. Probably a long overview will have to do for now: bear with me.
I've been admitted to Broward General three times, sent home once and nearly died, sent to an SNF (nursing home) without IV antibiotics and again almost died. There have been other close calls. But I am determined to stay alive, and if all powers that be agree, so I will.
The timing of various infections and other incidents is a bit cluttered in my mind. Sorry. Sometimes I swim in and out of consciousness. Walter says I spent about ten days either intermittently babbling, or perfectly coherent until I digressed onto something else coherent but senseless, like what my dead pet cats are fond of eating these days.
Double MRSA pneumonia. Fluid in the right plural cavity. Tachycardia. The first admitting doc was some idiot I didn't know. My ID doc and my primary were both on vacation. Under protest from me and Walter, I was released and sent home. We both felt I wasn't well enough, but the fever and tachycardia were under control, my lungs were getting better; they basically had no reason to keep me that the insurance company would pay for.
Have any of us not realized that insurance companies have seized almost total control of the most important decisions of our lives?
We were ordered home, so home we went. Encamped in the hospital bed where I'd lived for the past few months, I slept. When morning came, Walter woke up from the noise my lungs made as they rattled when I tried to breathe. Sick, sick bad.
Okay. Back to the hospital. But this time, strategize.
Water called my primary - the young and exceedingly competent Dr. D. - and my pulmonary (lung) doctor, the great Dr. S. We 'd have much more trust, much better understanding and communication, if my own docs who knew me were on the case. My primary was just back from vacation and booked to the hilt for appointments - could we see if Dr. S could squeeze me in?
Yes. But not till 3:00.
Both docs were near or on the premises of Broward General, where I'd been and needed to return.
Only a primary could be an admitting doc. Dr. S is a specialist. But they know each other and know my history.
I waited through that day of terrible sickness, trying to balance competing needs, trying to hide from Walter how my life-force was draining away. Oh, sick, sick. Scared and sad about maybe seeing the end? Despairing? Sure. All that. I didn't feel ready, didn't feel it was time. Not time. That's sad, to die before your time is due.
Time finally came to go to the doctor. During the last ten minutes or so of the drive, my face changed and Walter fully realized that I knew too, no hiding it any more...Later he told me my face went dead white, and my chipmunk cheeks looked gray and sunken somehow; and he hid from me what he saw and understood.
How silly we can be sometimes. Here we were, both knowing the real danger of death was close by. We weren't hiding that. We were hiding from each other that we knew it.
The doctor visit was funny and poignant and scary. I'll try to tell you why later. Dr S had a resident with him who I'd met before, and liked and respected. He walked us - Walter pushing me in a companion chair - through the ER, past Triage, past Admitting; past sick people waiting for help stacked in gurneys and wheelchairs along the hallway on what may have been the busiest day in that hospital's ER in its history.
Was it wrong? No. Triage had already been performed. Inability to breathe takes precedence over a broken arm. It's why I instantly, gladly, yield my place when the shoe's on the other foot.
Now? Such a lot of work; it's just exhausting. All my days are filled with xrays and ultrasounds; breathing treatments; blood glucose tests and three types of insulin shots; blood draws, from this most difficult *stick.*
Such new developments, such new discoveries of pre-existing *Issues!* Fluid was rebuilding in both lungs, no, eeewwwww!!! A huge and serious MRSA infection ate my entire right arm. Then another one encased my left leg and side from the foot to the middle of the abdomen. A lung doc found I had pulmonary hypertension. ME? High blood pressure in my lungs when my body's blood pressure was so nicely low?!! grump! A *double* cardiac catheterization, to check out the pressures between the heart and lungs, was scheduled.
Then...a positive blood culture came back from the lab. CA MRSA, and another antibiotic-resistant bacteria, had both infected my bloodstream. Usually that signals the beginning of septicemia. Blood poisoning. Death.
Whereupon they finally gave me one of those super-secret super-powerful antibiotics they hold in reserve for people like me - and all the infections began to turn around.
Yesterday I finally had the cardiac catheter. Hmmm...just realized I've no idea what they discovered about the pulmonary hypertension. Because one of the cardiac docs came to my room, once I was conscious, to say that he'd have done a triple bypass on me right then and there, except I would not have survived it. I wouldn't if he did it later either. He would not crack my chest like Walter's, not now, not ever, although I really needed it, because I would not survive the surgery. Did I understand?
Uh, okay. So where does that leave us? Stents and such? Yes, he thought they might keep me going for a while longer anyway.
My mother's here now, and Walter, and we've all learned that to talk to any of the huge multitude of docs now enveloping me, we must sit patiently in this hospital room and they will come to us. Sometimes we have no idea who they are. Even after they leave.
