This might look painful. And it was. A little. OK, a lot. And I was resistant to pain meds.

Me: I don't LIKE codeine!
Husband: TAKE THEM! TAKE LOTS OF THEM!
Me: But I can take it. I'm strong. (Just give me a bullet to bite down on!)
Husband: (Standing at side of bed, hand full of pills.) TAKE THE DAMNED PILLS CAROL TAKE THE DAMNED PILLS.

Eventually he started just sneaking them into the meds I normally take every morning. He's a good man.

Labels: husband, medicine, personal urban drama

Again, today, I was told by a doctor that what I have is so unusual that he and his colleagues had to look it up, and couldn't find anything like it. And, that this was SO COOL. I mean he was HYPED. His words: You know, I do bunions all day so this was really cool! I am totally loving this guy. When he was about to chop me open, when I was in the surgery room, laying on the table, when the drugs had started, and the mask was coming over my face, he had my hand in his, and his thumb was rubbing my fingers. I was going down, and I was freaking out a little, and he kept telling me, it's OK. You'll be fine, Carol. I remember that. That was important.

And THEN. THEN!!! He chopped the living holy hell out of my ankle. BUT it is actually my foot, ankle, and leg. I mean he chopped. And I have previously warned you that I would show you the magic. So here it comes. Go read Drudge if you can't take it.



Oops. That's just okra. I love okra. Don't you? Except when it's cooked to hell and gone and it gets slimy. That's just not good okra. Or if it's fried to within an inch of its little okra life? Also, not good okra. OK - here's the INSIDE OF MY ANKLE.

No - really! Last chance for Drudge!




Pretty gnarly, huh???

Dr. B told me today that when he had my personal body parts CARVED OPEN, it was so cool he called the anesthesiologist down to the end of the table to have a look see. I am so far at the end of the bell curve I think I may just be a little stick figure dangling off the far end.

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama

I know, I know... I promised gore and open wounds. We'll get to that. Be patient. Just a reminder to those who can't take it: Look Out! I'm harboring photographs of the inside of my Very Own Personal Ankle!! With Exposed Tendon! And my Surgeon's FINGER TIP! Be afraid. In the meantime, the Democratic Campaign in 7 minutes:

Labels: headlines, medicine, personal urban drama, video

Ever heard of a peroneous longus tendon? Me neither. But you have two. One in each ankle. Guess what? You can TEAR them. In half! And then what happens? Go on. GUESS!

It hurts like holy hell for a while, then it hurts like a deep ache for a long time, and when you finally go to your doctor and tell him it still hurts he says "WE'RE GOING TO CUT YOU OPEN AGAIN!! BWAAHAHAHAHA!!"

Check back next week. I'll be back in a wheelchair, flying high on pharmaceuticals. I'm always at my best on Toradol.

You can't imagine how much this sucks. No driving for about 5 weeks. NeedyneedyCarol. This sucks so badly. But hey! I'm planning to tell people who ask about my new scar that I was attacked by dingos.

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama

Two things:

First: Woo Hoo! I just won a "Shadow the Trauma Surgeon" silent auction item at a charity gala. I'm going to get to spend the night at my ER alma mater, MemorialHermann Medical Center's Level I Trauma Center, shadowing a trauma surgeon and seeing up close and personal what his life is like at work.

I was talking with the surgeon's wife about the details. She said, "Do you want a shift that's really hectic and gory?", to which I said "YEAH!". She said I should choose a weekend night, a holiday if possible. I'm going to see if I can hang with Dr. TS on Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. I'm thinking that will be a nasty night in the trauma center.

Second: As you might have guessed from my glee under #1, I'm very much a tailgater when it comes to the infinite ways the human body can be beat up and put back together again (or...not). This was true even before I got crunched, and the internet has only made it possible for me to learn more. For instance, tonight I read a story about a man who lost control of his SUV. I'm putting the link to the article here but not the picture because it's pretty brutal, even though I wish it were higher res so I could zoom in. This one is special because of the story that goes with it:

The top rail of a chain link fence went through the vent window on his truck, through his lateral chest wall, through the seat, through the back seat, and through the floor of the jeep. At no time did he lose consciousness, and only complained of being slightly short of breath. Advanced Care Paramedics arrived and started IV fluid during the extrication. The patient could not be removed from his seat, so the patient and seat were removed from his vehicle as a unit. The patient underwent
immediate surgery and recovered fully.
The pt was not interested in keeping the seat.

Whoever wrote this has a wicked sense of humor. (Emphasis mine.)

Labels: headlines, medicine, personal urban drama

See? Now I feel badly. I did end up going to my Favorite Family Practice Doctor today to ask him to check out my ankle. All was OK until he asked how I hurt it. We have this policy about not lying to one another, you see.

He was OK with the "I was out in the garage leaning over the door of the car reaching for a box of caramel Crunch 'n Munch when I heard the garage door open." But at that point I had to explain why the garage door opening was a problem.

This is the part I feel badly about. Because I think he might have hurt himself, he was laughing so hard by the end of the story.

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama

I do not freaking care what he says. It is all his fault.

If it weren't for the fact that he did this great thing that made me very proud of him, I wouldn't have gone to the grocery store to buy the Crunch 'n Munch as a congratulations present.

And if I hadn't bought the Crunch 'n Munch to congratulate him, I wouldn't have had to get it out of the car.

And if I hadn't needed to get it out of the car, I wouldn't have been naked in the garage, leaning over the passenger door of my zoomzoom, stretching to reach down into the floor well to get the bag the Crunch 'n Munch was in when I heard the automatic garage door opener start to open the garage door.

And if he hasn't hit his remote to open the garage door when he pulled into the driveway, I wouldn't have had the fastest string of thoughts ever in my life shoot through my brain - Garage Door! Opening! Carol! Naked! In Garage! RUNHIDE!RUNHIDE!RUNHIDE!

So it is his fault that I had this chemical flight reaction - there was no "fight or flight" - what the hell would I have fought? - of jerking up from the inside of the car and attempting to twist my left leg to the left and sprint to the left all at the same time because the only cover in the garage was to the left - at the back of my little zoomzoom. There was no way I could make it to the door into the house in time.

The problem is that, when my lizard brain flipped my body to the left to run from utter mortification, the sound that came out of my ankle was POP.

And that is why it is my husband's fault that I am propped up in the living room with my horrifically painful ankle on a footrest, happy that I have a stock of legally prescribed opiates on hand at all times. Happy that after I was recovered enough from The Accident that instead of getting rid of my Durable Medical Equipment I thought, you never know when you're going to need a cane, or a walker, or a wheelchair. Cause, well, ya know.....



It's all my husband's fault.

