Archive | doctor RSS feed for this section

Mammo-grammar

9 Feb

So I went for a mammogram today.  It was strange.  It was scheduled at the hospital where I was born and during the drive there I drove by my first school.  There was the park where I played as a child and the street I use to sled down when it snowed.  Thank goodness it was a  perfectly routine procedure but it was the stroll down nostalgia lane that weighed on my mind.

The reality of growing older sometimes blindsides me.  I can put as many colors as I can imagine in my hair, but I can’t change my age.  Along with the twinge of reality, comes relief.  Maybe physically it’s time for me to take better care of myself, but mentally I feel like I’m almost there.  There are still residual doubts and lack of self confidence, but for the most part I grew up to be self assured and practical.  I am what I yam, blah blah.

It took a lot of trial and error.  I didn’t exactly have a blueprint in my dysfunctional parents.  Yes, I no longer speak to them, but it’s a decision that should have been made years ago.  I no longer regress to the mess I was in their presence, especially my mother.  I no longer feel the need to seek their approval, only to find it’s still unattainable.  Instead, I concentrate on my own daughter who is tripping through life and I’m there to brush her off and put her back on the path.  I want to give her the support, I lacked growing up.

This doesn’t mean as I drove by my past that it’s all bad memories.  I can allow the good ones to the forefront and not feel the need to reach out to my parents again.  It wasn’t all bad.  But the what was is no longer allowed in my life.  I’m not one of those people who believe you can blame everything on your childhood.  At some point, you have to take responsibility for the decisions you make.  Especially ones that implode your life.

I never demanded more, because I never realized there was more.  I’m old enough to know it’s okay to want what you never had.  It changed the chemistry of my brain and my heart.  What I want is completely different in my mammogram stage of life than in my carefree stage of life.  So, even though I’m at a stage to be medically poked and prodded, I feel as if my mind is finally healed.  Even if there are whole days of regression.

I realized the important lesson I’ve learned at this age is that it’s okay to deserve more.  It’s okay to want better.  It’s okay to reach out in the dark and find someone who is just as scarred.  It’s okay to reveal the soft underbelly of your soul and chance rejection.  It’s about seizing the happiness, the joy and yes, the love with full knowledge it could hurt along the way.

I thought of these things as I had my mammogram.  For all you ladies who have not experienced it yet, it’s not that bad.  Sure, being fondled by a stranger may put you off (or maybe not), but it’s rather clinical and over quickly.  There is absolutely no pain, despite having your breasts in a vice.  You walk away and think it was less evasive than most tests we have to endure.  I’ll know my results in seven to ten days.   The thoughts swirling in my mind will surely last much longer.

It Arrives

17 Jul

Cancer has always been on the periphery of my family.  My great grandmother died from it, my grandmother Tumor died from, yes, you guessed it, a tumor.  My aunt had colon cancer at thirty five.  It’s always been there lurking.

Now it has invaded my immediate family.  My father recovered from surgery, the tumor was small and supposedly all gone.  It has not invaded the surrounding tissue or lymph nodes.  He’s home from the hospital and resuming life, albeit with the knowledge he had cancer.  It was there and now it’s gone.  Gone.  Stay gone.

I would be remiss as a human being for not wondering when it’s my turn.  When does the Russian roulette of junky genes call my number?  My new attitude has been “if it’s not happening right now, it’s not happening.”  A mantra I’m repeating over and over as I lay in the dark blocking out whatever negative thoughts might try to creep in my conscience.  It’s not happening to me right now, so it’s time to concentrate on my father, on my daughter, on this life I’m navigating.

I keep telling myself I’m different from my family.  I have never smoked, and they all were heavy smokers for at least 20 years or longer.  I’m a vegetarian.  I attempt exercise.  I meditate.  I try to wash whatever bitterness I have on my skin off in the shower.  But it’s still a roulette wheel isn’t it.  If it’s my turn, then it is.

I’m not going to change the life I’m trying to carve out because of fear.  Fear has never been a friend of mine.  It’s led to rash decisions that have reverberated through my life.   I won’t allow fear to dictate my future.  Or cancer.  

I am the captain of my own destiny.  Or something profound like that.

