Patient's #Father Breaks My Heart...

Last night I was sitting in the waiting room of a radiology place scheduled for a MRI.* It was a 5:30 p.m. appointment so my mom could take me after her teaching job. Right now, I have too many drugs in my system to drive and we only have one vehicle working (mine!) so that's why I need a chauffeur. Plus, for some reason, I don't know if it is the medicine or ME but I am a lot more anxious these days so that factors in too.

( When you see a * go to the bottom of blog for more info.) 

Back to the waiting room... I am done filling out my name, address, prescriptions, allergies, and the "why are you here today" questions on the clipboard. Those of you that regularly go to doctor appointments know what I am talking about, right? Some handle over what seem to be the same size as War & Peace to fill out, am I right? I've already written my memoir many a time, many a waiting room! Ha!  My favorite part are the uncomfortable chairs & outdated magazines... yeah, right! Actually, this place I was at most recently had comfortable  high-back chairs & believe-it-or-not UPDATED magazines! CURRENT ones! Within the last few months! Jackpot!
  Like a Barnes-n-Noble rack! Good thing, my poor Mom had to wait FOR-EVER 
for me! I thought it would be a quick MRI! Like my Mom reminded me, "Are they ever quick and easy, quick-and-be-done?" Um. No.

But believe it or not, I am not here to talk ALL about ME! {wink!} Actually, the reason I am writing this lil' post is because of something I heard. Yes, I did a bit of eavesdropping that goes wa-aaay back in family! My great-grandmother was great at it! She could listen to a few conversations at a time even. Not me. There was no one else in the place but my Mom and I and the following couple. And the "Dad" makes himself noticeable very quickly.

We sit across from a couple - a Mom and a Dad - as I fill out paperwork and then try to read my book. But between the FOX News (no comment) directly above us and the parents, I was NOT impressed

See why...

The Dad already seems like he had been sitting through a long ball game. He seems to sit still and talk to his wife as best he can... But it never lasts too long. He stands up and the receptionist says to him, "Not too long now." He grumpily sits back down in his chair. He chats with his wife for a few more minutes before saying he needs "some air." I didn't know if that was code for stretching, some actual air, or something else.

He comes back in rather quickly and sits down. 

"I just don't get it," he says of his 14-year-old son. Here it comes: "All he has to is lay there." 
AGHHHH! 
Is he serious?

"Remain Still" -- In the MRI
 you have no other option

The father squirms in his seat, kicks his heels.

I am appalled as I hear the words. Shocked. 

They say something about video games, falling asleep. 

"I move so much when I sleep," comments the Mom, indicating that might be a problem for the son if he did try to nap during the MRI.

I've had numerous - A LOT - of MRIs and not once have I fallen asleep. OK, those of you that have had a MRI, I really want to HEAR from you: 

HAVE you:
1) Taken a Nap; 

2) Felt closed-in, fearful, wanted out by the time it was over;  

3) Didn't mind it; 

4) Wanted to scream, yell "Save me!!!" * 

Or... Tell Me Your Story in the Comments Below! 

# ##

Back in the radiology waiting room...

Dad: [stretches again & looks over at receptionist window]

Receptionist: He should be right out any minute.  

I can tell the Dad looks extremely relieved after waiting and doing his "hard" job. 

I wonder if the boy had IV contrast (The tech gives you a shot about halfway through and sometimes you can taste it - metal-like, i.e. pennies or nickel) 

For MRIs, you have to remain very still for the duration of the exam. Depending on the tech, you can wiggle a second between segments. Often, there is a contraption to squeeze  (the tech places in your hand) and you can have a longer moment to stretch and then return to the MRI. But you can't do that every time. Maybe 1-2 at most. Any longer, it just takes more time to get out of there - period. And it puts techs off their schedules. Remember you want to be on their good side. You might be back! If it is serious and you are in pain or feeling nauseous, by all means, that's different. Push/press the button. Being in that tube for 1, 2 or more hours can put a drain on the psyche. That's when the Hawaiian getaway or favorite football plays are best remembered, replayed.

###

Clad in a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt, the teen-aged boy walks out the door past me toward his parents.He look dazed, yet relieved. I want to go walk up and give him a hug, figuring this was his first or at least one of his first MRIs. It's a transformative experience. Some may shake their head. Some may say, "Come on." Being in a slender tube nearly the size of a casket with loud noises -- it's not music, it's close to construction noise but even that has a rhythm that this does not. It is dissonant bams, rattles, and other funky - and I mean funky - noises science has conjured up. I feel for the young man. It probably wasn't easy.