Labels: husband, medicine, miata, personal urban drama

I was in my Favorite Family Practice Doctor's office this morning for a check up. He was writing a refill for a drug that I use which has to be prescribed on one of those extra special Lord of the Drugs prescription pads that have all sorts of information printed on them that guarantee to the Federal Department of All Lords of Drugs that the doctor who has the pad is a real doctor, with a degree and everything. We were chatting a little about the prescription pad and I commented that it has his DEA number on it. It has another number on it called DPS. I asked him what that number is and he said he wasn't sure, that it's just another thing that he has to have and that he has to pay a fee to have.

There is all this brouhaha these days about how family practice is dying in America, that FP docs are under paid, over worked, under appreciated, and that everyone wants to be an anesthesiologist or a dermatologist.

So I asked him.

Me: Do you ever think about getting out of Family Practice?
Him: Naaaah
Me: Oh c'mon! Hospitalists have it so much easier! No overhead, less paperwork, set schedules...
Him: Hospitalists get calls in the middle of the night like "This patient can't sleep" or "That patient is unhappy". And all their patients are sick.

Cracked me up.

P.S. Dr. Elephant is not my doctor.

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama

Hillary: You scare the holy crap out of me. And if you get your way, I won't be able to go to a doctor to get that fixed.

Labels: headlines, medicine

It's not so unusual in Houston to see a homeless person walking down the road pushing a purloined shopping cart filled with all the person's worldly possessions. Sometimes the person has a dog along for the ride. If I were a homeless person I would want a dog, too. But I can't figure out the logic behind the homeless woman I saw yesterday pushing her purloined shopping cart down the road. Balanced on top of all her worldly possessions was one of the biggest bird cages I've ever seen - one of those with four different levels and a penthouse. It had three birds in it. Still trying to figure that one out.


The Sister called me today. She was stuck in traffic on a road not far from my house. She called to tell me how glad she is that I was able to drive home today and be alive. She was stuck in traffic because of a big car accident. She had watched two ambulances leave, and she called me when she saw the Life Flight helicopter come in to land. Three years ago tonight I was living on morphine, dilaudid, and fentanyl as my body adjusted to having been broken and crushed the day before and then literally screwed back together again. Life is good.


I got to have lunch today with a couple of ladies I used to work with. (Hi Brandis! Hi Lacey!) One of them is pregnant with her second blessing. The other is frustrated with her many years longtime boyfriend because she knows he is going to officially propose but he keeps saying he wants to surprise her and he wants it to be perfect. Hey guy here's a hint: the perfect proposal is the one that ends in "yes". Just give her the damned ring, already. She's a keeper.


My dearest Mel's house got broken into this past week. BASTARDS.


I saw my favorite family practice physician yesterday. At one part he started talking about a certain subject that always makes me cry. I started to tear up and I waved my hand between us "OK time to talk about something else! If we talk about this anymore I'm going to cry!" He said that would be OK. I said no, I leave his office crying too much already. He said no, that he thinks it would be OK because I don't. See why he's the best?


Buffy is way finished. Now Angel is over. I am bereft. I may have to break down and read that new Potter book.

Labels: accident, cult, medicine, personal urban drama

My sister and I had the joy earlier this week of spending yet MORE time in a hospital sleeping on tortuous furniture. She had part of her thyroid removed. It is amazing to see my sister's neck looking like something out of The Chainsaw Massacre. The drain they left sticking out of her chest was particularly amazing and we've both spend a few days looking at it, measuring the bloody goo that it fills up with, emptying it, and speculating about where it's actually coming from because there is a huge bandage the size of Rhode Island covering it. Today we are going to get it removed.

The best part is that she owns a cat who is a total bitch. I call her and say "So how is the bitch?" and she knows exactly what I am asking.

Last night was the first night my sister was at home. I said, "I know that bitch is going to want to play with that drain."

So when my sister called me this morning the first thing she said was "I woke up this morning and though I was blind."

In the middle of the night she was fighting with the bitch over the drain. To protect it she put a pillow over it and her head to cover them both and the hugged the pillow tightly to her body. In her deep, narcotic induced sleep, she didn't remember doing it so when she awoke this morning her eyes were covered by the pillow. She has no tolerance for narcotics at all. She should just give them all to me.

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama

It's been pretty challenging to be me lately. I was in my doctor's office this past Friday to get a blood test and follow up on a new medication I'm taking because, well, he said I have to take it even if I don't want to. So I'm swallowing it.

This was a tough visit. I learned again that sometimes the best medicine is sitting quietly with this caring, decent man as he tightly clasps my hand in his. And that the safest I can feel is when he hugs me with kind reassurance before he leaves. Medicine is about so much more than chemistry and charting. Sincere compassion can be healing all by itself. Thanks for the prayers, Doc.

Labels: medicine

In a world where so many families are torn apart by divorce and selfishness, where the children are left by the wayside, I want to share a story with you about a family that is full of love and warmth. I know the people who make up this family. They are kind, funny, honest, and devoted, beyond all else, to their wonderful daughter. Let me tell you, this is one of the most delightful little girls I've ever met.

This is Pete's blog. While he is gregarious and has many friends, he is also a private man. In this story he has taken the very brave step of sharing with the world the story of his daughter, and his family's heartbreaking challenge of being confronted with being told their precious child has PDD-NOS. This is clinical shorthand for Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified. This is part of the autism spectrum of diagnoses.

Pete and his wife are working every day to make the best choices they can to help this beautiful child find her way in the world. They are luckier than many families in that they have good jobs, a fantastic support system of friends and family, and the drive to understand and work through the byzantine world of professionals that quite often offer opposing advice and contradictory services.

This post talks about the state of Texas and the irrational decisions that are made by politicians who control the insurance policies that govern this state. Please go take a read and, if you feel compelled to act, do so. This family has resources and love not available to all families. They all need the support of sane people, and of course, we all know those people are rarely the ones who make the laws.

Labels: bloggers, law, medicine, personal urban drama, texas

You're trapped in a car that has been smashed to hell - the entire front end has been torn and crushed. You have, too.



It's rush hour in the fourth largest city in the country. Gridlock on the freeways. On a good day, in normal traffic, you're 30 minutes away from the nearest level one trauma center. Once you get cut out of your car. At 6 p.m. on a Monday it will take more than an hour to get your there by land. There is a local hospital about ten minutes from where you are, but if you are taken there you might not live. They aren't equipped or trained to help people who are hurt as badly as you are.

The Memorial Hermann Life Flight helicopter is called for while you're still trapped.



Finally, as you're strapped in for your first helicopter ride you are broken and bleeding, you are unconscious, you are helpless. Thanks to the Life Flight helicopter, twenty minutes after you are cut out of your car, you are in the Memorial Hermann Emergency Department being cared for by some of the most dedicated, talented, and experienced emergency medicine health care professionals in the world. They are your best chance at life. And you don't even know any of this is happening.

