Steven Harper's Blog, page 72
November 4, 2017
America, Shopping, and Me
Our washing machine broke down, and the repair guy said it would cost $1,000 to fix it. So Darwin and I went shopping for a new one.
Like many men with a major purchase in mind, we figured out which one we wanted by researching it and then went down to the appliance store so we could point at it and say, "That one, please." (Women usually do their research by going to multiple stores and consulting clerks, incidentally.)
But when we arrived, the store turned out to be vastly understaffed. (Aren't they always these days?) And we were stuck in line behind a bunch of people who wanted to consult heavily with sales people. After nearly half an hour of waiting around, I finally interrupted one extremely long and detailed transaction to say, "Is there someone else who can wait on us?"
The clerk, who looked startled that I would even ask, picked up the phone and called around, then went back to his computer. Some time later, a sales woman showed up and offered to help us.
"That one, please," Darwin said, pointing.
It took another few minutes to arrange payment and delivery. Seriously--getting our washing machine took about 10 minutes for the actual transaction and 30 minutes of waiting.
And this is America! In America, there are three forms of shopping: "I'll take it home now" and "It'll arrive in 24 hours" and "Screw you, I'm going somewhere else."
We were in a breath of doing #3, in fact, when the new sales clerk showed up.
But now the washer is on its way. I'm glad I did laundry just before it broke down!
comments
Like many men with a major purchase in mind, we figured out which one we wanted by researching it and then went down to the appliance store so we could point at it and say, "That one, please." (Women usually do their research by going to multiple stores and consulting clerks, incidentally.)
But when we arrived, the store turned out to be vastly understaffed. (Aren't they always these days?) And we were stuck in line behind a bunch of people who wanted to consult heavily with sales people. After nearly half an hour of waiting around, I finally interrupted one extremely long and detailed transaction to say, "Is there someone else who can wait on us?"
The clerk, who looked startled that I would even ask, picked up the phone and called around, then went back to his computer. Some time later, a sales woman showed up and offered to help us.
"That one, please," Darwin said, pointing.
It took another few minutes to arrange payment and delivery. Seriously--getting our washing machine took about 10 minutes for the actual transaction and 30 minutes of waiting.
And this is America! In America, there are three forms of shopping: "I'll take it home now" and "It'll arrive in 24 hours" and "Screw you, I'm going somewhere else."
We were in a breath of doing #3, in fact, when the new sales clerk showed up.
But now the washer is on its way. I'm glad I did laundry just before it broke down!
comments
November 2, 2017
Yet More of the Stoning of Steven
WARNING: This blog entry gets a little explicit. It's also long. But I process events by writing about them, and I want to get it down.
We had a major day yesterday.
My surgery was scheduled for 1:00, with an 11:00 arrival time. "No eating after midnight!" went the instruction. Right. No eating for 13 hours before surgery? Six to eight is the recommended, and even that's based on research from the 50s, when anesthesia was a mask full of ether and no respirator. So I ate breakfast normally and drank my fluids, thank you.
Darwin and I drove to the hospital in Detroit where Dr. L--, the kidney stone specialist, set up shop. I was frightened and anxious and everything else. I'd asked the hospital if I could get a pill or something to calm me down on the way to the procedure, but they refused. So it was just me.
Henry Ford Hospital covers three city blocks and is an enormous complex of brick buildings. As a result, it took considerable time to park and find our way to the surgical ward on the fourth floor. The waiting area was set up like a huge living room, complete with several fake fireplaces and TVs. It was crowded with people waiting for surgery and the ones who came with them.
We checked in and a few minutes later a nurse came out for me. Darwin would be allowed in the pre-op area once the initial parts of the procedure had been finished.
In the pre-op room, the nurse took me through the usual shit, but I was getting more and more anxious. Finally, I said I needed Darwin to calm me down. They were reluctant at first, but I was adamant. "Is there anything he shouldn't see?" I asked. At last, another nurse ushered him into the pre-op area, which helped me.
It took a long time to get ready. The anesthetist came in for an extended conference with me ("What have you eaten today?" he asked at one point. "Nothing," I said blandly), and then he left. We waited quite a while for the doctor. I was the second-to-last surgery of his day, which meant, I was sure, my surgery would be long and complicated. You put simple ones early so things move on time, you see, and long ones go at the end in case they run over.
At last Dr. L-- came in. I had a long list of questions for him, which he answered. He had found three stones on my right and three remaining in my left after the procedure Dr. S-- had completed on me. He planned to take my right ones out by either pulling them with a basket scope or using a laser to break them up, whichever seemed to work best once he could see them closely. Yes, he would have to put in a stent, and I panicked again. He said he'd put in the smallest stent they could, but this information didn't help much.
"How much pain can I expect?" I asked, and he gave me a regretful look.
"Different people react differently," he said, "so it's hard to say, but we'll give you pain meds."
I already knew I reacted badly to stents, but there wasn't much to do about it. Without the stent, there was a good chance my urethra would swell shut after the procedure, and that would cause even worse problems.
I also asked if I had to come back to the hospital for the stent removal, or if I could go see Dr. B--, my current urologist, for that.
"Well, here's the thing," Dr. L-- said. "The stones on your left should come out. I was thinking we could do both at once--remove the stent, then go after the other stones in one shot."
Fuck. I'd been hoping the other stones wouldn't need an operation, or that we could use shock wave treatment for them. But no, they need to be pulled out. This would involve at least two more hospital trips, because there'd almost certainly be a stent involved on my left again, and it would have to come out later. I was anxious all over again, and sweating now.
I met more people. This surgical team had several men on it, which made me feel better. I got the chance to ask more questions, as well. Dr. S--'s team had rushed me into surgery and rushed me back out again, and I didn't have a chance to ask much, which added to my overall anxiety. Darwin being there helped a lot. I had several anxiety attacks during pre-op, and I freaked out again when they said they were ready to take me down, but off we went.
In the OR, the anesthetist was waiting for us. In our earlier meeting, he seemed impressed that I was a novelist. They got me on the table--and here it makes me shaky to write about it--and started up the anesthesia.
I woke up in the recovery ward, feeling awful. I was dizzy and heavy from the anesthesia and my entire lower body hurt like I had been smashed by a sledgehammer. Darwin was nowhere to be seen. I asked the recovery room nurse what time it was, but I couldn't understand the answer. And I hurt. Oh, I hurt.
This seemed the unkindest part. These procedures are supposed to quick and easy and low pain. But every time I've had them, I'm in screaming agony afterward. And the hospital won't administer pain meds preemptively. The nurse asked how much pain I was in on the 1-10 scale, and I said 6 or 7. It was horrible.
At last he gave me a shot, which helped but didn't end the pain entirely. He also sent for Darwin, who arrived a moment or two later.
"What time is it?" I gasped between spasms.
Darwin told me. I'd been in surgery for nearly two hours.
After some rest and yet another pain shot, I tried to use a urinal. It made me scream all over again, and there was a lot of blood. The nurse ran a scan--I was so glad he was male--and said I had quite a lot more that I had to pass, but I couldn't do it.