The Dad asks how the MRI went. "All right, I guess," he says, shrugging his shoulders. Quick, to-the-point. Teenage-speak. I definitely remember the son was was not smiling. 

At least the MRI was done. As the trio file through the doors, I wonder about family dynamics like that. The father shows up. Yet, did he do it because the wife was afraid to drive a far distance? They could be from the country. It seemed from the time I was there to evaluate the situation, the Dad did not want to be there. Or was he just anxious to get home? Or anxious for his kid? He could have just as easily waited at home as my Mom notes that night. 

The whole reason for this blog entry is his comment: His son has the easy job! In the MRI ! 

No. 1: Obviously, the Dad never had a MRI.

No. 2  He needs a brain scan of some sort! 

No. 3  He did mention earlier he hopes his son didn't have homework. He has some heart! 

THE ULTIMATE RESULTS -- The Doctor is in...

I've just always been supported before and after my MRIs! Like I said in a previous blog posts. My Dad gave me advice about my first visit in a MRI. Since then, my mom and extended family, especially my Aunt Jamie, have been there to discuss all the crazy adventures we've had together... Even that one late Friday evening in Houston at M.D. Anderson. This was when I still had my spinal chord stimulator in my body and my pain doctor said, "it would be fine" if I got MRIs. Say, what?!? So here I was with my Aunt Jamie, my Mom and we were waiting and waiting in another waiting room with NO magazines and wondering when my name would be called. When we finally saw someone we asked if it was OK if I went in the MRI machine with my stimulator because I still had apprehension about it. I will never forget that man's startled, OMG look. Plus, it was like 7:30 p.m. On a Friday night. I was NOT happy to be there then. It's a Friday for goodness sake!

Long story short: My pain doctor was wrong. GRRR... That night I waited for several hours and never had anything done. That's right. Nothing. No money reimbursement. Yeah, right. Like hospitals DO THAT! HA! I was so mad that night. Remember, I don't live in Houston. Neither does my aunt. We live 1.5-2 hours away. To be told that MRIs could be done was one of the reasons I put the blasted thing in. But... That is for another day. No MRI. Mark my words: That is the one day I was unhappy not to have a MRI!

Reveal time!
Tell me YOUR most dramatic MRI story... Funniest one... (is there one out there... Come on! I want to hear it!) ... And your first time... in a MRI!  DO TELL! Any & all... MRI stories!!! Bring 'em! 

 ©The Healing Redhead

---------------

*Magnetic Resonance Imaging, my blog entry on first MRI: 

*Unfortunately, the MRI tech did not look like your type, your Prince(ness) Charming! 

Images via: http://www.magnet.fsu.edu/; Microsoft 

A Studly Therapist & The Naked Patient (That Would Be Moi!)

Humiliation and embarrassment are just part of the process when you are a regular at the hospital. At least for me. I hope a few of you can relate. My red face is usually a tad cherry here and there for that moment when there's a wardrobe malfunction or the basic memorization of a few facts ("Say the following five words back to me...") seem as a difficult as high school geometry with proofs. Ugh, proofs! Why did I bring THAT up? Anyway, my recall is nil right now. I mean it's bad. I can barely remember my last name. I tend to blame the medicine. At least one in particular. It's even referred to in some circles as "stupid pills." I was goofy enough before, just ask my friends. Now add a lil' stupid? Great. Things are looking even MORE promising for meeting Mr. Right -- yeah not even! It's a good thing I still have my sense of humor intact. I'm sure Carrie Bradshaw just wishes she had my flare for words, basket of pills, fashion sense, aluminum walker, and shower stool! Oh, yes, my friend, maybe in 30 years! Ha! Yeah, life is good. My cocktail is not a pink-tinged Cosmo. It's plain 'n'simple
sarcasm.

The big, marquee event of red-faced humiliation happened after my right thigh surgery at MD Anderson in Houston. Post-surgery, the hospital provides patients like yours truly both occupational & physical therapy -- for a pretty penny! If you have read my other posts, you know that makes me giddy... NOT. Sarcasm, again. Love it. Don't know about you but I'm not real keen on having someone tell me to do something and then watch me do it, reps at a time, hooked to a IV cart. Of course, given my physical prowess (ha!), I'm always given a tip or three on how to improve and/or a printout for homework. Homework? WTH? Homework! I'm done with high school and college. No homework for me. The PT and OT disagree. At this point my red face is RED! I'm mad!

