Relief? Maybe...

I have been so lucky up until now, in my dealings with medical practices. For the most part, I've found competent and caring doctors and staff, everywhere I've been in the past 18 months of the medical carousel. Yesterday, however, was an interesting departure from the usual warm-and-fuzzy, overly solicitous, cancer and post-cancer caregivers I've encountered in the past.

It started with the reminder call from the office on Thursday. The girl rattled through the appointment date and time.

"Wait a minute," I said, "I thought my appointment was at 8:30."
"It's been changed to 9:30," she announced, airily. It was the first I had heard of a change.
"You need to bring all your medications, x-rays, CT or MRI scans and your paperwork. Be prepared to pay your co-pay."
"I have a detailed list of all my meds," I replied.
"Well, isn't that nice," she said sarcastically. "You still have to bring the actual bottles. If you don't bring them, your appointment will be cancelled and you'll be charged $25. Suit yourself." Click.

What a snippy receptionist!

Bill and I trekked out to Kingsport, dutifully lugging a basket of bottles and paperwork. The front office receptionist was smile-less. We waited 20 minutes in the outer office. We were escorted in to take my weight and blood pressure. I handed the nurse my med list and she declined to rummage through my bottles. We then sat in an examining room for another 40 minutes, listening to the staff laughing loudly and hysterically outside the door. I mean, these women were in paroxysms of mirth. Hyena-like guffaws. Snorting. It made us smile and want to open the door to ask "what's the joke?" We had to amuse ourselves by reading the deadly serious signs about medication refills and all the instances where prescriptions would not be given.

At 10:30, the nurse practitioner finally arrived. Her demeanor was professional and kind, although I found myself correcting her English occasionally (I need to STOP doing that, it's a bad reflex). My self-diagnosis of Post-traumatic Neuropathy is correct. And there are all sorts of medieval torture-like procedures to try to alleviate the pain. Steroid injections up under the ribs. Surgery to cauterize or freeze the offending nerves.

I decided to go with the least invasive option to start--lidocaine patches for 12 hours a day and an NSAID topical gel to reduce inflammation for the other 12 hours. I'll just try it and see if it calms everything down in there.

The checkout receptionist was just as clueless and grim as everyone else. I left in a huff.

Bill and I had a nice lunch, but the experience had unnerved me. We decided that contrary to what one might think--that a Pain Clinic might be more attuned to patient needs than other facilities--these people seemed almost contemptuous of their patients. Almost certainly, they must deal with a lot of drug-dependent patients. Perhaps their interaction with those patients affects their manners. (Bill also noted that there was a sign prohibiting firearms in the building--what's up with that?)

Or maybe I've just been spoiled by East Tennessee friendly chattiness and people in other facilities who have gone out of their way to make my medical experience pleasant and comfortable.

So now, armed with my patches and gel, I will hopefully get some relief from the pain. And hopefully, I won't have to deal with these people in any meaningful way in the future.

It's real and it has a name!

Since I will once again deliver myself into the maw of a new medical subspecialty on Friday--the "Pain Clinic,"-- I decided to do some internet investigation last night.

The pain that I have been experiencing is so bizarre, so different from any pain I've felt before in my life, I was beginning to doubt that it was real. Perhaps it was all in my head, I thought. Like the weird phantom sensations from the breasts that were no longer there, right after the surgery last year. Both my oncologist and reconstructive surgeon seemed impatient with my reports of searing, burning waves of agony that made me cry out or drove me to my knees without warning. Ho-hum, they seemed to say. Talk to the other guy, not my department.

But I found it, and it's a real pain "syndrome." It's called Post-Traumatic Neuropathy, and involves either nerve injury at the time of surgery, or more likely in my case (because it started a full year after my surgery), constriction of nerves from that other side-effect they neglected to tell me about, over-active scar tissue.

The literature describes the pain of this condition perfectly: An exquisite sensation of severe stabbing and/or burning at the scar site. Light touch on the skin at the affected site is perceived as unbearable. In some people, superficial skin nerves become entrapped in scar tissue during the healing process.

And it also explained why the chiropractic adjustments in Washington provided some temporary relief: In some cases, adjustment or manipulation of the underlying bones and muscles may give affected nerves space to relax the constriction in the short term.

This whole experience with my continuing problems with the reconstruction has left me feeling a bit guilty. I am the Iron Maiden. I've flunked Bionic Boob Recovery. I am "one of those patients" who has trouble with encapsulation, scar tissue that over-compensates. Lucky me.