"Let's try standing up," the nurse offered.
Eventually I got to my feet, with both Darwin and the nurse holding me up. They half-carried me to the bathroom, where I spent several agonizing minutes with another urinal. I finally managed it, but I was howling so loud, the entire ward could hear me, I'm sure. The pain in my groin and bladder were tearing my in half. It was horrible, and exactly what I'd been afraid of. I couldn't help screaming, the pain was so bad. I was leaning on Darwin, panting heavily throughout. His presence made it bearable.
Afterward, they brought me back to my bed. The anesthesia made me dizzy, of course, and so did the pain meds. And both my calves inexplicably hurt with bad muscle cramps. I couldn't figure out why. Hours later at home, I figured it out. Dr. L-- favored stirrups--I'd seen them in the OR--and I'd been in them in the same position with no padding for two hours. Hence the leg pain. They still hurt as I write this.
The nurse ran another scan and announced my bladder had only about a tablespoon of fluid in it, so I was okay there, but it still =felt= like I had to go.
The pain came back. The meds apparently are very short-term. The nurse gave me yet another shot, then gave me some apple juice to drink. (One of the crueler parts about anesthesia is that you have to fast beforehand, and you tell yourself that you'll get a nice, big meal of your favorite foods afterward to make up for being hungry so long, but when you come out of the little coma, food is the last thing you want.) I drank it--
--and threw it all up. They barely got me a basin in time. I was sitting there with this plastic bin that looked like a giant flask in my lap, heaving warm juice into it.
When it was over, I clung to Darwin and started to cry. My entire body shook with it. I cried and cried and cried and couldn't stop. I was angry and upset and scared and in pain, and I kept on crying. I couldn't stop, no matter how hard I tried. Darwin's sweatshirt got damp. At last, I was able to pause a moment, just long enough to wipe my eyes, and then it started all over again. "I can't stop," I sobbed into Darwin's shoulder. "I feel so stupid. I can't stop."
Darwin turned to the nurse, who was watching impassively. "It's the anesthesia," Darwin said. "This happened to him the last time, too."
That surprised me. I hadn't known. When the crying storm passed, I asked Darwin if that were true.
"Completely," he said. "You even used the same words--that you couldn't stop and you felt stupid."
I didn't remember that in the slightest. It's another thing I hate about anesthesia. It steals memories which rightfully belong to you.
The pain meds were kicking in seriously, and I was still groggy from the operation, and I think I fell asleep abruptly, in mid-conversation with Darwin.
I was deeply asleep and even a little comfortable when the nurse shook my foot to wake me up. It was time to go.
Darwin gathered up my things and left to get the car while the nurse helped me get dressed. I staggered into a wheelchair, and some lady wheeled me to the main entrance so Darwin could drive me home.
Now I'm in Phase II, living with a stent. It hurts, hurts, HURTS every time I go to the bathroom, just like last time, which means I put off going until I can't wait any longer. It's bad to do it that way, but I can't bring myself to go more often. It just hurts too much, even with the pain meds.
And I still have to schedule the next procedure, which will likely go as this one did.
Thanks for putting up with my long entries about pain.
comments
We had a major day yesterday.
My surgery was scheduled for 1:00, with an 11:00 arrival time. "No eating after midnight!" went the instruction. Right. No eating for 13 hours before surgery? Six to eight is the recommended, and even that's based on research from the 50s, when anesthesia was a mask full of ether and no respirator. So I ate breakfast normally and drank my fluids, thank you.
Darwin and I drove to the hospital in Detroit where Dr. L--, the kidney stone specialist, set up shop. I was frightened and anxious and everything else. I'd asked the hospital if I could get a pill or something to calm me down on the way to the procedure, but they refused. So it was just me.
Henry Ford Hospital covers three city blocks and is an enormous complex of brick buildings. As a result, it took considerable time to park and find our way to the surgical ward on the fourth floor. The waiting area was set up like a huge living room, complete with several fake fireplaces and TVs. It was crowded with people waiting for surgery and the ones who came with them.
We checked in and a few minutes later a nurse came out for me. Darwin would be allowed in the pre-op area once the initial parts of the procedure had been finished.
In the pre-op room, the nurse took me through the usual shit, but I was getting more and more anxious. Finally, I said I needed Darwin to calm me down. They were reluctant at first, but I was adamant. "Is there anything he shouldn't see?" I asked. At last, another nurse ushered him into the pre-op area, which helped me.
It took a long time to get ready. The anesthetist came in for an extended conference with me ("What have you eaten today?" he asked at one point. "Nothing," I said blandly), and then he left. We waited quite a while for the doctor. I was the second-to-last surgery of his day, which meant, I was sure, my surgery would be long and complicated. You put simple ones early so things move on time, you see, and long ones go at the end in case they run over.
At last Dr. L-- came in. I had a long list of questions for him, which he answered. He had found three stones on my right and three remaining in my left after the procedure Dr. S-- had completed on me. He planned to take my right ones out by either pulling them with a basket scope or using a laser to break them up, whichever seemed to work best once he could see them closely. Yes, he would have to put in a stent, and I panicked again. He said he'd put in the smallest stent they could, but this information didn't help much.
"How much pain can I expect?" I asked, and he gave me a regretful look.
"Different people react differently," he said, "so it's hard to say, but we'll give you pain meds."
I already knew I reacted badly to stents, but there wasn't much to do about it. Without the stent, there was a good chance my urethra would swell shut after the procedure, and that would cause even worse problems.
I also asked if I had to come back to the hospital for the stent removal, or if I could go see Dr. B--, my current urologist, for that.
"Well, here's the thing," Dr. L-- said. "The stones on your left should come out. I was thinking we could do both at once--remove the stent, then go after the other stones in one shot."
Fuck. I'd been hoping the other stones wouldn't need an operation, or that we could use shock wave treatment for them. But no, they need to be pulled out. This would involve at least two more hospital trips, because there'd almost certainly be a stent involved on my left again, and it would have to come out later. I was anxious all over again, and sweating now.
I met more people. This surgical team had several men on it, which made me feel better. I got the chance to ask more questions, as well. Dr. S--'s team had rushed me into surgery and rushed me back out again, and I didn't have a chance to ask much, which added to my overall anxiety. Darwin being there helped a lot. I had several anxiety attacks during pre-op, and I freaked out again when they said they were ready to take me down, but off we went.
In the OR, the anesthetist was waiting for us. In our earlier meeting, he seemed impressed that I was a novelist. They got me on the table--and here it makes me shaky to write about it--and started up the anesthesia.
I woke up in the recovery ward, feeling awful. I was dizzy and heavy from the anesthesia and my entire lower body hurt like I had been smashed by a sledgehammer. Darwin was nowhere to be seen. I asked the recovery room nurse what time it was, but I couldn't understand the answer. And I hurt. Oh, I hurt.