You owe your life, in truth, to James Henry Duke, Jr., Md. Dr. Red Duke. He is a legend in Houston. Without him, there would be no Life Flight helicopter to swoop out of the sky staffed with experts in their field to whisk you away to Hermann, to save your life.

The four helicopters that currently fly for Memorial Hermann are, on average, about 17 years old. They have thousands of flight hours. They have no GPS, no ability to download vital information to the emergency room that is your destination. Not a single one was designed to address the special needs of patients who are children. How many people do you know who drive a CAR that is seventeen years old?

The city of Houston encompasses more than 500 square miles. Life Flight services a 150 mile radius from Houston. They go all the way down to Victoria, over to Lake Charles in Louisiana, down to Galveston and up to Brenham. Just last weekend on the way home from Austin I witnessed a horrible accident on Highway 290 at 36 in Brenham that involved four people. One died. The other three were flown to Houston on Life Flight helicopters and they lived.

These helicopters fly more than 3,000 missions a year and are in such heavy demand that, on average, they must turn down over 100 requests for help because there just aren't enough helicopters and staff to respond to all the people in need. What if you are that person who doesn't get helped, who doesn't live because there just isn't help available. What if you are that person's husband? What if you are that person's mother? One quarter of all Life Flight patients are children.

The dream is six new helicopters and support facilities. The helicopters will cost $36 million dollars. It will cost an additional $1 million to build a new central dispatch and operations center, and to add a new operations base for the east side of town which doesn't have one right now. Another $3 million is needed to train staff, upgrade technology systems, and provide community education and outreach. Currently, more than $20 million has been raised toward a goal of $40 million.

You can't even imagine ever needing a Life Flight helicopter. Neither did I. You don't have to be rich to support this fundraising program. You just have to care. As you can see, I do.

Labels: accident, headlines, medicine, miata

I had a little oral surgery yesterday. (By the way, I have a wonderful periodontist and yes, Dr. L., I do feel guilty for baking cookies for my PCP but not for you. I WILL rectify this slight.)

As I sit here the morning after eating my "soft diet" breakfast, it occurs to me that a "soft diet" in Texas is most likely very different from a "soft diet" in oh, say, Minnesota.

I am enjoying my guacamole and refried beans. Last night my chicken tortilla soup was delicious even though I did have to let it sit about 30 minutes so the crispy tortilla strips got mushy. Viva Tejas!

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama, texas

For anyone who thinks a single payer system (AKA The US Government administering YOUR healthcare) would somehow be any better than what we have now.

Make your choice. Decide how you would want your healthcare dollars spent:

Rationing a theraputic medical procedure, thus leading to cutting out a sick bladder and stick a urine sack on a person's belly for life?
Slicing open and tucking in a healthy penis?

Cause you know, this system has worked so well in Canada, eh?

(Don't read Kevin MD unless you want to often end up ranting and raving in anger.)

Labels: medicine, opinion, video

Wanna know one of the reasons I love Firefox? Because when I'm reading Trench Doc and he uses words like succinylcholine and my lay brain thinks "what the hell is that?" I can double click on the word to highlight it, where upon a small red bound box appears under the word. I mouse over the box and The Free Dictionary is kind enough to give me a very detailed definition of said word. For example:

A crystalline compound, C14H30N2O4, formed by esterification of succinic acid with choline and used medically to produce brief but complete muscular relaxation.

This sounds like GREAT STUFF. I wonder if I can use it to shut up The Husband when he starts snoring at a decibel that sounds like the infamous description of a tornado "It sounded like a freight train coming through the living room!".

Of course, this leads to a desperate need to find out what "esterification" means, which leads to a whole hour's worth of dictionary-ing because I'm just the type of person who will occasionally sit down and actually read a dictionary. Usually when I run out of serial killer books.

Labels: bloggers, firefox, medicine

Everyone's favorite physician blogger (well, mine at least), Dr. Charles, has introduced the lay world to what is for most of us a new word: Eschara. It is a public record of private people's personal history as documented by the scars on their bodies. Take a peek at the memories invoked by the marks. Join me and my right wrist by sharing some of yours.

Labels: accident, bloggers, husband, medicine

OK kids, lets all sit back and watch Carol's head explode! Ready? BOOM.

Rick Perry is slime. He is a sanctimonious, hypocritical autocrat who goes to sleep in Merck's back pocket every night. He has handed down from on high an order requiring "Texas Schoolgirls" to get Gardasil vaccinations. He even went so far as to say that requiring Gardasil is no different than requiring polio vaccinations. Hmmm... I'm not an epidemiologist but I can put cervical cancer in one hand a polio in another and see that one is seriously different from the other. BIG FREAKING DIFFERENCE, Governor Goodhair*!!!

You know, a couple of years ago the Perry family sent out an official Holiday Card with a picture of Rick, Anita, and two kids. Sadly, the two kids weren't the Perry's kids. We in Texas decided that maybe the Perry family thought maybe their kids just weren't pretty enough? Not that that has anything to do with this jackboot governmental interference with a parent's right to direct a child's health care, I just think it is indicative of the kind of slime he is.

*We're gonna miss you, Molly!

Labels: headlines, medicine, texas

Got scars? Me, too.

Dr. Charles has launched his newest blockbuster blog, Eschara.

C'mon. We've all got a little bit of the exhibitionist in us, don't we?

Labels: bloggers, medicine

It's the morning after Christmas (thus the above date). The Husband had to get up and go to work this morning (slight bitterness because he works for a Canadian company {Eh?} and all the folks north of the border get today off for Boxing Day). I didn't (no job = not having to get up and go to it). The Black Dog and I snuggled in until almost 10am so that was nice (sorry, Honey!).

So this morning my mind is on:

1. Belgium or regular? I grew up in a house with a waffle iron. I'm old, so it was the old kind of waffle iron. The thin waffles with lots of small ....waffles. I asked for a waffle iron from Santa. Santa came through! But I sent Santa the wrong link to Bed, Bath, & Waffle Irons. Santa got me a Belgium iron. I, being an ungrateful waffler, whined. Yeah, I'm ashamed. But it's NOT the same. After extended discussion with a Santa who knows NOTHING about waffles it has been agreed upon that there will be an After Christmas Exchange. I'm just afraid to go do it today because all I want is a regular waffle iron while all the other millions of people who will be driving on I-10 today and going into the stores are actually after the 70%! Percent! Off! Christmas! Items! Two! Days! Only! stuff.

2. The fantastic banana pudding we brought home in the care package from yesterday's Christmas FEAST at my sister's house. It didn't make it til morning. Got eaten about 11pm last night, in bed with The Black Dog and a good trashy crime novel. Wish I had some for breakfast.

