In the past 17 days, I've had a physical, an ultrasound, a biopsy (benign), and, just to top things off, stomach flu. I also have a fistful of referrals for various medical procedures (mammogram, colonoscopy, bone scan, carotid artery scan). Jim has been home for the last two days with a bad cold. Our conversation has centered around health-related topics.
It's beginning to feel like an old folks' home, and I'm not talking one of those active lifestyle retirement communities.
2.24.2011
2.17.2011
Irish literary humor
Earlier in the week, I took a break from (hopefully needless and definitely obssessive) online reading about thyroid cancer and purchased a subscription to the London Review of Books so that I could catch up on the annual publication of Alan Bennett's diary for the preceding 12 months. (In addition to the print version, the subscriber gets online access to the Review's archives.)
Following my biopsy this morning, I treated myself to reading Bennett's 2010 diary. He made me laugh for the first time in days with this anecdote:
I pass the house in Fitzroy Road with the blue plaque saying that Yeats lived there . . .
It was this house where Eric Korn heard someone reading out the plaque as being to ‘William Butler Yeast’. ‘Presumably,’ Eric wanted to say, ‘him responsible for the Easter Rising.'
Following my biopsy this morning, I treated myself to reading Bennett's 2010 diary. He made me laugh for the first time in days with this anecdote:
I pass the house in Fitzroy Road with the blue plaque saying that Yeats lived there . . .
It was this house where Eric Korn heard someone reading out the plaque as being to ‘William Butler Yeast’. ‘Presumably,’ Eric wanted to say, ‘him responsible for the Easter Rising.'
2.14.2011
Love in Renaissance Flanders
I loved the work of the 15th century Flemish painter Jan Van Eyck long before we moved to Belgium. I'm particularly fond of his portrait of a young couple, Giovanni and Giovanna Arnolfini, and of Robert Lowell's spot-on description of the pair in his poem "Marriage."
They are rivals in homeliness and love;
her hand lies like china in his,
her other hand
is in touch with the head of her unborn child.
They wait and pray,
as if the airs of heaven
that blew on them when they married
were now a common visitation . . .
2.11.2011
Medically induced crankiness
I really liked the internist I found when we moved to Colorado. Dr. B. was smart, funny, and had a great bedside manner. Unfortunately, she moved back to Virginia to care for her elderly mother.
Dr. B. was replaced in the two-person practice by the newly minted Dr. H. Although I would have felt more comfortable seeing middle-aged Dr. K., when I called for an appointment for my 2010 annual physical, the receptionist said that I had to schedule it with Dr. H.
Someone has to give these young doctors a chance, I thought.
Dr. H. was pleasant and brisk during appointments. She correctly diagnosed a horrendous rash I had earlier this year as a drug allergy. But after calling me on Tuesday to report that I needed a thyroid biopsy, she (or her staff) dropped the ball. I never heard from the practice's referral staff or from the hospital where the biopsy will be performed.
I finally called Dr. H.'s office this morning. The biopsy order had never been sent, which made me hit the roof. One of the MAs said that she'd fax it immediately--marked "URGENT"--to the hospital. She also gave me a number to call to schedule the biopsy.
I waited half an hour for the fax to go through and then called that number. It was the wrong number.
When I was transferred to the correct number, they had not received the fax from my internist, nor could they schedule an appointment without it. They asked where the films of the ultrasound were, and I had to report that I had no idea if they were at my internist's office or the imaging center. Apparently the diagnostic radiologist has to actually see the films first in order to determine if s/he can even do a biopsy.
I know that the chances of my thyroid nodes being cancerous are small. But after losing family and friends to various forms of cancer, even the chance of it is unsettling. Uncertainty is not my best milieu, and the hassle of trying to resolve that uncertainty (i.e., just getting the biopsy scheduled) is raising my blood pressure, one of the few health measures I can report is in perfect condition.
Dr. B. was replaced in the two-person practice by the newly minted Dr. H. Although I would have felt more comfortable seeing middle-aged Dr. K., when I called for an appointment for my 2010 annual physical, the receptionist said that I had to schedule it with Dr. H.
Someone has to give these young doctors a chance, I thought.
Dr. H. was pleasant and brisk during appointments. She correctly diagnosed a horrendous rash I had earlier this year as a drug allergy. But after calling me on Tuesday to report that I needed a thyroid biopsy, she (or her staff) dropped the ball. I never heard from the practice's referral staff or from the hospital where the biopsy will be performed.
I finally called Dr. H.'s office this morning. The biopsy order had never been sent, which made me hit the roof. One of the MAs said that she'd fax it immediately--marked "URGENT"--to the hospital. She also gave me a number to call to schedule the biopsy.
I waited half an hour for the fax to go through and then called that number. It was the wrong number.
When I was transferred to the correct number, they had not received the fax from my internist, nor could they schedule an appointment without it. They asked where the films of the ultrasound were, and I had to report that I had no idea if they were at my internist's office or the imaging center. Apparently the diagnostic radiologist has to actually see the films first in order to determine if s/he can even do a biopsy.
I know that the chances of my thyroid nodes being cancerous are small. But after losing family and friends to various forms of cancer, even the chance of it is unsettling. Uncertainty is not my best milieu, and the hassle of trying to resolve that uncertainty (i.e., just getting the biopsy scheduled) is raising my blood pressure, one of the few health measures I can report is in perfect condition.
2.09.2011
I feel bad about my neck thyroid
During a routine physical on Monday, my internist, Dr. H, dragged me over to the full-length mirror in the exam room. "Can you see it?" she demanded.
I mumbled, "Yes," although the only thing I really saw was the big red mark she left on my neck from her examination of my thyroid.