This seemed the unkindest part. These procedures are supposed to quick and easy and low pain. But every time I've had them, I'm in screaming agony afterward. And the hospital won't administer pain meds preemptively. The nurse asked how much pain I was in on the 1-10 scale, and I said 6 or 7. It was horrible.
At last he gave me a shot, which helped but didn't end the pain entirely. He also sent for Darwin, who arrived a moment or two later.
"What time is it?" I gasped between spasms.
Darwin told me. I'd been in surgery for nearly two hours.
After some rest and yet another pain shot, I tried to use a urinal. It made me scream all over again, and there was a lot of blood. The nurse ran a scan--I was so glad he was male--and said I had quite a lot more that I had to pass, but I couldn't do it.
"Let's try standing up," the nurse offered.
Eventually I got to my feet, with both Darwin and the nurse holding me up. They half-carried me to the bathroom, where I spent several agonizing minutes with another urinal. I finally managed it, but I was howling so loud, the entire ward could hear me, I'm sure. The pain in my groin and bladder were tearing my in half. It was horrible, and exactly what I'd been afraid of. I couldn't help screaming, the pain was so bad. I was leaning on Darwin, panting heavily throughout. His presence made it bearable.
Afterward, they brought me back to my bed. The anesthesia made me dizzy, of course, and so did the pain meds. And both my calves inexplicably hurt with bad muscle cramps. I couldn't figure out why. Hours later at home, I figured it out. Dr. L-- favored stirrups--I'd seen them in the OR--and I'd been in them in the same position with no padding for two hours. Hence the leg pain. They still hurt as I write this.
The nurse ran another scan and announced my bladder had only about a tablespoon of fluid in it, so I was okay there, but it still =felt= like I had to go.
The pain came back. The meds apparently are very short-term. The nurse gave me yet another shot, then gave me some apple juice to drink. (One of the crueler parts about anesthesia is that you have to fast beforehand, and you tell yourself that you'll get a nice, big meal of your favorite foods afterward to make up for being hungry so long, but when you come out of the little coma, food is the last thing you want.) I drank it--
--and threw it all up. They barely got me a basin in time. I was sitting there with this plastic bin that looked like a giant flask in my lap, heaving warm juice into it.
When it was over, I clung to Darwin and started to cry. My entire body shook with it. I cried and cried and cried and couldn't stop. I was angry and upset and scared and in pain, and I kept on crying. I couldn't stop, no matter how hard I tried. Darwin's sweatshirt got damp. At last, I was able to pause a moment, just long enough to wipe my eyes, and then it started all over again. "I can't stop," I sobbed into Darwin's shoulder. "I feel so stupid. I can't stop."
Darwin turned to the nurse, who was watching impassively. "It's the anesthesia," Darwin said. "This happened to him the last time, too."
That surprised me. I hadn't known. When the crying storm passed, I asked Darwin if that were true.
"Completely," he said. "You even used the same words--that you couldn't stop and you felt stupid."
I didn't remember that in the slightest. It's another thing I hate about anesthesia. It steals memories which rightfully belong to you.
The pain meds were kicking in seriously, and I was still groggy from the operation, and I think I fell asleep abruptly, in mid-conversation with Darwin.
I was deeply asleep and even a little comfortable when the nurse shook my foot to wake me up. It was time to go.
Darwin gathered up my things and left to get the car while the nurse helped me get dressed. I staggered into a wheelchair, and some lady wheeled me to the main entrance so Darwin could drive me home.
Now I'm in Phase II, living with a stent. It hurts, hurts, HURTS every time I go to the bathroom, just like last time, which means I put off going until I can't wait any longer. It's bad to do it that way, but I can't bring myself to go more often. It just hurts too much, even with the pain meds.
And I still have to schedule the next procedure, which will likely go as this one did.
Thanks for putting up with my long entries about pain.
comments
October 30, 2017
Some Good Health News
. . . for a change.
When I switched doctors, my new physician asked about family history. The men in my family have a bad record when it comes to heart disease and atherosclerosis. After a member of my family had a heart attack a few years ago, I went in for a stress test to make sure everything was okay with me. The stress test came back fine, and I went on with my life.
Dr. K--- asked about the test, then recommended I get a CT scan of my heart for calcium (and plaque). It's a more accurate test, he said, and it would be up-to-date. Unfortunately, the test isn't covered by my insurance, but the cost was minimal, so I made an appointment.
At the hospital, the tech ran me through the CT scanner. I didn't have to take off my clothes, though she did put electrodes on my chest (which I hate because it's painful to take them off, and the techs always want to pull them off slowly--meaning I grab them by the wrist and stop them with an "I'll do it myself.")
When the scan was over, I asked to see it. The tech looked a little surprised, but I repeated the request, and she took me to the monitor. "I can't interpret it," she said, "but calcium shows up as white."
She tapped through the images. I grew up in a medically-based family, and I've seen scans like this all my life, so it wasn't hard to read. I didn't see anything in there. Which was good.
Today, I got the report from the doctor. On a scale of over 400, my calcium score was . . . 2. No appreciable plaque, shockingly low chance of heart disease. My heart is so clean, it squeaks when it beats. Here, at last, is tangible proof that all the running has helped.
Go me!
comments
When I switched doctors, my new physician asked about family history. The men in my family have a bad record when it comes to heart disease and atherosclerosis. After a member of my family had a heart attack a few years ago, I went in for a stress test to make sure everything was okay with me. The stress test came back fine, and I went on with my life.
Dr. K--- asked about the test, then recommended I get a CT scan of my heart for calcium (and plaque). It's a more accurate test, he said, and it would be up-to-date. Unfortunately, the test isn't covered by my insurance, but the cost was minimal, so I made an appointment.
At the hospital, the tech ran me through the CT scanner. I didn't have to take off my clothes, though she did put electrodes on my chest (which I hate because it's painful to take them off, and the techs always want to pull them off slowly--meaning I grab them by the wrist and stop them with an "I'll do it myself.")
When the scan was over, I asked to see it. The tech looked a little surprised, but I repeated the request, and she took me to the monitor. "I can't interpret it," she said, "but calcium shows up as white."
She tapped through the images. I grew up in a medically-based family, and I've seen scans like this all my life, so it wasn't hard to read. I didn't see anything in there. Which was good.
Today, I got the report from the doctor. On a scale of over 400, my calcium score was . . . 2. No appreciable plaque, shockingly low chance of heart disease. My heart is so clean, it squeaks when it beats. Here, at last, is tangible proof that all the running has helped.
Go me!
comments
October 29, 2017
The Case of the Conniving Kitten
After we lost Bernard (re-homed with the vet) and after the Great Ceiling Cat Debacle and after going through six kinds of stupid hell with local pet rescue organizations, Darwin and I had both declared we would not get another cat. Dinah would be our only, and last, one.
However . . .
Darwin has a weakness for Scottish fold cats. In his view, they're the cutest cats since kitten boops on the nose were invented. I have no opinion of them one way or another, except for the fact that they're bloody rare and expensive--$400 and up! No way we'd ever pay that much for a cat of any cuteness level. But folds occasionally get put up for re-homing, and Darwin had put his name on a couple mailing lists that would alert him to one.