Today, Thursday, a much less upset cardiologist came by. We all immediately respected, liked, and trusted him. He firmly believes he can go right back in through the femoral artery, just like yesterday's cardiac cath, and find and use the right type of stent or angioplasty to get me better, not just as a stop-gap, but to hold open the three badly blocked vessels for years to come.
Yes. From all of us.
They scheduled the surgery immediately - for today - but just as my preliminary preps were done, they found my potassium was low. So tomorrow's the big day. And this time we'll try hard to post the results right away.
Ach. For such a long post, such a small sample of this odd month's life. So much else has been happening. Please understand how sorry I am for not posting better updates. I know you already forgive me, but I also feel your concern and worry. Perhaps I'll never stop being surprised at how strongly I feel it, and how much it means to me. How strong it keeps me, to know that you care.
Know this: I made it through some terrible situations this month. Your hopes and best wishes and prayers, and my family's, and my other friends', all gave me more strength to endure than I would have, could have, summoned up on my own.
I am still alive.
And I intend to stay that way.
.
Friday, June 26, 2009
THE PITT STOP
K was admitted in a hospital on a 24th of June with various infections, and with fluid in her lungs. She is feeling a little better now but how long Her hospital stay will be is for now uncertain. Unfortunately her laptop is broken so her favorite pastime of blogging from a hospital bed is impossible. On the other hand She has Her camera so I'm sure She'll entertain us with Her pictures.
For now I'll try to keep You posted on Her progress. I hope You all forgive for my imperfect English.
Walter
For now I'll try to keep You posted on Her progress. I hope You all forgive for my imperfect English.
Walter
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wha-- huh?!? Wait a sec. Happy FATHER'S Day! ha! memorial day, my dyin' a**!! some doofus sittin' around here not knowing whut the heck day it is, lor
.
WELL. A revelation? Nah. The holidays are a great way of remembering where one's sitting on the calendar at any given point of time. That ain't news.
So Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there! Enjoy your time of BBQ'g - or having someone else feed you; of visiting with family - or simply sleeping the day away in quiet; of going out fishing - or setting some of those offspring to work sweeping out the garage. Hey. Payback time, right? You gave them life and an upbringing. They can give you a little broom time in return.
Families can be the most wonderful, and the most terrible, influences in our lives. They can kill us, or they can save us. And for many of us, over our lifetimes we experience both states of being.
So I'm going to add in the extra-firm wish that you fathers celebrating today are the happy beneficiaries of good relationships with reasonably deserving kids. That sentimental Norman Rockwell approach to life is not for me. Sorry, guys. I just never trusted it. I like reality, and that other approach is too easily used as a vehicle for denial.
No! What we want here, IMO, is a REAL and sweet relationship with said kids. So that's what I'm wishing for you dads today. The real-for-real good stuff. YUM!
heh!
Enjoy.
.
WELL. A revelation? Nah. The holidays are a great way of remembering where one's sitting on the calendar at any given point of time. That ain't news.
So Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there! Enjoy your time of BBQ'g - or having someone else feed you; of visiting with family - or simply sleeping the day away in quiet; of going out fishing - or setting some of those offspring to work sweeping out the garage. Hey. Payback time, right? You gave them life and an upbringing. They can give you a little broom time in return.
Families can be the most wonderful, and the most terrible, influences in our lives. They can kill us, or they can save us. And for many of us, over our lifetimes we experience both states of being.
So I'm going to add in the extra-firm wish that you fathers celebrating today are the happy beneficiaries of good relationships with reasonably deserving kids. That sentimental Norman Rockwell approach to life is not for me. Sorry, guys. I just never trusted it. I like reality, and that other approach is too easily used as a vehicle for denial.
No! What we want here, IMO, is a REAL and sweet relationship with said kids. So that's what I'm wishing for you dads today. The real-for-real good stuff. YUM!
heh!
Enjoy.
.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Happy Memorial Day Weekend!
.
Up North, back in Days of Horrible Cold, I lived in Chicagoland from age seven to 22. After making a great escape to Florida and warmth, moving all over this state, spending four years in New Orleans and Shreveport and one year back in Chicago, I came home to Florida for good.
Which doesn't mean I've forgotten, for one single second, those Days of Horrible Cold. Folks, the last couple of winters, you've finally seen some of the snow-and-ice brutality we had for three winters in a row in the late 1970's. I can out-Snow Story 99.9% of anyone reading here. I worked outside in that stuff.
Ah, but springtime...Spring is my favorite time of year, and always has been, since those early childhood days in sunny Southern California.
