Gus

This is my 101st post.  My hundredth was on the military and its research into brain injuries.  I had wanted to write something pithy for the hundredth, but I thought the information on brain injury was more important than my being snarky or just griping about what all is going on in my life.

But today is a new day, and I want to share some wonderful news.  Last Sunday I met my daughter and her soon to be fiancé and picked up my new dog.  His name is Gus, and he is an Australian Shepard.  He’s four months old and has already taken up his place in the house.  Thus far he has been a really great dog, and has done little damage to things around the house.  Puppies do have a tendency to want to chew on everything they can get their mouths on, but so far all that he has eaten is a pair of sandals, and torn through three sets of mini-blinds.  I will say this for him, he knows how to make me laugh. 

The only thing that he has not quite gotten used to yet is the two cats that share the house.  Molly, the 16-year-old tuxedo cat, has been queen of the castle for a long time now, and since Hobbie, my last dog, died last year, Molly has pretty much run the place.  When I got Taz, a beautiful, nearly all black, two-year old cat a few months ago, Molly had a fit.  Poor Taz has to sneak around just to get to the food bowl and litter box.  Taz is twice the size of Molly, but he runs from her every time he sees her.  My daughter says that Molly is one of the meanest cats she has ever met, but to me she is a lover, sitting on my lap for hours.

Now Gus gets thrown into this mix of semi-chaos, and he still can’t figure out why Molly or Taz won’t play with him.  When he was at my daughter’s he would play with her cat, Sadie, and they would have a blast running through the house chasing each other.  He tried for the first few days to get Molly to play with him, but all she did was swat him on the nose, hiss and stand her ground until Gus backed down.  I think they have come to a truce, with Gus taking the long way around the cat, and Molly just giving him the evil eye every time he comes near.

Taz and Gus are another story.  They see each other, and Taz looks like he is about to have a heart attack every time he sees the dog.  He won’t even scoot past Gus if Gus is laying in the hallway, but sits there mournfully meowing until I call Gus and clear the way.

Since I have as many medical problems as I do, I don’t have the energy or strength most of the time to do yard work.  I spend ten or fifteen minutes trying to do something, and then my legs go out on me, and I have to rest for an hour or so.  That has caused the back yard to become a literal jungle.  The first night that Gus was here, I let him out into the backyard, he took one look and wanted back into the house.  Over the past week now, I have slowly been cutting the grass.  It took several days just to get an area clear enough for him to be willing to do his “business” but he is getting used to things.  At first he didn’t even want to be anywhere near the taller areas of grass.  Now, he and I will play catch, and he gleefully romps through the tall grass, making mad dashes between what is cut and what is not.

Unfortunately, his idea of fetch is to chase the ball down, grab and toss it in the air a few times, then lie down with the ball between his front paws waiting for me to come get it.  I hobble my way over to him, pick the ball up and throw it again.  Off he goes to repeat the little game.  I need to work with him on this fetch concept, and get him to realize that HE is the one that is supposed to bring the ball to me, not bring me to the ball.

The first night he was here, I was in terrible shape after the five-hour round trip to get him.  I had a friend drive, I don’t really trust myself being behind the wheel that long, and by the time we got back to my house I was shaking and worn out.  It was as if Gus knew that something was wrong, and he stayed by my side the entire night, following me everywhere I went to make sure I was safe.

Over the past week he has continued this routine, staying close at hand when I start to get shaky or weak.  It’s actually neat to watch.  There have been a couple of days were I have been so worn that I have spent the better part of the day in bed, and he has either parked himself right at the foot of the bed, or climbed up on the bed and snuggled in behind me.

My goal is to get him certified as a service animal so I can take him with me wherever I go.  Especially since there are days when I am out and I start to feel out of sorts and I get concerned.  I think having him with me will help to keep me calm, which helps with the nerves, and to keep an eye on me if I do start having problems.  He seems to know before I do when I am going to get shaky and start to fall out.

It’s great to have a dog again.  I know that he and I will have a lot of fun together over the next decade or so.  If I could only get him to stop “cleaning” the litter box.

Military Taking Lead in Research

Having the medical problems that I have had, and the fact that I have had a dozen concussions over the course of a life time, it is great to see that someone, somewhere is finally taking a hard look at what concussions are doing to the human brain.

Military Taking Lead in Research.

Mom, tight buns and wooden spoons

April 21st was the fourth anniversary of my mother passing away.  I have a Facebook page, and on it I posted the following comment, “Miss ya Ma! Four years. And yes, I still don’t own any wooden spoons.”

To understand the significance of the comment, you have to understand my mother.  She was a woman who lived life on her own terms, and in her own way.  She was, to say the least, complicated.  I don’t think anyone truly understood her except for my father.  Unfortunately they divorced before I was two, and he died shortly thereafter.  So as a single mom in the early ‘60’s she was forced to take on the roles of both mother and father.

I will readily admit I was a shit as a kid.  I was one of the original “latch key kids” coming home after school to an empty apartment.  If my mother had known one-tenth of the stuff I did from the time I was eight until I moved out to go to college, she would have either died right then and there, or killed me.

