Gun Thumb

For the last several weeks, I’ve been experiencing a very unusual phenomenon. My right thumb makes clicking noises when I wiggle it. Although this provides hours of giggle fun for the grandchildren, it also HURTS. In my search for a new Primary Care Physician (PCP), I was forced to make over 50,000 exploratory phone calls. Many candidates wouldn’t take my insurance. Others simply weren’t taking new patients. And then there was a huge contingent who panicked when they heard the “T” word (transplant) and actually hung up on me. I  finally hit the jackpot and found a young lady doctor who is just establishing her practice and  needs bodies to experiment on.  Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.

I met with the doctor on Friday and we established a good rapport. When I showed her my newest affliction, she immediately diagnosed it as “Trigger Finger.” I quickly informed her that I’m opposed to hunting, and guns scare the hell out of me. Soooo, I couldn’t possibly have Trigger Finger. She quickly assured me that T. F. has nothing to do with guns, but instead is caused by situations like Diabetes, Rheumatoid Arthritis, or something that sounds like Crappy Tunnel Syndrome. (I personally feel that all tunnels are crappy. They make me claustrophobic.) Now her job is to find out which of these horrendous, mortifying calamities has brought me to my knees. The Big Irishman feels strongly that this whole thing is related to meanness. I wonder if he would get mean if his thumb started making noises that could wake the dead.

Did I mention that a gigantic, hard lump has formed at the base of my thumb? I think it might be a bullet for my gun thumb. Since Friday two more fingers and my other thumb have started clicky-clacking. I don’t have trigger finger. I have a whole damn arsenal.

      I’ll keep you posted.

Do I Have A Screw Loose Or Am I Just Off My Rocker

Or maybe my rocker is loose. Could it be I’m off my screw?. Should I screw my rocker? I know, I bet my rocker screw is loose. Or even worse I have a loose screw rocker. My screwer rocks and I’m sure I rock my screwer.  It’s all very confusing.

I got my answer from Barrow Neurological yesterday.  The  dishonorable scum bag who calls himself a doctor, has ruled on my case.  He isn’t willing to see me as a patient.  He says there is nothing he can do for my back. Keep in mind – this verdict was imposed after viewing an MRI that is over six months old. Also be aware that this jerk has never laid eyes on me or heard the sound of my voice.  If he had been honest and told me that he was apprehensive about the transplant situation, I would have been disappointed, but would have admired his honesty.  Instead he wants me to go to an Intervention Clinic affiliated with Barrows. I don’t need an intervention. I need to have my friggin’ back stop hurting.  I went to this clinic’s website and read about their approach.  They do Physical Therapy. (Been there, done that, twice)  They do spinal injections. (I’ve had three – thank you very much.)  And they do pain management with drugs. (Vicky is already my good friend.)

So I guess I’ll just suck it up and move forward. I’m really tired of the whole process. I’m done with doctors.  If I can’t be fixed with Vicks, band aids, and Neosporin -  then tough shit.  I’ve faced bigger obstacles than a bad back and managed to come through with flying colors. I sound tough today. Stand by.  We’ll see how tough I am tomorrow after I flush my Vicodin.

Muddled Indeed

As I might have mentioned in recent posts, I’ve been having a situation with my lower back. Well, we still don’t have a satisfactory resolution, but we might have discovered what is actually causing the problem. The shot series was a failure, although I really enjoyed all the attention and the fact that I was ordered to “take it easy” every day that I had an injection. I also invented a post-injection pain reliever that I think could revolutionize pain management. It’s actually quite simple – vodka in your ice bag.

  Next my spine doc ordered some flex-extension xrays - very interesting, slightly erotic poses taken while wearing a sexy “gown” that ties in the back. It was these pics that ultimately provided a huge clue. I have a broken screw (from a previous surgery) wandering around in my back. I truly have “a screw loose.” Dr. Brad has referred me to Barrow Neurological Center, but they are taking their sweet time deciding whether or not they are willing to take me as a patient. What a crock of BS. What happened to that oath all doctors take? I suspect that they spotted the “T” word (transplant) on my records and don’t want to risk it. I’m becoming more and more convinced that neuro surgeons are ego-driven, sadistic assholes who will only see patients who have guaranteed successful outcomes. I’m going to wait two more days and then I’m going to write letters to everyone I can think of. I also intend to trash Barrows on every Rate-a-Doc website I can find. This ain’t my first rodeo. I didn’t acquire all these zippers without learning a thing or two along the way.  Thanks for letting me vent.