Moving up North? Well. ksis was four, k seven, kbro almost nine. Hopefully, all of us have finally forgiven the p'rental units for the great travesty of kidnapping us three innocent offsprings, tearing us away from sunshine and mountains, warmth and deserts, ocean and beaches and those round hills of golden grass, and people who at least acted friendly and considerate and welcoming...
then plunking us into an atmosphere of icy coldness in every sense of the words; into relentless gray from skies to trees to buildings to land; flat flat flat everywhere you turn; a few cornfields and cattle, a couple windmills, areas of wilderness, yes and a beautiful little spring-fed lake, a polluted river...that was about all.
Except for springtime. In spring there were days that were not gray.
kmom reminded me not long ago of a day in my first fall up north. It was us kids' first experience of cold, of snow, of ice. The birds had disappeared, it seems; and I wondered where they'd gone. Naturally, I asked my mom, who Knows Many Things, and tried hard to teach us kids in the same positive, intelligent, bright manner that guides her own life.
She explained:
--They all flew south for the winter!
and to her shock I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
Oh, my poor mother! We gave my parents no peace about this move they made way back in 1965. They're still there, in that beautiful spacious house, where I saw the third huge generation of 17-year cicadas emerging in droves when I visited two years ago.
My friend Sylvia, from Brazil, had a sister who moved to Denver. I asked Sylvia how she felt about this Denver business. She told me: --I'm a tropical girl.
Me too.
We made it through that first winter, and the ones that followed. Spring came. And over the years, Memorial Day came to represent the dividing line between winter and real spring, the kind of spring that was safe, that stayed. Sometimes Memorial Day was cold or rainy. But there was no snow or ice any more.
In springtime the birds come back.
An outing! Family time. We'd set out from the Far North suburbs and have a Memorial Day picnic with relatives in a Chicago park. Corn on the cob! Hot dogs, watermelon. Aged, distant relatives of my mother's, Esther, Ed, others, who'd all passed away by a few years after we'd met them. People in my family rarely die, and Ed's funeral was the only one I attended until my own adulthood. All four of my grandparents lived halfway to forever; but until we left the Southwest, it seemed only my father had other relatives besides his parents. This largish bunch of kmom's uncles and second cousins was a little bewildering.
A day off school! Civic duty time. As a Brownie, then Girl Scout, then playing the flute in the school band, I walked along in our tiny small-town Memorial Day parades. I never liked parades until I moved to New Orleans, and the arthritis made certain types of walking painful, so these were more endured than enjoyed.
My child's mind really didn't understand what all this was about, anyway. Our thin groups walking - I can't say anyone actually *marched* - various Boy and Girl Scouts and a little school band, maybe a 4H Club group I never saw or even knew existed elsewhere during the year...A straggly bunch of old men in odd pointy blue hats with VFW on them - over the years these were joined by young men, and sometimes there was a complete divide between the old and *new* veterans, they'd walk in two separate groups, seeming completely unaware of the others' existence.
We'd end up at a small country cemetery with bare spots in the grass paths, old headstones leaning, fine ones upright and almost glowing in that clear, young springtime light. One of the old vets in a VFW hat would make a speech about war and democracy and safety and remembering those who gave everything for us. Sometimes his voice quavered with age. Sometimes there'd be a gun salute, shattering the quiet air in the small country cemetery with sound and gunpowder smoke and shock waves reverberating.
Death is a part of life. How many times have we heard this? And death feeds life, it's that ancient cycle. We all die, one way or another.
But there's a difference, an added dimension, when someone dies in the course of working to save others. Whatever your beliefs about war, this is a nearly universal truth: those who enter it voluntarily believe they are there to protect the lives of others. Of us, here at home. And those who enter war involuntarily, or become part of the collateral damage accompanying all wars, make yet another sacrifice.
What they all did was this: they gave their lives to help preserve ours. To give us time to reach spring and see that sun shine again.
I tried to find out why Memorial Day is held at the end of May. Its history is shrouded in murk. Apparently it just sort of happened that way. A series of groups and towns independently arrived at the same time of year to honor their war dead.
Springtime.
Which makes perfect sense to me.
.
Up North, back in Days of Horrible Cold, I lived in Chicagoland from age seven to 22. After making a great escape to Florida and warmth, moving all over this state, spending four years in New Orleans and Shreveport and one year back in Chicago, I came home to Florida for good.
Which doesn't mean I've forgotten, for one single second, those Days of Horrible Cold. Folks, the last couple of winters, you've finally seen some of the snow-and-ice brutality we had for three winters in a row in the late 1970's. I can out-Snow Story 99.9% of anyone reading here. I worked outside in that stuff.
Ah, but springtime...Spring is my favorite time of year, and always has been, since those early childhood days in sunny Southern California.