NOTHING FUNNY ‘BOUT THAT

7 Jul

Tomorrow is my dad’s surgery.  We’ll find out whether or not his cancer has spread and whether he needs chemotherapy.  As usual, I am blindly optimistic and steeled to deal with any bad news.  It’s almost silly I will be sitting in a room for hours with my mother whom I am still not speaking to.  It’s not enough to bring us together.  Only one thing will and she knows it.  But I’ll be there for my dad before he goes under and after.  I’ll thank him for being the person who gave me the ability to sail through life relatively unscathed because I will undoubtedly find humor in everything.

Cancer is unfortunately a fact of life now, but it doesn’t have to be our entire lives.  It’s just a small stitch in a quilt of so many good things.

 

 

 

WAYLAID

26 Jun

Just as I began my search in earnest for my love of all things food, my father is diagnosed with colon cancer.  It was a devastating blow to all of us.  There is the worry and concern for my father, and then the worry and resentment my mother is in no way able to take care of him.  There was one day of complete worry about the future for him or if there would be one.  Then he saw his surgeon and hope sprang eternal when he was informed he would have a less invasive surgery and basically resume a normal life.

My sister and I sat at the table with our parents, and we both pleaded the case for healthier eating.  My father is the type to eat a dinner, a second helping then a bologna sandwich an hour later.  Their cupboards are stocked with chips, sweet treats and enough carbs to fuel the Boston Marathon.  Their freezer is overflowing with frozen food and ice cream.  My sister and I insisted he needed to change his diet not only for this latest health set back, but also because of his twenty year battle with heart disease.

The first thing my mother did is angrily insist his diet does not need to change.  Our relationship now is cold and distant, there is resentment and anger simmering between us like a volatile moltov cocktail waiting to explode at any moment.  There have been several times I’ve pleaded with my mother to not bring boxes of Ho Ho’s and Twinkies into the house.  She insists my father should have more willpower and be able to not eat the things he shouldn’t.

When I first returned to Kentucky, I began cooking healthy foods for my father.  We attempted a strict heart healthy diet in hopes of helping him lose pounds quickly after yet another heart stint was necessary.  My mother doubled her efforts to bring home his favorite fatty foods and by the time I moved out, the diet was long forgotten and he had returned to enjoying fried foods with mom again.  My mother also refuses to smoke outside despite begin informed by a Cardiologist she should for my father’s health.  

So, I thought about food again but this time as a way to nourish and heal the body.  I’m making double steel cut oatmeal this morning and I wish I could convince my father how it’s not only healthy, but delicious.  I believe the biggest obstacle to my father changing his eating habits, is indeed my mother.  She likes the attention on her and her illnesses.  Yesterday, when we sat at the table, she began crying and everyone there completely ignored her.  Within seconds, her tears were dried and she stomped off to another room.  My father’s health has now become the focus of our attention and she does not like it.

I’m now not thinking about my love of food, but what it does for my body.  When I eat healthy, I feel healthy.  With the gene pool I’ve been cursed with, it’s more important than ever that I am mindful of what I do put in my body.  It’s not enough I’ve given up meat and maintain a vegetarian lifestyle.  I’ve given up coffee and have replaced my tea with decaf.  I’m insisting my daughter make healthier choices.  Who knows maybe by example I can convince my father to replace his ice cream with Greek yogurt.  

Wishful thinking.

Eye of the Storm

16 Apr

Since moving back to hometown, my life has been a whirlwind of chaotic.  My mother is still addicted to prescription pills and my aunt has now received a death sentence since discovering her cancer has spread.  My father is becoming brain addled and depressed.  My daughter is angry her father has disappeared from her life.  My immediate future feels thrown to the fates.

I’ve been told by a professional I am amazingly well adjusted to the stress in my life.  Maybe it’s just my mind’s eye looking back at what was before.  The chaos of a past relationship that left my soul bruised and battered.  Left me less than what I was.  Recovering from the day in and day out pandemonium of that time was a slow and arduous process that led me here.  I’m no longer pretending to be happy, I’m optimistic I am.

I was told today by someone who can count down their days on the calendar that being happy is the most important thing.  So many hours are squandered in the not.  So many days mourning what is just out of reach.  So many good things are rare in life, and we let them slip away out of fear and complacency.