What I have been doing (Bio-Freeze topical ointment, cold packs, deep breathing), are some of the recommended treatments. But there are thankfully other options as well. Right now, I am back to life without movement, life without the use of my right arm, and this can't continue. I had hoped to get through 2009 without more surgery, but that may be my ultimate solution. I may be "one of those patients" who has to have annual housekeeping operations to clean out the scar tissue.

Running Revelations

So there I was in Walmart's checkout line when I suddenly realized I had left my wallet on the car seat. No problem, I thought, I'll just write a check! But then the computer asked for my I.D., and I was in a quandry. The checker said, "I'll wait," and although the line behind me looked pretty grumpy, I decided I'd go ahead and sprint for the car.

I had parked far away so as to get my requisite exercise for the day, and before I knew it I was jogging. Now you have to understand, I have not run anywhere for almost 50 years. There was no sports bra on earth that could contain me, nor any way I could glide along at anything faster than a brisk walk, without jarring pain from the bounce of my chest.

And here I was...actually running! I was breathing in the crisp, cold air. I was bounding along with nary a bounce. No jiggles or wiggles! It was fun! It was exhilarating! I realized in a flash, that I probably hadn't run like this since I was about 8 years old.

And I felt like I was 8 again. Before I knew it, I was leaping and skipping too. I made it to the car, grabbed my wallet, and ran back. I wanted to revisit what had just happened, just to see if I could make it happen again. I felt great. It was incredible.

So if you've heard reports of a middle-aged woman zipping through the Walmart parking lot today, acting like a crazy kid...that was me.

Candlelight, Snow and...Chupacabbra?

We woke up to sparkly snow on the ground this morning, and lightly falling flakes floating through the air. This is after we went to bed in the dark last night when the power went "POP" at about 9 pm. We stumbled about, fumbling for flashlights, then lit all the candles we could find.

Now that we had a beautiful candlelit atmosphere, I figured we'd have a quiet romantic evening. Instead, Bill told me a story about a "real" chupacabbra that was found in Texas recently. A chupacabbra is a mythical monster like Bigfoot or the Yeti, talked about in legend in Mexico and Latin America. Bill and Alex have always been facinated by stories of the chupacabbra, which is supposed to be a humungous goat-like beast, if you can imagine such a thing.

What is it about guys? Why do they think macabre hybrid monsters are interesting? Or even entertain the notion that they are real? Is it the primal hunter instinct or the need to protect?
Do they need to have proverbial dragons to slay (or think that they would be able to slay), even in our modern age?

Anyway, the punch line was that when the road-killed corpse was taken to the lab at UT in Austin, they found that it was just a wild coyote with a bad skin disease. And run over by a vehicle to boot.

So, presumably, the search for evidence of the existence of the fearsome chupacabbra continues...

Sheesh.

My Son, the Grownup

Alex called in great excitement Thursday night. He and his friend Doug have placed an offer on a house. While he realizes that this will now lead to the assumption that Doug and he are a "couple" in the context of Seattle-culture, he is willing to ignore that for the eventual benefits of home ownership. I marvel. He is 22 years old, and has joined the ranks of bonafide adulthood in one fell swoop.

He and Doug will also qualify for the "Porkulous Stimulus" 2009, first-time buyer credit of $8000. At least someone I know will be the beneficiary of our tax dollars. I can almost rationalize it now, by thinking I'd be happy to give 8 grand to my son to buy a house.

He also now has a MySpace page for his band, F-Tap, complete with pictures and recorded music:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=451115990

I can hardly wait to hook up the speakers and hear what the boy has been up to lately. He has written all the songs, and does the backup vocals and drums.

My son--the home-owning rock star! Does it get any prouder than this?

5 am Apple Pie Dreams?

From panic to food, my sleeping life seems to rule my waking life. I awoke this morning with an intense desire to bake an apple pie. Actually, it may have been more of a simple hankering for apple pie for breakfast, but in order to get there, somebody has to make the pie. Thankfully, I know how to do this. I make an awesome apple pie.

It's not a normal apple pie. I make it with a brown sugar and pecan-streusel top crust, and my secret ingredient is a healthy slug of cognac in the filling. I don't even use a recipe anymore, I just dump stuff in and bake the thing until it's all bubbly and brown. Yum.