Moving up North? Well. ksis was four, k seven, kbro almost nine. Hopefully, all of us have finally forgiven the p'rental units for the great travesty of kidnapping us three innocent offsprings, tearing us away from sunshine and mountains, warmth and deserts, ocean and beaches and those round hills of golden grass, and people who at least acted friendly and considerate and welcoming...
then plunking us into an atmosphere of icy coldness in every sense of the words; into relentless gray from skies to trees to buildings to land; flat flat flat everywhere you turn; a few cornfields and cattle, a couple windmills, areas of wilderness, yes and a beautiful little spring-fed lake, a polluted river...that was about all.
Except for springtime. In spring there were days that were not gray.
kmom reminded me not long ago of a day in my first fall up north. It was us kids' first experience of cold, of snow, of ice. The birds had disappeared, it seems; and I wondered where they'd gone. Naturally, I asked my mom, who Knows Many Things, and tried hard to teach us kids in the same positive, intelligent, bright manner that guides her own life.
She explained:
--They all flew south for the winter!
and to her shock I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
Oh, my poor mother! We gave my parents no peace about this move they made way back in 1965. They're still there, in that beautiful spacious house, where I saw the third huge generation of 17-year cicadas emerging in droves when I visited two years ago.
My friend Sylvia, from Brazil, had a sister who moved to Denver. I asked Sylvia how she felt about this Denver business. She told me: --I'm a tropical girl.
Me too.
We made it through that first winter, and the ones that followed. Spring came. And over the years, Memorial Day came to represent the dividing line between winter and real spring, the kind of spring that was safe, that stayed. Sometimes Memorial Day was cold or rainy. But there was no snow or ice any more.
In springtime the birds come back.
An outing! Family time. We'd set out from the Far North suburbs and have a Memorial Day picnic with relatives in a Chicago park. Corn on the cob! Hot dogs, watermelon. Aged, distant relatives of my mother's, Esther, Ed, others, who'd all passed away by a few years after we'd met them. People in my family rarely die, and Ed's funeral was the only one I attended until my own adulthood. All four of my grandparents lived halfway to forever; but until we left the Southwest, it seemed only my father had other relatives besides his parents. This largish bunch of kmom's uncles and second cousins was a little bewildering.
A day off school! Civic duty time. As a Brownie, then Girl Scout, then playing the flute in the school band, I walked along in our tiny small-town Memorial Day parades. I never liked parades until I moved to New Orleans, and the arthritis made certain types of walking painful, so these were more endured than enjoyed.
My child's mind really didn't understand what all this was about, anyway. Our thin groups walking - I can't say anyone actually *marched* - various Boy and Girl Scouts and a little school band, maybe a 4H Club group I never saw or even knew existed elsewhere during the year...A straggly bunch of old men in odd pointy blue hats with VFW on them - over the years these were joined by young men, and sometimes there was a complete divide between the old and *new* veterans, they'd walk in two separate groups, seeming completely unaware of the others' existence.
We'd end up at a small country cemetery with bare spots in the grass paths, old headstones leaning, fine ones upright and almost glowing in that clear, young springtime light. One of the old vets in a VFW hat would make a speech about war and democracy and safety and remembering those who gave everything for us. Sometimes his voice quavered with age. Sometimes there'd be a gun salute, shattering the quiet air in the small country cemetery with sound and gunpowder smoke and shock waves reverberating.
Death is a part of life. How many times have we heard this? And death feeds life, it's that ancient cycle. We all die, one way or another.
But there's a difference, an added dimension, when someone dies in the course of working to save others. Whatever your beliefs about war, this is a nearly universal truth: those who enter it voluntarily believe they are there to protect the lives of others. Of us, here at home. And those who enter war involuntarily, or become part of the collateral damage accompanying all wars, make yet another sacrifice.
What they all did was this: they gave their lives to help preserve ours. To give us time to reach spring and see that sun shine again.
I tried to find out why Memorial Day is held at the end of May. Its history is shrouded in murk. Apparently it just sort of happened that way. A series of groups and towns independently arrived at the same time of year to honor their war dead.
Springtime.
Which makes perfect sense to me.
.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Bone Marrow Biopsy: Check.
.
It's done.
It went well. Not fun, of course; but not as bad as the horrible rumors one seems to hear about this procedure. How much of that was due to the great skill of this particular doctor is a matter of speculation.
He's a treat. Calm, funny, kind, open and interested in all that goes on around him. When I have bad medical experiences, health care workers like this go a very long way toward redeeming their professions.
Oh, it's done.
The follow-up visit is in two weeks.
Now I will rest.
And after that...perhaps I shall play.
.
It's done.
It went well. Not fun, of course; but not as bad as the horrible rumors one seems to hear about this procedure. How much of that was due to the great skill of this particular doctor is a matter of speculation.
He's a treat. Calm, funny, kind, open and interested in all that goes on around him. When I have bad medical experiences, health care workers like this go a very long way toward redeeming their professions.
Oh, it's done.
The follow-up visit is in two weeks.
Now I will rest.