When I was six or seven, and did something to infuriate her (truthfully, when I did get a bit older I would deliberately do things to infuriate her), she, being one to believe in corporal punishment, would tan my backside with her hand.  After a few “tanning sessions” I realized that if I tightened my rear as hard as I could the “tanning” didn’t hurt as much.  Back then getting spanked wasn’t as much fun as it is today.  There was one particular swatting that changed the course of how she would reward my behavior.  I had done something while she was at work, and when she got home and found out what I had done (honestly, I don’t even remember what I did) she took hold of me, and lifted me off my feet with her hand.  I tightened up my rear, back then it wasn’t the soft pillows it has become with middle-age, and after a few whacks she let out a yell, and let go of me.  Somehow she had broken blood vessels in her wrist, and had a blood filled lump at the area of her metacarpals.  Ice and a week of being spank free, her wrist returned to normal, but she decided to find a new way of discipline.

Since my rear had hurt her, she found something that would hurt my rear.  And thus began a long relationship with wooden spoons, and the occasional hairbrush with a handle.  I can’t even count the number of wooden spoons she sacrificed in the name of discipline.  I do recall vividly her delivering swats with one, having it break, and ending with a different spoon.  My rear was probably the cause of massive deforestation due to the number of spoons mom had to replace.

When I finally left the proverbial nest, I swore that I would never own or have in my house wooden spoons or hair brushes with handles.  The scarring of childhood can run so deep.  The only people who knew of this aversion to “the spoon” were a couple of ex-wives or girlfriends, and my children.

When I posted the comment on Facebook, it was more or less an homage to mom and the memory of days long past.  Several days after I posted the comment I received in the mail a package from her sister, my aunt.  In it was a note, some cash (thank you Auntie) and a wooden spoon!  As I sat at my desk looking that the spoon, I broke up laughing.  It was as if all the years of negative memories just melted away, and brought back the fond memories of my mother.  I sent a note to my aunt explaining about the spoons and my history, and telling her that it was actually cathartic for me to now hold the enemy in my hands. 

I’m going to engrave mom’s name on the bowl of the spoon, seal it with polyurethane, and hang it on the wall in the kitchen.  I still won’t buy any for myself, but I now will have a reminder of mom, and the good and not so good times that she and I shared for so many years.

Miss ya Ma! Four years. And yes, I do have a wooden spoon.

April 19th, a day of history

This year, April 19^th marks several anniversaries of terrible things that have happened in history.  Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day (Yom HaShoah) to remind the world that when dictators and tyrants are not stopped, the results can have an immeasurable effect.  It is marks 17 years since Timothy McVeigh and his co-conspirators blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people including 19 children all under the age of 6, and injuring over 680.  It is also the day that, in 1993, the federal government lay siege to a little known cult called the Branch Davidians, and ended up killing over 75 people at the compound, most of whom died in the conflagration that occurred when tear gas was launched into the buildings.  The 19^th also marks the day when the “Shot heard ‘round the world” happened.  It was the beginning of the Revolutionary War, when in 1775 British regulars fought with militiamen at the Battles of Lexington and Concord.

All of these events all have something in common.

The Revolutionary War was fought because George III of the United Kingdom was perceived by the American colonists as a tyrant, with little regard to the wants, needs, and desires of his subjects.  The result of the war was the birth of the greatest experiment in human freedom, the United States of America.

The Holocaust was brought about by an unchecked dictator whose sick, twisted mind gave rise to National Socialism (Nationalsozialismus) or the Nazi Party.  Hitler needed to blame someone for the plight of the German people after World War I, and laid the blame on the backs of the Jewish people.  In his quest to deflect his and his government’s inability to bring about a strong economy and a robust system of enterprise, he came up with the “Final Solution.”  The extermination of six million Jews throughout Europe.

The Branch Davidians, or Waco Siege, debacle came about due to an overreaching federal government during the tenure of Bill Clinton.  On April 19, 1993 federal agents laid siege to what was ostensibly a cult compound nine miles outside Waco, Texas.  The result was scores dead, including children and what is considered by some to be the worst law enforcement action in the history of the United States.

On April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh and two others plotted and blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.  The devastation was incalculable and the worst terror attack on US soil prior to 9/11.  McVeigh and his cohorts, with a sick and twisted mentality, deemed that the federal government needed to be punished for the events at Waco, and on the anniversary of the Waco Siege, detonated a 7,000 pound bomb outside the Murrah Building.  This horrid event also took place under the watchful eye of the Clinton administration.

The common denominator in each of these moments in time was a government that was out of control, or had decided to take on so much power for itself, that it could not be checked.  The tyranny of George III; the insanity of Adolf Hitler; the overreach of Clinton’s Department of Justice under Janet Reno, and the aftermath of Waco that spawned Timothy McVeigh and the Oklahoma City bombing were all by-products of government left to its own devices.

Thomas Jefferson is quoted as saying, “When governments fear the people, there is liberty. When the people fear the government, there is tyranny.”  As we remember today, and all that has occurred in history on April 19, let us not forget that our freedoms come from God and that when we begin to rely on the government to “protect us from ourselves” and to meet our every need we become serfs to the government.  That serfdom will lead to fear of our own leaders, and then tyranny will reign in a land where freedom once rang.