On Saturday, Darwin got an email alert. A Scottish fold cat was up! She wouldn't actually be available until November, but she'd be meetable at a pet affair that day. Darwin decided we should go look at her. So off we went!
When we arrived, we found a long double row of cats in cages, more than triple the number I'd run into elsewhere. We asked among the volunteers and learned the fold in question wasn't actually there, despite what the web site had said.
However . . .
Darwin started browsing among the cages. He came across a fluffy blue-point Siamese kitten who demanded to play with him through the bars. He batted fingers against paws for a while, then asked to hold her. The kitten climbed all over him and completely charmed him. He was a melted puddle of protoplasm under her adorable blue gaze.
Meanwhile, I wandered farther down the row, examining yet other cats. A few cages away . . . was that . . . ? It was! A black Scottish fold kitten. I summoned a reluctant Darwin from his intended's cage and said, "I probably shouldn't show you this, but--"
He stared. "Oh my god! He's so cute!"
A volunteer took the fold kitten out, and Darwin loved that one, too.
In the interim, I had quietly fetched a form from the volunteer table. "Which one should we ask for?" I said casually.
"This one," he said. "No--that one!"
"Do you want both?" I said.
"No! But I can't decide."
At this point, a volunteer said, "We've already had several people apply for the Scottish fold. No one's asked about the other one yet."
That settled it. Darwin went back to the Siamese's cage, and she batted at his fingers in approval.
The volunteer went over our form, asked one question, and said, "She's yours!"
Amazing the impact supply and demand have. The other events demanded two kinds of ID, a vet reference, two personal references, and a home visit. This event handed out cats like cards at a poker game.
We couldn't take her home that day. She hadn't been spayed yet, and needed some more shots. I would have offered to have it done, but I doubted the agency would have taken my word, plus it was one less hassle for me if they handled it, so I didn't say anything. We'll be able to get her in a couple of weeks.
The conniving kitten knew how to work it!
comments
However . . .
Darwin has a weakness for Scottish fold cats. In his view, they're the cutest cats since kitten boops on the nose were invented. I have no opinion of them one way or another, except for the fact that they're bloody rare and expensive--$400 and up! No way we'd ever pay that much for a cat of any cuteness level. But folds occasionally get put up for re-homing, and Darwin had put his name on a couple mailing lists that would alert him to one.
On Saturday, Darwin got an email alert. A Scottish fold cat was up! She wouldn't actually be available until November, but she'd be meetable at a pet affair that day. Darwin decided we should go look at her. So off we went!
When we arrived, we found a long double row of cats in cages, more than triple the number I'd run into elsewhere. We asked among the volunteers and learned the fold in question wasn't actually there, despite what the web site had said.
However . . .
Darwin started browsing among the cages. He came across a fluffy blue-point Siamese kitten who demanded to play with him through the bars. He batted fingers against paws for a while, then asked to hold her. The kitten climbed all over him and completely charmed him. He was a melted puddle of protoplasm under her adorable blue gaze.
Meanwhile, I wandered farther down the row, examining yet other cats. A few cages away . . . was that . . . ? It was! A black Scottish fold kitten. I summoned a reluctant Darwin from his intended's cage and said, "I probably shouldn't show you this, but--"
He stared. "Oh my god! He's so cute!"
A volunteer took the fold kitten out, and Darwin loved that one, too.
In the interim, I had quietly fetched a form from the volunteer table. "Which one should we ask for?" I said casually.
"This one," he said. "No--that one!"
"Do you want both?" I said.
"No! But I can't decide."
At this point, a volunteer said, "We've already had several people apply for the Scottish fold. No one's asked about the other one yet."
That settled it. Darwin went back to the Siamese's cage, and she batted at his fingers in approval.
The volunteer went over our form, asked one question, and said, "She's yours!"
Amazing the impact supply and demand have. The other events demanded two kinds of ID, a vet reference, two personal references, and a home visit. This event handed out cats like cards at a poker game.
We couldn't take her home that day. She hadn't been spayed yet, and needed some more shots. I would have offered to have it done, but I doubted the agency would have taken my word, plus it was one less hassle for me if they handled it, so I didn't say anything. We'll be able to get her in a couple of weeks.
The conniving kitten knew how to work it!
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The Stoning of Steven, Part II
Last week, I switched urologists. I didn't want to see my previous urologist any more because of the office's major lack of communication and even withholding of information from me.
When I called the office Dr. B--, my new urologist, I was more than a little shocked to get an appointment within a few days. (My previous urologist was booking into December at the earliest.) I'd have to take a day off work to see him, but I wasn't going to endanger an early meeting by trying to schedule something for later in the day.
I spent a big chunk of the morning zipping around town to gather up records, including my MRI images and x-rays. I brought them with me to my appointment.
Dr. B-- ran a quick eye over my papers and asked about my diagnosis. Then he gave me some information about kidney stone prevention, said he would look over my images, and said we should set up an appointment for shock wave lithotripsy. He would call later if anything changed.
We set up an appointment for lithotripsy and I went home. Okay, then. Quick and simple.
Except...
On Monday during my prep period, Dr. B-- called me. He'd reviewed my images and discovered a whole bunch of stones instead of just the two I'd told him about. In fact, I had kidney stones in BOTH kidneys, not just some remaining on the right side. My previous urologist hadn't removed all the stones from my left side AND she hadn't told me this fact. She'd lead me to believe my left side was clear.
This information stabbed me badly in places already wounded. My hands were shaking and I was half in panic.
Dr. B-- continued. He said he couldn't do shock wave lithotripsy with this many stones. It was outside his expertise. Instead, I should see a nephrologist, a kidney specialist. He gave me a couple of names and phone numbers and hung up.
I was stunned. I'd been ready for a short, low-pain lithotripsy treatment. Now I was looking at something far more complicated, and the panic was getting worse. All the red-alert buttons were being punched, and I was in fight-or-flight mode.
I forced myself to sit down and call the first number on the list. This doctor was located at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. The pleasant receptionist, unaware of my emotional state, looked over the schedule and said they could get me in on Friday. This was Monday, and I was a little startled again at how fast they were able to get me in. (My original urologist had clearly put me into the same frame of mind as a victim of domestic abuse--expecting pain and difficulty and delay with every phone call.)
This meant I would have to take Friday off work as well, but once again, I wasn't going to give up the chance to get in ASAP. I took the appointment. Then I called Darwin in Texas, in full-blown panic now, and he did his best to calm me down. He said he'd come to the appointment with me.
Somehow I got through the rest of the day. Then a major water main broke, wiping out the water supply for a big chunk of the county, and school was canceled Tuesday and Wednesday. This was a major boon. I wasn't in much a condition to work.
Friday morning, Darwin drove me to the appointment to see Dr. L--, the nephrologist.