And after that...perhaps I shall play.
.
These Dreams I Have
.
I really do have the most bizarre dreams.
I always did. But what I have now are antibiotic dreams. Apparently I'm not the only one who has this happen. They are truly weird.
Walter rarely remembers his dreams, so of course he stoutly insists he doesn't have any at all. HA! I listen to the man muttering in his sleep. Dreaming. He's probably REALLY lucky I can't even figure out which language it's in, much less understand what he's saying. ;-)
The dreams often contain these oddly inoffensive scenes of great and bloody violence. I mean, just awful stuff. Yet they can troop about my brain while leaving no sense of nightmare behind.
Last night was a combination of science fiction, roast beef, feeding my baby reindeer, and Spudnik.
You read that right. Not Sputnik.
Somehow, in my dream, I made that old joke out of it. For you young whippersnappers, this was the Soviet Union's space program in 1957, the one that beat us into orbit.
The roast beef episode was in some sort of boarding house or hostel run by an old man. I wanted it roasted low and slow, and was perfectly willing to do all the cooking myself, if only he'd be sure the oven was clean. This was late at night, like much of the dream, with an eerie silent spacey quality to it all. He seemed a bit grumpy that I wanted to cook at 2 am. (I've gotten that a lot throughout my life.)
Cut to outdoors, where another nighttime scene contained some visitors from outer space, with a number of folks rappelling down a rocky cliffy hill. In Florida. Next to a highway overpass. South Florida is notoriously flat.
The baby reindeer? It was SO CUTE! It was big and gangly, all legs like they are, and it twitched its tail most fetchingly. Someone from a biology program was trying to supply its special milk formula, but because of funding cuts, the milk was spoiled. Icky, nasty. Poor baby reindeer!
This took place in a vacant apartment. My old friend Sylvia was in the background sometimes, cleaning some apartments for customers.
We finally got the little baby reindeer to eat. We got some fresh cream and mixed it with mashed potatoes, which it liked.
Spuds.
Spudnik.
The baby reindeer would nuzzle and nurse on the bottle, tugging hard, twitching its tail happily.
I woke up laughing to myself.
Until Walter handed me some very difficult news: We have no cream.
No cream? No coffee. Can't drink it that way, me.
On this day of all days.
OMG.
He stopped smoking 3 days ago, and is having it very rough. I remember, and always will, how incredibly sickening it was for me to quit. He says he can't get to the grocery store for cream. I know this means he's in a hard place. We really can't afford it right now anyway. I don't even have the money for today's doctor copay: we spent $6.19 yesterday on insulin, and $15 for Dr. S. All gone.
And yes: If anyone can help with a $15 donation, it would be greatly appreciated. If not, we WILL get by. I know we'll find it some way. We always do.
But if a person ever looked to dreams for portents, I've figured this one out.
That cute damn baby Russian reindeer was EATING MY CREAM!
.
I really do have the most bizarre dreams.
I always did. But what I have now are antibiotic dreams. Apparently I'm not the only one who has this happen. They are truly weird.
Walter rarely remembers his dreams, so of course he stoutly insists he doesn't have any at all. HA! I listen to the man muttering in his sleep. Dreaming. He's probably REALLY lucky I can't even figure out which language it's in, much less understand what he's saying. ;-)
The dreams often contain these oddly inoffensive scenes of great and bloody violence. I mean, just awful stuff. Yet they can troop about my brain while leaving no sense of nightmare behind.
Last night was a combination of science fiction, roast beef, feeding my baby reindeer, and Spudnik.
You read that right. Not Sputnik.
Somehow, in my dream, I made that old joke out of it. For you young whippersnappers, this was the Soviet Union's space program in 1957, the one that beat us into orbit.
The roast beef episode was in some sort of boarding house or hostel run by an old man. I wanted it roasted low and slow, and was perfectly willing to do all the cooking myself, if only he'd be sure the oven was clean. This was late at night, like much of the dream, with an eerie silent spacey quality to it all. He seemed a bit grumpy that I wanted to cook at 2 am. (I've gotten that a lot throughout my life.)
Cut to outdoors, where another nighttime scene contained some visitors from outer space, with a number of folks rappelling down a rocky cliffy hill. In Florida. Next to a highway overpass. South Florida is notoriously flat.
The baby reindeer? It was SO CUTE! It was big and gangly, all legs like they are, and it twitched its tail most fetchingly. Someone from a biology program was trying to supply its special milk formula, but because of funding cuts, the milk was spoiled. Icky, nasty. Poor baby reindeer!
This took place in a vacant apartment. My old friend Sylvia was in the background sometimes, cleaning some apartments for customers.
We finally got the little baby reindeer to eat. We got some fresh cream and mixed it with mashed potatoes, which it liked.
Spuds.