Yellow tape, helicopters and the Easter Bunny

Having been born in Los Angeles, and raised in Chicago, I am the definitive city boy.  It wasn’t until I was in my late teens and early twenties that I discovered what the “outdoors” really were.  To me, spending the day outdoors meant going to a Cubs game and sitting in the bleachers (Oh, how I long to go to a Cubs game again).  Being a “city boy” I don’t have the innate fear that some have of living in an inner city neighborhood.  It is part of the cosmopolitan flavor that I am used too, and enjoy.

My neighborhood/street only has six houses on it; one vacant for several years; one with, what could be called a “redneck” family; one with a Hispanic family that runs a business out of the home, and has live chickens in the yard.  The chicken get out and run the neighborhood scratching up grubs and insects.  Two of the houses have black families that have lived there as long as I have.  And then there is me, the grouchy guy that tries to grow flowers in his front yard and gets pissed when some fool blocks his driveway.

We have had our share of drama on my street over the years.  Several years ago the twenty something son of one of the families was shot and killed on his front porch.  It was sad, but inevitable, as he was alleged to be a drug dealer, and raised pit bulls to fight.  I remember the night he was killed.  I was sitting in my living room, it was around 11PM and I heard the gun blast and then a woman screaming.  I went down to the house, and there the boy lay in the doorway, one round to the chest.  Sick as it is, all I could think of was a Bon Jovi song, I’ll leave it up to the reader to figure out which one.  His brother was trying to do CPR, but all he was doing was pumping more blood out the bullet hole.  I checked for a pulse, there was none, and called 911 and advised them to send everyone.  The street was closed off with the yellow tape that I had become professionally familiar with over the years, and several minutes later a chopper was overhead looking for the shooter(s).

Fast forward to this past weekend, and Easter.  A close friend of mine is a professional hairstylist, and works in a tony suburb of Indianapolis.  Zionsville, IN is one of those towns that once was populated by farmers and what some would call “people of the land.”  Hard workers, who survived the uncertainty of weather, market forces, and pest infestations.  Over the years it has become a mecca of the well-heeled and wealthy.  While not a millionaire’s paradise, it does have its fair share of wealth, and with new wealth and a greater tax base the town has, at times, gone over the top with some of its celebrations.

Last year, for Easter, the town sponsored an Easter egg hunt, and the Easter bunny.  To make sure Mr. Bunny got the proper entry due a rabbit, the town’s leaders cordoned off an area with yellow tape, and had Mr. Bunny brought in on a helicopter.

When my friend was telling me about this little bunny adventure, we couldn’t help but start laughing.  In my neighborhood, if there is yellow tape and helicopters, it would have meant that Mr. Bunny had pissed someone off, and his eggs had been scrambled.

I love my little street, and the “flavor” of the neighborhood.  We get a mix of Latino music, rap, hard rock and country, and Jimmy Buffett wafting through the air.  The smells of barbeque, catfish frying, greens cooking, and tostadas often mix in an aroma that some might find off-putting, but I find comforting.

While I can appreciate the efforts of a Zionsville or some other up and coming, posh community, I think that I will stick with living in a neighborhood that is closer to the real world.  Plus, I don’t have to worry about six-foot tall rabbits dropping in from the sky.

On Taxes, Disability and Advocacy

It’s been a bit since I last posted, and there has been quite a lot going on in this wonderful maze I call life.  I have had the joy (note heavy sarcasm) of having to deal with both my local government taxing agency, and the federal disability people.  Along with all the trips to governmental offices, I’ve been chasing down doctor’s reports, radiology reports, and pushing for someone to pay attention regarding my medical issues.

“The only two certainties in life are death and taxes.”

Mark Twain

When I got sick, and lost my job and therefore my income, certain things ended up on the back burner as far as financial responsibilities.  One of those things was my property taxes.  I was setting aside some money, as I could, to cover the taxes, but it just wasn’t enough, and the county went after me for the money I owed.  I don’t have a problem with paying my “fair share” seeing as how I do use government resources and enjoy driving on streets that are not littered with potholes.  It is just that I find it disingenuous that the government is willing to prop up the home market by pushing for refinancing of homes, yet is unwilling to work with a homeowner regarding taxes.  My home is totally paid for, no mortgage, no bank-note, no liens, nothing.  The only cost to me, other than the regular household expenses, is my property taxes.

When I started to fall behind on my taxes, I went to the county and asked what I could do to keep from losing the place I have lived for the past 17 years, and their response was to borrow the money.  I have for many years tried not to put myself in debt, and have paid cash for the things I want and need.  I oft-times remember Polonius’ advise to Laertes to “Neither a borrower nor a lender be” and remember the adaptation of Hamlet done on Gilligan’s Island.  But, pressures of money and the desire to not end up homeless pushed me to the point where I had no choice, and a dear and wonderful friend lent me the remainder of what I needed.  So, my taxes are paid, and on an upside, I was able to get a deduction, one that no one told me about several years ago, and my taxes have effectively been cut in half.