Until this elusive screw is located or relocated, I’ve been taking VICODIN to help with the pain. A thousand mgs. of Vicki (my pet name for my new friend) certainly makes my pain more tolerable and my attitude much improved.  The pharmacist warned that Vicki might make me a little fuzzy and muddled.  Quite the contrary!  Let me give you an example.  I’ve always suspected that there is a panther living under my dining-room table, but what I did not realize is that said panther runs around the house in the middle of the night wearing my underwear. I bet you aren’t aware that my neighbor’s entire back yard folds up to reveal a training stage for Irish Step Dancers. And I have proof.  Muddled indeed.  Just look who has invited me to be his date to a White House event honoring FOX NEWS…

Lush Limpball. Oh I mean Blush Flimpaw. What do I mean?

What should I wear? How about that gown I wore for the xrays.  Maybe I’ll tie it in front. Wink. Wink. 

 

 

 

AZW@PT

As part of the ongoing campaign to break my spirit, the spine doctor has prescribed six weeks of  PHYSICAL THERAPY. (PT)  On the day of the first session, I marched (actually limped)  into the facility with tons of confidence and a very positive attitude.  The first order of business was filling out reams of  required forms – (1) complete health histories of almost every human I’ve ever known and even some non-humans  (2) all available information on every medication, legal and otherwise, that I’ve  taken during my lifetime  (3) dates and descriptions of all surgeries I’ve ever had – including toenailectomies  (4) lengthy questionnaires about my eating, drinking and bowel habits  (5) many questions about my political and religious affiliations  (5)  and lastly, a checklist of coupons I would like to receive in the mail.  Then the eight-year old behind the desk made copies of everything in my purse including snotty Kleenex. 

Finally, I was ushered into the back room and introduced to Phylissia Prunegate, my personal therapist.  We exchanged a few pleasantries and I answered about 1,ooo questions – the same questions I had just  answered on those forms.  Maybe Phylissia can’t read.  Before I knew what was happening, my body was thrown face-down on a table.  I was told to close my eyes.  She then began to stab at me with a red- hot fireplace poker, all the time saying, “Does this hurt?  Does this hurt?” over and over.  Hell yes, it hurt!  After about twenty minutes, she flung me into the air and flipped me over onto my back.  At this point she grabbed my right leg and somehow wrapped it over her shoulder and around her neck.  As she pushed on my knee I heard her say, “Can’t you just feel that tightness leaving your body?”  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was on the verge of feeling urine leaving my body.  And the torture continued…

These pictures will give you an idea of some of the other contraptions that were used to ease my pain.

These were placed on my wrists and ankles to make sure I stayed for the whole session.

This was placed around my neck to insure cooperation.

The straight jacket was very attractive.

I was able to sneak this photo of the director of the facility. He writes an individual torture exercise plan for each patient.

I know the question on every one’s mind is whether or not the PT is helping the AZW.  Well …. I’d have to say it is helping.  I no longer need to crawl from the couch to the bathroom.  I can roll instead.

The Nip and Tuck Express

I must begin with an apology.  It seems like an inordinate number of my recent posts have dealt with grotesque procedures being perpetrated upon my body.  But you must understand.  If one truly strives to be bionic, one must be willing to constantly “have stuff done.”  These atrocities are simply stepping stones which must be endured to maintain my superb physical plant.  If my incident descriptions are too graphic or just plain boring, fire off a comment and I’ll stop with the blood and guts. I’m more than capable of fabricating stories about reading trashy novels and eating bonbons while Tom Selleck gives me a massage - naked. 

Last week it was stainless steel pipes in my eyes.  And this week it’s liquid lightning shot into my ass.  After several weeks of intense, excruciating, horrible, gut-wrenching lower back pain and sciatic pangs that knocked me out of bed, I finally agreed to a series of three steroid injections administered directly into my spinal region.  I haven’t wanted to go on-and-on about  this latest physical crisis because I fear that my DEAR READERS will begin to think that I’m a pathetic hypochondriac, or worse, making up symptoms to get out of doing the ironing or shelling those peas that were recently harvested, or painting the garage.