Since we have company coming today, baking a dessert is a good idea. Dessert has never been one of my normal thoughts in cooking everyday meals, although my kids craved sugar and I've never known Bill to pass up the chance for an after-dinner sweet. My kids never asked "what's for dinner?" but they always asked "what's for dessert?" My answer was usually "get an orange!" or "there are fresh peaches!" Still, they asked daily, and hoped for a different answer.

So, off to baking I go. With an apple pie for dessert, maybe the cousins will discount the clutter and dog hair that permeates our abode.

Rude Awakening

I woke up suddenly in the dark this morning, and in a full-blown panic attack. Pulse rapid, respiration up, sweaty and completely disoriented. Bad dream? Whatever it was, it took a few minutes of being vertical to regain my composure, get myself calmed down and breathing normally again.

Once I was up and moving around, I had the oddest sense of "coming back to myself." It reminded me of the belief in some cultures that your soul leaves your body when you sleep. I'm back now, thankfully, and mostly all together again.

I got most of what I wanted to accomplish done yesterday, except for the housecleaning. That activity always seems to fall into last place on the priority list. Dr. H is referring me to the "Pain Clinic," for some diagnostic procedures. He believes that my overly-agressive scar tissue is strangling a nerve somewhere in there. I assume that once we confirm his suspicion, treatment options will be discussed. It never ends.

Today is dog-bath day. Echo reeks of dogginess, with an overlaid scent of two-day-old-dead-thing. She probably found something disgusting to roll in.

The sun is coming up, and life returns to normal again.

Busy Monday

It's hard to believe how slothful I have become. Throw me a day like today, and I'll probably be collapsed on the couch by sundown.

First, I am off to one of the rentals to do some carpet spot-cleaning, then home to start cleaning up the house--Bill's cousins from Indiana are coming to visit on Thursday, and it's time to swamp out the living room again. Then it's off to Kingsport to Dr. H., to see if he can do something about the incredibly annoying, stabbing, burning pain under my arm.

I'll probably squeeze in a trip to Lowes, as I am looking for a new type of planter for my salad garden. Then I need to come home and build a box to send some stuff to Juli and Kerne in Seattle.

And then there's the never-ending taxes, which (yes, M, still working on those!) are close to completion--I just don't like the answer I'm getting, so I want to recheck all my figures. Again, the unbidden thought of "and tell me again WHY I'm paying so much, when the big poobahs in Washington don't bother?" Best to just stuff that rebellious thought back in the box.

If I manage to get all this done, I may just decide to stay in my PJs all day tomorrow.

Pre-Spring Projects

Bill has decided to do some forest-clearing for his vacation project. He has the idea that he wants to clean up the various trash-dumps left by the previous owner(s) in the backyard, prune the desirable Redbud trees, cut down the insidious Black Locust trees with their vicious thorns and untidy growing habit. I think this is a fine idea, as long as I don't have to be personally involved.

My idea of fun is perusing seed and plant catalogs, while perched cozily on the couch. I want to plant some more of those "Magic Beans" from last year, and have started cleaning up the planting beds to get ready for early crops. Peas are wonderful too, although it takes a lot of pea plants to get a side dish of peas. Maybe snap peas instead? They are terrifically expensive in the store, and planting those would make me feel economical. Tomatoes and peppers will go in containers on the porch, as I found that turtles munch on them when planted down in the raised beds. Okra was a success last year, but we don't eat that much okra. Perhaps some carrots and beets, onions and garlic would go well down there.

For the last two years, my salad greens have not fared well in the containers I placed them in. I'm going to have to come up with a different system or a different venue--it just gets too hot for them to be successful.

Dreaming of the garden-to-be is one of my very favorite activities. It's especially appropriate on a rainy day in February, when I can procrastinate about the ever-looming chores, such as painting or doing taxes or washing dishes.

Deconstructing Lincoln

I am old enough to remember when we had two holidays in February, instead of the distressingly generic "Presidents' Day." Today is the real birthday of Abraham Lincoln (the other is February 22nd, Washington's birthday). Growing up in California, I got a smattering of history-book lessons about our 16th president, but Bill grew up in Illinois, the quintessential Land of Lincoln, as proclaimed by their license plates.

Being a history buff and growing up near the capital of Springfield, Bill was thoroughly steeped in Lincoln facts and legends. There were elementary school field trips to the re-created village of New Salem, where the future president practiced law, and junior high expeditions to the whole Lincolnalia wing of the state capitol building. They read Lincoln biographies in high school.

Do you know there is actually a convention of Lincolnophiles each year in Springfield, where participants dress up in stovepipe hats and black suits and facial hair?