3. It's sunny out there, but I know it's too cold to drop the lid.

4. Do I have clean underwear or do I have to do laundry today?

5. Synthroid and Levothyroxine are NOT the same drug regardless of what the FDA says. With most drugs, things like antibiotics and such, generics are totally the way to go. But with a hormone that is measured in MICROgrams, um, no. Because of the allowable range of deviation within each pill, a generic can have a good bit more or a good bit less of active ingredient. Because pharmacies are always going to buy the cheapest drug available on any given purchasing event, it's hard to get the same generic manufacturer consistently and each manufacturer is going to be slightly different not only in active ingredient but also in fillers. Got a infected itch? Get the generic. Got a hormonal imbalance that can screw with YOUR WHOLE LIFE? Get the brand. C'mon. The co-pay difference isn't THAT much. And it doesn't take that long for your doctor to write "Brand Medically Necessary" on the script.

6. If you're laying in bed Christmas morning enjoying the warm covers and bedmates, and you hear a siren pass by in your neighborhood, take a moment to be thankful for the professionals in that vehicle: the police officers, the firefighters, the paramedics, the EMTs. They're up saving people's lives while you're laying in bed thinking about cornbread dressing and that cool cranberry sauce that comes out of the can in the same shape with the same can marks on it that you've been eating for 40 years.

7. I know you've heard it before but, Diabetes is not to be trifled with. I got a call last night from an old friend. He is, again, in the hospital being carved up. He's been diabetic for decades. The first couple of decades he blew it off because He's A Tough Guy. The third decade he began having to stick himself with needles ever day (probably should have been doing it for years but Denial Isn't A River In Egypt), he had his first of many heart attacks, and started to lose feeling in his feet. In this decade, about eight years ago, he had a good bit of one of his feet chopped off because he got an infection, didn't care for his feet, and ended up with green and black flesh. THIS is not a good thing. This year, on Christmas eve, his son rushed him to the emergency room because he was seriously not right. He had developed blisters on his thigh, big nasty ones. They came on quickly, and progressed from worrisome to disgusting in a matter of hours. Two hours after hitting the ER he was in surgery where he was getting chunks of his thigh carved off. Eight hours after that he was getting carved on again as the infection moved fast up his leg. Last night, he was being watched closely for further movement of the infection. The next thing to be carved off if the infection keeps moving north will be his MAN PARTS. It's that bad. Staph is SERIOUS stuff. Especially in a diabetic whos numbers regularly come in at 300+, who has a poor diet, who is stubborn, overly macho, and (Love you guy, but...), flat out STUPID about how he takes care of himself. When I visited him in the hospital a few years ago when he had part of his foot removed, the first thing I said when I walked in the room was "What the hell's the matter with you? How stupid can you be???" I'm probably taking a drive down to the VA tomorrow and I'll probably tell him the same thing. Amazing that he loves me, still.

8. I miss my Mom and Dad.

9. On New Year's Eve, The Husband and I will be over at a friend's house blowing stuff up (they live in the county) and playing Cranium Turbo. I'll partner up with Ray and as long as he doesn't get a little too happy (read: DRUNK) we're gonna kick everyone's ass.

10. Don't do it. Regardless of how sweet and pretty and loveable and charming those two greyhounds that you spent Christmas eve with are, DO NOT adopt one. Even though your sister-in-law's fiance has two at his kennel who are retired from racing and ready for Forever Homes. There's hardly any room in your bed now with you, The Black Dog, and The Husband. If you get a greyhound you'll have to start sleeping on a blow up mattress in the living room.

Labels: cooking, husband, medicine, personal urban drama

I was talking recently with a counselor when two subjects came up. First, we talked a little about the job I recently left. We talked about the sadness I feel over leaving this job that I really cared about and was a big success at. We talked about the harassment and hostile work environment that had been created by an inexperienced, incompetent person who was promoted to a job that gave her a lot of power over all the employees there. The counselor asked me if I planned to sue the organization.

We also talked about the long ordeal I went through trying to convince two different orthopedic surgeons that there was a problem with the bolts that had been implanted in my leg to hold my tibia together following a horrific car accident. I knew that one of the bolts had been implanted with a little too much enthusiasm, and that it was sticking out from the inside of my bone. I knew it because a year and half later, one spot on the side of my knee was still swollen, discolored, extremely painful, and hot to the touch. Not to mention that I could actually feel a hard lump that wasn't on my other knee, and hadn't been there before the repair. I finally convinced a surgeon to do an MRI and on reading the results was told "You're absolutely right". He removed the bolts and six months later I have had great results. The counselor asked me if I planned to sue the surgeon who installed the bolts.

I was shocked by both questions. In the first instance, my employment, I have good documentation and witnesses to the abuse. I could probably win a lawsuit and walk away with a tidy sum in my pocket. I even know an attorney who wouldn't rob me blind in the process. But the real losers would be the kids. I've working in the non-profit field for about ten years, most recently at a school. It isn't a rich school and if I sued, the school would suffer a tremendous burden. The kids would suffer and these aren't kids who can just choose to go to another school. Although I miss my job, the talented people I worked with, and the fantastic kids and their families, I am myself talented at what I do and, when I'm ready, will have no trouble finding another rewarding place to help people. Why would I damage the great people and kids there in order to punish the two people who deserve it?

In the second instance, I could probably sue. I've read the "standard of care" guidelines for the type of repair done to my leg and the guidelines provided by the company that manufactures the bolts used in my leg. They both warn about the dangers of implanting these bolts too far into the bone, and specifically address the problem I had. But to sue?? The surgeon who put this hardware in my knee saved my leg. It is because of his many years of dedicated training and his experience and skill that I am able to walk today, that I have little or no pain in the horribly damaged joint. I am so grateful for his work. Yes I had a problem because the bolts were implanted too far. But the problem was identified and fixed. I am so lucky! Why would I damage this dedicated professional who did everything possible to create the best possible outcome for my injury?

I told the counselor both of these stories. I told her - "Hey, if I went in to have a boil removed from my butt and came out having had my kidney removed hell yes I would sue". But I was not permanently damaged by either of these problems. I will continue in my career of choice. I will walk. For me to sue would be punitive, it would be mean spirited. It would be morally wrong.

I don't know if anyone has a solution for the lawsuit craze in this country. I have a fantasy whereby, if a suit is brought and found to be frivolous, the attorney who agreed to take the case would be fined in a robust manner. And that his fine would be paid to the folks who were injured by the case, not to the court or to some nebulous fund that would be eaten away at by administrative fees. Just my fantasy.