I opted for no general anesthetic to minimize my time in recovery so Tom could at least make an appearance at his office.  (After all, weekly surgeries are ginormously expensive.)  This decision proved to be a BIG MISTAKE.  The doctor assured me that I would be fine with just localized numbing shots.  His promised numbness was a bold-faced lie.  There I am on this skinny table, on my stomach, with sizable portions of my body hanging off on both sides.  Nurse Nita rolled the elastic waistband of my yoga pants down and my tee shirt up. All I could think about was the huge, globular fat roll that was created as a result of all this rolling up and down of my apparel.  For the several minutes that Dr. Backburn spent preparing my ”sight” (my butt is now a “sight,”)  I continued to fixate on this tremendous tube of whale blubber as it slowly began to fill the entire room. I’ve never felt so exposed.  It didn’t help that all the nurses in the surgery suite had bodies that hinted at night jobs as exotic dancers.

Finally HE said, “Are you ready?”  Without even waiting to hear my answer, HE began to mutilate my left butt cheek with at least 12,000 jabs using a needle as big around as my arm. HE proudly announced that these tiny little pokes would more than take care of all the external pain.  I wanted to ask about internal pain, but never has the chance.  HE next rammed what looked like a garden hose into my spinal region and dispensed several gallons of yellowish crud that was the consistency of Karo Syrup.  Suddenly a blinding pain shot down my left leg and blew my foot off.  I heard it hit the wall.  At this point I think I might have died for a few seconds.  My next clear memory was hearing the words, “All done.”  I didn’t even have a chance to ask about how they had reattached my foot, before I was slammed into a wheel chair and taken into the recovery area where the Big Irishman was waiting.

As we all know, every cloud has a silver lining.  My s.l. from this particular cloud was that I was allowed to take home a flippin’ $2.00 ice pack. Although when the bill hits, I bet we will discover that I was actually charged $600.00 for that $2.00 ice pack.

The next stop on the Nip and Tuck Express is cataract surgery.  They plan to slice off the top half of my eyeball and install some fancy-pants, state-of-the-art lens that will allow me to see through people’s clothes and also look into the future.  I sure hope the eye doc doesn’t dent my stainless steel pipes.  

   

Further Bionification

Why haven’t I posted since June 26th? I don’t even have an excuse this time. How about:  (1) My hand was mangled trying to dig cow pies out of a corn picker.  (2) I was released only yesterday from a, shall we say, “reprogramming facility,” after being found in a cart in the HYVEE  parking lot eating a Braunsweiger-covered banana … naked.  (3) After seeing how successfully I cover my bald spots with a variety of spectacular hairstyles, Michelle Obama asked me to travel with her and act as her stylist. (Yes, the shorts were my idea.) Please choose one of these excuses, but also know that I shall try to be a more prolific poster from this day forward.

I have taken another giant leap forward in my quest to be a truly “bionic woman.” Yesterday I has my second glaucoma surgery. My eyeball was zapped several times with a laser and then a small stainless steel drain was implanted. I guess my original drain became clogged – probably from looking at inappropriate images in PLAY GIRL magazine. The doctor has assured me that I’m good to go. He did caution that I need special sheilds during MRIs. If left unsheilded, the powerful magnet in the machine will develop a fatal attraction to my new drains, and suck my eyeball right out of my face. I guess then my orbs will bounce around inside the machine (picture a ping pong game) and smear eye goo all over everything. No instructions on how to unplug my drains if they become clogged. Will Draino work? Would Liquid Plumber be better? Will the Roto Rooter guy work on eyeballs? I guess I’ll cross that bridge later.

No extra charge for the wrinkles.

 

A Sigh of Relief

The Big Irishman and I spent two days in Tucson last week for my annual pick, prod and poke. As many of you have been able to read between the lines – I have suspected for months that there might be something wrong with Perpetua. I can’t put my finger on the reasons for this suspicion. Something just didn’t feel right. Well, I’m pleased to announce ….. Perpetua is doing just fine and, aside from my paranoia, I guess I’m okay too. For those who are interested in all the gory details, I’ll walk you through the PPP process.

We got up at 4:15 am on Tuesday, May 22nd. I had to shower and shave my legs. God knows that one must always have freshly shaved legs if one is going to be knocked unconscious and be skewered like a kabob. Tom drove to Tucson while I dozed and complained about everything I could think of to complain about. (The man is a saint.)