I don't know what it is but I have had my fair share of not-so-fun experiences that might send me to the other kind of therapy -- laying flat on the couch. While living in Lewiston, Idaho, a physical therapist had me work my shoulder area lifting weights because it was weak from a recent surgery.

She was counting with me and working with another person a short distance away. I was doing the best trying to lift the weights slow and steady, watching my
own movements. Meanwhile no one was beside. Mrs. PT was busy talking to the male athletes. Given surgery was only days ago, my arm got weak faster than I anticipated. Without a spotter, the weight came down quick & I nearly lost a eye. She saunters over with a "How ya doing over here with these reps? You done?"
Yeah. Done. Done and nearly without an eye.

Back at MD Anderson, I have a private room although it's quite a misnomer because any patient room at the hospital is not private. Am I right? It is a constant flow of nurses, housekeepers, physical therapists, food delivery, visitors, patient services, occupational services, church people, physicians, specialists, phlebotomists... the list goes on and on... I don't remember all the people that come and go on a floor during an extended hospital stay.

So it's close to lunch but I've just finished my breakfast: yogurt parfait, juice, and fresh fruit. I actually managed to sleep well the night before. I feel good minus the whole being in a hospital thing. There's a knock at the door and in walks a young gentleman, late 20s-early 30s, around 6-foot, nice build, bleached-blond hair, workout clothes and running shoes or what my Dad called "ten-ees" for tennis shoes. This guy could model. I'm not sure why he's here... in MY room. A hospital. He introduces himself as the physical therapist. OH. GREAT. PT. Oh, did I mention he's got diamond studs in both ears? I think the earrings are shining right at me. This should be interesting.

I give my brief medical background and explanation of Neurofibromatosis and during the quick chat the occupational therapist pops in or rather bounces in cheerleader-style with a "Hi!" and "Oh." and "No worries!" and "See ya soon." Complete with a good-bye wave! I think I feel a nap coming on about 3 p.m. Is that when she said she would be returning? Overly perky people make me want an anti-nausea pill or just give me the whole box. I'm all about staying positive as possible but you have to show a range of emotions. That's life. It's part of being human. Plus, no one is THAT happy. Except on scripted sitcoms. When all is said and done, eye candy is best! OK, OK, so I admit he's kinda nice-looking! But I'm not a jewelry-on-guys gal. If he has more carats than me, no deal. Ha! If I were the Bachlorette*, though, he might get a rose. Might.
*Not really a bucket-list item & I'm too old & the producers don't like redheads! :( Shame on them.

"Ready to work?" He asks. "You think you can stand up today?"
This is critical because it is the day after surgery when the several benign tumors were removed from my right thigh.

Did I mention my Mom and Aunt Jamie are here in the room and BOOM! Purses in hand, these two sisters are in front of my hospital bed mouthing "Lunch!" They're anticipating what I have not.

I start to shimmy my butt closer to the center of the bed while Mr. Diamond Earrings lowers the bed down and back.
"Sure. I'm ready," I say. Completely unsure.
I try to swivel myself -- dry skin against scratchy, hospital sheets -- so I can sit up. I pull the hot, sticky blanket off with my clutched right hand.
At this point, I forgot (being totally me, absent-minded) that I am in a backless/assless gown. I stand with gusto. My two size-10 flat feet festooned in hospital socks stamp the floor with purpose.

He grabs me as I wobble to straighten my pose. Here it comes... I can see myself, my face, my gown, my legs, my hospital socks in the mirror beside him... and THEN... I see it!
My one dimple per cheek... MY ASS CHEEKS!!! MY ASS in the mirror with me and Mr. Diamond Earrings.

"Oh, God, why? WHY?"

My aunt and mom were smart to make their excuses and skip Embarassville. Population: 1. I sure wish I didn't live in this lonely place. Holding on to my arms, he doesn't seemed fazed. At all. He steadies me as I balance myself on the slick floor.
"Careful, take your time," he says.
I look up at him and realize what just occurred. I bow my head and wince. All I want to do is hurry. I want to get in this chair next to the hospital bed and SIT DOWN.
Why are hospital gowns ugly and backless? Tell me, someone, TELL ME!!!