It took some doing to get to the appointment. Henry Ford is a HUGE hospital, with multiple wings that don't connect to each other, and multiple banks of elevators to them. The bank we needed had two broken elevators, and the line to get on the ones that still worked reminded me of an SF convention. But eventually we got up to the ninth floor.
The nurse took Darwin and me back to an examination room, took some information from me, and announced I needed an x-ray. They had one in the office, so I went down and got it right away. This was easy enough. I didn't have to take my clothes off.
A few minutes later, Dr. L-- came into the exam room. He seemed pleasant enough, and I started off my telling him that my previous experiences with my stones had caused some severe emotional trauma because of my history of sexual assault, and that I was being treated for PTSD over it. Part of coping for me is to know every single detail of every single procedure and be heavily involved in all decision-making. He made sympathetic noises and agreed, which did make me feel better.
He called up the new x-ray and quickly pointed out the current set of stones--three small ones on the left (despite my previous urologist's ministrations) and three larger ones on the right. The largest on the right was 7.8 mm. I'd originally been told it was 5 mm.
I nearly passed out. As it was, I was forced to retreat several steps while the doctor explained. The ones on the right definitely need to come out. The best way is to go in with a scope and yank them out, just like my previous urologist did on my left. Yes, this would involve inserting a stent and removing it about a week later.
I was dizzy now, and Darwin had to help me cope. It all rushed at me again--me lying unconscious and splayed out on a table while people shoved plastic tubes down my throat and wide metal ones up my urethra--and my legs were shaking. I knew it was a reaction to the assaults and not to this procedure, but the knowledge didn't help.
Noticing my distress, the doctor said he could try shock wave lithotripsy. It would be less painful and not involve a stent. However, I with this many stones, I would have to come back four or five times.
He also said that the stones on the other side should probably come out, though it was possible they'd pass on their own. He didn't seem to think it was a good idea to wait, though. "But we can discuss that later," he added.
I hung there, uncertain about what to do. Go through the horrible procedure again, live with the painful stent again, deal with the horrible pain (and the anticipation thereof) of the stent coming out--or have less pain but continue treatment for an unspecified number of months?
In the end, I folded my hands under my arms and said to take them out with the scope.
The doctor nodded, and I hit him with a number of rapid fire questions that he willingly answered. Then he took me to the guy who scheduled their surgeries.
I was expecting a wait of a month or more, which was adding to my anxiety--until the stones are out, I can at any moment get a max-level pain attack that sends me back to the hospital. But the scheduler offered up an appointment on Wednesday, only a few days away.
I took it and shakily headed back down to the ground floor with Darwin doing his best to keep me from panicking.
As it happened, my counselor had a slot free that afternoon, so I went to see him. I dragged Darwin with me--he dislikes therapy of any sort, even when he isn't the focus--so he could meet my counselor and see how to help me cope.
Now I'm waiting until Wednesday. I'm taking Thursday and Friday off work as well. After the last procedure, the doctor said, "You can return to normal activity tomorrow," and I was in such awful pain I could barely function, let alone "return to normal activity." I was miserable at work. So this time I'm not even going to try.
I'm living in a dreadful kind of anticipation. It's not as bad as last time. Dr. L-- is a man, which helps immensely. I know more what to expect, and what questions to ask. (I already have a list of them for surgery day.) I have my counselor to help me through it, too.
The trouble is that I don't have any time to heal. My counselor points out that recovering from major trauma takes time, but I'm not getting any. I keep having to consent to further violations, which tears up any healing I've had so far and forces me to start over.
I'm also losing pieces of myself. Fiction writing is difficult in the extreme. More than a month after the original shitstorm, I can barely squeeze out two pages at a time. Everyone, including my counselor, says, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break. Take time to heal."
The trouble is, I =love= writing. It's one of the central focuses of my life. I live for spinning characters and stories out of thin air. Writing isn't a punishment or something to be eagerly avoided, given a decent excuse like the above. Writing is fun, and a source of stress relief, and a way of expressing myself, and a huge part of my identity. So telling me to "give myself a break" is like saying, "Don't worry that you can't do the thing you love. Focus on these things you hate instead." Not being able to write stops my emotional healing process. One of the biggest positives in my life, something I look forward to doing, has been stolen from me, and it's devastating.
I'm looking forward to Wednesday, so I can get this next stage over with, but I fear it even more.
comments
When I called the office Dr. B--, my new urologist, I was more than a little shocked to get an appointment within a few days. (My previous urologist was booking into December at the earliest.) I'd have to take a day off work to see him, but I wasn't going to endanger an early meeting by trying to schedule something for later in the day.
I spent a big chunk of the morning zipping around town to gather up records, including my MRI images and x-rays. I brought them with me to my appointment.
Dr. B-- ran a quick eye over my papers and asked about my diagnosis. Then he gave me some information about kidney stone prevention, said he would look over my images, and said we should set up an appointment for shock wave lithotripsy. He would call later if anything changed.
We set up an appointment for lithotripsy and I went home. Okay, then. Quick and simple.
Except...
On Monday during my prep period, Dr. B-- called me. He'd reviewed my images and discovered a whole bunch of stones instead of just the two I'd told him about. In fact, I had kidney stones in BOTH kidneys, not just some remaining on the right side. My previous urologist hadn't removed all the stones from my left side AND she hadn't told me this fact. She'd lead me to believe my left side was clear.
This information stabbed me badly in places already wounded. My hands were shaking and I was half in panic.
Dr. B-- continued. He said he couldn't do shock wave lithotripsy with this many stones. It was outside his expertise. Instead, I should see a nephrologist, a kidney specialist. He gave me a couple of names and phone numbers and hung up.
I was stunned. I'd been ready for a short, low-pain lithotripsy treatment. Now I was looking at something far more complicated, and the panic was getting worse. All the red-alert buttons were being punched, and I was in fight-or-flight mode.
I forced myself to sit down and call the first number on the list. This doctor was located at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. The pleasant receptionist, unaware of my emotional state, looked over the schedule and said they could get me in on Friday. This was Monday, and I was a little startled again at how fast they were able to get me in. (My original urologist had clearly put me into the same frame of mind as a victim of domestic abuse--expecting pain and difficulty and delay with every phone call.)
This meant I would have to take Friday off work as well, but once again, I wasn't going to give up the chance to get in ASAP. I took the appointment. Then I called Darwin in Texas, in full-blown panic now, and he did his best to calm me down. He said he'd come to the appointment with me.
Somehow I got through the rest of the day. Then a major water main broke, wiping out the water supply for a big chunk of the county, and school was canceled Tuesday and Wednesday. This was a major boon. I wasn't in much a condition to work.
Friday morning, Darwin drove me to the appointment to see Dr. L--, the nephrologist.
It took some doing to get to the appointment. Henry Ford is a HUGE hospital, with multiple wings that don't connect to each other, and multiple banks of elevators to them. The bank we needed had two broken elevators, and the line to get on the ones that still worked reminded me of an SF convention. But eventually we got up to the ninth floor.