We parked and immediately went to the lab. The head vampire sucked out 11 vials of my blood in order to perform at least 106,000 tests. There was a STAT order placed on my labs. I think STAT stands for “Shanlee’s Tough and Terrific.” From the lab, we went directly to out-patient surgery where I was greeted by my favorite nurse, Chuck. He took care of me during my two rejections – post transplant. He has since moved to the cath. lab. We chatted, and as usual, he gave me tons of great information.

He said that the second year after transplant is the toughest. The emotional high is gone, and reality rears its ugly head. You start to realize that the meds have really nasty side effects, and that you have to work hard to maintain good health. You also start to feel like this whole situation is just too good to be true. You begin to wait for a crisis that will end your wonderful new life. I am also constantly aware, to the point of obsession, of the huge responsibility I have to Perpetua. I often wonder if I’m doing enough to protect her and honor her memory. Please don’t misunderstand. These are just small bumps in the road – a tiny little price to pay for my wonderful second chance. That said, it was still nice to have Chuck validate my feelings and explain that these thoughts are all part of the transplant process – all recipients walk a similar road. 

I also talked to him about the fact that I’ve been sick 9,763,211 times in the past year. I’ve missed lots of fum stuff and I’m tired of taking antibiotics. Chuck assured me that this is “Standard Operating Procedure,” and that the second year is also the worst in terms of frequency of illness. Soooooooo, I’m looking ahead to a much better third year with my beautiful Perpetua.

A quick run-down of my results:

The heart cath. showed that I have great pressures in both ventricles and my pumping sequence is perfect. There is absolutely no sign of enlargement or rejection. ALL of my arteries are totally open – with no sign of even a beginning blockage.

The abdominal ultrasound revealed that my pancreas, liver and kidneys are normal. One of my liver ducts is slightly enlarged – probably because I have had my gall bladder removed. There are 2 tiny  cysts on my right kidney, but that is perfectly normal for someone my age. I guess all old ladies have acne on their kidneys.

My chest x-ray showed normal lungs. It also showed that my breast  bone never fused. This is probably because my chest has been cracked so many times. It makes a “clicking” noise when I move a certain way. Dr. Copeland isn’t quite sure what we are going to do about this. I’ll keep you posted.

Probably the greated news off all:  My echo cardiogram showed that my ejection fraction has increased from 60 a year ago to 63 – probably because of my exercise.  F.Y.I. – normal is 65 and the ejection fraction of my old heart on the morning of my transplant was 13.

My labs were great - kidney and liver panels all within the range of normal. This means that the drugs aren’t slowly destroying my organs.

The most fun part of our Tucson adventure was staying with our friends, Jon and Colette. We enjoyed a fabulous dinner cooked by Jon and lots of super conversation. The low point was having my kootchie-foo shaved by the best looking guy in the cath. lab.  

 

Yet Another Gift From Perpetua

This a a very distorted picture of my right foot, but it will serve the purpose for which it is intended. Several years ago, when I had my first heart surgery something went terribly wrong in the operating room. I ended up losing most of my heart. I won’t bore you with all the gory details. I’m not even sure how to describe all the things that went wrong. But during the drama in surgery, an assist pump was placed into the femoral artery in my groin and threaded up into my heart to help it pump. Because my situation was very unstable, this pump was allowed to remain in my artery for far too long. As a result, the circulation in my right hip was destroyed and this led to an eventual total hip replacement. Another, more immediate, consequence of the pump was that a whole bunch of micro-emboli (tiny blood clots) were forced down into my feet. These caused my feet to swell and turn black. At one point – so I’m told - all the doctors were worried that I would need a double amputation. At the time, my primary concern was that all my beautifully pedicured toenails were falling off one-by-one.

I suspect that I was being given some fairly hardcore drugs to keep my level of hysteria under control, because I don’t remember being very worried about my feet. But losing my toenails began to symbolize all that was wrong in my world. I know I should have been worrying about much larger issues, but all I could grasp was that without toenails I was now considered a freak. I can remember waking the Big Irishman in the middle of the night to tell him that yet another nail had hit the deck.

As you all know, I survived and my feet survived . And I’m happy to say that 8 of my toenails returned to their former glory. For the past several years, I have been applying huge globs of polish to the skin on my pinky toe and the one next to it. I soooo wanted the world to see me as a complete toe-nailed woman. About 7 months ago, during a pedicure, Ellie (my nail lady) shrieked and announced that there appeared to be a small, hard smidge growing on my little toe. Then she yelled again when she discovered a similar small, hard smidge growing on the big guy next to my pinky. Praise the Lord – at long last the moment I have been waiting for. I felt like I had won the lottery.