I can only take tentative steps because of the post-operative pain. This becomes the weirdest slow dance, me trying to make my way from the hospital bed to the chair, in reality it is only feet away, but it feels like a mountain hillside I must trek. He's keeping me steady, holding on to my sleeved arm (about all he can hold onto!) so I feel secure. It's micro-seconds, up against a soundtrack on the television for blue jeans that are also pajamas. I have to laugh on the inside. I could use a pair of those right about now. Oh, the irony of it all.... If there would have been a way I could put my hand through that television screen and grab a pair -- no matter what a fashion no-no these PJ jeans seem! Nothing is worse than a hospital gown. Nothing.

You wouldn't have wanted to see me at that moment. Face crimson. My scarlet letter A. I manage to aim my bare buns into the uncomfortable chair lined with a hospital sheet. I press my pain pump to speed relief to my legs and my bruised ego. Probably hoping that if I pressed the button he might also disappear. Nope, it did not work. Dang it. I thought pain pumps were magic! :) I just needed a few moments to recover from this revealing moment I so was not expecting.

I've actually come along way in the modesty department, believe it or not. I am so much better about it all (no really!) since I go to the doctor and hospital so often. I just think that day and that moment caught me by surprise when I saw myself in the mirror and I saw my cellulite-iced buns, I was ready to run. Cue that ol' Dixie Chicks song. So Ready TO RUN!!!

I ended up sitting in the chair for quite awhile that day. No bad headache. A great sign after surgery. I even got my hospital sheets changed while resting in the chair. And best of all, no OT visit after all. And a new hospital gown. Lucky me. Ha! I can embarrass myself some more in a new, cleaner version.

I have to hand it to Mr. Diamond Earrings, if it wasn't for him I wouldn't have had the chance to sit up in the chair. Sounds like such a simple thing but in a hospital and after surgery, it feels wonderful. I felt good the rest of the day. So, I am glad he stopped by. I just wished I had a robe on first.

P.S. For his patience and kindness, he would definitely get a rose.

***So readers, I don't want to be alone on this. What are some of your embarrassing moments at the doctor's office or hospital? Provide in the comments or e-mail at lesliee30@gmail.com and I just might feature your story in a future post. Come on, I know there's some stories out there. Share 'em with me! 


©The Healing Redhead











Images: Microsoft Office clipart & healthymagination.com

Patient No. 1-2-3 Observations #saynotoneedlepokes #dislikeshospitalfood #hatesplasticbracelets

RX Needed: Hot doctor, better drugs, nicer outfits with better back coverage and do you have to stamp the hospital name on it like we're convicts (although, SOME DAYS it does feel prison-like, I have to admit!) It's not like we are stealing these fashion gems! The only runway these little numbers will see are a hospital hallway or the bed of a MRI machine. Lights, camera, action... Start the clang & clack of technology!

So, I'll be talking hospital gowns later on in the month and I have an entertaining story for you then. Today, though, it's all about patient observations. I've done this whole patient thing a few times... Like two-dozen times and counting. If I could get a degree as a patient, I'd have something by now... maybe a bachelor's, working my way to a master's? Crazy to talk about it in these terms, I know! It's how I cope. And I hope I can share some of my experiences -- good, bad, and ugly -- with you! A few funny and freaky ones might have slipped in! I might have to apologize or delete this blog later. Ha!

I'm always in a zone when I wake up on surgery day. I've got my target in my mind's eye: I'm getting to where they knock me out (hang on...) before surgery by giving me a relaxant ("the good stuff") through the IV in my arm. Before I know it the black-gray mask is over my face. I so dislike the suffocating rubber smell over my nose and mouth, blocking my view, aiding my surgical slumber at a rapid speed. For a brief second, every time, I think: "Is this sucker, this dang contraption, gonna kill me?" Someone overhead tells me, "Breathe in real deep, Leslie. Real deep." I feel a gentle pat on my right or left shoulder. "We will take good care of you. Don't worry about a thing. Breathe in. Big deep breath. See you in a little while." I can feel my body ease into the gurney, my eyes flutter closed. I heard one last question: "Are we ready to get started here soon?" Faint laughter and the clang of medical equipment fills my ears. Then, I'm gone.

YOU, THE PATIENT

1) Ever feel you're the equivalent of a frequent-flier when it comes to hospitals and doctor's offices? Where's my free trip? My free anything! Can I feed the fish in the lobby fishtank? Get a free smoothie? Something? Coupon for parking?