Spudnik.
The baby reindeer would nuzzle and nurse on the bottle, tugging hard, twitching its tail happily.
I woke up laughing to myself.
Until Walter handed me some very difficult news: We have no cream.
No cream? No coffee. Can't drink it that way, me.
On this day of all days.
OMG.
He stopped smoking 3 days ago, and is having it very rough. I remember, and always will, how incredibly sickening it was for me to quit. He says he can't get to the grocery store for cream. I know this means he's in a hard place. We really can't afford it right now anyway. I don't even have the money for today's doctor copay: we spent $6.19 yesterday on insulin, and $15 for Dr. S. All gone.
And yes: If anyone can help with a $15 donation, it would be greatly appreciated. If not, we WILL get by. I know we'll find it some way. We always do.
But if a person ever looked to dreams for portents, I've figured this one out.
That cute damn baby Russian reindeer was EATING MY CREAM!
.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Nothing.
.
Nothing.
No cancer.
No pneumonia.
No huge blooms of frightening fungal funk.
Nothing.
Seven biopsies, the man took. Seven.
And the lab found nothing wrong in a single one.
As a former smoker, believe me, I'm delighted to have this truly exceptional lung doc go poking around in there with such care, and tell me, --No cancer.
Or pneumonia or fungus or any other horrors. Especially when this former smoker is coughing up bits of blood, little as they may be.
Walter and I both noticed Dr. S seemed a bit PO'd at the lack of diagnostic guidance. He's not a doc who'd willingly let some damn germ put one over on him.
Here's a good place to explain something about how I think, analytically. Hey, Math Fans! You can probably appreciate why I'd willingly associate *thinking* with that very pretty, very useful math called Calculus.
When trying to diagnose a medical condition (or most anything else), we often start with a *snapshot,* then figure out what changed since that pic was taken. In the study of calculus - and of finance - a change from one point to the next is called an *increment.* The mathematical formula to describe a curve is calculus; the formula describes the changes in a line that could have been a straight line, but isn't.
Calc measures those increments, looking at smaller and smaller changes until they're so tiny they can't be seen with the naked eye, but can be expressed in a formula so comfortably that it correctly reproduces the curved line in question. (Okay, if you're not a Math Fan, but hated every second of the only calc class some vicious teacher or parent forced down your throat, maybe that formula could never feel comfortable to you. I'm the same way about electricity, so believe me, I'd never think any less of you.)
Say I'm looking at a sick plant. What's changed since last week when it seemed healthy? No rain, loads of rain, high heat, cold, plant food, no plant food, snails munching leaves... I look for an increment, a change, to guide me toward understanding the cause of the plant's illness, and therefore any cure. If cold never bothered it before, then chances are, this week's cold snap isn't to blame.
Identifying that incremental change can mean everything. Believing a change has occurred when it hasn't can steer you seriously astray.
So when a doctor questions me, I take care to say whether some event is new: whether or not it's *same old same old* is quite significant.
Dr S listens to me breathe. --Pain? Chest pain? --Always, but no change.
(He looks at me intently, inquiringly.) --I always have chest pain, all different kinds. It still hurts but there's no change in the pain from before. It hurts the same way it did when the blood started.
(Not localized knife-stabs, or a constant bad ache, but like breathing -20 degree/3% humidity air on a winter's day in Chicago. It hurts going in, but less when it's going out; it feels pretty much the same wherever the incoming air first hits lung tissue.)
--Fever/chills/night sweats? --Always, but no change. Nothing new except the same fever spikes I've been getting for a couple months now. My normal body temp is 97.4. Tuesday night it hit 99.1, which is very high for me.
--How much blood? --Just little bits, bright red, mixed with other lung stuff. Yesterday, a couple small dark pieces that looked like clots from a scabbed-over biopsy. --A tablespoon, a teaspoon? --No no no, tiny, like 1/4 teaspoon.
(--Breathe...he listens, moves the stethoscope in this dance where I need no directions but instantly know when he wants me to breathe again)
--Doc. Is the lab checking for fungal infections? --Yes. (If he were my cat April he'd roll his eyes in impatience. Well, they DON'T always do those tests, I really did have to ask.)
--So what is it?
--Inflammation. Bronchitis.
--Does this mean I have COPD?
(looking at me a bit sharpish, an odd look...) --No, those are two very different things.
(It's not that I want COPD. I want, and need, oxygen, but can't afford it. Medicare would pay for it if he'd 'fess up that I didn't really *cure* my longstanding COPD.)
He wants to do a follow-up CT scan in 3 months. Wants to put me on sulfa to ward off that nasty pneumocystis but I'm allergic to sulfa, so he writes a note to Dr C the ID doc about trying some other preventive stuff.