The nurse took Darwin and me back to an examination room, took some information from me, and announced I needed an x-ray. They had one in the office, so I went down and got it right away. This was easy enough. I didn't have to take my clothes off.
A few minutes later, Dr. L-- came into the exam room. He seemed pleasant enough, and I started off my telling him that my previous experiences with my stones had caused some severe emotional trauma because of my history of sexual assault, and that I was being treated for PTSD over it. Part of coping for me is to know every single detail of every single procedure and be heavily involved in all decision-making. He made sympathetic noises and agreed, which did make me feel better.
He called up the new x-ray and quickly pointed out the current set of stones--three small ones on the left (despite my previous urologist's ministrations) and three larger ones on the right. The largest on the right was 7.8 mm. I'd originally been told it was 5 mm.
I nearly passed out. As it was, I was forced to retreat several steps while the doctor explained. The ones on the right definitely need to come out. The best way is to go in with a scope and yank them out, just like my previous urologist did on my left. Yes, this would involve inserting a stent and removing it about a week later.
I was dizzy now, and Darwin had to help me cope. It all rushed at me again--me lying unconscious and splayed out on a table while people shoved plastic tubes down my throat and wide metal ones up my urethra--and my legs were shaking. I knew it was a reaction to the assaults and not to this procedure, but the knowledge didn't help.
Noticing my distress, the doctor said he could try shock wave lithotripsy. It would be less painful and not involve a stent. However, I with this many stones, I would have to come back four or five times.
He also said that the stones on the other side should probably come out, though it was possible they'd pass on their own. He didn't seem to think it was a good idea to wait, though. "But we can discuss that later," he added.
I hung there, uncertain about what to do. Go through the horrible procedure again, live with the painful stent again, deal with the horrible pain (and the anticipation thereof) of the stent coming out--or have less pain but continue treatment for an unspecified number of months?
In the end, I folded my hands under my arms and said to take them out with the scope.
The doctor nodded, and I hit him with a number of rapid fire questions that he willingly answered. Then he took me to the guy who scheduled their surgeries.
I was expecting a wait of a month or more, which was adding to my anxiety--until the stones are out, I can at any moment get a max-level pain attack that sends me back to the hospital. But the scheduler offered up an appointment on Wednesday, only a few days away.
I took it and shakily headed back down to the ground floor with Darwin doing his best to keep me from panicking.
As it happened, my counselor had a slot free that afternoon, so I went to see him. I dragged Darwin with me--he dislikes therapy of any sort, even when he isn't the focus--so he could meet my counselor and see how to help me cope.
Now I'm waiting until Wednesday. I'm taking Thursday and Friday off work as well. After the last procedure, the doctor said, "You can return to normal activity tomorrow," and I was in such awful pain I could barely function, let alone "return to normal activity." I was miserable at work. So this time I'm not even going to try.
I'm living in a dreadful kind of anticipation. It's not as bad as last time. Dr. L-- is a man, which helps immensely. I know more what to expect, and what questions to ask. (I already have a list of them for surgery day.) I have my counselor to help me through it, too.
The trouble is that I don't have any time to heal. My counselor points out that recovering from major trauma takes time, but I'm not getting any. I keep having to consent to further violations, which tears up any healing I've had so far and forces me to start over.
I'm also losing pieces of myself. Fiction writing is difficult in the extreme. More than a month after the original shitstorm, I can barely squeeze out two pages at a time. Everyone, including my counselor, says, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break. Take time to heal."
The trouble is, I =love= writing. It's one of the central focuses of my life. I live for spinning characters and stories out of thin air. Writing isn't a punishment or something to be eagerly avoided, given a decent excuse like the above. Writing is fun, and a source of stress relief, and a way of expressing myself, and a huge part of my identity. So telling me to "give myself a break" is like saying, "Don't worry that you can't do the thing you love. Focus on these things you hate instead." Not being able to write stops my emotional healing process. One of the biggest positives in my life, something I look forward to doing, has been stolen from me, and it's devastating.
I'm looking forward to Wednesday, so I can get this next stage over with, but I fear it even more.
comments
October 25, 2017
Another Water Day!
School's closed today again due to water problems. I'm having an unexpected five-day weekend!
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October 24, 2017
Chicago, 2017
Since Darwin is away for a week at a conference, and since Max was at his mother's for the first weekend of it, I decided to get out of town for a change of scene. Take my mind off all the difficulty I've been having, and so forth.
On Friday, I dropped Darwin off at the airport for his flight (we shocked the bystanders by kissing good-bye), and from there I headed down the highway.
The drive was occasionally nerve-wracking, mostly after the sun went down and I was driving through a strange city in the dark. I worship at the GPS altar, though, and remembered how it was back when you had to squint at hand-written directions and pray you didn't miss your exit. No thanks!
I found my AirBnB flat fairly easily and got the key from the lockbox, though there was no public street parking and I had to pull in next to a fire hydrant while I unloaded the car. That was nervous work! I dashed up and down the stairs, praying a cop wouldn't wander by. But all was good--I dumped my stuff and got away scott free!
And thank you to whoever recommended Spot Hero to me! I looked for a parking place and found one directly behind my flat for only $30 for the whole weekend. (!!!) It couldn't have been more perfect.
The flat was a studio apartment, very basic, but perfectly serviceable. And the bed was comfy! I've stayed in a couple AirBnB places where the owner must've gotten the mattress from the curb. This one was a delight.
I was staying near Boystown. Initially, I'd felt wiped out by the long Friday, but after dozing on the comfy mattress, I found the energy to go out and explore. Boystown is always fun. I like the shopping and energy of being around other gay men. It's fun being in a place where the default is LGBT instead of straight, and where more men walk together holding hands than men and women. I'm not a bar person, and I don't like striking up conversations with strangers, but I love to people-watch, and Boystown is a fun place to do it. I wandered up and down the famous Halstead Drive, making my Fitbit happy with all the extra steps.
I got Pad Thai in a place that serves it until 4 AM. I got ice cream at a convenience store. All things I can't do when Darwin is around because he doesn't like Thai food and can't eat ice cream.
Saturday I slept late, then ate breakfast at a gay-owned cafe just up the street. Pesto omelette with cheese, hash browns, and oatmeal bread toast heavy enough to clock a reindeer with. Fantastic!
I hopped on my bike. See, I have a very nice bike rack on the back of my car, and I'd decided to take my bicycle with me, since within downtown Chicago, most destinations take the same amount of time by car or by bike, and with a bike you don't have to worry about parking.
I rode down to Lake Michigan. Rather than allow housing development directly on the lake, Chicago wisely made the entire shoreline public property and put in a series of parks, trails, and other recreational facilities. The area gets a lot of use. I picked a trail ("trail" in this case meaning "four-lanes and paved") and headed off. The weather was global-warming perfect--sunny, low 70s, breezy at is always is on the lake. I rode for a couple-three hours with Lake Michigan stretching off in one direction and a steady stream of parkland with toned, shirtless men running through it in the other. Who could ask for better?