Labels: accident, law, medicine

It's amazing how lucky I am. My husband should be dipped in 24 carat gold. My friends are such kind, funny, loving people that I often wonder what the hell they see in me. My dog? He's just brilliant. I was lucky enough to be born in the USA and also to be born a girl child. (Want to get out of gym class? Go up to the male coach, grasp your pelvic area, scrunch up your face - he'll point you over to the bleachers 'cause he just DOESN'T WANT TO HEAR about your vagina. Car need a new battery? Go to the auto parts store and pretend to be blonde.) I've talked about him before, but I just have to say again that I also hit the jackpot with my doctor. I mean, understand, in the last two years I've seen more doctors than most of you will see in your lifetime, but my "medical home" is my PCP's office and he rocks. No white coat syndrome here. He's smart, he's conscientious, he's nice, patient, funny, and sincere. Best of all? He's human and not afraid to show it.

Today I was back in his office (AGAIN) and had to admire him for what I think is his best trait. We were talking about this BFP* I'm experiencing and after listening to me and talking with me he sat back and commiserated with me by saying "I don't know". I think that's a hallmark of a quality physician. Because it's just a fact that regardless of who you are - there are THINGS YOU DON'T KNOW. And I can respect you if you admit it. And if you're really delighted that I brought you home made cream cheese and cinnamon coffee cakes with orange glaze. Afterall, everyone likes to be appreciated.

*BFP = Big Fucking Problem

Labels: husband, medicine

Short survey question.

Brain tissue: Can it be trained to rebuild synapses, reconnect nerves, regain function?

Labels: medicine

Ever had a broken rib? Me neither. But that is apparently what this feels like, except that I can take in a breath without yelling nasty words.

Ever had a doctor (who USUALLY tries not to hurt you) cram his finger into your 3-5 lumbar vertebrae so he causes you to arch so far and so fast away from him that you look like you actually do yoga aaaaaall the time?

At one point he asks if you've had any weird physical activity. You share that the only thing was about two weeks ago when you walked up and down a real flight of stairs about eight times over a weekend like a real person - one foot per stair - for the first time in two years. Slowly, with a lot of grinding noises, but you did it.

It's never good when a doctor tells you "I don't like the way blah blah" and then sends you to X-ray. But it IS good when he tells you there aren't any fractures back there.

And then you end up leaving with an RX for lots of Naprosyn. And you really wish it was a morphine patch instead, even though it wouldn't help long run whereas probably the Naprosyn will.

But some days do you really miss morphine? Especially at 4am? Me, too.

Labels: medicine

I had a short visit with my favorite PCP today. When he came into the exam room he said "So how you doing?" and I said "I've been one whole hell of a lot worse!"

This is true on levels you can't imagine in my personal medical odyssey, but also something I like to remind myself of on a more "life in general" level. Clean water in four rooms in my home, safe food, great healthcare, rarely attacked by wild jackals.

Labels: headlines, medicine

Good things that have happened:

1. Survived another MRI today. I hate that damned thing.
2. My friend Mel held my hand through the whole thing and didn't think badly of me when I cried.
3. The legal aspect of the accident has been settled almost two years to the day.
4. It rained like hell this weekend and I got to spend it curled up in bed with The Husband and The Black Dog. Mmmmm. Thunderstorms and bed. Can it GET BETTER?
5. Less than a week away from Doc Chas's Tomato Awards.
6. Perfected my Shortcake recipe. Want some? I think I'll start selling it and retire on butter, flour, and sugar.
7. Laughed like hell at work with my boss yesterday.
8. Don't let me forget to tell you about this incredible fingernail polish I've got on. YEAH. That's right I said FINGERNAIL polish. You will be AMAZED. Honest.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Grand Rounds is up over at Mexico Medical Student's place and I'm a participant for the first time. Cool.

Labels: medicine

I would like to tell you a little story about good doctoring. It's something I know from.

Recently, I lost my mind for about a week. Long story. The entire ordeal culminated with me splayed out on the floor of my family practice doctor's exam room and him on a stool in front of me. He was in good shape. Me, not so much.

So we sat there, and we talked. He sat on his stool, resting his elbows on his knees. He leaned toward me as I sat there curled up against his wall, and he engaged me in a conversation. He ignored the overhead pages and the growls of his stomach as we spent an unorthodox and unscheduled lunch hour together, adding another chapter to our long term doctor-patient relationship.

There really wasn't a lot he could do for me medically. I wasn't there because I was bleeding or because I had a rash. He couldn't put a wire on me and get a printout of anything, and his trusty stethoscope* wouldn't tell him anything he couldn't see with his own eyes or hear with his own ears. There was no pill that would help.

But he did have something to offer me. He decided to treat his patient the with the only therapy at his disposal. He made a choice by taking me into that room and closing the door. He administered his prescription by ignoring his tight schedule and dispensing basic empathy, genuine kindness, and most importantly, a very potent dram of personal caring.

He listened and he responded. He agreed and he argued. When I was wrung out, when I was at the end of my words, he reached down to my lap and took my hand in both of his. He was very close to me, and he said, very gently, "I'll pray for you."

He didn't say it like, "I'll pray for you since you're a pathetic crazy girl." He said it like, "This shot of penicillin will clear this right up. Hold still."

He didn't know if I am a Christian or a Druid. He didn't know if I chant in tongues or have a Madalyn Murray O'Hare bumper sticker on my car. But he reached out to me with the purest part of his humanity and offered me this personal gift.

I'm from the South. That means two things. #1 I was raised to be polite to people and #2 People tell other people that they'll pray for them a LOT. So that means I've heard this my whole life. And I always just smile politely, even though I'm probably usually thinking, "Oooook can't hurt!"

But that day, sitting on that floor, I reached up and put my other hand on top of his. I told him, and I meant it with everything I had, "Thank you."

He smiled at me and said, like it was the simplest concept in the world, "God can help."

I smiled at him and said, "That would be really nice."


This isn't a story about God. This is a story about two humans, an hour spent sitting on the floor, and how one particular human with a stethoscope proved himself to be a true healer.

At the end, when he went back to his day and I went back to mine, I was in better health than when I had arrived. I call that good doctoring, and even better human being-ing.


*What is it with MD's and their scopes? I've read so many doctor's posts about various things having to do with their scopes. Apparently getting your first is a right of passage and it stays with you like the first time you got to third base.

Labels: medicine

There is a lot going on "back channel" in my life that isn't landing here on Ain't Chicken. I'll talk about some of it as some point, I'm sure, but not until I feel like I'm standing on more solid ground.

I do want to record that today was the first day of what might possibly be my last round of physical therapy to address my orthopedic odyssey. That in itself is special, but today was AQUATHERAPY!!!!

I swear, if you don't have an actual open wound I think by law that all physical therapy should happen at least four feet deep in a 91 degree pool inside a nice air conditioned building. I Am Loving This.