“One always overcompensates for disabilities. I’m thinking of having my entire body surgically removed.”

Douglas Adams

When it became obvious that my body was not going to cooperate with my brain, and the prospects for gainful employment became less and less, I took the advise of friends and family and applied for disability.  It was not a choice made lightly, and one that I had dreaded making.  As with all governmental dealing, the process is long and arduous.  The normal amount of time to be approved for disability is 18 to 24 months.  It has been nearly 18 months, and on March 16th I finally had my hearing with the ALJ (Administrative Law Judge) at the disability office.  The judge was a very compassionate woman, seeming to understand the issues that I am dealing with and the problems that I am trying to over come.

ADVOCATE:  ONE THAT SUPPORTS OR PROMOTES THE INTERESTS OF ANOTHER

Webster’s On-Line Dictionary

It was during the hearing that I discovered some information that my doctors had not disclosed to me.  Along with the tremors, weakness of muscles and such, I have severe right-sided neural foraminal stenosis.  I jotted down this new information, and when I got home I dove head long into researching what exactly this condition was.  My discovery was both enlightening, and infuriating.  I have nearly all the symptoms that Mayo and Northwestern Memorial Hospital have listed on their web sites.  This drove me to my local public hospital, and a retrieval of my medical records.

The radiology reports, along with the medical records proved to be more than enlightening.  They actually proved to be frightening.  The radiologist noted on their report in June, 2011 severe spinal stenosis at C6-C7.  They also reported moderate stenosis at L4-L5 and a left renal lila “likely representing a parapelvic cyst.”  Research into what exactly a parapelvic cyst is taught me that they can result in kidney stones, high blood pressure, and several other problems.  Since the majority of my problems began shortly after I had a botched kidney stone surgery, I started to put two and two together.  Prior to getting sick my blood pressure always ran in the area of 124/72.  Not bad for a smoker who didn’t maintain the healthiest of diets and lifestyles.  Now, my B/P runs 164/110 to as high as 215/198 (that is nearly stroke level).  I have massive kidney stone attacks, 3-4 per month, and constant back pain in the left kidney area.

The information gleaned from the radiology reports led me to dig deeper into the actual medical reports dictated by my physicians.  The neurologist that I had been seeing, Sadia Saba, MD, had noted the stenosis and the fact that there was some evidence of an issue with the left thalamus.  She also noted in her report on 9/26/2011 that I had an EMG (electromyograph) that “did not show any evidence of a neuropathy, radiculopathy or even motor neuron disease.  This was specifically done by Dr. Robert Pascuzzi, who is the leading motor neuron disease expert.”  Initially my diagnosis of idiopathic peripheral polyneuropathy was done at Josephson-Wallack-Munshower Neurology (JWM).  Despite the homage to Dr. Pascuzzi in her dictated report, something that I personally feel was inappropriate, Dr. Saba was unable to offer any ideas or suggestions that did not fit into some particular mold or model.

When I started to go deeper into the thalamus issue, I discovered something called “Essential Tremor.”  The US National Library of Medicine explains these tremors:

The tremor is more likely to be noticed in the hands, but may affect the arms, head, eyelids, or other muscles. The tremor rarely affects the legs or feet. People with essential tremor may have trouble holding or using small objects such as silverware or a pen.

The shaking most often involves small, rapid movements — more than 5 times a second.

Specific symptoms may include:

• Head nodding
• Shaking or quivering sound to the voice if the tremor affects the voice box
• Problems with writing, drawing, drinking from a cup, or using tools if the tremor affects the hands

The tremors may:

• Occur when you move (action-related tremor), and may be less noticeable with rest
• Come and go, but often get worse as you age
• Get worse with stress, caffeine, and certain medications
• Not affect both sides of the body the same way

While I know I am not a doctor, the extent of my medical training is that of a first responder, I am however a thinker.  It does not take a brain surgeon to do research into medical conditions, all it takes is tenacity and a deep desire to figure out what is wrong, leaving no option off the table.  That is the joy of being a layman, I have no preconceived notions as to what is normal or not.  My research took me to where it took me, and that is a place where three issues come together to form a reasonable conclusion.  I have nearly all the symptoms attributed to the stenosis diagnosis.  I have nearly all the symptoms related to essential tremors.  I have many of the symptoms related to parapelvic cysts.  Yet, not once was I informed about any of these conditions, or possibilities, but was continually told by Dr. Saba, “I don’t know” and “You can get a second opinion.”

It took time, effort, and some complaining to the patient relations office at the hospital, but I did get to see a different neurologist.  This appointment was the third of April, and I met with a resident, Dr. Ashley Ghiaseddin.  In order to get the staff to fully understand my problems, I stopped taking all of my medications 24 hours before the appointment.  By the time I arrived at the neurology office I was a wreck.  I could have been making margaritas for Jimmy Buffett or martinis for James Bond, I was shaking so badly.  Dr. Ghiaseddin and I talked for a while, and then he excused himself to discuss my situation with another doctor.  The second doctor, Dr. Roos, came in to see me.  We discussed Van Gogh briefly, and then moved onto my issues.  I explained what I had discovered through my research, and that I had a concern that my condition(s) were not being addressed appropriately.  It was decided that I would be set up for a surgical consult to see if there was a way to relieve some of the pressure that the stenosis was causing on the nerves.  Also discussed were changes in medication to better control the tremors, and a follow-up MRI using a different type of contrast to give a better view of the thalamus.

