Notes from Sick Bay
Good lord.
Did I not recently express a desire to spend less time in medical facilities in 2006? Yeah, so, that's not really working out.
Before I begin, though, an update: My mother is doing well. She's a cranky bugger, but she's doing well.
A couple of weeks ago, I went in to see my endocrinologist, who poked me in the neck and announced that my thyroid is now normally-sized, which made me ridiculously happy. When I was 14, our family doctor noticed that my thyroid was enlarged. He said, "you have a goiter," which to a 14-year-old girl is somewhat akin to saying, "goodness, you seem to be sprouting a third eye here." I'd met a woman once who'd had a goiter. It was one of those bullfrog, bulging goiters that made her look as though her neck was attempting to digest a medium-sized rodent, and after my doctor's diagnosis, I only stopped sobbing after my mother explained to me that goiters come in all shapes and sizes, and that I would never look like that lady.
My doctor drew blood, declared my thyroid function "normal," and said that I should have subsequent bloodwork done every six months. The condition I have is called Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. It's a very silly little disease wherein one's body, for whatever reason, produces little marginalized antibodies with Scottish accents that paint their faces blue and yellow then bum-rush the thyroid and beat the living fuck out of it. Eventually, the thyroid shits the bed (or "becomes underactive," in wacky doctor talk) and one drags oneself around sluglike for a few months until one's next round of bloodwork, and then one's endocrinologist calls to announce that one gets to swallow synthetic thyroid hormone for the rest of one's life.
The upside to taking yet another goddamned pill every day is that I feel much better and -- very importantly -- the goiter has shrunk. Shrunk! To normal size! Right before the antibodies won out, it had evolved to such a mass that while not really noticeable to those lacking medical know-how, was large enough to press on my windpipe, which yielded the occasional delightful sensation of being choked to death by an invisible fist. I could no longer wear turtleneck sweaters without wanting to immediately tear them off my body in a Lou Ferrigno-style rage, and choker necklaces? Just forget about it.
So, yes, things are well in Endocrine Land these days. The thyroid is shrunken, the sugar is normal, my body doth not overflow with insulin, the birds are singing, etc., etc. This means that it was high time for Marc to hurt himself.
We seemed to have developed this cute little yin-yang malady balance, my husband and I, wherein one of us must always be suffering at all times. This is not helped by the fact that Marc has a well-known, furious ability to hurt himself. Since we've been together, he's fallen down a set of stairs and given himself a concussion that knocked him out for a full 30 seconds and caused him to walk around like a mindless ghoul for six weeks, broken his ribs, cracked his head so hard on the garage door opener that he got one of those towering, phallic Bugs-Bunny-cartoon hematomas growing out of his skull, and slit his finger wide open by attempting to separate two frozen hamburger patties using a steak knife.
This time, in yet another spectacular display, my husband opened the back door too quickly and cracked his kneecap. Consequently, the knee and its surrounding area turned purple and swelled to a size approaching that of Schenectady, and it was off to the Emergency Room for an X-Ray. The kneecap is not broken, said the nurse practitioner. Ice the sucker and go see a doctor if it still hurts in a week. It was just starting to feel better when Marc decided to bang it against a bathroom cabinet, and by Sunday, it was literally about four times the size of his other knee. At the doctor's office yesterday, it was proclaimed that he'd "popped his bursar," and after my initial confusion about what the hell university personnel had to do with anything, we were told that the knee and leg were essentially full of blood from hemorrhaging blood vessels. Marc was given heavy-duty anti-inflammatory medication, had the leg wrapped within an inch of its life, and told to come back Friday for a follow-up, seeing as how the knee was so swollen that the doctor couldn't even tell whether there was anything structurally wrong with the patella.
So now I have this Moaning Man living in my house who's walking with a cane and cursing every nine seconds. To a man with the metabolism of a hummingbird who cannot sit still for more than 5 consecutive minutes, this is the worst torture. I have spent the last two days of my life screeching at him. "What are you doing walking around? Sit down! No, you DON'T have to get up to get some juice, because I can get the juice FOR you. Where's the ice pack? Why isn't it on your KNEE? Did you take any ibuprofen?" Squawk, squawk, squawk. Pass me another Xanax, will you?
I'm going to try to go get some work done now before he comes ka-thumping down the stairs with all the racket and humor of Jacob Marley. Wish me luck.
posted by Kate at 10:40 AM link/comments
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Waiting is the Heartest Part
Just out of sheer spite, 2006 has seen fit to deposit my mother into the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center for some more cardiac hijinks. It was a planned, scheduled procedure this time; no involvement from emergency room personnel was necessary. It seems that during a recent routine office visit, my mother’s cardiologist said something like, “Hey, you’re doing really well, so while you’re healthy, let’s go ahead and get you fitted up with a combination defibrillator/pacemaker,” in the same breezy, nonchalant tone my mechanic uses when saying, “That serpentine belt’s looking a little worn. We might as well replace it now.”
This morning, a very experienced and respected surgeon is running a catheter into my mother in order to install this clever little device that not only coaxes the heart into beating properly, but also monitors things so that if the heart goes out of rhythm or if (god forbid) the heart stops, an electric shock is administered to set things right.
I feel guilty that I’m not in Pittsburgh with my family. As the procedure is considered quite routine and reasonably safe (knock on wood), I was forbidden by my parents to leave the state of Ohio; they apparently prefer that I perform my nervous obsession rituals in the Greater Cleveland Area rather than spraying neurotic energy all over the walls of a major urban research hospital.
All of this is just to say that I’m in an anxious, waiting-for-the-phone-to-ring sort of mindset, so it’s nearly impossible for me to concentrate on my job at the moment. Frankly, it’s nearly impossible for me to concentrate on my job on regular, benign days, so today is shot to hell as far as I’m concerned.
And now I have Tom Petty stuck in my head. Well, I have that Tom Petty song from the title of this post stuck in my head, anyway; I do not actually have Tom Petty prancing around in my skull. At least, not that I know of.
Update, 2/9: She's OK! The surgery was successful, and her heart is now all hooked up to leads and batteries and whatnot. I asked her if this meant we could wire her for surround sound; she told me to bite her. All's well.
posted by Kate at 10:08 AM link/comments
Friday, February 03, 2006
Um.
The local news just flashed a promo across the bottom of the TV screen that said, "Can Cleveland's weather eventually KILL you?" With KILL in all caps like that. Hey, Local News: The climate's bad enough without the death threats.
posted by Kate at 10:53 AM link/comments