At one point today, when I was going from walking sideways to doing calf stretches my new therapist stood on the side of the pool, put her hands on her hips and looked sternly down at me. "Quit floating and playing. This is work." But she couldn't keep a straight face because I was SO FREAKING HAPPY IN THAT POOL.


On another note, I hugged an attorney today. In public. And I'm not afraid to admit it. I told him as I cried in his office, thanking him for his honorable work: Having him and his staff at my back through the past two years has made a huge difference in the whole process. I've been able to focus on getting my body back into working order (walking is a LOT MORE COMPLICATED than we think it is and FORGET changing a tampon if you can't bend your wrist) while not having worries about insurance companies or medical bills or any other nasty legal stuff. Incredible that there truly are attorneys out there who use their power for good. Fighting the good fight from the heart of Houston's Historic Heights. You go, Rex.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

On August 23, 2004, my car was hit by Long Ngoc Van, a man who ran a red light.

I was injured pretty badly.

While in the hospital I had a bunch of things put inside of me that were not original factory parts. There were tubes and needles and probes and human fingers. There were sharp knives and drill bits, there were staples and threads, there were rays of light illuminating private sinew, then being sucked into stranger's eyes, projecting images of my common but oh so intimate tissues onto their retinas.

These things slid into my orifices, sometimes making new ones - breaking open my skin and spilling my blood.

Slowly, most of them were removed by gentle, caring hands owned by the superhumans who had cared for my body and worked hard for a week to help me remember who, where, what, and when, to comfort my fear and pain, to ease my confusion and heal my broken body.

The stuff that didn't come out is structural - metal stuff screwed into my bones. I did recently have a THIRD surgery on my left leg that produced some really cool show-and-tell material in the form of three big assed bolts in a sterile plastic package that I like to pull out in restaurants and use as dinner conversation starters. The other bunch of metal in my arm will hopefully still be there many years from now for the forensic guys to use to help identify me if I get kidnapped and killed and dumped in the woods.

The metal doesn't concern me. There are brazillions* of people out there with metal aftermarket bits inside of them.

The part that I sometimes wonder about is the tiniest part. You have two scaphoids. REALLY. I bet you didn't know that. Well, I have one original and one that was pulverized and replaced with "artificial bone material". Now, just exactly what the hell does that mean? It's trivial in the face of all the other questions you pose to a doctor when you get him into a little room so it's not made it up the long list yet, even after almost two years.

And then I read a story like this one, a true gothic horror tale of body snatching, and well - how can a girl not wonder?


*Donald Rumsfeld briefed the President this morning. He told Bush that three Brazilian soldiers were killed in Iraq. To everyone's amazement, the color ran from Bush's face and he collapsed onto his desk, head in hands, visibly shaken, almost whimpering. Finally, he composed himself and asked Rumsfeld, "Just exactly how many is a brazillion?"

Labels: accident, headlines, medicine

A little perv joke for those who appreciate emergency room humor:

How many perverts does it take to put in a lightbulb?

Only one. But it takes an entire ED to get it out.

Yeah, this is the best I have today.

Labels: medicine

An ordeal I wouldn't wish upon Sheila Jackson Lee:

Getting three big assed carriage bolts (with galvanized washers) removed from your tibia. The doctors all say "It's no big deal!" "You'll be walking the next day!"

You don't realize that they're talking about no big deal in the context of the big deal it was when you got the Frankenstein bolts put IN your leg, not no big deal as in the great scheme of pain in general.



And when they say you'll be walking the next day they mean in the context of having spent three months in a wheel chair, not in the great scheme of hobbling and wincing and using a walker to go pee like an 80 year old hunchbacked snaggle toothed bag lady who happens to have wall to wall carpet and central air conditioning.



And when they say "I'll go in through the same cuts they made last time" they don't tell you how incredibly gnarly it's all going to look.



Thanks for the vote on confidence, CAD - and good luck with yours.

Labels: accident, medicine

I have a friend who irritates the crap out of me. If you come within her orbit you sort of don't exist in a totally three D way anymore. She talks constantly, usually about herself, her children, her work, her life, her crisis of the day. There is a lot of drama here.

And yet, she is golden. She is kind beyond thought, she is funny funny funny. She is always available for anything, yet always busy doing thirty things and lighting a cigarette at the same time.

Today I am going to her house and I am going to sit on the hard, cold, raw concrete floor of her living room, regardless of the fact that it may take two people to get me up, as she orders tile layers, painters, installers, floorererers, and Carlos, her contractor around. Nothing like sitting on your ass in a room full of tile dust and chaos to take you away from your own problems and frustrations.

I don't know if it's surgeon ego, or interdisciplinary politics, or a legitimate difference of medical opinion (FUCKERS!) but yesterday I got royally screwed by the medical machine that has been seeing to my not insubstantial needs for the last year and a half. Today was supposed to be a Red Letter Day.

Two, maybe three of the bolts are coming out of my tibia! Finally the "bedsore like" raw tissue on the inside of my pes tendon can heal because the freaking threads of the screw sticking out the wrong side of my bone won't be rubbing on it with every twitch of my thigh or calf. A year and a half thank you to the series of doctors who kept saying "Nah, that screw is fine!" as I limped around in obvious pain on a cane.

But no. Canceled. Yesterday. Maybe. Maybe Not. Hang on. Ortho is PISSED at Anesthesiology. I am pissed at everybody. Anesth won't come down from the clouds to deal with Ortho. I am STILL pissed at everybody. Maybe today? Maybe Friday? IT IS ELEVEN A.M. WILL YOU PEOPLE JUST DECIDE SO I CAN LIMP OVER TO THE FRIDGE AND HAVE A COKE ALREADY I'M DYING HERE.

Or maybe I'll just go back to bed and cry.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Well boys and girls, it turns out that you are in the presence of a gen-U-ine soon to be published in a respectable medical journal anomaly. My neurologist told me this morning that she and my gastro guy are writing a paper on me. My faithful FP will be delighted. For years, I've been going to his office with one thing or another and he so often has the reply of "Wow, Carol, that's just weird. I've never seen/heard of/felt/smelled anything like that."

Now, I don't presume to rival Joseph Merrick or Johnny Holmes, but I am so far apparently one of what are soon to be two documented diagnosed cases in the great annals of those whole heal for a living.

There will be ladies at the doors to will accept your donations of cash or check as you exit the building. Sorry, no AmEx.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

You may (or may not) know that there is a health care crisis in Florida. Because of lawsuits and malpractice rates going through the roof, the sky, the stratosphere, and Jupiter, it is very difficult to find an obstetrician to help a woman through pregnancy and the process of giving birth. But it's gone beyond the pale when you have to go discount retail.

Wal-Mart to the rescue!

Labels: headlines, medicine

Ooooooh. So THAT'S what a panic attack feels like.

They've decided this burping thing (pardon me) may be neurological. So they send me off to the MRI. I've done a cervical spine MRI before. I snored my way through it, no problem.