I love riding my bike, and realized I didn't really want to do anything else right then. Drive five hours just to ride my bike down the Lake Michigan shoreline? Yes. This was my weekend, and I was going to do exactly what I wanted to do. I rode and rode and rode, putting some distance between me and the trauma of the last month.
In the end, I had to head back for some lunch. I had plans to eat in a couple of different upscale or famous places this weekend, but all of them turned out to be too far away from my flat or they were "we'll have a table in an hour" crowded. So I grazed my way through Chicago's hole-in-the-wall diners. Sushi. Noodles. Pizza by the slice. Love it!
I thought about going to the aquarium or the Field Museum and then realized I didn't really want to. Instead, I window shopped and bought a few presents. I popped into Graham Crackers comic book shop--the most well-stocked comic shop I've seen in a mammoth's age--but didn't buy anything. I considered going to the Fudge Pot, then realized it was full of stuff I couldn't eat (my fascination with the candy-making process notwithstanding), so I didn't.
My Fitbit was very pleased with me for all the exercise.
By evening, I wasn't very hungry. I had a ticket for the Improvised Shakespeare Company's 8:00 show, and decided to eat afterward. The theater was about two and a half miles from my flat and the weather was still gorgeous, so I climbed on my bike and headed off with my phone piping directions into my earpiece. (Such a delightful invention!)
This trip was more interesting. Chicago streets have bike lanes, and I used them judiciously, but it was a little unnerving to have cars cruise past my left elbow, especially at night, though the streets were well-lighted. Still, I persevered and got to the theater in record time. In fact, I had more than an hour before curtain.
As it happened, across the street was the biggest Whole Foods store in the whole wide world. No, seriously. It took up an entire city block. I wandered in for a look. Man! Not only did it have the usual grocery selection, the place had a bar, a food court, three buffets, and countless deli counters. I was feeling a little peckish, so I bought some raspberries and a container of vegan chocolate mousse. I was a little nervous about the latter--how good could vegan mousse be?--but it was indistinguishable from regular mousse. Topped with fresh raspberries, and it was mousse-y heaven.
It was time for the show, so I headed over there. The Improvised Shakespeare Company is an all-male group (hee!) who put on an improvised comedy play all done in the style of Shakespeare. They began the evening by asking the audience for a title. They settled on "Ladies," and off they went.
The plot unfurled--or unraveled. The king of France had demanded that the queen of England marry him. Incensed by his audacity, the queen declared war on France, and made a long list of people she intended to kill, including the king's cat. The king of France, unnerved by this, decided to avoid war by . . . apologizing? Who knew! Meanwhile, the king of Italy, caught between the two factions, decided to side with France because their food is better, and then, once France was distracted by the war, betray France by assassinating the king and taking over the entire country. Also meanwhile, a group of druids decided they should put a stop to the entire war. Things got increasingly complicated from there. :)
Best line of the evening: "I'm not going to war with an alcoholic cat."
It was silly and fun.
I had more hole-in-the-wall food on the way back to my flat. Yes!
Sunday I slept late again, breakfasted at the same cafe as yesterday (French toast combo this time), then wandered Boystown for a bit. Every single gay guy was walking his dog. I mean, seriously--a bazillion dogs were out, led by guilty guys with hangovers who had staggered in after too much partying and forgotten to take the pooch out last night.
And then it was the long drive back. It was a fine weekend away.
comments
On Friday, I dropped Darwin off at the airport for his flight (we shocked the bystanders by kissing good-bye), and from there I headed down the highway.
The drive was occasionally nerve-wracking, mostly after the sun went down and I was driving through a strange city in the dark. I worship at the GPS altar, though, and remembered how it was back when you had to squint at hand-written directions and pray you didn't miss your exit. No thanks!
I found my AirBnB flat fairly easily and got the key from the lockbox, though there was no public street parking and I had to pull in next to a fire hydrant while I unloaded the car. That was nervous work! I dashed up and down the stairs, praying a cop wouldn't wander by. But all was good--I dumped my stuff and got away scott free!
And thank you to whoever recommended Spot Hero to me! I looked for a parking place and found one directly behind my flat for only $30 for the whole weekend. (!!!) It couldn't have been more perfect.
The flat was a studio apartment, very basic, but perfectly serviceable. And the bed was comfy! I've stayed in a couple AirBnB places where the owner must've gotten the mattress from the curb. This one was a delight.
I was staying near Boystown. Initially, I'd felt wiped out by the long Friday, but after dozing on the comfy mattress, I found the energy to go out and explore. Boystown is always fun. I like the shopping and energy of being around other gay men. It's fun being in a place where the default is LGBT instead of straight, and where more men walk together holding hands than men and women. I'm not a bar person, and I don't like striking up conversations with strangers, but I love to people-watch, and Boystown is a fun place to do it. I wandered up and down the famous Halstead Drive, making my Fitbit happy with all the extra steps.
I got Pad Thai in a place that serves it until 4 AM. I got ice cream at a convenience store. All things I can't do when Darwin is around because he doesn't like Thai food and can't eat ice cream.
Saturday I slept late, then ate breakfast at a gay-owned cafe just up the street. Pesto omelette with cheese, hash browns, and oatmeal bread toast heavy enough to clock a reindeer with. Fantastic!
I hopped on my bike. See, I have a very nice bike rack on the back of my car, and I'd decided to take my bicycle with me, since within downtown Chicago, most destinations take the same amount of time by car or by bike, and with a bike you don't have to worry about parking.
I rode down to Lake Michigan. Rather than allow housing development directly on the lake, Chicago wisely made the entire shoreline public property and put in a series of parks, trails, and other recreational facilities. The area gets a lot of use. I picked a trail ("trail" in this case meaning "four-lanes and paved") and headed off. The weather was global-warming perfect--sunny, low 70s, breezy at is always is on the lake. I rode for a couple-three hours with Lake Michigan stretching off in one direction and a steady stream of parkland with toned, shirtless men running through it in the other. Who could ask for better?
I love riding my bike, and realized I didn't really want to do anything else right then. Drive five hours just to ride my bike down the Lake Michigan shoreline? Yes. This was my weekend, and I was going to do exactly what I wanted to do. I rode and rode and rode, putting some distance between me and the trauma of the last month.
In the end, I had to head back for some lunch. I had plans to eat in a couple of different upscale or famous places this weekend, but all of them turned out to be too far away from my flat or they were "we'll have a table in an hour" crowded. So I grazed my way through Chicago's hole-in-the-wall diners. Sushi. Noodles. Pizza by the slice. Love it!
I thought about going to the aquarium or the Field Museum and then realized I didn't really want to. Instead, I window shopped and bought a few presents. I popped into Graham Crackers comic book shop--the most well-stocked comic shop I've seen in a mammoth's age--but didn't buy anything. I considered going to the Fudge Pot, then realized it was full of stuff I couldn't eat (my fascination with the candy-making process notwithstanding), so I didn't.