As I sit here typing, having to take breaks every few minutes to calm the shaking in my hands and the bobble head that I have become, I feel a tad relieved in knowing that we may actually be moving forward with figuring out what is wrong, and perhaps getting some relief.  Relief that I think could have been brought about nearly a year ago, if Dr. Saba had been more adroit in seeing the “big picture” of my problems.  While I do not think that Dr. Saba’s lack of movement with my case is malpractice, I do firmly believe that it was poor practice.  Add to that the inappropriate pandering to Dr. Pascuzzi in my medical records, and it leaves me wondering if she is comfortable in her own skin.

The sum of this is simple.  In today’s medical world, the only tried and true advocate you have for medical treatment is YOU!  If you are not getting the answers that you need, then you need to become a pain in the ass to the medical establishment.  It is your right, so far, to push, pull, and demand that you be treated with the proper respect, dignity, and diligence that any patient should receive.  It should not matter if you are a pay as you go patient, a Blue Cross/Blue Shield patient, or on Medicaid or Medicare.  The onus is on the doctor or hospital to do their best to provide proper diagnosis and information.  A hospital or doctor would not think of doing a procedure without the “informed consent” of the patient, however my experience has made me believe that some doctors can decide what their patients should be “informed” about, and that is not their decision.

Fears, Phobias, and Foibles

WARNING:  MAY CONTAIN DISTURBING PHOTOS OR IMAGES

Fear is something we all deal with at one point or another in our lives.  It is an emotion that can have several meanings, and is defined by Webster’s On-Line dictionary as “FEAR transitive verb 1 archaic: frighten 2 archaic: to feel fear in (oneself) 3: to have a reverential awe of <fear God> 4: to be afraid of: expect with alarm <fear the worst> intransitive verb: to be afraid or apprehensive <feared for their lives>”

It is that emotion or feeling that can keep us from making foolish, or stupid, or dangerous choices in our lives.  It is something that can be healthy.  A child fears falling, and in their landmark study of perception in the late ‘50s, early ‘60’s Drs. Eleanor Gibson and R.D. Walk demonstrated with their “Visual Cliff” experiment that infants not only have the ability of depth perception, but also seem to have an innate fear of falling.  Fear of getting bit is also what keeps us from walking up to a dog that is growling and trying to pet it.

Then there are phobias.  The DSM-IV TR defines, in part, a phobia as “Marked and persistent fear that is excessive or unreasonable, cued by the presence or anticipation of a specific object or situation (e.g., flying, heights, animals, receiving an injection, seeing blood).”  The word “phobia” has its root from the Greek (φόβος) meaning “fear” or “morbid fear.”  Phobias can take all kinds of shapes and sizes, and some can actually be the source of great humor.

My daughter, a biologist by training and education, has a phobia about spiders.  This was the result of having an encounter with an arachnid in New Zealand when she was an exchange student many years ago.  She was sound asleep one morning and awoke to the sight of a white-tailed spider sitting on her blanket, looking directly at her.  Prior to her encounter with the eight legged freak, one that she claims was the size of an orange, she was a bit like her mother (a woman who would take spiders outside if they got into the house).  I guess biologists are just old softies for critters of all kinds.  From my perspective, I don’t try to live in a spider’s web, therefore they don’t need to try and live in my house.  I see one, and like any intruder attempting to gain unwanted entry into my abode, I kill the things.

Fortunately, my daughter is slowly trying to over come her fear of arachnids, although there have been several occasions were one has moseyed into her classroom, and she has had to have a student or another teacher evict the unwanted guest.

I do have a friend and former co-worker that has an extreme phobia of spiders.  A number of years ago, before I started to be ill, she was working for me as my head of housekeeping at a hotel.  She and the other housekeepers were working in a room that was in bad shape.  As they were cleaning a spider made the ill fated choice to enter the room at that particular moment.  This woman took the vacuum and sucked the spider into the bag.  Most reasonable people would have left it at that, however, she started screaming on the radio for me to get up to the room as fast as possible.  I bolted from the office, ran up three flights of stairs (oh, for the days where I could climb stairs again) and ran to the room.  She was standing across the room, pointing at the vacuum.  Being totally lost about what was going on, I asked her what the problem was.  I had initially though that the vacuum had shorted out and she had gotten a shock.  She looked at me, and said, “Spider! There’s a spider in the vacuum!  You need to get it out of here!”  I started laughing, at which she emphatically told me it’s “not funny.”  Being a good manager, and needing to get the room cleaned, I dutifully removed the vacuum bag, and tossed it in the trash on the housekeeping cart.