2) What about when you get your prescription filled after a long day of doctor visits, scans, and a blood draw...But wait! The pharmacist has a problem! Oh no, not NOW! It's late. You're tired, your feet hurt, your stomach is growling... The pills can't be re-filled yet because it is too soon on the calendar, according to your insurance carrier. Insurance will pay for it in a few days but not now. The out-of-pocket cost is $435. "Come back in four days," says the pharmacist. The hospital pharmacy is not in your town, though. It's actually a two-three hour drive depending on traffic. You only have pills for two days. You need pills now. NOW. Can YOU relate?

3) In an open area, near a waiting room full of patients, you have a nurse yell your weight as if she's yelling "Bingo!" Loud. Very LOUD. Fair skin + red hair + embarrassing moment = Glowing patient! p.s. Karma make its rounds! :)

4) Girl talk, for a moment. Hospital undergarments! The white "mesh"underwear. If you can call it underwear. Have you SEEN it? Have you WORN it? OMG! It is more like someone took scissors to mosquito netting and fashioned it to look like a pair of panties! It's horrible! While we're here... no padding for down there! None!

When a nurse handed me a pair of "fruit of the doom" undies before my surgery I thought I was on one of those blooper shows. I just knew it! This HAD to be a joke. No blooper. Just sad, sad bloomers. What a mess! This whole time I have thought the hospital gown has been so bad! That's regal, a showstopper, in comparison.

5) Nurse Ratched is a legendary literary character. "Medication Time!" But I'm here to tell you that she's not just in books but alive and in a hospital near YOU! Before you think I've knocked over all my pill bottles, let me explain. There is more than one Nurse Ratched (One Flew Over The Cukoo's Nest), who may not go by that name, but has a irritable, mean, even devilish persona.

Most nurses I've met have been extremely helpful, kind, and supportive during my hospital stay. There are exceptions, though, ready and willing to give you The Evil Eye. *I have witnesses. He or she can be unwilling to communicate with the patients and/or physicians, try to convert you to her religion while on her work shift (appropriately apologize and then start all over again preaching!), and theres the lovely nurses who are in a rotten mood the entire shift and give you the *wrong* medicine. Luckily, your visitor catches the error!

You don't choose to be here! You have to be here because a tumor is causing pain in your left shoulder and you must have it removed. It's not for fancy cosmetic surgery or a vacation from the fur kids or real kids like a Real Housewife, or more accurately, a Real Singleton of Texas! LOL!

Besides, would I really choose the Brain and Spine wing of a hospital to spend my time off if I had a choice? Um, no. New York City! Southern California! Georgia! How about overseas? ... Although I've had so many now I might as well go for the world record, right? Most Surgeries of a Single Woman Who Hasn't Completely Lost Her Mind And Still Has A Penchant for Those Cozy Hospital Socks with the No-Skid Feet. Sad, but affirmative. I'm doing the best I can. In conclusion, Nurse Ratched is alive and well. And in a hospital near you! Be on alert. That said,

there have been wonderful nurses I've been honored to meet in Houston and Seattle who know way more than the the average doctor. I'm serious. Much like teachers, they rarely get the pat on the back they deserve and get paid far too little for what they do. I joke about the few "bad seeds" but there are some amazing men and women out there who keep those hospitals running.

6) Never ever read itemized statements of your hospital bills unless you are actually in the hospital. Lying down! Strapped down! Are you comfortable? Do you have plenty of medication in your system? Warning: If the statement is fully read, you might experience side-effects such as: a red face; yelling; excessive obscenities; screaming; crying with projectile tears; hysteria; rage; running or sprinting after doctors, nurses and other staff; overwhelming sense of helplessness. See. I told you not to read it! Oh, don't use that extra box of Kleenex. It's *18.50 per box, not including tax. (*Kidding with you! Not sure how much hospital tissue is these days!

7) No matter how sweet or kind-sounding physical therapists seem, be wary at all times. They're all up to something. :) I had one PT take me on a walking tour of MD Anderson in Houston (the place is like a city!) the day after surgery. The DAY AFTER SURGERY! A little soon for a city walking tour, eh? (OK, so we didn't see the entire City of MDA but we saw enough and what we saw I never want to see again.

Couldn't we go to a window that overlooks a garden or even just some art? She took me down this window-less hallway and made me walk, walk, walk. Gray carpet. Gray walls. Gray, gray, gray. Everything was gray. Think of Seinfeld's "No soup for you!" guy and convert it to my situation here: "No fun for you!" Yeah. Boy, did I hurt the next day. Know thy limits and know thy physical therapists. And lock your hospital doors at 2 p.m.