But this time? This time they were shoving me like sausage filling into a dark, tiny coffin from which I would never emerge. In they shoved. About 30 seconds later my heart started racing. I started sweating. I started shaking. I said "Take me out. Take me out!" They started to reverse my sled. NOT FAST ENOUGH. I'm not a screamer but I yelled "GET ME OUT NOW! NOW!"

They pulled me out of my coffin and took the cage off of my head. I lay there gasping for air, embarrassed and freaked out. A few minutes later and a lot of telling my brain to calm the hell down and quit being stupid I said, "Let's try again."

They put the cage back on my head and started sliding me in. I got halfway into my grave and threw my arms up against the outside of the machine, yelling (again) "Stop! Back up!". I sat up, gasping for breath, and apologizing for being such a pussy. I got up, put on my glasses, and walked around while take slow, deep breaths. I looked into the coffin. I talked to the room. See? There's nothing in there to hurt you. It's open on both ends. It's nicely lit. It's smooth and clean. Nothing to be afraid of.

Lay down again. Cage the head. Stuff the dead girl back in the sausage casing. I'm all the way in. One, two, three, four, five, six - "OUT! GET ME OUT! NOW! NOW!"

Later that night, laying in bed with the husband, I wondered if my lizard brain was remembering the Lifeflight - I understand they really strap you down for those flights, and I wondered if my brain remembered how scared I must have been. The next day, my sister told me that in the trauma center before they got me to x-ray that I was tied arms and legs to the stretcher, my head blocked by foam, that I couldn't move anything more than a fraction of an inch, and that I was struggling to get loose, begging them to untie me.

I'm going to try again tomorrow night. With Valium this time. I have my doubts. I took Valium once for recreation and literally didn't feel a thing. But then, I wasn't having a panic attack at the time.

Labels: accident, medicine

Well boys and girls, here we are a year and a half after The Accident and guess what I've done in the last two weeks? More doctors appointments. More printing of EOBs to send to my attorney since my insurance company says "Yes we're mailing them to you" but THEY'RE NOT. More pain.

CAT scans. Oh - when they tell you they're using contrast and that it's going to feel warm and make you think you have to pee REALLY BADLY, they're NOT LYING.

MRI scans. Yeah, I amazed the techs on that one since they had to wake me up after it was over - my snoring was bothering them. "Didn't the sound from the machine bother you?" Obviously not.

Now, a neurologist. I just love new and exciting medical specialties. My husband's been saying for years that there's something wrong with my head. Maybe now he'll have proof. And I'm sure this will mean more MRI time. More CAT scan time. More needles.

OH - they keep asking me - Did they do a CAT scan in the ER? Did you lose consciousness? Did they do an MRI? What part of I HAVE NO MEMORY OF ANYTHING do they not understand?

On a nicer note, the nice man over at Sound of Muzik has asked me to appear as a guest blogger. When I have something nice to say, I'll let you know.

Labels: accident, bloggers, medicine, personal urban drama

Anyone who reads this spot regularly knows I'm a big fan of Dr. Charles's spot. He recently posted about a patient who has an extra chromosome resulting in Down Syndrome.

The mother of a beautiful daughter who has Down wrote a comment on Dr. Charles's site and she also posted on her own site about Dr. Charles's post. If you read her site you learn a few things. You learn that she has a wonderful child whom she loves very much. You learn that if you are looking for a excellent resource for information about the incredible variety of issues surrounding Down that you've found it.

You also learn that, like so many people who are living in a world that is challenging and can be heartbreaking, Rebecca seems to pick people's words apart and apply all sorts of things to a statement that are completely imagined or just plain factually incorrect.

She picked one word out of Dr. Charles's caring and beautiful post, the word autonomy, and extrapolated an entire emotional reaction to his statement that has nothing at all to do with what he said.

He wrote, in speculating on the feelings of the parents of his patient:

"Were natural spontaneity, genuine warmth, and stubborn cheerfulness adequate compensation for myriad health problems, mental deficiency, and the impossibility of autonomy?"

She wrote in response:

"It appears that it is the doctors belief that someone with T21 is incapable of being a productive independent citizen in society. Maybe this is not his intention, however it sure seems very clear by the verbiage used. Am I to believe that my child is incapable of succeeding in this life, unable to ever live on her own? Am I to fall victim to the fact that simply because she has an extra chromosome on her 21st pair that she is not valued as an individual in this world?"

Incapable of being productive? Of succeeding? Not VALUED??? This is not at ALL what Dr. Charles wrote. By no interpretation is this what he wrote!

I posted a comment to Dr. Charles's post suggesting that it would be excellent if everyone could have the benefit of the wonderful personality characteristics that are typical of folks with Down. This prompted the same woman to post a comment on my site. She posted it in the comment section for my recent post about the slime balls Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling. I have deleted her comment because it didn't have anything to do with my post. I'm pasting it here because it's the same sort of thing:

"You said (on Dr. Charles blog): Wouldn't it be great if we could isolate the part of the defect that creates the warmth, love, and kindness that is so typical of Down sufferers and inflict it upon the whole world?

Just so you know Trisomy 21 is a condition, specifically related to having an extra chromosome on the 21st pair. It is no cancer nor does anyone who has T21 suffer from it.

Your wonderful remarks all the way up until the last sentence were immediately dismissed by anyone who ventures upon this public blog, as your final statement is completely off base and inaccurate.

--
Posted by Rebecca to Ain't chicken. at 1/21/2006 05:17:20 PM"

Off base and inaccurate. Lets take the two words she has gotten all emotional about.

Is Down Syndrome a disorder? Let's look at a documented definition from Merriam Webster:

Disorder
Function: noun
3 : an abnormal physical or mental condition

If Down Syndrome is the result of an extra chromosome then YES, it is an "abnormal physical condition" which means YES, it is a disorder. A disorder that results in a specific set of abnormal physical AND mental conditions.

Next, let's look at a documented definition from Merriam Webster of the word "Suffer"

Suffer
1 : to submit to or be forced to endure
2 : UNDERGO, EXPERIENCE
3 : to put up with especially as inevitable or unavoidable
4 : to allow especially by reason of indifference
intransitive senses
1 : to endure death, pain, or distress
2 : to sustain loss or damage
3 : to be subject to disability or handicap

So this mother says folks with Down don't suffer. I think that's defensive crap. Anyone who endures the spectrum of health problems that accompany Down suffers. They can have anything from asthma to blood disorders to gastric problems, vision problems, communication disorders, gum problems...the list goes on. They have the knowledge that they are "different" and they are often either ignored or abused because of this.