She watched as I casually dropped the bag into the cart, and told me, “Are you out of your fucking mind!  It could crawl out!”  At that point she pulled out two of the black, heavy-duty trash bags we used, and demanded that I put the vacuum bag into one, tie it off, and then put that bag into another trash bag.  By this time I was almost in tears laughing.  Word of advice, don’t laugh at someone with an irrational fear of something, it will bring about a hard hit to the arm.  I went along and humored her with her requests (actually demands) and deposited bag into bag into bag.  I again dropped the now thrice sealed spider on to the cart.  That was not good enough.  Ultimately I ended up taking this little spider all the way out of the building and depositing it in the dumpster at the back of the parking lot.

To this day, I wish I had a camera to film the entire episode.  I would probably have won the grand prize on AFV.

Ironically, this is the same woman who was ballsy enough to stand up to a half-dozen thugs in the “hood” and while she may have gotten her ass kicked by them, she never backed down.  Yet a little spider sends her into a fit of phobic hysteria.

I will admit that I have my share of phobias.  I am deathly afraid of needles, and will do everything I can to avoid getting a shot.  This fear/phobia goes as far back as when I was three or four, and I was at the doctor’s office getting the inoculations that all children must have.  My mother told me the story of me running out of the exam room, pants down around my knees, screaming, “You’re not gonna shot me!”  Even now, nearly fifty years later, I still cringe at the thought of getting any type of shot.  I now am able to control my instinct to flee from the office, plus I get them in the arm, and not the tush.

Along with my innate fear/phobia of needles is another phobia that I have been accused of having.  It is the fear/phobia of commitment.  Having been married and divorced three times, I do not consider it an unreasonable “fear” but rather a realistic view of my ability to be marriage material.  I look at various friends and family that have been married for years, and oft-times wish that I could have that same level of commitment and staying power.  My Aunt Gloria and Uncle Orv are two prime examples of having that staying power.  I think they must have been married for nearly sixty years, and always seemed to enjoy each other no matter what.  Same holds true for my Uncle Howard and Aunt Barbara.  They were long time marriages, and while I know intellectually that they must have had their own problems behind closed doors, they were, to me, the epitome of marital strength.

I, on the other hand, can’t seem to get it right.  And, that I think is my foible.  Webster defines in part, a foible as, “a minor flaw or shortcoming in character or behavior.”

Since I have developed all the medical problems I have, it has given me the opportunity to do much reading.  And while my reading would be considered by some eclectic, it has opened up new vistas of thought and introspection.  I really don’t think that I have a fear or phobia about commitment, but rather, I am one of those individuals that love’s falling in love.  It is the release of the hormone Oxytocin, among others, that causes us to pair bond with another.  Oxytocin, often called the “hormone of love,” is released into the body when we have sex, hug, kiss, cuddle, breastfeed and give birth (hopefully the last two only apply to women).  With my neurologically degenerating brain, I am beginning to wonder if in fact my commitment phobia is not the result of some synaptic misfiring and crossed signaling within my grey matter.  Oxytocin, a pituitary produced hormone, has so many positive effects on the human body, and if in fact my brain is misreading what is being produced, who’s not to say that my commitment fear is not the result of my brain misinterpreting the signals it is receiving.

Then again, I could just be a putz, and while great “boy friend” material, I just suck at being a husband.

Gashes, blown out knees and doctors

I was talking to a dear friend of mine today, and she was sharing how her son, a freshman in high school, was injured during a wrestling practice. He had been paired against a senior, and ended up with a strained MCL, bruised thigh bone and a knee cap that was knocked out of place. Due to the injury he has been sidelined since January.

I shared with her my experience with damaged MCLs, and the ever popular trips to physical therapy. Five or six years ago, ex-3 and I were at the Children’s Museum with her family and her kids. The youngest one, who at the time was a foster child, was about eight months old, and he and I were sitting on a bench waiting for the rest of the family. My ex called out to me to say everyone was leaving that area, and to come along. I got up, quickly turned and smashed my right knee into the corner of the arm rest on the bench. I could feel myself loosing my balance, and rather than fall and squash the baby, I pivoted on my right knee to catch myself. That’s when I heard the “pop” and felt something tear in my knee.

This was on Saturday, and by Monday, even with ice packs surrounding my knee it was still swollen. Monday afternoon I called the ortho that I and my kids have used though out the years and told the nurse what happened. She got me in to see the doc that Wednesday, and he did all the torturous range of motion tests that orthopedics do. His conclusion from the external exam was that I had torn something. He ordered an MRI, gave me a script for pain pills and told me to say off my leg until he could see what damage I had done. The MRI was done early Friday morning, and by late that afternoon I got a call saying to come back in on Monday to see him.

Yes, I did have a slight tear in the MCL, and a nasty bruise under the kneecap. I was given two options. Number one was have surgery to repair the MCL, go through 6-8 weeks of physical therapy and see how it does. Option two was go through 6-8 weeks of P/T and see how it does. I chose option two, and was in the clutches of those wonderfully nice demons known as physical therapists. I did the therapy, and six-week later had a follow-up with the ortho. His conclusion was that if I kept up with the exercises that P/T had recommend my knee would heal up nicely. No surgery, no cutting, just a nice conservative approach, and some pain management. My knee did eventually heal, for the most part, but I can’t fault the doc or the therapist. I am not one to follow directions, and instead of keeping my knee immobilized for the requisite time period, I took the brace off after two weeks, and was back doing the stupid things I did back then.