Now, it seems that the version of history I grew up with surrounding this truly great man is undergoing the typical historical deconstruction, so popular in our society. All this week, I've read articles claiming that he was a secret racist, a tortured soul, a deeply conflicted and even venal and corrupt politician. There is an unseemly tone of glee in these new "revelations," as if tearing down an American icon will somehow make him more human and understandable to our current sensibilities.

What is lacking is true historical context. Viewed in his time and culture, he was an inspired and visionary leader. When placed under the lens of our cynical, secular time, Lincoln becomes a quaint dufus, a mere mortal, no better than our current crop of self-serving politicians, presumably manipulating the citizenry to further his own selfish ambitions.

This is a disservice to us all, I believe. The reality is that in his own time, he was vilified and hated as much as he was loved and respected. (He was called "a baboon" by one of his own cabinet members). While the media delights in calling George W. Bush the most unpopular president ever, the fact is that Lincoln suffered in the hands of the press far more than Bush ever did. It was only in the context of history that his actions and words were vindicated, as he was finally seen as a genuine America hero.

Now the pendulum has swung back, and it's apparently time to tear him down again, with the goal of convincing us all that there are no real heroes in the American story. We will be the poorer for it if these new "histories" prevail.

Coinkidinks

I often wonder when I see incongruous couples, what made them get together? You know the people I'm talking about--not the "what does she ever see in HIM?" types, but the ones who are perfectly wonderful on their own but wildly different than their spouse.

Bill and I fit into this category, I think. We live separate lives for much of the year, spend an inordinate amount of time arguing rather than agreeing, and have very divergent interests and hobbies.

Here then, are the reasons we are together:

My mother was born on Valentine's Day. His mother's maiden name is Valentine.
We both had an Uncle Luther who had only one eye.
My great-grandfather Ed and his Uncle Ed both had a wooden leg.

I mean, what are the chances?

Taxes? Again?

I'm always astonished when tax time rolls around again. Didn't I just do all this nonsense last month? No, it's been a year, and it's time to pay the voracious government its tithe.

I am so incensed at the drunken-sailor-spending-spree in Washington (actually an insult to drunken sailors everywhere), I have contemplated sending a note this year, instead of my tax return:

Dear IRS and Your Buddies in Congress:

We are so disappointed in you, and your profligate squandering of last year's allowance. Until you mend your evil ways, we are cutting you off. If you want to continue your irresponsible spending, you'll just have to get a real job and pay for it out of your own pocket, like we do. We are taking away your credit cards, and we expect you to do your chores diligently and without complaint. Until you stop wasting our hard-earned money, you are on your own. When you show that you can act like adults, then we will consider treating you as such. We've talked it over and decided that if you behave this year, we will consider reinstating your allowance next year.

After all, if Geithner, Daschle and the rest of Obama's cabinet wannabes don't pay their taxes, why should I? It seems to be a prerequisite for getting a job in the new administration. Maybe if I send them this note, I can get a job as the new Secretary of the Interior?

**********************************************

Bill arrived safely at his dad's house in Illinois last night.

Guilt and Duty

Bill left this morning to go see his parents in Illinois. "What are your goals for this trip?" I asked. "Why are you driving 650 miles for just a few days?"

"Guilt," he sighed.

Bill rarely feels guilt about anything, so this is a concept ripe for exploration. I think what he is feeling is more a sense of duty than guilt. He speaks of it this way: "I should go see my parents." We all owe our parents a debt that can never be repaid, except in terms of our time and respect. Honor thy father and mother is one of the Commandments. I am proud of him for going, even though I know he'd rather be home.

I know I wish my children lived closer, just close enough to come to dinner once a week. Any more than that, and I think we'd all feel a little suffocated.

But as a parent, I don't want my children coming to see me out of guilt, justified or not. Naturally, I want them to visit me because they want to be with me. It seems that the natural order of the relationship is that as everyone gets older, parents want to be with their children more than the other way around.

Snow, and More Snow

I didn't go to the doctor's on Monday, as the sky was ominously spitting frozen stuff, and I didn't feel like trekking 30 miles on nasty, slick roads. Little did I know, that was the last time we'd be able to get out and about this week.

It's been snowing off and on for the past two days. And cold? Woo-doggie, single-digit cold! While I enjoy being housebound and puttering about, Bill and Echo are starting to behave like caged wild beasts.