He HATES prescribing meds. *Hey. Patient! What are you DOING?!? Don't eat that, it's a PILL!!!!!!!!!* He especially loathes Prednisone. --How much Prednisone are you on these days?
I hate it when he asks me that.
Trying to save us both time, head him off at the pass, I say --80 mg-- then immediately launch into how tomorrow is the bone marrow biopsy, then we'll finally apply for the IgG boosters, yada yada yada... He likes that better than Prednisone any day of the week.
As much as I understand that No News is valuable news unto itself - as glad as I am not to have a Definite Horrible - I still feel some frustration at this sort of thing. Questions asked, unanswered.
Mystery. The unknown.
Despite all our advances, it can still come back to that. And often does.
Sometimes we aren't quite as big and smart as we think.
.
Nothing.
No cancer.
No pneumonia.
No huge blooms of frightening fungal funk.
Nothing.
Seven biopsies, the man took. Seven.
And the lab found nothing wrong in a single one.
As a former smoker, believe me, I'm delighted to have this truly exceptional lung doc go poking around in there with such care, and tell me, --No cancer.
Or pneumonia or fungus or any other horrors. Especially when this former smoker is coughing up bits of blood, little as they may be.
Walter and I both noticed Dr. S seemed a bit PO'd at the lack of diagnostic guidance. He's not a doc who'd willingly let some damn germ put one over on him.
Here's a good place to explain something about how I think, analytically. Hey, Math Fans! You can probably appreciate why I'd willingly associate *thinking* with that very pretty, very useful math called Calculus.
When trying to diagnose a medical condition (or most anything else), we often start with a *snapshot,* then figure out what changed since that pic was taken. In the study of calculus - and of finance - a change from one point to the next is called an *increment.* The mathematical formula to describe a curve is calculus; the formula describes the changes in a line that could have been a straight line, but isn't.
Calc measures those increments, looking at smaller and smaller changes until they're so tiny they can't be seen with the naked eye, but can be expressed in a formula so comfortably that it correctly reproduces the curved line in question. (Okay, if you're not a Math Fan, but hated every second of the only calc class some vicious teacher or parent forced down your throat, maybe that formula could never feel comfortable to you. I'm the same way about electricity, so believe me, I'd never think any less of you.)
Say I'm looking at a sick plant. What's changed since last week when it seemed healthy? No rain, loads of rain, high heat, cold, plant food, no plant food, snails munching leaves... I look for an increment, a change, to guide me toward understanding the cause of the plant's illness, and therefore any cure. If cold never bothered it before, then chances are, this week's cold snap isn't to blame.
Identifying that incremental change can mean everything. Believing a change has occurred when it hasn't can steer you seriously astray.
So when a doctor questions me, I take care to say whether some event is new: whether or not it's *same old same old* is quite significant.
Dr S listens to me breathe. --Pain? Chest pain? --Always, but no change.
(He looks at me intently, inquiringly.) --I always have chest pain, all different kinds. It still hurts but there's no change in the pain from before. It hurts the same way it did when the blood started.
(Not localized knife-stabs, or a constant bad ache, but like breathing -20 degree/3% humidity air on a winter's day in Chicago. It hurts going in, but less when it's going out; it feels pretty much the same wherever the incoming air first hits lung tissue.)
--Fever/chills/night sweats? --Always, but no change. Nothing new except the same fever spikes I've been getting for a couple months now. My normal body temp is 97.4. Tuesday night it hit 99.1, which is very high for me.
--How much blood? --Just little bits, bright red, mixed with other lung stuff. Yesterday, a couple small dark pieces that looked like clots from a scabbed-over biopsy. --A tablespoon, a teaspoon? --No no no, tiny, like 1/4 teaspoon.
(--Breathe...he listens, moves the stethoscope in this dance where I need no directions but instantly know when he wants me to breathe again)
--Doc. Is the lab checking for fungal infections? --Yes. (If he were my cat April he'd roll his eyes in impatience. Well, they DON'T always do those tests, I really did have to ask.)
--So what is it?
--Inflammation. Bronchitis.
--Does this mean I have COPD?
(looking at me a bit sharpish, an odd look...) --No, those are two very different things.
(It's not that I want COPD. I want, and need, oxygen, but can't afford it. Medicare would pay for it if he'd 'fess up that I didn't really *cure* my longstanding COPD.)
He wants to do a follow-up CT scan in 3 months. Wants to put me on sulfa to ward off that nasty pneumocystis but I'm allergic to sulfa, so he writes a note to Dr C the ID doc about trying some other preventive stuff.
He HATES prescribing meds. *Hey. Patient! What are you DOING?!? Don't eat that, it's a PILL!!!!!!!!!* He especially loathes Prednisone. --How much Prednisone are you on these days?
I hate it when he asks me that.