The worst part about this particular injury wasn’t the fact that I mucked up my knee. No, it was listening to my co-workers give me hell about getting hurt at a “CHILDREN’S MUSEUM.” The one place that you would think NO ONE could get really hurt. Of course the agency that I was working for at the time was not populated with warm fuzzy types, and I would have probably given someone else just as much hell had they gotten hurt the in the same manner.

I tell this story to make a point. When I blew the knee sideways, I had FANTASTIC private health insurance. I got in to see my doc quickly, without having to jump through dozens of hoops. I got the needed MRI and P/T, and even with my foolishness eventually healed. Fast forward to these past several years, and the story has taken a decidedly different turn. When I started to get sick, and lost my job and private insurance, I was thrown into the morass of public healthcare. I now wait months for a doctor’s appointment; months for an MRI or C-Scan; pay huge amounts of money for prescriptions due to “spend down” obligations; and still have no definitive diagnosis about what exactly is wrong with me.

Keith Koffler, the wonderful keeper of the keys at White House Dossier published a story about his experience with the coming changes in American health care. Keith uses his sardonic talent to point out where we are heading in America if the current changes in healthcare continue. From his story:

“I got a small taste of my future after I smashed my lower left shin two weeks ago against a lighting fixture that had been placed on the floor during a Saturday night party where wine was served in liberal abundance.”

“By Monday morning, my left foot was the size of a pineapple. I went to the doctor. She said, “Looks infected.” I said, “No duhh.” She said, “Here’s some antibiotics.”

“Two week later, on Friday, the infection was somewhat better, though not at all gone, and the wound wasn’t healing every well. So the doctor said, “I want you to see a wound specialist. Here’s the number.”

“And that was when – after two weeks of pain and itching (the latter worse than the former) and having to walk around in sandals in 40-degree weather because my foot won’t fit in a shoe – I began to enjoy myself. Because that’s when the Catch-22′s starting popping up.

“The nice guy at the wound center apologetically explained that in order to maintain their status as a wound center they had to follow the Medicare guidelines, which say they can only see people with wounds that are four weeks old.”

Medicare guidelines are now the new rules on the block. Forget about doctors treating patients on an as needed basis. It’s government guidelines that will dictate who, what, when, where, why and how you will get medical treatment.

Keith asked his readers to share their stories, and some are truly appalling. For the complete story and comments please visit Keith’s site at White House Dossier.

On “Grandmas” “Grandpas” and cheesecake

Today is one of those days that it is in my and the community’s best interest to stay home.  I am having a massive misfiring of nerves, and can’t even walk across a room without bouncing off something, or falling into a wall.  If I were to attempt to venture out of the house, I would need to be in a Redman suit to keep from getting hurt.  I’ve worn those things in the past, and they are not the most comfortable.

Since I have decided to ensconce myself, I thought it an opportune time to share some more about that wonderful collection of people that I have called family.  Like any family, there are members of the familial-social structure that, while related to one portion are not, by blood or marriage, related to the rest.  But we give them honorific titles such as “Uncle” “Aunt” and perhaps the highest honor – “Grandma” or “Grandpa.”

Those honorific aunts and uncles are, many times, the most fun.  They are the ones that regale the young ones with tales of wild adventures and mis-adventures; bring strange gifts to family gatherings; sneak copious amounts of candy to little ones and never really have to face the music that a blood relative might have to face for what they have said or done.

Then there are the honorific grandparents.  They might be the blood grandparents of your cousins, or have joined the family later when a widowed grandmother decides at 70 to remarry.  As a child growing up I had several of these “grandparents” and as I look back I have some very strong and fond memories.

One such “grandma” was Grandma Gercken.  She was my Aunt Gloria’s mother-in-law, and as I remember a very sweet woman.  The thing that always sticks in my mind about her was cheesecake.  It is funny the things we remember, or at least hope we remember correctly, from our youth.  When I think of this woman, and truthfully I don’t think I ever knew her first name, other than “Grandma,” I always associate her with cheesecake.  I think that is why I have such a love for that particular meal, I mean dessert.  It is one of those items that I have over the years learned to make for myself.  I did one last week, and it was, in my opinion, wonderful.  Graham cracker crust with cheesecake filling and topped with caramel and chocolate with a sprinkle of crushed pecans.  The problem I have when I do make a cheesecake is that I always have more filling than crust.  To alleviate this problem I have now started to take the extra filling and make cheesecake stuffed muffins and cupcakes.  Chocolate of course.  

Another memory of her is times that she babysat me when I was sick.  She would never nap, but simply “rest her eyes” while sitting in a chair or on a couch.  I never knew that resting your eyes could cause so much nasal distress, as the sounds she would make while resting were like those of buzz saw.  But she would make tomato soup for me, and put in a big glob of butter that would melt away in a sea of red.  I would smoosh up crackers and have my lunch.  I still eat tomato soup this way, and it is one of my “comfort” foods.