8) Why does every release from the hospital take longer and longer...longer than even Mom's stubborn doxie, Abbey, to get from the corner of the backyard to the back door? That. dog. takes. her. time. You watch her and it's as if days go by before she makes her way into the house. It's like the saying goes, 'her way or no way.' Well, unless you say, THE WORD. If you say THE WORD, the waiting is over. The dog is in the door in seconds flat. "Treat." All of a sudden, magic happens. Tiny feet, long body flying through the grass so fast it gives you those cartoon stars if you watch the performance start to finish.

The one piece of information I want to know is: What is the magic word to get me out of the hospital? I've tried getting the paperwork started the day before but it DOES NOT HAPPEN. The real aggravating part is that the doctor can even give me the green light "to go home" and it can be hours and hours AND HOURS before I leave. A nurse can tell me to plan for a 8-9 a.m. release and it still can be a long wait even if I'm ready, suitcase packed. Come to think of it I don't know if I've ever been sent home before noon! But wait, do I have my prescription? Can't leave without the prescription!

So, when I wake up from surgery, I wiggle my arms and fingers, determine how this stacks up against the last few procedures pain-wise. It honestly takes me a moment to remember where on my body but the pain usually alerts me rather quickly. Post-surgery, I am constantly amazed each time by the dryness of my mouth, the open desert. The ice chips, the size of a pencil's eraser, are given to me by the spoonful. The first chip as it melts, tastes like a body of water, cold and fresh. I swallow, wanting more and more.



***HEY, READERS, DO YOU have a memorable observation from your medical experience you would like to share? Not looking for fiction here! This has to be a real experience that happened to you, a friend, or family member in the hospital, doctor's office, exam room, etc. I would love to hear your stories & I might even put your submission on my blog! E-mail your stories to lesliee30@gmail.com with the subject line Observe. Thanks!


©The Healing Redhead



First and last images: http://office.microsoft.com

Life Makes You Stronger, Period. {Part II}

In my last post I discussed the January 2012 article in Vanity Fair by Christopher Hitchens. I found this article discussing the ol' adage of "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" completely by happenstance just going through past tweets from a Twitter account I recently started to follow.

I'll be honest I was never a Hitchens' fan. When he passed away, though, I was amazed by how many people didn't know who he was -- at all. Like I said in my last post, on the day of his passing his book, "God is Not Great," became a #TT, or Trending Topic, on Twitter and people became angry, aggravated, and enraged but they didn't know the source of the #TT. Yes, it may not be a statement a person believes in but don't jump to the keys before you know the full story. It was a title of a book and also a epitaph of a man. It is my belief that whether you agree with him or not, you can't argue he made a lasting impression on American culture. He even made a lasting impression on me. That is why I write this today. I wasn't expecting to have an enlightening moment but it happened. Here I am to tell you about it...

Toward the end of the Vanity Fair article, Hitchens talks about pain in his arms, hands, and fingers while getting treatment at MD Anderson (MDA) in Houston. I can identify with this pain although I do not have cancer. I am treated at MDA for what is called Schwannomatosis. I have numerous internal tumors that pop up on my nerves throughout my body causing pain. That very pain oscillates from mild to maddening.

Most recently, I've had pain in my left shoulder, arm, hand, including the tips of my left fingers. It ranges from a burning sensation to a dull ache and from not hurting at all during the middle of the day to the point I feel as though my hand and arm are in a 300-degree oven or hotter.

This oven business usually happens between 9 p.m.-7 a.m. It's not the sizzling show you dream of as an adult singleton, let me tell ya!

"I am typing this [the article]" Hitchens wrote. "Having just had an injection to try to reduce the pain in my arms, hands, and fingers."

He went on to say that the no. 1 side effect of the pain is numbness in the extremities," filling me with the not irrational fear that I shall lose the ability to write."

There it is. My own worst fear right there in black and white. Staring at me, is it taunting me? I had a shoulder surgery now probably five years ago in Seattle at the University of Washington. After surgery I noticed my right hand was basically in a fist. When the surgeon came in for a post-op evaluation, he looked at me, my right hand, at me, my mom, my right hand. This kept up for what seemed like the length of an entire visit. Then, he finally spoke: "I'm not sure what happened." He shook his head. "The nerve probably just got stretched while in surgery."

Today, after two different rounds of physical therapy and just living life, my right hand is still not itself. It is no longer my writing hand or my hand to fork a salad or spoon my favorite chocolate ice cream. I use my right hand to pet my dogs, hold my iPad straight, and steady a book.