Being hit by a car who's driver is too stupid not to run a red light and never being able to walk again without pain is suffering (my personal challenge). Being stricken with a lifetime of health issues because of an extra chromosome is SUFFERING. It's a fact. Does that mean that the victim shouldn't go forward to live a full life with love and hope? Of course not. But it is demeaning to the victim to say they don't suffer.

This mother stated in her comment on Dr. Charles's site that her daughter has "tracheo-broncial-laryngo malacia (spelling?), sub glottic stenosis, chronic asthma, swallowing problems, and GERD. Although she has these issues I have never regretted having her." Lady, that sounds like a LOT of suffering to me. And of course you don't regret having her. She's probably the love of your life, as she should be. Thank God she has such a loving mother.

But defensive denial doesn't do her or you any good.

And yeah, I have some pretty valid perspective to state that. I work at a school for special needs kids. Every day I see the parents of these incredible little humans dealing with their realities in different ways. Some are touchy. Some are angry. Some are so kind it make me want to cry. All of them are facing what for me are unimaginable challenges. But the ones who are the happiest are the ones who take the reality in the face. Yeah, their kids suffer. And so do their families, because what they're doing, raising kids with special physical and/or mental challenges, is probably the hardest thing a person with EVER DO.

Labels: bloggers, medicine, personal urban drama

# posted by Carol : 11:46 PM  4 comments links to this post

You should never take for granted having a ongoing, trusting relationship with your family practice physician.

Him: Hey, Carol, how are you today?

Me: I have a bad cold with a nasty cough. I want something to get the crud out of my chest. And I want codeine. A big bottle, with a lot of codeine in it.

Him: (taking out prescription pad) O.K.

Labels: medicine

I am brilliant. Or psychic. Or just a keen observer of the inevitable. (cough)

On January 18, 2005, I started a new job. At an elementary school. I predicted at that time that I would suffer a communicable disease within the first year. There is a reason I refer to the incredibly adorable children who attend our school as "rotten little germ pits". There is a reason I try to not venture far from the administrative building into the disease laden classroom buildings.

It is January 16, 2005. In two days, I'll have been at the school one year.

Sore throat? CHECK!
Headache? CHECK!
Painful coughing fits? CHECK!
Chills? CHECK!
Fever? CHECK!
Body aches? CHECK!
Runny nose? CHECK!

Nyqil, Cold-Eeze, anti-viral Kleenex, ibuprofen, gallons of cold water, hot soup, candy bars, called in dead for work tomorrow? CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK! What? You didn't know chocolate can cure the common cold? Poor, misinformed you. (burp, cough, burp) Oooooh yeah. I'm lovely.

Labels: medicine, personal urban drama

Day 213: Hostage to "Intractable Belching"

Or that's what the orders for the upper GI and esophagram said, anyway. The results? Neg neg neg neg neg. I don't want to be a news story five years from now: Woman Burps 800 Times A Day for Five Years, Then Jumps Off Building. Actually, I think it will only take a couple of more weeks. Calling Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay, Come Right Away!

Swallowing air, my significant ass. How can someone honestly look you in the face and say that? You mean to tell me I've been breathing and eating and swallowing the SAME WAY FOR FORTY YEARS and then all of the sudden about seven months ago I decided (subconsciously) to start swallowing AIR??? What a load of hooey. BUUUUUUUURRRRP.

But then, my gaseous husband just says I'm showing off.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Burp. Burp. Burp. Burp. Burp. BURPBURPBURPBURP. FREAKING BURP.

You know why people jump off buildings? Because they can't quit burping.

I ended up last week in a GI's office after having this BURP thing happening for about eight months now. My wonderful FP guy and I have done the food/beverage elimination dance. We've done the Gas-X, Mylanta, Pepto, etc. thing. We did the Pri-lo-sec (that's how the GI pro-noun-ced it) thing for a whole damned month. AND STILL SHE BURPS!

She burps upon awaking, she burps when she eats and when she doesn't. She burps when doing physical therapy. She burped while having sex last week. She burps while sitting on the side of the bed, wishing only that she would quit burping so she could go the hell to sleep already.

These aren't the wonderful "I just took a big slug of ice cold beer and the gas rumbled up my esophagus like a freight train and exploded from my mouth with the force of an A-bomb and enough decibels to put a 777 to shame" burp. These are little, annoying, random, sometimes continuous for HOURS burps that originate from the middle of my sternum.

So the GI is doing his thing, asking a bunch of questions, trying to rule out all sorts of things and he asks..."did you have chicken pox when you were a child?" I answer and we continue and then there's a little bit of "does it hurt when I press here?" and we schedule some tests and I'm on my way home.

It doesn't start to bug me until that night. WHY THE HELL DID HE ASK IF I HAD CHICKEN POX? WWWWHHHHHYYYYY? Now it's driving me almost as crazy as the burping. Why didn't I ask him why he was asking what to me, a lay person, was a very strange and totally random question? What does childhood chicken pox have to do with middle aged burping?

Yeah. YOU try to have a merry Christmas with that running through your head.

Actually, I did have a merry Christmas, but it still bugs me. I hope your Christmas was jolly and burp free.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama

Lord knows I hate to agree with the Washington Times, ever, but this editorial says it right, only not strongly enough.

The state of New York has passed a health regulation creating a registry for diabetics just like they have to TB and HIV. People should be howling! Yahoo reports here some of the details.

The health department of course promises to take good care of people's PRIVATE and PERSONAL health records. Well, I know if I were a diabetic living in the state of New York that would make me feel all warm and fuzzy and happy as pie. To have government bureaucrats forcing my physician to submit lab reports and other private oh have I said PRIVATE medical details for analysis? AND for them to decide my doctor needs to call me and make me do better???

If you've ever needed a reason to leave New York, here ya go.

Labels: headlines, medicine

I had a surprise today when I went to pick up a prescription for Darvocet. I developed the habit many years ago of checking what is actually in the pill bottle before I leave the pharmacy. Today I opened the bottle expecting to see my big, oblong, dark pink pills and instead I saw a bunch of small, round yellow ones. I asked the pharmacy tech and she said "Oh it's just a different brand."

Pardon me but, no. So I read the bottle. Dilaudid? DILAUDID? Wow! Now don't get me wrong. I've HAD Dilaudid. And I've ENJOYED Dilaudid. But only in a hospital bed with the rails up and lots of tubes going in and out of me so I couldn't actually fly from the room.

I called the tech back and showed it to her and explained that I didn't want to get high, that I just wanted to be able to walk with a little bit less pain. And that while it might be fun to spend a week thinking everything was really groovy, that I really needed to function and could I please have my actual prescription filled instead of the one they imagined I might want?

She looked really confused. I asked for the pharmacist. Who was REALLY FREAKED OUT when I explained the problem. Boy was she fast when she snatched that pill bottle out of my hand.

Labels: accident, medicine, personal urban drama