I’ve taken many chances in my life.  I’ve followed treacherous paths.  Some were fulfilling, some were a dead end.  I’ve finally figured out what chances are meaningful and which are not.  I’m slowly putting myself out there, despite the fear of hurt and pain, and it’s been a growing ache.  I try to fall into old patterns, I try to push away someone who means more to me than I ever thought possible.  I try to say what I want, without letting loose the words.  Because for the first time, words are difficult.

They expose me for the flawed and vulnerable person I’ve become.  They reveal all my insecurities and fears.  They damage and bruise those around me before I can even stop their flow.  So many words I wish I could take back.  So many I wish I phrased differently.  It has become my burden, yet I know I must overcome it.  Because happy is mine to lose. 

I think of that someone who can see their life’s end on the horizon.  They are at peace because they found love and happiness and thankfully not too late.  As someone who prides herself on punctual, I’d like to get there fifteen minutes early.

Take Two Aspirins and Never Call Me

9 Jan

Right out of high school, I decided I wanted to be in the medical field.  Phlebotomy seemed interesting enough even though it meant taking blood from squeamish patients.  I wanted to make a difference, or make money or something in between so I applied for work at one of those emergency clinics.  In all honesty, I had decided even at the tender age of seventeen to lead an interesting life.  Being in the medical profession seemed interesting enough according to the hour dramas playing on television at the time.  I think my parents were just encouraged I might meet a doctor.

So, I became a receptionist at the clinic that entailed smiling politely at patients, demanding their co-pays before treatment, taking their initial vitals and then filing their complicated insurance form that required knowledge of physics and astronomy.  I was also required to wear white nurse pants and any form of colorful smock sure to hide any curve beneath it.  I even had my own stethoscope.

My first day, I marched in, my pants starched enough to encourage chafing and a bright blue smock sure to bring out the blue of my eyes.  I, cold dead hearted, was going to make a difference.  Patients would leave my desk shaking their head in wonder at how pleasant their trip to the doctor had been.  As I brought my first patient, a young girl there with her mother with possible flu back to the first exam room, I was drunk with my own capableness.  At least I was until I stuck a thermometer into her mouth and the girl promptly projectile vomited down the front of my pretty blue smock and white nurse pants.  Her neon orange upchuck dripped down into my new white nurse shoes as I stood in shock fighting the urge to return the favor.

As her mother offered apologies, I fled to the bathroom where one of the nurses threw a pair of scrubs my way that were two sizes too big.  After a quick bath in the sink and wearing the scrubs, my shoes squishing water down the hallway, I remembered an important detail.  I was very squeamish.  In my life, there had been a couple of instances of my sister arriving home bloody, and both times, I fled the scene.  There had been the hamster blood bath that left me breathing into a paper bag with my head between my legs.  I should have probably taken that into consideration when I picked the medical profession.

Never one to quit, I hung in working twelve hour shifts and Sundays for two years.  As a parasitic writer, the interesting lives of those who worked there and visited during times of illness and injury were enough to overcome my flight or fight instincts.  There was a constant stream of patients in distress and moonlighting orthopedic doctors who were working in the clinics to pay for exorbitant malpractice costs.  There were also three full time doctors who worked during the morning hours.  One was old enough to be my great grandfather, one was young enough to be interesting but married, and then there was Wayne Newton.

We called him that because he looked like Wayne’s doppelganger, complete with orange tan and dyed black hair.  Although married, he thought himself somewhat of a ladies man.  His specialty was pap smears and he did more than any other doctor there did.  As required by law, one of us had to stand in the room with him taking notes while he flirted with every vagina spread eagle before him.  Pap smears were the one and only time we were not allowed to interrupt him when his wife called.

Every day became a parade of stitches, colds and pill seekers.  The pill seekers we recognized right away.  They knew exactly what was wrong with them and exactly what prescription would help.  We were trained to take their pulse while they complained of pain.  Fast pulse, meant probable pain, but if it never changed, then they were more than likely faking it.  The pill seekers were sent to the emergency room or simply turned away without their drug of choice.

One day a woman came in seeking Oxycontin.  She said it was the only thing that helped her severe back pain.  While I was taking her temperature one of the doctors wandered in and told me I was needed at the front desk.  I stepped outside to be informed the woman was wanted by the police for passing fake prescriptions.  We had to keep her in the office while waiting for the police.  Suddenly, a routine crackpot became heart racing interesting.  It was decided to do an x-ray and when I informed her of such, she became fidgety and insisted she had many and just simply wanted her prescription to leave.