I will tell you it has damaged my self-esteem given that now I have this hand issue and my foot drop on my right side and a decade ago I had neither one.

Stretched nerve.

Cut nerve.


Surgery is hard enough, period. Patients, like myself, deal with the bumpy, pink scars masked by staples like tiny silver teeth in the skin so flat against the flesh it is as if each one is meant to be there from the beginning, at birth.

Patients mostly spend time worrying if the resected tumor(s) are benign or not. I know I do. In all my surgeries, though, all 20+ of them, the tumors have been benign. Very often this occurs in Schwannomatosis cases like mine. But these are tumors and they have their own rules. I have had two biopsies (which I think of as close calls) and each resected tumor from a surgery is tested. So even though I have been told it is very unlikely to be malignant, I remain skeptical. It can happen. It did happen with my father. [More on that in posts to come.] So, I continue to worry. I have reasons to worry.

You know, how it's always said that 40 is the new 30? For me, left is the new right. I'm not talking politics. Hold on! I'm not even going there! I'm talking hands! That's why the burning and aching at 2 a.m. worries me more than normal. As a writer myself with goals to meet and dreams to achieve, I related completely to Hitchens when he said: "I often grandly say that writing is not just my living and my livelihood, but my very life, and it's true."

Hitchens also discussed how he is threatened by a loss of voice. I, too, came to that same point when a tumor was found pressed on my vocal chord just last year that caused my voice to quake. After surgery, I got an injection at MDA that was supposed to help my vocal chords and it did...for awhile. Then it faded, again. Just above a whisper, I tried to speak. Waitors and grocery store employees inquired about my situation: "What's with your voice? Are you OK?" I so had a good (evil) response for them. They probably did mean well or were genuinely curious but it was NOTB. I mean, really?

I again connected with Hitchens, who at the time of writing the story, was receiving temporary injections into his vocal folds. "I feel my personality and identity dissolving as I contemplate dead hands and the loss of the transmission belts that connect me to writing and thinking."

Dead hands.

Loss of the transition belts.

When I saw "dead hands" something in me halted. The what-ifs started...
What if my next surgery turns my hand numb and into a non-working utensil? No-longer functioning... I mean I would have never imagined my right hand having such a fate!
What if...
What if...
What if...
I have two semi-working hands but neither one can hold a pen or pencil and I no longer write or type?

I stopped myself again.



* * * * *

I can't let this control me. I definitely can't let it when I'm not even in there [in the hospital]. A few years back, I found a new perspective that works most days in my favor. Any day I'm not going to or not at the hospital or doctor's office is a good day.

Today is a very good day. Very little pain.

No visits for at least a month. Maybe longer.

I never thought I would have such experiences in common with such a man of our time. No, I could disagree all day with regard to his thoughts on religion and politics but when it comes down to the hospital room, we are simply human with the same fears who just try to survive in such an environment.

Unfortunately, Hitchens did not survive. He was, though, during his life able to share a common experience that touches all too many of us, including yours truly. Just like out here in the real world, in there, you need a voice and you need to be heard. That's why this article is so important in my mind.

As for the ol' saying, "Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger..." Scratch that.

**New adage: "Life makes you stronger." Period.**

Ironically, I was checking out one of my favorite Web sites & someone else with a scholarly background weighs in on the saying. Does he agree or disagree with me? Find out here.

As for me, no matter what happens, writing is way too important of an endeavor to relinquish because of an illness. It is my passion. Has been for a very long time. I was a sophomore in high school when I knew I wanted to devote my career to writing. Even in grade school, I wrote short stories.

I will not let myself stop completely. Ever. There are famous writers who, sick in bed, wrote stories. Like Hitchens. Story after story. So, I can't let Schwannomatosis and its side effects put my pen down. Not now. I'll just order the newest version of the Dragon voice recorder and go from there. Until then, I plan to write, write, write.            

View the complete Vanity Fair here.


©The Healing Redhead

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Image 1: spreadshirt.com
Image 2: http://www.bn.com/

Life Makes Us Stronger, Period. {Part I}

I know Christopher Hitchens (1949-2012) made many people's blood boil for his views and promotion of the "New Athesism" movement. It's quite an understatement, really, because when he passed away his book, "God is Not Great," became a Twitter trending topic and for those who didn't know about the book and the author's death were riled up, to say the very least. I still remember the countless tweets like: "How can you say this?," "This isn't funny," "Is this some kind of joke?" and "Tweet if you Believe God IS great because He is!"