On the first day of cold and snow, we bundled up and went down to the pond to prune the fruit trees. Alex and I started this project in the Winter of 2007, planning a 3-year pruning schedule to put the old tired trees back in fruit-bearing shape. In the Winter of '08, Bill was at sea and I could not lift my arms to do any kind of work, so the trees just had to make do without a trim.
Now it is 2009, and I'm quite pleased with the results. There are plenty of terminal buds, and we cut out the last of the dead, dying, and crossing branches. We shall have apples and pears this summer!

Day 2 of snowboundedness, we read, napped and cooked waffles for dinner.

Today is Day 3--the sun is out, and it might get up to 30 degrees, but that's not going to melt this snow. But at least it will be warm enough to walk in the woods and dig the car out, and we can probably go to town if we need to.

Tomorrow, it will warm up to 50, and all this snow will melt away.

Another Friend, Diagnosed

My mom called to tell me that another one of my childhood friends has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Mom says, "I keep thinking, all these women of your generation--what did we do that made you all get cancer now?"

I've been pondering this question, since the call. I've been told that the two biggest risks for breast cancer are being female and aging, two factors you can't do anything about. The third is having the BRCA genetic mutations, another uncontrollable roll of the dice.

There is some anecdotal evidence that the wildly popular use of organic chlorine compounds in industry and everyday life after WWII contributes to reproductive cancers in both men and women (note the rise of prostate and testicular cancer rates, along with female cancers). Think about it though. Without the use of chlorine in water supplies and manufacturing, we might have just been felled at an earlier age by bacterial infections.

I once read that if a woman could make it through "the dangerous decade," between ages 50-60 without breast cancer, chances were that you wouldn't get it after 60. Dr. Mark disputes this though, saying that the risk just continues to go up as a woman ages. I just don't know.

Dr. Veltmann believes that the wild swing of hormonal levels in perimenopause and a couple of stress factors "switches on" the cancer response. When he and I traced the probable timeline of my cancer's beginning, I was stunned. "Are you telling me that being on the School Board gave me cancer?" I sputtered! It's a sobering thought, if his theory is right.

No one knows, I guess. All the "preventive" measures are actually just normal healthy living--eat right, exercise, avoid weight gain and excessive toxins. The rest of the guidelines are just early detection exercises, catching it before it has a chance to really get going. That's all they can give us at this point.

I don't think it's anything that my mother's generation did to my generation. I think it's just that all of us who are being diagnosed now are of a certain age, and an unseen cosmic digit fingered us for early termination. Luckily, we also live in a time and a place where most of us can now survive this disease, as devastating and disruptive as the treatments can be.

My friend's chances for long-term are excellent, as it is early and contained. But my heart goes out to her, because I know what she's going through right now, mentally and physically. And even if my mom's collective guilt for her generation is true, there's nothing to be done about it now. We'll just continue to do whatever we can to beat the beast.

Thoughts on Groundhog Day

I became disenchanted with the whole idea of Groundhog Day when I lived in New York. In New York, groundhogs are known as woodchucks, and we shoot them come summertime, to keep them from descimating our gardens. I don't know "how much wood can a woodchuck chuck..." but I do know they can eat every growing plant you have, in the time it takes to go to the beach with the kids for an hour.

So, start with the idea of using one of these eating machines as a weather predictor. Take the usually solitary, cranky beast out of its normal hibernating routine in early February, haul it out into the light of day in front of the glare of TV lights and the assembled residents of Punxsutawney, PA, and determine whether or not it "sees" its shadow. I don't know about this. Logic requires us to conclude that if the sun is out, there will be a shadow. If it's cloudy or overcast, no shadow. Do we really need the groundhog at all for this observation? All a normal person has to do is look up at the sky.

Then, there's the whole thing about 6 more weeks of Winter. Look at the freaking calendar, people! Winter is defined as the period of time between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox. Yep, you figured it out: February 2nd is roughly six weeks before the advent of Spring, no matter what the groundhog sees.

Sure enough, every year they'd haul out Phil (or whomever they designated as this year's "Phil") and declare that yes, we'll have six more weeks of Winter. Well, duh! Those clever Pennsyvanians found a way to make idiots of everyone who can't follow a simple calendar, whip up some tourism in the doldrums of late Winter, and get themselves in the news, year after tedious year.

Bill says I'm being too harsh, that the custom is harmless and charming. I say that anyone who thinks a groundhog is remotely charming or harmless doesn't know wildlife at all. I say shoot them all, before they have a chance to eat your peas and beans.