Fearing I would be the one responsible for her leaving, I did one of the things I had been trained to do in medicine.  I lied.  I nonchalantly informed her if she got the x-ray then the doctor would add refills to the prescription rather than having her come back for more tests.  She acquiesced and within minutes, the police were on site and taking her out in handcuffs.

My favorite doctor was a teddy bear of a man who was even more squeamish than I.  He was a resident orthopedic surgeon and had little or no bedside manner.  If anything, he appeared to be frightened of the patients and would have to psyche himself up to enter the rooms.  He was also the one who seemed to get every STD and yeast infection for miles.  He finally stopped working in our office after a week that included a woman with a diaphragm stuck firmly in her vagina, a young girl with herpes and four penile smears to test for Chlamydia.

After a few months, I was still eager to go to work.  One of the reasons was a bi-weekly patient with multiple personality disorder who came in specifically to see one of the doctors.  Married, with children, it was obvious her psychological disorder was not being faked.  Her entire demeanor changed depending on what personality she was that day.  There was the slutty girl who wore tank tops even in winter and who came in for pregnancy and STD tests after a weekend of debauchery.  There was the haughty older woman with a posh British accent who wore silk scarves and suffered from migraines and food allergies.  On occasion, the patient’s husband would bring her in as the little girl who stuck foreign objects up her nose or cut herself with razor blades.

It was all very interesting and tragic, until the day she came in as a personality we had not seen before.  She was bruised and scared, her hair hanging wet around her face.  She called herself another name and claimed she was possessed by the devil.  Upon examination, the doctor realized she had burned herself with cigarettes on her thighs and was psychotic.  She was taken to the mental hospital by ambulance and we did not see her for another six months.  When she returned, she was the little girl and her husband informed us she had been childlike for months now.  The last we heard, she was hospitalized again after being beaten in an alley.

The people I encountered became fodder for my short stories and poetry.  I became desensitized to their plight as I dissected it in my writing.  I enjoyed my work, but not the toll it took on my ability to empathize.  There is a certain detachment needed as you hold down yet another child for stitches or inform a wife her husband was more than likely cheating because she now suffered from herpes.  Sometimes, you saw people on one of their worst days, and you had to let go what happened to them after.

It was not until I was sent to the emergency room to fill in for someone on maternity leave, did it begin to wear on me.  For every patient with a foreign object shoved up their rectum, there was a gunshot or a car accident.  I began to see every day life as something to survive and not to enjoy.  The final straw came when I was eventually sent back to the clinic.  After a string of car accidents and bloody deaths, I was ready for cough, colds, and women who had douched with Lysol.

A friend of my sister had come in with her mother who had the flu for a week.  We took a chest x-ray and once it was developed, even untrained to read x-rays, I could see what the doctor was shaking his head over.  There were tumors on her lungs, cancerous looking tumors.  I turned to see this middle-aged woman who thought she was going to get a prescription for cough syrup, and instead she was facing lung cancer.  We called her attending physician and he refused to interrupt his dinner to come in.  I thought of how heartless it was when he had been treating this woman for years.

I stood outside the room while the moonlighting doctor, trained in setting broken bones, was stumbling over his words as he advised her to go immediately to the emergency room.  She asked time and time again if it was pneumonia and finally he said, I see something on your x-rays and I think it needs further testing.  She walked out of the room, all the blood drained from her face and we called her husband to take her to the emergency room.  The next morning, I turned in my two weeks notice.

What I learned is there is a certain detachment required for seeing the worst of what life has to offer.  I have great admiration for doctors and nurses who can treat injury and disease every day and function in their own lives.  I have had surgery, have been to the hospital for injury, have taken my daughter to the hospital, and every time I feel the same emotion.  There are worse things to happen to each of us, and it really is about setting aside the fears and living life to its fullest.

I never dated a doctor during my time there, but I did learn life lessons.  Never douche with Lysol, never stick objects into your rectum that will be the subject of ridicule when you are in the emergency room to have it removed.  Trust me, your x-ray will be on the wall in the break room.  Always wear your seat belt.  Never cut a bagel toward you.  If you have a good vein for giving blood, please tell the technician before she sticks your other arm three times.  Do not dwell on all the bad things that can happen to you, your angst does not prevent them for happening.  Laugh as often as you can, because it’s been said before.  It really is the best medicine.