For the past several months we have had great fun watching these toenails grow. Dr. Copeland explained this wonderful life-changing event with two simple words, “increased circulation.” Those of you in the toe-nailed world will never understand how much this means to me. Seriously, because toenails had become a symbol of my whole ordeal, now I finally feel whole and healthy. THANK YOU  PERPETUA.  

What The Hell Is Wrong With Me

I think I need a great big kick in the butt. I just hope Perpetua doesn’t decide to give me a great big kick in the chest – if you know what I mean. I’m having a compliance crisis. In all the months before my transplant, all I heard from my team was compliance, compliance, compliance. This concept involves taking my meds on time, getting my labs done monthly, watching my diet, exercising and taking my vital signs first thing in the morning. I have no problem with the meds, probably because I know I will only live about 2 days without them. I’m more than willing to do my monthly labs because I’m forever hopeful that based on my blood levels, my team will lower dosages or do away with some meds. Diet and exercise are rough, but I do okay most of the time. It’s this vital sign thing that I’m having such a problem with.

Each morning for the rest of my life I am supposed to chart my weight, blood glucose level, temperature, blood pressure and pulse and check my feet and hands for swelling. The whole process takes less than 5 minutes. Each of these measurements can indicate a problem with Perpetua, and taken together they present a fairly clear picture of overall health. Until March I had never missed a day. I forgot one morning while I was visiting Meghann and Scott in Salt Lake City. When nothing bad happened as a result of my lapse, I guess I just got very casual about the process. Now I’m lucky if I check vitals twice a week. BUT WHY?

I’ve agonized over this and still don’t understand why I’m doing it or I should say not doing it, but I know it’s not fair to the woman whose heart I carry in my body. (Have I mentioned that I found out some things about my donor. Now I know that Perpetua came from a 29 year-old woman.) Am I just trying to feel normal? Am I tempting fate? Is this a way I can be non-compliant with no immediate threat to my life? I’ll continue trying to figure this out while at the same time attempting to clean up my act. If you see me – please give me a swift kick. PERPETUA DESERVES BETTER.

When Those Saints Come Marching In

I’m breathin’ easy and lovin’ life – no I’m not on pain pills. Molarius, the saint of all things dental, and Toesium, the patron saint of toes, conspired in the middle of  the night to save my sorry bum from that torturous surgery I described yesterday. Several weeks ago I tripped over a file drawer that I was sorting through. I jammed two toes on my right foot, and ripped the bottom off my pinky neighbor toe. I’ve been trying for days to get this sucker to heal. I’ve soaked, poked, Neosporined, bandaged and threatened to amputate – all to no avail. Did you know that soaking your toe in bourbon can actually quite pleasant?

Anyway, I awakened this morning with a throbbing, swollen foot and my toe was oozing that telltale green slime. All my attempts at self healing had obviously failed. Off to the Doctor. Three hundred and sixty dollars later I have a handful of prescriptions and an order for a toe xray. Get this – the Dr. wants to make sure that the infection (staph) hasn’t infiltrated the bone. If you know of anyone who has an immune system for sale, please let me know immediately. I could sure use one. The good Doctor assured me that I will probably dance again – with all ten of my piggies. The biggest bummer – I still must have the dental surgery. The transplant team just wants my toe to be completely healed before Dr. Painpounder opens up another hole on my head.

I’ve been watching CNN most of the day. It’s been a real lesson in why we need a change in Congressional leadership. At first it was reported that Foley had entered rehab – liquor was used as an excuse for his “inappropriate behavior.” Then at an afternoon news conference his attorney explained that poor Mr. Foley had himself been the victim of sexual abuse. Oh – that explains and excuses everything. There doesn’t seem to be a Republican in the world who can say the word, “PERVERT.” I got a big kick out of junkie Rush comparing Foley to Bill Clinton. That’s digging pretty deep for a rationale. How about that Hastert. First he didn’t know about the e-mails. Then he knew about the e-mails , but not the text messages. Then he couldn’t remember what he knew and when he knew it. The only thing he seems sure of is Bushie’s support. Does George own the FBI in addition to the CIA and the NSA? The FBI had this information in July and decided not to investigate. Have we had enough yet?

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