My Fitbit was very pleased with me for all the exercise.
By evening, I wasn't very hungry. I had a ticket for the Improvised Shakespeare Company's 8:00 show, and decided to eat afterward. The theater was about two and a half miles from my flat and the weather was still gorgeous, so I climbed on my bike and headed off with my phone piping directions into my earpiece. (Such a delightful invention!)
This trip was more interesting. Chicago streets have bike lanes, and I used them judiciously, but it was a little unnerving to have cars cruise past my left elbow, especially at night, though the streets were well-lighted. Still, I persevered and got to the theater in record time. In fact, I had more than an hour before curtain.
As it happened, across the street was the biggest Whole Foods store in the whole wide world. No, seriously. It took up an entire city block. I wandered in for a look. Man! Not only did it have the usual grocery selection, the place had a bar, a food court, three buffets, and countless deli counters. I was feeling a little peckish, so I bought some raspberries and a container of vegan chocolate mousse. I was a little nervous about the latter--how good could vegan mousse be?--but it was indistinguishable from regular mousse. Topped with fresh raspberries, and it was mousse-y heaven.
It was time for the show, so I headed over there. The Improvised Shakespeare Company is an all-male group (hee!) who put on an improvised comedy play all done in the style of Shakespeare. They began the evening by asking the audience for a title. They settled on "Ladies," and off they went.
The plot unfurled--or unraveled. The king of France had demanded that the queen of England marry him. Incensed by his audacity, the queen declared war on France, and made a long list of people she intended to kill, including the king's cat. The king of France, unnerved by this, decided to avoid war by . . . apologizing? Who knew! Meanwhile, the king of Italy, caught between the two factions, decided to side with France because their food is better, and then, once France was distracted by the war, betray France by assassinating the king and taking over the entire country. Also meanwhile, a group of druids decided they should put a stop to the entire war. Things got increasingly complicated from there. :)
Best line of the evening: "I'm not going to war with an alcoholic cat."
It was silly and fun.
I had more hole-in-the-wall food on the way back to my flat. Yes!
Sunday I slept late again, breakfasted at the same cafe as yesterday (French toast combo this time), then wandered Boystown for a bit. Every single gay guy was walking his dog. I mean, seriously--a bazillion dogs were out, led by guilty guys with hangovers who had staggered in after too much partying and forgotten to take the pooch out last night.
And then it was the long drive back. It was a fine weekend away.
comments
Water Day!
Yesterday evening, a major (48") water main broke not far from here and wiped out the water supply for most of the county. The few people who have water are on a boil alert. The schools have no water at all.
Snow day!
Wait--
Water day!
Actually, last night I wasn't sleeping all that well. I kept waking up. (I think it's because Darwin isn't here.) At one point, I popped awake and was sure my alarm hadn't gone off. When I checked, I discovered it was only 4:30.
I had just managed to doze back off, when my phone went off at 5:30 with the news that school was cancelled. It woke me fully, and I figured I may as well get up.
I woke Max up briefly to tell him school was off. He acknowledged the news with a "Cool!" and lay back down. A few minutes later, he was up again. "Hey, Dad--can you make pancakes?"
And so I did. 6:15 on a no-school day, and Max and I were both eating pancakes.
comments
Snow day!
Wait--
Water day!
Actually, last night I wasn't sleeping all that well. I kept waking up. (I think it's because Darwin isn't here.) At one point, I popped awake and was sure my alarm hadn't gone off. When I checked, I discovered it was only 4:30.
I had just managed to doze back off, when my phone went off at 5:30 with the news that school was cancelled. It woke me fully, and I figured I may as well get up.
I woke Max up briefly to tell him school was off. He acknowledged the news with a "Cool!" and lay back down. A few minutes later, he was up again. "Hey, Dad--can you make pancakes?"
And so I did. 6:15 on a no-school day, and Max and I were both eating pancakes.
comments
October 23, 2017
Huh. What Do You Do With This?
I had yet another set of doctor visits about the kidney stones today. I came away with more medications, another date for surgery (this thought still makes me shake), and a number of recommendations, including dietary changes.
I'm supposed to avoid eating foods rich in oxilates. These include:
spinach (and other dark, leafy greens)
beets
strawberries
peanuts
peacans
soy
Another dietary recommendation: avoid the following:
beef
pork
chicken
eggs
fish
milk
In other words, eat a low-protein diet. In fact, I was advised against eating a low-carb diet because it can cause kidney stones in people predisposed to them.
However, I'm also diabetic. My nutritionist said I should eat plenty of:
eggs
chicken
peanuts
stir-fry
yogurt
And avoid:
bread
rice
flour
sugar
cereal
In fact, if it has carbs in it, I should avoid it. Kidney stones say avoid protein, diabetes says avoid carbs.
So what the fuck am I supposed to eat?
comments
I'm supposed to avoid eating foods rich in oxilates. These include:
spinach (and other dark, leafy greens)
beets
strawberries
peanuts
peacans
soy
Another dietary recommendation: avoid the following:
beef
pork
chicken
eggs
fish
milk
In other words, eat a low-protein diet. In fact, I was advised against eating a low-carb diet because it can cause kidney stones in people predisposed to them.
However, I'm also diabetic. My nutritionist said I should eat plenty of:
eggs
chicken
peanuts
stir-fry
yogurt
And avoid:
bread
rice
flour
sugar
cereal
In fact, if it has carbs in it, I should avoid it. Kidney stones say avoid protein, diabetes says avoid carbs.
So what the fuck am I supposed to eat?
comments
October 17, 2017
Heart Update
The new doctor did an EKG as part of their new patient intake. The nurse who ran it looked at the printout with a furrowed forehead.
"What is it?" I asked, suddenly nervous. The cardiologist who saw me in the hospital, remember, declared after a dozen tests that my heart was fine, but ultimately wrote "abnormal EKG" on my chart, and I haven't had a chance to call his office about it.
"It's . . . giving me some messages here," she evaded. "The doctor will talk to you about it."
This made me nervous. Was this another abnormal EKG? Whenever the staff won't tell you, it's bad.
After an interminable wait, the doctor himself finally came in, and I asked about the EKG.
"It's just the machine," he said. "There's nothing to worry about."
Cool.
I also asked about my low heart rate, and he confirmed it was because I run, and that my rate was normal for me.
Good.
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"What is it?" I asked, suddenly nervous. The cardiologist who saw me in the hospital, remember, declared after a dozen tests that my heart was fine, but ultimately wrote "abnormal EKG" on my chart, and I haven't had a chance to call his office about it.
"It's . . . giving me some messages here," she evaded. "The doctor will talk to you about it."
This made me nervous. Was this another abnormal EKG? Whenever the staff won't tell you, it's bad.
After an interminable wait, the doctor himself finally came in, and I asked about the EKG.
"It's just the machine," he said. "There's nothing to worry about."
Cool.
I also asked about my low heart rate, and he confirmed it was because I run, and that my rate was normal for me.
Good.
comments