Trying to save us both time, head him off at the pass, I say --80 mg-- then immediately launch into how tomorrow is the bone marrow biopsy, then we'll finally apply for the IgG boosters, yada yada yada... He likes that better than Prednisone any day of the week.
As much as I understand that No News is valuable news unto itself - as glad as I am not to have a Definite Horrible - I still feel some frustration at this sort of thing. Questions asked, unanswered.
Mystery. The unknown.
Despite all our advances, it can still come back to that. And often does.
Sometimes we aren't quite as big and smart as we think.
.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Bronch: Check.
.
Okay. One down on this week's To Do list.
It went well, for a bronchoscopy. Everyone seemed very competent and very nice. This was at Broward General. They impressed me again with their sterility procedures, and my bed was righteously decorated with the *BE AFRAID! BE VERY AFRAID!* signs that keep us all assured that we're mutually safe. Comforting.
When I said I felt a little *crashy* from diabetes, they didn't ignore it. They stayed careful about my blood sugar - like any surgical procedure, you can't eat or drink 12 hours before a bronchoscopy, so a diabetic can get Issues during surgery.
The anesthesia nurse wasn't attitudinal about pain control, for which she got my heartfelt thanks. While I was still conscious, she even used a little extra. Nice. Not taking my morning meds had left me resorting to the Teeth Gritting Method. I lay in their bed playing with my left-hand fingers. Just because I could.
Before they put me under, they gave me a breathing treatment of Lidocaine, the same topical anesthetic as in those lovely patches. Oh heaven! The lungs haven't been hurting all that bad; but sometimes dull constant pain can drive a person crazy worse than the knife-stab type.
I'd never even heard of such a thing as Lidocaine for Lungs! So when they told me what the breathing treatment was, I was awestruck; I breathed --Oh THANK you!!!-- and they all cracked up. Someone behind me murmured, --Isn't it funny how it's the little things in life?!...
and I relaxed and breathed like a Regular Person till I'd sucked it all down; then next I remember, I was coughing and coughing and wondering how much longer before we got started. Until someone told me it was actually all over. All done. Rest for three hours, then go home.
The doc said he saw nothing of immediate huge concern, but did take multiple specimens. That many biopsies is unusual. Often they take none, or just one. Thursday I get to hear if they've learned anything from them. I'll betcha $5 it's mostly fungal, meaning a lot will show up erroneously as *non-pathological;* but, this great diagnostician will know what it is, and what to do, with at least half of it.
That's about it. I'm sleeping a lot. The bleeding and so forth is about the same, so I've no new concerns. Now, just be patient and wait; and that's something I can do well.
YAY! Medical Update Duty done. Back to Fun Stuff!
.
Okay. One down on this week's To Do list.
It went well, for a bronchoscopy. Everyone seemed very competent and very nice. This was at Broward General. They impressed me again with their sterility procedures, and my bed was righteously decorated with the *BE AFRAID! BE VERY AFRAID!* signs that keep us all assured that we're mutually safe. Comforting.
When I said I felt a little *crashy* from diabetes, they didn't ignore it. They stayed careful about my blood sugar - like any surgical procedure, you can't eat or drink 12 hours before a bronchoscopy, so a diabetic can get Issues during surgery.
The anesthesia nurse wasn't attitudinal about pain control, for which she got my heartfelt thanks. While I was still conscious, she even used a little extra. Nice. Not taking my morning meds had left me resorting to the Teeth Gritting Method. I lay in their bed playing with my left-hand fingers. Just because I could.
Before they put me under, they gave me a breathing treatment of Lidocaine, the same topical anesthetic as in those lovely patches. Oh heaven! The lungs haven't been hurting all that bad; but sometimes dull constant pain can drive a person crazy worse than the knife-stab type.
I'd never even heard of such a thing as Lidocaine for Lungs! So when they told me what the breathing treatment was, I was awestruck; I breathed --Oh THANK you!!!-- and they all cracked up. Someone behind me murmured, --Isn't it funny how it's the little things in life?!...
and I relaxed and breathed like a Regular Person till I'd sucked it all down; then next I remember, I was coughing and coughing and wondering how much longer before we got started. Until someone told me it was actually all over. All done. Rest for three hours, then go home.
The doc said he saw nothing of immediate huge concern, but did take multiple specimens. That many biopsies is unusual. Often they take none, or just one. Thursday I get to hear if they've learned anything from them. I'll betcha $5 it's mostly fungal, meaning a lot will show up erroneously as *non-pathological;* but, this great diagnostician will know what it is, and what to do, with at least half of it.
That's about it. I'm sleeping a lot. The bleeding and so forth is about the same, so I've no new concerns. Now, just be patient and wait; and that's something I can do well.
YAY! Medical Update Duty done. Back to Fun Stuff!
.
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