Which is how I found myself immediately after my physical at a diagnostic imaging center having a thyroid ultrasound. Fortunately that didn't involve drinking gallons of water and "holding it," as I had to do for ultrasounds during my pregnancy. Unfortunately, after holding my head back for 35 minutes in a position that would fully expose my thyroid for the ultrasound, I had a stiff neck.
Dr. H, who's only a few years out of med school and needs some practice in giving patients potentially bad news, called yesterday with the test results. There are four growths on my thyroid, one of them "pretty big." So next up on my calendar of things to look forward to (right behind that trip to Paris in the fall) is a needle biopsy of the cells that have invaded my thyroid.
If you had asked me just a week ago to point out my thyroid, it would have like asking me to point out the exact spot of Morocco on a map of Africa. I know it's on the continent's north coast, and then I get a little fuzzy. But I can guarantee that after that needle biopsy, I'll know exactly where my thyroid is.
I mumbled, "Yes," although the only thing I really saw was the big red mark she left on my neck from her examination of my thyroid.
Which is how I found myself immediately after my physical at a diagnostic imaging center having a thyroid ultrasound. Fortunately that didn't involve drinking gallons of water and "holding it," as I had to do for ultrasounds during my pregnancy. Unfortunately, after holding my head back for 35 minutes in a position that would fully expose my thyroid for the ultrasound, I had a stiff neck.
Dr. H, who's only a few years out of med school and needs some practice in giving patients potentially bad news, called yesterday with the test results. There are four growths on my thyroid, one of them "pretty big." So next up on my calendar of things to look forward to (right behind that trip to Paris in the fall) is a needle biopsy of the cells that have invaded my thyroid.
If you had asked me just a week ago to point out my thyroid, it would have like asking me to point out the exact spot of Morocco on a map of Africa. I know it's on the continent's north coast, and then I get a little fuzzy. But I can guarantee that after that needle biopsy, I'll know exactly where my thyroid is.
2.04.2011
"You can't save them all"
One of the hardest parts of volunteering at an animal shelter--apart from trying to get certain pit bulls with heads the size of bowling balls to walk nicely on a leash--is accepting the fact that you can't rescue every dog that tugs at your heart.
With only two dogs in the house, we aren't at Arvada's three-dog legal limit. I'd passed on adopting the puppy mill dog the week before. But when I spotted Fawna, a tiny stray, while I was volunteering at the shelter last week, I offered to adopt her. A wise shelter worker suggested that I "foster to adopt" instead.
We renamed the five-pound mutt with the sweet face and huge ears "Orphan Annie." She proved to be smart, mostly house-broken, and a world-class snuggle bunny. She was also determined to be the alpha dog.
From the start, Annie tried to put herself between the humans and the other two dogs in the house. She literally attempted to shove Buzz and Jenny aside, a move that worked with nine-pound Buzz, but was futile with 70-pound Jenny. If Buzz was in my lap, Annie would leap on top of him to get him to move. She took toys and food right out of his mouth. Then, two days ago, while I was tossing balls for the two small dogs, Annie turned the competition to be the first to retrieve a ball into a terrifying dog fight. I couldn't get them apart by yelling, "Stop!" Finally I grabbed Annie around the hips and hauled her off Buzz.
I was stunned. In all the years of having multiple dogs in the house--our own and friends' dogs that we were dog-sitting--we've never had a dog fight.
I cried when I returned Annie to the shelter yesterday.
We renamed the five-pound mutt with the sweet face and huge ears "Orphan Annie." She proved to be smart, mostly house-broken, and a world-class snuggle bunny. She was also determined to be the alpha dog.
From the start, Annie tried to put herself between the humans and the other two dogs in the house. She literally attempted to shove Buzz and Jenny aside, a move that worked with nine-pound Buzz, but was futile with 70-pound Jenny. If Buzz was in my lap, Annie would leap on top of him to get him to move. She took toys and food right out of his mouth. Then, two days ago, while I was tossing balls for the two small dogs, Annie turned the competition to be the first to retrieve a ball into a terrifying dog fight. I couldn't get them apart by yelling, "Stop!" Finally I grabbed Annie around the hips and hauled her off Buzz.
I was stunned. In all the years of having multiple dogs in the house--our own and friends' dogs that we were dog-sitting--we've never had a dog fight.
I cried when I returned Annie to the shelter yesterday.
2.01.2011
The first best book of 2011
When I'm in the midst of a wonderful book, life acquires an extra sheen. The weather might be frigid, the foster dog might be throwing up in our bed, and I might go all day without speaking to a human being, but I will still be content as I go back and forth between reading and the rest of life.
Here's a few samples from "The Weird Sisters" by Eleanor Brown, which I (sadly) just finished. I expect that I'll end up owning the library copy, which the foster dog really did hurl on while I was reading it in bed the other night. A small price to pay for such pleasure.
We were fairly certain that if anyone made public the various and variegated ways in which being an adult sucked eggs, more people might opt out entirely.
We were never organized readers who would see a book through to its end in any sort of logical order. We weave in and out of words like tourists on a hop-on, hop-off bus tour.
We think, in some ways, we have done this our whole lives, searching for a book that will give us the keys to ourselves, let us into a wholly formed personality as though it were a furnished room to let.
Here's a few samples from "The Weird Sisters" by Eleanor Brown, which I (sadly) just finished. I expect that I'll end up owning the library copy, which the foster dog really did hurl on while I was reading it in bed the other night. A small price to pay for such pleasure.
We were fairly certain that if anyone made public the various and variegated ways in which being an adult sucked eggs, more people might opt out entirely.
We were never organized readers who would see a book through to its end in any sort of logical order. We weave in and out of words like tourists on a hop-on, hop-off bus tour.
We think, in some ways, we have done this our whole lives, searching for a book that will give us the keys to ourselves, let us into a wholly formed personality as though it were a furnished room to let.
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