Another “Grandma” that I remember was Grandma Wegener.  She was my Aunt Rene’s mother-in-law, and I remember her as being soft-spoken, with a bit of feistiness mixed in.  The thing I remember most about her was that when she was in her late sixties, perhaps even seventy, she remarried.  By then I was old enough to think that it was either very cute and wonderful, or “how gross” that “old people” would get married at that age.  Now, in retrospect, I have settled on how wonderful.  She married “Grandpa” Knapik, and the one thing I remember of him was his love of woodworking.  He seemed to spend hours in his little workshop, turning out a variety of handmade toys and furniture.  He had given several pieces to my late mother, and I “inherited” them when she passed several years ago.  I daily use the footstool he made, although I have had to recover it more than once over the past few years.  And a step stool he made is now a mini-table in my bathroom.

Family can sometimes be defined in such narrow ways; direct relatives; in-laws; out-laws; step this or that.  But, I am learning that family is more than just the blood that flows through our veins, it is the people who have surrounded us through out our lives that have had a lasting influence.  The people who taught us to love cheesecake or gave us footstools are just as much a part of family as those we share common DNA.  Looking back with the hindsight of many years I really have been blessed to have had so many “Grandmas” “Grandpas” and the like.  To all of them that have touched my life, thank you.

Turn your head and cough

Several months ago I started having pain in and around my groin area.  At first I thought it was a pulled muscle or some such thing, and really paid no attention to it.  In January it started to get worse, with the pain radiating up my side into the intercostal muscles, those are the ones that wrap around and through your ribs and make it so your chest wall can move so you can breathe, and down the inside of my thigh.  By February it was so bad that I couldn’t cough without feeling like I was going to pass out, and for a smoker that is bad news.

In February I had an appointment with my primary care doctor and told her about the problem.  She did the standard “turn your head and cough” exam, and said that she couldn’t feel anything.  She set me up to see the doctors at the surgery center, and have them check for any problems.  A month later I was at the center getting checked out.  In actuality it was a quick referral.  Most of the time it takes several months to get into one of the other clinics at my local public hospital.

I had the dubious pleasure of having two doctors take a look at my delicate problem.  One was a surgical intern, the other the attending.  Both were very efficient in their exams, perhaps too efficient.  I have had checks for hernias before.  Back in the old days you got to line up at the start of the school year and school nurse checked you out before the start of P.E.  I guess it was the school’s way of protecting itself in case you pulled or blew something out.  I don’t know if schools even have P.E. any longer, but if they do, I hope they stopped the hernia checks.  It was always an embarrassment to be lined up with 30+ other guys and having the school nurse checking your nether regions.  Made it so that I always hated to go to the nurse’s office later in the year.

Back to the doctors.  After both of them rammed their fists up my intestines to my throat, I got the verdict.  “We don’t know.”  The attending did say that he thought I had what is called a “sport’s” or “sportsman’s” hernia.  I would think that you would have to engage in some form of sport to have a sport’s hernia.  With all the problems I have just getting around, the most physically taxing thing I have done in the past three years is trying to get up off the floor when I have had a fall.  Maybe they can make falling down an Olympic sport.  I’d probably be a gold medal winner, or at least the bronze.

The attending is going to set up an appointment for me to have a C-Scan or MRI of the area so they can get a better idea of what is wrong.  If it is a sport’s hernia he said that they would go in, and as he put it, “kill the nerve” running through that part of my body.  He told me that the nerves would basically reroute themselves over time, and I would be back to “normal” in about 3 to 6 months, maybe longer.  I know I should have asked him exactly what he meant while I was in the office, but I was still trying to catch my breath from having his fist shoved through my abdominal wall.  When I got home, and finally could see straight I looked up the nerve that he was talking about.  TheFreeDictionary.com medical section explains the ilioinguinal nerve:  “origin, lumbar plexus—L1 (sometimes T12); accompanies the spermatic cord through the inguinal canal; branches, anterior scrotal or labial branches; distribution, skin of scrotum or labia majora, and adjacent part of thigh; modality, general sensory.”  From what I am reading on this particular nerve, I don’t think I am going to like the idea of “killing” it.  I’m hoping that he only means a nerve block that will give me some relief for a few months.

The upside to dealing with this is that it is a distraction from the other nerve problems.  Granted, I still have major problems with controlling where various parts of my body go, and I still tremor like crazy.  But all I have to do to take my mind off of these problems is move a little to the right with my torso, and BAM! it feels like someone just kicked me in the crotch.  I haven’t decided which is more annoying, not having motor control over my right side, or having the feeling like my right testicle is going to fall off.

I guess I will have to see what happens after the scan and whatever they are going to do to me to see if things get better.  Right now I am just packing myself in ice trying to freeze the irritation caused by the doctors.  I do have a question for anyone in the medical profession.  Why is it that when my primary care doc examined me, SHE was gentle and I didn’t feel like I was going to be turned inside out.  Yet, when the surgery center docs, both males, examined me, it was like I was in Mengele’s lab being subjected to torture?  I think Freud would have a lot to say about this.