Maybe it's the intellectual in me but I felt sorry for those people who didn't get. It's not that I believe in the philosophy of Hitchens regarding religion but people should be informed enough to know the origination of a trending topic (an author's death) or be willing to look it up (too much to ask, I know, silly me!) before jumping on the tweet machine. So many probably haven't even heard of Hitchens and probably still don't realize that the #TT was a book title rather than a mere stunt of the day. I know it's still a disagreeable topic but there was someone behind it.

Even though we may not agree with someone's background, philosophy, or religion (or lack of) I still think there are chances, mere instances, to find something of value between the person and yourself. Finding this similarity or middle ground can be important -- at business meetings, family reunions, the coffee line and maybe even your own mini-van. Ha! There is much to disagree about in this world for sure, and for many people, including myself, *atheism is a "deal breaker," as Dr. Phil likes to say. But even so, I found something of a treasure when I read an article by Hitchens, one of the last he published, in the 2012 January issue of Vanity Fair. If you spend time with people, there are some likely gems to uncover. I hope the following, covered in two parts, will illustrate just that.

Without going into too much detail, I will tell you I have a genetic disorder called
Schwannomatosis (www.ctf.org/) and the physicians at MD Anderson in Houston have taken good
care of me the last two-and-half years. Before that, I was at the University of Washington-
Seattle. In reading Hitchens' article in Vanity Fair, it confirmed that he was a patient at MD
Anderson too. He was being seen there for esophageal cancer. Diagnosed in 2010 while on a publicity tour for a memoir, he began writing about his illness. It is in speaking of his
illness that I write about him today.

In the VF article, "Trail of Will," Hitchens discussed the ol' saying, "Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger." Not a big fan of the adage, the author finds it "increasingly
ridiculous."

I will say I whole-heartedly agree with that! As a chronic pain patient and a person living with a genetic disorder for the past 17 years that has brought on its share of surgeries, biopsies, CTs, PETs, MRIs, countless ER visits, and more medicine than I can keep contained in
one large travel makeup container, I feel it is anything but accurate. More like inadequate, aggravating, and obviously needs editing! Ha! So, whatever doesn't kill me will...
A) kill me;
B) kill you;
C) doesn't make anyone stronger, especially the patient in question. The patient
is only tired and in need of more sleep (except insomnia is a side-effect); and/or
D) Something else might (kill ya) in this day & age (too much red meat, too much sugar, too
much sitting, too much alcohol, too many carbs... It changes nearly daily!)

In his article, Hitchens starts off his article with a pair of philosophers to make his point, Friedrich Nietzsche, who apparently coined the lovely (not!) phrase, and Sidney Hook. The article ends up focusing a lot on Nietzsche and Hitchens tries to demonstrate whether the good ol' saying was relevant in the philosopher's life or whether it was just some pretty poetic German.

It is in the last half of the article where Hitchens talks about his own experiences that gave me a new way to think of my own. But first he relays his thoughts on the quote in question: "[...] I have slightly stopped issuing the announcement that 'Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger.' In fact, I now sometimes wonder why I ever thought it profound."

I found a certain quote of his regarding pain to be especially profound and it gave me pause: "It's probably a merciful thing that pain is impossible to describe from memory. It's also
impossible to warn against."

What do YOU, MY BLOG READERS, think of this?

Yes, patients do forget how painful the day after surgery is so that when the next surgery comes around he/she (she -- as in ME!) can do it again. Funny, how that works!

Same goes for the ladies wanting baby #2 or #3. Labor is a distant memory and that sweet bundle of joy is right around the corner, never mind the contractions (yeah right!) and the bliss (pain!!) of delivery.

Also, READERS: in a medical situation, are you likely to find out what the procedure is like
beforehand or do you like to wing it? Do you think "winging it" is the better approach? Why/Why not?

So Hitchens starts to speak of his stint at MD Anderson and that alone puts me in a place I don't want to be, a place where I think of my own pain, my own loss, my own future.

So... we will talk about it next time! Part II How I Reacted to Hitchens Words...

But first...
Question: Do you think it is wise to educate yourself on people in the public eye that you
fundamentally disagree with in order to simply know who the person is and what they represent?
Or... Do you feel that if you don't like a person or fundamentally disagree with the person,
you ignore articles that feature the person and do not learn about their background even if he or she is a newsmaker?


Hitchens photo courtesy of: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/
Vanity Fair cover: http://www.vanityfair.com


 ©The Healing Redhead